The Silver Gryphon

shaking. “It’s—empty. It’s useless.” Unspoken words passed between them as he looked up mutely at her. We’re in trouble.

“It wasn’t just the basket, then,” she said, sitting down hard, her own voice trembling as well. How could this happen? Why now? Why us? “Everything that had any spells on it is inert. The mage-lights, the firestarter, the tent, probably the weather-proof shelter-cloaks—”

“And the teleson.” He looked up at her, his eyes wide and frightened, pupils contracted to pinpoints. “We can’t call for help.”

We’re out here, on our own. We’re both hurt. No one at White Gryphon knows where we are; they won’t even know we ‘re missing until we don’t show up at the rendezvous point where we were supposed to meet the last team that manned the outpost. That’ll be days from now.

“It’s a long way to walk,” he faltered. “Longer, since we’re hurt.”

And there’s something nearby that eats magic. Is it a natural effect, or a creature? If it eats magic, would it care to snack on us? It might; it might seek out Tad, at least. Gryphons were, by their very nature, magical creatures.

Don’t think about it! Over and over, the Silvers had been taught that in an emergency, the first thing to think about was the problem at hand and not to get themselves tied into knots of helplessness by trying to think of too many things at once. Deal with what we can handle; solve the immediate problems, then worry about the next thing. She got unsteadily to her feet. “There’s a storm coming. That’s our first problem. We have to get shelter, then—water, warmth, and weapons. I think we’d better salvage what we can while we can before the rain comes and ruins it.”

He got shakily to his feet, nodding. “Right. The tent—even if we could cut poles for it, I’m not sure we could get it up properly with both of us hurt. I don’t think the basket will be good for much in the way of shelter—”

“Not by itself, but two of the sides and part of the bottom are still intact,” she pointed out. “We can spread the canvas of the tent out over that by hand, and use the remains to start a fire.” She stared at it for a moment. So did he.

“It looks as if it’s supported fairly well by those two saplings,” he pointed out. “The open side isn’t facing the direction I’d prefer, but maybe this is better than trying to wrestle it around?”

She nodded. “We’ll leave it where it is, maybe reinforce the supports. Then we’ll clear away the wreckage and the supplies, cut away what’s broken and tie in more support for the foundation by tying in those saplings —”

She pointed with her good hand, and he nodded.

“Look there, and there,” he said, pointing himself. “If we pile up enough stuff, we’ll have a three-sided shelter instead of just a lean-to.”

That, she agreed, would be much better than her original idea. In a moment, the two of them were laboring as best they could, her with one hand, and him with one wing encased and a sprained hind-leg, both of them a mass of bruises.

He did most of the work of spreading out the canvas over the remaining sound walls of the basket; he had more reach than she did. She improvised tent stakes, or used ones she uncovered in the course of moving supplies, and tied the canvas down as securely as she could manage with only one hand. One thing about growing up in the household of a kestra’chern; she had already known more kinds of knots and lashings than even her survival instructor. She wasn’t certain how Tad felt, but every movement made her shoulder ache viciously. There’s no choice, she told herself each time she caught her breath with pain. Rest once it starts to rain; work now. She wasn’t sure what time it was. They hadn’t gone very far before they had come crashing down, and they hadn’t been unconscious for long, or else they would have awakened to find insects trying to see if they were dead yet. Scavengers didn’t wait long in this kind of forest. That meant it was probably still early morning. If the rain threatened by those clouds held off, they had until late afternoon before the inevitable afternoon thunderstorm struck. If our luck hasn’t gone totally sour, that is. . . .

Eventually, they had their three-sided shelter; the limp tent canvas stretched tightly over the remains of the basket and the three young trees that had caught it. There were some loose flaps of canvas that she didn’t quite know what to do with yet; she might think of something later, but this was the best they could do for now.

They both turned to the tumbled heaps of supplies; sorting out what was ruined, what could still be useful even though it was broken, and what was still all right. Eventually, they might have to sort out a version of what could be carried away in two packs, but that would be later.

She would fight to remain here, and so would Tad. Walking off should not become an option until they were certain no one was going to come looking for them.

Always stay with a wreck, if you can. That much she also remembered very well from their survival course. The wreck makes the best target for searchers to find and the first place they’ll look for you when they spot it.

If they could stay here, they had a shelter they could improve more each day, plus what was left of the supplies. Even things that were ruined might be useful, if they had long enough to think of a