The Silver Gryphon

be cautious after they spring that one.

The javelins, hidden under brush, were far enough away from the trigger that he was fairly certain that the pups would make no connection between the two.

And there it goes! In his mind’s eye, another little glowing “fire” went out.

Two down, two to go.

One trap working from above, one from in front. One takes out a single pup, one takes out several. No pattern there, and nothing in the way of a physical trigger to spot.

The next trap would take out a single pup again; and it worked from the ground. That would be the foot- noose. He felt his chest muscles tighten all over as he “watched” that little spark of energy, and waited for the pups to regain their courage. He knew that at least he and Tad were safe from detection tonight; they’d used up all but a fraction of their personal energies making the traps. There was nothing to distract the pups from the bait.

Time crawled by with legs of lead, and he began to wonder if he and Tad had done their work a little too well. Had he discouraged the pups? Or would the loss of several more goad them into enough rage to make them continue?

Only Blade and Amberdrake knew the answer to that question, and only if they had opened themselves up empathically again.

Just when he was about to give up—when, in fact, he had started to stand, taking himself out of hiding— the third “spark” died.

He crouched back down again, quickly.

They all heard—or rather, felt—the fourth trap go. It was the one that had originally been set with a crude string-trigger that went into the cave. When it went, it would not only take several wyrsa with it—hopefully—but it would have the unfortunate side-effect of spreading rock out into the river, widening the shelf in front of the cave. But that couldn’t be helped. . . .

The rocks under him shook as the wyrsa triggered the last trap—and he didn’t need to be empathic to know that this final trap totally enraged them. Unlike the cries that they had uttered until now, their ear-piercing shrieks of pure rage as the remaining members of the pack poured over the rocks were clearly audible over the pounding water.

More than four— But it was too late to do anything other than follow through on their plan. With a scream of his own, he dove off the cliff, right down on the last one’s back.

The head whipped around and the fangs sank into his shoulder, just below where the wing joined his body. He muffled his own screech of pain by sinking his own beak into the join of the creature’s head and neck.

The thing wouldn’t let go, but neither would he. It tried to dislodge him, but he had all four sets of talons bound firmly into its shoulders and hindquarters. In desperation, it writhed and rolled, and sank its fangs in up to the gumline. He saw red in his vision again, but clamped his beak down harder, sawing at the thing’s flesh as he did so. He jerked his head toward his own keel, digging the hook of his powerful beak even further through hide, then muscle, then cartilage. The spine . . . he had to sever the spine. . . .

Amberdrake stood up on his tiny shelf of rock and fired off arrow after arrow into the one wyrsa that had been unfortunate enough to cross his blob of foxfire. The arrows themselves had been rubbed with phosphorescent fungus, so once the first one lodged, he had a real target. He’d throttled down any number of emotions as the wyrsa came closer and closer, but—strangely enough, now that he was fighting, he felt a curious, detached calm. His concentration narrowed to the dark shape with an increasing number of glowing sticks in it; his world constricted to placing his next arrow somewhere near the rest of those spots of dim light. Sooner or later, he would hit something fatal.

He knew that he had, when the shape bearing the sticks wobbled to the edge of the water, wavered there for a moment, then tumbled in.

He chose another as it crossed a blob of foxfire, and began again.

Tad was close enough to his father that he saw the difficulties Skan was in. At that point, it didn’t matter that it was not in the plan—he surged out of hiding and pounced, sinking his beak into the wyrsa’s throat, and his foreclaws into its forelimbs. A gush of something hot and foul- tasting flooded his mouth, and the wyrsa collapsed under Skan’s weight.

He let go, spitting to rid himself of the taste of the wyrsa’s blood, as Skan shook himself free of the creature’s head and staggered off to one side. Tad guarded him as he collected himself, keeping the other wyrsa at bay with slashing talons.

Then he wasn’t alone anymore; his father was fighting beside him. “Good job,” Skan called. “I owe you one.”

“Then take the one on the left!” Tad called back, feeling a surge of pleasure that brought new energy with it.