Fearless (Nameless #3)(78)
They walked along the bank of the river for another half mile. A thick fog had settled in the valley. Gryphon could hardly see more than twenty yards in front of him, making it easy to forget that the Allied army tailed them. Luckily they had the river for a guide.
Laden said, “What will become of the boy? I assume your death will make a difficult time for him.”
Gryphon stopped walking. “My affairs are in order, Commander. Why the questions?”
Laden turned back to Gryphon with power in his stance. “I want you to change your mind. It’s still not too late.”
Gryphon stared at him. “I will not.”
Laden sighed and shook his head, laying a heavy arm around his shoulders. “You can’t blame me for trying. Come. Barnabas is as impatient as a lonely woman. Best not to keep him and your mess waiting.”
With every heavy step, Gryphon thought of Ajax and the other men of his mess. He conjured their faces in his mind, cataloging details about each brother—his interests, his family, conversations had, and jokes shared. When he ran out of faces he started from the beginning again. Thoughts of Zo and Joshua and little Tess leaked through the crevasses, but Gryphon dutifully pushed them away every time.
He couldn’t afford to think of what he would lose; only what he would save. Nature demanded a balance for his actions against his people. A payment for the lives lost and those spared. It was simply the way of the world. Gryphon’s head was that payment.
Through the fog, the gentle sound of a second river met Gryphon’s ears. The blurred shape of the sun crested the eastern mountain range. Gryphon hadn’t realized he was cold until the filtered rays kissed his hands and cheeks.
By the time they arrived at the point where the two rivers formed into one, beams of sunlight had dissolved enough of the haze to make the images before him ethereal and dreamlike. The rugged form of Barnabas and a small band of guards appeared on the other side of the bank. Gryphon knew—lost in the mist behind them—sat a patient Ram army. Ahead, on Gryphon’s side of the river, stood his mess brothers with Ajax at the lead.
“We agreed to meet at the peninsula between the two rivers.” Laden never took his eyes away from Barnabas as he spoke. “Neutral territory.”
“I don’t need you to come with me, sir. It won’t be safe.”
“I’m coming,” Laden said.
Following custom, Gryphon walked the traditional three steps behind Commander Laden as they waded through waist-high water to get to the stretch of land in the middle of the two rivers. The pull of the river combined with the unsure, rocky footing made Gryphon almost lose his balance. The water was cold and alive.
He scanned the faces of his former mess again. Ajax struggled to hold his gaze; his head bowed, it seemed, with guilt.
Barnabas waited for them in the center of the strip of land. He rested both hands on the edge of his round shield, making thick triceps jump beneath the healthy layer of fat stored there. “I thought I’d never see you again, Striker.”
Gryphon opened his mouth to respond, but Commander Laden cut off his words. “That was the plan. The years haven’t been kind to you, Barnabas.”
Gryphon looked between the two men and frowned. Striker? Why had Laden never told him? Unimportant information. But Gryphon’s nagging subconscious disagreed.
“Don’t tell me you’re Commander Laden.” Barnabas belted a twisted laugh that turned the air sour. “Is that what you’re calling yourself these days, Troy?”
Troy.
Gryphon took an involuntary step backward. He looked between Commander Laden and Barnabas. Their mouths moved, but all sound muffled. Dozens of memories from Gryphon’s childhood carried a connection to that one name. Taunts from his peers growing up, the extra trainings from his instructors, the promise of more violent yearly beatings … all because of that one name. One terrible legacy from which he’d spent most of his life desperate to escape.
Gryphon looked to Laden to have the Allied Commander correct the mistake. Laden couldn’t be his Striker father.
A mere coincidence.
Gryphon assumed his father had been captured. Killed.
Barnabas saw Gryphon’s confusion and broke into a fit of laughter. “Are you serious, Troy? You honestly didn’t tell the boy?” He sucked back his laughter. His face reddened. His cheeks shook and his voice turned deadly with hate. “Were you too ashamed to let him know who you really are, or too ashamed to claim him?” He gestured between them. “The son repeats the sins of the father. Not a new tragedy, I’m afraid.”
Laden stepped forward, unwilling to return Gryphon’s questioning glare. “My son has come to pay ransom for the lives of his mess. As his blood, I demand the right of substitution.”
Barnabas shook his head. “You forfeited any right you once claimed the day you ran away like a coward with your deformed child. Your son is a traitor, Troy. I will have his head.”
The Commander pushed his traveling cloak off his shoulders to show the Allied Crest embroidered to his chest. “Let me be clear. I am Troy Laden, Commander of the Allies, and I am offering you my life in exchange for my son’s.”
Barnabas, Laden, the two rivers, they all disappeared. Gryphon was back in the front room of his home inside the Gate. He was younger, maybe five or six. Old enough to have his first beating but young enough not to understand why. His mother was rolling out bread dough by the kitchen fire. Gryphon stared up at the spear and shield hanging on the wall, wondering why he never got to meet the man who once wielded the weaponry. Wishing he could believe that his father was an honorable man who hadn’t been captured in battle.