Crewel Lye by Piers Anthony Read Free Book Online

claws gripped the bark. Startled, he jumped right off the branch and plunged like a rock, or maybe I mean a roc, before he spread his wings and pulled out of the dive. He wasn't one bit pleased. I suspect I wouldn't be, either, waking up like that, with a woman screaming at me about some creature violating her privacy. Maybe that's another reason I was wary of marriage; like the boundary to the Void, it's apt to be a one-way trip into who-knows-what.
    It took only a moment for the male griffin to catch on that the pooka had started this. He wheeled in the air and swooped after the ghost horse, who had recovered sense enough to gallop out of there at top speed. I followed as fast as I could.
    The pooka was fast, despite the chains, when he ran full-out; but so was the griffin in flight, and he wasn't carrying any extra weight. I think, if the pooka had been fresh or had better running turf, he could have escaped. But the ground was getting marshy here, and there were many trees, so the terrain hampered the ghost horse somewhat. The griffin was able to swoop efficiently around the trees, so he gained.
    The griffin pulled up above the pooka and pounced--and I was too far away to do anything. I could only run after them, and watch. Even if I had been within arrow range, I'm not sure I would have used my bow, because, if I killed the griffin, it would have left the griffiness alone on her nest, unable to forage without leaving her egg or whatever, and I really didn't like to do that. Meeting a griffin in battle is one thing; messing up nesting arrangements is another. Yes, I know this sounds foolish, but you can't live in the wilderness long without developing a solid respect for the creatures there. These griffins had not been looking for trouble; the pooka had started it because I was chasing him, which really made the whole thing my fault. I can kill creatures when I'm right, but not when I'm wrong. So I was really pretty well helpless, regardless.
    The griffin landed on the pooka's back, and his beak pecked down--and struck one of the chains. Ouch! The griffin, dazed by the pain, tried to fly up and couldn't, because one of his claws was caught in another chain.
    The pooka bucked, trying to throw off the griffin; the griffin wanted to go, but could not. Then the pooka charged under an overhanging branch, and that scraped the griffin off, the hard way. He fluttered, turning over in the air, and bounced on his back on the ground. Little stars and planets of discomfort radiated out from him as he bounced. He scrambled upright and took to the air again, unsteadily, trailing lingering squiggles of confusion and dismay. He had forgotten about the pooka, who did not linger to remind him. The griffin lurched back toward the nest-tree, radiating evanescent wattles of sweat. One hardly ever sees a griffin sweat! I ran on after the ghost horse.
    The marsh grew marshier, as such things tend to do, and my boots squished in it. I didn't like this, but had to keep after the pooka. The ghost horse didn't like it, either. He veered south, heading for higher ground, but it became apparent that the mountains visible to the south were too far away to do much good for some time. So he turned west, and I followed, and we slogged up toward a bright wall. Evidently this region was outside the pooka's normal range; he wasn't quite certain where he was going.
    The closer we got to the wall to the west, the brighter it became--and the worse the land got. Now it was a virtual bog--and triangular colored fins appeared in it, traveling at high speed. A green one came near me and rose up out of the muck; I saw that it was a big fish with a mouthful of teeth. The fish leaped at me, teeth first, so I whipped out my trusty sword and stabbed the creature in the snout.
    “Ooo, ouch!” the fish cried, plopping back into the muck. “You didn't have to do that! All I wanted was to loan you something.”
    I didn't trust talking fish. “What did you expect in