SciFi and Fantasy Stories: The Imprint of Blood (for Joelle)

The Imprint of Blood

Gavan woke to a surprised and agonized shriek close at hand, towards the mouth of the cavern nest. The sound was followed by scuffling and half-roaring, half wailing battle cries. The smell of blood flooded the air around him. He struggled to his feet and his back paw tapped into his littermate, Howell, also rising. Gavan could just see his outline in the dim light, wings up in a defensive posture and ears forward, straining to make out the cause of the commotion. His curving beak opened, panting in fear.

            “Who attacks?” he growled. Gavan bobbed his hawk-like head indicating that he did not know.

            Together they charged forward with only their sense of smell to distinguish friend from foe in the dark. Claws and beaks struck and scraped, tearing at muscle and sinew. Feathers and fur, soaked with brilliant golden blood matted and clung to them in the whirling havoc of the enclosed battle. Gavan felt a beak cut through his wing and take hold of the second joint from his shoulder. His assailant pulled back, tearing bone from bone and the wing swung useless. Gavan wailed and struggled to ignore the electric pangs that shot through his body at every movement. He charged forward, leaping upon the back of another griffin, one not of his pack by its smell, and he tore into its back with claws and beak. His victim reared, wings flailing and head twisting back, trying vainly to fight him off. The motion brought them both tumbling to the ground, Gavan beneath the other griffin, now dying as blood poured from an artery in it’s neck that he had severed with a long talon. But Gavan did not know this, for they had fallen against one of the entry stones at the cavern entrance and the combination of the impact and his enemy’s smothering weight, all awareness left him.

            When he woke, barely breathing beneath his slain enemy, the sickly winter sun was risen, and it illuminated the silver-dust snow along the slope. Gavan’s head was aching and the taste of blood had turned rancid in his mouth. He wanted nothing more than to quench his thirst with the snow, and clean his palate. As he struggled to move the acute twinge of his injured wing took his breath. Slowly and painfully he wriggled free and rolled away from the nest out into the snow. The welcome cold numbed his wound and he swallowed the snow, savoring its clean, crisp wetness against his tongue. As pain and thirst subsided he looked critically at his injury. The wing was nearly severed at the joint, dangling only by a tendon. I will never fly again. The thought terrified him, but he was a griffin of the Snowfeather and, though young, was a warrior. Fear was never a solution. He knew what must be done, and he hesitated only for a moment before striking forward to cut the remaining ties. He looked sadly at the chestnut feathers, flecked with cream that had once been the end of his wing.

Refusing to allow himself to dwell on the loss of his flight, he turned back towards the nest. It’s so quiet. Have they already left for revenge?  Weakly he climbed back up the slope.

            When he reached the cavern’s entrance the smell of congealed blood once again flooded his senses, but what made him uneasy was the fact that the blood smelled mostly of his pack members. A new fear tried to grip him, but he held it back and stepped gently among the mangled bodies.  The entire nest was covered in spatters of griffin blood, as if it had been gilded by a madman. Gavan distanced himself from the carnage with practiced concentration. Five… eight… nine………!  The sight of his littermate, throat torn, pulled him harshly back to himself. Howell’s creamy plumage and fur were soaked with gold, much of which was his own. Gavan knelt beside him and nestled his forehead in the feathers of his back. Not yet. No grieving yet. Get up #### you. Get up.

Forcing himself once again to his feet he continued his count of his own pack’s slain. The realization that the massacre was complete, but for him, came over his mind like a moonless night. The youngest of his packs cubs were gone; as was the tradition, the conquers would raise them as their own. Those that were too old, but not yet grown, had been cut down without a second thought. Gavan counted seven dead of the enemy, against his pack’s thirty-two, many of whom had been killed as they slept. In the daylight he recognized the markings of Skybeast pack members. Rage trickled into his veins and he began dragging their bodies from the cave and hurling them down the hillside. Cravens… not even clever, just cowardly.  By evening his strength was wholly spent, but at least his people would not be lying amongst their enemies.

            The last thing Gavan wished to do was walk through the cave-nest, now his family’s tomb, but the loss of blood and his strenuous activity of dragging his slain enemies away, had drained all strength from his body, and he needed rest, and food. It was impossible to step without treading on bodies, and Gavan convulsed every time he felt a stiff form under talon or paw. By the time he reached the cavern’s back he was nauseated, but he slipped past the Hoarding Stone, and into the chamber beyond. Here the cold stream ran even in the midst of winter, and in the rushing water lay a great stone, hollowed into a bowl. There the remains of the pack’s last hunt lay, preserved, for a time, by the water-chilled stone. Gavan retched, and considered leaping into the stream, to wash the scent of blood from his plumage and fur, but he knew that if he were to wet himself now, he would freeze in the coming night. There were no warm bodies beside which to sleep.

            With a warrior’s will, the griffin forced himself to eat from the chilled elk meat, and when he had finished he curled up beneath his wings. He slept uneasily by the gurgling water.

            He woke with the feeling that he was suffocating. Someone had sealed him in a tomb with the dead. Springing to his feet, he rushed to the Hoarding Stone, and found it still open. Blood-stench once again assaulted him, and he turned back into the inner chamber. Once again, he forced himself to eat, and when he felt himself capable, he began, one by one, to drag his folk into the inner chamber, by the softly singing water. He had woken late in the morning, and by the time he had moved the last body and pushed the Hoarding Stone into place with a back paw, the sun was nearly set.

            The dirge-chant came to Gavan, almost automatically. “Dead are my kinfolk, rising are their ghosts. Brave they fell, and far shall they fly, their prisons at last fall to dust.” His blood felt chilled in his veins as he left the tunnel. A layer of frost had covered the nine enemies he had tossed out upon the hillside, but the fresh, snow-laden night air, was clean, and touched him gently.

            I cannot stay here… they will come back and know that one, at least, survives; one to put a claim to vengeance. A gust of wind rushed by him, filling his chest with the humming feeling of flight. Not thinking, he spread his wings, and found one too light and still throbbing. He swore. They will track me, then, and I will be killed in a few days.  Nevertheless, he set out, towards the forest’s edge, where at least his enemy’s flight could not be much to their advantage.

            He walked to the south, though he had little hope of reaching his family’s ally pack, the Goldwood. The Skybeast would be aware of the danger and would be swift to hunt him. Unable to clearly see the moon, Gavan could not gauge time, but as he grew tired he stopped and dug himself into the rotting leaves to sleep. The memory-scent of blood touched his dreams, and he woke unrested. The sun had risen, and something in the forest about him felt out of place.

            Gavan became suddenly alert and he pricked his ears and scanned the surrounding trees for any sight or sound that would tell him why his flesh prickled. Whatever this was, it did not smell like a member of the Skybeast pack. No…feels too intense for that. His feathers fluffed in instinct. He was being watched. Eyes and ears swept the forest floor and canopy. A gentle scrape, as of something leaning against the bark of a nearby tree gave Gavan his observer’s position and he crept gently towards it. Instantly he was met with a pair of sharp, scarlet eyes. He leaped back and raised his wings defensively, heedless of his wound.

            The red-eyed griffin stepped towards him, curiosity in its expression. Gavan looked nervously at the ground beneath the stranger’s feet; its claws left deep imprints. The newcomer had colors strange to Gavan. His feathers, and even his fur was dark, almost metallic green and a pair of crimson stripes ran down his flanks and wings.

            “What… are you? You are not a griffin, though you look like one.”

            The stranger blinked. “No. I am no griffin.  My name is Atticus, what is yours?”

            “Gavan. What do you want?”

            “Nasty wound,” Atticus scrunched his eyes in a frown. “And tragic.”

            “I don’t need pity, or gawkers. Now go away!”

            Atticus cocked his head. “Then you want death? How do you plan to hunt like that? Stay. I will bring you food.” He turned, and before Gavan even thought to stop him he had darted off. Gavan did not wait, but continued southward. Every moment he stood still would bring the Skybeast closer.

That night he had barely dug himself a bed when Atticus appeared out of the trees, carrying a slain doe across his back as if it were a rabbit.

            “I told you to wait. You do not listen well.” He dropped the deer. “You eat first.”

            “Why… are you doing this? What are you?”

            “Great wrong has been done to you, I think.”

            “And why do you care?”

Atticus sat down, his eyes kindled with sickness. “I saw you, tossing your foes from the cavern… I watched you bury your kin. Tell me who did this…”

            Some thought at the back of Gavan’s mind, a thought that he could not quite pull forward, stopped him from answering. Instead he used his hunger as avoidance and sank his beak into the deer. The taste of blood shot through him and he retched from his unwanted memories of that taste. Atticus stood up, concerned.

            “What’s wrong?”

            “I…” he retched again. “I can’t… eat. Blood…”

            “You’re a griffin. What else is there for you to eat?”

            “Can’t… must starve I guess. I can’t taste that ever again. No more blood!” all the warrior pride broke away and Gavan rammed his head into the loam, tears wetting the feathers of his face. “Sky and Sun! What… how… Why did I live?”

            Atticus darted to his side, shivering. “Because our realm is a harsh and cruel place; because your name was not on that page of the Book. Perhaps, if you’re lucky, it’s because you have a purpose to fulfill.”

            “And who are you to spit answers at me!” Gavan drew back to strike at Atticus, but stopped short. It was almost like looking into a mirroring pool. Face to face, grief to grief, rage to rage. The difference was that Atticus’ pain had grown cold and rotted into bitterness. Atticus had answers, but Gavan was suddenly aware that they were not the answers he wanted.

            “You… want to avenge my pack…”

            “Don’t you?”

            Unwelcome visions crowded in on Gavan, of blood and shrieks of pain and fear.

            “No.”

            “What?”

            “No. I will not do what they did to me… I will not do it to anyone. How can you?”

            Atticus looked perplexed. “They murdered your family. Do they not deserve to die?”

            “If they do… have you killed?”

            “I have.”

            “Then, if they deserve death, why don’t you?”

            “… … … I do. ‘Blood cries out for blood.’”

            “And the more blood shed, the more cries rise.”

            “Yes.”

            “Kill me.”

            “What?”

            “I can’t survive without blood. I don’t want anymore shed on my account. I can’t even eat. Kill me. It will be a mercy.”

            “No... This is twisted. If all bloodshed is wrong then there would be no predators and balance would be destroyed. You’re not culpable.”

            “Twisted. You would feel guilty of my death, but not the death of my pack’s killers? That is twisted.”

            Atticus stood without speaking, watching Gavan intently. The true griffin shifted uncomfortably. I have no reason to fear his anger. I have nothing to lose. He kept repeating this thought to himself, until Atticus broke the silence. When he did, his tone was gentle, far from Gavan’s expectations.

            “You are a strange creature. I have not harbored a second thought about my path until now… I have not found enough reason to shift me from my course, but I think your words will never leave my mind. I would be sad indeed if I allowed the death of a creature capable of such thoughts. Perhaps there is another option.’

            “What do you mean?”

            “You asked me before, what I am. I am dragon.” With that, Atticus backed away from Gavan and he seemed to melt and expand. In his true form, the creature was massive, covered in dark green mail with twin arcs of crimson scales flaring out like fins down his flanks. His eyes were deep scarlet, as were his teeth and he had four tusks near the corners of his mouth, two jutting upwards and two hanging down. Two dark, red speckled, scaly wings were folded and lifted high above his head. The whole, long frame was supported on four nimble talons. Atticus rested his great head on the turf in front of Gavan, who sat trembling in shock and fear.

            “I will not see you dead. My elder brother is a master in the arts of the magi. It may be within his powers to help you.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “Make you able to live without blood, perhaps. I think I will take you to him now.” With speed amazing in a creature of so great a size, Atticus flicked one of his wings forward and scooped Gavan up off the ground. Darkness seemed to crowd in on them until there was nothing Gavan could see. Then a brilliant crystal light flooded in on them, falling from the face of a large, pallid moon. Atticus’ scales glowed under its beams.

            “Welcome to my home.” 

            Gavan was too astonished to speak. All that came to his mind was a question. Did I survive?