The White Gryphon

realized how diabolically efficient his captor’s bindings truly were, although they gave a little bit more than their creator had intended. Amberdrake? What’s he got to do with this?

The man wasn’t done yet. “I do owe him more than a few favors for what he did to me.”

And with that, the last piece clicked into place in Skandranon’s mind. Amberdrake—punishment?—women—tying up—cutting up—

Hadanelith!

“Hadanelith, you’re out of your mind,” he said flatly. “Whatever sanity you had when you lived in White Gryphon coughed once and died when they threw you out on your nose.”

“Oh, good—you guessed!” The mocking tone sounded more pleased than anything else. “How nice to be given the recognition one deserves at last! How nice to know one’s hard work hasn’t been in vain!”

“And just what did you intend to accomplish with all of this nonsense?” Skan asked, making his own voice sound as bored as possible. Eventually Kechara is going to test my thoughts— she’ll find out I’m in trouble and tell the others.

The only problem is, I haven’t the foggiest notion where I am. Hard to rescue me when they have an entire city or more to cover.

“Well, disposing of those old bats was meant to make you lot look like bad little boys and girls,” Hadanelith said. “It worked, too—no one likes you anymore. Even the charming and lovely Winterhart deserted you.”

There was no doubt about the tone of his voice now; gloating. And he lingered over Winterhart’s name in a way that was just enough to make every feather on Skan’s body stand straight on end. He practically breathed the name. Winterhart.

Oh, Kechara, I hope you’re listening for me now! On the other hand, Winterhart’s apparent defection from the Kaled’a’in had fooled even Hadenelith. Would that be enough to keep her safe?

“My colleagues have continuing plans, however, which I do not particularly feel like discussing with you,” Hadanelith continued lightly. “I trust you’ll forgive me. And I hope you won’t mind waiting until I acquire Amberdrake before I introduce you to the delights of my skill. I want him to watch. He might learn something. I might even let him live afterward; being left alive would be a better revenge than disposing of him.”

Hadanelith’s voice took on a grating tone. “Before we all went on this mad flight to ‘safety’ and you morons built White Gryphon, I practiced my hobbies in Urtho’s camp, on all the little human hens huddled around his Tower. I used to watch you and all your oh-so-glorious feathered brethren go off to fight Ma’ar, and inside I cheered when fewer of you came back. Urtho the ‘artist’ created the gryphons, but he quit too early. He made you to be pretty but shallow. The Black Gryphon will die the shallowest of them all.”

With another half-hearted struggle and a gasp, Skan replied softly, almost pleadingly, “Don’t mock Urtho.”

“Mock Urtho?” Hadanelith laughed very near Skan’s head, probably hoping for Skan to lash out fruitlessly again. “Uttering Urtho’s name is mockery enough. Still, it would be below my honor to mock a lesser artist. If I had any.”

Another of his maniacal giggles, this time farther away.

“Ma’ar, at least, came closer to worthy creation than that so-sweet ‘Mage of Boredom.’ Ma’ar took what Urtho limply tried with the gryphons and created the makaar. Now there was something closer to art. Makaar weren’t flatulent, preening extravagances made by a pretend leader, they were hunters. They hunted and enslaved with style. And while on the subject of style, let me tell you of how my next carving will go. I believe an amusing end for the failed legend, the ‘Black Gryphon,’ would be to carve and rebuild him, into a female makaar.”

Oh. My. Word. I can’t say I like the way this is headed at all.

“Think of it as being remade into a tribute to the departed lesser artist Ma’ar, Skandranon! Like Ma’ar himself, though, the lifespan of the work will be only temporary. A pity, but then again, transforming the ‘Black Gryphon’ into the ‘Bleeding Makaar’ is art enough. The knifestrokes begin here. . . .”

He went on at some length and in great detail, describing all of the things he had in mind to do to Skandranon, starting with that most private of parts. He tried to push the mental images of what was going to be done to him away from the fore of his thoughts, although it was difficult. The descriptions of the mutilations were bad enough, but Hadanelith gloated over how the agony could be made to linger. Skandranon had never liked pain at all.

Skan could only stare at the wall, listen, and hope that there were no mind-shields around this place, that none of Hadanelith’s “colleagues” were aware of the gryphonic ability to Mindspeak, and that Kechara would find him quickly enough for the others to search for him.

Because, in three days’ time, it was all going to be too late for Skandranon’s life to make a difference in the