and shot forward, aiming for Kjorn. He clung, talons dug into Rok’s shoulders as the big gryfon writhed and sank with each wing stroke, unable to bear Kjorn’s weight and unable to throw him.
When Frida was a mere leap from them, Kjorn rolled off Rok’s side, kicking Rok’s ribs hard to send him toward Frida.
Fraenir dropped toward him and Kjorn managed not to laugh like a maniac. Caj never thought to make us spar three-against-one, mid-air. He’d be proud.
A long warning call broke through their fight. Just as Kjorn whirled to meet Fraenir, voices pierced wind, and a strong scent chased them.
“Halt, trespassers!”
“Halt, poachers!”
“Land and answer for your presence!”
Rok shouted an obscenity. By silent agreement Fraenir and Kjorn turned from their own impending duel to see the newcomers.
Ten gryfons soared at them fast in a precise formation like geese. Just as Kjorn looked at them, the sun broke the edge of the earth and the first rays of light dazzled his eyes. He shook his head hard. Surely bright Tyr had seen him face the first challenge with honor and courage. Kjorn didn’t pretend he could face ten healthy gryfons alone. He glided toward the ground, heart thumping. The voices who’d called to them sounded disciplined, firm, like gryfons who belonged to a pride, not rogues. Kjorn thought that explaining himself would be better than attempting to flee. He would have more success with honorable gryfons than with Rok and his ilk.
The arriving gryfons shouted again at Rok and his company. Fraenir hesitated, and followed Kjorn down. Frida pleaded with Rok, but the rogue shouted challenge and five of the new gryfons broke off to wrestle him down. Kjorn didn’t watch, and was surprised when Frida didn’t attempt to help, but stooped and landed meekly beside Kjorn, as if they all went together.
“We would only get injured,” she said defensively, to answer Kjorn’s curious glance. He looked around as five of the new gryfons landed, reforming into a semi-circle around them. The second half of the group, shoving a bruised and disgruntled Rok up against Fraenir, closed the circle.
Kjorn gazed at the new gryfons. They were not Aesir. The tallest of them stood a head or two shorter than himself, and he watched as they folded their wings, the long, sculpted wings of sea eagles. Their colors ranged from gray to a variety of pale hues, almost white, and soft, dove browns. They weren’t Vanir either, he knew at once, there was something quite different, but a resemblance lingered.
Perhaps , Kjorn thought as a pale female stepped forward, eyes narrowed, the Vanir did originate from the Winderost after all, sometime long ago . His mind spun, but that was wonder for another time.
“I am Nilsine, daughter-of-Nels, huntress and sentry of the Vanhar.” Her voice dipped in a rolling dialect, like the native gryfons of the Silver Isles, but much stronger, older, Kjorn thought. “Declare yourself.”
“I am Fraenir—”
“You are known, thief,” snipped a male from the ring of gryfons. “Fraenir, son-of-Lars. Frida, daughter-of-Frey. Rok, son—”
“So you know us,” Rok said. Two gryfons held him pinned. Nilsine looked mildly from him, back to Kjorn. Her eyes shone almost red, like the forest falcons he’d seen on rare occasion back home.
Home.
This was my home, he thought again. My true home. This was the first place my talons touched earth, this was the first air I breathed.
“You are known.” Nilsine looked at Rok again coolly. “I speak to the stranger.”
Kjorn inclined his head to her. “I am Kjorn. Son-of-Sverin, who is the son of Per.”
Her ears perked, tail twitched, but otherwise she gave no expression. “If that is so…” Her gaze traveled between Rok and Kjorn, surely wondering at the story—but she had to have seen them fighting, known that Kjorn had meant no trespass, was not banded with the rogues. “It’s an interesting claim.”
“My lady,” one of the
When Frida was a mere leap from them, Kjorn rolled off Rok’s side, kicking Rok’s ribs hard to send him toward Frida.
Fraenir dropped toward him and Kjorn managed not to laugh like a maniac. Caj never thought to make us spar three-against-one, mid-air. He’d be proud.
A long warning call broke through their fight. Just as Kjorn whirled to meet Fraenir, voices pierced wind, and a strong scent chased them.
“Halt, trespassers!”
“Halt, poachers!”
“Land and answer for your presence!”
Rok shouted an obscenity. By silent agreement Fraenir and Kjorn turned from their own impending duel to see the newcomers.
Ten gryfons soared at them fast in a precise formation like geese. Just as Kjorn looked at them, the sun broke the edge of the earth and the first rays of light dazzled his eyes. He shook his head hard. Surely bright Tyr had seen him face the first challenge with honor and courage. Kjorn didn’t pretend he could face ten healthy gryfons alone. He glided toward the ground, heart thumping. The voices who’d called to them sounded disciplined, firm, like gryfons who belonged to a pride, not rogues. Kjorn thought that explaining himself would be better than attempting to flee. He would have more success with honorable gryfons than with Rok and his ilk.
The arriving gryfons shouted again at Rok and his company. Fraenir hesitated, and followed Kjorn down. Frida pleaded with Rok, but the rogue shouted challenge and five of the new gryfons broke off to wrestle him down. Kjorn didn’t watch, and was surprised when Frida didn’t attempt to help, but stooped and landed meekly beside Kjorn, as if they all went together.
“We would only get injured,” she said defensively, to answer Kjorn’s curious glance. He looked around as five of the new gryfons landed, reforming into a semi-circle around them. The second half of the group, shoving a bruised and disgruntled Rok up against Fraenir, closed the circle.
Kjorn gazed at the new gryfons. They were not Aesir. The tallest of them stood a head or two shorter than himself, and he watched as they folded their wings, the long, sculpted wings of sea eagles. Their colors ranged from gray to a variety of pale hues, almost white, and soft, dove browns. They weren’t Vanir either, he knew at once, there was something quite different, but a resemblance lingered.
Perhaps , Kjorn thought as a pale female stepped forward, eyes narrowed, the Vanir did originate from the Winderost after all, sometime long ago . His mind spun, but that was wonder for another time.
“I am Nilsine, daughter-of-Nels, huntress and sentry of the Vanhar.” Her voice dipped in a rolling dialect, like the native gryfons of the Silver Isles, but much stronger, older, Kjorn thought. “Declare yourself.”
“I am Fraenir—”
“You are known, thief,” snipped a male from the ring of gryfons. “Fraenir, son-of-Lars. Frida, daughter-of-Frey. Rok, son—”
“So you know us,” Rok said. Two gryfons held him pinned. Nilsine looked mildly from him, back to Kjorn. Her eyes shone almost red, like the forest falcons he’d seen on rare occasion back home.
Home.
This was my home, he thought again. My true home. This was the first place my talons touched earth, this was the first air I breathed.
“You are known.” Nilsine looked at Rok again coolly. “I speak to the stranger.”
Kjorn inclined his head to her. “I am Kjorn. Son-of-Sverin, who is the son of Per.”
Her ears perked, tail twitched, but otherwise she gave no expression. “If that is so…” Her gaze traveled between Rok and Kjorn, surely wondering at the story—but she had to have seen them fighting, known that Kjorn had meant no trespass, was not banded with the rogues. “It’s an interesting claim.”
“My lady,” one of the
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