Chapter 3

Ben was staring hard at a male mud cat when he saw the flare.

The cat was a drab brown, two feet long from the end of its nose to the tip of its short tail. Its fur was wet, but even on the muddy river bank it was immaculately clean. It had a small silver fish speared on its sharp claws. It took one look at the bloom of red flame in the sky and dove into the water.

Ben growled in frustration. One of the few things he'd known about the cats was that they were incredibly skittish -- startle one badly and it would abandon its den and not come back for weeks, sometimes months. The flare was so big that the cat probably wouldn't come back ever.

That meant the months he spent scouting the river for likely nesting spots, the days last fall he'd spent building the observation blind, and the two weeks he'd spent folded into the cramped, musty, damp little hole were wasted. It was enough to make him want to scream with frustration. He didn't, though it was a close thing. There were enough nasty things lurking in the grasslands to make that a very, very unwise thing.

Still, the cat might be gone, but he'd watched it and its mate for three days. He had his notes, and planned on waiting until the cats had moved on before writing them up properly. He had thought he'd have a few weeks at least, maybe with some kits if things went really well, but three uninterrupted days with the cat was more than anyone else he knew of had gotten.

Ben wiggled backwards, the dampness making the clay of the floor slick, making it easy to slide past the leather flap over the door to the blind and out into the weak late winter sun. A quick yank on the flap broke the twigs that held it up, the twin snaps loud against the background gurgles of the river. He laid it down on the ground, then pulled a satchel and thin board out from inside the blind.

His bare chest and legs were streaked with mud from lying on the ground. The kidskin skirting he wore around his waist, much like the barbarian tribes of the far north, was free of dirt. It was annoying to wash, and he'd carefully woven cleaning charms into it when he'd tanned the hide. The sun and soft winter breeze quickly dried the mud, and it flaked off like ivory snow as Ben turned a hawk feather into a pen with a few quick strokes of his knife.

Sitting on the patch leather with the board in his lap as a desk he wrote furiously, filling page after page with notes and rough sketches. The flare nagged at him as he worked. It hadn't been natural; the starburst had been too complex, and the cliffs on the borders of the prairie were granite, not the sort of rock to have flaring powerstones. Someone must have launched it. Ben shook his head and went back to work. He needed to record as much as he could, before his memories of the cats were too unreliable.

The rustling of the breeze as it danced through dried grass nagged at him like the whispers of the dead. He tried to ignore it; whoever set off the flare wasn't his responsibility, and whatever happened to them wasn't his fault. The flare itself marked them as too ignorant to be out in the badlands. Anyone with any experience or sense knew they were a bad idea. The wildlife had no fear of man, and a flare would just attract attention you didn't want when you were in trouble.

The wilderness could take care of itself. The land was in turns openly inviting and viciously cruel, filled with beauty and wonder and death. In the spring the prairie bloomed, a riot of color and sweet scents which hid wooden teeth and acid flowers which snared unwary birds and insects drawn to the display. Great herds of flint cows would cover the hills, filling the sky with the smoke from the grass that burned deep in their stomachs, ready to trample anything that startled them into motion. The river ran with schools of steelshank, whose fins could cut through stone and ships. The unready and the unwary deserved whatever fate befell them.

Still... nobody deserved the plants.

Ben shook his head in disgust. There was probably no point in doing anything. He'd only seen the flare for a moment before it had burned out, but it had come from miles off. It would take hours, maybe days, for him to get to it, and by then the land would have extracted the price that it made the ignorant pay.

He shivered as the breeze shifted. The chill didn't bother, it hadn't for years, but made the whispers it drew out of the grass louder. Whoever it was may already have paid, leaving only their bones and shadows to lay in the grass, unknown and forgotten.

That was reason enough to find them, he thought as he put the notes back in his satchel. There were too many of the restless dead as it was, waiting for the dark of the moons to reach out, trying to numb the pain of their deaths with the bright sparks they sucked out of the living.

Against one side of the blind was a low mound, perhaps two foot tall at its highest, covered with dead grass. He knelt next to it and brushed away the dirt at one edge, revealing a small dirty triangle of canvas. Ben grabbed it and pulled, peeling back the grass and soil, uncovering a large wooden box. Barely visible on its surface were a set of starburst patterns drawn in gold and green, connected by curves of dusky yellow.

He flipped it open and frowned at its contents. The box was mostly full of food, wrapped in waxed paper or red and white checked gingham cloth and packed tightly. Against one end was an empty leather pack; Ben pulled it out and filled it half full with food. Against the other end was a dark green felt package. He took that out and unfolded it, revealing seven near-identical knives, each of the silver blades etched with black runes. One went into a sheath in each boot, a third tucked into his belt.

At the bottom of the box, laid against the edge that abutted the blind, was his sword. Four feet long and wrapped in an oilcloth, he pulled it out, letting the cloth unravel and fall back onto the heaps of food. The sword was in a plain brown scabbard and had a simple silver cross-guard, and its grip was wrapped with black leather and bronze wire.

He strapped the sword to his back, hilt over his right shoulder. He put the leather folio with his notes into the pack, and slung it over his left shoulder. A full waterskin and small satchel completed his outfitting. Ben closed the box and dragged the canvas covering back over it; the wards on the box would keep most animals out, at least for a few weeks. Longer than that and he probably wasn't coming back and it didn't matter.

Before he set off he fingered two of the talismans he wore around his neck, then at the leather bracer wrapped around his left wrist, making sure they were still there and undamaged. The prairie grass hid things that grabbed, bit, pounced, or attacked with magic. The last thing he needed was to startle a snare fox and have it stun him. The charms would protect him from that. For everything else he just had to be careful where he put his feet.

It was the morning of the third day when Ben saw the shadow in the prairie ahead. Something had knocked down patches of the tall, dried grass. The shadow was too irregular to be natural, and as he got closer he could see broken pieces of wood sticking up around the edges.

Ben saw what was left of the carpet first, a crumpled heap under a small pile of broken boxes. He stopped and squatted next to it, gently poking at it with the tip of his sword. The tingle from the bracelet around his left wrist was his only warning. He flung himself away from the debris as green tendrils shot out from under one of the shattered boxes, whipping his sword out and slicing off the tips.

The tentacles thrashed around, clear sap fountaining out from the cut ends. It hissed and spat from where it splashed across the debris of the downed carpet, blackening fabric and raising thin brown smoke from the metal. The liquid bubbled on the surface of the boxes as it ate through the film of polish on them.

A few small spatters hit Ben. One of the charms he wore around his neck flashed a bright green. The sap on his arm glowed a darker green and evaporated away, leaving a faint foul smell and a tingle.

Ben fingered a small fire charm in his pouch, debating whether it was wise to use. The dead grass was dry enough that any flame was risky, but he had little else that was any use against plains agavaceae with him. The tall stalks behind the fallen carpet rustled as the thing retreated, saving him the decision.

He waited until the tingle from his bracelet completely stopped before turning his attention to the carpet. The thick fabric was ripped, nearly shredded in spots, and had a faint rank odor. A bird, or something bird-like, had done the damage. Roc, or giant eagle, or griffon. He couldn't tell which, but any of the three were bad, prone to kill with little provocation.

There was no blood or sign of bodies, which surprised him. From the damage to the supply boxes, the carpet had been moving fast when it hit the ground. It was possible that the passengers had jumped off before the carpet crashed. There was no telling if they survived the jump, or if they did whether they survived further attacks from whatever had destroyed their carpet.

The ground sloped gently upwards, towards the cliffs that marked the edge of the grasslands. He could see shadows in the grass marking a rough line to the rock face. Spots where things had fallen from the carpet as it flew, no doubt.

If there were any survivors they would have landed somewhere along the carpet's path. It gave him a direction to go, at least, and while the thought of dealing with people again made him uncomfortable he couldn't just ignore it. Someone might have survived the fall. Assuming they fended off or hid from whatever attacked the carpet they'd be out there. Possibly hurt, definitely in trouble, and Ben couldn't in good conscience at least make an attempt to find them.

Ben scowled at the idea of survivors. Being around people reminded him of everything he'd lost, reminded him he should have died in the accident that had killed Kit. Ben hadn't died, he'd just lost everything he ever had, or wanted, and been left... broken. Some nights, when it was very dark and he felt very alone, he almost envied his dead lover.

He squashed that thought. That was the past. Ben's life was in the present, and he had no time for ghosts or memories.

He was about a half mile from the cliff face when he caught sight of the griffon. The beast was crouched down low, right against the rock, its light brown fur blending in with the dead grass. The only reason he saw it was the contrast of the thing's feathered head against the granite. Ben wasn't sure, but it looked like there was an opening in the cliff.

It was too far to see details, but the griffon looked... wrong. They were normally graceful, both in the air and on the ground, but this one seemed awkward and its color was off. Something about the way it was laying down made him wonder if it was sick or hurt. Both were likely to make it more dangerous than usual, and usual was bad enough.

Ben didn't have much experience with griffons -- they tended to nest in high crags and cliffs without easy access from the ground. They'd seemed nasty enough at the best of times, and he'd been happy enough to leave them be. Ben had no doubt he could kill the thing if he really needed to, but he wasn't sure he could do it without getting hurt.

It wasn't just nursing its wounds, though. Despite its damage, the griffon was waiting, hunting something. Clearly it couldn't fit through the cave mouth, and griffons were smart enough to know the difference between live prey that was hiding and dead prey that was unreachable. The only thing he could think of was the beast had someone from the carpet trapped in the cave.

The griffon wasn't going to leave on its own, that was clear, but Ben had the means to drive it away. He took a pair of zap stones out of his pouch, small grey river rocks, flat and roughly circular, about an inch in diameter with a thin white vein of quartz running through them. Each one was covered in a fine network of lines and had a blob of red wax in their center. When the wax seal was broken they'd deliver a vicious electric shock to the next thing they touched. Ben used them to drive off large animals -- even something as large as a bear would usually retreat when hit with one. Anything that didn't retreat would still be stunned enough for him to get away.

Ben judged the distance. There wasn't any breeze, but he was too far away and couldn't be sure of hitting the beast unless he was closer. He only had the two stones with him, and didn't want to resort to something more explosive. The spring rains hadn't come yet, and the grasslands around him were dry. It wouldn't take much to set everything aflame.

He crept up, slowly and carefully. His sword was loose in its scabbard, in case the griffon decided not to leave. He studied it as he approached. The griffon's coat was streaked with dirt and grass, the white feathers on its head were torn, and its left wing was held at an odd angle tight against its body. Worse, the thing made no acknowledgement of him, not even the flick of an ear or tail.

Ben knew he was good, but he was only twenty feet away, walking across rocky terrain with no cover. It should have noticed him. The beast was paying far too much attention to the cave, so intent on its prey that Ben wasn't sure he could drive it off, or that it wasn't too hurt to go if it wanted.

There wasn't much alternative; it had been three days since he'd seen the flare, and if the griffon had waited this long it wasn't going to leave on its own. He gave a single cough and flicked off the wax on one of the stones with his thumb. The griffon's head whipped around and Ben found himself matching stares with it. There was more than hunger in its face, more than anger. The beast looked crazed, and Ben worried he'd have to kill it.

With a single sharp yowl it leapt at him. It unfurled its wings, but they didn't work as well as they ought, the left one clearly broken. Ben's arm snapped out, back to his shoulder, and down, throwing the stone and drawing his sword in one smooth motion. He hoped the shock would drive the beast off, but if one didn't the second wouldn't do any better. Mad or not, in the open he'd have a good chance against it.

The stone caught the griffon under its beak, its spell discharging with a bright blue flash and a loud crack. The griffon shrieked and changed directions, launching itself up into the sky. Ben watched it arc up and over the top of the cliff a hundred feet overhead.

Ben waited for a moment, and when the griffon didn't reappear he chanced moving closer to the cave mouth. A hot blue-white ball of flame flew out of the darkness, encircled by an orange disk. By reflex his sword flashed out, slicing it into pieces. The ball disintegrated with an off-key squawk.

That made Ben very unhappy. He hadn't had any need to deal with any magic but his own, the awkward hedge wizardry he had to coax out with runes and potions, since he'd run out to the wilderness eight years ago. He was happy enough for that, but the fire was a reminder of things he couldn't do any more.

Whoever was in the cave was definitely a person, and a wizard, though just barely. The orange disk and off-key notes were echoes of someone's personal pattern bleeding into the weaving of the spell. Natural magics teased from the rocks and air never had them, and while there were a few animals that had echoes, they were rare and never as clear as the discs had been.

For something as simple as a fireball to show an echo the caster would have to be a rank novice, some apprentice journeying with his master and caught out by the griffon. For a moment it rankled, that some child could weave a better spell than he could, but there was no point. His talents as a wizard died with Kit. Nothing could bring them back.

There was a faint orange glow from somewhere inside the cave. Probably another fire ball. "Don't," Ben said. The word came out all rough and growly. They were the first words he'd spoken to anyone in months, and the effort made his throat hurt. He wasn't too happy about having to make the effort. He much preferred being alone.

The light winked out, but Ben stayed on guard. There were sounds of movement from inside the cave, and while the apprentice might've given up on fireballs that didn't mean he didn't have another spell at hand, or a knife. Ben knew he was a clear target, standing in the mouth of the cave, but he was afraid if he moved out of sight the person occupying the cave wouldn't come out.

It wasn't uniformly black inside the cave. There were shades of darkness where the day crept into the depths, splashes of ink in the gloom. He could hear the uneven footsteps as something, or someone, shuffled forward.

He expected a child. What he got instead was a man. A very scruffy, rumpled, surprisingly clean man with dull brown hair, pale face, and blotchy red cheeks. His clothing was silk and rich brocade, with gold thread and chips of crystal that sparkled in the sunlight. It was well made and finely tailored, and would have enhanced the faintest hint of comeliness. Unfortunately all they did was make clear that even the best fashions need something to work with, and they had none.

"Is the griffon gone?" the man asked. His voice had a slight nasal whine to it, the tone arrogant with just enough of a waver to put Ben's teeth on edge.

"Yes. Who are you?"

The man drew himself up as tall as he could, though even with that the top of his head didn't reach Ben's nose. "Prince William vonTraptsber, Duke of Haginfers, Wizard of the Crimson Landry," the man said.

Ben narrowed his eyes and frowned. He remembered the Crimson Landry. A social club for wizards with more title than talent who couldn't get accepted into a real order. It was an unwelcome reminder of a life he'd left a long time ago. That this prince was claiming membership didn't speak well of his talents as a wizard, or his character. That he was a better wizard, pathetic though he was, than Ben could ever hope to be again was infuriating.

"What are you doing here, your highness?" Ben asked. Even to himself his voice sounded gruff and croaky, though the contempt was still clear.

"We came to study griffons," William said, as if that explained everything.

The utter stupidity that statement implied was breathtaking. Griffons didn't like anyone or anything at their best, but they came into rut in early spring. Being forced to be near others of their kind made them especially nasty.

"Griffon mating season," Ben grunted. He crossed his arms and glared, the bands around his biceps digging into the muscles as they flexed.

"Yes, of course," William said, waving away Ben's statement as if it explained itself. "That's why my expedition was here. We came to study the mating habits of the Farbound mountain griffon, perhaps collect a specimen to take back with us. The creature is almost completely unknown -- there's almost nothing in the literature about them. We don't even know what they eat."

"They eat researchers," Ben said. He could think of at least fifteen expeditions in the past two hundred years to study the beasts. Traces of three had been found, years afterwards.

"That fact wasn't documented," William retorted. "We expected them to be aggressive during mating season, but that wasn't supposed to start until the week before spring. We had some information, a few scraps and some apparently inaccurate pictures--"

"Hutchinson's Bestiary," he said, cutting William off. Ben knew the book.

William frowned. "How did you know?"

"You're not the first. He made it up."

"What?" William looked stunned enough that even Ben could tell. He almost felt bad.

"Hutchinson. He made it up."

William just gaped at him. "We based the entire expedition on that book. He had details, notes, pictures..."

Ben snorted. He'd seen the book years ago, when he was still in the city, still a wizard. He remembered those pictures. "Fantasies. His daughter drew them. She was eight."

William just stood and quivered slightly, angry or upset, Ben couldn't tell, though he didn't much care which it was.

"Fine," William snapped, turning away and staring out across the prairie. "Can we go?"

The question and sudden change of subject annoyed Ben. He'd just rescued the man from a griffon that almost certainly was going to kill him and this was all he got? No thanks, no acknowledgement, just can we go? It might've been eight years since he'd left civilization for the wilderness he now lived in, but he still remembered people had manners.

"Go where?" Ben grunted. The answer was obvious, he knew that. But Ben hadn't gotten the man in trouble, and if William couldn't be bothered with even the simplest courtesies then he didn't see any reason to be accommodating.

William rolled his eyes. "A city. Or town, at least." Ben watched the man stare at him and frown. "Something more than a dozen mud huts and pigs, if you please."

That rankled. It shouldn't have -- Ben was dressed like one of the plains barbarians on purpose. It made the few people he ran across leave him alone, and on those rare occasions he led groups through the wilderness it put a distance between them he preferred. Still, he didn't like being dismissed so casually by someone so unimpressive.

"Two hundred miles," Ben said. In truth the closest settlement was about eighty miles down the river and on a caravan route, but if the wizard was going to be rude Ben didn't feel obligated to mention it.

"Is there anything closer?" William asked.

"Farmstead fifty miles away. Across the mountains. If you can fly."

"Wonderful," William muttered. "Not any more."

Thanks to PeteFromOz, Raro, and Jason for edits and knocking-about