Gryphon Guild: Journey Into Darkness
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Lyosha cracked an eye ridge, the inner membrane flying up as her eyelids did. "Good morning," Kalaki greeted; the golden-brown female Phoenix was in her preferred faerie form. She was sitting on a stool in the corner of the large tent, humming to herself and sewing a small tear in a warcollar. "Slept like a log you two did!" She chuckled and snapped the tailend of the thread with a precise pull of her fingernail.

Lyosha grunted, heaving her upper torso upon her spasing forelimbs. "Careful," Kalaki warned, but she did not rise. There was a dull ache where Lyosha'd been hit with the bolt, but thanks to the magic of the collar, it'd neither been deep nor too serious. What is only yesterday? the osprey- gryphoness mused. It was indeed a little over 24 hours ago that she and Sirah had been struck attacking the merc caravan. Yawning wide, Lyosha teetered on her hind, finally rising into a box-like stance.

"My shoulder hurts," she told Kalaki.

Still bending over her patchwork, the faerie said, "You can walk it off. It'll disperse."

Blinking at Kalaki's abrupt bluntness, Lyosha nevertheless obeyed the telekinetic's orders, limping slightly out of the tent awning.

A muted cheer greeted her as the rest of First turned to see who had emerged. Sirah lounged by Nicoga; Jiari perched on Xiii's shoulder; Cutter and Tser chatted while Nightsinger and Jexxin checked supplies by the modest cooking fire. Off to one side lay the spoils of the raid: two massive carts stacked high with what they had salvaged. Dull maroon and brown stained the sides of one a silent reminder to their origins. The carts sported hacks, slashes, holes and burns as well as bloodstains.

As she walked, Lyosha was surprised by Kalaki's diagnostic she was elated as the pain abated and finally slipped away.

"How fares the wounded lady?" Cutter asked with a grin, sharpening his sword on a whetstone.

"Amazing!" She flopped by them, ears and tail flagging in excitement at the miracle. Reaching out, she helped herself to breakfast; it was prudent not to ask the source.

Tser chuckled. "You can thank Kaal'tarn for that later."

"Rae-- " She caught herself. "Kaal was here?"

"No, Nightsinger brought something Kaal'd given him to help you two," the velvetwyrm corrected.

"Oh."

Kalaki made an appearance in the silence that followed. She was carrying warcollars: Sirah's, Lyosha's and Tser's.

"Rip them anymore then you have and I'll have to send them back," she said. "The Council has been very generous to us as it is." But she said it in such a teasing tone, that the true sting of her words were masked.

Nodding mutely, the gryphonesses and dragoness put them back on around their necks. The collars were their last resort of defense when all other options were lost. While these weren't the full collars worn by the likes of Kalaki which gave her a virtual invincibility to all but the most powerful of blows, physical and non they did have the power to deflect most killing blows and "soften" those that weren't. The true nature of the collars weren't known outside the species, and were rarely given to anyone else but with extreme exception. A blow to the direct center of the collar orb shattered the power, rendering it utterly useless. That was why total reliance on them was a big no-no among the Phoenixes; defend what you have with what the Creator gave you and push that to the limit. Only when all options are exhausted do you fight with the collar in mind.

It was believed that the City of Masks had mages -- most metropolises hired a few to help keep the peace. Whether these mages were good or bad, powerful or weak, was not to be put into the equation. That they were mages who could wield the mighty energy was all that the Guilders should consider.

Pulling out the Tsurieth, Tser keyed in the calling sequence.

Sparhawk rolled over and with one tentacle, beat at the incessantly-bleeping mound. It didn't stop like it was supposed to and kept on getting louder as the seconds ticked by. The zerg-infested weregryph groaned and muttered a few choice epithets that could've curled the rug he was laying on. Spreading wide his serrated beak and lolling his snakelike tongue, he yawned. Digging with a smaller appendage, he pulled the Tsurieth free and flicked it on.

Kaal was alerted to the beacon almost as soon as it'd begun to beep. The red lioness reached over her snoozing mate and pawed for her satchel. Blinking bleary eyes, she yawned and made contact with the elven-made device. "Kaal'tarn here," she reported, trying to keep her eyes open and stifle a yawn all at the same time.

She failed.

Flopping over, Muse landed on the pouch containing their Tsurieth; he twitched as it dug into his smokey-blue flank. Blissfully unaware, he began to slip into slumber, curling himself about Crystal. The orb's beep was muffled under his leg, and it went unnoticed for several more seconds until he moved again, and it prodded him in an unfortunate spot. With a combination of a snort and a snonk, he awoke fully and pried the device from under him. He shook Crystal awake and put it in front of her, burying his white beak into her neck feathers as she propped herself up to answer. "CP here."

Tser surveyed the tired visages floating above the orb. A thread of annoyance wound its way through her emotions at the sight of her commanders lolling about like a trio of dragonets on a picnic. She gave a mental snort: fearsome Sparhawk, who always frightened newbies into cowering behind furniture when they first met him; imposing Kaal'tarn, with her sleekness and feline aura that oozed "killing machine;" collective Crystal, with her cool demeanor and grey eyes that always seemed as if she were seeing things that no one else could. Not one of them looked like the people their reputations portrayed them to be.

In a swirl of temperament, the velvetwyrm barked: "Get your lazy asses up! NOW!"

First jumped behind her, feathers and fur standing in surprise.

Eyes flew all around the globe of the Tsurieth; Sparhawk became grim, both Kaal and Crystal flushed with their equivalent of embarrassment -- drooping ears and red nares, respectively. In a swift change of expressions, stoic faces replaced the lazy oafs that had just recently occupied the beams of light.

"Aye!" they reported crisply.

Tser tweaked the Tsurieth and placed it by the map she had dragged from her pack. The immediate area was outlined and their positions marked in bold lines. In short order, plans were decided upon and finalized.

Turning off the device, Tser pocketed it and turned to her Wing.

The large blots on Arkhon's scanners moved once more. He'd been tracking them for the past few hours, ever since his wire had been tripped. If he'd had more FREE WILL (as the cybers who possessed it called it) he would have shaken his head at the lack of consciousness for such things. On the other hand, he wouldn't have expected them to, since this world was so backwater in comparison to the Federation.

But Arkhon did not possess FREE WILL, so none of these thoughts passed through the neuron-infused circuits of his "brain." He continued to track them and plotted a tentative course; they seemed to be headed towards the City in a fashion he had no program for. Thus, without his FREE WILL, he didn't tell Am'salinth. He could, if asked, as his program bade and his debt to the mage also did, but not sooner or later. And of course, he didn't fear the human's wrath either; he knew enough that he was an asset to Am'salinth -- and the mage knew that, too. Yet, Arkhon, with his programming, could never know (or have the will to know) whether it was good or for ill he was serving the mage.

A Darkhound guard passed by Arkhon's cubby hole (only a niche in the wall in Am'salinth's throne room) and saw the tracking screen projection. It made little sense to him -- none at all, in fact but he'd lived around Am'salinth long enough to know an illusion when he saw one (or so he thought). The guard passed on; Arkhon took no notice, as usual. The four blots were quickly becoming twain.

He rose.

The life of a Border guard usually meant a short life. However, since few dared to cross now that the Opposition held sway, Druen's life had become quite dull. He didn't exactly hold the ideals of the Opposition, but one's opinion meant life or death nowadays. Tucking his ears under his cowl, he paced off along the path the stretched from the Guard House to the large cairn at the other end that marked a point in the Border. The river Sleth roared behind him, the natural Border. One had to approach the command post in order to cross the Sleth, as there was only one other bridge for miles, and that was beyond the Masked City's reach. But if Druen was to believe the gossip his wife's friends brought to their home, the Masked City would soon stretch beyond the comfort of the Sleth. Their rumors even included a lone mountain stronghold in the midst of a fertile valley and a lake large enough to enclose half the districts in the City.

Druen wasn't one to keep up on the local news, but he knew enough to know that the mountain bore consideration. Whoever lived there was responsible for the deaths of the Opposition leader's offspring or so Mysaen's rumor went. And if she were to be believed, the mountain played host to bastard scions of dragons, gryphons and other bestial creatures. Not like the civilized Darkhounds, he thought with a surge of pride. His pike tilted higher and he strutted with surer steps on his digitigrade feet. The rush of the Sleth brought comparisons to mind and he reached the end of his patrol only to lean up against the cairn to contemplate them.

RiverDance slithered as swiftly as only an otter could through the rough current the river provided. She'd swum tougher, so this was only an exercise for her. With her clan's sacred stone tied securely about her neck, the lithe female surfaced behind the Darkhound guard. Cautiously, she mounted the bank, timing her assent with the surge of the water. Heaving her seal-brown self onto a jutting boulder, she perched; cupping ken ears, she rotated them to catch the sounds masked by the water -- sounds that Darkhound ears would miss.

Seeing that no one was about other than this foolish soul, RiverDance levered onto the bank, creeping on her belly; her sleek fur added to her silence. She moved up on the cairn, flattening herself against the moss-covered marker. The guard continued to muse aloud, utterly lost in his own world.

RiverDance turned her head, looking to her left, along the Border marker of planks toward the fortified Guard House. From her point of view, it as almost two stories tall and was complete with turrets and battlements. To her right was the outer reaches of the forest -- and no sign of possible barracks or soldiers save that of the Guard House.

It's safe for us to cross, she thought with satisfaction. With the same stealth she'd used, the female otter reentered the river and cruised back to her Wing. First and Second would use her information well.

First Wing spread out in formation. They were extra-careful not to disturb any fauna and flora, even if RiverDance's reports were true that Darkhound hearing was at level with humans. They still possessed caninelike muzzles and that alone would alert them if one of the Wing trod on a smelly plant.

The female otter's tale was well-detailed, from the size and round-about shape of the barracks, to the Guards she'd spotted on and outside the post. From their camp several miles away, they'd prepared. Cutter had armored himself with a good number of merc weapons, all light and easily drawn to hand. In his rummages (he was the only one who wished to pilfer such things from the carts other than what the rest took: goods and the like), he'd come across a wicked tailspike.

"Never can have too many," he quipped as he handed it to the velvetwyrm. Tser had looked at it and shrugged, clamping the weapon to her tailtip. Both Jiari and Sirah were fitting themselves with pairs of clawsheaths to make up for their size. All of them had filed their claws and talons, burying them at Kalaki's insistence.

"Even telekinesis has its limits," she'd replied to Lyosha's query.

Now, they were closing in on the post in pairs and triads: Cutter, Xiii and Jiari, Tser and Kalaki in Phoenix form, Lyosha and Nicoga, and Sirah, Nightsinger and Jexxin. The little gryphoness was exerting a small amount of magic in order to mask their messenger harnesses. If anything, they could always make a run for it and alert the other Wings.

Through Kalaki, Tser coordinated the final attack plan with Spar.

**They won't see is coming,** Spar said. **We're actually in their Border at the moment.**

**How'd you manage that?**

**With our wings,** he replied with his usual dry humor.

Tser looked at the Phoenix, who just shrugged. "An old tactic," she assured. "Getting them on their own turf. Very useful."

"If you say so." **I'm going to have Kalaki send you a signal when we're ready. Get as close as possible with minimal risk.**

**Will do.**

Together, Leader and telekinetic took up their positions on the edge of the scrubland. Both seemed to melt into bark and shadow, indistinguishable from the real. Tser raised her head, sliding her neck slowly against the trunk of a tree, keeping the movements in line with the swaying of the leaves. One ear cocked toward the Guard House, the other on her Wing, she gave the signal.

From the shadows of the small tree grove leapt a great, slavering figure. It loomed high over Druen, snapping and making horrible sounds within its throat. A swirl of tentacles snaked out, grabbing his pike and snapping it like kindling; at the same time, others wound their way around his skull and muzzle. The guard's eyes nearly exploded from the pressure and the fear that was racing a thousand miles a minute through his veins, his heart racing in triple-time. He shook all over at the sight of the numerous claws reaching out for him. The tentacles and claws tightened their grip and he sent a fervent prayer to the local deity.

"You're too stupid to kill," growled a voice, heavily accented with guttural noises.

Druen's world blacked out.

Fire exploded at the barracks' gate. Horses screamed in mortal fear, pulling at their tethers, snapping leather in the process. Guards poured like the river into the yard, trying to calm them. More fireballs whizzed overhead, smashing into the wooden shutters.

"Get the Hounds!" the commander shouted, forcing the spittle-flecked head of his stallion down, thumping him between the ears. "Let loose the Hounds!"

A wall of magefire billowed around the compound, glowing blue and purple. The commander's horse struck him in the groin and pelted off, only to be cornered by the fire. He and the other mounts gathered, screaming their terror. Shapes flew overhead, crashing through the burning shutters and into the barracks. A soldier was flung across the lawn, his sword straight out in front of him, as if he were being pulled. Once, twice, three times he was shaken like a ragdoll at the grip of his sword and tossed to the ground.

Sirah, Nightsinger and Jexxin burst into the top room. The she-wolf quickly dispatched of the one guard there, shoving his carcass out the way they'd come. They flung the door shut, mage- sealing it. Nightsinger took up the Darkhound's halberd and positioned himself by the door; Sirah and Jexxin held the windows, the blue gryphoness sending levinbolts to those below.

Fresh blood.

The Hounds knew. The sound of their handler meant only one thing: they were going hunting. Dragonhounds had little intellect, but they made up for that in pure killing.

Blood-meat-rend, their eyes said, great dragonlike jaws parted. Feed-eat-bloodbloodblood. Thick tails thudded the floor of their cages; they strained at the bars, pressing their bulbous heads forth.

"Come."

Second Wing came pouring over the river at full tilt. Raekkenyia charged with full draconic fury over the bridge; her fur stuck out in all directions, making her look twice her size and twice as deadly. She met the firewall head-on, crashing through with no difference. Horses screamed themselves raw at her appearance, but she paid them no heed. A crossbow bolt thwacked into her haunch, it's full potential deadened by the collar she wore. Roaring, the dragoness reared high, pulling it out with a spray of blood and blazing eyes. A guard stood on the battlements with his fellows, each holding a loaded crossbow in their hands. Raekkenyia surged upwards, lashing out with the blood-covered bolt, cutting the throats and other things as she whipped by. They toppled, only to be trampled by the hooves of the crazed horses.

Lyosha screamed, a gash opening up on her flank by a guard's rapier. A large, looming figure suddenly appeared and calmly lopped off her attacker's head with his clawed hand. Clamping her hand to her side, the osprey-gryphoness looked up to see Morkarleth, RiverDance perched on his shoulders. The giant and otter were both bloodied, but not their own.

"Here," Morkarleth grumbled, tearing strips off his cloak and binding them to Lyosha's side. RiverDance's incessant tapping at his head made him look up. The business-end of several pikes were pointed at them.

Nicoga had lost Lyosha in the initial scuffle and had teamed up four-square with Cutter, Jiari and Xiii. The lion-maned gryph was first to spot Raekkenyia's great bulk ascending the Guard House battlements. Alerting his fellows, they scythed their way through the endless number of Darkhounds (who's number had been belayed by the size of the structure) to Tserisa and Kalaki.

"Ikcherie-shirak!"

A Darkhound split right down the middle in three sections behind them.

"Nice," they chorused, looking at the gore and entrails on the golden-brown Phoenix's silver talons. She wiped them on the carcass.

Tser lifted her blood-streaked muzzle. "What's the word?" She stopped and peered at the group, noticing the addition of Nicoga. "Where's Lyosha?" she demanded, scrubbing equally-bloody paws across her mouth.

"I lost her over there -- " Nicoga pointed . . . and gaped. From the cellar of the barracks came a dozen sleek shapes; they were as high in the shoulder as massive bullhounds, but had the general appearance of a firedrake who'd mated with one. The only thing not sleek about them were their heads: molted green and pebble-scaled, with blunt horns and spines, they were ugly and bulbous: perfectly attired to the formidable jaws that housed equally-formidable teeth. Tongues of fire served them as manes literal fire. Shaped in that of a morbid crest, the fire ran from poll to withers, sickly red and unhealthy.

As a pack, they galloped onto the yard, taking off in groups. The fighting Darkhounds continued, unaware.

"What the hell are those!?" Tser exclaimed. Cutter and Kalaki swore heavily and in several languages, Xiii and Jiari gaped, Nicoga's jaw dropped.

Glowing eyes trained on the group. Five massive Hounds advanced, the others took off after Lyosha, RiverDance, Morkarleth, and Raekkenyia.

Where were Tyr, Autumn, Spar, Tath, Ratha and Caly!?

A levinbolt from Sirah in the barracks clipped one Hound, but it hardly deterred it. It was enough to galvanize the group: they whirled and attacked head-on.

The four gryphonesses had left Calypte perched in a tree where she was relaying them information through the broach teleson in their warcollars. The tigergryphoness had a keen eye and aided them in their executions. The reason none of the Wings had seen them was because they had taken the back of the barracks under siege.

They had actually done pretty well. Tyr lost a few tail feathers to one Darkhound and was scored on her hind fortunately, it was shallow. Tath's glacier-plumage was barred red -- and in places, pink, where water from the river had splashed her; her hands ached from all the icebolts she'd fired. Ratha'd shifted forms so many times in order to confuse the enemy that she was suffering from dizziness spells herself. She had a remedy for that in the pouch about her neck and had taken it promptly when they retired for a short break. Many parts of her body were stained red. The reserves of forest-energy that she'd filled while in the woods were sadly depleted in Autumn. Of them all, the silver gryphoness was hit the hardest as if the Darkhounds had known she bore a full Phoenix warcollar -- heavy impacts pocked it and it was faintly sparking about the orb. She had a broken talon, scores along her haunch (both of them) and many missing feathers as a result.

Lounging to recover her strength, a familiar odor passed over her nares on the breeze:

Dragonhound!

Autumn snarled, a cross between a lion's roar and an eagle's scream of rage. Tyr paused in her securing of the area; all the fighting had moved to the fore, so they were relatively safe. Caly would've informed them had anything approached. "What?"

"Dragonhound." The magess' reply was full of venom and something Tyr couldn't quite place -- anger? Sadness? Fury? A mix of all the above?

Binding her own wrists, Tath glanced at Autumn. "What in Aurora's name is that?"

The silver gryphoness' voice shook now, becoming distant with memory. Her eyes were slits and tears formed at the edges."They took Stormy and Xolaris. They caught them and dragged them back when they tried to run -- " A catch in her voice, a hiccuping gulp; Tyr, Ratha and Tath's head swung with concern. She was reliving the capture of First Wave before their eyes! "Dragged them back to be experimented on. Caught them, broke them -- their screams! Oh, gods! Their screams in my head night after night!" Wild-eyed, she jumped up and broke into a run. Quickly-thinking, Tyr bounded after her, hit her hard and bore her to the ground with her weight, both foretalons on her heaving chest.

"This is not the cave, Autumn!" she shouted to the gryphoness, trying to reach the rational part of her mind. The Dark Empress shook the silver: "Stormy and Xol are okay!"

"No!" Autumn howled, reaching out an slapping Tyr full in the face; since she was not wearing her collar at the moment, the tigergryphoness caught the full-force on her brow. A huge gash opened up on her tufted eye ridge and blood flowed freely down the white feathers of the ridge and her cheek. Tyreenya ignored it and shook her captive again in the midst of the blood-soaked grass.

"Tath -- get Caly!"

**You guys finished dallying?** Caly's gravely voice filled Tathramakan's head, the teleson vibrating slightly. **They're getting creamed over there. Tser's on her back and Sirah's running out of juice. Spar just came out of the cellar and he's up to his middle arms in those bad boys.**

Tath relayed this back to the group. Ratha flipped one red-orange-yellow wing, rising a bit shakenly to her feet. "We may be depleted," she said quietly, "but I'll be damned if I let them die!"

"Where's Kalaki?" Tyr demanded, still pinning Autumn to the ground. Tath sent the info onward.

**Under Raekkenyia and flinging those doggies left and right. She's getting weaker, though. The last one didn't explode as easily as before. It just kinda popped here and there . . . 'Kenyia's scratched up enough fighting the ones that are coming back.**

"Dammit to hell!" Tyr growled. She looked down at Autumn. Their eyes met and she released the Skittlegryph. Autumn rose, rolling onto her side and heaving up, careful of the broken talon. "Are you okay now?"

Baleful eyes met her own, but clear eyes. "Yes. Let's go."

The Darkhounds lay dead or dying, but that didn't stop the Dragonhounds from their mission. Five remained and they had no intention of stopping. They would complete their orders even though their masters were dead.

Kalaki struggled upright, one wing draped over Raekkenyia's bloodied shoulder. So many, she lamented, her anguish terrible. There should be something she could do -- something that would allow the others to live and continue on their objective. She was tired mentally and physically: from exerting her still-developing telekinetic powers to the limit and beyond, and muscles that were in their young adult stage. Possibilities ran through her mind and at the moment, the only safe-course lay within a fire that burned even the immortal flesh of Phoenixes. She would suicide with the hopes of rising from the ashes the impact of a dying Phoenix should be enough to kill the rest of the pack. If not, it would distract them enough to get the others to safety, and she would join the others of her race that had gone before her, possibly join her father, the god Solarius.

Raekkenyia felt the difference in the muscles of the wing on her shoulder. She cocked her head and stared Kalaki in the eye. She did not like what she saw there: devoid of all emotion, like one who knew her fate was to die. The dragoness was not familiar with Phoenix life, but she did know that they gave themselves up to fire once every so-number of years when age crept up on them. But to suicide -- would that break the spell that gave them immortality?

"What are you thinking, you idiot?" she barked, grabbing at the female with her right hand, shaking her. "You can't do what I think you're going to do!" The concern and pain in her own voice shocked her. She barely knew this Phoenix who doubled as a faerie, yet here she was, trying to turn her from a wrong path.

Kalaki's eyes glowed with inner light and she shook off the paw. "You do not know my mind or my people," she said stiffly, knowing the words would hurt. They'd have to, if she were to complete her plan. "I have told Ythé and she will take care of my affairs should I fail. I am doing this for you and my mortality is not in question. I am going to buy you enough time to get away, but whatever you do, STAY CLEAR!"

"You can't!" Raekkenyia grabbed madly for the flowing gold-brown tail, only to snatch her hand away as Kalaki's body turned into a searing column of living flame. Her presence lit up the battlefield, drawing the eyes of the Dragonhounds. The others saw what she was doing, horror written on every line of their faces. They hastily backed up, eyes bulging. The Dragonhounds advanced on the new target.

"VAHAKAYAH!" And with that cry, Kalaki launched herself at the Hounds . . .

. . . and exploded into a mighty bonfire.

Hounds were tossed head over teakettle, blown to bits. They rained upon the field as hunks of burning meat, char and ashes floating to the ground in morbid snow.

At that instant, Autumn, Tyr, Ratha, Caly and Tath flew up and over the barracks, screeing their battle rage, to take care of those that still lived.

Ashes from ashes

Earth's fire eternal

From these blood-ties

You are reborn.

Kalaki's eyes opened. Amused and proud faces stared back at her; where was she?

"Welcome to the land of the living," Sparhawk rumbled appreciatively, but with his dry humor. A tentacled hand pushed meat toward her beak; she downed it in one gulp, feeling the revitalizing nature of food aiding that of her fire-induced healing.

"Where are my ashes?" she asked, concerned.

"Here." A jar was pushed at her. Kalaki looked up to see Tyreenya, the tigergryphoness bearing a bandage plastered rakishly across the left side of her head, tied off at an angle behind her long ears. Suddenly, the Phoenix realized that she alone was unscathed: everyone in the room had some sort of bandage or sling. She slipped into her more comfortable faerie form and stifled a giggle.

"You all look like hoodlums!"

That statement undid all the tension and they dissolved into helpless laughter. It was good to know that they'd all survived, and Kalaki sent out a tendril to her sister. Warm approval and something else tinged the sibling's sending. Or was that not Ythé, but their bloodsire? It did not matter; for all her accomplishments in the Senate of the Elven Council, nothing gave her more pride in her accomplishments than this moment.

The night was spent singing raucous songs, telling dirty jokes and roasting Dragonhound in the fireplace. They would wait until conformation from the other Wings before moving on, but for now, it was time for celebration. They would be a match for anything to come!

The stallion's eyes searched the forest. Where had that mare gone to? She'd eluded him once before and he wasn't in the mood to let her go this time.

Out of the shadows, a dirty, clawed hand grabbed at the remnants of his bridle and a cloaked figure fought to mount his back. The stallion screamed and was rewarded with a clout between his ears on his sensitive poll. The figure twisted the horse's head and kicked him savagely in the barrel. The stallion jumped, crab-hopped a moment or two and then bolted forward and pounded off into the night.

The Masked City was to be alerted!

© 2002 Crystal Shekeira. All Guilders are copyright themselves; the Gryphon's Guild is trademarked to Tserisa Supalla. All other names, places and events are copyright to MH. Do not copy, alter or distribute