Vandar scowled. But he said, All right, lady, but be careful. My impression of the Aglarondans is that they wouldn t try to hurt you themselves. But they might not care if the creatures they re hunting attacked a rival and a spy.
With that he turned and started giving orders to the nearest berserkers. Jet and Cera ran toward the shed where they d stowed the griffon s tack. He bounded, lashing his wings with each leap, and instantly outdistanced her as she labored with her short legs through the snow.
When she caught up, he crouched so she could heave the saddle onto his back. She cinched it, climbed on, and buckled the safety straps with the meticulous slowness of a novice rider. Somewhat to her surprise, Jet didn t offer any acerbic remarks.
He broke into a run, sprang, lashed his wings, and climbed into the sky the instant she was ready. She caught her breath at the suddenness of it. She trusted Jet and had come to enjoy flying, but that didn t mean she was at ease every single moment.
As he wheeled to follow the Aglarondans, Jet rasped, Your mace keeps bumping me.
Oh! Sorry! she said. She slipped the dangling weapon off her wrist and into one of the sheaths built into the front of the saddle. The holder made a sucking sound as a minor enchantment made it clamp down tight. Do you think we can just sneak in among the Aglarondans without anybody noticing us?
I ll try, Jet replied. Don t count on the griffons mistaking me for one on their own. And if they do realize we re strangers, they may cry out. But with luck, their riders won t understand what it means. His tone made plain his scorn for human stupidity.
That sounds good, Cera said. The night was even colder up here in the sky, and she shivered. I m going to ask the Keeper to warm me. Shall I do the same for you?
The familiar laughed, a bloodcurdling sound she hadn t recognized the first time she d heard it. Don t bother, he said. Nature made griffons properly. We don t need magic just to endure the winter wind.
Well, aren t you special, she said as she began to murmur a prayer. Warmth suffused her body.
They flew on in silence for a while. She peered into the darkness ahead for a first glimpse of the Aglarondans and breathed in Jet s smelclass="underline" a not-unpleasant mix of bird and cat.
Eventually the griffon asked, Are you going to stay with Aoth?
The question surprised her. She knew Jet was intelligent enough to understand the choice she was facing, but he often considered such foolish human dilemmas unworthy of his attention.
I don t know, she said. Do you think it would be hard on him if I don t?
The griffon laughed again. He s a hundred years old, he replied. He s had more mates than he can remember. He s survived more battles and foes than he can remember. He can survive losing you, too.
Cera sighed. Yes. Of course, she said.
But that doesn t mean he d like it, Jet continued. He cares about you, and you fit in his life. You fit with the rest of us.
She touched her hand to the feathers on his neck. Thank you, she said. That s good to know.
There s no reason to talk in that hushed cooing way to me, the griffon said. I didn t say that I care what you do. Look, there are the Aglarondans. Can you see them yet?
She couldn t at that moment, but when he carried her closer, she made out vague shapes racing through the sky. As Jet had anticipated, some of the other griffons screeched at the newcomers approach, but as he d also expected, the riders didn t pay it any mind except to order their steeds to cease their clamor. She and Jet flew along quietly on their rivals flank.
The Aglarondans were headed pretty much straight east from Immilmar, essentially following the track named the Huhrong s Road. If one could consider any part of northern Rashemen civilized, it was that corridor. Cera occasionally caught a glimpse of hamlets and isolated farmhouses, and land that appeared to be fields and pastures rather than woods and lonely moors. If the undead were raiding there, then that, like the attack on the sacred grove north of the Ashenwood, attested to the boldness and seriousness of the threat.
The Aglarondans griffons started screeching again.
Do they sense undead? Cera asked, keeping her voice low.
No, Jet answered. They smell horseflesh.
A moment later, Cera smelled it, too. She realized that wasn t right. She wasn t a beast with a beast s keen senses. She was a human being, who might not smell a horse even if she was standing right beside it. She definitely shouldn t have been able to smell one from high above the ground.
The Aglarondans steeds swooped lower.
In a superficial sense, that wasn t strange because horse was a griffon s favorite food. Still, properly trained mounts would ignore the distraction if they were working, and if they didn t, experienced riders could quickly reassert control.
But that wasn t what was happening. The Aglarondans barked orders at their mounts, and their voices became louder and shriller as the griffons ignored the initial commands.
The smell of warm, juicy meat thickened in the cold night air. Lightheaded, Cera realized her mouth was watering. She looked for the horses and finally spotted them. Apparently oblivious to the threat descending on them, the animals were standing placidly in a snowy paddock.
The griffon in the lead Cera wondered if it was Folcoerr Dulsaer s slammed down on a horse and crushed it to the ground. Screaming, the equine thrashed. The griffin dipped its beak and tore loose a first chunk of flesh. The man astride the steed bellowed at it and pounded it with the butt of his lance. His efforts were no more effective than the maimed horse s struggles to writhe free.
More griffons plunged down, each on its chosen prey. Then Jet screeched, furled his wings, and dived.
The unexpected plummet jolted Cera out of her daze. Amaunator! she called. Please, give us your light!
The god s power manifested as a warm golden glow in her hands. She leaned and stretched forward as far as she could and laid them on the sides of Jet s head.
The warmth surged out of her flesh and into the griffon s. For a heartbeat, she was afraid it hadn t been enough, for, while her deity s might was limitless, a mortal s ability to channel it was not. But with a snap like the crack of a whip, Jet extended his wings and leveled off. He hurtled along just above the slaughter, while Cera winced at the ripped flesh and spilled blood and viscera, at the screams of the dying horses, the crunching as the griffons bit and clawed through bone, and the frantic, bewildered cries of the Aglarondans.
Then the horses changed.
Had it happened more gradually, Cera might have not have spotted it immediately, because by then, all the animals were shredded, eviscerated, dismembered, dying, or dead. But they changed into a different sort of ruined thing virtually all at once, as a wave of mottled discoloration swept through them. The smell of raw meat and spilled blood in the air became a nauseating stench of decay.
The equines struggles had become feeble, turned to mere twitches and shuddering, or subsided altogether. But paradoxically, as their aspect changed from that of creatures killed moments before to that of ones that had lain dead for some time, their movements became far more vigorous. They no longer appeared to care about escaping. Rather, their only concern was biting a griffon and its rider, or battering them with their hooves.
Even though the griffons were gorging on putrescence and likely had been all along, with only illusion making it appear otherwise their riders still couldn t compel them to stop. Thus the soldiers only option was to stab at the undead horses with their lances. They set about it with fierce determination, oblivious to the other tattered, shambling forms rearing up out of the snow all around them.