The Shining Wyrm

8.8

Count Fiebron of Zekhedge was arriving!

Jewel had just spotted him in the morning light as she flew in a circuit over the Rochford manor.

Straining to try and bring her speed to something approaching what Zephyrvam could manage.

The smell of hard travel ration baking had been joined by that of smoking meats. Spring hunting had been called for and any lame or poor producing animal in the barony had been put to slaughter early rather than waiting till the usual season.

Meat smoked to supplement the dry bread in a quest to satiate some of the hunger of the army.

Father had spoken readily and happily about all the maneuvers and honors done by the Gryphon Lords in their hunt. Aerial acrobatics and boasting of course, but also keen and considering observation of those that had arrived for the activity who were going to be siding against them in the War.

Jewel did not know most of those names and even Father was less than familiar with some of them. The Gryphon riders had flown in from the far west, their tales having mentioned the harrowing experience of riding the harsh winds of the sky touching overway.

Cold that could make feathers brittle and stars so close that spirits, gods and nightmares threatened every night.

Apparently some parts of the canyon road that connected the rest of the Realm to the lands of the Ridgetail mountains could be so perilous it was better to march on foot than attempt flight for any duration.

The hunt had confirmed that there was a count of at least five of them, and more who were not recognized members of the ridgetail fraternity had been mentioned.

At a guess, there might be as many as fifteen aerial riders to contend with. Gryphons for most but not guaranteed to be all on the side of the Realm and Thurzó.

For Allies, Father had gotten the pledge from no more than Zekhedge, who gave a full oath of support with armies and his Gryphon Riders.

Their Eastern neighbor, the County of Grortovo and its liege Count Osterwick, had promised only that he saw this as an affair of no concern to him and would refuse to stand on either side.

However, he seemed inclined to join up if the issue escalated beyond the affairs of the Countess. If the attempt to lay claim to Jewel grew more blatant then it had he swore an oath to fly with Rochford and rally not just his armies but also those of his allies and pledges even further eastward.

Of the rest who joined the hunt, they lacked the independence from their lieges to take oaths either way but three from the far north (traveling for some quest) were sending word to plea permission to rally with Father in this conflict.

It was not unanimous support of the entire order, but Jewel was glad to hear they were getting what support they did.

With Zekhedge’s pledge, Viznove would not be standing alone against the Realm.

And while the armies marched, Fiebron was arriving ahead. To officially ratify the alliance and offer his direct support for Father during the muster, Gryphon Lord to Gryphon Lord.

And Jewel could now see him and his retinue.

Four Gryphons high on the wing, spaced wide apart to avoid tumbling one another in their wake.

The pale feathered formel was at the head of the loose diamond.

The female Gryphon was so pale her plumage was nearly lost among the late spring clouds.

Smokespear, Steed of Fiebron.

Mother of Zephyrvam.

On the Formel’s flanks to the right and left were the Gryphon Lords of Zekhedge. Jewel was sure she had heard the names of them before but not often enough or with clear description to place them by the sight of their steeds.

The one on Jewel’s left was a near-golden feathered drake, the one to the right somber brown of indeterminate sex that hinted at almost red on the very fringe of the wing.

They looked like they might be about the same age as Zephyrvam. Perhaps from a clutch a year earlier or later.

Tailing the three was what had to be a newly-trained Gryphon Knight that served under Fiebron. News was sparse on who precisely the rider or gryphon was, but it had to be on the younger side based on the wingspan.

There had been three candidates for the last Gryphon clutch in the region five years ago. But which of those Riders in waiting had gained the honor to present themselves to one of the eggs was unknown to Jewel.

Still, seeing friendly wings in the skies over her home was most welcome!

She did the maneuvering flight-cant of a tilting twist in her wing to offer greeting and welcome as one flier to another.

Smokespear and her entourage twisted in response and acknowledgement of their welcome, then dipped and rose to request their landing.

Jewel replied with a giddy sweep that she hoped was clearly visible despite her excitement feeling jittery, then began to circle towards the courtyard.

In trained unison they answered in acknowledging dips then mirrored her to circle opposite Jewel’s own slow descent.

As they drew closer, the diamond formation broke apart into a line of four descending deltas of Gryphons in glide.

Once she confirmed they had the right heading, Jewel dropped to land as only she could! darting and turning far tighter than any Gryphon.

Even if she could still not master the speed that Father and Zephyrvam could manage, in this she was a Mistress of the skies.

Jewel’s warning cry of “Gryphon Lords Landing!” cleared the courtyard swiftly ahead of her.

Her own wings might bring a great wind but she was a gentle and circumspect lander compared to the tumult that a braking Gryphon brought when landing at speed.

Which proved very prudent because the lead of the Gryphons seemed intent on making an entrance.

Fiebron and Smokespear were anything but gentle in their wind! Sweeping low, fast and then up abruptly before flapping thrice with heavy wings hard enough to finish the stall and alight on the ground.

The roar of the wind filled the air with whorls of dust and dry grass torn from its roots.

If there had still been gardens along the walls, their foliage would have been torn asunder under the torrent of air.

The soldiers that had not had the good sense to take cover crouched low to the ground and had to weather the torrent best they could.

A few of the recent levies from elsewhere in Viznove were bowled over and sprawled in the dirt.

Jewel simply stood unmoved by the storm brake.

Soon after each of Fiebron’s escort also swept into a landing, although their approach was far gentler and merely added heavy gusts to the existing tumult.

Finally when all four were settled the riders began the work of undoing their buckles and bindings that kept them affixed to their steeds. The familiar flight leathers, more or less as her Father wore them.

Although each helm took a different shape, choosing its own places to put angles and the way the wooden gorgets under the leather blended in their own manners into the back of the armor along the spine and head of the helms.

Shaped by the crafts and tradition of each armorsmith’s design.

Jewel appraised the first time she had seen any of the northern Gryphon Riders.

And could not help but gawk.

The most striking thing about all of them is how slight and short they all were.

None of them were taller than Mother!

Even the Countess’ Gryphon Knights and the rest of the Visnove lords had been taller than Mother!

Jewel bowed her head (incredibly) low to the pale bleached leather figure that had dismounted from Smokespear.

His armor’s grays matched the plumage of his steed.

“Greetings Count Fiebron of Zekhedge. I am Lady Jewel of Rochford, My Father Lord Rochford will be with us shortly to welcome you to our home and the war.”

She added into her greeting the more standard formal salute of a junior rider to a superior in Flight Cant then stood back and waited.

Jewel was braced for shock at her mastery of speech or dismissal of her personage but not a single one of the riders so much as flinched in their work to unfasten their kit.

The Identified Count laughed and clapped his hands and arms together with the cant in a familiar greeting from teacher to junior (it was the same one Father used with her!) then spoke verbally.

“Hah! At last I can meet Rochford’s wonderful whelp! The overlong in the leg oaf cannot go a half day on the wing without signing your praises girl! Having seen you dive and turn I can see he’s at least not completely addled by his Fatherly doting!”

The other riders laughed and nodded along as they worked at their various buckles, sighing as the leathers were loosened around waists and thighs.

Jewel nodded to that and realized she had forgotten an important duty as host. She quickly remedied this and barked out a quick order.

“Smithson! Stable Master Gizo! Assist our guests with their gear! Show them the care due to Lord Rochford himself. These are our Allies and Gryphon Lords!”

Her squire ran to Jewel first and with but a nod he immediately shifted to assisting Fiebron in undoing the leathers and the more restrictive portions of a Gryphon Rider’s kit while Gizo and the rest of the stablehands attended the other Knights.

Jewel offered another bow to the Count before nodding to Smithson to introduce and honor him.

“Count Fiebron, this is Smithson, my sworn Squire, trained in the care of kit for Gryphon and Horse Riders as well as skilled and trusted enough to handle my own harness and packs.”

A grunt and nod from Fiebron was her answer before the man (with Smithson’s assistance) finally removed the fullness of the helm.

Revealing a heavily lined face and a white mane that now freed from his helm stuck in every direction by almost a handspan.

His facial hair was only slightly darker for the threads of gray between the near snow white beard cut close to his chin.

Eyes bright blue, stern but clear as any Gryphon rider had to be.

He immediately turned from Jewel and Smithson and started running his still gloved hands along and through the feathers of his steed. Gently straightening and aligning the feathers that had been shifted by the removal of his straps.

Hushing and clicking reassurances and fussing over the plumage just under the wings. All of it while the gryphon in question refused to acknowledge him at all, staring at one of the walls that, had Jewel not grown up with a gryphon she might have mistaken for blankness. But if Smokespear was anything like her son in mannerisms, she was feeling extremely smug and proud of herself.

The other gryphons by contrast seemed a bit skittish of both Jewel and the staff working to assist their riders. The junior most rider was having to wave off all the stablehands for how much his own steed was puffing up in distress. Without his helmet he looked like he was barely older than Alexander!

“Fiebron, you dried up manlet of a waif! Welcome to the War and my Home, Second Among Gryphon Lords!”

Jewel did not in fact jump when her Father threw open the doors of the Manor’s inner keep, bellowing with a voice of joy that Jewel wished she could have heard more of over the winter and spring seasons.

That would have been improper to startle so easily.

For his part the Count laughed and bellowed right back — if anything louder then even Father had been.

“Jon! You absolute lumbering oaf of a mountain! If I was ten years younger you’d only be first by Stonage, you heaving yoke around poor Zephyrvam’s neck!”

The other knights laughed good naturedly and the sheer cheerful tone that seemed to fill the courtyard nearly covered the subtle stink of tension that wafted off every one of them.

Jewel smiled along but she could tell that, even with another County in their muster, no one felt completely assured.