I am wind, he can’t touch me.
If the fight was to first blood, Shard would have fought differently. But it was to yield.
“Stop and fight!” roared Asrik from the crowd. Shard ignored him. It wasn’t as if dodging Asvander didn’t take skill, or if his repeated attempts to pin Shard down or leap at him weren’t earning the Lakelander a scrape or two.
“Why?” laughed Stigr, from the group of Vanir. “Your son’s bruising himself enough!”
Again, Shard made it look as if he planned a grand attack. As Asvander crouched, looking wary, Shard gathered himself and lunged, but as Asvander flung up his talons to meet the charge, Shard shoved from the ground and leaped straight over his head, flapping hard to circle. Asvander followed with a ringing shout.
Shard, being smaller, leaner, with the shaped wings of a sea eagle, spun loops around Asvander, and his tail-feathers were always just out of reach of the bigger gryfon’s talons.
He heard cheers from below and flushed with pleasure that his plan seemed to be working, and that his pride would see him succeed on his own terms.
He heard Brynja cheer for him at last, and sheer delight filled him. His flying had been one of the first things to attract her interest, and it filled him with pride now. Shard flew high, into the wind, and Asvander followed stubbornly, until they were out of earshot of the spectators.
“This was your idea,” Asvander snarled at him, flapping hard to hover, though respect softened the harsh words. “Fight! I can’t do this all day. “
“No?” Shard angled to glide a sharp circle around his friend. “Do you yield then?”
Asvander’s eyes lit as he at last understood Shard’s plan. Rather than yield, he bellowed a lion’s roar from his chest and swooped in to try and catch Shard’s tail. Shutting his wings, Shard dropped easily out of reach. Diving fast, he laughed at Asvander’s half chuckle, half growl behind him.
The Lakelander, realizing he was no match for Shard in the air, swooped down to land. He hit hard on all fours in a cloud of dust and frost. Shard landed lightly, and when Asvander leaped after him, left his wings open to propel himself backwards. He slapped his wings together to smack Asvander’s head, and circled away.
Asvander backtracked, growling in frustration, and Shard saw one eye winked closed as if one of his feathers had scraped it.
He feinted in to Asvander’s left, ready to make him spin, but the Lakelander shouted and caught his tail feathers as he darted away. Catching hold, Asvander surged up and thrust his body against Shard’s to knock him to the ground.
A flare of worry gave Shard strength and clarity, for Asvander had lost himself in frustration the last time they’d dueled, and he’d nearly broken Shard’s wing. Rather than scramble away or try to gain his feet, he went still, as if he’d struck his head.
Asvander lunged up to him and ramped, wings flared, talons raised, then hesitated. “Shard? Are you—”
Shard threw his body into a roll, knocking into Asvander’s hind legs. The bigger gryfon tumbled forward with a shout and Shard clawed up to his own four feet, darting away. A half laugh, half snarl came from his opponent, who whirled and leaped at him. Shard dodged back.
Asvander trotted forward, more hesitantly, seeking an opening. Shard weaved one direction and when Asvander moved, he leaped the opposite way and scored a light scrape on his friend’s flank. Then he withdrew. Asvander followed, circling, but slowing.
Shard darted in and out and around, taking a hit here and there but nothing serious. He watched as Asvander’s frustration mounted, then ebbed toward weariness.
When Shard leaped forward the next time, it was Asvander who fell back, stumbling slightly. Then he took to the air again. The nimble, constant movement took all Shard’s focus and energy, but he could see it took even more from the Lakelander, who was used to fighting head-on, to blood or the death.
They circled in the air, Asvander swiping for Shard’s tail and wingtips to try and throw him off balance, and hard swooping under and around to avoid and dizzy him.
Shard swept talons in to drive Asvander back, but he caught Shard’s foot in his own and folded his wings, dragging Shard in a dive.
“Yield!” Asvander shouted, as they both plummeted toward the ground.
Shard wrenched and twisted but couldn’t break Asvander’s grasp.
Water, water . . .
he tucked one wing and fell to that side, which yanked Asvander along with him. Flapping hard, Shard steered their fall toward the onlookers.
“Shard—”
“Better let go!”
When gryfons realized they were about to be smashed, they scattered with shouts and cries, some flying, some shoving into each other to get out of Shard and Asvander’s path.
At the last moment Asvander swore and unlocked his grip. He was too late to correct, too big and broad.
Shard flipped his wings open and managed to flap back into the fighting ring. Asvander tumbled on the ground, smacking into gryfons who were not fast enough, who growled and herded him back into the ring.
He hobbled forward, some feathers out of place and perhaps a sprain, Shard thought, looking with a healer’s eye. Shard lunged forward, running a circle around his friend and suppressing a triumphant laugh. Asvander turned in place, swiping talons, but did not leap again.
After a moment of this, Shard turned and butted into him head-on, and to his surprise and everyone else’s, Asvander fell with a grunt. Shard waited for him to rise. He did not, but lay there, panting against the dirt. Shard placed talons firmly on the feathers of his neck and squeezed lightly.
“Do you yield?”
Asvander growled.
“We can keep fighting.”
A single, choked laugh. “No. No, we can’t. I yield, son of Baldr.”
The ring of onlookers’ gazes darted from Shard to Asvander. Shard caught Brynja’s bright gaze, and near her, Kjorn, a fierce look of surprise and approval.
“I yield,” Asvander said again, low but clear. He shifted and stood, favoring a hind paw as he addressed the spectators. “I cannot defeat him.”
The Vanir broke into cheers and roars, and Shard heard Stigr shouting and calling him the Stormwing once again. He allowed himself to feel a moment of kit-like, ridiculous pride.
“Impossible!” Asrik marched forward, wings raised, his feathers ruffed as if the wind blew the wrong way. “That’s no way to fight!” Before Asvander could defend them both, Shard stepped forward, opening his wings in challenge.
“Fight me yourself then. See that my win was genuine.”
Asrik gazed at him, eyes narrowing. Then he looked at his son, taking in his battered feathers, his short breath, the injury to his paw. “Asvander, you can’t possibly—”
“I cannot defeat him,” he said again. “I yield the match, and my claim on a pairing with Brynja.”
Before Asrik’s feathers could lift any higher, Stigr came forward as well. “No one can say Shard didn’t use skill to fight the way he did. Blood and bruises isn’t the only way to win a battle.”
Asrik looked doubtful. A tense, quiet moment lingered, then he inclined his head. “It was . . . unexpected. I see it was truly won. I know my son to be honest, and I could see he gave his best. I concede."
“Good,” Shard said, and found himself mobbed by Brynja, Dagny, and the younger of the admiring Vanir.
“All right, all right,” Stigr said, pushing through the Vanir. “Off with you. To your fishing, to your lessons. Ketil, lead them?”
She eyed Stigr, then called the group away. When at last they cleared, Shard’s friends remained. Stigr sat down, preening his wing. Brynja stood at Shard’s side, head high and proud, Asvander remained, and Dagny romped forward to butt her head against Asvander’s shoulder and murmur an encouraging word.
Kjorn approached and ducked his head. “Well fought, Shard. You’ll have to show me where you learned some of those moves.”
Shard felt it would be too much showing off to say,
from the dragons,
so he simply lifted his wings. “Of course. And see, I didn’t lose you any allies.”
Asvander flicked his tail. “Hardly. If anything, you impressed them further.” He shifted his weight, still favoring one hind paw.
“You should see a healer,” Dagny said, eyeing Asvander’s feet, then looked at Shard. “Both of you.”
“I think Shard’s fine,” Asvander said dryly. “I barely recall laying a talon on him.”
Kjorn lifted his wings. “If you please, we need to discuss our departure.”
“Yes,” Shard said. “Of course.”
They remained where they were as they reviewed the plan. They would secure an alliance with the painted wolves that roamed the lands bordering the Ostral Shores, then move on to the Vanhar on the windward coast.
Kjorn eyed the windy sky. “When Nilsine parted from us, she promised she would speak to the elders on my behalf, but that they would still like to meet in the flesh.”
“Naturally,” said Stigr. “While you lot are traveling that way, I’ll lead the Vanir to the Voldsom Narrows. Any who wish to join the fight can, and any unable or unwilling can take shelter in the canyons, provided the eagles are still friendly.”
“They are,” said Brynja.
Kjorn looked pleased. “On our way to the Vanheim, we’ll also seek out the painted wolves. Ilesh and his pack, and see if they’ll fight with us.”
Shard looked proudly at Kjorn, still impressed that he was now so willing to seek help and alliance with creatures other than gryfons. “After the Vanheim, the lions?” he asked. He thought of Ajia, the lioness singer and healer who had first shown him the wyrms of the Winderost. He thought perhaps she could help him with the dreams.
“The lions,” Kjorn confirmed. “Then the Voldsom and the eagles, then . . .”
“The wyrms,” Asvander said, with relish, as if he looked forward to battle.
A battle Shard hoped not to fight.
“Kjorn,” Shard began quietly. “I meant to tell you sooner, to tell all of you sooner, that I had a dream of the she-wyrm, Rhydda.” They looked at him, ears perked. Stigr shifted, his eye narrowing. “But not a normal dream. It was more like a vision, I knew it was real. I was with her, in a memory. We flew together and I felt almost as if I could speak with her.”
Kjorn’s face lit. “Truly? Do you think you could do it again?”
“I’m going to try,” Shard said, letting his tail sweep the dirt in determination. “When I was in the Sunland and the spirit, Groa, spoke to me, she said I could talk to others in their dreams. She showed me how, though I haven’t tried since. Maybe I still can. Maybe I can even speak to Rhydda.” He looked around at the faces of his friends—Kjorn, fierce and hopeful, Stigr, pensive, Dagny and Asvander doubtful, and Brynja, her quiet look of observation.
Kjorn spoke. “If that’s so, do you think you could speak to her before we come to battle?”
Shard raised his head, trying to look strong and sure. “I hope, if I can talk to her, that you won’t need a battle at all.”
S
NOW FELL LIKE OWL DOWN
as Ragna paced before a group of huntresses who’d answered her summon. Only six had come, and those were near her own age. The rest were too old, too young, pregnant, or, once they heard her briefest reason, refused to come at all.
“I hold Sverin captive until my son and Kjorn’s return,” Ragna said. She caught the gaze of Asfrid, a full-blooded Vanir who was the mother of Astri—Astri, whose mate Einarr was slain by Sverin’s own talons. She tried to think how to say any of it so they would understand, and had to remind herself why she had understood, when Sverin told her. “He refuses to eat fish, in honor of his drowned mate. I have chosen to recognize this grief. Who will help to hunt for him?”
The gryfesses exchanged looks. Asfrid met Ragna’s gaze, though her head was low. “I will not,” she said quietly. “My daughter still grieves Einarr. Forgive me, my queen.”
At Ragna’s nod, she turned and walked back toward the nesting cliffs. Ragna’s chest constricted, both in frustration and sadness.
“Well?” She looked at the five remaining, and saw only anger and pain. A chorus of, “I cannot,” and a quiet, “Are you mad?” forced Ragna to dismiss them. She would not punish them. If not for her sense of duty to keep him well, she wouldn’t have been there herself. She looked to the last gryfess remaining, a strapping, broad-shouldered Aesir of ruddy color with copper highlights.
“Eyvin. You are his father’s cousin—”
“This did not stop him from killing my son.”
Ragna ducked her head, hunching her wings slightly in acknowledgement. Einarr’s death pressed talons against her own heart. Still, Eyvin had come. There must be some shred of pity in her. “Einarr flies at Tyr’s right side, the most courageous of all of us—”
“Why him?” asked Eyvin sharply.
“In the height of Sverin’s madness—”
“No,” snarled the gryfess, her wings tensing as if she meant to fly at Ragna. “I mean, why was he the only one to stand against Sverin? Why not the Vanir? Why not you? Why did he stand alone?”
Snow dusted down, the quiet between them so fierce Ragna could hear the flakes hitting her own wings. “I have no answer for you.”
“Then I cannot hunt with you.”
“Have mercy, Eyvin—”
She tossed her head, feathers prickling against the snow. “As Sverin had mercy on Vidar, for flying at night? As he did when he exiled Dagr? As he had mercy on Einarr, my youngest, the only gryfon left of my nest? He severed our family bond, not I. I tell you I was glad to see Shard fight Sverin, glad to see the Vanir have some courage. My lady, I hope when your son returns, he will repair the damage from all these years, the damage of cowardice and silence.”
Ragna gazed at her, long, until she realized Eyvin was waiting for an answer. “I hope that too,” she said, and nodded in dismissal.
“Tyr have mercy on us all,” Eyvin said, turned, gained a running start and flew back to the nesting cliffs.
For a moment Ragna stood in the falling snow, her gaze drifting to movement that was gryfons traveling to and from the Nightrun River, wandering the nesting cliffs, flying out over the ocean. Her eye settled on the horizon, as it always did, checking each point for sign of gryfon wings.