The Silver Gryphon v(mw-3 Read online

  “All right, your back isn’t broken, and neither are your legs; that’s better than we had any right to expect.” The knife she had been trying to use to get him free was gone, but now she could reach all the snap-hooks holding the ropes to his harness. Hissing with pain every time her shoulder was jarred in the least, she knelt down in the debris of crushed branches and scratchy twigs and began un-snapping him.

  “I think I’m one big bruise,” he said, as she worked her hand under him to free as many of the ropes as she could without having him move.

  “That makes two of us,” she told him, straining to reach one last set of snap-hooks. He knew better than to stir until she told him to; any movement at all might tear fragile blood vessels in the wings where the skin was thinnest, and he would bleed to death before she could do anything to help him.

  Finally, she had to give up on that last set. She moved back to his head, and studied his pupils. Was one a little smaller than the other? Without a light to make them react, she couldn’t tell. “You might have a concussion,” she said doubtfully.

  “You might, too,” he offered, which she really could have done without hearing. I can’t wait for the concussion-headache to set in.

  “Just lie there,” she advised him. “I’m going after the medical gear.”

  If I can find the medical gear. If it’s still worth anything.

  It had been packed on top of the supplies, even though that meant it had to be offloaded and set aside every time they stopped for the night. Now she was glad that she had retained the packing order that the supply sergeant had ordained for the basket; they would have been in worse shape if she’d had to move foodstuffs, camping gear, and the tent to get at it!

  The only question is, did everything fall on top of it?

  She worked her way over to the basket again, to find to her great relief that the medical supplies were still “on top”—or rather, since the basket was on its side, they were still the things easiest to reach.

  Although “easiest to reach” was only in a relative sense. . . .

  She studied the situation before she did anything. The basket was lying in a heap of broken branches; the supplies had tumbled out sideways and now were strewn in an arc through that same tangle of branches. The medical supplies were apparently caught in a forked sapling at about shoulder height, but there was a lot of debris around that sapling. It would be very easy to take a wrong step and wind up twisting or even breaking an ankle—and she only had one hand to use to catch herself. And then, the fall could knock her out again, or damage her collarbone even worse—or both.

  But they needed those supplies; they needed them before they could do anything else.

  I’ll just have to be very, very careful. She couldn’t see any other way of reaching the package.

  “Tad? Tad, can you concentrate enough to use a moving spell?”

  All she got back was a croaked “No . . .” and a moan of pain.

  Well. . . it wasn‘t a very good idea anyway. A delirious gryphon casting a spell nearby is more risky for me than if I tried running up that tree!

  It looked like she would have to make it by foot. It was an agonizing journey; she studied each step before she took it, and she made certain that her footing was absolutely secure before she made the next move. She was sweating like a foundered horse before she reached the sapling, both with the strain and with the pain. It took everything she had to reach up, pull the package loose, then numbly toss it in the direction of the clear space beside Tad. It was heavier than it looked—because of the bonesetting kit, of course. She nearly passed out again from the pain when she did so—but it landed very nearly where she wanted it to, well out of the way of any more debris.

  She clung to the sapling, breathing shallowly, until the pain subsided enough that she thought she could venture back the way she had come. Her sweat had turned cold by now, or at least that was how it felt, and some of it ran underneath the crusting scabs of dried blood and added a stinging counterpoint to her heartbeat.

  When she reached the spot beside her precious package, she simply collapsed beside it, resting her head on it as she shuddered all over with pain and exertion. But every time she shook, her shoulder awoke to new pain, so it was not so much a moment of respite as it was merely a chance to catch her breath.

  With the aid of teeth and her short boot knife she wrestled the package open, and the first thing she seized was one of the vials of pain-killing yellow-orchid extract. She swallowed the bitter potion down without a grimace, and waited for it to take effect.

  She’d only had it once before, when she’d broken a toe, and in a much lighter dose. This time, however, it did not send her into light-headed giddiness. It numbed the pain to the point where it was bearable, but no more than that. Another relief; the pain must be bad enough to counteract most of the euphoric effect of the drug.

  There was another drug that did the same service for gryphons; she dragged the pack of supplies nearer to Tad, fumbled out a larger vial, and handed it to him. He tilted his head back just enough that he would be able to swallow, and poured the contents into his beak, clamping it shut instantly so as not to waste a single bitter drop.

  She knew the moment it took effect; his limbs all relaxed, and his breathing eased. “Now what?” he asked. “You can see what’s wrong better than I can.”

  “First you are going to have to help me,” she told him. “I can’t try to move you until this collarbone is set and immobilized. If I try, I think I might pass out again—”

  “A bad idea, you shouldn’t do that,” he agreed, and flexed his forelimbs experimentally. “I think I can do that. Sit there, and we’ll try.”

  He was deft and gentle, and she still blacked out twice before he was finished amidst his jabbered apologies for each mistake. When he was done, though, her arm and shoulder were bound up in a tight, ugly but effective package, and the collarbone had been set. Hopefully, it would remain set; they had no way to put a rigid cast on a collarbone. Only a mage could do that; the Healers hadn’t even figured out a way to do so.

  Then it was his turn.

  It could not have been any easier for him, although he did not lose consciousness as she rolled him off the broken wing, set it, and bound it in place. This time she did use the bonesetting kit; the splints and bandages that hardened into rigid forms when first soaked, then dried. She was no trondi’irn, but she had learned as much as she could from her mother, once it became obvious to her that her old playmate Tad was going to be her permanent partner. Besides that, though, she guessed. She didn’t know enough of the finer points of gryphon physiology to know if what she did now would cause lifelong crippling. Thin moans escaped Tad’s clenched beak from time to time, however, and he did ask her to pause three times during the operation.

  Finally they both staggered free of the ruins, collapsed on the thick leaf mold of the forest floor, and waited for the pain to subside beneath the ministrations of their potions.

  It felt like forever before she was able to think of anything except the fiery throbbing of her shoulder, but gradually the potion took greater hold, or else the binding eased some of the strain. The forest canopy was still preternaturally silent; their plunge through it had frightened away most of the inhabitants, and the birds and animals had not yet regained their courage. She was intermittently aware of odd things, as different senses sharpened for an instant, and her mind overloaded with scent or sound. The sharp, sour smell of broken wood—the call of one insect stupid enough to be oblivious to them—the unexpected note of vivid red of a single, wilting flower they had brought down with them—

  “What happened?” she asked quietly, into the strange stillness. It was an obvious question; one moment, they were flying along and all was well, and the next moment, they were plummeting like arrowshot ducks.

  His eyes clouded, and the nictitating membrane came down over them for a moment, giving him a wall-eyed look. “I don’t know,” he said, slowly, haltingly. “Ho
nestly. I can’t tell you anything except what’s obvious, that the magic keeping the basket at a manageable weight just—dissolved, disappeared. I don’t know why, or how.”

  She felt her stomach turn over. Not the most comforting answer In the world. Up until now, she had not been afraid, but now. . . .

  I can’t let this eat at me. We don’t know what happened, remember? It could still all be an accident. “Could there have been a mage-storm?” she persisted. “A small one, or a localized one perhaps?”

  He flattened his ear-tufts and shook his head emphatically. “No. No, I’m sure of it. Gryphons are sensitive to mage-storms, the way that anyone with joint swellings is sensitive to damp or real, physical storms. No, there was no mage-storm; I would know if one struck.”

  Her heart thudded painfully, and her stomach twisted again. If it wasn’t a “natural” event. . . . “An attack?” she began—but he shook his head again.

  But he looked more puzzled than fearful. “It wasn’t an attack either,” he insisted. “At least, it wasn’t anything I’d recognize as an attack. It wasn’t anything offensive that I’d recognize.” He gazed past her shoulder as if he was searching for words to describe what he had felt. “It was more like—like suddenly having your bucket spring a leak. The magic just drained out, but suddenly. And I don’t know how or why. All the magic just—just went away.”

  All the magic just went away. . . . Suddenly, the chill hand of panic that she had been fighting seized the back of her neck, and she lurched to her feet. If the magic in the basket had drained away, what about all the other magic?

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, as she stumbled toward the wreckage of the basket and the tumbled piles of supplies.

  “Nothing—I hope!” she called back, with an edge in her voice. What’s closest? The firestarter? Yes-there it is! The firestarter was something every Apprentice mage made by the dozen; they were easy to create, once the disciplines of creating an object had been mastered. It was good practice, making them. They were also useful, and since their average life was about six months, you could always barter them to anyone in the city once you’d made them. Anyone could use one; you didn’t have to be a mage to activate it—most were always ready, and to use one you simply used whatever simple trigger the mage had built in. The one in their supplies was fresh; Tad had just made it himself before they left.

  It didn’t look like much; just a long metal tube with a wick protruding from one end. You were supposed to squeeze a little polished piece of stone set into the other end with your thumb, and the wick would light.

  You could manipulate it with one hand if you had to, and of course, she had to. Hoping that her hunch had been wrong, she fumbled the now-dented tube out of a tangle of ropes and cooking gear, and thumbed the end.

  Nothing happened.

  She tried it again, several times, then brought it back to Tad. “This isn’t working,” she said tightly. “What’s wrong with it?”

  He took it from her and examined it, his eyes almost crossing as he peered at it closely. “The—the magic’s gone,” he said hesitantly. “It’s not a firestarter anymore, just a tube of metal with a wick in it.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.” Grimly she returned to the tumbled supplies, and pawed through them, looking for anything that had once been magical in nature. Every movement woke the pain in her shoulder, but she forced herself to ignore it. The way that the supplies had tumbled out aided her; the last things into the basket had been on top, and that meant they were still accessible.

  The mage-light in the lantern was no longer glowing. The tent—well, she couldn’t test that herself, she couldn’t even unfold it herself, but the canvas felt oddly limp under her hand, without a hint of the resistance it used to possess. The teleson—

  That, she carried back to Tad, and placed it wordlessly before him. It wasn’t much to look at, but then, it never had been; just a contoured headband of plain silver metal, with a couple of coils of copper that could be adjusted to fit over the temples of any of the varied inhabitants of White Gryphon. It was used to magically amplify the range of those even marginally equipped with mind-magic. All the gryphons, kyree, and hertasi had that power, and most of the tervardi as well.

  Tad should have been able to use it to call for help. A shiver ran down her body and she suppressed the urge to babble, cry, or curl up in a ball and give up. She realized that she had been unconsciously counting on that fact. If they couldn’t call for help—

  He touched one talon to the device, and shook his head. “I don’t even have to put it on,” he said, his voice shaking. “It’s—empty. It’s useless.” Unspoken words passed between them as he looked up mutely at her. We’re in trouble.

  “It wasn’t just the basket, then,” she said, sitting down hard, her own voice trembling as well. How could this happen? Why now? Why us? “Everything that had any spells on it is inert. The mage-lights, the firestarter, the tent, probably the weather-proof shelter-cloaks—”

  “And the teleson.” He looked up at her, his eyes wide and frightened, pupils contracted to pinpoints. “We can’t call for help.”

  We’re out here, on our own. We’re both hurt. No one at White Gryphon knows where we are; they won’t even know we ‘re missing until we don’t show up at the rendezvous point where we were supposed to meet the last team that manned the outpost. That’ll be days from now.

  “It’s a long way to walk,” he faltered. “Longer, since we’re hurt.”

  And there’s something nearby that eats magic. Is it a natural effect, or a creature? If it eats magic, would it care to snack on us? It might; it might seek out Tad, at least. Gryphons were, by their very nature, magical creatures.

  Don’t think about it! Over and over, the Silvers had been taught that in an emergency, the first thing to think about was the problem at hand and not to get themselves tied into knots of helplessness by trying to think of too many things at once. Deal with what we can handle; solve the immediate problems, then worry about the next thing. She got unsteadily to her feet. “There’s a storm coming. That’s our first problem. We have to get shelter, then—water, warmth, and weapons. I think we’d better salvage what we can while we can before the rain comes and ruins it.”

  He got shakily to his feet, nodding. “Right. The tent—even if we could cut poles for it, I’m not sure we could get it up properly with both of us hurt. I don’t think the basket will be good for much in the way of shelter—”

  “Not by itself, but two of the sides and part of the bottom are still intact,” she pointed out. “We can spread the canvas of the tent out over that by hand, and use the remains to start a fire.” She stared at it for a moment. So did he.

  “It looks as if it’s supported fairly well by those two saplings,” he pointed out. “The open side isn’t facing the direction I’d prefer, but maybe this is better than trying to wrestle it around?”

  She nodded. “We’ll leave it where it is, maybe reinforce the supports. Then we’ll clear away the wreckage and the supplies, cut away what’s broken and tie in more support for the foundation by tying in those saplings—”

  She pointed with her good hand, and he nodded.

  “Look there, and there,” he said, pointing himself. “If we pile up enough stuff, we’ll have a three-sided shelter instead of just a lean-to.”

  That, she agreed, would be much better than her original idea. In a moment, the two of them were laboring as best they could, her with one hand, and him with one wing encased and a sprained hind-leg, both of them a mass of bruises.

  He did most of the work of spreading out the canvas over the remaining sound walls of the basket; he had more reach than she did. She improvised tent stakes, or used ones she uncovered in the course of moving supplies, and tied the canvas down as securely as she could manage with only one hand. One thing about growing up in the household of a kestra’chern; she had already known more kinds of knots and lashings than even her survival instructor. She wasn’t certa
in how Tad felt, but every movement made her shoulder ache viciously. There’s no choice, she told herself each time she caught her breath with pain. Rest once it starts to rain; work now. She wasn’t sure what time it was. They hadn’t gone very far before they had come crashing down, and they hadn’t been unconscious for long, or else they would have awakened to find insects trying to see if they were dead yet. Scavengers didn’t wait long in this kind of forest. That meant it was probably still early morning. If the rain threatened by those clouds held off, they had until late afternoon before the inevitable afternoon thunderstorm struck. If our luck hasn’t gone totally sour, that is. . . .

  Eventually, they had their three-sided shelter; the limp tent canvas stretched tightly over the remains of the basket and the three young trees that had caught it. There were some loose flaps of canvas that she didn’t quite know what to do with yet; she might think of something later, but this was the best they could do for now.

  They both turned to the tumbled heaps of supplies; sorting out what was ruined, what could still be useful even though it was broken, and what was still all right. Eventually, they might have to sort out a version of what could be carried away in two packs, but that would be later.