Helsa’s army moved slowly down the steep, corrugated ridges formed of sandstone and clumps of twisted trees growing stunted from the stone. Far below lay the plain hidden by mists of steam rising from hot underground springs. They must cross the plain then cross beneath the mountains on the other side to reach the plains of Cressteane. The sky above them was low, and broken by streaks of white crystal. They rode silently. Helsa and King Efil, at the head of the army, were flanked by two Zzadarray priests. Helsa had dispersed the three other priests to ride at the head of three battalions, perhaps as leaders or perhaps to separate them. A Catswold priest was a military captain as well, a freely elected leader. The refinements of corruption which elect most officials had not touched Zzadarray. The Catswold folk were too stubbornly independent to tolerate corruption. Thus Helsa felt it best that these priests be separated.
The upperworld Catswold troops sat their horses eagerly looking across the plain toward the far mountains, primed and honed for battle. And the warriors of Zzadarray who rode beside them watched them closely, wondering at the fervor of upperworld folk to save a foreign land.
They did not reach the plain that night but camped on the escarpments, and finished their descent the next morning. By the evening of the second day they had crossed the plain and were at the foot of the mountains, nearing the deep passage that, two days hence, would bring them up into the heart of battle. They were dismounting to make camp at the foot of the mountains when a captain shouted, and men began to point up toward the peaks. Something was flying toward them above the mountain, its thin shadow shifting and gliding across the granite sky. In the falling green light its wings shone golden. It flew with great power, its broad wings describing long, slow sweeps. “A griffon,” whispered one of the priests, and the Zzadarray warriors smiled and sheathed their swords. But Helsa rode tense in the saddle and the swords of her troops were drawn.
The Griffon dropped toward them. At the last moment its golden wings snapped out to break its fall; it thundered earthward, driving the horses back so they reared and shied. Its rider’s sword was drawn, and as the Griffon came to rest and his rider faced the Catswold troops, a sigh escaped the Zzadarray warriors. She was Catswold and there was about her a presence that held them staring.
She was beautiful and slim. Her piebald hair was tangled from the wind of the Griffon’s wings, hair of red and gold and platinum and black, the hair of a true Catswold queen. She was dressed in fighting leathers, and she held her sword comfortably. Her eyes were as green as the emerald which hung between her breasts, drawing the gaze of every warrior—an emerald circled by two golden cats, twin of the pendant Helsa wore. The young Catswold woman ignored Helsa; she seemed to see only the faces of the warriors. Helsa stared at her, white and still, then lunged suddenly, spurring her horse to a leaping charge, her sword leveled at the woman’s throat.
Melissa felt the Griffon tense, and a dozen emotions swept her as the girl’s sword flashed and she parried with her own. The Griffon twisted, knocking the girl’s horse to its knees, and Melissa slashed her sword aside. She grabbed the horse’s bridle, snubbing him, and pressed her sword to the girl’s chest, knowing she could kill her with one thrust. She was shocked at how young the girl was, maybe fifteen. Though her green stare was far older, brazen with street cunning.
“Who are you? What is your name?”
“Helsa!” the girl spat. “I am Helsa.” She lunged and tried to snatch away the reins. Melissa slashed her arm, drawing blood, and Helsa’s face filled with hatred.
“Why do you wear the golden robes of a Catswold queen? And what is that stone you wear? Do you claim
“The Am…It is the Am…”
The lie would not come; the girl could not lie within the true amulet’s presence. She stared at the true stone, trying to speak, her face white.
“Name that stone for me. Name the stone you wear.”
Silence.
“Name it! What is it?” Her sword pressed harder. “Where did you get it?”
Still Helsa was silent.
Melissa pulled the reins tighter, jerking Helsa’s horse close. “Name it.”
“It…” She choked, stared at Melissa with rage, and spoke at last as if she could not help but speak, as if she had been forced to do so. “It is—it is a common emerald.”
“Has it power?” Melissa glanced past the girl to the listening troops.
No answer.
“It has…It has no power.” The girl sat up straighter in the saddle, her face sharp with hatred.
“Where do you come from?”
“From—from the upperworld.”
“Tell me why you wear a false amulet.”
