Skyfire Page 25

  “Great one!” Shard soared higher and swung down again, flying in an achingly controlled glide next to the leader’s shoulder.

  Another witless bellow. His rage went so deep, his instinct to run so strong, that Shard couldn’t understand his words, even in the language of the earth. Shard pictured pine trees, loam soil and peat under his talons, the stiff wind through the rowan of the Star Isle. His hind paws, rooted to the earth. He was lord of the sky and earth.

  “Hear me,” he said in the language of stone, of hoof and paw. “Some of you will die, but not as many if you stop fighting”

  Understanding gleamed in the beast’s huge, black eyes, but he shook his horns again.

  “The red-rock king killed my sire and my son.” A low, hot bellow. “I will kill him. I will fight and kill him before I die.”

  “Stop this,” Shard shouted. “Break again and more will die than need to. We will only kill what we need unless you fight again—”

  “So be it.”

  The beast veered to stab his horns at Shard, nearly trampling a female of his own. She lowed and attacked Shard in turn. Shard stole Asvander’s trick, swung up with a hard wing stroke and flipped sideways to land on the she-beast’s back. Then with a roar, he lunged into the leader’s flank just as Asvander slammed into him from higher air. The greatbeast staggered to the side, hollering rage. But he did not fall.

  “Tyr’s beak,” Asvander panted, as he and Shard clung hard to the woolly pelt of the beast’s shoulders. “What now?”

  The king and his line of hunters came into view. The leading beast veered, bellowing at his herd to scatter, to fight.

  Shard clung hard, riding the side of the mountainous beast. “Push.”

  The beast plowed forward. The thunder of the hooves buried all other sound. The front of the herd bore down on the king’s line and the sides pushed against the gryfons all the way down the line.

  Together, Asvander and Shard forced their wings open.

  Shard saw that the gryfons in the king’s line didn’t flinch, hovering ahead and waiting. They would realize too late that the herd was about to plunge into chaos. More gryfons and greatbeast would die than anyone had planned.

  Shard and Asvander thrust their wings back, then forward, shoving all their desperate, tiring might against the mountain of galloping muscle and bone. The beast leaned into their claws, loosing a mad, frothing wail.

  “It won’t work!” Asvander swung one wing closed and almost slipped from the beast’s back. Shard slapped talons to his shoulder and hauled up until he got a grip again.

  “Again!”

  Shrieks from behind them warned of the herd about to break through gryfon lines again. With all the dust and bodies it would be impossible for Orn to see that the gryfons were about to lose control.

  Asvander leaned in to Shard. “We have to warn the king!”

  “We tried,” Shard growled, and shoved again.

  The gryfons who had herded the beasts that far finally saw, too late, that the herd wouldn’t slow. They shoved to the front, desperately trying to turn the beasts, but the beasts followed the leader as a body follows the head.

  Shard and Asvander had to take the head.

  “Again!” Shard shouted, opening his wings. Asvander shrieked, flaring his wings, and pushed. The beast bellowed, staggered—

  And another gryfon smashed into the haunch on Shard’s flank. Another into his shoulder. Russet and black.

  Brynja and Stigr.

  The greatbeast toppled hard into the one next to him. She smashed into the ground and he flipped over her. Hooves lashed the air. Horns slashed at anything near.

  Brynja, Stigr and Asvander shoved free but Shard’s tail feathers caught under the heavy shoulder when the beast first flipped and they rolled together, Shard tucking his neck and scrabbling to stay on top. He lost track of the herd and the hunters, focused only on not getting crushed. He clung to the leader’s shoulder as they skidded to a long stop in the dirt.

  Dust swirled in a storm, churned by wings and hooves.

  Shard allowed himself a breath, then leaped up to the greatbeast’s face before more hunters could descend. “You ran well, great one. You fought well. Brother.” The language of the earth would sound like gurgles and growls to the other gryfons.

  The great ribs rose and fell hard in defeat. “Thank you for my good death.” His eyes closed, accepting his fate.

  A shadow fell and Shard looked up, panicked.

  The dust whirled away to reveal King Orn landing hard in front of him, wings wide.

  Shard staggered back, muscles quivering, as Orn lunged in to deliver a killing bite. Shard looked quickly behind him. The gryfons, including Orn’s hunters, had at last cowed the herd. With the leader fallen, the rest of the greatbeasts fell into order. All around, gryfons brought down beasts enough to feed the pride through winter, while the rest of the greatbeast herd in the back fled.

  Orn raised his tawny head, streaked with blood, and narrowed his eyes at Shard, wings open in amazement.

  “Very well, Shard, son-of-Baldr.”

  It dawned on Shard that those simple words were the king’s acceptance. In the middle of the dust and blood and with gryfons lunging to and fro to fell the last of the greatbeast, Shard was initiated.

  He was now a member of Orn’s pride.

  35

  Kjorn’s Mistake

  Kjorn strained against the earth and roots that pinned him half in, half out of the ground. The boar, young, lean, not quite the size of the one Kjorn had killed with Shard, pounded toward through the white snow and mud.

  “Keep coming!” Kjorn shouted. “I challenge you!” With a strangled lion snarl Kjorn surged up, tearing roots, clawing, and came rolling out of the hole. He ramped to his hind legs, flashing his wings wide against the tight undergrowth and tree trunks. It would be impossible to fly out. He had to fight, for the boar would reach him before Kjorn could run to the meadow if he tried.

  Kjorn slapped his talons to earth and roared. The young boar bucked out of the charge and sidled, squealing, hesitating. Kjorn crouched, growling low. His checked the sides, trying to see the easiest path through the brush. “I killed your sire, you stupid beast. And I need meat.”

  The boar stamped with an angry shriek, but hesitated.

  “Coward,” Kjorn snarled, his heart winging up to his throat. He had the beast’s attention, but he feared if he moved to flee, it would charge again. When they’d killed the boar before, Shard had worked to make it so angry it couldn’t see straight. Kjorn wasn’t sure he could do it alone.

  Help, help, great Tyr. He knew he was a fool, trying to stand down a boar. Caj had warned that no gryfon could manage a boar alone, even a young one. But Kjorn had no choice, and anger coursed through his muscles after his fruitless, underground hunt. Hunger lanced his belly.

  He snarled another challenge and an insult. At last the boar stamped, lowering its head to charge again. Kjorn braced. Shadows beyond shifted and for a moment he thought he saw something impossible in the trees beyond. Not impossible. Real.

  A second boar.

  “Fly fly fly,” called a magpie from the trees, echoed by the cackling of a raven.

  The second boar emerged from the trees, snorting steam. It stood taller and thicker, a shaggy bristle of black fur standing up along the ridge of his back, his small, stupid eyes gleaming. A strange, gurgling rumble rolled from its throat and Kjorn shook his head, again hearing strange words.

  “This is not your fight, little brother. I will kill the eagle cat.”

  The first boar tossed his head in defiance. The elder stamped and slashed his tusks with a squeal. They butted hard, squealing and locking in argument and for a moment Kjorn hesitated, wings tensed and raised. His chance. He turned slowly to creep toward the meadow.

  At his movement, the beasts broke apart and their attention locked on Kjorn, small tails swishing, heads low.

  Kjorn found he’d lost his roar.

  He might’
ve fought or outrun a single boar. Not two. He lowered his head, hackle feathers ruffed up, and hissed. The larger boar squealed. The smaller swung its tusks, and together they charged.

  Kjorn’s courage drained. He could not fly. The meadow was too far to run.

  Like a kit, like a coward, he whirled and crammed himself back down into the tunnel.

  The boar’s den, idiot. As if they can’t follow you here! He shoved, clawing, squirming to get back down into the earth. Tusks slashed at his heels, his tail, and he shrieked.

  With a last shove through the narrow entrance, he collapsed in a heap on the muddy floor of the den. After a breath he staggered up to worm his way back through the tunnel. The boars stamped and clashed again at the mouth of the den, as if arguing who should pursue him.

  Kjorn heard them come rooting down. He sped until he emerged from the earthy den into the colder stone tunnels.

  Down, down, back under the island. He could lose them in the tunnels. He saw claw marks on the wall and followed them mindlessly, panting, speeding up every time he heard the boars behind.

  Soon they fell away. Lost, or drained of the anger to attack.

  Kjorn slowed to a crawl, then a stalk. He stopped when the tunnel opened into a small cavern, and lifted his ears, scenting the air. Something wasn’t right. There were claw marks on the wall, but he had no memory of the place.

  He walked to the edge of the cavern where claw marks slashed the glowing lichens, and sniffed. The scent wasn’t his own, but it was familiar. Kjorn backed away slowly, tail twitching.

  Wolf.

  He spun around and saw that in his panic he had missed a simple sight. Slash marks marred every wall. Wolves had come behind and destroyed his trail.

  Maybe, if he hadn’t panicked, if he’d noticed sooner, he could have gone with caution, searching for his own fading scent. All the slashes looked too similar now, and wolves had marked the walls to bury Kjorn’s own scent.

  Tension lumped tight in his throat. His wings flared and he crouched.

  Kjorn, locked in a gloomy cavern deep under the earth, released an eagle’s scream that dropped to a lion’s roar, and he was answered through the stone by distant, laughing howls.

  36

  A Matter of Pride

  “Your Highness,” Shard said to Orn. “I need to speak to you—”

  Gryfons plowed into Shard from all sides, knocking him back to the ground. He rolled in a surprised, laughing tumble with Brynja and Asvander. Orn stepped away to deal with the butchering. Shard would have to ask him permission to explore the Winderost another time.

  “See what I told you?” Brynja asked Asvander. “Now you wish you had him in the Guard, don’t you?”

  “I think he’s been waiting to show me up.” Asvander laughed, nipping at Shard’s wing as if they were kithood friends.

  Then Dagny piled on top, declaring she had seen it all from the far line. She had hunted across the herd with the bloodline of En. Shard laughed, reeling with the sudden, strange joy of belonging, as three gryfons crushed him with their weight and their admiration. He had never felt so strongly part of a pride even at home, except with the wolves and his very few friends. All around the news flew, it was Shard, Shard the Outlander who had seen that the greatbeasts meant fight to the death, meant to kill the king. More gryfons milled around, congratulating, and a familiar voice made its way through Shard’s joy.

  “Just like I promised,” Stigr was saying to Valdis as they approached more sedately. “I promised you he would do something magnificent, and stupid.”

  “Does he get it from you?” inquired Valdis, dusty and proud.

  “Doubtful,” Stigr said.

  Brynja went still, watching with bright eyes. Shard realized how close she was, one wing draped companionably over his back. Every nerve felt on fire and he resisted the urge to preen the dust from behind her ears.

  Others called Valdis’ name to help with the division of meat, with driving off stray beasts. Valdis invited Stigr to help. Shard’s heart leaped. Stigr, exiled from the Sun Isle at home, might have found acceptance there too. And maybe something more.

  Shard balked. For all his talk, he feared some part of Stigr might like it in the Winderost, might want to stay. He had a growing reputation, he was warming to Valdis and other hunters had called his name with respect during the hunt. He had gained the respect he’d once enjoyed as Baldr’s wingbrother, Shard knew, and wondered how hard it would be to give up. And there was Valdis. If he took a mate late in life it would surely bind him here in the Winderost, unless Valdis decided to fly with him to the Silver Isles. Somehow he couldn’t see that happening, not with the long winters, and so far from her kin.

  He shook his head of the doubts, determined to be happy for his uncle either way. He swiveled to ask what Brynja thought about it all—but his words fell when he saw her.

  She had dipped her head low while Asvander spoke quietly in her ear, then he nuzzled under her beak.

  A block of ice froze Shard’s chest.

  I couldn’t possibly have been so blind. They don’t act mated. Friendly, but not…

  He untangled himself from Brynja’s wing and strode several steps away. Asvander and Brynja watched him, surprised.

  “Are you all right?” Brynja stood and shook herself, and Shard noticed at last how close Asvander stood to her.

  Are they mated? he wondered in wild silence. It hadn’t seemed like it. As far as he knew, they didn’t nest together. He caught Dagny’s gaze and his face must have looked truly shocked, for she flattened her ears in dismay at his expression, eyes wide as if to warn him that he should act calmly.

  It doesn’t even matter, he insisted to himself at once. I’ve been a fool either way. He hadn’t flown to the Winderost to find a mate. He had sought truths that would resolve the war in his own islands. His vision haunted forward and with shame Shard recalled the flooding images of his dreams, the events of the last weeks in the Silver Isles, the tyranny of Sverin.

  And here I am, romping in the red desert with new friends and not a care…

  Bitterness over wasted time and wasted thoughts about Brynja soured the victory of the Wild Hunt.

  “Shard,” Brynja said firmly, stepping away from Asvander. “Are you all right?”

  It was too much. Shard could barely think for all the regret and worry and thoughts of the past. He had to clear his mind.

  The only use in looking back, Caj had instructed Shard and Kjorn once, is to learn from what has gone before. Aesir don’t dwell in the past.

  For the first time since he had learned his heritage as a Vanir and begun to forsake the ways of Sverin’s pride, Shard firmed his will, refused to look back, and put himself firmly in the moment. He met Brynja’s gaze.

  “Of course. Just tired from the hunt.” He looked to Asvander, biting back a claw of jealousy. “What’s next, brother?”

  Asvander laughed and at last peeled himself away from Brynja. Shard’s heart beat a little easier. “The butchering. Then the storing. We will fly half the meat to salt waste, bury it for winter, and take the rest to the Dawn Spire for the feast.”

  “Good,” Shard said. “Let’s get on with it.”

  They agreed and shook themselves of dust. As they walked toward the greatbeast carcasses, Dagny slid up next to Shard, speaking softly. “Well done. Don’t worry. You’ll have your chance at the feast.”

  Shard looked sternly ahead. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Ha. All right. Don’t worry, Shard.” She bumped her wing against his. “I like you. I’ve decided to help you.”

  “Help me?” Shard wrestled away from a thousand other thoughts. “With what?”

  Dagny’s breath slid out in a slow, measured sigh. “Help with Brynja,” she answered, after a struggle for patience.

  “Oh,” he mumbled.

  “She does ruffle your feathers, doesn’t she? Or am I wrong?”

  “I…”

  “It’s what wingsisters
are for,” Dagny assured him. “Tomorrow night will be feasting, songs, plenty of opportunities for an eligible bachelor to declare himself. I’ll help you.”

  Shard stared at her. His mind overflowed with his fears for the Silver Isles, feeling he’d betrayed the Vanir with his brotherhood to the Aesir, fearing he’d waited too long, still trying to untangle the riddle of his visions.

  Then, close by, a sparkling laugh broke his muddle. Brynja’s laugh. The white mountain drifted through his thoughts—but the time was not yet right. Tyr had led him to the Dawn Spire. Surely there was a reason.

  “All right,” he said to Dagny, pushing aside ten other doubts. Dagny laughed and bumped him roughly with her wing again.

  “That’s the spirit. You survived the hunt and outshone even the king. We can’t let all that acclaim go to waste can we?”

  “No,” Shard agreed, not sure what else to say.

  “Now,” Dagny said, leaning in, “I’ll find you before the feast. Pretend we haven’t spoken.”

  Before Shard could nod agreement, she bounded away.

  The enormous hunting band returned to the Dawn Spire at dusk the following day, loud and bragging and weary.

  Shard and Stigr had helped to drag half of the greatbeast carcasses to a salt waste along the border of what the Winderost gryfons called the Ostral Shores. Though Shard had seen gryfons flying distantly on the border of that land, they didn’t approach and no one but Asvander spoke of them.

  “Independent clans,” he said, averting his eyes. “Who swear no loyalty to the king of the Dawn Spire.”

  Shard watched him while they turned the meats in the salt ground, burying and caching it like mountain cats. After a moment of silence, everything settled into place and made sense to him. “That’s where you’re from, isn’t it? But you do swear loyalty to Orn.”

  Asvander chuckled and lifted his wings in a shrug. “I do. My mother says I was born old. I feel a sense of loyalty. We were all united once, years ago when I was a newborn, my mother told me that the Dawn Spire, those of the Ostral Shores and the bordering rim of the Outlands, the great plains windward of the grass cat territory, and beyond, all were represented at the Dawn Spire, all answered to the king there…” he trailed off, his gaze drifting up to the horizon.