After 9 months of writing I finally have the first draft of Griffin Ranger #4 done. I still need to do edits, get it to beta readers, then do the final copyediting. The best I can say about when it will be out is before the end of the year.

In this first chapter we find out what that villainous builder Whitehead has been up to since getting stranded in the Monster Lands at the end of book #2. Let's just say he hasn't been having a great time.

This hasn't been through any kind of copyedit, so there's going to be misspellings and grammar mistakes.

Chapter 1: Hoodoo

They planned the attack on the owls at first light. Everyone had to participate, whether they wanted to or not. Whitehead definitely did not. The great horned owl was as big as a builder, with eight nasty talons, and it knew how to kill. The mangled body of poor Parkat-er proved that. All that remained of her were the wings, a breastbone stripped of flesh, and some feathers. It was a sight he couldn’t forget, no matter how much he tried.

So now Whitehead hunkered on a pine branch, one foot clutching a spear. It was nothing fancy—a straight piece of wood hardened in fire, the tip carved by his beak to a sharp point. The other five builders hiding in the pine with him had similar improvised weapons-- spears tipped with sharp pieces of metal or broken glass. Flock leader Claytor-eet had an actual knife, stolen from one of the locals. He would lead the attack.

It took nearly two weeks of careful reconnaissance to locate the owl’s nest, in a repurposed raven nest near the top of a lightning-shattered pine. The male roosted nearby in one of the odd, towering rock formations the locals called “hoodoos.” It took more days of observation before both birds were away from the nest long enough to get into position. A second group of three builders waited for the male in some rocks on a nearby hoodoo, camouflaging themselves with leaves and branches. Both groups had been hiding for an hour, getting into place while the owls hunted. That flight through the night-black forest, knowing the owls were out there somewhere, was one of the most harrowing things Whitehead had ever done. And over the past year he’d endured a lot of harrowing things.

Absolute silence was necessary. No talking, no rustling of feathers, no grumbling complaints about the chill or the long wait. The owl’s hearing could pick out a mouse moving through the pine needles a hundred yards away, and if it attacked at night the builders would be at a terrible disadvantage. Whitehead’s feet ached from holding onto the spear and the branch, while dew beaded on everyone’s feathers, deepening the chill. But they had to wait until both owls were in place, no matter how long it took.

The female ghosted back to the nest first, while it was still dark. She made no sound as she landed, settling on the two eggs. Claytor-eet nodded to Rakk-er, the best mimic in the flock.

“Poor-will!” Rakk-er hooted. “Poor-will!”

The owl’s head swiveled in their direction, but clumps of pine needles and cones hid them effectively. As long as they didn’t move, she shouldn’t see them. The “poor-will” was a common call of one of the native night birds, the signal to the group waiting for the male that the female was back at the nest. There was no answering call in return, which meant the male wasn’t in place yet.

The male flew in as the sky changed from black to gray, a mouse dangling from his beak. If it took him all night to find one lousy mouse, Whitehead thought, we’ll be doing the owl world a favor by killing him. There was a lot of hissing and posturing as the male passed the mouse to the female. She didn’t seem impressed, and hit him with her wings until he flew off.

Whitehead’s heart pounded as they waited for the signal indicating the male was at his roost. He didn’t want to do this, and spoke against the attack. It was just too risky. Anyone who got seriously injured would probably die, and new owls would simply move into the vacant territory. But he wasn’t the flock leader here, and Claytor-eet wanted revenge. Unless Whitehead wanted to be banished, which was as good as a death sentence, he had to take part in the attack.

Once the male left, the female stopped hissing and gulped the mouse down whole. Then she fluffed her feathers and settled onto the nest, preparing for a long day of incubation. Time inched by as the local birds woke, filling the trees with their chirps and song. Overhead, one of the flying machines etched a white line through the sky, the distant roar of its engines drifting down to them.

Finally, a faint “poor-will” came from the hoodoos. The female owl didn’t even twitch at the call, but the builder flock stirred, waiting for Claytor-eet to give the signal to attack.

He didn’t waste time. Screeching, Claytor-eet launched from his perch, flying right at the incubating owl. The other builders screamed and followed him. There was no plan other than attack with overwhelming force before the owl reacted. The second group should be going after the male, but Whitehead didn’t have time to wonder how they were doing.

The female’s head twisted back at the noise, instantly spotting the flock of six builders charging towards her, shrieking battle cries. She raised her wings, maybe to fly, maybe to fend off the attackers, but Claytor-eet plowed into her before she could do anything else.

He used his momentum to drive the knife into the owl’s body. The owl screeched and battered him with her free wing as the other builders arrived. They swarmed over her, pinning her to the nest with their weight. Whitehead found an opening and shoved his spear into the owl’s body, pushing until the tip went right through her into the nest. Others slashed and stabbed with their beaks, hitting her on the head and wings.

A builder screamed as the owl’s talons sank into her body. Rannant-er’s failing wings hit Whitehead as she tried to pull free, shrieking.

Pushing the screaming builder aside, Whitehead tried to see where the talons went in. “Don’t pull, idiot! You’ll just get yourself more hurt!”

As soon as he spotted which leg had Rannant-er, Whitehead closed his beak on it, fighting to cut through the bone. But the tarsus, meant to hold struggling prey, was the thickest bone the owl had. He ripped through the skin and scales, but couldn’t sever the limb.

“Here! I’ll do it!” Claytor-eet seized the owl’s leg. The largest builder in the flock, it only took a few seconds until his beak snapped through the bone, sending Rannant-er falling backwards in the nest.

The owl was dead, spears sticking out of its body, a gaping hole smashed through the skull into the brain. Whitehead panted, his whole body trembling from the aftermath of the battle. The other builders were just as disheveled, but the only one who appeared to be hurt was Rannant-er.

“Get-it-off-get-it-off!!” she wailed, sprawled on her back with the severed owl foot still clutching her body.

“Hold still!” Brell-er studied how the talons were imbedded. The closest thing they had to a medical savant, what little skills Brell-er possessed didn’t amount to much. Like most of the stranded builders, she was an engineer. But both her parents worked in a health clinic, and she’d picked up some of it helping them as a juvenile.

“I’m going to work the talons out,” she said. “It’s going to hurt, but don’t move or you’ll cause more damage.”

Rannant-er managed to remain still, but screamed non-stop as Brell-er delicately crunched through each of the owl’s four toes, severing the tendons keeping the foot clenched, before withdrawing the black claws.

“It doesn’t look like they went that in too deep,” she said. “It should stop bleeding in a minute.” Nobody voiced the real concern—they had no way to sterilize the wound, and as soon as the monster world’s deadly parasites took hold, Rannant-er would die. They had no medicines, no healer animals to help. Over the past year they’d lost two of their number to illness and infection, and Rannant-er was probably going to be the third.

“Ahkk!” Claytor-eet flapped his wings. “Parkat-er is avenged! Good job, everyone. Grab your weapons and let’s go see if the others need any help.”

“No need,” Whitehead spotted one of the second group flying towards them.

“Success, flock leader!” The builder landed on the nest. His claws and beak were bloody, but he seemed uninjured. “The male is dead, and we took no wounds.”

Whitehead turned away from the newcomer. He was Wicher-eet, a survivor from the lab building, and someone Whitehead particularly hated. An auditor from the Emerald Islands, his snooping and questions caused so much trouble that Whitehead sent him to the lab building as soon as possible. Yes, Wicher-eet’s superiors wanted to know what happened to him, but stonewalling them indefinitely was a small price to pay for getting rid of him.

Claytor-eet bobbed his head, and Wicher-eet puffed up with pride. “It’s always a pleasure to serve you.” He said, bowing low. Whitehead bit back any comments, seething inside. He’d seen a lot of sycophants in his time as flock leader, and Wicher-eet was one of the worse.

“Excellent!” Claytor-eet strutted along the edge of the nest, posturing. “I know you’re all anxious to eat, so let’s get to it.”

At one time Whitehead would have been disgusted and horrified at the thought of eating a dead owl raw. Not any more. The flock was so desperate for protein that the owl was a bounty they couldn’t let go to waste. So he tore into the bird along with the others, getting his beak and face bloody as he ripped off pieces of muscle and fat, gulping them down as fast as he could. There was enough there for everyone, but it tasted so revolting the only way he could eat it was to get it down quickly.

Somehow both owl eggs survived the melee. After they reduced the carcass to a bloody mess, Claytor-eet rolled them out for everyone to see. Despite being full of owl meat, Whitehead really wanted one of those eggs. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had anything so good.

As soon as he had that thought, Claytor-eet leaned down and stabbed an egg with his beak, tilting it up and draining the contents into his mouth. As flock leader, he had first pick of any food, so Whitehead could do nothing as the yolk disappeared down the other’s gullet.

“I think Rannant-er should have the second one,” Claytor-eet rolled the remaining egg over to the injured builder. The others chattered in agreement as Rannant-er gratefully devoured it. Whitehead thought it a waste to give that delicacy to someone who was probably going to die, but, as usual, he kept his beak shut.

Finally, Claytor-eet and another male hacked off the owl’s wings to take back to the roost. Lightweight, they would make excellent covers for the roost’s windows and door. Exhausted, and with a full crop for once, Whitehead couldn’t wait to get back.

The roost was an impressive feat of builder engineering. Constructed in a tall pinyon pine, they made it with branches cut and shaped by their beaks, lashed together with a mix of stolen ropes and fishing line. Camouflaged with foliage from the same tree, from the ground it just looked like a dense tangle of branches. They chose a remote location on a rocky slope, surrounded by other tall trees that would hide their aerial arrivals and departures. The shelter had perches, a storage area for food and water, and a latrine made from one of those plastic water containers that were everywhere.

It took over two months to build it. Two miserable months of hiding, huddling together during the chilly nights, and sulking around the campgrounds to scavenge food and tools, all the while trying to avoid being spotted by the locals. Now, at least, they had a relatively safe space to relax. It provided shelter from the weather and protection from the many predators that roamed the mountains.

Once inside, Whitehead perched alone, preening the blood off his plumage. The others perched nearby, softly chattering about the attack, ignoring him. That was nothing new. The flock tolerated him, barely. When he found the hiding workers, in those first horrible days after the disaster at the lab and the gate building, some of them wanted to kill him. But the others realized their small flock needed every available beak, sharp eyes and able wings to help them survive. Whitehead’s knowledge of the locals and the surrounding area was invaluable, helping them stay hidden for weeks.

Eventually, two escapees from the lab building found them. They had enough feathers to fly, barely, but otherwise were half naked from plucking. Both were deranged, and talked non-stop. They made so much racket that it attracted the attention of the locals, who were actively hunting the builders. As much as they didn’t want to leave the vicinity of the gate building, they had to flee or risk being found.

Where to go? Flying into the densely populated eastern part of the continent was not an option. Neither was heading north, where the harsh winter weather would kill them if the locals didn’t get them first. So they went west. Flying at high altitude during the day, out of sight from the ground, they crossed land that became increasingly arid and hostile. Surviving by rooting through trash or stealing unattended food, they finally stopped in the mountainous desert. It was far from ideal. Brutally hot most of the year, freezing in the winter, there was little water and a lot of predators. But it was far from cities and farms, with pines and oaks that produced edible seeds. The locals used certain spots to set up temporary dwellings in an odd activity called ‘camping.’ The flock regularly patrolled those areas, sneaking in to steal food and any useful items.

After a while, the two escapees from the lab building regained most of their sanity. They still plucked, sometimes, and had terrifying nightmares and flashbacks to their time at the lab. During those periods, the flock was especially cold towards him, since he sent the builders there in the first place.

So, they survived. No one discussed any long-term plans. With decades of life still ahead of them, were they simply going to eke out an existence there? Until they died, one by one, from the land’s vicious parasites, or the locals tracked down and killed them. Whitehead tried not to think about it, but it remained with him during those long nights, while the tree shuddered and groaned from the winds.