Day 368, 08:10 PM

“The night belongs to beasts of prey, and always has. It's easy to forget that when you're indoors, protected by light and solid walls.”

― Cornelia Funke

“Aang,” Vatten enters my tent after yet another long day of marching.

We left Eaglegord eighteen days ago, and soon we will face the royal army. In all honesty, I expected we would have clashed already. The king’s forces should have been in a hurry, conscripting as many men as possible before we clashed.

Then again, this could be a giant trap, but, unlike the encounter with count Arangel, there will be no ambushes. The king almost certainly knows we are coming, and we are also expecting his ambush, countering it with trustworthy scouts checking the terrain miles ahead of the main force.

Yet, I can’t shake the nasty feeling. Last fall, the lords of nearby towns and the cities sent us news regarding the king’s leavy orders. They welcomed us with flowers and open gates as we passed through their settlements. While almost certainly sending word to the king, begging him to save them from the bloodthirsty rebels.

We don’t trust them. I trust no one. We didn’t purchase their food, didn’t conscript able-bodied men, not even the mill slaves, fearing the enemy might strike from within.

“Damn fence-sitters,” I grumble, and Vatten laughs.

“That is the way the world works, young man. That is why we have kings and high lords, because people fear committing themselves by taking a side, and the few who have the daring rule or die. Old Klem knew this. He conquered a third of Elisia relying more on cheap presents and reassuring promises than blood and steel, expanding bit by bit and exploiting the neighboring noble’s fear, jealousy, and lack of unity.”

The goatee villain stares into the distance of past’s infinite potential, his eyes shining with the memory of his glory days before he looks down at our perilous present.

“Unfortunately, Basson turned out to be the more competent plotter, and despite Klem surrounding himself with truly loyal vassals, a single Gohen was enough to topple him and ruin his house and legacy.” He raises his gaze and meets mine. “Almost enough.”

He looks like he cares, but I don’t dare trust him. I have learned enough about this world, its history, and politics. It’s no different from Earth.

“I know you do not trust me,” Vatten says, my face probably a window into my thoughts. “I have no intention of harming Manuella, I want Basson dead, and my old lord’s and friend’s lineage to prosper. You are much sharper than you seem, but I can still see through your move. Others might not, but I do. Leading a small group of loyal men with all the forces you do not trust is obvious to everyone. You are using yourself as the sharp sword pressed against their throats, and you have taken me as a mentor, a competent, experienced general and advisor, when in truth I am a hostage.”

He smiles. “I know I am here so you can guarantee the loyalty of my eight hundred soldiers we left stationed in Eaglegord. And I approve of your actions and foresight. However, there will come a moment when you will have to trust me. When more will be happening at the same time than you can manage, when you have two fronts to fight, when battle grows too complex…”

Why are you telling me all this? Blunt is itching to slap him with that question, but I have my tongue clenched between my teeth, a practice I have adopted whenever I want to keep my mouth shut.

Then it hits me.

“You also think something strange is happening?” I ask, interrupting his blather.

Vatten’s relaxed smile turns stiff, then disappears.

“You noticed.”

I nod. “We should have met the enemy two or three days ago. I mean, something might have happened and delayed them. The king could have croaked—”

“Basson is a devil. He will live for a thousand years.”

I chuckle. Funny how similar idioms develop in different worlds. And devils really are a scourge if they get out of hand.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“There was this queen—” Blunt starts, and I clench my teeth.

Vatten stares at me and nods. “Manuella said you are suffering from a curse, Phill made a similar speculation when we discussed your training and prodigious strength.”

Phill’s awfully superstitious for a man who beats you with a rod while claiming that by training and being prepared you can overcome any adversity. Then again, knowing what I know, curses probably exist, but regular people can’t cast them.

I’m about to brush off Vatten’s words, when horses start screaming outside, a moment later shouting men join the ruckus. An incoherent pandemonium explodes into existence, but they repeat one word enough for me to pick it out.

“Griffon!”

I run out of the tent, while Vatten is still processing what’s happening all of a sudden. The sun has already set, and it’s mostly dark, but I pick out a massive flying form, soaring above the panicking horses in the purple sky.

I don’t know what comes over me, but I grab my shortsword and throw it. The blade spins, whistling loud enough that I hear it above the screaming and shouting and neighing.

Thanks to Initial Throw Sword, I’m pro, like a movie hero. The sword’s tip perfectly stabs into the griffon’s flank, then bounces off like a rubber toy. The angry bird-lion-tiger-thing silhouette doesn’t make a sound before looking down. It keeps a firm grip of half the horse it’s carrying in its front claws and just flies off into the night, carrying some four-five hundred pounds of meat like it weighs nothing.

“Shit,” I mutter and run towards the horses.

“Woah, boy, woah,” I have no idea how many times I repeat the words before the neighing, bucking, and hove-thrashing stops. I can still hear several nervous animals digging the ground as their riders take them somewhere else, away from the blood and the apex predator’s smell.

The moon is bright enough for me to see two-and-a-half horses torn to shreds in a large dark pool, their reigns still tied to low-hanging branches.

“Anyone injured?” I ask the soldier looking at the remains of his mount. I don’t know the man, he’s a member of one of the mercenary companies, but I can understand his pain. Horses are damn expensive, they spent years together, and he probably loved his mount more than most of his comrades.

“A horse got Del on the chin, he’s out cold.” The man’s voice is hollow as he points back with his thumb without looking, but I see no sign of Del.

If a horse kicked Del in the chin, it probably broke his jaw, if not his neck.

“Can you find out if there were any human deaths?” I ask Mike, one of my loyal soldiers.

He nods and heads back towards the riders leading their mounts away while reassuring and petting them.

“Are griffon attacks common?” I ask another of my followers, who shakes his head.

“They happen from time to time, but they aren’t common. When they find a village, they attack it for food several times a year. We just make a fence outside and tie a goat in there for griffons to eat. They grow tired of easy food and leave after a year or two.”

How do you know they grow tired? Maybe they are old animals and just die, or they are young and manage to challenge someone else and win their territory? I can think of a dozen reasons that don’t include a carnivore being too sporty or proud to eat readily available meals prepared by terrified humans.

Why don’t humans poison the griffons if they have access to their food?

There’s a thousand and one answer to that question, and I’m not interested in eliminating the species that might just be the thing keeping humans from polluting this world into the cesspool I died on previously.

“Your sword, Sir.” A mercenary trots over and gives me my stylish suicide shortsword. I grace him with a nod before stabbing the mercy blade back into its sheath.

“You attacked a griffon?” Vatten hisses.

I lost track of him while calming the horses, but he must have had work to do woah boy-ing the people.

“Yup, I thought we could have it for dinner.”

The merc stares at me like I’m crazy, and Vatten sends him away with a wave, along with the soldiers following me.

“Griffons are proud, vengeful beasts. Had you injured it, it could have descended on the army and started a slaughter.”

It’s just a giant cat-bird, probably less than a thousand pounds in total, what’s the worst it could do?

“They are intelligent,” Vatten noticed my disdain. “It could jump around from one group of soldiers to another, slaughtering people until it grew bored or vented its anger. And horses are terrified of them. Even the best war-trained destriers will go into blind panic should they hear a griffon’s peal.”

I don’t recall hearing that sound. “I didn’t hear anything?”

“There was no need to use it, the horses were tied; not that they had any chance of escaping a griffon’s dive. But some folktales claim griffons’ cries are magical, and that the beast needs to pay a price each time it makes a sound. That is why the beasts often hunt in silence.”

“Has this ever happened to you? Will the soldiers take it as an ill omen or something?”

“Never happened to me, but I heard stories of it happening.” Vatten’s words come out drawn out, his face even more ominous in the torchlight as he strokes his beard. “I don’t think anyone will think this is a bad omen. In fact, getting to see a griffon and walking away from it with all your limbs intact is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, something you tell your grandchildren.”

Huh? Well I guess surviving a calamity might become an anecdote after enough time passes.

For a moment, I consider whether we should change locations, but breaking camp, marching, and clearing another site would take hours. Besides, the odds of the griffon returning or another one attacking are next to none.

“That’s good to know,” I tell Vatten after a second of thoughtful silence. “But I hope I will have more amazing stories to tell my kids and grandkids. For instance, about that time I conquered the kingdom with Grumpy Old Vatten.”

He gives me a flat look and snorts, striding away, the very image of Grumpy Old Vatten.