Chapter Fourteen
Mynowelechw Ætalocacwah Cwig
Gwendolyn’s Family
Gwendollynlæth Muhodynha
After Hwedolyn had eaten another meal Gwendolyn had cooked for him, on the night after he returned from his vision in the Other Realm, Gwendolyn said to him, “What did the elf in your vision say about your quest? How will you destroy the elf-mage?”
“Not a great deal. He did not seem to think a gryphon could defeat an elf-mage,” said Hwedolyn, and he was very dispirited. “Everything is over. There is no way I can fulfil my quest. Even Ellulianaen is against me.”
Gwendolyn said, “Hwedolyn, you wish to prevent the elf-mage from hurting others. Is that not a commendable motive? Won’t Ellulianaen understand that? You need to have more faith...”
“You could be right. More faith!” he said, and in the nearness of Gwendolyn and the knowledge of her approval he suddenly felt very brave, and he leapt up with his talons guardant and cried, “Then I will set off and fight the elf-mage, even if it costs me my life!”
“No! No!” she said, “I didn’t mean that – do not be hasty, Hwedolyn. Hwedolyn, I know a gryphon that might have an idea about how to defeat an elf-mage. Come with me and we will go to see him.”
And she led him out of the cave, and they flew over Lake Iolhamu. It was twilight, and as they flew above the far edge of the Lake, Hwedolyn saw that marshes stretched before them, for many, many leagues.
Gwendolyn said, “These are the Laedlidae Marshes. Stay close to me. The lights in the marshes often mislead unwary travellers.”
A mist was rising from the marshes as they glided on, and it became a thick cloud that obscured their vision, though they were flying far above the surface of the marsh. The crescent moon was high and made the cloud below shine with an eerie, unearthly light. “Come,” said Gwendolyn, plummeting into the shining mist, and she was beautiful to Hwedolyn, for the moonlight shone all about her like the waters of the sea.
“Why do we go into the mist?” he asked, following her.
Gwendolyn replied, “As the marsh gas rises and the ocean wind comes in, the air becomes clearer closer to the ground.” And they flew down, very far, to glide some twenty feet above the swampy marsh. But the mist was still obscuring their way, and Hwedolyn wondered how Gwendolyn could possibly know where they were going.
She anticipated his question, saying, “I know these marshes well, for I grew up here. I can find my way so long as I can see the lay of the land, for, to my eye, every channel and island is different.” But as they flew, the mist became thicker, until Hwedolyn could barely see enough to follow Gwendolyn’s tail, glinting silver in the moonlight. “The wind from the sea has died down again, we may have to ascend,” she said.
Then he saw a light, bobbing before him, and he thought for a moment her tail had become brighter. But this didn’t make any sense, so he wondered how she had managed to make the light, so he resolved not to follow it. But Hwedolyn fancied that he heard a voice calling to him, a beautiful voice, and it was like Gwendolyn’s, only even more beautiful, like the voice of the Mihalaetat. He breathed deeply, and a strange smell filled his nostrils, and more lights appeared floating before him.
The lights had sweet, sweet voices that were calling to him, singing in beautiful tones, “Come, join us! Our cause is just! Gryphons, join us! We do not go to seek death, but if death should find us, we shall welcome death’s sweet embrace, for it is a greater cause we fight for! Vengeance! Vengeance! Vengeance!” And suddenly he was in a great hall, surrounded by gryphons in armour, holding their talons aloft, saluting the Gryphon-King. “He was not the true Gryphon-King,” said a voice that sounded harsh initially, like a talon being scraped along a limestone wall, yet suddenly he realised that there had been something wrong with his sense of hearing, for the voice was kindly, majestic, and awesome all at the same time. He felt himself being dragged out of the marsh.
Then another voice said, “Flap your wings, Hwedolyn, you are too heavy for me, flap your wings!” It was Gwendolyn, and she had hold of his tail with her talons and was attempting to pull him out of the marsh, for, without knowing it, he had flown down through the mist into the miry marshes below.
And Hwedolyn saw the skeletons of many gryphons in the water in front of him, still in their armour, and rank marsh-weed floated around about them. In his fright at the terrible sight of so many gryphon skulls and skeletons he flapped his mighty wings, and found himself aloft again beside Gwendolyn, who flapped her wings and began gliding above the marshes again. He sneezed, and marsh water came pouring out of his nose, blowing along beside him in a torrent as he swooped upwards.
“I ought to have warned you,” she said. “It only happens when the marsh-gas is strong, and I thought that with the breeze today, it would not happen. Only when the marsh gas rises do the ghosts of the apostate gryphons rise up with it. Those are they who followed Mollochfym, the false Gryphon-King, to their deaths, in the Dragon Wars, many aeons ago, in the distant past. Their unshriven spirits still dwell in the marshes, and their false light still deceives many to their deaths, even to this day. Mollochfym the Apostate betrayed many gryphons to their deaths, for he was secretly in league with the Dragons. And that is why their ghosts dwell in the marshes, for they that have not yet repented of following the deceiver, and still they call the unwary to join them even to this day. Do not look down at them, or you will become entrapped again. Why my parents wished to have an eyrie in the middle of this terrible doom-laden graveyard I do not know. It is a terrible place, lonely and forsaken, even for a gryphon.”
“Your parents?” said Hwedolyn. “Is that where we are going? Why didn’t you tell me?” Hwedolyn found that thought more daunting than the ghosts and ghouls that dwelled below, and the only reason he continued to follow her was that he did not think he could find his way out of the Laedlidae Marshes on his own, for the islands and bogs were like a labyrinth.
As they flew, a gentle breeze came from the southwest and blew all the mist away, so that they could see the stars of heaven twinkling above them, with the crescent moon standing proudly in their midst.
And they saw a rocky outcrop before them, and Gwendolyn said, “Their eyrie is in the midst of that outcrop.” As they came closer Gwendolyn swooped down and Hwedolyn followed her into an eyrie sheltered beneath an overhanging cliff, overlooking the Melekae Estuary to the west. On the horizon the great walled city of Port Melek could be seen, shining like many diamonds, for there were many lights within, and they kept the city lit all night long so that the ships did not founder on the cliffs that led to the city walls; but the marshes stank with a foul stench as they flew down to the eyrie. Once inside, however, the air was clear and clean, and there were two gryphons within, drinking mead contentedly.
“This is my father and my mother,” said Gwendolyn, “They are called Gothlïrlyn and Fydwyrlyn. Father, mother, this is Hwedolyn. We came here, because I thought that you might know how to defeat an elf-mage. You see, Hwedolyn is on a quest. And I know you probably don’t want to hear it, but Chalyom forthtold his arrival.”
“Did she indeed?” said Gothlïrlyn, Gwendolyn’s father, skepticism dripping from his words. “Superstition! Well we won’t hold that against Hwedolyn. Come here, cub. Let me see your wings,” and, quite rudely, he grasped the edge of Hwedolyn’s wing in his foretalon and stretched it out so that he could study the pattern upon Hwedolyn’s feathers. “Hmmm. Strong wings. Pattern of the northern gryphons, but something else, a pattern I’ve never seen before. What is your genealogy, cub? Tell me, who are your antecedents?” And Hwedolyn’s heart sank.
“My father is Halomlyn, and my mother Tiawéflyn.”
“I have heard tell of neither of these,” said Gothlïrlyn. “Are they gryphons from the north, or the east?”
Fydwyrlyn said, “They may well be respectable gryphons, if they do not come from the east, that is. Gryphons from the east – well – who would want to know them?”
&n
bsp; Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “Mother and father spend far too much time worrying about what a respectable gryphon is,” she said, “Father, how does a gryphon defeat an elf-mage? You read many – ”
But Gothlïrlyn ignored her and said, “A sturdy gryphon, no doubt, strong and young. But whether he is respectable or not – that certainly remains to be seen. Who are your grandparents, cub? Who was the father of your father?”
“T’kshamuae and Lumyllyn were my father’s parents.”
“Certainly a respectable eyrie. Your own father Mywynaemyn knew them, did he not, my gryphon-wife Fydwyrlyn?” Fydwyrlyn nodded. Gothlïrlyn continued, “And your mother’s parents, cub? What were their names? Tell us. Were they also respectable gryphons? I have no doubt they were.”
And Hwedolyn sighed and said, “I know not my mother’s mother’s name. But her father was Lydlaedlyn, son of Aelechiwunadlyn and Gwraiglyn, from the east.” And he waited for the inevitable reply.
Gothlïrlyn asked, “Lydlaedlyn? Is that name not scandalous among gryphonkind, a name to whom none would wish for their kin to be related? Ah – I see now – your mother Tiawéflyn; was not her full name Tiaehhwaeffllyn? I remember it now – I heard once from a gryphon who travelled from the east and was waylaid here; Lydlaedlyn brought Tiaehhwaeffllyn up on his own, without the presence of the gryphon-mother, is that not true, Hwedolyn-cub? Your silence confirms this, together with your earlier words. Some terrible scandal attended this happenstance. And tell me – is Lydlaedlyn himself not known among gryphons as the Gryphon Who Lied? A terrible trangression against all gryphonkind, a gryphon who told a lie! This cub comes from disgraced parentage, my cub-daughter. Best that you do not associate with him or his kin, for doubtless they are all tarred with the same brush of deceit. Does Ellulianaen not visit the sins of the fathers upon their cubs, to the third generation?”
“Father,” said Gwendolyn, “Cease this rudeness at once! Hwedolyn is our guest, and I insist that you treat him as such. Even if these scandalous rumours be true, and by no means do I think that even remotely likely, but even if they were, why should Hwedolyn suffer for the sins of his grandfather?”
“Upbringing,” said Fydwyrlyn. “If Hwedolyn was brought up among gryphon-scoundrels, then no doubt a gryphon-scoundrel he will grow to become. Do you not know, daughter Gwendolyn, that a cub becomes like his father, just as a student gryphon becomes like to his teacher?”
Gwendolyn’s eyes flashed, and her wings whipped out suddenly in wrath, and she said in clipped tones, “This is Hwedolyn’s grandfather we are speaking of, father, not his father. And I know Hwedolyn – he is indeed honest and respectable and a hero among gryphons, and you must be wrong about the influence of his lineage and everything else that matters, because he would never lie. Did he not tell you he is the grandson of Lydlaedlyn himself? He is certainly a truthful gryphon, and not only that, but a brave, courageous and strong gryphon, unto whom I would trust my life, father.”
Fydwyrlyn was suddenly on the verge of tears, “Oh, Gwendolyn, do stop arguing! I start to think that we’re all getting on, and then something happens like this. Please, oh please don’t be disagreeable with us! You are our only daughter! You do not love us at all.” And Fydwyrlyn wept.
“Hmmmph. Disturbing the eyrie! Look what you’ve done to your mother,” agreed Gothlïrlyn, then turned back to Hwedolyn and said, “A hero, cub? What heroic deeds could you have done, at your tender age? You are but twenty-five at the most, are you not?” asked Gothlïrlyn.
Hwedolyn replied awkwardly, “Well… I… I would not say myself that I have been a hero. I failed to protect my cousin. But I have been through many hard trials, and survived, and prospered. I once fought the mighty elf-mage who killed my cousin, and won – though it was a mere dog that dealt the final blow, and the elf-mage wasn’t really killed, just prevented from doing magic for a while. But I, and my cousin and father and my father’s brother flew at him, and it was my own talon that scratched out his other eye, not the magical one, that’s the one the dog ate.” Hwedolyn’s words tripped out of his mouth, running and falling over one another, so that it sounded as though he was certainly lying, or that at least he was a foolish gryphon who spoke nothing but gibberish, though Gwendolyn knew for certain that every word Hwedolyn said was true, on the strength of his character as she already knew it.
Gothlïrlyn said with a snort, “Hmmmph. More lies, I have no doubt. The true offspring of his grandfather – like father, like son, and so, like grandson also, I do not doubt!”
At this, Hwedolyn looked at Gothlïrlyn coldly and retorted, “What do you know of anything, Gwendolyn’s father, Gothlïrlyn? Have you ever ventured farther than a league or two from this comfortable eyrie? Have you ever eaten any sheep or goats that did not wander into the marsh to get stuck in the mire? I lost my cousin Atdaholyn because of that elf-mage, and for one reason only, to avenge his death, am I here in the southern kingdoms of the earth. Have you any idea what I have suffered on my quest thus far? I have fought with wyverns that could read a gryphon’s mind, and won, though how I do not know! Perhaps through the undeserved help of Ellulianaen, yet even so I hardly know if the Gryphon-King is with me or against me! Then I have been through starvation and cold and deprivation, and spent nights in the caves of bats, caves that were too small, with no mead, and nearly died at least twice! I never knew my grandfather, but if I did, I am sure he would be twice the gryphon I am – for he knew what it was to be a strange gryphon in a strange land, and I have no doubt that he suffered much more than I have in this last month on his journey from the east, too.”
And then he ceased his tirade, and closed his beak, for he feared that he had said much more than he ought to have, and yet had not made his point nearly so strongly as he would have liked. But Gwendolyn looked admiringly at him, for few gryphons had ever dared to stand up to her father before.
“An impertinent cub,” said Gothlïrlyn disdainfully. At that very moment, fortunately, Fydwyrlyn, still sniffing and wiping away tears, said, “Stew is ready.” So they began to eat.
But Gwendolyn’s parents did not bother to bring out any mead for Hwedolyn to drink, though they each had a cup to themselves, and even brought one out for Gwendolyn, which she promptly refused, seeing that they had not offered one to Hwedolyn.
Gothlïrlyn said, “I am certainly not the sort of gryphon who has been nowhere and done nothing. I have travelled to the port city of Melek, and there I read many scrolls at the great library.”
Gwendolyn replied, “That’s why I came, father. I wanted to know if you had read or knew anything about how a gryphon could defeat an elf-mage.”
Gothlïrlyn said, “In ages past, it was said that the best way was to use their own magic against them. How one could possibly do this, I do not know. I think it was a mere myth, a cub’s tale, with no basis in fact, as so many books are. If you do not possess the magic of the elf-mage, how can you possibly use it against him? Ridiculous. The ancients were gullible – they could swallow twelve impossibilities before breakfast and still have room for thirteen more! Consider those stories of gryphons flying in the heavens after they have died. Stew-in-the-sky, I call it. A foolish dream.” Hwedolyn would have been offended, if he had been listening. But the words of Gothlïrlyn had ceased holding any significance to him so he paid him no heed.
The conversation for the rest of that night was superficial, touching on nothing more than the weather and the view of the town from their eyrie. Hwedolyn did not eat very much, for his hunger had completely evaporated. After eating, Gwendolyn quickly made excuses for both of them, and they left quietly upon the evening breeze.
As they flew away, they could hear someone repeating the word, “Scandalous,” over and over again. To Hwedolyn’s ear it sounded like Fydwyrlyn, Gwendolyn’s mother, but then again it might have been Gothlïrlyn, for, when over-excited his voice had the habit of becoming higher, almost like a parrot’s voice.
“They were not that way when I was a young gryphon-
cub,” she said as they flew back to Chalyom’s eyrie. “I know not what happened, but I suspect it had something to do with the death of my younger brother, Béiyolyn, of sickness when he was a cub of ten years old. My father’s spirit was broken, then, I believe, though in his pride he never acknowledged the pain of his loss, neither did I ever see him shed any tears for my brother. But thereafter his thoughts turned only to the topic of respectability among gryphons, and the like – and he became very cynical – sometimes I wonder in my heart if he blamed himself for Béiyolyn’s death, thinking some secret wrong he had done in his youth had caused Ellulianaen to take out his wrath upon his only son, and perhaps he did not want the same fate to befall me, or perhaps he stopped believing in anything at all! He believes in a different Gryphon-King from the one that Chalyom believes in – a harsh and vengeful ruler! An unkind god. Perhaps this is why he is afraid – perhaps he fears a future loss, lest you and I be friends now, then betrothed as eyrie-mates one day, and, should you carry the taint of your grandfather, some misfortune will be wreaked upon my descendants. Ah, I wish they were not like this, for life could be so much richer than my parents make their mean little eyrie, but they cannot see it. ‘Twould it were not so.”
And Hwedolyn wondered if indeed there was any possibility in Gwendolyn’s mind that they might be eyrie-mates one day, but he was too afraid to ask, lest she say no. And then he heard the last part of her little speech, where she had said, “Twould it were not so”, and though she certainly intended to mean, “I wish my parents were not the way they are,” Hwedolyn thought that she meant, “I wish it were not so that we were betrothed,” for in his worry of mind he had not been listening what she had said.
And very early that morning, when they returned to Chalyom’s eyrie, as Hwedolyn tried to sleep, all his grievances stood at attention before him like Nomoi soldiers on guard before a forbidden gate; his cousin’s death, caused by the elf-mage; the fact that Gwendolyn was probably never going to be his gryphon-wife, for her parents obviously heartily disapproved of the match; and the fact that even Ellulianaen was against his course of action, for the elf in the vision had virtually told him so.
But he was very determined, and said to himself, “I am not even going to think about that dream.” He willed himself to forget that the vision had even happened, for in the state of mind that he was in, he could only think of the foreboding parts of the forthtelling, where the elf had told him not to take vengeance, and not the hopeful parts, where the elf had told him that he would marry Gwendolyn. All he could think was that everything was lost. As the day went on, they went hunting, and Hwedolyn kept his thoughts to himself.
Early the following morning, when he awoke from his sleep, Gwendolyn was away hunting in the forest, and the old gryphon-crone saw that Hwedolyn was awake and beckoned to him. She was tending the pot, wherein a delicious stew was slowly brewing. “Ah,” she said, “here, try some of the stew.” And she served a large bowl of it to him.
At that moment Gwendolyn returned. She told him, “I saw no goats, sheep, nothing else. I cannot understand it – I’ve never had such an unsuccessful hunting expedition. I scouted every inch of the eastern shore of the river. Not one animal drinking at the river! Not a single one!”
Chalyom replied, “Well, why don’t you have some stew, Gwendolyn, and then perhaps you ought to both go hunting together. Try the Western Shore this time. I know the marshes are on this side, but sometimes that makes it easier to find an animal.”
Gwendolyn said, “Alright, that sounds good,” and settled down to have some stew.
Whilst she was eating, Chalyom said to Hwedolyn quietly, “This will be the last I see of you for a good while, cub. May the light of Ellulianae be a guide to you in darkness. And remember, try the Western Shore. Don’t forget what I said, try the Western Shore!”
“I’m not leaving just yet, I’ll be back soon, I’m sure,” said Hwedolyn. “I haven’t even found any sign of the elf-mage yet.”
But he wondered silently to himself why she had repeated, “Try the Western Shore.”
And not long afterwards, Gwendolyn finished her stew and they flew off to hunt together. “I couldn’t help overhearing you talking with Chalyom. You said something about the elf-mage. Are you leaving so soon?” Gwendolyn asked Hwedolyn, and she appeared hurt.
“No,” replied Hwedolyn, “Well, yes, I suppose I might be. Soon I must begin my quest again. I do not even know if I want to go or where I am headed, or what I will do.” He looked at Gwendolyn, soaring beside him.
Gwendolyn said, “You don’t really have to go on your quest, do you?” Suddenly she was flying close to him and bumped him in mid-air, “I mean, nobody is forcing you, are they?”
“What?” said Hwedolyn, wondering if it had been an inadvertent bump.
“I couldn’t help noticing that Chalyom doesn’t think much of it, and she is the Oracle of Hwendoryllyan. Must you really risk life and limb on a foolish quest that will as likely as not end up in you getting killed?” said Gwendolyn, bumping him again and looking him in the eye playfully as she did so, so that he was sure this time that it was intentional.
Hwedolyn bumped her back, albeit very gently, almost tenderly in fact.
“I do not think it will end that way. I do not think it is a foolish quest,” said Hwedolyn. Gwendolyn was starting to annoy him with her questions, and her midair antics. “Come,” he said, swooping down, “let us find ourselves some goat.”
“You’ve enjoyed yourself in your time staying in Chalyom’s cave, haven’t you?” said Gwendolyn, implying that it was completely obvious that he had, then bumped him again!
He bumped her back a little harder this time. “Wouldn’t it be wiser to stay here a little longer?” she said, and bumped him again! And then Gwendolyn’s voice sounded a little tremulous, like a parrot’s voice, “– when we may never meet again!”
And then she bumped him again, and laughed! And he bumped back, and laughed as well, and they swooped down together, towards a high rock far below them. “I’ve enjoyed nothing in my life so much as I have enjoyed your company, gryphon Gwendolyn! Perhaps only the fellowship of my cousin Atdaholyn has ever come close.” And he laughed for the first time in many days.
“Isn’t it more important for us to live life for this day, for that which we already possess, rather than avenging the past that is already behind us?” Gwendolyn’s musky, lioneaglesque scent was all around Hwedolyn, for they were flying very close to each other, and he felt as though he could neither think nor navigate properly.
Fortunately they landed upon the rock, and all he saw was Gwendolyn, golden and glorious in the sunlight. The sun caught her wings, and they glinted like finest gold. All he could smell was her odour, the gryphonesque smell of her fur-feathers, the loveliest, most feminine scent he could imagine. And Gwendolyn looked into his eyes, and all she saw there was tenderness, and all he saw in her eyes was admiration, and his wings were strong, for they were bent over her shading her from the sunshine, and his scent was gryphonesque also, the smell of eagle and lion, of everything that flies high and strives and is glorious and strong and true of heart. And for a moment it appeared that Hwedolyn was about to groom Gwendolyn’s neck-feathers, which is of course a very intimate thing for two gryphons to share, and would have meant that they were practically gryphon-mates, for gryphons have very peculiar customs, completely unlike the customs of any other nyashall people upon the earth.
But in that very moment, Hwedolyn saw something from the corner of his eye. It was a small pile of dead animals and birds and insects that had turned to ash in a circle of eight-foot radius, on the rocks below them. “Look. What is that?” he said, involuntarily, suddenly excited, and disentangling himself from Gwendolyn’s wings. She answered, “What?” and it was as if a mighty spell that was about to be cast had completely fallen apart. Gwendolyn felt as though the sky had fallen in upon her.
For a moment, Hwedolyn regretted seeing the wyrding circle, and he looked
back at Gwendolyn, for he felt like a boat on a river that had just accidentally taken the left fork instead of the right. Part of him wanted to go back and make everything the way it had been moments before and completely forget his quest for vengeance, but he found that he could not. He simply had to see if the circle of dead animals and birds really was evidence of wyrding, a clue left behind by the elf-mage. He swooped down to look at it.
It was so similar to the one his father and he had discovered in the mountains near their eyrie, many months ago, that it was uncanny. There was a dead rabbit in the middle, and it looked very much like the one he and his father Halomlyn had seen, although somewhat darker in spots. For a moment, he thought it had been burned, but why would someone burn a rabbit inside a circle like this? This was certainly like no campfire he had ever seen. There were insects and a dead birds in the circle, almost identical to the pattern of insects he had seen with his father, even the same kinds of insects, moths and scorpions, and the moss and shrubs poking from the rocks were all shrivelled and ashen as well. He was amazed at how similar it was to the other example he had seen, and that is why he thought it certainly must be a pattern of wyrding left by the same elf-mage.
Gwendolyn looked over the rock at what he had discovered. “What is it?” she asked, in a disappointed tone of voice. “Wyrding. It’s the pattern of wyrding that a powerful Mage left behind. Very similar to one that I saw with my father, many months ago, before my cousin died. I believe it’s the same elf-mage. Come, see this, it will crumple when I touch it.” And he touched the rabbit with a talon, and it crumbled fairly satisfyingly into dust, though the back part was left behind, which had not happened before. “Well, it’s quite similar,” he said. “It didn’t completely crumble into dust like the other one.”
She said, “Amazing. But not very safe, if you are right and the elf-mage is nearby. Come, we should leave here now, if it truly is what you say it is. Who knows but that the elf-mage is even now watching us from the forest shadows?”
“It is very close to Chalyom’s eyrie,” he admitted, “I fear this is a bad sign.” He turned to her. “I must do what I can. You must return to Chalyom’s eyrie. I could not forgive myself if you were hurt by this elf-mage – I would blame myself, Gwendolyn! I must find him and destroy his magic eye again if I can, for the very fact that these signs are so close means that he has been tracking me. I will return to you, my precious Gryphon-Friend, when my quest is over.”
“But Hwedolyn – do you really believe that Ellulianaen is blessing your quest? Do you know that for certain?”
“If not, then I will seek his blessing all the more. Will you seek it on my behalf also? Go. I will return to you, Gwendolyn, I promise.” And he flew up, up, into the sky, to get a good view of the surrounding area.
Gwendolyn flew up beside him, saying, “It is far better to hide, Hwedolyn. That is what gryphon-lore has told gryphons to do for many centuries, and we have survived because of this, because so few of the other nyashall creatures know that we are anything more than a myth or legend. Come, Chalyom will know what to do.”
But Hwedolyn was not listening. He was looking at the ground in a clearing of trees in the forest far below, for he had seen another pattern of death, a little less than half a league to the south. He flew up higher and gazed far and wide, even to the horizon, but could see no sign of the elf-mage himself. “There’s another circle of death, down there,” he said, turning towards her, preparing to swoop.
Hovering beside him, her tail flicking to and fro in temper, Gwendolyn said, “You’re an absolutely infuriating gryphon!” Then she said sharply, “Don’t bother coming back!” And away she darted, towards Chalyom’s eyrie, her tail still flicking as she flew.
And Hwedolyn watched her wistfully for an ephemeral moment, wondering if he should follow after her. “No,” he thought to himself, “She is not really that angry. Everything will be alright,” before swooping down to investigate the second circle of wyrding.
Again there was a rabbit, and other insects and so forth, and again it was an uncanny imitation of the circle he had seen with his father. Something nagged at his memory, a thought, at the back of his mind. It was the fact that the elf-mage had wyrded a snowdragon, dragons, and a bear, not just rabbits. Why was each of these patterns so close to the memory in his mind, almost an uncanny imitation of what he had seen?
And at the very moment he thought, “wyvern,” he sensed rather than saw a serpentine figure glinting in the mists of the clouds above him.
“Ah, cleverest of gryphons, then you’ve worked me out!” said the wyvern, slipping out of the cloud like a diving fish, but keeping a respectable distance between himself and Hwedolyn. Hwedolyn hovered uneasily, keeping his eye on the wyvern. “Since the very day you killed my brother, gryphon, I followed you in order to catch you unawares and avenge his unjust demise. That circle was in your mind every moment as you flew above watching, so that was what I made! How like to the effects of wyrding is the fire of a wyvern’s flame! What think ye of my little artistic efforts, gryphon?” But the wyvern faltered in mid-air and fell a short way, then stabilised his hover again. Hwedolyn saw that his wings were still injured, for the rips and tears in them had not healed.
He said, “Wyvern, you are injured! Cease your fruitless pursuit; you cannot possibly win against a gryphon. And remember, I can hide my thoughts from you at any time.” Hwedolyn was by no means sure that this was true, for the last time he had tried it he had failed and that made him doubt that his successful efforts to hide his thoughts had been any more than lucky chance.
“Aye, true that may be,” said the wyvern. “Though I read doubt in your mind as you say it. But it’s the principle of the thing, you cat-bird! You killed my brother. So I ought to kill you, or if I cannot, then at least maim you somewhat. And if I cannot do that, I can at least torment you with the barbs of my words. And if I cannot do that, then perhaps I can irritate you, goad you a little, gryphon!”
Hwedolyn flew away and tried to ignore him. But the wyvern stayed a mere half a furlong behind him, taunting him constantly in a very irritating fashion. “Gryphon! Gryphon! I can goad you, gryphon!”
So Hwedolyn said, “Go away, wyvern, for I am on a quest for vengeance, and I have no time for your nonsense!”
And the wyvern said, “Am I not on a quest for vengeance also? There is much in common between us, gryphon! You killed my brother. The elf-mage killed your cousin. We are alike, you and I!”
Turning to face him in irritation, Hwedolyn said, “We are not alike in this: you are on a futile quest for vengeance. I am on a quest that is very likely to succeed. Your wings are still not healed. You ought to go home and rest, and come and take revenge upon me when you are feeling better. You cannot possibly win against me!”
The wyvern replied sarcastically, “You – win against the elf-mage? Pah! Anyhow, gryphon, how certain are you that you even saw the elf-mage, when the lightning hit your cousin? How certain are you that the elf-mage you speak of was the one that did it? Perhaps it was just lightning, a terrible chance, the power of nature. Perhaps you only imagine that the elf-mage is responsible. Perhaps, excuse the obscure pun, perhaps it was all in your mind! (Well, that is where I got it from! For I read you mind – and you never stop thinking of that day, gryphon, it is always in your thoughts, like the obsession of a happium addicted mage.) You are certain it was all your fault for agreeing to go flying with Atdaholyn, when you knew it was dangerous – after all, you had that premonition, that dream, that prophesied your cousin’s death, and still you went with him!” The wyvern cackled.
At this Hwedolyn had had enough. He flapped his wings twice, turned about, and in nary a moment was facing the wyvern but a few feet from his reptilian face. The wyvern wore a look of startlement, and Hwedolyn breathed a great flame at him, but the evil beast twisted more agilely than Hwedolyn thought possible, avoided the flame, then turned about and dove down one hundred feet to begin following the gryphon like his shadow, f
litting across the tops of the trees.
“Nyah! Nyah!” said the wyvern, words apparently having failed him. Then: “Gryphon! Gryphon! Gryphon!” he repeated, ad infinitum, in a tremendously cub-ish way, and Hwedolyn said to himself in frustration, “Ellulianaen!” But that made him remember.
Hwedolyn said in his heart, “Ellulianaen, what can I do? I’ve lost Gwendolyn and I have no idea where the elf-mage has gone and I can’t find King Klaer and everything has gone wrong. Please guide me, All-Father.”
And despite the wyvern’s continual mockery, Hwedolyn felt a hint of peace take hold of him. The wyvern did not seem to matter any more, though his voice continued “Gryphon! Gryphon! Gryphon!” in the background, but it sounded distant and tiny to his ears.
And at that moment for some reason he thought of Chalyom, and in his mind’s eye the old gryphon-crone was saying goodbye to him, and “Don’t forget the Western Shore,” twice. And he wondered again what that could possibly mean? “Ellulianaen, what will I find on the Western Shore of the Iothuiolmae River?” And he felt a strange feeling, as though Ellulianaen was not angry with him after all, as though the King of the Gryphons might even be his friend. How could it possibly be so? But he was sure that it was.
“Auuugh!” cried the wyvern. “What is it thinking? I hate it – I hate that light that fills its mind with brightness! Auuugh!” And the wyvern left him alone for a little while, swooping down to find something tasty to eat in the dark forest below.
Hwedolyn looked to the east, to the great Iothuiolmae River that flowed from north to south like a great green serpent, across the wide earth, and he flew towards it. Ten minutes later, he was flying south along the Western Shore of the great River, looking down at the ground to see what he could see.
Hours passed. The day brightened to noon then darkness began to chase the sun over the horizon. He saw nothing below him save trees and more trees with overhanging branches on them loaded with moss and roots that drank deeply from the river. But just when he was going to give up he saw a grey patch at the edge of a grassy knoll, near the shore. He drifted down to the ground, and looked. Behold! Sheltered underneath a great willow tree was a circle some eight foot in radius, with a pair of dead foxes in the middle. It was certainly evidence of the elf-mage, and it had happened but half a day ago, for the ants had eaten little yet of what was left of the surrounding insects and bugs, and when he touched the foxes their corpses crumbled completely into grey dust, just like the real wyrding circle he had seen. This was apparently not the wyvern’s work.
He looked to the north and saw trampled grass and shrubbery by the river’s side, and the same to the south. On the bank of the river there were many footprints and Hwedolyn saw that, if it was indeed the elf-mage, he had companions with him now.
Hwedolyn drank deeply from the river then flew up into the sky, looking south for signs of the elf-mage and those who were now with him. Were they Nomoi soldiers? Or humans, partisans fooled by the magic disguise of the elf-mage into thinking he was one of them? And about two leagues to the south he saw a disturbance in the undergrowth of the forest.
He swooped down swiftly and alighted, puzzling things out for a moment. It was twilight now, the soldiers’ eyesight would not be very good, but neither would his, for at twilight a gryphon’s eyesight is not at its best. The elf-mage would have a distinct advantage at this hour, for he could use magic to increase his eyesight, or to see by some other means unknown to Hwedolyn.
But tonight – tonight was the last night of the new moon, if the thin crescent wasn’t already beginning to show. He would not have such an opportunity for a whole month to travel under cover of darkness and attack undetected.
Ever is the new moon the time of gryphons.
So he waited quiet as a dormouse under the shadow of the willow trees by the river until the sun had set and the evening star had begun to shine. He waited whilst frogs and crickets began to chirp and croak their songs and the stars winked into existence, one single pinprick of light at a time. He waited while the brazen red eastern evening sky turned to black and dark clouds blew in on a mountain breeze from the southeast.
Finally as the wind was changing and patches of the Milky Way became visible through gaping holes in the dark rolling clouds he went aloft, drifting along, far above the slow-turning earth, looking down, far down, to see any sign of the elf-mage and his minions, whether they be soldiers or partisans, elves or men, loyal to the Emperor or rebels with a just cause.
So high he flew, and so slowly and leisurely, that, even had the elf-mage looked up at that sky directly at him, he would have seen nothing but a dark patch on the dark clouds that shifted not upon them, for a gentle breeze blew in from the north, and Hwedolyn moved only with the gentle motion of the clouds themselves. Though Hwedolyn would have been but a tiny dot on the rolling thunderclouds to the sight of a man, a jot smaller than a gnat to the human or elven eye, yet he himself could see every detail of the fields below and he carefully followed the signs that showed where the elf-mage and his minions had been, a few broken branches here, a broached fiddlehead of bracken there, here a trampled flower-bed, there a fenland breached and tromped on…
An hour later he saw the camp. He studied it from his high vantage point in the upper atmospheres. There were many tents, and they all looked alike; black tents, perhaps leather-skin, with three poles, one longer than the other two, tied to the ground by ropes secured with wooden pegs.
The camp was guarded by a soldier in shining black armour, an Imperial Nomoi; a Lieutenant perhaps, or even a Knight-Commander, and two soldiers with no armour, probably foot-soldiers or Captains – while Hwedolyn could see their shoulders he did not know the markings of Nomoi rank. The footsoldiers carried swords and bows and the knight carried a lethal pikestaff bearing the bleak flag of the Nomoi Empire, with a mighty broadsword strapped to his side. But the elf-mage was nowhere to be seen.
Hwedolyn drifted upwards, and let the clouds completely obscure him from sight. He glided above them, to where the stars shone unobstructed upon the dark surface of the thunder-mist, and the new moon hung in the sky, rude and blank as nothingness. He moved slightly north, keeping his position constant by the stars and waited awhile, fearing to make any sudden move, then drifted down again, to be once more an insignificant dot upon the shadow of the dark clouds. He saw the elf-mage walking to the camp from the northwest. The elf-mage did not look up, nor did he give any indication of uneasiness or that he might know that the gryphon was watching him.
The gryphon looked to the northeast, to the place from whence the elf-mage had come and saw a bear, lying dead, whose grey, crumpled form, and the perimeter of death around it, bespoke wyrding. And Hwedolyn was satisfied that this was the elf-mage he had been looking to find, on whom he would avenge his cousin’s death.