The Gate of Eight Worlds

Chapter 2: The Wings of the Ridge

The path down from the High Threshold was narrow, carved directly into the face of the blue shale cliff by hands that had been dead for ten centuries. Cold wind whipped off the valley floor, carrying the sharp, metallic tang of frost and the distant, rhythmic chiming of the glass trees below.

Dwaho kept his head down, clutching the leather straps of his traveling pouch. Every few paces, his small boots slipped on the loose gravel, sending tiny showers of stone bouncing into the abyss. Beside him, Alex walked with his hand resting on his sword hilt, his blue eyes constantly scanning the jagged peaks above. Queen Natasha brought up the rear, her dark eyes sharp and unblinking, her royal posture unbowed by the gale.

"Watch your footing," Master Corvus said without turning around. The tall keeper moved with a liquid grace, his wooden staff clicking against the rock with every third step. "The shale here is treacherous. A single slip, and you will discover how far down the Valley of Echoes truly goes."

"Where are we actually going?" Alex demanded, his voice cutting through the cold wind. "You keep speaking of gates and kings, but we need to know the path to the First Key."

Corvus paused at a bend in the trail where a natural stone ledge jutted out over the drop. He turned his pale birch-wood face toward them, his obsidian eyes reflecting the silver moons. "We make for the Ridge of the Iron Nest. We need speed, and four legs travel faster across the glass valleys than two."

"Four legs?" Dwaho asked, peering over the edge.

Before Corvus could answer, a high, screeching cry echoed across the canyon. It was not the call of a sea bird or a hunting hawk; it was deeper, heavier, carrying a brassy ringing tone that vibrated in the pit of Dwaho's stomach.

From the shadow of a high peak across the gorge, a massive silhouette detached itself from the rock face. It dropped like a thrown spear into the grey mist before snapping open a pair of broad, feathered wings that spanned thirty feet from tip to tip. The creature caught a rising thermal, banking sharply toward the cliff ledge.

Dwaho gasped and took a step back, gripping Alex's coat.

The beast slammed down onto the stone platform with a heavy, bone-rattling thud. Its front half was that of a predatory bird—a fierce, hooked beak the color of tarnished brass, sharp golden eyes that shifted restlessly, and powerful forelegs tipped with four-inch talons that chipped sparks from the granite. But behind its wing-shoulders, its body broadened into the muscular, tawny hindquarters of a mountain lion, complete with a long, tufted tail that lashed against the stone in quiet irritation.

The creature lowered its massive feathered head, opening its beak to emit a low, rattling hiss.

"Steady," Corvus murmured, stepping forward. He extended a long, pale hand, palm upward, and spoke a single word in a language that sounded like dry leaves scraping over slate.

The griffin blinked its golden eyes, the feathers along its neck smoothing down. It leaned forward and pressed its heavy, leather-hard beak against Corvus's open palm with a soft, surprising gentleness.

"This is Barnaby," Corvus said. "A crest-griffin of the High Peaks. His flock has guarded the upper passes of the First Realm since the Great War."

"Barnaby?" Alex repeated, looking at the creature's massive wings. "A noble name for a guardian beast."

"He is one of the last of his line who still answers the Keeper's horn," Corvus said, reaching into his pouch to toss a small strip of dried meat toward the beast, which caught it mid-air with an audible snap of its beak. "The Sovereign's hunters have trapped or poisoned most of his kin in the lower realms."

Dwaho took a hesitant step forward, fascinated despite his fear. The griffin turned one large, amber eye toward the boy. Its coat smelled of mountain ozone, wet pine, and dry feathers. "Can he... does he understand us?"

"He understands courage," Corvus said. "And he understands that the shadows in the valley are growing longer. The Sovereign's iron-tipped hounds are on the scent today. We cannot outrun them on foot."

The griffin let out a short, chirping whistle and dropped onto its front knees, bringing its broad, leather-saddled back level with the ledge. The saddle was old, made of thick black leather stamped with ancient sun-symbols, fastened around the creature's lion-chest with double-stitched brass buckles.

"Mount up," Queen Natasha ordered, taking charge of the reins with steady hands. "Dwaho in the middle, Alex behind him to secure the rear. The First Key lies beyond the glass canopy, and we have little daylight left."

Dwaho pulled himself up first, his small hands gripping the cold brass ridge at the front of the saddle. Alex swung himself up behind, his right hand gripping the hilt of his blade, his pale palm-mark glowing faintly against the cold steel. Queen Natasha settled into the lead harness, her presence radiating unbroken resolve.

"Hold fast," Corvus called out as he stepped back onto the stone ledge. "The wind in the valley does not spare the hesitant!"

With a powerful thrust of its muscular hind legs, the griffin launched itself straight out into the empty air over the Valley of Echoes.