Cameron J. Bell
First Place Fiction
He savagely bit into the fallen tree trunk, more to keep from crying out in pain than to actually affect his rather dire situation. Things were already bad enough without his shrieks of agony drawing predators in. That was assuming they hadn’t already caught a whiff of the blood-slick wing dragging in the dirt and underbrush beside him. It was entirely possible that his presence, along with the dark red gore he’d been trailing since the crash, had gone unnoticed by this gloomy forest’s resident carnivores. Realistically, it was just as reasonable to assume such a thing as it was to believe he could not only fly in his current state, but also perform a successful courtship flight through an aerial display of unrivaled sophistication and beauty.
Simply put, he was doomed. Smart-mouthed and negative to the bitter end, eh, gryphon? Tal’ryn thought as he gave a wry, if pained, grin before releasing the trunk from his beak. Although he expected at least a little whimper, he didn’t expect to let loose half a keen of sorrow. Immediately, the young scout cut it off, head swiveling rapidly to survey his surroundings and make sure he hadn’t been heard. That was a mistake, as he soon realized when his vision started to waver between star-filled blackness and spinning greenery.
Tal’ryn growled a few choice curses while he stood stock still, waiting for the vertigo to pass. It did eventually, but a nasty headache stayed behind to further add onto his growing list of hurts and complaints. “Next time Vicar suggests cutting perimeter patrols to singles, I’m ripping his arms off and beating him to death with them,” He grumbled aloud then gave a sigh of resignation, “If there even is a next time.”
This was supposed to be an ordinary recon flight in a wide circle about two and a quarter miles out from the large stone keep which served as the primary staging area for Ry’varian forces this far north. Admittedly, upon receiving the assignment from Lieutenant Vicar, he’d been stricken with a horrible sense of impending terror…at the prospect for sheer boredom. Ever since that jagged spear of ice, obviously the product of a mage with daddy issues, lanced up from the trees and tore through his wing, he’d reconsidered his stance on boring flight routes.
He remained airborne after the initial impact for all of three seconds, screeching his confusion and then pain once his body awoke to the fact that it had recently acquired a new six inch hole. Actually, aside from the feeling, Tal’ryn’s first indication that something had gone terribly wrong was the sudden explosion of crimson mist that surrounded him. All at once, the injured appendage went into uncontrollable spasms and finally locked up entirely. He didn’t panic, to his credit, and extended both wings as much as possible in order to enter a gentle glide. That would have worked, and it did until he reached tree-top level, if it weren’t for the sudden intrusion of gale force winds. Mr. Throws-Ice-At-People was apparently well versed in screwing with the air too.
After he slammed into the first tree, an oak that wasn’t exactly what you would call soft, he blacked out. He awakened much later to crickets chirping, a broken left foreleg, a tattered inoperable right wing, and, if the sensation of burning glass grinding against itself inside his chest meant what he thought it did, some fractured ribs for good measure.
Though he hardly thought it possible, the situation had been steadily deteriorating ever since the first wet crack of bones snapping under incredible pressure. Daylight slipped to dusk during his time spent unconscious, and night, along with all its dangers, was creeping up over the horizon; its dark tendrils overtaking and subverting any light they could find. This wasn’t the best of circumstances by even the most optimistic standards. Then again, it was only two and a quarter miles to safety. Two and a quarter miles, plus a few hundred foot vertical climb.
To reiterate: Doomed
At least I’ll die doing what I hated. Tal’ryn blinked. Wait a second, there’s no way in the burning wastes of hell’s sixth tier that I’m going to die in this forsaken woodland. Just as this line of thought crossed his mind, a thoroughly inhuman and definitely hostile howl rang out from somewhere in the dense foliage, seeming to originate from every direction simultaneously. He gave a little squeak just like a frightened mouse. Or, maybe, I will. That settled it in his mind, he’d hold off on moving, as badly hurt as he was, until the morning when the hunters had returned to their respective dens.
From the place where he’d landed to his current location was only about thirty feet and even to manage so short of a distance, half walking, half dragging himself along, had drained him to the point of exhaustion. Not to mention my wing feeling like it was hacked off at its midpoint with a rusty saw. In a way, that had come close to happening. The overgrown icicle was by no means silky smooth. Maximum damage must be inflicted after all, and that served as the guiding principle for those trained in the art of a battle mage. I’m lucky it wasn’t a blasted fireball, otherwise I’d have a lot more to complain about than slighted pride and a battered body. It occurred to him then that his attacker had not intended to kill him, at least outright. Oh, that’s a consoling thought.
Tal’ryn uttered another stream of the vilest curses he could think of as he clawed forward, talon over talon, toward a large pair of bushes. Their leaves started a couple feet above the ground and expanded away from the base much like a miniature weeping willow, those farthest out touching earth. They were perfect for hiding a large object, in this case, an angry disgruntled gryphon. They’re almost like umbrellas, too. Shame it’s not rain- A roll of thunder boomed off in the distance and the sky seemed to open up, releasing what felt, for all the world, like a decade’s worth of stored water. In an instant, he went from dry and pissed to sopping wet and miserable.
God’s above, I really do hate my life. He muttered a curse when he finally got under what sparse cover the bush could provide. Honestly, the only way it could get any worse is if a lightning bolt somehow managed to bypass all the trees and- With an accompanying flash that briefly transformed night into day, a bolt of white, tinted a faint purple, struck the towering spruce nearest to him, hewing it just above the midpoint. The leafy mass creaked shrilly in protest, as if unwilling to accept the card fate had just dealt it, before crashing to the ground not five feet in front of Tal’ryn’s gaping beak.
After the initial shock had worn off, he looked skyward, or bushward really since that was all he could see from his position, and shouted, “Did I miss the part where I did something to piss you guys off?! I swear to you all, I didn’t know she had a mate!” This was greeted by an ominous boom and heavier rainfall. Obviously, they weren’t convinced of his sincerity. It was the truth though, he really didn’t know until a burly example of gryphon kind felt the need to attempt to rip his entrails out through his nares during a training exercise.
From that point on, he avoided giving the gods any more ideas on how best to kill him. Let them figure it out. They certainly seem to have a fine grasp of it without my help. Tal’ryn groaned and rested his head on crossed forelegs, staring out through strands of moon-touched green. A long night lay ahead, and assuming he survived it, an even longer day, and if he survived that, another cold, predator filled night, and so on and so forth. This is going to be fun, like being eaten alive by ants fun. Growling, he allowed his eye lids to slowly droop down while concentrating on listening for any audible signs of approach. Thanks to heightened senses, magically enhanced by the battalion’s arch mage, as was done with all scouts, he could pick out the locations of individual rain drops as they impacted fallen leaves, or the croaking of frogs hidden by what was now a wall of water. Great, I’m going to drown in a forest.
That would be the perfect end to the day, dying on his belly, drowning in a few inches of muddy rainwater. At least the gods have a sense of humor, albeit a sick, sick, sick sense of humor. “Sadistic bastards,” he muttered aloud, lifting his head to keep it from getting any wetter than it already was. This wasn’t a raging flood or anything, but it was definitely an additional agitation he didn’t need right now. He couldn’t even sleep the hours away he had to endure them, wide awake, cold and soaked with his wing hanging off at the bone. He winced as an errant leaf grazed the wound. Tal’ryn sighed and started counting the number of different sounds around him. He’d then gauge the distance from where he sat to their origin and try to identify what made them; a little game to pass the time.
Two meters: Frog. Five meters: Tree. Eight meters: Snake. Six meters: Bird. Fifteen meters: Footsteps. Twelve meters: Crickets. Nine meters: Rustling branch. Seven meters: Footstep- He gave a sudden jerk as realization hit, but froze soon after, focusing on that one sound, plucking that single thread from the overall auditory tapestry. At that same location, he picked up a second pair of footsteps, meaning two two-legged assailants. Well, maybe I’ll get lucky and the rain took care of my trail. It had to have, unless one of them was a magic user, but that would mean- His thoughts were interrupted by a female’s whispering voice, “The trail ends in those bushes over there.”
“Oh come on!” Tal’ryn almost shouted, “That’s it, I’m not dying like this. These bastards want to find a gryphon then they’ll find a damn gryphon!” He tensed his already aching body, ignoring the flare of agony in his chest, leg, and wing, waiting for the two humans to get close enough. After they took a few more steps, he said his prayers and leapt from his hiding spot, landing atop a young woman in blue robes, and was about to rip her to meaty shreds when she screamed, “Tal, stop!”
He blinked for a few seconds, looking down at her in amazement until finally recognizing his prey. It was Jenna, one of the battalion’s journeymen sorcerers. Standing to the immediate left of them was a fellow scout, suffering from a magically inflicted wound himself. Instead of apologizing, speaking at all, or even so much as removing his feathery bulk from her now mud- ridden person, Tal’ryn gave the struggling mage beneath him the biggest gryph-grin he’d ever given and collapsed into unconsciousness.