Griffon Destiny the Slip

Prologue

Gradel stared at the stone plinth where, until moments ago, the Idol of Boreas had stood.  The sounds of griffons drifted up into the royal hall, their angry and fearful echoes almost drowned out by the tearing wind and rain outside.  As he inspected the shattered remains of the window and wall, he felt a sudden movement beneath him.

“The feeling of rain on your feathers is not something worth fearing,” he said gently, looking down at the fledgling standing between his forelegs.  “Or perhaps you fear something else, Prince Grahm?”

After a moment the young griffon stepped forward, his face a parody of a fierce scowl.  “I—I’m not afraid of anything, Guiding Breeze,” he said, his voice wavering in the still air of the empty hall.  Gradel nodded, satisfied with the response.

A terrible roar suddenly split the night air, the sound like a thousand voices released from a lifetime of torment.  Prince Grahm squeaked and retreated back into Gradel's shadow.  Gradel merely frowned, ignoring the thrill of excitement that had settled briefly on his feathers.  The yearning would never leave his body it seemed, no matter how many chicks and fledglings left his classrooms wise or feathersong readings he delivered.

The second cry was more muted.  So Arimaspi, that depraved creature, was now even further from the castle, and along with him the Idol of Boreas.  Gradel turned his gaze back to the hall, wishing again that he had been permitted to join the hunt rather than nestwatch Guto's son.  The honour and prestige that would come to the griffon who retrieved the idol would be unimaginable, and his soldiering days, where such glory was commonplace, now felt like a lifetime ago.  Being Guto's right-hand claw came with its own privileges, but they never quite made up for being old.

The whipping wind had extinguished all the torches in the hall, leaving the towering walls and columns to the shadows.  Despite the best efforts of the moon, the rugs and hanging tapestries were lifeless and cold.

It had only been a few minutes since Arimaspi had taken the idol, but already Griffonstone felt as though it was fading away.

Looking for reassurance he gripped his spear tight, frowning at how slow his claws moved.  He attempted to console himself with the fact that he was the Vane-Scribe of the Griffon Empire, that his glory now lay in interpretations and guiding, not conquering.  The face of young Gyla, his star pupil, appeared in his mind's eye—her joyful expression in finally knowing her place in the world, and all that she would achieve.

For a while it worked.

He heard the sudden scrape of claws against stone and turned, lifting his spear automatically in challenge.  Three griffons were slowly approaching, their steps small and measured.

“Who goes there?” Gradel asked, trying to keep his voice calm and even.  Some long-buried instinct was ruffling his feathers, but the young prince didn’t need to feel any more scared than he already was.

The griffons continued forward, ignoring him.  As they passed through a shimmering lake of moonlight, Gradel noted their pristine white tunics and armour.  The two flanking griffons were carrying halberds and wore large helmets, a storm of silver feathers reaching outward like horns from either side, and a giant mosaic of amethyst crystals where the circular opening for the beak and eyes should have been.  Gradel felt a chill pass through him as they moved.  Was it just a trick of the moonlight, or had he seen a myriad of images quickly flicker across the crystals? And why didn't he recognise their heraldic crests?

“Answer me,” he barked, adjusting his stance.  That warrior instinct had unleashed a creeping sensation in the pit of his stomach.  “Why aren’t you out hunting for the idol?”

The griffon in the middle, a hooded cloak on his head instead of a helm, raised a claw and stopped.  As the other two copied him, he slowly pulled back the hood and looked Gradel up and down.  Eyes that resembled cursed moons, set in a too-white face, glittered coldly in the darkness.

Gradel’s grip tightened on his spear.

The white-feathered griffon leaned forward, lowering his head to peer at the fledgling hiding beneath Gradel.  His face remained expressionless, though Gradel was convinced he saw the occasional shadow pass across it.

“I can’t even remember being your age anymore, little chick.” The griffon's sandstone voice seemed to crawl into every corner of the room.  “I try, though.  Sometimes I sit for hours attempting to remember a time when everything felt so... permanent.” He shrugged.  “Alas...”

Gradel felt his pulse quicken, and snapped his spear-arm rigid.  Dismissing the idea of attempting to understand the situation, he focused instead on what was already apparent.  Three armed griffons threatening the safety of Prince Grahm.  He ignored the way his stomach lurched as they fanned out in front of him, blocking off easy escape from the hall.  Despite his age, Gradel still had belief in his ability to fight, but every one of his opponents looked a formidable challenge on their own.  At the very least, he needed to hold them off until Guto returned.

He tried to ignore how old he felt as he pointed his spear at each of them, a warning in his eyes.

“What do you want?” The idea of playing for time left a sour taste in his mouth, but the fledgling shifting beneath him focused his thoughts.  As he spoke he scanned the hall for other escape routes.  His eyes settled briefly on the gaping hole where Arimaspi had broken through the window, and he tried to encourage Guto's son to move backwards with a paw.  It was a painfully obvious strategy, but in that moment Gradel couldn't think of an alternative.  “I warn you: If it’s the young Prince you're looking to take then you’ve—”

“The heir, are you?” The white-feathered griffon looked at the amethysts adorning the helmets of his colleagues, and for a moment Gradel thought he saw an image coalesce in the crystals.  “I wonder," the griffon continued, with a nod of his head.  "Would you have wrestled this incarnation back from the abyss, towards its rightful path? Or would you have pushed it over the edge?” The sparkle in his eyes faded, his features hardening.  “Though it does not matter now.  Gelasia’s decision has already been made.”

Gradel snapped into action as the griffon's claw fell to the sword sheathed near his flank.  Shielding Guto’s son with his wings, he leapt forward, spear thrusting desperately.  Age slowed his reflexes, however: His opponent sidestepped the attempt almost impossibly fast, a flash of moonlight on silver as he unsheathed and swung his sword in one fluid motion.  Gradel's spear splintered in his claws; seconds later a prickling heat smothered his chest as blood dripped from mane-feathers to the stone floor.  He stared dumbly down at the open wound for a moment, the strength pouring from his body, before instinct forced him to refocus on his surroundings.

The white-feathered griffon was now standing between him and Prince Grahm.  As his sparkling gaze returned once again to the fledgling, Gradel felt fear and shame overcome his exhaustion.  He struggled to take a step forward, then a second.  

His adversary noticed.  He turned towards him, head inclined. “You need not fear.  It's you we’ve come for you, Vane-Scribe.  The heir can leave unharmed. Your honour will remain intact, for what it's worth.”

Gradel spared a glance at his charge, relief dulling first the pain in his chest, then the feeling of his limbs.

“Out the window, now,” he said.  Prince Grahm eyes were wide, his beak trembling.  When he didn’t move, Gradel stamped a paw on the ground.  “I thought you said you weren’t afraid? Go!”

It was the wrong thing to say.

“B—But...” The prince looked down hesitantly at the remains of Gradel’s spear, his eyes settling on the blade.  His movement was easy to track, and Gradel felt a stab of fear as the two griffons with halberds tightened their grip on their weapons.  After all these years, he had finally decided that he wanted to be brave, and had picked the worst time to do so.

“I said get moving!” Gradel shouted, making the young griffon jump.  “Go... Go get help!”

That seemed to do it.  Prince Grahm swallowed, his eyes drifting from the window to the spear, and for one terrible moment, Gradel thought he was still going to choose the spear.  Then, with nervous steps, he moved backwards to the window.  “I’ll... I’ll come right back,” he said, his voice quavering in the quiet of the hall.  “I’ll bring father and... and all the others, and we’ll come real quick.”

Gradel smiled thinly, both disappointed and proud.  “I know you will.”

He watched the prince take flight, before allowing the exhaustion to creep into his pose.  He felt blood running down his legs as he turned his gaze back to the white-feathered griffon.

“Who are you?”

The griffon seemed to consider the question for a moment, before nodding.  “I am Xephary, Vane-Scribe.”

Gradel nodded.  “Xephary, huh? Not much of a griffon name, that.  So what was it? Did you not like your feathersong or something?”

Xephary’s eyes twinkled, though his face betrayed no other change of expression.  “A strange incarnation, yours.  So much greed and pride, and yet you give birth to such wonderful things.  Your courage, for example.  You wield it like a weapon.”

Despite himself Gradel laughed.  He nodded at the broken spear.  “Well, what choice do I have?”

A thin smile flickered about Xephary’s beak for a moment, before being lost in a flash of lightning.  

“For what it’s worth,” he replied. “I wish you had been afforded more time.  I take no pleasure in this.  I haven't for some time.”

“I shan't either.”  Gradel forced himself upright.  “But I’ve heard my feathersong, and I know I haven’t reached the end of it yet.”

“You never do,” Xephary replied, almost bitterly.  Then he leapt forward, his sword cutting through the night.