Sagon reined in his horse, sitting easily as the brute sidled beneath him, impatient with the delay. The big warhorse was spectacularly ugly, but could run all day and outfight half the men in his command. They had come to an understanding the first day they met, when the snap of teeth was met with a firm grip on the beast's sensitive upper lip. Since then, man and horse had formed a relationship based on mutual respect for each other's strengths.

His gray eyes narrowed as he looked about him. He sat proud and tall upon the horse, his dark hair caught back from his face in a warrior's knot, exposing his high forehead and heavy brows. Sharp cheekbones gave the otherwise beautiful face an almost cruel appearance. His arms and shoulders were heavily muscled, but not as bulky as one might expect. He had a trim waist and narrow hips, and his legs were lean and strong. Sweeping his dark gray cloak back, he checked the sword on his hip, more out of habit than any fear on his part.

Listening intently to his surroundings, Sagon could detect nothing out of the ordinary. He heard the men behind and around him muttering and complaining, and the snort and stamp of the mounts of the officers. He stared at Beast's pointed ears, flicking this way and that. He trusted the big horse more than most of his men, and knew he would probably get a warning of trouble from his mount first.

Beast's ears pricked up, pointing forward, and he tossed his head in irritation. A moment later, Sagon heard the sounds of the horses headed in his direction, drumming fast and hard on the packed dirt of the road. The scouts came into the war party at full gallop, horses lathered and blowing, as wild-eyed as the men who rode them. Or, rather, boys. The two were just past their sixteenth years, the youngest age that one could enlist in the army, and this was their first real patrol.

For the past summer, there had been rumors of a strange band of peoples coming down from the mountains, killing the villagers that lived along the eastern border, and stealing all the livestock and valuables they could. Sagon's was one of a dozen small bands of soldiers sent out to verify the rumors, assess the extent of the damage, and kill the invaders if possible.

In Sagon's experience, rumors of war tended to be exaggerated. There were always twice the number of the enemy involved, they were two times larger than normal man, and fiercer than any predator ever encountered. Until he could verify the facts for himself, he tended to take these reports with somewhat more than a grain of salt.

" - all dead, all of them - still there, in the village - hundreds of them - pointed teeth - claws like that - demons - "

The boys were talking over each other in their haste to deliver the news. It was clear that whatever they had seen had scared them badly, but Sagon kept in mind that this was their first patrol, their fist experience of death and destruction at first hand.

"Enough!" he roared. "Now, tell me, exactly what you saw."

They approached the village quietly, the officers dismounting to lead their men in on foot. The two boys stayed with the horses in the trees. As they drew closer, Sagon could see that the boys had not exaggerated as much as he had believed. They found the first body just moments later, a small boy of probably ten years. He had three arrows in his back and his skull had been caved in.

Signaling for silence, Sagon drew his sword and crept carefully toward the outermost houses. His band was known for their skills in woodland and mountain fighting, places where cavalry was unpractical and foolish. They excelled in the use of the sword and the knife, even their bare hands were known as lethal weapons. His men could use anything they could pick up, hold, or throw to kill the enemy.

Sneaking into the village, using every piece of cover they could find, the hardened soldiers found themselves sickened by the sight of the dead bodies strewn haphazardly about. Everyone had been killed, including the old women and children, as well as the babies. Sagon's men were honorable warriors, known for their strict discipline. They were ruthless when meeting the enemy, but never carried death to the innocents so often caught up in the battles between powerful men. No rape and plunder for his men, lest they want to meet the same fate.

But this, this was beyond anything he had ever seen. Rage mounted in him as he stalked the vicious killers leaving the village from the other end. This was not war. This was not even murder. This was senseless slaughter. With a roar, he led his men against the invaders.

Sagon got an impression of dark skin and flying hair as he met the first wave of the enemy. These men were somewhat shorter than his six-foot frame, but were heavily muscled and barrel chested. They had strong, sturdy thighs that allowed them to keep their balance as they cut and hacked. Flat black eyes were set far apart in wide, flat faces. Mouths opened in high-pitched ululation as the battle was joined.

Any thought of strategy or formation was lost in the melee of blood and screaming that followed. They pursued and were pursued among the buildings of the village. They should have been evenly matched, the number of men in the raiding party just slightly higher than that of Sagon's band. He relied on their training and discipline to even the odds.

They should have been evenly matched, in numbers. But these people were not like others he had fought. As Sagon pulled his sword from yet another dead man, a shrill scream drew his attention. A woman, obviously pregnant, rushed at him from behind another building. By the way she was holding the sword, she knew how to use it. This woman was not like the simpering girls at court, nor was she like the simple farm folk he was used to. She was every bit a warrior as any man in her group.

Sagon fought fiercely to defend himself, some part of his brain refusing to believe that he was giving ground to a woman, and a pregnant one at that. A deep cut along his arm convinced him, and without another thought he ran her through.

He stared in disbelief at the dead woman at his feet, trying to come to terms with this bizarre occurrence. He hoped the rest of his men understood what they were up against. Looking around, he couldn't see any of his men in sight, but he could hear the fighting not far away. Wearily, he scanned the area for any more of the enemy. Ignoring the blood running down his left arm, he made his way toward the sounds of battle.

As he passed a building, movement caught his eye. He turned his head as a sharp pain speared the back of his right thigh. A child stood just a few steps from him, long tangled black hair making it impossible to tell if it was a boy or a girl. But the wild gleam of triumph in the eyes let him know that this child had just thrown a knife with amazing accuracy. Gritting his teeth, Sagon pulled the dagger from his leg just as the child drew another one from somewhere behind its back.

Instinctively, Sagon threw the weapon he was holding, striking the creature in the throat. He stared in horror as the body writhed on the ground, choking on its own blood. 'Gods in heaven, they're women and children. What are these people? Are they possessed?'

A panting soldier ran up to him. "Sir, the women, they're fighting, sir. And the children. What do we do?" The man's eyes widened in shock as a strangled, gurgling sound signaled the end to Sagon's erstwhile attacker.

"Kill them all," Sagon said, in a cold tone that allowed for no discussion. "Kill every one of them. Men, women, children. I don't care. I want them all dead. All."

"Sir -" The man stopped, an arrow suddenly sprouting from his chest. Sagon turned to see a young girl, probably thirteen or fourteen, duck around the same building the other child had attacked from.

As quickly as possible, Sagon joined the bulk of his men, or what was left of them, in the center of the village. They had lost about half their number, and the men left looked confused and uncertain.

"Kill them all!" Sagon roared. "The women fight as fiercely as their men, and the children are better warriors than most of you louts."

The voice of command was all they needed. Most of them had come to that conclusion already, but to hear their commanding officer confirm it gave them the confidence they needed to take the offensive. By the time the sun set, the only human beings still alive in the village were the remnants of Sagon's band of soldiers.

Sagon never knew if the dagger that had pierced his thigh had been poisoned, or if the resulting infection was just the unfortunate consequence of such a deep wound. The trip back home was long and slow, and he drifted in and out of delirium most of the time. Faces haunted his dreams, those he had loved and those he had killed.

He saw again his daughter, killed by a fall from a horse on her twelfth birthday. But sometimes her face changed, from the delicate pale ivory to the swarthy dark skin of a slightly older girl, holding a knocked arrow pointed straight at his heart. His wife visited his dreams as well, whispering words of love and devotion. Once again, he leaned over her swollen belly, laughing as he felt the baby within move and kick. But then her soft words would become a scream of rage, and he found himself pulling his sword from the belly of the unknown pregnant woman who had wielded her sword with such ease.

The woman often visited him, telling him what a filthy murderer he was, what a monster to kill a mother and her unborn child. His wife stared at him with eyes much too large for her face as she cradled the body of their daughter in her arms, the head falling at such an awkward angle. She had never recovered, and they had no more children. That next winter, she succumbed to the lung sickness that swept through the land every year. Over the weeks that followed, he was visited by all those he had slain in his long career as a soldier.

By the time they returned to the capitol, Sagon was sick and weary, in body and soul. He met with the Queen's Captain of the Guard and made his report. At first, the man was inclined to believe that Sagon's wound and illness were influencing his account of the battle. But the testimony of his men, and the survivors of other bands that came in, convinced him that Sagon had been telling the truth. Even though Sagon had lost fully half of his men in the engagement, there were other bands where only one or two returned, and two that were never heard of again.

His wound had healed, but healed badly. The right leg ached with too much exercise, or when the wind blew from the north, or when he tossed and turned all night with the dreams that would not leave him in peace. He contacted the Captain and told him of his intentions to leave the army of the Queen.

Two weeks later, Sagon limped down the long hallway to the Queen's reception room. As he started to kneel, she reached out a hand to stop him. "No, please, sir. I have heard of your wound and would not wish you any further discomfort. Julius, my Captain of the Guard, has made me aware of your long history of outstanding service to the crown. In honor of your great accomplishments, I wish to present you with a small token of my gratitude."

The Captain handed her a small, ornately decorated wooden box. "This is yours, for as long as you may need it. Please return it when you are through. I wish you healing and happiness."

Sagon rose and bowed to his ruler, leaving the room as quickly as possible. He had not asked anything of her, had not expected any token of gratitude. There was nothing, nothing that could make up for the horrors he had witnessed over his lifetime, and the horrors he had committed so recently.

Anger rose in him as he considered his future. No home, no family, no place for him in the world any longer. 'Token of gratitude', indeed! He had to calm down, had to think what he would do with whatever was left of the rest of his life. A house somewhere, not in town. A little piece of land, maybe some horses. He would have to see how much he had saved up over the years. Thinking of this, his mind turned to the box the queen had given him. She had said to use it as long as he needed to then return it. So, it was not gold or jewels. It was something that still belonged to her.

Curious now, he took the box from the shelf in his small room by the guard's barracks. He sat down on the narrow cot and examined it. The dark wood was covered with the design of some type of animal. Frowning, Sagon stood and crossed to the window, holding the box in the bright sunlight. The wood felt smooth to his fingers, the design formed from the grain of the wood itself.

The animal had the head of a bird, with a sharp curved beak, although the ears were strange, pointed and standing up like those of a horse. Huge wings sprouted from the back of the beast, which seemed to have the body of a lion instead of a bird. Four huge paws were tipped with cruel looking claws. The tail, also, was that of a lion, except that instead of being tipped with fur, it bore a knot of feathers at the end.

Inside, nestled on a bed of silver silk fabric, was a silver key. It was intricately carved with the same design as that of the box. Sagon took the key out and stared at it, trying to remember the name of the animal it represented. After a moment, it came to him. The Gryphon.