Fólkvangr

How could one spend a whole day doing nothing and still feel so tired? How could one feel so exhausted and not fall asleep? Was it the foreign ceiling? Gilda had gotten used to changing ceilings. Her home—may its ashes rest in peace—, the hotel, the open skies, the manor, the manor in Frozenlake… Whatever that place Mother Harpy had taken them to was. That must be it. Gavingkal’s bedroom, luxurious as it was—so far above the normal of his hamlet—seemed to hide threats everywhere.

Every shadow hid a malcontent mare or a creepy griffon watching Gilda, just waiting for her to slip into slumber. But maybe that wasn’t it. Images of the brown griffon rolling down the roof of the longhouse and painting the tiles with blood projected behind her eyes whenever she closed them. She couldn’t even know if she was asleep, but now and then, it would be Godwin or Gevorg tumbling down like a rag doll, spilling blood instead of cottony filling. Then she’d open her eyes and find the green-gray planks of the ceiling in the dark. The lack of evil, corrupting magic in the air somehow made it all worse.

Perhaps the threats were only in Gilda’s mind, and she pondered whether that thought was profound or if she was too dumb to think something actually profound. She rubbed her eyes in the dark, softly scowling through her exhaustive lack of tiredness. Not because she couldn’t sleep, but out of jealousy.

Grunhilda’s soft, peaceful snoring filled her with such faux anger that she almost started looking for excuses to wake her lover up. On top of that, Gevorg had decided to sleep elsewhere. ‘This way, you can actually rest,’ he had said. She sighed and twisted her beak at the thought.

The thunking of the axes working on the firewood had ceased long ago. Of the funeral rites, only the flaming pyres remained. Their bright flames cast undulating shadows through the gaps in her shutters and punctuated the deathly silence. Even in the cold snow, one could hear birds and tiny animals outside, under the roof. Not there outside Gilda’s room. The clinking of armor from the walking guards unsettled her every time.

“Leave it to that dumbfuck to have his bedroom on the ground level…” she sighed to herself.

The guilt that Gilda would rather share their bed with Gevorg—doing things other than staring at the ceiling—probably helped keep her awake. He thought of showing respect for her, for the dead, for the situation. Gilda thought she was a horny degenerate because she really didn’t care and would rather do naughty things with him and Grunhilda. At the same time, she thought herself a fool for not waking Grunhilda up nor dragging their tomfriend to their bedroom anyway.

It was all so dumb. What is the point of being the boss if you don’t get to do the things you want? She sighed, again staring at the ceiling and holding her blanket to her beak. Mother Harpy would not mind. She was probably doing naughty things herself with her hunk of a mate, Lord Gilad.

What was Godwin doing, by the way?

Suddenly, it was morning again, and Gilda knew it because they knocked on her door and woke her up. On the bright side, she had gotten some sleep. At some point, she had nightmares of freakish, ribbon-like worms and unfathomable cold, but the warmth of her fireplace gave her some reprise. Grunhilda sat by the hearth, poking the burning wood, and greeted her with a peppy grin before trotting to the door. By the time Gilda had sat on the white bear rug under the bed, Gevorg stared at her from there.

“Gilda, I’m sorry, but there’s a situation. And it is grim.”

“Of course there is,” she yawned into her paw. “I’ll be right there.”

‘Breakfasts are for the weak,’ she mumbled to herself, surprised at her good mood. She even smiled softly, seeing that the nice griffons working for her had set up a sizable one. Sausages, fruits, some fish, and some lean cuts of beef and poultry waited on the main table before Gavingkal’s throne. It was their second morning in that cursed place, and it was only slightly better than the first, but the neatly organized food and empty plates waiting for her were nice. They had even set some candles for soothing lighting.

Work first, then she’d be right back for that tasty food. Unfortunately, as soon as the dead stopped being an issue, it was up to the living to remind her that the damn Windigos had actually won. Gilda followed Gevorg outside the main hall and into the still cold of the morning. The rancid smell of frozen death was slightly more bearable than the stench of burned flesh, fur, and feathers, but Gilda preferred the latter. Going down the stairs, she saw griffons leaving whatever shelter they had used for the night. Some had slept in a couple of houses in better condition, and others slept in tents still standing along the main street.

And it was down that street that Gevorg led her to a small agglomeration of griffons who seemed concerned about a young queen and her cub. Gilda raised an eyebrow, approaching the griffoness. “Hey, what is going on?”

“Oh, he is just very tired,” the dirty queen said with a sheepish smile. The very same Gilda had met and spared during the fight, still holding that doll from when Gilda stumbled upon her and her mate. Except it was now stiff and was not a doll like Gilda had thought under the dark of night and with a mob of murderous griffons in every corner. Gilda’s first thought was an expletive that she was glad never left her beak.

Why did everyone think she would know how to handle that? It was probably the ‘leader effect’ and the fact that nobody else wanted to. They could just drop it at her feet. No biggie, Gilda could just delegate away. She could tell Gia to deal with it and nobody would say anything. But she didn’t have the heart. Could the Windigos turn a cub who died so young they never even had a rational thought into a draugr? Or any other undead monstrosity? For no other reason other than to fuck with the living?

The father wasn’t helping. All he did was shy away from the conversation and keep a few paces away, avoiding everyone’s eyes. Not that Gilda could judge him, as she hadn’t the first idea of what to do or say either.

One thing she knew. Gilda would rather not test the Windigos. Not only because she was sure the monsters were creative, but because she didn’t want to see it become reality. She didn’t want those young parents, already caught in that nightmare, to see it. All Gilda needed was to figure out how to explain that to a delusional queen without making it worse.

She stared at the young queen holding her dead cub like she feared someone might snatch it from her—someone had certainly tried. Her yellow pelt and white feathers seemed a little healthier than on the previous day. That is magic for you. It can be terrible, but also heals fast. She was also clean, even if her fur and feathers lacked proper care. She had a sheepish grin that showed she understood Gilda was the one who was going to end that debacle, and it worried her.

Gilda didn’t want to rush. In fact, she raked her brain while scratching her head, trying to find something to say that might help while pretending she was examining the queen. Maybe force one of those ancient memories to surface. Some ideas came to her, but Gilda’s faith in her ability to argue away the problem didn’t convince her. Not because she thought she couldn’t pull it off, but because the whole ‘slipping thoughts inside their heads’ thing seemed cheap and disrespectful. Eventually, after staring at the queen, her mate, and the others surrounding them, Gilda relented. There was one thing she was particularly good at, and that was being bluntly honest.

“There is no nice or kind way of putting this, so I’m just going to say it. Your cub is not tired. He is dead, and I’d rather not find out if the Windigos can … You know. Do the undead thing to newborn cubs.”

“Oh. I understand Lady Gilda. But we… He is… Just…”

“Please, don’t do this.” Gilda’s tone was a whimpering supplication. While her paws joined in a pleading gesture, her eyes shone, unblinking, with the same anxiety mirrored in the younger queen.

Yanking a dead cub from his delusional mother was within Gilda’s power. Daring the Windigos to do their worst, too, but Gilda preferred the former. Words bubbled to her throat, but she reined them in. Muscles tensed, but she held them back. It would be so easy to invoke her title, her position. Realigning that hen’s compass with a few slaps and taking the corpse from her was almost expected. But Gilda didn’t. Enough suffering in that place. That mother had already gone through too much. Gilda would not relinquish another piece of her soul; she held to the majesty and pride of her lion and eagle self. A Child of the Harpy, not a tool of the evil gods of corruption or a mindless victim of circumstances.

Gilda’s tone came out soft and restrained. From one messed up griffoness to another. “It is his right as a tiny Child of the Harpy. A burning pyre that will take him to Our Mother. We gave it to all the griffons who turned their back on the Mother of Storms. Because they were weak or malicious, it didn’t matter. There is no other way we can treat a tiny, innocent little brother under our mother.”

Gilda almost didn’t recognize the words out of her beak, but they were earnestly hers. Back in Griffonstone, she would have twisted her beak and distanced herself from any weirdo who said that. At the same time, her old memories were silent. Would the veteran Swordmaiden, Ghadah, have said that? Any of the venerable Loremasters she had been could have said that merely because it would convince the mourning mother. But not Gilda. She simply didn’t want herself, the mother, or anyone else to see the horror the Windigos would create just to hurt them. But most of all, she believed the funeral pyre would send that tiny soul on its way to the one, the only one, who could make that better. Not to mention that the poor, delusional queen would have to live with the fallout of that mess, and Gilda wanted to spare her the pain.

The queen clutched the tiny body, but the fear and unease in her eyes were gone, replaced by sorrow. She sobbed, holding him to her chest, and a second later, she sobbed and wailed. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me, Gavin. I couldn’t protect you!”

Her mate and Gevorg were the only ones who dared approach her. The former held her and Gilda’s tomfriend slowly made for the cub. She barely resisted and let go after a second, suddenly, like she feared she might not if she thought about it for too long. Gilda watched in silence. That was a kind of bravery she might not have had.

The griffoness wailed into her mate’s chest, and the others that had gathered around decided it was time to leave them with their moment of grief. Gevorg needed only a stare to communicate that he would take care of the funeral. Part of Gilda wanted to see it to the end, but she decided it had been enough already. A nod of her own communicated to him she understood, and soon it was only Grunhilda following when Gilda turned around to leave the couple alone in the dirty street.

Gertha was waiting for her. She was sitting on the burned wooden porch of a dilapidated stone house. A neutral expression on her face, watching from afar and not wearing her mail armor. She carried none of her weapons—only a shut beak and a neutral stare, waiting for Gilda’s attention.

“Please tell me some good news.” Gilda approached and sat by her with Grunhilda in tow.

“Our flyers came back with supplies and ‘stuff.’ Lord Graham is back from Griffindell, and he said they will welcome the survivors for whatever treatment they can devise. He is Lady Geena’s mate; I think these poor griffons will be alright in the long run. They also sent us some fancy-schmancy flying carts to help us carry the injured cats. They’ll probably resettle the place in the future. Once nature heals and the evil magic is gone. Or, however that works.”

“One can hope,” Gilda responded absentmindedly, but inwardly relieved Gertha’s good mood helped lift hers. “Get everyone ready to go and the injured loaded into the carts. The sooner we’re gone from here, the sooner we get to Frozenlake, and the better. I want to depart for Brokenhorn as soon as possible.”

Not to mention that the longer they stayed, the greater the chance a particular mare would show up again. But Gertha was not done yet. When Gilda stood to leave, Gertha touched her shoulder. The abruptness made Gilda look.

“You just saved this place, Gilda. Then you saved all of us from that creepy unicorn spell.” Gertha blurted out, sitting on her haunches and holding her paws together, avoiding Gilda’s stare. “I don’t know how to say it… I—I just never saw anything like that before.”

How much of that could Gilda claim responsibility for consciously doing? She had no idea. But it was easy to soak in the admiring stare once Gertha had stopped being so awkward. Not that a griffon staring at her like she had gold for feathers would ever not be awkward, but at least Gertha stopped looking like an infatuated teenager.

Gilda awkwardly petted her bang of feathers and made a gawky grin at Gertha. “I guess that is my job now.”

“Sheesh.” Gertha blushed like wine tinted her feathers. “I’m sorry… It’s just… Yeah… I’m gonna leave it at that.”

Rather than saying anything that might ruin the moment of adoration, Gilda stood and walked on. Around the main street, griffons busied themselves checking the destroyed houses. They either looked for loot or survivors, hiding bandits. Gilda just let them. The whole thing had been much less lucrative than they expected, and they were within their rights. In the fields, far past the houses, Gevorg took care of the tiny cub’s funeral with his parents and a few griffons that attended. They were both from Gilda’s company and the hamlet. Their motives were their own, but Gilda could imagine they understood the young parents’ pain. Maybe simply didn’t want the funeral to go unwitnessed. The singing was important, after all; Gilda just wasn’t sure why.

Some charitable souls had laid planks so they could walk on the sides of the frozen mud roads. Others, not busy looking for loot, had started campfires and minded the breakfast. Many already packed their stuff for the return trip to Frozenlake. All of them solemnly nodded at Gilda’s passing by. Stopping their rummaging or putting down their mugs and plates for a second. Oh, gosh… Some of the younger ones bowed to her, but Gilda hid her awkwardness under a façade of calm. She hoped.

“Oh! I almost forgot. They also sent a flyer to Brokenhorn to let Lord Griskjal know to expect our caravan,” Gertha said, catching up to her. “You know, our actual caravan to Griffindell.”

Gilda nodded in silence, and Gertha excused herself to mind the preparations. That was one name she knew, and she expected him to be trouble since she left Canterlot.

And, speaking of trouble, Gilda’s griffons had finally found the smarmy white dweeb. They tied his wings, muzzled his beak, collared and held him by two poles chained to the collar, and he still thrashed about. He pulled, reared, and screamed inside of his muzzle. Two rugged, bulky northerners, veterans of many battles, struggled to control him. The sheer desperation in his thrashing gave him strength beyond his wasted muscles.

While Grunhilda led a less-than-savory life in the South, she grew up protected and relatively well-fed. Goving’s less-than-elegant lack of muscle mass showed that his northerner master had been much less graceful in his treatment. The Loremaster inside Gilda could see all the similarities of his shared heritage with Grunhilda. Not to mention all the ways Gavingkal had failed to nourish and educate him, even if they were not so apparent.

Even among the southerner griffons and the ponies, some noble, very rich families would assign tutors to their youth. The point was to acknowledge that someone else might do a better job and put their education above the parents’ ego. Gilda’s instincts told her that was not the case with Goving.

Gavingkal’s pathetic speech came back to Gilda, and by his own logic, he had failed to see the obvious. Had he been raised and groomed properly, Goving could be as loyal a servant as Grunhilda, and even more physically powerful. The little Loremaster inside Gilda’s head tsked at the waste. What an absolute fool Gavingkal turned out to be.

“Please don’t hurt him, misters!” Grunhilda rushed ahead in an uncharacteristic bout of initiative.

Now Goving was Gilda’s problem. Barely, but an adult. Angry, frustrated. Every instinct in her screamed that he was a liability. She didn’t know the details, but his father did away with him, and his mother would rather see him dead. However, Gilda could understand the reasons why Grunhilda had infatuated herself with him. It seemed like the kind of naivety that could kill.

On top of all that, if Gavingkal were right about the inbreeding issue, Mother Harpy would like to know about it. And that brought another curious thought to Gilda. If Goving was Grunhilda’s cousin, son of Lady Geena, whose sister already showed signs of inbreeding… How odd that Lady Geena never reported it to the Harpy.

Goving’s muffled screeching, scratching talons, and rattling chains tore Gilda from her musing.

“Dude! Chill out! You’re acting like a damn feral!” she yelled at the white tom and earned a furious stare from behind his muzzle and huffing like a bull. She backhanded him but didn’t even hurt more than his ego. “Stare at me like that again, and I’m gonna put you down like one!”

Gilda heard Grunhilda’s hushed moan. She wanted to say something but restrained herself thus, Gilda ignored her. “Now, I’m taking this thing out, and you’re gonna behave like a civilized griffon, and we’re gonna talk. And you better tell me what I want to know, or Grunhilda is gonna be cross with me for putting you out of your misery. Understand?”

The white griffon reluctantly relaxed, and Grunhilda backed away, giving Gilda and Goving each a worried stare. The two warriors holding the rods let go a relieved sigh and a swear. Goving’s stare barely changed, even if he gave his thrashing a rest and let escape a long, impatient huff inside the muzzle. Gilda supposed she could compromise. Her paws inched to the black leather muzzle like she feared he might bite her. Which she actually did, but tried her best to hide it behind a stone-cold façade.

Rough feathers brushed at her paws where those should have been soft, and he tensed like the contact bore painful memories. Gilda reached and undid the iron and leather buckle behind his head. He jolted back, but Gilda had read his eyes before he even tried and held his feathers.

“Hey! Behave!” Gilda yelled at him and yanked at his feathers so hard it made him wince. “I’m not your mom to suffer your hissy fit!”

“It’s okay, Goving!” Grunhilda shuffled her feet. “Miss Gilda is not gonna hurt you. Erm, more.”

Finally, with minimal finagling, Gilda pulled the muzzle from his face. His expression held the simmering contempt of a cub about to throw a tantrum but didn’t because mom was angry. Gilda glared back at him while she tossed the muzzle away. Whether or not he liked it, his face was ill-suited for anger and proper seething like a true northerner griffon’s. Instead of a fierce predator, he looked like a bratty cub.

Much like Grunhilda, he had that goofy, non-threatening stare many griffons in the south shared, the traits of the Saddani lineage. The marks of the Nartani were strong in him, though. It was a bit of a contradiction that made Gilda wonder because the Nartani were probably the griffons who remained the purest in the present time. Then again, that was the issue. At least to Gilda’s laygriffon’s mind, peppered with ancient memories of past lives, that lent a lot of credibility to Gavingkal’s claims. But that was not the immediate problem.

“I’m pretty sure I remember seeing Grunhilda bashing your skull in.” She growled at the strange griffon. “How come you look pretty as a tom in their first meeting?”

“It is black sorcery from his Windigo masters!” One of the warrior griffons holding the restraining poles yelled. “Put this cur under an axe already!”

“Shut your beak, Godar.” The other interjected. “Lady Gilda knows of these things more than you know of drinking ale.”

Likely to be untrue, but Gilda appreciated the trust. The chains rattled, and the griffon poked Goving in the neck with his pole. “And she asked you a question, freak.”

“I don’t know!” Goving shrieked, a combination of a whine and a cry. “I just woke in the fucking ruins, alright?”

“And then skulked around like a thief, looking for a way into the longhouse, you scum.” The griffon yanked the pole and the chain so hard he almost toppled Goving.

Grunhilda shrieked, begging him not to hurt the white griffon, and then shot Gilda a pleading stare. Again, Gilda had to convince herself that leaving the smarmy little bastard alive was not a terrible idea.

‘Know what? I’m not dealing with this. His parents gotta deal with him.’ Gilda told herself, squinting at the tom.

“It’s alright. You can let him go. Goving is not going to do anything stupid.” She glared at the sniveling white tom. “Is he?”

He gasped at first, and only then he shuffled his feet, in the same dumb way that Grunhilda did. “No, ma’am!”

Gilda huffed, watching as the griffons, one of them begrudgingly, undid the restraints on Goving. After some rough dealing with the clasps and straps, the constraints dropped to the floor. He spread his wings and shook off the tenseness in his body, following it up with a pouting glare at Gilda.

“Come on. Let’s eat before you say something you might regret.” Gilda growled at him, and Grunhilda took the hint, swiftly using her shoulder and flank to nudge Goving toward the door. Gilda saw his confused blush but said nothing, satisfied that he just moved and went into the longhouse.

Now that Gilda didn’t feel pressured to babysit a hundred griffons, she took a second to appreciate the main hall. It was what one could expect if they had had some contact with the northerners. Gia had told Gilda it was supposed to be an upside-down boat. Once Gilda told her it made no sense, she insisted it was a tradition from the time when the Astrani sailed up and down the rivers from the lake at the base of the Stormy Eyrie. Gilda rolled her eyes and told Gia to go mind their injured warriors. Now, looking at it again, the high ceiling and long keel-like ridge and the way the ceiling fell on both ends and along the sides made her reconsider. Not that she would admit to Gia, though. More importantly, the food was still on display and steaming hot.

Chicken, sausages, cuts of deer, some sauces, and a few fruits as before. It had remained untouched from when she first saw it. Most of which probably came from Gavingkal’s pantry. But nothing like some meals she’s had. Gilda wouldn’t complain, of course. Supplies, while not scarce, were not exactly plentiful, and the others had to eat too. Her griffons had tried their best to give her a lush breakfast that she could finally enjoy. A smile crept through her stern expression.

The white cousins joined Gilda, with Grunhilda gingerly sitting next to her at the table. Goving just stared sheepishly at them like he needed their permission to join. She sighed.

“Listen, I don’t want to hear any sad sob story about how poorly Gavingkal treated you. I can imagine and I don’t care. He is dead, and I’m going to treat you like a guest as long as you don’t become a problem. I’m gonna take you to Frozenlake, and from there, you can do whatever you want. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said as sheepishly as before, all his childish bravado was gone.

“Cool. Now sit down here and eat without making any drama.”

He hesitated, repeating himself and walking with slow and uncertain steps. Trying to shrink into the background. Eventually, he found his place next to Grunhilda. Gevorg, arriving while the other dragged himself along, kept his eyes on the griffon all the way but said nothing. Gilda just wanted to eat in peace, and the cool-headed Gevorg understood that. While he picked his place, the steaming spiced sausages kept trying to pull Gilda’s nares. Pinching a reasonably sized one in her fingers, she took it to her beak and tore a juicy part of it.

Then she heard Grunhilda whispering. It lasted just enough for her to hear it, and then it stopped before she could stare. It was fine. Gilda just let it go. No need to bicker with Grunhilda or be paranoid about her cousin. She happily tore another piece of her sausage, focusing instead on the spicy, fatty pork.

Godwin entered the main hall, and the first thing he did was glare at Goving. “I thought he was one of the bad guys.”

Goving glared right back at him. Gilda sighed and relinquished the stub of sausage to her plate. “Yeah. But he is Grunhilda’s cousin. And Grunhilda begged me not to kill him on sight. And I am dumb. Make nothing off it. Siddown and eat.”

“I would hardly describe mercy as ‘being dumb’,” Gevorg said absentmindedly. One paw rested on the table while he ripped the leg out of a roasted chicken with the other and scanned the table for something else. “I’d say it is actually a very laudable and honorable quality in a leader.”

What was worse? The awkward silence that followed or the blush that seared into Gilda’s cheeks? She resigned herself to staring at the floor rather than meeting anyone else’s eyes. When the moment passed, Goving had built a veritable mountain of chicken, sausages, steaks, and a few fish on his plate. And once he was sitting in his place again, he stretched over the table and dragged to him a plate full of figs and a teapot filled with honey and balsamic vinegar. All the while maintaining eye contact with the others, one at a time.

“Dude, just eat like normal. You don’t have to drag the whole breakfast to you!” Godwin growled at him.

Goving’s response was that he tore a chunk from a chicken’s leg, still watching the others with his bug-eyed expression.

“Just let him be, Godwin.” Gilda coughed and then smiled at the tom. “We should move on soon. Fill up and get ready for work because we’ll be taking these messed-up griffons to Frozenlake. I’m gonna need my fighters at the ready to keep them from creating trouble.”

“You can count on me, Miss Gilda!” The tom cheered but immediately reverted to a stoic, ‘it’s nothing’ stare and sat himself at the table to eat.

With the drama mostly ignored and stomachs empty no more, the breakfast ended without additional shenanigans. Gilda missed Gertha and her brother, as well as Gia and her tomfriend, but not enough that she’d go looking. The place was reasonably safe for adults to mind their own business. She missed Gunner, though. The one that had remained, but she supposed he would rather be alone. A sigh escaped her, while she made sure Grunhilda and herself were ready for the return trip to her aunt’s city.

All that aside, everyone was ready to go as soon as breakfast was over. Gertha and Gevorg had organized a simile of an order-keeping force to ensure none of the captured griffons tried anything. It felt more like an escort; most of the prisoners acted like they had been rescued. Gilda could understand. The presence of the guards seemed like a formality and a protection. Good, the less drama, the better, she thought.

Less than an hour after breakfast, they were already walking out of what remained of Feathertip. The carts, while fancy because of the magic they bore, and thus subtly shiny to Gilda’s eyes, were nowhere near as fancy as the pony-made ones. They were simple carts, made with wood. The kind someone would use to haul cargo to places but also happened to fly with their drivers.

While the formal entrance to the town was much less lugubrious than creeping through the forest, sickened trees flanked both sides of the wide dirt path. The tumultuous clouds that Gilda never thought she’d find reassuring kept the sun from shining directly, and no creepy shadows fell from the trees. While they still moaned and groaned, it was the natural straining of trunks and branches in the same wind that caused feathers to bend. It was reassuring, if anything.

As they took flight, Gilda already felt like it had all been a nightmare fading from memory. That relief couldn’t have come sooner because she already had another bomb on her paws. Fortunately, she never had to tell Grunhilda anything, as the white griffoness was already by her side, at the front of the group. Others minded the ‘rescued prisoners’, with Gunner way at the back. The important thing was that Grunhilda was not with Goving, who had seen it proper to travel among the prisoners—rescued griffons from Feathertip.

The cold was noticeable, but it barely bothered Gilda. Mythical’sweight on her back reminded her of who she was, and that she had it all under control. Their flight was fast and let her focus on the fact that they would soon arrive at Frozenlake. And that could be a problem. It had been rather convenient that Goving had ‘died’ inside the inner sanctum of the traitorous Loremaster and her filthy masters. Somehow, Goving survived and followed Gilda back to Frozenlake, to his mother, who had asked her to end his misery. And not even Grunhilda would be so naïve as to think that the Windigos had nothing to do with his survival.

At the same time, it would be simply convenient to the respectable Lady of Frozenlake if her son died in a battle with the Swordmaiden of the Shaddani. If something was so disgracing about her son, him dying in battle against a worthy adversary could mean the salvation of his name. And given Gavingkal’s speech, Gilda had a good idea of what that could be. It was appallingly barbaric but also perfectly fitting. The poor cat probably only got under Gavingkal because of a mess he had no blame for.

Maybe killing him would have been a mercy to both. All because of a detail that their fliers had relayed: Lord Graham was back home at Frozenlake. It meant little to Gilda, but the uneventful flight made her think. Maybe she was imagining things and putting words in Lady Geena’s mouth, but that he was not there during the Gathering Storm might have been more telling than Gilda had thought. She needed to figure out what she was going to do before they arrived.

She could just lop his head off. It would be simple, and nobody would question it. But… Grunhilda…

A frown crept into Gilda’s brow. She was responsible for Grunhilda, for Godwin and his sisters, for all the griffons in her caravan. For Goving, not so much. All that when the original intention was getting Grunhilda’s and her own asses to Griffindell. She already compromised too much; she could not afford to help Goving. He was too much of a liability.

A backward glance showed the white griffoness keeping formation with her, dutifully scanning the distance. Godwin did the same, although he was among the guards of the sick griffons. Creepy Goving was behaving, staying within the confines of the escort, his face unreadable.

A sudden realization hit her like a bolt of Mother Harpy’s magic: she could not afford such a liability with Tempest Shadow around. Almost on cue, her stomach grumbled to remind her that the Mother of Storms had made griffons so that they needed to eat occasionally. She groaned and growled to herself.

The overcast sky made judging the position of the sun almost impossible, and she had already changed positions with Godwin at the front. Breaking formation to confirm the time was a bad idea. It didn’t matter, anyway. With that dangerous mare around, she wanted to get to a safe place as soon as possible. It was absurd, and she knew it: it was not like the mare could fly. But magic could do weird things.

Gilda kept pushing her wings to fly. Her eagle eyes scanned the whites, yellows, and blacks of the terrain. She watched the quick streams where the unicorn might try to find some drinkable water. She eyed with distrust a small herd of caribou crossing the stream like they’d be in cahoots with their hoofed friend.

“They can’t keep up like this, Boss.” Gertha’s shout came over the wind and startled Gilda and Godwin to stop.

Blinking in surprise, she stopped in a high-altitude hover—particularly harsh on the muscles—and spun around to look back at her griffons. The trained warriors and monster hunters kept up and hovered effortlessly. At worst, one or two, wearing heavier armor, breathed through their mouths. Gilda’s own wings reminded her she did not have a lifetime of physical excellence to keep her going, but the inhabitants of Feathertip fared even worse. They tried, but Gilda was seeing helpless frowns and erratic wing beats. Most of them had trouble keeping their altitude while hovering.

Gilda winced. The pain in her muscles was gone the moment she remembered that the more she dallied and distracted herself, the bigger the chance she’d come across the vengeful purple unicorn. Gilda couldn’t forget that she and Grunhilda were wanted in the South. She had killed an important griffon in Thunderpeak. She had taken part in an open rebellion. The actual government of the griffon nation was after her. Some agent of ‘The Mare’ might catch up to her.

“Damnit,” she muttered under her own labored breath before she raised her paw so they would pay attention. “We’re stopping for lunch. Just to swallow some food, but don’t get comfy! We are moving again before long!”

Gilda’s patience thinned by the second, but she reminded herself she was likely the only one who had had a decent breakfast. For better or worse, they followed her orders. Lunch for her was a single raw chicken filet and a drink of water. She was already pacing in the snow. Back and forth, impatiently giving the sick griffons some respite, even under her intense glaring. Images of the dangerous unicorn haunted every thought at every step and overshadowed the pleading stares they gave her. At the same time, she was sure they wouldn’t want to happen across the mare either.

Soon, after a short time that she couldn’t quantify in her frantic pacing, her patience ran out. “Let’s go! We’re making it to Frozenlake before nightfall. I don’t want to spend the night in the wild. I’m pretty sure nobody wants that, either! If you can’t fly, someone has to carry you. Or just hop onto one of the carts. Up! On your feet! Now!”

Just as she said it, she realized they didn’t have enough carts. The wounded already occupied those, but what she said was said. And she would be lying if she also said she expected all of them to obey without missing a beat, but they did. The sight closed her throat, but she kept her wince and frown under her fierce grimace. They obeyed her with many heavy brows and sagging wings, but all of them obeyed. Hopped, and their wings took them to follow her up.

They resumed cruise flight in sequence with Godwin still at the lead. Her frown remained as she scanned the ground below for any dash of purple in the snow’s white. Any flashes of metal in the thickets and groves. She looked backward, just in case. There was Gevorg, Godwin, Grunhilda, and the rose-toned siblings. Also, their awkward guests among their escort of armed griffons. Nobody showed any signs of distress other than a tired frown. Satisfied, Gilda maintained the pace and resumed her vigil.

They kept flying, and Gilda’s eyes jumped from one attention-grabbing detail to another in search of any hint of purple. Gertha came to her again, crying above the wind’s whooshing and her feathers’ flapping. “They can’t keep up, Gilda.”

Godwin looked back at her, but Gilda’s wings didn’t miss a beat. She threw her voice back over her shoulder, sharp and cold as the wind in the North. “Keep up, or you’re getting left to die in the snow!”

As all that her words entailed hit herself, and before Gilda turned her gaze forward again, a green-and-brown splotched griffoness among the ‘prisoners’ started losing altitude. Her desperate wince soon turned to a desperate, panicked wail. Her beautiful shaddani colors had lost their shine to the wasting sickness that permeated her home, and her ribs pressed against her pelt. Patches of missing fur and disheveled feathers, too, testified to that. The most worrying were her wings. Her mistreated feathers struggled to work their magic of flight. Her faltering muscles sent them flapping erratically, losing the battle against gravity. She tilted to the side before dipping below the formation.

Gilda stopped, and with no orders, the formation stopped, too. One of her fellow villagers tried to hold her, but their combined weight dragged both down. In another situation, Gilda might even have found it funny.

“Fuck!” Gilda snapped. The words came to her throat, but she didn’t have the heart to tell the others to keep moving. Instead, she yelled at Goving. “Don’t just stand there! Help her.”

“But—But she’s dirty and icky!” he recoiled with a wince.

“Do what I say before—” Gilda snapped again but reigned her choice words in as Grunhilda swooped in to hold the distressed griffoness and relieve her friend.

“I got you!” The white griffoness effortlessly held the other aloft with one of her goofy grins.

After a second, Gilda addressed her griffons-at-arms. “We’ll rotate positions in the formation. We’ll take turns carrying them. But we are not stopping! Not for snacks and not for resting. We eat while we fly, and we only stop when we get to Frozenlake. I trust nobody is going to be a problem because of that. Move!”

She resumed flying faster than she was flying before. Even Godwin, at the lead, had to adjust to keep up. Not a dozen seconds passed. She slowed down and shut her eyes tight. She told her heart to calm down. It was not like the mare could fly. And it is not like she should be so nervous because of the unicorns’ spells. She had broken through their spell, after all. She had saved the entire group. Almost the entire group.

She halted her flight and spun in the air to face the others. “Fine, we’re stopping. But it’s only for an hour. And I want volunteers standing watch.”

They landed quickly, with no fancy flying other than Gilda, who found herself a small mound to stand on. They spiraled down to the patches of snow on the yellow grassy field. Gilda resisted stretching her wings after the exercise, and simply folded them to her flanks, waiting for the healthy griffon-at-arms to muster before her.

“They can rest,” Gilda pointed at the group of sick griffons. “The rest of you can’t. I want everygriff watching the perimeter, and I want to know of anything out of the ordinary!”

Her words were sufficient. While the armed griffons spread out to watch the surroundings, the others rested on the snow. They either gently laid down or simply plopped down like the snow would take their pain away. Friends and families stayed together and helped each other. Some showed sad frowns, others smiled with relief, rubbing snow on their chests and necks. Gilda stood at the top of her mound, watching griffons clinging to life as much as the sickly grass in the cold, snow, and blasts of wind. She restrained the creeping wince that tried to pull at the corners of her beak. Under the light of day, even in the overcast North, those griffons were a grim sight.

She never relaxed. Sitting there, waiting for Tempest Shadow to pop out of thin air, gave her anxious steps one way and the other. The bubbling anxiety crushed any sympathy for the injured griffons, and she kicked herself for that. Justification came immediately. They would be in trouble too. She looked one way and another over the resting griffons and small, improvised teams of sentries keeping watch. Beyond them, the wind launched eddies of fine snow into the air, but no flashes of magic revealed themselves.

“I’m not scared. There is nothing to be scared about,” she whispered to herself because there was nobody to convince of that other than herself. And she knew it. But knowing didn’t make it any easier. Mythical’s weight on her back reminded her she’d cut the mare open next time.

When she looked again, Grunhilda and Godwin had sat before her, both staring with frustrated frowns and pursed beaks.

“What?” she snapped at them and pointed a talon-tipped finger at the ‘prisoners’. “Go make yourselves useful!”

While Grunhilda squeaked and immediately turned to follow orders, Godwin never broke eye contact with Gilda and held the white griffoness’s wing.

Before Gilda could screech at them, Gevorg walked closer and gave her the same stare, but he actually said something. “Do not make threats you are not sure you can follow on, Gilda.”

He spoke as discreetly as he could above the moan of the wind. “Griffons like you because you are different from nobles like Gavingkal. They like you because you represent the best things about the Harpy and her favorite griffonesses. Like Lady Geena and heroes like Gaharjet. Like the swordmaidens of the legends.”

“I’m sure they made their mistakes, and those didn’t make it into the legends, and you are kind of clueless.” He shrugged, and Gilda thought he was lucky he was such a hunky hot guy and that she liked him. “Griffons are only going to talk about your deeds of greater importance. Don’t sully your legacy by letting them think you’d mistreat surrendered griffons or fly your unhealthy brethren to death because of fear.”

She looked away from him but could feel the frown upon her as much as she could hear the disappointment in his tone. It felt like listening to her mom, and she almost told him so. She only held her tongue because of how much his opinion mattered to her. “Also, don’t pretend you’re not scared. Instead, trust them. Trust yourself. Do what you feel must be done, but don’t give in to fear. They know how it fools griffons into making dumb decisions. It will sap their trust in you. Your griffons are your tools. Use them the same way you use Mythical. With trust and respect.”

A dozen excuses came to her, but she kept her beak shut, and he concluded. “You can trust me. Believe me when I say I’m no more excited by the prospect of crossing paths with that mare again. Don’t treat Godwin like he is a helpless cub. He is an adult and a member of the Court of the Harpy. And don’t treat Grunhilda like she’s clueless. You gave Goving another chance because you trusted her. The worst thing you can do is go back and forth on showing how much you trust your wards.”

Her ego hurt, but she reminded herself it was not Gevorg’s fault. She swallowed her pride and nodded at him with a deep sigh. “Get some griffons with good eyes on the edges of the formation when we move out. Tell them I want them to keep an eye out for anything trailing us. On the ground or in the sky.”

“Will do,” he told her with a satisfied nod and that calm smile with gentle purple eyes from when they first met.

Funny how that quick pep talk put her anxiety to rest. It probably said more about her experience than she would like to admit. She looked at Godwin and Grunhilda, still staring at her. “What do you want from me? I already said I—Ugh! Fine! Keep your eyes on Goving. Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Fortunately, they didn’t insist, both satisfied with Gevorg’s words to her. Or scolding. But Gilda preferred to call it ‘advising.’ And so, after Gevorg’s expert advice, she kept watch over her griffons while trusting the sentries to make sure no mare was going to pop up out of nowhere to kill her.

The windy grass and snow field, for better or worse, was vast. The open space meant safety, as unicorns couldn’t teleport great distances. If she tried anything, they would see Tempest Shadow. Satisfied, Gilda sat at the top of her little mound and watched the comings and goings of their impromptu camp. There was no fire and no comforts other than the cold snow and the ugly, hard grass, but it was an opportunity for their Loremaster to review their wounded griffons. Gia moved some of the exhausted griffons to the carts, and soon enough, though not as soon as Gilda liked, they took off again.

The day passed as quickly as the terrain below. Tiny, foamy streams cut the yellow grass, and black soil scrolled beneath them whenever the snow let it appear. The night came and stole away their references in the terrain. Gilda retook the lead with Gevorg by her. She was confident in her navigation, and he simply followed. After a couple of hours into the dark, the dim light of the city gleamed in the distance. Gilda ordered them to push into a final sprint.

The dark made her misjudge the distance, but soon she made out the light of the prisoner camp with the military. The lights from the city’s lone stone gate soon followed. Watchtowers emerged from the gleam, as did the torches at the top of the castle’s walls. The cold of the night and the wind chilled the edges of her wings, but they were so close.

As they approached, lights gathered by the gate along with a colorful mass of griffons, and a line of city guards keenly watched the dark beyond the island of luminescence. Lightning crossed the clouds above and lit the city for a heartbeat.

And so, my chosen daughter has returned from the wilds. I wonder what manner of lessons she has learned.

Gilda frowned at Mother Harpy’s words echoing inside her head. Were they not among her thoughts, the noise from the crowd would have drowned them out. How many griffons lived in Frozenlake? Gilda had only a slight idea, but it appeared all of them had come out to meet her warband. Cheering spouses and cubs of all ages braved the cold to meet their significant others, or at least to hear of how they died. The excited cheering muffled anything that might not be celebrations.

Landing before the assembled noblegriffons, Gilda took a quick glance at the others. The local guards immediately started receiving the ‘rescued prisoners’ and talking to Gilda’s warriors. Since Gevorg, Gertha, and her brother already minded those, Gilda kept her attention on Lady Geena and her companion. Their court stood a step behind them, staring at Gilda, waiting their turn to talk to her while one of Geena’s Loremasters suggested they meet somewhere more comfortable. Gilda refused dryly.

Lady Geena, all white and wearing her cyan cape with swan feathers, stood next to one of the largest males Gilda had ever seen. His almost black, dark-gray stone-like pelt and granite feathers made him look like a living statue. Big, bulky, a match for Geena’s feminine elegance and power. They were like a picture of a couple from an epic fantasy. The black bear’s pelt cape and collar of pointy teeth made him look impressive and rugged. Even more so, as he had no problem talking in the dark and cold. If anything, Gilda appreciated the lack of additional fuss.

He could only be Lord Graham, whom Grunhilda had mentioned way back in the airship. And he either was one of those griffons with a stick up their ass, or he was unhappy about something. Gilda had an inkling what that may be. As she stepped before him with an equal-to-equal nod, the big male sized her up with a neutral stare. “Lady Gilda. It is a pleasure. The news from your expedition was grim, but I am satisfied you have dealt with the situation swiftly and favorably.”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “In fact, were my mate’s abilities not outstanding, I would question some things that were reported.”

“What can I say?” she shrugged. “I’m not the most knowledgeable griffon around in matters of northerner politics, but it turns out I’m pretty gifted in swinging a sword and getting so pissed off I broke a pony mind-control spell.”

“Is everything taken care of, then?” Lady Geena asked with a touch of poignancy that went a notch above normal curiosity. Even above that of an employer wishing to ensure the job they paid for was done well. It was the weight of a guilty conscience trying to ensure their mess was cleared.

In retrospect, Gilda kicked herself. She should have briefed Grunhilda and the others on how to deal with that meeting. No use crying over spilled milk as Gilda’s kittyfriend and Goving walked closer. From the corner of her eyes, Gilda could see her leading him on with her tail wrapped around his foreleg. A hard expression to read on her face, but certainly one that didn’t match the excited griffons that surrounded them. At least until those started noticing Goving’s presence. They shut their beaks, and most took a few steps back like they feared what might happen.

“What is he doing here?” Lord Graham addressed Gilda, barely sparing the white griffons a glance. Gilda noted that whatever had happened was a poorly kept secret.

Rude and curt. Even Gilda’s old self could have seen the loathing beneath his words. Lady Geena’s silence spoke volumes louder. Her impeccable façade of the perfect Loremaster crumbled for an instant. Her subtly parted beak, the shine in her eyes. They betrayed her inner turmoil.

“Well, Goving survived.” Gilda shrugged. “So, I brought him along with the other survivors. Gavingkal told me some interesting things. Things that might explain why some minor lordling with delusions of power enthralled your son.”

Gilda, of course, knew who else was watching, and Her silence was as curious, maybe as telling, as Graham’s rage. But she had gotten used both to dancing with danger and pushing her privileged position.

“Silence!” He roared. “You know nothing of what you speak, southerner!”

“First of all, watch your tone!” Gilda screeched at him, flaring her wings and drawing a wave of shocked gasps from the nearby griffons, nobles and commoners alike. “I didn’t survive that cursed place to be yelled at by some asshole that couldn’t be bothered to fix the mess in his lands or his family! Second, fuck you. I’m not gonna do it for you! At least have the balls to pick that big axe on your back and kill your own son.”

His simmering anger became a restrained scowl. His nares billowed white mist in the cold like a steam engine rearing to go. He never did. A harsh stare at the cowering white griffon and his sheepish cousin by his side was the worst the intimidating griffon in armor did. His beak ground with a low rasp, and his eyes turned back to Gilda. He still said nothing, but she could read in between his lines. All his wrath curtained the pit that opened in his throat. Conflicting emotions etched themselves on his face, from sorrow to unbridled rage, and the poor griffon went with the easier one.

“I have killed griffons for less,” he growled.

“Bring it on, dude! At least you can lash out at the griffon calling your bullshit since you can’t deal with the actual problem.” On a side note, Gilda herself was taken a little aback by how well her newfound Loremaster powers of perception and persuasion meshed with her snarky tongue.

Her words crumbled his confidence, but composure won. He decided it was not worth it, and Gilda saved him from making an ass of himself in front of his subjects. He left her with a parting shot. “Fine. Deal with him however you two wish. I tire of games better left for the Mother of Storms and her coterie.”

Maybe she was unfair. Gilda knew she couldn’t truly understand what had happened and what they felt when they decided on Goving’s fate in the past. Graham turned on himself and stormed in between a pair of city guards, desperately trying to look like they had heard nothing at all.

Lady Geena stayed, and she gave Gilda a distraught stare. “You have a most peculiar way of using the gifts of the Loremasters, Lady Gilda. We should talk in private.”

At least she agreed with Gilda, and still, her answer wouldn’t change because of that. “No. There is no need for us to talk about anything. I got rid of Gavingkal, and I dealt with the brigands. I scouted out what happened, fixed it as best as I could, and I almost got myself killed by a damn pony mercenary and nearly became a plaything of the Windigos. There is more. I’m taking whatever griffons I must to the north to help you, and I’m getting the hippogriffs off your paws. I am done here, and my caravan is leaving tomorrow morning, tops. You get to help these sick griffons. They are your problem now. Not mine. All of them.”

“And I will, Gilda,” Geena assured her before shifting into a softer, restrained tone. “I will have trouble protecting some of them, though. And I would hate to see them suffer any more than they already did.”

Gilda shook her head. “I already have way too many problems of my own. Not to mention I’m not sure he is not going to try something stupid.”

While Gilda’s tone lowered to a deep growl, Geena’s became a secretive plea. “If he does, then that is on him. You, however, can deal with your problems well enough, as demonstrated. And you can afford to be owed a favor.”

“Yeah…” Gilda glared at the taller griffoness for a second, a harsh glare against her pleading eyes. Goving refused to stare at either of them. Grunhilda just stood there. Waiting. Like she trusted Gilda. Finally, the latter turned to the well-dressed griffoness. “I’ll be collecting it someday. And it ain’t gonna be cheap.”

“We have gotten used to trading already, Gilda. Have we not? Like many things we females deal with, the first time is the hardest.” The oh-so-dignified Lady Geena gave Gilda a discreet bow and cast a last stare at the white tom. His stare at her was pure hatred, but that barely inconvenienced her. Geena turned with not a word more and hurried after her mate, leaving Gilda wondering why she kept putting herself in those situations.

Hum… Curious.

“Yeah, right? We’re gonna talk about that later.” Gilda told the voice in her head, turning around to see the other griffons around her.

Unsure, well-dressed griffons cast worried glances and stares of consternation at Gilda. Beyond that, families and friends still greeted their returning warriors. Godwin and Gevorg organized the transfer of the prisoners and Gia talked to a local Loremaster, identified by the silken blue cape. Gertha and Guille were busy with excited conversations among the returning adventurers and their families. Meanwhile, Godwin’s alluring mate waited patiently to greet him along with their two friends and his sisters.

Gilda spent some time talking to the nobles, mostly accepting their gratitude and explaining some details about what had happened. Others offered their undying gratitude to her for saving some sick griffon or some business interest in the hamlet. Some literally thanked her for removing Gavingkal from the realm of the living. Others still asked for clarifications on what had happened, disbelieving the reports they had received. Maybe she was tired, but Gilda patiently put up with them.

Among the flux of griffons that wanted to talk to her were the charcoal twins, the blacksmiths. Gilda smiled. She was definitely going to get that fancy armor for Godwin, whether or not he liked it, after the scare at Feathertip. And as she smiled, she was already mentally rehearsing all the mentions to Lady Gwendolen’s name she was going to do.

In the middle of all that, another griffoness walked from the crowd. She pushed the female sibling, Groffi, into her brother and boisterously greeted Gilda with a huge grin and a wave of her wing of shiny turquoise feathers.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone with the stupidity or the guts to tell Lord Graham to fuck off like that!” the excited griffoness said, approaching with lively steps. “Maybe you’re just lucky Lady Geena knows the right buttons to push and get you out of here alive!”

The griffoness stopped before Gilda with a growing grin, slightly taller. “I like you!”

“Who are you?” Godwin raised an eyebrow at her and her two companions.

“I’m Gwineth!” She inflated her chest, poking her thumb at her fluffy feathers. “I work for Lady Gwendolen, killed the Equestrian Prince-Consort in Griffonstone, freed Master Gabriel, and made sure the dumb Southerners knew who’s boss. Oh, and I kicked Princess Celestia’s pony butt myself to keep her out of our operations in the capital.”

Grunhilda gasped, and her eyes shone like a lighthouse. “You fought Princess Celestia?”

Gwineth waved to the two griffons with her, ignoring Grunhilda. “These are Pigeon and Gallus. Lady Gwendolen asked me to take them to Griffindell with you!”

“My name is Gabby…” the one under a mountain of winter clothes grumbled. Barely anything other than her beak was visible under the three gray hoods she was wearing. The blue one she had called Gallus was too annoyed to say anything. Dressed like a northern noble, with a fancy snow lynx pelt and an unfriendly glare.

Gilda barely paid attention to any of that. The griffoness called Gwineth held her stare and made her jaw hang open, but Gilda barely heard whatever she was talking about. She was one of those ridiculously beautiful griffonesses. Feminine, young, and attractive, covered by toned muscles under a velvety feline pelt of steel-blue fur. Rugged, northerner-looking feathers covered her chest and her head like quicksilver. Her blue highlights gave her blue eyes an alluring appearance, especially when she grinned like a million Bits.

And she carried a sword on her back.

A magical dancing sword brimming with lightning.