The Gryphon of Tirshal

The opulence of the capitol building bespoke unbelievable wealth in Cemar’s past:
marble inlaid with gold; velvet and fine-woven silk upholstery with intricate embroidery;
and clear glass windows, in large panes, overlooking the courtyard with its famous
Fountain of Freedom. The Cemarite staff inside were also adorned with velvet, silk and
gold, as if visually reinforcing their many promises to restore—nay, to surpass—the
robust treasures of yore.
In fact, only three in the executive chamber that afternoon practiced no self
decoration: Krag, the white-furred giant; Turgar, as short as Krag was huge, as
bowlegged as Krag was erect; and Sir Javo, the hawk-nosed, bronze-skinned knight.
Javo’s only ostentatious indulgence came in the form of the plume of colorful
feathers on his great helm—the helmet he used when fighting on horseback. But none of
them wore battle harness now, in this place for diplomats, tax collectors and other city
born fops.
Ustane, the first King of Cemar, entered the chamber and the staff hushed, all turning
to bow except the three mercenaries. Ustane took a seat at the center of the long, marble
table—his throne was still being built by skilled craftsmen in another room. He was a
thin, handsome man with a kingly bearing, as if he had been born to royalty. As if there
had been royalty in Cemar before. He gazed sternly at Javo.
“I might excuse your barbarian comrades for ignorance to our customs,” Ustane said.
“But I understand you are native born to my kingdom. Do you purposefully intend to
insult my office?”
“You mean because we didn’t bow?” Javo’s face remained blank, but there was a
tremor in his voice. “I was born a Cemarite, but in the High Forest, and never lived in the
city. In any case, there was no monarchy when I lived in this country, nor any customs
concerning royalty for me to be ignorant of, King Ustane.”
Ustane silently contemplated these words, then motioned for his obediently
kowtowing court to relax and take seats. They did, with the rustling of silk and the
scraping of wooden chair legs on marble floor.
The three mercenaries remained standing.
“My crown may be new,” Ustane said, “and my throne as yet unfinished…” He said
this with a glance down at his ordinary chair and a puffing of the cheeks which caused
laughter amongst his loyal sycophants. “…But I hope you understand that I could have
you severely dealt with for any act of disrespect.”
Javo nodded. “I understand, King.”
Ustane’s chiseled bronze face darkened for a moment, but then he smiled, showing
perfect white teeth. “I suppose it will take some time, even for city natives, to adjust to
the new era.”
The members of his court nodded and harrumphed their concurrence, pleased that
nothing need become ugly at this euphoric stage of the Transition.
The Chief Speaker of the old Parliament was there, along with the Ministers of
Commerce, War, and Information. The Bard and Minstrel’s Guild, instrumental in
Ustane’s rise to power, was well-represented as well.
Lingering on the periphery, watching everything but drawing little attention to
themselves, were figures in dark burgundy robes, hoods covering their heads and hiding
their faces in shadow.
Ustane exchanged glances with his advisors left and right, but addressed the
threesome. “I understand you’re willing to face the gryphon.”
“True, O King,” Krag replied, quick to add, “for the price agreed upon earlier.”
The crimson-skinned Turgar placed a calloused hand over his breast and bent
slightly forward at the waist—a gesture of perfunctory obeisance. “Most regal Majesty,
we are unsure whether you desire that we slay this great beast, or merely cut its wings
off.”
“It is rather a sacred cow to some citizens,” Ustane said. “So removing its wings
might be the most diplomatic solution.” Now a servant poured some wine into the goblet
on the table before him. Ustane swirled it with pinkie extended, and took a dainty sip. “It
has been shackled before, so it is evidently possible to approach it closely and live. But it
wouldn’t offend me whatsoever if you were to simply kill it.”
“Very well,” Javo said. “With your leave, then, we shall set out immediately.”
Ustane fluttered his fingers. “You have my leave. Dismissed. Off with you.” He
smiled at his advisors. “And upon your return, we’ll have to teach you about proper
respect for the crown, hmm?”
***
The three warriors strode through the courtyard with an escort of royal guards
following. The huge crowd, gathered in the hope that their new king would appear at the
balcony, parted before the bronze knight and the savage-looking outsiders beside him.
Javo was a head taller than most men, but the top of his black mane only came as high as
the massive chest of Krag. Though Turgar could hardly intimidate any but a child with
size alone, his alien appearance was enough to hold townsfolk at bay: red skin; hair of an
even darker shade of crimson; yellow eyes with vertical slits for pupils.
Krag glanced at Javo, to his side. “The people certainly seem to adore your king.”
“I have no king,” Javo said. The three of them had each spoken these words many
times, but not with quite as much venom as Javo spat now. “But yes, more than half the
population believes Ustane and the Transition will solve all their troubles.”
Cemar had been unique among the city-states, not just because of its abundant
wealth but, more importantly, because of the representative parliament, the esteem for
and practice of freedom. Vast stretches of pasture and forests surrounding the city proper
had come under her protection over the generations, and the state grew to become the
peaceful envy of the entire world.
“Methinks we took a risk,” Turgar grunted, “showing contempt for their formalities.”
Krag waved dismissively. “What could they do? Call the guards? We’d tear the walls
down around them, and have our way with the whole city.”
“Ironic choice of words, my friend,” Turgar said. “Your open lust for these Cemarite
wenches suggests you might try to have your way with the whole city anyhaps.”
The women of Cemaria, especially those in the city, were a brazen, impudent lot.
The comely ones garbed themselves so as to leave little to the imagination. And nowhere
were women granted such powers as here. Turgar preferred subservient maidens, like
those from the harsh climes of his desert homeland. Krag’s native islands were also
rugged country where women were careful how they spoke and behaved; yet these brash,
aggressive Cemarite damsels thrilled him to no end. There in the courtyard, even, few in
the crowd paid attention to the jesters and acrobats—most (Krag especially) had their
eyes locked on the scantily-clad dancing girls or the buxom lass singing bawdy songs to
lust-drunk men happy to have her flash them a leg or breathe sultry notes in their ears. Of
course, the merrymaking wasn’t nearly as raucous now as in richer times.
Krag laughed. “Yea, verily! And even in the king’s court! Did you take a good look
at that Minister of Information?”
“Who could help it?” Turgar said. “Peradventure our serious Cemarite comrade even
took notice of her.”
Javo broke his brooding with a momentary grin. “And the legion of assistants in
there. If one more of them had rubbed her bottom against me as we awaited ‘His Majesty,’
I should have given it a good swat.”
They shouldered through the last layer of thick humanity into a narrow cobblestone
street beyond the courtyard. The guard escort halted here, and the three comrades
continued without accompaniment. Now they could move faster, and did.
Turgar pointed upwards at a window in one of the buildings towering over them.
“Behold the claw marks yonder.”
Just under the lower edge of the window were two groupings of three short scratches.
“I warrant the gryphon left those when fleeing the scene of its crime,” Krag said.
“Alas: similar scratches below that window across the street. And that one, there!”
“This gryphon is busy,” Turgar mused. “But what use does this creature have for
gold and infants?”
“None,” Javo said. “It must steal on behalf of someone who does have use for them.”
They continued walking, the stables now in sight. Turgar gazed askance at Javo.
“You say ‘someone’ as if you know who it is.”
“I know not. I only suspect.”
Krag’s great shaggy head tilted down from examining high windows and claw marks.
“Who do you suspect?”
“The sorceress known as Rothquark.”
“Krag is the superstitious one,” Turgar said. “I’m disappointed that you believe in
these imaginary villains invented to scare children.”
“Nobody I know is certain of her real name,” Javo said. “I can’t help that this alias
has taken on fantastic connotations. But I believe she is real; and, what’s more, that those
secretive folk back at the capitol building—I suppose we should call it a palace, now—
owe their allegiance to her and her dark arts foremost.”
“Those who wore the robes, with hoods?” Turgar asked.
“Aye, hiding their faces.”