“Aaaahhhhhh!”

Mark’s scream rang in Daphne’s ears, cutting off all other sound and all other thought. She couldn’t even form a reply. She just leapt, frantically trying to grab Mark’s foot, but the Rabid Daydream lifted him high above its own head, kicking her with its free leg for good measure. Daphne found herself face down in the dead dirt, bruising her cheek on a fragment of torn ‘M’ from the third word-chain.

Chains…

A memory stirred deep in her writer-brain. It was a tidbit of lore she’d forced Amelia to learn the hard way. After her main character had suffered a few stressful, narrow victories, Daphne wrote a scene where she trained with a Lorist. That Lorist, a particularly stern griffin named Hyddrun, had made sure to drill a few key points about word-chains into Amelia’s head.

The voice she’d always imagined for Hyddrun rang suddenly through Daphne’s imagination, as rich and warm and golden as a bell tolling across the countryside:

Keep thee hold of one end, lest the other comes loose from the creature.

Aim for the arms first, that thy way towards the neck might be clear.

And, most especially:

Even with a direct hit, no victory is complete without a whole Word of Truth. Regardless of which Word you choose, forget not the full number of its chains.

“Chains! Daphne!” Even in a state of pure terror, Mark was still able to tune in to her. He managed to wrestle his own scream into one more coherent thought: “Four lines! Finish the Word!”

Pushing herself up onto her hands and knees, Daphne stabbed the Prism violently into the dirt.

She froze.

What was that last line?

“Daphne!”

It sounded like Mark was putting up a struggle, trying to buy her more time, but she didn’t dare look. She lifted up the pen and stabbed it down, again and again, but her mind stayed blank.

“DAPHNE!”

In desperation, she started at the beginning, stabbing afresh with each line and hoping the ending would present itself:

“Even this cannot unmake me!” — stab — “No master can outmatch my heart!” — stab — “Force can bend but cannot break me!” — stab —

Nothing.

“Something deep and about art!” she yelled, putting all her weight into a series of fruitless stabs.

“Aaaahhhhh!!!”

Mark was back to the screaming. She turned, shaking, to see the Rabid Daydream straining to bring Mark closer to its mouth. The chains were doing their work as Mark used the two still in his hand to gain leverage, and the creature was obviously in pain. But just as obviously, it was intent on taking this infuriating pest into oblivion.

Daphne’s mind suddenly felt as clear as if she had taken a swig from the Pool of Eloquence in its heyday. Her memory was still empty of life-saving Words of Truth, but she could think straight at last.

If he goes, then I go too.

If this was actually the end, then Mark was not going to face it alone.

This was hers, after all. Her world, her imagination… her failure.

And she was damn well going to face it head-on.

“Die, you poisonous cosmic mistake!”

Holding the Prism like a dagger, she crouched, ready to launch herself at the monster.

Then a new voice rang out from behind her, far away but as loud and golden as a bell tolling across the countryside:

“In love alone lives freedom’s art!”

The Prism reacted before she could, pulling her hand down and burying itself into the earth. Automatically, she pulled it back up. There, dangling from the point, was the fourth chain, the final line of this particular Word of Truth.

Still acting on instinct, because no clear-minded Daphne would ever be this brave, strong, or smart, she lunged for the Rabid Daydream’s legs, tackling the beast to the ground and applying the final word-chain with direct force. It let go of Mark as it fell, and he landed in a heap beside Daphne as she struggled to get the fourth letter-string fully wrapped around the silent creature’s legs.

Even now, the monster made no sound. It just thrashed about, kicking up a cloud of choking dust with its death throes. Daphne felt Mark pulling her away, and she let him, having ensured that the beast was completely entangled in the whole, complete Word of Truth. They crawled a few feet away and then huddled together, panting, clinging to each other as the horrible noises slowly subsided.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Finally, after a few more excruciating moments, the Rabid Daydream was still.

“That… was…” Mark’s arms tightened around Daphne’s shoulders, then went limp. “You were awesome.”

“No, you were.” She pulled back far enough to get a good look at his face. “Seriously. That was amazing. Chucking word-chains like you were born to it.”

“Only because you were pulling them out of the ground like freaking daisies.” Mark was pale, and his smile was weak, but it was there. “I’ll remember to get both its arms first next time.”

She drew back even further, trying to examine him for injuries. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he assured her. “That was just… a lot. You’re a badass. I need a nap.”

“I am afraid that is one luxury thou cannot have,” said that new, warm, voice.

Daphne’s head snapped to find the source, and her heart did a double-take. There, climbing out of the pit with elegant grace, was a magnificent golden animal. The front half was a massive eagle, complete with sharp talons, keen eyes, and wings closely furled against its back. A golden chain, bearing a strange pendant like a sphere, was hung around its neck, along with a satchel made of some strange, shimmery leather. The back half of the creature was a lion, the pads of its massive paws making no noise as it slowly approached them.

It stopped about two feet away, settling down into a sitting position and regarding them gravely.

By all the muses and every god…

Daphne had always had a thing for griffins. The whole Rise of the Wordmaster series had come from her desire to write about a fantasy world she could populate primarily with griffins. She spent countless hours dreaming about the creatures, imagining conversations and writing paragraphs of lore that would never be included in an actual novel.

None of it prepared her for the experience of encountering one face to face.

And that voice…

Daphne started to reach one trembling hand towards the creature’s soft head-plumage, thought better of it, and settled for a deep bow of the head.

“Sorry,” she stammered. “Are — are you Hyddrun?”

The golden eyes blinked once.

“Hyddrun was my father. I am Runar.”

“Father?” Mark echoed. He turned to Daphne, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I thought Hyddrun didn’t have kids. He lost his wife to the Wordmaster and vowed never to marry again, right? Amelia became his family. He called her the closest kin of his heart.”

“Like I said,” Daphne whispered back, “I think this world’s a lot… further along than the one I wrote about.”

“But did you ever plan for him to have kids? Later?”

“No, but —”

“Thou knewest my father?” Runar cut in.

Ashamed at the rudeness of whispering in front of such a noble being, Daphne gave Mark a ‘we’ll-talk-about-it-later’ look and turned back to Runar.

“Sort of. We’re… um, I guess we’re new, but…”

Runar held up one talon for silence. “I am afraid introductions are luxuries we can ill afford at present. We must away to shelter, and quickly. Thy victory over the monster, though admirable, made a great deal of noise. Others of its kind will certainly gather… and the Winds are abroad.”

A shudder ran through the golden feathers, corresponding with a chill down Daphne’s spine. She bowed her head again.

“Of course. Thank you, Runar. Where should we go?” She looked around, scanning the empty horizon for some form of shelter, and another thought struck her. “Where did you come from?”

“There are tunnels, stretching between the mountains,” Runar pointed with one massive wing, “and the Under Library. One of the entrances is beneath the Speech Tree.”

“Cool.” Mark sounded dazed. “Lead on, Runar.”

“We must first extract any residual words left within the Rabid Daydream.”

“Extract?” Daphne repeated. “What for?”

The griffin snapped its beak impatiently. “The purpose is twofold. First, as I am sure thou hast noted, words are a precious resource in Euloban. We must not let any go to waste. Second, even half-digested, words have power. If we leave that power to fester inside its corrupting host, it will spawn a new monster.”

“But that’s not right.” Daphne had the strange sensation the world was tilting under her feet. “Rabid Daydreams aren’t made that way. They only form when a regular Daydream goes wild and starts eating whole words, rather than slowly chewing on a single letter at a time. There’s no such thing as a baby Rabid Daydream.”

Runar’s golden eyes blinked. “Thou knowest the Words of Truth, and hast power to wrest word-chains from these dead lands, and yet do not understand the full nature and ways of such creatures?”

Daphne felt woozy. Realizing the Prism was still in her hand, she capped it automatically and shoved it in her pocket, clinging to it like a lifeline. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Thankfully, Mark took up the baton of the conversation without missing a beat.

“Like she said, we’re new,” Mark said as he held Daphne’s other hand firmly, both in support and to warn her against trying to ask any more questions yet. “So, let’s get extracting and then get out of here.”

Runar nodded, then somberly approached the fallen monster. Using his talons, the griffin lifted the sphere-pendant from its chest and pulled out a stopper, revealing it to be a vial containing some form of clear liquid. Runar poured the liquid into the Rabid Daydream’s still wide open mouth, then stepped back.

Slowly, a stream of letters began trickling out of the mouth, spilling out onto the dusty ground in a jumble. Runar gathered them all, sweeping them into a pile with his talons and then depositing them, bit by bit, into the satchel around his neck. When the trickle stopped and all the letters were safe inside the satchel, he stepped back, ruffling his feathers in disgust.

“Pardon me. I can ill abide the stench of these beasts, even when they are alive.” The griffin turned away, nodding to Daphne and Mark. “The word-chains must be retrieved by their maker and wielder.”

“Right.” Mark spoke for both of them, apparently very aware that Daphne was still not in any state for conversation. He crawled towards the chains wrapped around the Rabid Daydream’s limbs, and Daphne joined him numbly.

She dreaded the long, icky job of detangling, but she was surprised that this was one bit of lore that was more pleasant than how she remembered it. Now that the monster was dead, each chain came away with a single tug, even coiling themselves neatly for easy storage and future use.

“You’ll have to find us one of those satchels,” Mark said as he and Daphne finally stood, each carrying two word-chains. “These won’t exactly fit in our pockets.”

“Let us first achieve the safety of home,” Runar said, his warm golden voice providing another stabilizer for Daphne’s quaking insides. “Then we shall take thought for provisions, and introductions… and ‘naps.’”

He winked.

By every god, a majestic griffin actually winked at them.

So what if it turns out I’m a stranger in the world I created? Daphne thought as they set off, following Runar down into the dry pool and towards the withered Speech Tree. We found a Word of Truth. We defeated a Rabid Daydream. And we met a griffin.

A griffin who had WINKED at them.

Daphne took her right hand out of her pocket and reached for Mark’s. She could still feel the Prism, warm and buzzing gently against her side.

If I can stay conscious, and uneaten… this might actually be better than lunch.

Better than the turkey pesto BLT at the corner deli.