Talontale

1: Kingspit

Black dots circling against the pale blue sky is all they are, flickering in and out of sight through the heat-shimmer in the air. The shimmer of silver and gold in their plumage, the proud flick of their lion's tail, the sharpness of their eagle's eye and beak and talon - all is lost in the distance. Still no one doubts their presence; they are there.

It would be a cause for concern if they were not. None, save possibly the beastmaster himself, knows just what the griphs are looking for as they watch the youths at practice in their final year. Whatever it is, that is what they choose by. They choose their might-be rider, or an able warrior of foot - or another victim to feast on.

One of the boys on the ground tears himself away for a moment from their struggle to prepare for claiming manhood. Panting and wiping the sweat from his eyes, he squints upwards, as if seeking certainty in the sight of them, like a child seeking the eye of its parent. A thrill runs down his spine at the thought that maybe their eyes meet his although he cannot tell. The thermals here, at the edge of the desert and the feet of the mountains where they have their home, easily carry them unimaginably high in the sky.

Once, in his thirteenth year, he had worked up the audacity to ask the beastmaster what it is they look for. You'll find out the hard way, was the unhelpful answer. And if it's something you don't have, it's the last thing you ever find out.

Arik has a feeling that the beastmaster sees just that fate for him. That wouldn't be so bad if he had a better feeling himself. But whenever he sees the griphs up close, he feels like a mouse by a cat, freezing in the hope of escaping notice.

That might be what they see in him even now, looking down from the blue-yellow vastness. Easy prey. A convenient meal served up inside the Circle of Passing.

Within the Circle, there's no escaping notice. And there are only two ways of leaving the Circle. As a warrior, or as a feast for the griph.

How they can tell the boys apart from up there under the sky - a shifting tumble of bodies, all brown of skin and hair, dusted over with desert yellow - is a source of awe to him. He wonders what the world looks like from the back of one of them. He probably wouldn't be able to spot anything smaller than an elephant from that altitude. But then he doesn't have the eyes of a griph.

Nor does he have the sense of a warrior yet, as he is painfully reminded when his feet are suddenly swept away under him, sending him flat on his back. Even though all that breakfall practice pays off, the wind is knocked out of him for a moment, carrying with it a slight tang of blood to mingle with the dry dust caking them all. A few more bruises on his back added to the crowd, nothing serious, just so unnecessary.

As the stars clear before his eyes, he recognizes the face glaring down into his. Of course. Strongest warrior in their age group, first among peers, the obvious choice as team captain and possessor of scarce patience for the gentler sides of life. Who else but Starkad?

"Quit dreaming, runt," he growls, "and keep the post I put you in!"

Arik bites down around at least three different retorts, none of which would do him any good. Instead, he simply flips back to his feet, wipes the sweat from his brow and glares at Starkad with a haughty air, or so he hopes. Slight remedy though it is for humiliation. Unimpressed, Starkad draws himself up to his full height, half a head taller, and looks down on him along the length of his prominent nose, eyes narrow and lips curled.

"So pathetic. You on a griph..." Shaking his head, he chuckles briefly. "You'll be lucky if they chew you up. Leave you for the vultures, more like it. Now stay alert and try to be of some little use!" With that, he turns to throw himself back into the fray.