The golden griffon pivoted in her direction, and she chanted another spell. The creature crouched and spread his wings, but before he could spring, she reached the end of her incantation, jabbed with her staff, and a huge spider web flickered into existence to cover the beast and hold it to the ground. The mesh appeared a strand at a time but all in the blink of an eye, as though an invisible arachnid were weaving it fast as lightning.
Yhelbruna immediately began another incantation, this one intended to begin reinstating the coercions she’d removed only moments before. Meanwhile, the golden griffon strained, biting, lashing his wings, and heaving back and forth, and his sharp beak and prodigious might snapped the sticky strands of webbing two and three at a time.
She could tell the telthor would break free before she completed even a frantic, abbreviated version of the first of the spells that had bound it before. But as the last of the webbing parted, Fyazel extended an oaken wand and shouted words of command.
Despite her desperate circumstances, Yhelbruna felt a flicker of surprise. Every spellcaster had a unique style, and over the course of many years and group workings, she’d become familiar with Fyazel’s. Although she couldn’t say precisely what, something about the other hathran’s delivery seemed different.
But then again, she and Fyazel had never been together in a life-or-death emergency before, and the important thing was that the priestess of the moon was trying to help. Yhelbruna wrenched her thoughts back to the matter at hand.
On the final syllable of Fyazel’s spell, gray vapor puffed into being around the golden griffon. The mist dispersed instantly, but, stunned, the telthor faltered long enough for Yhelbruna to complete her own magic. The golden griffon let out a screech and stood rigid and shuddering.
She restored her original coercions one at a time, linking and layering them as though she were weaving another sort of web. It was only when she felt the strands draw tightly that she dared to look away and see what else was going on.
To her relief, the other griffons had broken off the attack. But three of the curious folk who’d wandered forth from Immilmar to witness the claiming of the beasts lay in pieces in patches of bloody snow. So did a griffon, at Mangan’s feet. All of it was a waste, a tragedy, and an affront to the deities who’d given the winged creatures to Rashemen in anticipation of its hour of need.
Bez peered around the same way Yhelbruna was, making sure the fight was really over. Then, scowling, his face a mottled crimson, he advanced on Sandrue.
“Captain!” the beast master said. “Please! I’m sorry!”
The sellsword captain took a long breath. Sparks danced and crackled on the main gauche.
Then he said, “The hathran, prompted by a very proper regard for the griffon and all he represents, instructed you to be gentle with him. But what if you’re less gentle? Will you then be able to do your job?”
If Sandrue hesitated, it was only for an instant. “Yes, Captain.”
Bez turned to Mangan and gave him an apologetic smile. “Well, then, Majesty, it seems the course is clear.”
“No,” Yhelbruna said.
The sellsword frowned. “Lady, with respect, you were the one who set the price for the griffons, and my men and I have paid it. I’m sure neither the Wychlaran nor the Iron Lord are so dishonorable that they’d try to renege on the agreement, no matter what measures are required to fulfill it.”
“You misunderstand,” she said. “There was nothing wrong with Sandrue’s magic. It failed because the spirits wouldn’t allow it to succeed. And that can only be because the threat to Rashemen isn’t over.”
“That’s preposterous,” Bez replied. He shifted his gaze back to Mangan. “I brought you proof of my victory. Surely a warrior found it convincing even if a priestess doesn’t.”
Mangan scowled and scratched at his close-cropped black beard with its sprinkling of white. “Hathran, do you actually hear the spirits telling you the danger isn’t over? Or are you guessing?”
Yhelbruna hesitated. “I’m interpreting what we all just experienced.”
“Then … you know I respect you, and where this matter is concerned, I’ve done what you wanted at every step along the way. But now, Captain Bez has a point. Perhaps fair dealing requires us to release the griffons even if it requires some rough handling for our guests to take possession.”
“ ‘Rough handling’ or no, the druid will fail as he failed before.”
“Maybe not if you don’t use your own magic to thwart him,” Bez said, and then, before she could respond: “I apologize. That was a rude and, I’m sure, baseless thing to say. But, Iron Lord, all I ask is that Sandrue be allowed another try.”
“If he is,” Yhelbruna said, “it’s likely more people and griffons will die, and we’ll be flouting what we now discern to be the will of the Three.”
“What you claimto ‘discern,’ ” little Melemer murmured, just loud enough to make himself heard while still pretending he didn’t mean to be.
Frowning, Mangan wiped the blood from his broadsword. It was his way of giving himself a moment to ponder, and Yhelbruna had an unpleasant feeling she knew where his deliberations were leading.
She supposed she could simply order him to do what she wanted. She was a Witch of Rashemen, and generally deemed one of the wisest and most powerful. In theory, she stood above any male.
But in practice, matters weren’t always that simple. Every Rashemi, including herself, respected Mangan, and in the matter of the griffons and the menace of the undead, she’d consistently overruled his seemingly sensible advice. She didn’t want to appear unreasonable and high-handed yet again. She needed hisrespect if they were to work together to protect the land.
So she too, pondered, and then something occurred to her, or perhaps some kindly spirit whispered in her ear. “I just realized something curious,” she said.
“What?” the Iron Lord replied.
“Captain Bez told us about the great battle he fought. But I don’t see any wounds on him or any of these sellswords. I didn’t notice any on those we left back in town either. Or scars on the hull of the skyship.”
Mangan’s brow furrowed. “Now that you mention it, neither did I.”
Bez smiled. “You can attribute that to the advantages afforded by a flying vessel with enchanted artillery and a complement of spellcasters. We can rain destruction on foes who often have no way of striking back. It’s not a particularly sporting way to fight, but as I’m sure Your Majesty will agree, war isn’t a game.”
“I’ve been to war myself,” Yhelbruna said, “so I certainly agree. Just as I’m sure the Iron Lord will agree that creatures ensconced in a castle like the Fortress of the Half-Demon would, if bombarded from above, take shelter inside the donjons and dungeons. Even the crew of a skyship would have to come down to earth and fight them at close quarters to really clean them out.”
Bez shrugged. “My men are good at their work, and I remind you again, High Lady, you’re the one who told everybody else your goddesses and spirits wanted this chore attended to. Perhaps they graced us with their blessings.”
Mangan sheathed his sword, and the cross guard clicked against the gold at the mouth of the scabbard. “We’ll do this. Captain, you and your men will take the rest you acknowledge you need. Yhelbruna will further inquire into the will of the spirits through prayer and ritual. I’ll find out if any reports come in from the countryside to indicate that there are still undead running loose. And we’ll see where we are a few days hence. Agreed?”
“Yes,” Yhelbruna said.
Bez smiled a crooked smile. “It seems I have little choice.” He blew on the forte of his rapier blade, and the coating of frost melted in a puff of steam.