Gryphon in Glory Read Free

moisture condensed from the fog.
    I was certain we had come upon another ruin of the Old Ones and I paused, holding out the gryphon as a test. The crystal was, as ever, warm, while the glittering eyes of the imprisoned beast were bright, but there came no real glow. Not all the remains scattered about the Dales were imbued with unknown Power. There were many no different from the new-made ruins of our own where war had swept. I judged this to be one of the dead places where I had nothing to fear.
    Bural plodded steadily on. There was no break in the wall. Then, suddenly, the mountain mare snorted, her head came up higher as if she had scented something through the mist. She hastened pace, pulling determinedly when I would have held her back.
    I drew the dart gun for which I had but little ammunition, took Bural's reins into my left hand. Swordplay I would trust to only as a last resort.
    Now I smelled it also, hanging heavily entrapped in the mist, wood smoke! We could not be too far from a fire.
    Before I could silence her, Bural uttered a loud whinny—and was answered! There was no holding her wiry strength, though my tight grasp on the reins brought her head around. She bucked and kicked out. Our struggle carried us into an open space where the wall came to an abrupt end.
    In the murk there was a ruddy glow which must mark a fire. I saw a shape, well-veiled by the mist, coming from it toward me. As I brought up the dart gun, Bural broke away and went trotting straight to the fog-muted flames.
    I dared not be set afoot in the wilderness, so must get the mare back, though that fire, in this place, was likely tended by enemies rather than friends. No refugees would have willingly chosen these barren heights as their road.
    The one coming toward me swung aside to let Bural pass, making no attempt to catch at her dangling reins. Tall—plainly a man. Now I could see he carried bared steel. I must hold my own fire until I had a better target, for he probably went mailed.
    I had seen death and had been ready to kill. But then my actions had been in defense, for myself or the lives of others. To shoot coolly thus, I discovered, was a difficult thing.
    “Jervon!” A hollow call came from the ruddy blotch of flames behind the advancing man. He did not turn his head, but he stopped and stood, his sword still in his hand. All I could see of his face beneath the rim of his helm was a whitish blur, for as he halted, so did I, still and waiting.
    Another came out of the fog, near to the height of the man but more slender. The newcomer held out both hands, shoulder high, palm out, in the age old sign for truce. Passing the man, that second stranger approached me confidently as if we were kin meeting.
    The mail this warrior wore had a strange bluish hue, as if fashioned of a different metal. I slowly lowered the dart thrower, yet did not slide it back into the loop on my belt. Now the mist ceased to mask all so completely and I was looking into a face browned by the sun, yet of delicately cut feature. I was fronting not another man but a woman going armed like myself.
    Her hands dropped, but not to draw a weapon, rather so her forefingers sketched in the damp air a sign. I saw that symbol gleam sharp and clear for a space of three or four breaths and then fade. It was blue—yet partly green—and I knew it for a manifestation of Power.
    An Old One?
    I drew a deep breath, put the dart gun away, knowing well that no man-made weapon could be used against such. Also I knew that any of the Power that was without harm for my kind was of that pure color. Just as places of safety in the Dales glowed the same shade by night.
    She smiled, this woman of the Old Ones. Then she nodded as if the answer to some riddle had become clear. Now she held out her right hand to me.
    “Come.” That was neither order nor invitation, but lay between. Her fingers closed on mine as I unconsciously reached out. They held fast as if she half-expected me to jerk