The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy)

by K J Taylor

  Still, he looked back over his list of misdeeds with a kind of wonder. He had to admit that hanging was probably too good for him by now.

  The thought of his impending execution rose up horribly in his mind. Without thinking, he wrapped his good hand around his throat. The same throat that had been cool and lifeless for months now, the same one he had touched obsessively every day ever since that night.

  Once again, he asked himself the one question that had yet to be answered. The question whose answer would change everything.

  Can I be killed?

  Erian woke up early on the day of the execution. He had slept badly the night before, but anticipation woke him up like a slap to the face.

  He rolled over in bed, feeling as if his stomach was being wrung out. It wasn’t excitement, and it wasn’t fear; he probed for both emotions while he got dressed.

  He smoothed down his new blue velvet tunic and tried to flatten his hair, doing his best to ignore the fluttering in his chest. He could hear Senneck moving around in her nesting chamber and hurried to get her some food before she came to complain.

  Half a carcass had been hung up the night before in a cupboard used for just that purpose. He lifted it out one-handed, holding it away from his body, and carried it through the archway.

  Senneck crouched in her big untidy nest, busy grooming her chest feathers. She didn’t look up when Erian came in and only moved when the meat was in front of her, hooking it toward herself with her beak.

  Erian left her to eat. He felt too queasy to bother with his own breakfast. How soon would it be? When would they bring the murderer up out of his cell to face the noose?

  To distract himself, he looked up at the sword that hung over the fireplace. His father’s sword, lost for all those months but now back with its rightful owner.

  Erian lifted it down, admiring it yet again. A two-handed weapon, meant for battle, its bronze hilt decorated with griffin designs. On the blade just below that, the name had been etched. Rannagon Raegonson.

  The blade itself was a little rusted now, from when it had fallen into his hands. Who knew what it had been used for in that time?

  Erian grimaced and clutched the hilt more tightly. It made him furious to think that his own father’s sword, the sword of the great hero Lord Rannagon, must have been used at the massacre at Guard’s Post. A beautiful sword meant for a mighty griffiner lord, turned into a murder weapon.

  Not for the first time, Erian wished he had used the sword to cut Arenadd to pieces the moment his father’s murderer had given it back. And he probably would have if he’d had the chance.

  Still, he would go and watch the filthy blackrobe hang, and that would be enough. Lord Rannagon’s murder would be avenged.

  Senneck entered to interrupt him. “I have eaten, and now I am ready to leave. I do not want to miss this day.”

  Erian clumsily put the sword back onto its hooks. “Let’s go, then.”

  Senneck had brought her harness; she dropped it at his feet. “Put this on me, and we will fly.”

  Erian strapped it on over her head and neck, where it would provide handholds for him. She walked back through her nest and onto the balcony beyond, and he climbed onto her back, holding on awkwardly thanks to his wounded shoulder.

  She must have been in a daring mood that morning, because once he was safely on she moved forward to the edge, which had no railing, and stepped off into space. For one long, screaming moment they were falling, headfirst. Erian wrenched at the harness, yelling something completely incoherent, but Senneck ignored him. Her wings opened, and with one quick blow she lifted herself out of the dive and flew leisurely down toward the open space outside the Eyrie gates.

  There were other griffins already there. She landed a short distance away from them and allowed Erian to get off. He hit the ground and nearly fell over, but managed to recover himself—more for fear of looking stupid in front of the other griffiners than anything else.

  Senneck didn’t seem to notice. “Come now, let us find a good place to stand,” she said, already walking off.

  Erian followed, light-headed.

  There were more griffiners here than he would have expected, and even more griffins. He wondered why. They couldn’t know the murderer as well as he did, and there was no way they could hate him half as much. Griffins were almost indifferent to this sort of thing.

  Senneck had chosen a place near the edge, keeping her distance from the larger griffins nearby. Erian came to stand just in front of her, beneath her beak—the traditional place for a griffiner to stand, under his partner’s protection.

  Ahead of them, downhill from the Eyrie gates, the platform stood. It had a clear space in front of it, where the common people of the city had gathered. Most of them were Northerners, all black-haired and black-eyed. For some reason Erian’s tension increased at the sight of them.

  Foreboding, he thought. That’s it.

  The platform itself was almost featureless. A lever stuck up at the centre, below a wooden beam.

  The noose dangled in between.

  Erian’s foreboding increased. He stared at the noose, unable to stop himself wondering what it would feel like around his neck. He wondered how long it would take the murderer to die and how painful it would be.

  He thought of his father’s death and hoped it would be as painful as possible.

  His bravado dribbled away when Arenadd finally came into sight. Two guards appeared, having emerged from the Eyrie somewhere behind the crowd of griffiners. Two more walked behind them, weapons drawn.

  The first two were on either side of Arenadd, whose hands were tied behind his back, and they held on to his elbows and pushed him along. Both of them had their own weapons close to hand.

  When Erian saw them, a queasy jolt in his stomach brought him back to reality. He tried to fight down his fear, struggling to replace it with something braver, such as hatred. He shouldn’t be afraid of this man, not any more, not now when he was helpless.

  Arenadd’s head turned toward Erian, and his heart froze.

  In daylight, the murderer’s face looked even worse. Pale, like any Northerner’s, but the features that had once been angular were now swollen and ugly. One eye had disappeared under an eyelid that had turned purple, and the cheek below it bulged as if he had something in his mouth.

  The other eye stared straight at Erian. An unreadable Northern eye, fixed on his face.

  For an instant Erian was paralysed, but in the brief moment that stare lasted, his fear finally swung around into rage. This man, this wretched, broken blackrobe, had taken his father and destroyed hundreds of lives. He had no right to make Erian afraid, not now.

  Without so much as a thought, Erian broke away from the crowd. He ran past the guards and headed them off. They halted, instantly pointing their weapons at him.

  Erian ignored them. He faced Arenadd, breathing hard through his nose. “I swore I’d see you brought to justice, blackrobe. Now I have.”

  Arenadd gave a lopsided sneer. “If you say so,” he said, slurring a little.

  The guards tried to move around Erian, but he sidestepped. “This is for my father,” he said, and punched Arenadd in the stomach as hard as he could.

  Arenadd lurched backward and would have fallen if the guards hadn’t pulled him back. They shoved Erian out of the way and hauled their prisoner toward the platform. He struggled along between them, wheezing.

  Erian let the little group pass and fell into step behind them. They didn’t stop him; they all knew who he was. This was his right.

  As Erian reached the top of the stairs, he heard someone coming up behind him. He hopped up the last few steps and turned, backing off to get out of the way.

  “Elkin!” he blurted.

  She offered him a faint smile. “Good morning, Lord Erian.”

  He could feel himself blushing. “I, uh, I . . .” He coughed. “I want to see this properly. If you don’t mind.”

  “Of course you may,” she
said briefly, and walked toward the front of the platform.

  Erian stayed where he was and watched her. He had never felt so awkward in his life.

  The Mighty Kraal hadn’t come up onto the platform; there was no room for him there. He had stayed where he was at the forefront of the assembled griffiners, watching in silence.

  Erian couldn’t see Senneck from here.

  Arenadd had been taken to stand just below the noose. Two guards kept hold of him, while one of the others took up his station by the lever.

  Elkin stood at the front of the platform, to one side so the crowd could see the condemned man. “Arenadd Taranisäii,” she began, “also known as Arren Cardockson of Eagleholm, you have been found guilty of the following crimes.” She began to list them all, patiently reciting each one from memory.

  “. . . treason, sedition and consorting with rebels,” she finished eventually, her quiet, clear voice carrying over the crowd quite well. “For these crimes, the Master of Law for the territory of Malvern, acting under authority from myself as Mistress of Malvern’s Eyrie, has laid down the sentence of death by hanging.” She glanced at Arenadd. “Under our laws, as a former griffiner you have the right to speak before the sentence is carried out. Speak now, or I will assume that you have waived that right.”

  Arenadd’s pale face had turned even paler, but his open eye was alight. “I swear,” he said. And then again, much louder: “I swear. I swear on my dead heart that no Southerner will ever have power over me again.”

  The crowd was staring at him. Nobody spoke.

  “And the same goes for the rest of you!” Arenadd yelled. “You cowards! Will you let the Southerners grind you into the mud forever? Or will you do something about it?”

  The eerie silence broke, and the crowd of Northerners began to shout. In anger or agreement—who knew?

  Elkin had already nodded to the guards. One of them took the noose and put it over Arenadd’s head, pulling it tight. He fought back then, hurling himself bodily at them and head-butting one in the face. He kicked the other one in the kneecap before both men retreated out of his reach. There was no need to hold him any more.

  Elkin didn’t wait for things to calm down. “Sentence will now be carried out,” she said, her voice lost in the uproar.

  The crowd had not stopped shouting. Erian thought he could make out one thing, repeated by many voices. Dark Lord, Dark Lord, Dark Lord.

  Arenadd spat at the guard by the lever. “Pull the damn thing and be done with it.”

  “Gryphus will burn you forever!” Erian shouted as the guard obeyed.

  The trapdoor opened, and Arenadd fell. The noose pulled him up short with a hideous crack and a jerk, and after a brief struggle he hung there, swinging gently back and forth.

  3

  The Night God’s Promise

  Death, for Arenadd, was darkness.

  He felt the brief lurch of his stomach as the trapdoor gave way beneath him. Felt his neck break. Heard it—that sick, muffled crack. There was no time for pain.

  He felt his body convulse as utter blackness swallowed him, and after that he couldn’t feel anything. His body and all his senses were gone, and the world around him became an icy void.

  He floated through it in silence, drifting away from life and into absolute nothingness. But one thing had stayed with him.

  The voice.

  Arenadd. Arenadd. Listen to me, Arenadd. Speak to me.

  No sign of anyone. Only a voice that seemed to come from everywhere at once.

  Arenadd. You cannot run from me. You cannot hide from me.

  And, at last, he replied. “Go away.”

  As if his words were a signal, the void changed, and he found himself standing—standing on a surface he couldn’t see, no different from the blackness all about.

  And she was there.

  She looked like a woman, a Northerner like himself. She didn’t seem to have an age. Her only clothing was a silver mantle that covered her shoulders and nothing else. In one hand she held a sickle. She held the other hand out, palm up, and there was the full moon, somehow floating between her fingers.

  The Night God.

  Arenadd tried to back away from her, but there was no space to do it. “I told you to leave me alone.”

  I do not abandon my people, the Night God said. Even if you have done so.

  “You know I only wound up like this to save Skade and Saeddryn. And her friends.” Arenadd remembered something, and wrapped his fingers around his throat. “And now they’ve killed me. Again.”

  You tried to kill the Bastard, the Night God admitted. I am pleased that you tried.

  “Tried, failed. Who cares? It’s not going to do me any good now.”

  Faithless darkman! She pointed the sickle at him. I could have helped you, but you did not listen! Your mind was full of cowardice and doubt. You did not intend to obey me but to try and hide from me, as you have tried since boyhood to hide your own true self.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Arenadd said sourly.

  You have lied to yourself long enough, said the Night God. You are a Northerner. The world would not let you forget, and neither shall I. Accept it.

  “I have.” Arenadd pulled up the sleeve of his robe, showing the spiralling tattoos. “I accepted it when I got these.”

  Then accept me!

  “Why should I? What did you ever do for me? I only ever prayed to you once, and you ignored me.”

  I heard you.

  “And did nothing!” Arenadd raged. “I prayed to you; I asked you to save me! And you let me die. You let me fall hundreds of feet, break every bone in my body and then drown in my own blood! So forgive me if I don’t look overly impressed!”

  The Night God’s expression did not change. She lifted the glowing white orb in her hand and placed it into the black hole where her right eye should have been. Your death was inevitable .

  “You could have stopped it!”

  No. There was nothing I could do. The Night God’s other eye, her black Northern eye, stayed fixed on Arenadd’s face. I am not a part of the solid world. All of my powers are wielded through my people. And that is why I chose you. Her expression grew distant. Many years ago, a man called Padrig was kept in the cell where you suffered. He was tortured until he was near madness, but he would not speak. Rather than betray his people, he ended his own life. In his final moments, he cried out to me. “Help us, Night God. Save us.” I hear every true prayer. I heard his. And I heard another voice. A young man called to me on the final night of his life. When he did so, I knew that a part of him had begun to long for me. And so I chose to give him my greatest blessing. My greatest trust.

  “I was scared witless,” Arenadd mumbled. “Of course I prayed. I couldn’t think of anything else by that point.”

  And so, in your desperation, you came to me. And when I appeared to you at last, you swore to do my bidding.

  “What else was I supposed to do? I thought you would kill me if I didn’t.”

  But you want to obey, said the Night God. You long to obey. I feel it in you.

  Arenadd said nothing.

  The Night God smiled very slightly. You still have a chance. Give yourself to me completely, and I will send you back. Commit to my cause, and I will give you all you desire. Love me, and I shall love you.

  “You mean I can go back? I can wake up?”

  Yes. I will send you back, and your true powers will be unlocked. You will have another chance to kill your enemy and to destroy all those that have stood in your way.

  “And then?”

  When you were a boy, you dreamt of becoming the greatest and most powerful griffiner ever to live. Fight in my name, and you shall have your desire.

  Arenadd began to smile. “My own Eyrie? A proper home for me and Skandar?”

  And freedom for your people. The Night God’s expression softened. They suffer, Arenadd. Their lives are far harder than yours. You had power and privilege once;
they have never had either.

  “I know that—”

  The time has passed for you to think as a griffiner does, Arenadd. Fight for them . . . and so fight for me.

  Arenadd shook his head slowly. “You’re right. My life ended a long time ago. If I have to be this—this thing I am now, then I should use it. Try to make a difference again. What choice do I have, anyway? There’s nowhere else for me to go.” He looked up at her. “I’ll do it.”

  Then swear yourself to me.

  He knelt. “I’ll do it. I hate the Southerners as much as you do. I’ll make them suffer for what they did to us. I’ll kill Rannagon’s bastard. I’ll set the North free and make it ours . . . master.”

  Rise.

  He obeyed. “Now what?”

  The Night God said nothing more. She reached out, pulled him toward her and took him in her arms. Then she kissed him.

  Her lips were icy against his, and for a moment he tried to pull away—until he felt the power flowing into his body. Her lips were cold, but her power was colder. It filled him from end to end, rushing through his veins like blood, but it was dark and lifeless—and familiar.

  As it moved in him, he felt his senses come back. Light touched his eyes, and he began to breathe. Before the void left altogether, he heard the voice of the Night God one final time. Use the shadows, Dark Lord.

  When Arenadd woke up, he felt wonderful. All the pain in his body had gone, and new strength had replaced it.

  His eye opened, and the first thing he saw was the hated face of Erian looking down at him. The instant he saw it, rage gripped him. Erian the Bastard, who had become a griffiner in front of him and mocked his own disgrace. Erian, who had sold Arenadd’s parents into slavery. Erian, who had hunted him across Cymria and finally dragged him to Malvern and handed him over to be tortured and killed. Erian, the one his new master wanted dead.

  All those thoughts flew through his mind in a moment. Then Erian saw him move.

  His scream shattered the stillness as he reeled away, one arm flailing for a sword that wasn’t there.

  Arenadd sat up—his hands were untied!—and was on his feet in an instant. He didn’t even bother to look around and see where he was. He ran straight at Erian, eye fixed on his throat.