No sooner had Asgaroth made his retreat than Waggit sent out three graak riders to nearby castles, calling for troops. He hoped that reinforcements would arrive soon.
But the heavens filled with black clouds, and the air grew heavy with the smell of rain. His messengers would not be able to fly in this storm, not with lightning bolts sizzling past their heads.
An hour before dawn, Waggit stood marveling at his own meteoric rise to power. Nine years ago he had been working as a miner and his only title, if he’d had one, might have been “village idiot.” But when the reavers attacked Carris, by virtue of his strength and stupidity Waggit found himself in the front lines, swinging his pickax for all that he was worth. The minstrels claim that he killed nine reavers that day. He doubted it. He could only remember killing a couple. But for Waggit’s valor the Earth King gave him the title of Baron, along with nine forcibles. Five of them he had used to take endowments of Wit, so that now he recalled all that he saw and heard. The other forcibles he had used to give himself strength and stamina, so that he might study long into the nights.
Thus he had raised himself to the status of Hearthmaster, a teacher in the House of Understanding.
And only moments before she left, the queen had named him Chancellor and bestowed upon him the task of caring for Castle Coorm and the lands roundabout.
It would have been a pleasant task in fairer times. Coorm was called the Queen’s Castle, for over the centuries many a queen had made it their summer resort when the air got too muggy at the Courts of Tide. It was a pretty castle, one might even say dainty, with its tall spires and pleasant views.
But now it seemed a death trap.
Waggit was determined to defend it to the best of his ability, and he had good captains under him who knew how to wage a war. But he couldn’t help but worry. His own wife and daughter, both of whom were named Far-ion, were trapped within the walls.
So it was that just before dawn a large force of soldiers came sweeping toward the castle on foot, racing down over the hill from the north. The men sprinted through the damp fields with unnatural quiet, it seemed, or perhaps it was the contrary winds that blew away the sound of their approach. There were thousands of men- archers with longbows, force soldiers with spears and axes.
Asgaroth rode before them, upon his red blood mare.
One of the castle guards winded a horn, his plaintive notes warning almost no one, for the walls were already well manned.
The signal was mostly for the benefit of the queen, to let her know that the battle had begun, if any of her folk were still within hearing range of the horns.
But the signal served another purpose, one closer to Waggit’s heart: from the graakerie, eight graaks suddenly took flight at the sound. Upon the back of each sat a young boy or girl, cowled and anonymous.
One rider was Waggit’s own daughter, seven-year-old Farion.
The graaks split off in groups. Four of them went northeast toward the Courts of Tide. Three winged northwest toward Heredon.
And one flew straight up toward the far-seer’s tower, thundering above it, the wash from its vast leather wings stirring the air.
From atop it, Waggit heard a small voice call, “Good-bye, Daddy.”
Waggit’s heart skipped a beat. Farion sounded so tiny and frightened to be riding such a great beast.
The graak let out a plaintive croak, then suddenly turned and followed the three that headed for Heredon.
Waggit smiled sadly, relieved to see that his daughter had made it through the takeoff, worried about how far she had to go.
It will be storming soon, he thought. The rain and thunder will drive the graaks to ground. But hopefully it will be many hours from now, and the great reptiles will be far away.
Waggit stood, leaning upon a staff, watching the children fly off into the night.
Let Asgaroth puzzle that one out, he thought. If it is the princes he wants, he’ll have to send men to follow the decoys.
But suddenly there arose grunting sounds from the north, the sound that graaks make when they take flight, and Waggit watched in horror as dozens of the creatures rose up from the woods.
They had no riders upon their backs, no saddles even, and when they saw the riders, they let out frightful cries and climbed like hawks.
With rising horror, Waggit watched the cloud of winged beasts, and realization came to him.
There were stories, ancient stories, of such graaks-trained not as mounts, but as winged assassins.
None had been used in nearly two hundred years.
The lords of the Earth had a tacit agreement: children, even messengers, were never to be targeted in war, and since assassin graaks would of necessity kill children, their use among civilized folk had long since been abandoned.
Apparently, Asgaroth was not civilized folk.
“Farion!” Waggit shouted in warning. “Come back!” But she was too far away to hear.
Amid cries of dismay, the young riders hugged the necks of their mounts as the killer graaks swept toward them. Some children turned their mounts, tried to veer away from the killers, but such a race was bound to end badly, for there were two or three killer graaks to each mount, and they would not be hindered by riders.
Waggit winded his own horn, calling retreat, and watched in terror to see if the children would give heed.
Six of the children heard.
Two others, two that had been heading toward Heredon, seemed to freeze with fear. Waggit watched in dismay as killer graaks swept up and deftly plucked the children from their mounts, then dove and brought the children to earth kicking and screaming, to make of them a meal.
Not my Farion, Waggit told himself. Not my daughter.
He had lost track of where Farion might be. He knew that she was upon a graak, and he also knew that she was the least adept of the riders. Had she been able to turn in time?
The others raced back toward the castle, their mounts veering and swerving as killer graaks gave chase. As the graaks neared the castle walls, archers let fly a hail of arrows, trying to deter the attackers, but it was little use. The assassin graaks kept coming.
One child took an arrow in the shoulder. He cried out and fell from his graak, hundreds of feet, to land with a crunch just outside the castle wall.
Another dove toward the graakerie and hit the landing pad, and as he tried to leap to safety, a killer graak dove like a giant gull and took him in its teeth.
The rest of the children veered between towers, screaming for help as enemy fliers gave chase. Waggit watched them fly by, the wingtips of their graaks nearly clipping the towers, the stark fear showing in every line of their faces.
Two passed him, a third.
Then the last of the children came, racing toward his tower, and Waggit heard Farion’s voice, so full of terror that it broke his heart, crying, “Daddy!”
A killer graak was racing up behind her.
Arrows whipped up toward the killer, and Waggit wondered if he could leap onto its back, use his own weight to bear it to earth.
But it stooped above him, screaming down in a dive, and the worst that he could do was to throw his warhorn.
The warhorn bounced off its chest. The graak didn’t even seem to notice.
Farion dove straight toward the gate, hugging the leathery neck of her graak, screaming in terror.
Arrows blurred up, hitting the killer graak as it raced down to snatch her. Waggit heard the snick of arrows, saw them bounce off its breast, and then one struck home, blurring into the monster’s breast, and the killer graak made a croaking sound, veered left, and began to fall rapidly.
Waggit saw Farion’s own graak hit the ground fast, and Farion was thrown onto the cobblestone streets on impact.
She rolled down near the wall of an inn, and a force soldier hastened to her side, grabbed her.
For a brief moment, the girl was silent, and Waggit held his breath, afraid that she’d taken injury in the fall.
