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“It’s all right, shhh.” He hushes the horse, then sits up. “He can smell the gryphon; he doesn’t like it.”
I don’t need a superior sense of smell to feel wary of the overhang we’re currently skirting, a shelf of earth that has already partially crumbled away to expose the trees’ gargantuan roots. Their knotted arms form tunnels leading deep into the black earth, certainly big enough for something to lurk in there.
“You didn’t say anything about them nesting underground,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. We’ve tracked the creature this far, so I should’ve had time to process the potential danger ahead, but if anything, my nervousness has just grown.
“This one’s a male, judging from the size, so he doesn’t need to nest. And if he’s injured, he may have sought shelter, a safe place to tend to his wounds.”
Ruskin dismounts again, his feet barely making a sound as they hit the ground. He draws his sword, eyes darting around the roots.
“Here.” He traces a hand through the air towards one of the tunnels. “He went this way.”
Then he lowers his sword for a moment, turning to me.
“You stay here in the saddle. If the gryphon comes out before me, the horse’s survival instinct will have him run for dear life, getting you out of harm’s way. A Calasian thoroughbred can outrun even a gryphon in flight, so just focus on holding on and I’ll come and find you. Clear?”
“Clear,” I say. “But it seems more convenient if you’d just deal with the gryphon before he can leave his lair.”
A smile plays on Ruskin’s mouth as he swings his sword in circles, the blade whizzing through the air so fast it makes a faint humming sound.
“That’s the plan,” he says, then sets off into the menacing darkness like he’s going for an afternoon stroll.
I do feel much safer all the way up here, glad for my powerful—and fleet-footed—animal companion. I decide to give him a gentle pat on the neck for good measure. If the horse is going to be my protector for the next minutes, we might as well build a rapport.
The horse responds well enough to my touch, seeming to relax into it. Its ears, which were flicking back and forth a moment ago, swivel out to the sides and still. I think we’re getting along well until he decides to start moving, gently wandering over to the left, where I see he’s making a beeline for some low branches laden with apples.
“I’m not sure now is snack time,” I chastise him, though I’m at least relieved he didn’t want to go far. I wouldn’t know how to stop him if he decided to explore more of the woods rather than wait for Ruskin.
The horse crunches away at the apples happily for a few minutes, and I look over my shoulder towards the tunnels. There’s no sound yet, no roaring or clashing of steel against claws. I wonder if I should feel more put out about the prospect of not actually getting to see a real, live gryphon. I decide it’s one thing my curiosity can handle not witnessing.
My steed shifts forward, raising its neck to reach for an apple higher than the rest.
“Do you want that one, hmm?” I murmur to it. “It does look nice and shiny.”
I lean out to try to grab it, but it’s just beyond my fingertips. The stirrups are too low for my feet to hook into, but I grip the pommel of the saddle and use it to push myself up onto one knee.
A guttural screech sounds right beside me.
I have just a moment to look down and see the wicked beak of the gryphon, the blinking yellow of its eyes, with a feather head tapering into the formidable haunches of a lion. Then my horse does exactly what Ruskin promised it would do. It bolts.
First, however, it rears up, letting loose a whinnying scream and kicking out with its powerful front legs. I was still in the process of reaching for the apple, and so I’m not in the saddle, holding on to the reins as I should be.
I tumble backwards, thrown from the horse, and land hard on the forest floor. Luckily, my shoulder takes the brunt of the impact, so my head isn’t spinning as I lift it and watch my escape plan go charging through the trees without me.
I hope the gryphon will give chase, knowing the horse can outrun it, but the gryphon apparently knows that too, because it just watches the horse disappear, stretching its wings wide and emitting an awful sound that’s a cross between a shriek and a roar. Bloody foam flies from its beak as it jerks its head back and forth, eyes rolling.
I can see now the deep scratches in its side, staining the feathers and hide rust red. I have no doubt this is the feral gryphon we’ve been tracking. My stomach curdles as it sets its crazed eyes on me and bends its knees to charge. I imagine the feeling of that razor sharp beak tearing into my flesh and search around for something—anything—I can defend myself with.
A whistling cry cuts through the air between us. The gryphon baulks, eyes darting around for the source. The cry sounds again and the gryphon shrinks back. Though I’m glad it’s not focused on me, I fear it’s only becoming more agitated.
While it’s distracted, I take the chance to crawl, then stagger, to the nearest tree. While I doubt heights are an obstacle for creatures with wings, I hope this one is too injured to bother coming after me.
I have one leg up over a branch when Ruskin comes sprinting through the tree roots. The gryphon immediately notices him, the moving target provoking its charge response. It barrels towards him, beak snapping, talons lashing out. He dodges it and spins, his sword come down in an arc that catches the gryphon’s shoulder. It screeches in pain, but can’t seem to stop itself from attacking, not retreating a step but relentlessly driving towards Ruskin.
I get a better grip on the tree branch I’m clinging on to and watch as Ruskin weaves and dances around the gryphon. His whole body is taut, focused, each defined muscle primed for quick release—a lunge and flashing slash of the sword.
The skirmish doesn’t last long. The gryphon is too erratic and Ruskin is too good. The beast makes wild, desperate movements that look terrifying, but which the fae always manages to counter. Still, I gasp when one of its talons grazes the length of Ruskin’s shirt, splitting it open.
Finally, as the creature dives forward onto its knees to try to snag Ruskin in its beak, he takes the opportunity to swing himself up onto it’s back. It rears, yanking its head around to try to get at him and convulsing its huge wings. But Ruskin refuses to be thrown, looking steady as a rock as he lifts his sword with both hands and plunges it into the gryphon’s neck.
