Flight of the Griffin

Raindrops fell from the clouds, hanging for a moment in time and space as incandescent orbs, crystallized teardrops of water which splashed unceremoniously on the witcher and her companions. Millions of them fell, dousing the land in thousands of gallons of water. The crops drank of the downpour greedily; the traveler’s sodden clothes seemed to drink just as much. They were thoroughly soaked, and none too pleased about it.

Water dripped from the griffin-head medallion hanging on the Alayna’s chest. It dripped from her hood, through her cloak, and into her boots. Bryanna shivered in the cold wind, and Yazimir punctuated the sound of her chattering teeth with an uproarious sneeze. It had been three days since the attempted pogrom at Gadwall, and word had been spreading to the surrounding villages. The few that did not chase them out with spears and torches would not offer them shelter, either. So they rode north, hoping to take shelter at Kaerhen du Loc, or perhaps to find a sympathetic village at last.

“Vengerberg, perhaps?” Yazimir suggested quietly to Bryanna, riding perhaps a dozen paces ahead of Alayna. “They’ve a witcher of their own. Friendly to non-humans, too. It’s as fair a bet as any.”

“No,” Bryanna said curtly. She knew of Alayna’s misadventure in Vengerberg. What she had done, and the grave she had left behind. “If the pogrom spreads there, we’ll be done for. Alayna has to stick to the rural countryside. Perhaps you or I could make it in the city, surrounded with our brothers and sisters, but she would be nearly alone.”

“Nay, lass, I will not be leaving the griffin now. Not with clipped wings. We be companions until she can fly or until the long defeat takes us all, blast it.”

She listened to them go on, bandying the same arguments back and forth for hours. The elf and the dwarf spoke quietly, but Alayna heard every word; few were quiet enough to escape the ears of a witcher. They would not leave Alayna to face a mob, but they could not continue as they were, hemmed away from civilization by lies which burned the tenuous threads holding humans and non-humans together in a functional civilization. What passed for civilization, anyways.

Ideally, neighbors would not look over their shoulders at each other because of pointed ears or a plaited beard. Ideally, halflings and gnomes could build their farms nearer to the city walls, rather than be forced deep into the rural country. Ideally, one oren could buy a man enough beer to forget his life, and ten could buy a sword stout enough to end it. But there was no room for a witcher in an ideal world.

Rain fell. The dwarf sneezed. Bryanna huddled deeper into her elven cloak. Thunder crackled across a velvet black sky, electrifying air thick enough to cut with a knife. A solitary figure behind them rode north on horseback, visible only when the lightning pierced the gloom.

Alayna saw him and said nothing. He had begun following them yesterday, trailing Alayna after Bryanna and Yazimir had left her to ride through Aldersburg and replenish their supplies. An elven maid and an old dwarven mercenary would not put the same rumors in mouths that a witcher would. Rumors in mouths led to pitchforks in hand, or so the old maxim went (invented last supper by the venerable Yazimir), so they had separated, and Alayna had taken the longer route through the outskirts of the town. Children cried from empty stomachs and welted backs. She could not give them the justice of a witcher, nor would she if she were able.

“Bryanna, Yazimir,” Alayna called quietly as she rode forward to interrupt their looping argument. “The man riding behind us has been following us since Aldersburg. Keep an eye on him.”

The justice of a witcher was to execute the thief who stole to feed his family. It was to eradicate the last cockatrice sleeping peacefully in its nest so that civilization could overrun the pastoral land. Witcher’s justice was a blind headsman, chopping without question and with total impunity. An eye for an eye, one death deserves another: this was easy justice; real Justice was difficult, drawn out, and often forfeited the right to easy justice.

But Alayna could not serve even a witcher’s justice with her griffin wings clipped. And she could never serve Justice as it ought to be, when she was hindered by justice as it was deserved.

“Is Justice beyond us?” she wondered aloud.

“We will find our way home,” Bryanna replied, misunderstanding the question. “Or we will make a new home where we can. It’s a big world we live in, Alayna.” She squeezed her hand before riding off to plot their next destination on her own.

“Don’t worry, lass. We may have to search long and hard to find justice, but we’ll find it. Don’t you worry.” And Yazimir rode off to badger at Bryanna again, leaving Alayna again in the rear. He had been closer than Bryanna, but it was her words that Alayna thought more on.

Brushing wet brown hair away from her eyes, she thought about how truly big the world was, and how little of it she had seen. Her entire life had been lived south of the Pontar, north of the Yaruga, and east of the Makaham Mountains. She could go to Cintra, Redania, Cidaris, the dire Nilfgaard, doughty Kaedwen, or even to the Skellige isles. There was no need for the services of a griffin with clipped wings, nor for the justice of a witcher. She could be a mercenary or soldier, a tracker or hunter. Holding her long brown hair at arm’s length, she giggled, thinking that she might even marry some rich noble and never work again. Perhaps when her hair dried.

Bryanna turned around, and the witcher’s laugh died on her lips. “Alayna,” she hissed, “the rider is catching up.”

She turned. Even with cat-eyes, she could not see in the veil of darkness. A flash of lightning cut through the air: there he was, a silhouette of man and horse. Another flash: a cloak billowed out over his shoulders, and he carried no weapon at his side. Then he was near enough for Alayna to see his face even unaided by the lightning. He seemed about Bryanna’s age, and wore a look of youthful determination.

Yazimir hefted his axe. Bryanna strung her bow, grimacing at the rain and clouds. Alayna alone kept her hands loose on her reins, keeping Calliope steady where the other horses were prancing in fear of the thunder. Human, elf, and dwarf; witcheress, refugee, and ex-mercenary awaited the lone rider in the pouring rain.

He was young. A man. A human, Alayna noted carefully. Unarmed, but human. Prone to all the same goodness and depravity that her own self was victim to. She clucked her horse forward a few paces, determined to hear him out. He rode abreast with Alayna, so that she was forced to look into his eyes when addressing him. They had depth, those large brown eyes of his. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“You make for a strange trio,” he began lightly. “I can help you on your way, if you don’t mind the company.”

“You followed us since Aldersburg,” Alayna asked. “Why?”

He cleared his throat again, squinting against the rain. “There will be time for stories, and I promise mine in full. I may not be able to see the sun for all these clouds, but my stomach ensures I never miss suppertime. Shall we retire to the cover of those trees?”

Yazimir sneezed in agreement.

Bryanna, shivering still, nodded her assent.

Alayna, grinding her teeth at the ease with which the stranger had assumed command of her little group, motioned further down the road.

“Further on there is a better copse. If the rain picks up any more, we’ll be soaked in minutes under those trees.”

He only smiled. “I have a feeling that the rain will soon pass.”

Glaring at the black sky, still scarred with the occasional lightning and pale backlit clouds from what would be the twilight sun, Alayna jerked her head in defiant agreement. If they were soaked in the middle of the night, let it be his fault, and not hers.

**********

Soon they were gathered round a blazing fire, roasting venison and herbs that the stranger had distributed generously from his bag. His beautiful dark eyes were set in an equally handsome face, though Alayna regarded this dispassionately. He did not look strong, but neither was he frail; they had kept a hard pace the last three days, and he had somehow gained on them. He carried himself with his shoulders thrown back, his chin held high, and a wry grin permanently fixed in the corner of his lips. But oddest of all were his clothes which, though sturdy and meant for travel, were well woven and of a very fine fabric.

“What are you then – a noble fallen from favor? A student playing hooky from university? A merchant’s son who loved the wrong woman?”

“I am a concerned citizen,” he replied, brushing away the goads as if they meant nothing. “Word spread through the city that a witcheress, an elven maid, and a retired dwarf” – Yazimir muttered bitterly at ‘retired’ – “were in the area, fleeing two steps ahead of death itself.”

“That be an awful concern for total strangers, lad,” Yazimir muttered. The stranger smiled thinly.

“Truth be told, I had already left my home after King Henselt’s detestable attitude towards the pogroms within Kaedwen. Unfortunately it seems that folk further south are even less sensible about such things.”

“So, who are you then?” The question came from Bryanna, who was brushing her long, golden hair free of the damp. “And where is home?”

“Manfhir of Ard Carraigh,” he said, standing and offering a courtly bow. “In Kaedwen.”

“Well, Manfhir of Ard Carraigh,” Alayna began, standing up from the meal and stretching.

“In Kaedwen,” he added with his wry smile.

“In Kaedwen,” Alayna echoed reluctantly. What was the moon-addled loon up to? Was he trying to put her off her guard?

“In Kaedwen,” Bryanna murmured, matching Manfhir’s wry grin. Yazimir nodded like a wise sage, repeating her words. The illusion was broken by a belch that smelled strongly of ham.

Alayna tried desperately to regain control. “Manfhir, we simply do not require any assistance. You have our thanks for the vittles, and for your story, but we must ride our own way. Alone. Go back to Aldersburg.”

“I would leave you if I could, witcheress. But a powerful enchantment has been laid upon me by the beauteous maiden of the griffin.” He waggled his eyebrows at the last, and it was all Alayna could do to resist slapping the smile from his face.

Instead, she simply rolled her eyes and repeated herself serenely. “Go back to Aldersburg.”

“If I must, then my mind, my heart, my very breath will remain with you.” Bryanna snickered quietly, and Yazimir chuckled knowingly. Alayna was aghast. He was trying to put her off her guard. “My mind rested with you from the moment I saw you in the distance,” Manfhir continued, oblivious. “My breath was taken when I saw the flash of your eyes cutting like lightning through the gloom, and when from your mouth came utterances that I thought came from the very angels in the heavens, indeed–”

“That’s quite enough,” Alayna muttered, blushing furiously. She would not let him have the upper hand in this. “Go back to Aldersburg.”

“But Alayna,” Bryanna teased, “it’s much too late for him to travel anywhere.”

“Aye lass, he must stay the night in our camp.” Yazimir, helpful as ever. But he was right.

And so nightfall found four long shapes bundled up in blankets, instead of three, creating a small circle where soft snoring was the only sound other than the rain’s steady dripping. Alayna stayed awake until long into the night. She told herself she was awake to keep watch over the camp, and not because the raindrops fell on her nose no matter which way she rolled over.

But one of the blankets quietly unrolled, and a figure stood up from bed. Too tall to be Yazimir, too broad to be Bryanna: Manfhir, of course. From his saddlebags he took out his thick cloak, and stalked quietly to the southern edge of camp, where he was hidden by the trees.

Alayna unrolled her own blanket and crept after him. It was not quite last evening and not yet the present morning, but in any case, the sun was not visible over the horizon; only a faint glow gave off any light at all. Manfhir was easy enough to follow: without her witcher’s eyes, he tripped over brush that she stepped over easily, and with her enhanced hearing she could nearly have followed him with her eyes closed. But then he stopped and began muttering something that even Alayna had to strain to hear.

“Addan Power, Lara’s rain; feainn come, elaine a’taeghane.”

Literally: Lara’s rain, dancing Power; come sun, for lovely weather. A spell to end the rain. What was it he had said? ‘I have a feeling that the rain will soon pass.’ Sure enough, drop by drop, the rain lessened until it was hardly trickling anymore. Alayna hurried back to her blankets before Manfhir could catch her watching him.

That morning, Manfhir awoke with three steel pointy ends aimed at his face.

“You are a sorcerer,” Bryanna stated with venom. It was, of course, no revelation to Manfhir.

Yazimir said nothing, only spitting on the younger man. That elicited a slight grimace.

Alayna went so far as to press the silver point of her blade against the bare skin of his neck. “Give us one good reason not to hog tie you and send you back to the city in as pulp.”

“I, ah,” he stammered, his silver tongue for the first time at a loss. “Would now be a good time to say it is because I am in love with you, Alayna?”

She sighed. “Bind him.”

“Here? In public? I’m no prude, but–”

“Gag him too.”

They trooped out of the copse in a line of four: Alayna leading them north, then Manfhir, his hands bound and with a delighted grin beneath the gag – he was simply happy to be riding in the same direction as Alayna – while Bryanna and Yazimir took turns prodding him with progressively pointier sticks which they sharpened as they rode.

The justice of witchers is not true Justice, but it is immensely satisfying. An eye for an eye, one death for another: one sorcerer had made their lives hell, and another sorcerer was delivered into their hands. That was justice of a sort.

“There’s Justice, and then there’s justice,” Alayna murmured to herself.

“Eh? How’s that, lass?” Yazimir called from the back of the line, where he had just fashioned a double prong out of his pointy stick. Bryanna was delighted at the innovation. Manfhir groaned.

“We’ll ride north and make for Kaedwen. At the very least, we can follow the Pontar west of Makaham and see what those lands have to offer.”

And so they did.

That night at camp, a cursory search of Manfhir’s saddlebags revealed that his bags magically held more than they seemed and were stocked with a nearly endless supply of gourmet items of food. They feasted that night as kings and queens on lamb, potatoes, celery and carrots. Manfhir, hands still bound, was fed by Alayna.

“You know, I’m more than capable of–”

A mouthful of potatoes cut off the rest.

“You really don’t–”

A chop of lamb, dripping grease.

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“If you would just let me–”

Another potato, speared with celery and carrots. “Here comes the griffin,” Alayna idly murmured, shoving the food into his mouth. He smiled as he chewed, as if, after that joke there could be none funnier. She forcefully shoved the food into his mouth. Grease dripped down his chin where she had been somewhat less than careful. Even with bound hands and grease pooling onto his fine clothes, he still mooned after her at every opportunity. Alayna would have left the gag on and let him starve if Bryanna had not insisted they feed him.

“After all,” she had said, “we’re not highwaymen.”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with highwaymen,” Yazimir countered hastily. Too hastily. They truly were an odd trio, as Manfhir had said from the start. But they felt like family, now.

The next few days they were forced to skirt east of Vengerberg, and then east again from several small towns, and then even further east after a pogrom caught their trail. Every day the Blue Mountains grew larger in their eyes, and the campfires of their pursuers grew a bit larger, a bit nearer, and a bit more terrifying. The four runaways were running out of options. With Manfhir still bound, their pace was slower than it could have been. But Alayna insisted on it, and neither Bryanna nor Yazimir offered much resistance; their memories of Perangomor were still too fresh.

They were only in the foothills of the Blue Mountains, but the signs of civilization were quickly left behind. Nobody lived this far east, unless you traveled far south to wild Zerrikania, or if you included the forest haunts of the elves in Dol Blathanna. Every day, they saw nekker nests in caves that they might otherwise have rested in had Alayna not seen the signs. But even the dwarf could see signs of arachas and trolls, and spectres lit up the night not far from their camps. Still they were pursued doggedly by the small volunteer band of soldiers and peasants who had taken up arms to bring about justice for the slaughter at Gadwall. Their justice would be no prettier than the justice a witcher might bring.

The party of four was driven further east into the mountains, until something stalled their way. A pile of discarded feathers and scat too large for an owl and too small for a bear: a hybrid… perhaps a draconid, griffin, or other hybrid.

Then suddenly it was upon them.

It was a griffin, a male, with the beak and wings of an eagle, and the legs and tail of a lion. It swooped down between the sparse trees and separated the group as each fled its claws and beak. It swept back into the sky to make another pass, and Alayna leaped from her horse, drawing her silver sword and shouting to Bryanna.

“Take cover under the trees and guard the horses! Have Yazimir watch behind us for the mob, and make sure Manfhir stays on his horse!”

In truth, she was not sure that she could defeat a griffin without first preparing herself. Relicts, hybrids, and draconids were all defeated through careful study and preparation. Alayna did not have her oils, or her traps prepared. She had not taken her witcher potions for weeks, now, and her signs would be weak if she could cast them at all.

The griffin shot like an arrow with its wings folded to its sides for another pass, its maw open in a bloody scream. She weakly cast a sign of Aard to break its trajectory, and rolled beneath it, jumping to her feet with an airborne chop.

She missed.

The griffin now streaked around the thin forest, maneuvering between trees with ease. As low to the ground as it was, all she could see was a massive blur of brown and grey before it swung around a young beech and hurtled for her. It was all she could manage to cast a weak sign of Heliotrop before it slammed into her, throwing her backwards into a tree. Despite the protection of the sign, some bone had cracked in her shoulder, and blood oozed from her arm where her own silver sword had cut through her leather armlet.

Her vision went black. After a time, when vision returned, the world was rimmed in a red haze, and her eyes would not focus. To her left was the griffin, lying stunned on the ground. Alayna stood with some difficulty, grasped her sword with both hands, and stumbled towards the beast.

She only stumbled twice on her way to the griffin.

The beast heaved for breath and was struggling to take back to the air. It turned its beady black eye to Alayna just as she had raised her sword to break its wing; it spun and gouged its claws into her chest, leaving three shallow but bloody furrows in her chest. She staggered back, and the griffin took flight. When it arched its back and roared, Alayna saw three arrows stuck one-by-one into its back. Well shot by Bryanna, the elf maid.

Strong hands lifted her back to her feet from where she had fallen and placed her sword back in her hand from where she had dropped it. “We’ll fight it together,” the voice whispered into her ear, before murmuring to itself in an unfamiliar tongue. Manfhir had come to her aid.

Alayna glanced at the horses. To her confusion, the ropes that had bound the young man lay on the ground. She glanced again behind her, and Manfhir stood unbound, with a book of spells in his hand and wearing a look that could have split stone.

As the griffin swooped in circles above their heads and descended for a third strike, he said, “Don’t worry about me; I’ll protect you.”

Ridiculous man.

He stood in front of her – really, a man with a book standing in front of a warrior with a silver blade; sorcerer or not, he was a fool to do so – and prepared some incantation as the griffin dove, beak extended to snatch at the easy target. At the last minute, Alayna leaped from behind Manfhir and, with a double-handed vertical slice, cut open its stomach.

The griffin bounced off the shield that Manfhir had erected about himself, and Alayna’s swing went wild.

“I told you I would protect you,” he muttered, offended. “I had it perfectly under control. But,” pausing one moment for a salacious grin, “it’s nice that you care.”

“I don’t,” she muttered, but shifted her attention to spot the griffin.

Growling, she stalked about the clearing. “Together, then. Can you stun it with a spell when it comes for its next pass?” He nodded, excitement flashing in his dark eyes. “Then we will finish this together.”

“Together,” he agreed.

After three passes, the beast seemed to have grown wiser. It did not attack directly but made small feints with its claws and lunges that kept it just out of their reach. But when the griffin raised itself high into the air after two circles bookending a feint, Alayna knew the strike was coming.

The griffin beat its brown-grey patterned wings, merely a dark silhouette in the blue noon sky as it seemed to fly into the sun itself.

Manfhir stood tense, lips twitching in preparation for the incantation that would save their lives and end the griffin’s.

Alayna stood silent and still, her sword was just an extension of her arm, her arm just an extension of her witcher’s code; to enact justice and defend the world from Chaos and Evil.

The griffin dove, Manfhir shouted his spell, and Alayna struck true.

It only took one second to end the flight of the griffin.

Alayna was covered in blood, some of it hers, but not all. Bryanna and Yazimir rushed out of the trees, but the closer they ran the further they seemed; the ground seemed to rush closer instead, though she knew she was standing. She was standing, wasn’t she?

**********

When she awoke, her vision was black. She had to blink to see the stars and moon and realize that it was evening. Bryanna wound bandages about her exposed chest while Yazimir and Manfhir looked chastely away.

“Where…?”

“Don’t worry lass,” Yazimir called from over his shoulder, “the pursuers didn’t gain much ground from yer fight with the wee birdie. It seems they had delays of their own.”

“We had to flee further east into the mountains,” Bryanna explained.

“I’ve had enough of these men all telling me not to worry,” Alayna muttered beneath her breath. Bryanna smiled sympathetically. Manfhir interrupted, as expected, where his opinion was not wanted.

“It is because we worry too much ourselves, dear lady.”

“I will worry when I please,” she snapped. “And don’t ‘dear’ me, especially when we still don’t have a plan and our options are diminishing the closer we are to the mountains! Although right now I choose to worry about a tear in my last clean shirt…”

Before Manfhir could gallantly remove his own shirt to offer it to her, Bryanna quickly reminded everyone that she had plenty to spare in her saddlebags. He seemed almost disappointed, and Alayna chuckled at the thought as they worked together to prepare supper.

Manfhir was as free with his rations as he had been when tied up and gagged. In fact, he even found a bottle of 1072 Erveluce from the vineyards of Toussaint. When Yazimir and Bryanna inquired after the occasion, he simply shrugged.

When Alayna asked him, however, “I have a feeling we could use it,” was his reply.

“The last time you had a feeling, you wove a spell and made it so. What do you ‘feel’ will happen this time?”

“Another spell, perhaps. One cast by all beautiful women after a man may have had too much to drink.”

In spite of herself, Alayna laughed at the innocent suggestion. He grinned cheekily back and popped the cork, which bounced somewhere behind Yazimir. When they searched for it later, it took them several tries to put it back in the lip of the bottle. The next morning, all four slept late into the morning.

When they awoke, it was to the sound of tramping boots and bells on halters; Bryanna was the first to rise, but Alayna spotted them through the trees: a large convoy headed straight for their camp. Before they could so much as sniff, they were surrounded… by dwarves and elves, many wearing tattered rags, all greeting Bryanna and Yazimir as long lost cousins. They were refugees, all, driven from their homes and herded east just as the witcher’s party of four had been.

Bryanna and Yazimir’s newfound joy was stifled at the news the refugees brought with them. Their leader, a tall elf with black eyes, informed them that, “A large band of armed men pursues us from the west. A dozen horse and twice that many pikes.”

“We are pursued from the south,” Bryanna informed him in return. “Perhaps half that number, but all astride horses.”

“And the way east is impassable.” This came from Yazimir, helpful as ever. “All mountains, that. Difficult enough on foot, but with your ponies and children… no hope lies that way. I doubt even the dwarves could make it over the way, and what if they could? What would they find?”

“Then unless we can make our way north, we must face our deaths here with as much dignity as we can,” said the elf with all the coolness of autumn and the temerity of ousted nobility. Then, to Bryanna, “If we delay the band to the south, can you lead them to safety?”

She hesitated but nodded. Many of her kinsmen would die today to save a handful.

“Wait,” Manfhir sighed. “I had hoped not to take this course of action, but it seems I have little choice in the matter. I can teleport you and your people to whatever destination you choose. Yet choose quickly and choose unanimously, for I can only make three portals at best. One for the elves,” he looked to Bryanna, “one for the dwarves,” to Yazimir, “and one for whatever remains,” he said quickly, pointedly avoiding Alayna’s gaze.

The elf bowed deeply. “We will not tarry. Is an hour time enough for your preparations?”

“More than enough. But keep watch for our hunters!”

“Va fail, dh’oine. Cáemm veloë.” Before Manfhir could request an explanation, the elf had melted into the woods; now the sorcerer faced Alayna, Bryanna, and Yazimir, who with frowns and folded arms requested an explanation of their own.

“Teleportation? Why did you not use this power before now? We could have been a hundred leagues away from here by now!”

“Selfishness,” he whispered. “Selfishness and greed on my part, I’m afraid to say. The rapacity to spend one extra day in your company, Alayna, and to ride alongside you as your companion and friend; that is what withheld my actions. Judge me as you will, but I make it known now, and hope that my ‘rapacity’ can save many lives!”

“That does not excuse you,” she whispered, holding her hand to her chest where there was an ache deeper than the wounds of the griffin. “You will be held to account for this.”

Yazimir scratched his chin. “I’ll finish up with our packs. And, eh, I’ll see if the dwarves will have me. I’d follow you to the ends of the earth, lass,” he quickly insisted, his brow furrowed in genuine concern, “but I have a feeling too. Some things ought not be dragged on, and I think that this is where we must say goodbye for now.”

“And ‘see you later’ in that same breath, I expect,” snapped Bryanna. Then, melting about the corners of her eyes, she looked apologetic as she continued. “But I must confess I was thinking the same as our dwarf. You have grown, and found room in your heart where you did not expect it. I will inquire after the destination of the elves, and if they will have me, I… I may accompany them.”

Alayna frowned, but the elf continued on hurriedly, much the same as Yazimir had. “But I will stay with you, if you ask me to! Only ask, dearest Alayna, and I will be your sister forever.”

“You are my sister forever,” Alayna said, kissing her tenderly. “Whether you go with me or go with the elves or remain here as a plaything for the pikemen. But choose not the last, dearest Bryanna. Nor you, Yazimir, dearest uncle.” He bowed, smiling, and left the two girls alone.

“I do not know why I should not go with the elves myself, or with the dwarves,” Alayna added, watching Yazimir stumping off through the glade to sort their bags. “It is all the same to me where I end up. I have no people to take me, and I have known no home save the Path and an empty fortress.”

“Only follow your heart, sor’ca. Little sister of the griffin, only ever follow your lion’s heart.”

And Bryanna left her, and she was alone again.

Order and Chaos, Justice and Defeat; no matter what side the witcher fought for, it would snap at her heels the next moment. She fought for love, and now her love was leaving her. The only family she had ever known was scattering to unknown ends of the earth.

“Name the destination,” Manfhir said, forgotten by Alayna in her sadness. “I will take you there. Name your hurt, and I will do what I can to heal it. Name your enemy and I will dispatch him, or if your wish is for me to depart you then I will do so. Only grant me this: you have heard their hearts, now allow me to hear yours. What is it that you fear? I am utterly enchanted with you, Alayna, and I have laid myself as bare as I know how; what holds you back from me?”

“You wish to hear my heart? Listen well, Manfhir. We all inherit what we sow, and the seed of witchers is the long defeat. We bring death to other species, so why should we deserve any better? We bare our blades three paces before death itself; if we stop to hang our breastplate upon the wall and see our own reflection, death creeps behind us and delivers its due. The inheritance of a witcher is a knife in the back; do you see the knife, protruding from my shoulder? We cannot look in a mirror but see death grinning back at us. We do not deserve better, we witchers, and we will never get it. What you love is a dead woman.”

And with that, she stalked away like a mountain cat. Dwarves and elves alike cleared the way before her. A griffin on the prowl, clipped wings or no, was not to be trifled with. Less than an hour later, the company approached the glade in two groups.

“We’ll make for Mahakam, if it pleases you,” spoke Yazimir for the dwarves. “And a hearty welcome for all who visit our hearths!”

“As for the elves,” spoke their leader softly, “we will try our lots in Cidaris. We will see what elves can make of the sea.” Bryanna nodded her head sadly; she stood with the elves.

“And you, Alayna?”

It was Manfhir’s question, and it hung sadly over her neck like a knotted rope.

“I will wait and see what my lot is. Perhaps I will yet have some revenge on our assailants. Or perhaps I will escape north, alone to Kaerhen du Loc where a group would be caught.”

The wizard hesitated, but nodded. Then he opened the first portal, through which they all heard the clatter of the forge and felt its heat. It was an oval hung in midair, opalescent with fire leaping like griffin’s wings at its bounds. Through the center the destination was barely visible to any but the portal’s creator.

“Stay well, lass. If you don’t visit yer cousins in Mahakam, I’ll follow you to hell and learn why. You’re dwarf-kin now, as dwarven a dwarf as any dwarf yet sired.” With a cheeky grin, he led his countrymen through the portal and was not seen of Alayna for many years.

The elven leader did not waste words on Alayna but bowed low to the ground, thanking Manfhir before leading his folk through to Cidaris. Bryanna lingered for a moment, holding Alayna in her arms. “Stay safe, little sister. For me, and for Yazimir, and for Manfhir, too… but most of all stay safe for your own sake. There are many more stories for you to tell.”

Then with a final squeeze and a, “visit me in Cidaris,” she, too, departed through the portal. And Alayna was left alone with Manfhir, who was utterly unknowable and unshakeable.

He approached her softly, slowly, then kneeled down before her when he saw she was not going to speak. “You say the inheritance of a witcher is a knife in the back. Do you desire a better inheritance, Alayna? I desire better for you, but it is not mine to give, only mine to beg.”

Tears began to stream down her face; she had long since forgotten how to cry, but she was learning many new things from this… this man. “What other inheritance do I have?” she asked. “If I am not a witcher, what am I?”

“Perhaps my wife?” he asked softly. And then she truly began to sob, stammering out a reply between heaves of her chest.

“The world… it has made a… a promise to us witchers. Ever will we need you, and ever will we despise the necessity. It is a promise that… that… that as long as there is pain, we will never… ever… find happiness. It will never be well… with us.”

He rose, drying her tears with his sleeves. “I cannot promise that all will be well. But I can promise my love; to love you as you cannot love yourself, without any promise from you in return. For this I ask nothing but patience and a risk; take the risk that I may one day fail you, and have patience for the day when I certainly will. You say humanity has made a promise to witchers? That may be so, but I make to you one better. Be my wife, and be no longer a witcher. What need have I for spells when the strongest enchantment of all is here in my arms?”

“Once made, that promise cannot be easily given up,” she said, sniffing back tears. “We will be in danger. We will be on the run. Even as your wife, I cannot hide my eyes, my scars, my strength.”

“It is of little consequence.”

“I disagree,” she said sharply. “It is of great consequence.”

“Not considering the way I left Aldersburg,” he laughed. “I never told you, not wishing to seem full of myself, but the reason I left at first was because I was kicked out after I spoke against the pogrom. I barely had time to enchant my bag and grab my book of spells before I was rushed out of town, pitchforks and torches at my rear. Mine!”

“You consider that not being full of yourself?” she asked, nose scrunched in mockery.

He playfully tweaked her nose, and she laughed. Suddenly, the sounds of hoofbeats were all around them; from the west, from the south, and echoing somewhere even from the north. Their pursuers had finally caught up with them.

“So what is your choice, dearest Alayna?” he asked, smiling, knowing the answer already.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes,” she said, kissing him for the first as his lover. “I will be your wife and be no longer a witcher. I will go where you lead and hold you to your promise. When I am one day able, I will make you a promise of my own. But for now, let us fly!”

“Let us fly indeed!” And opening a portal, they stepped through together, hand in hand, from danger into danger; for the rest of their lives they lacked neither adventure nor love.

But when the three dozen armed men all came to the campsite moments later, all they found was the smoldering remnant of an abandoned campfire, and several score footprints that all halted at the same spot in the loamy dirt. And as they turned to abandon their long search, they heard the screech of a griffin high in the air…

**********

The flight of the griffin is a beauty to behold. It twists and writes in its aerial acrobatics, knowing full well that as eagle and lion it is the king of both wind and earth. Gvalch’rienn abandoned her nest for a time to learn such tricks and master her domains, but quickly discovered that she was eager to return to the nest that she had abandoned.

But not before she saw how high she could soar. And she soared high, indeed.

The Tales of the Griffin end here, though the stories of Alayna and Manfhir and Bryanna and Yazimir, witcher and sorcerer and elf and dwarf, endure long past the end of this tale. Wherever Good is assailed, wherever Order is threatened, wherever Justice is due, there will you find the Witcher of the Griffin, the wife of Manfhir, elf-friend, and dwarf-kin: Alayna, a humble witcher.

-FIN

If you enjoyed Tales of the Griffin, stay tuned for Tales of the Cat and Tales of the Bear!

Coming soon.