The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy)

by K J Taylor

  “Hold on!” he yelled to the others. “Don’t panic! Hold on! Whatever you do, hold on!”

  The wind snatched the sound away the instant it was out of his mouth, and he could only hope that they had heard it. If anyone fell off or let go . . . then there was no telling what would happen to them. Even Arenadd felt uncertain of his own safety.

  Arenadd began to panic. Something this extreme must be taking a lot of magic. Maybe too much.

  He knew what could happen to a griffin who used too much magic in one go. It was rare, but griffiners everywhere told stories about it. Some would be weak for a few days. Those were the lucky ones. But if their magic was allowed to drain out of them much longer than that, unconsciousness and death would follow.

  Arenadd pulled on Skandar’s neck feathers. “Skandar! Skandar, stop, now! You’ll hurt yourself! Stop, before—”

  Skandar ignored him. In fact, he sped up. The darkness rushed by, and at last Arenadd heard the others. They were shouting, panicking, scared out of their minds.

  And then, at last, Skandar slowed. Arenadd felt the griffin’s muscles bunch, and he leapt—up and out of the shadows, back into the bright light of the living world.

  Skandar landed with a thump on solid earth, and Arenadd was the only one who kept his seat. Skade tumbled off sideways, nearly dragging him with her, and he let go and slid after her rather than risk pulling out any of Skandar’s feathers. The others had landed much less gracefully. He turned quickly, and relaxed when he saw they were all there, groaning and picking themselves up out of the dirt.

  Once he was free of his burden, Skandar lay down on his belly and groaned softly. “Here now,” he muttered. “Safe.”

  Arenadd went to him. “Skandar, are you all right?”

  The dark griffin yawned and blinked. “Tired. Not hurt. Journey over now; can all rest.”

  The others grouped around Arenadd, staring at their new surroundings with bewilderment and, for all of them except Skade, fear.

  “What happened?” Davyn exclaimed. “How’d we get here? What was that?”

  Arenadd did his best to look confident. “That was the shadows. That’s part of Skandar’s power—he can use them to travel.” He didn’t add that this was only the second time he had seen him do it.

  “I know this place!” Saeddryn said suddenly. She turned, looking up at the mountains that loomed over them. The ground where they stood looked like a small plateau, damp with melted snow. The air around them felt icy and thin. “We’re in the mountains!”

  Arenadd nodded. “I told you Skandar would bring us here. The others must be hiding somewhere nearby.”

  Skandar lifted his head, sniffing the air. He stirred and stood up, and after what looked like a moment’s thought he pointed his beak skyward and screeched. “Skandar!” He followed the call up with several more, repeating his name again and again until the sound of it echoed off the mountains all around. The humans there cringed and covered their ears, and Arenadd was tempted to do the same, but he didn’t. Instead he moved to stand by Skandar’s side, and added his own voice and his own name to the call. “Arenadd!”

  His throat hurt, but he kept on going regardless. To his surprise he found himself enjoying it. A savage energy rushed through his body, and Skandar’s presence made it stronger, fiercer and more exhilarating. In that moment, realisation flashed into his mind—or rather, memory did. My power comes from him. Not from myself, not from the earth, not even from the Night God. Skandar is the key. My partner. My friend. This began with him, and it’ll end that way, too.

  Eventually he ran out of breath. Skandar relaxed as well and sat back on his haunches to groom himself.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone heard that,” Saeddryn said eventually.

  “They heard,” said Arenadd, a little hoarsely. “Sound carries a long way in these mountains.”

  “Better hope the right people heard, then,” Rhodri muttered.

  “I’m sure—” Arenadd broke off. He stood very still, frowning, and turned his head slowly. He sniffed. Then he smiled and pointed at a nearby heap of rocks. “I know you’re there, Hafwen,” he called.

  Silence followed for a moment. But then a scrawny tattooed woman stepped out from her hiding place, scowling. “So here ye are, Southerner.”

  Arenadd’s smile disappeared instantly. “I’m happy to see you, too, Hafwen. As I’m sure my friends are.”

  Hafwen’s gaze shifted to Saeddryn and her friends. Her expression did not change. “Ye brought them back, at least,” she said, as if it was that easy, and then turned and walked off. “C’mon back to camp,” she called over her shoulder.

  Arenadd grimaced. “I was hoping they’d be happier to see me. Oh well.” He followed Hafwen, with the others close behind. Skandar came, too, choosing to walk for now.

  The new camp made by Arddryn’s followers was closer than Arenadd had expected. Hafwen led them down the side of the plateau and around into a small valley, and there it was waiting for them. Fires had been lit here and there, in sheltered spots where the smoke wouldn’t spread too far, and when Hafwen appeared with Arenadd in tow people appeared as well. Men and women, all tough and scarred, wearing ragged furs and spiral tattoos as their tribal ancestors had done, most of them holding spears or bows. They eyed the newcomers warily.

  Arenadd, however, was in no mood for ceremony. He went straight to the centre of the camp, ignoring Hafwen, and said loudly: “Where’s Arddryn? I need to talk to her, right now.”

  No-one replied. Finally a man jumped down from a rock and landed in front of him. “What are ye doin’ here?” he asked in a harsh voice.

  Arenadd bared his teeth. “I went to rescue Saeddryn and her friends from the enemy, and now I’ve brought them back.”

  The man sneered at him. “Liar. Ye ran off on us. Turned yer back on Arddryn. Soft Southern bastard—”

  Arenadd’s punch sent him sprawling. He lay on his back, staring in shock.

  Arenadd turned around to address the others. “I said, go and get Arddryn. Bring her here, now.”

  The man who’d spoken before got up, clutching his jaw. “She ain’t comin’,” he said sourly.

  “Why not?” said Arenadd. His voice had gone hard and sharp, full of command.

  “She’s dead.”

  The words were enough to rob Arenadd of his new authority. “What? When? How?”

  “Two days ago,” said Hafwen. She glared at Arenadd. “Travellin’ here was too much for her. She died of cold an’ exhaustion.”

  Arenadd looked at Saeddryn. She had gone very pale, but she said nothing. “I came back here as fast as I could . . . what about Hyrenna?”

  “Left,” said Hafwen. “Went off by herself t’lay her eggs. With Arddryn gone, there was no reason for her t’stay, was there?”

  Saeddryn came to Arenadd’s side. “It wasn’t his fault, Hafwen. Ye know that. He saved our lives.”

  “So ye say,” said the man with the bruised jaw.

  “Shut up.” Arenadd drew himself up and raised his voice. “I know I disturbed your quiet little mountain retreat, and I’m sorry for that. But Arddryn trained me to be her successor, and she believed in me. Now, so do I. I left to rescue Saeddryn and the others, and I have. Now I’m back, and this time I won’t leave again. I wish I could have said goodbye to Arddryn, but I can’t. All I can do is make her dream come true.”

  “Her dream?” Others had come over, leaving their hiding places. Most of them looked angry. One man jabbed a spear into the ground. “Ye ain’t worthy to do anythin’ like that, Southerner.”

  Arenadd rounded on him. “Call me that again and I’ll break your jaw, Nerth. Now you listen to me. I will do what Arddryn trusted me to do. You saw the tattoos; you know the plan. It hasn’t changed.” He glanced down at his bandaged hand and looked thoughtful. He touched it, feeling it experimentally. Then he ripped off the bandages, splints and all. The fingers underneath were twisted and ugly, but they were healed—or as healed as they ever would b
e. Arenadd curled them into his right palm, and rubbed them back and forth until they made a ghastly cracking noise. He smiled grimly. Then, apparently remembering what he had been doing, he looked up and showed his hand to the onlookers, letting them see the crippled fingers. “The Southerners are our enemies. My enemies. Every last one of them. I am the Dark Lord Arenadd, and I say that I will leave these mountains tomorrow and I will make a war like the North has never seen. The Southerners will leave our lands forever, I swear it. They can try to fight me if they want, but I’m not afraid of them any more. Skandar and I will take the North from them, and anyone—anyone—who tries to stop us is dead. If you want to come with me, you’re welcome. If not, you can stay here and freeze to death. It’s your choice.” With that, he slammed his left hand into his right, making a loud crack.

  The Northerners looked a little surprised, even embarrassed.

  “But how are ye goin’ to do this?” Nerth asked. “There’s so many of ’em, they’re so strong . . .”

  Arenadd smiled horribly. “Not as strong as us, Nerth.” With that, he stepped sideways into Skandar’s shadow, and disappeared.

  Several people there screamed.

  Arenadd reappeared, still grinning. It was a wolf’s grin; there was no trace of humour in it. “You’ll win this time,” he said. “Because you have us. The Night God gave her power to Skandar, and Skandar shared it with me. That’s why we’re going to win.”

  During the stunned silence that followed, Saeddryn spoke up from Arenadd’s side. “He’s right!” she yelled. “Our time’s now, damn it; there’s never been a better time! The Night God has answered our prayers. She sent him an’ Skandar. Come with us, come an’ fight! Everyone’ll join us once they know the truth. We’re gonna win, I know it.”

  “Thank you, Saeddryn,” said Arenadd. “We are going to win. They can’t kill me—none of them can. I promise you.” He flexed his twisted hand, and smiled grimly.

  Nerth glanced at Hafwen, then at the others. “Where should we start . . . sir?” he said at last. Around him the rest of Arddryn’s former followers had begun to gather close, all listening intently.

  Arenadd nodded to himself and fingered his beard. “I’ve already been thinking about that . . .”

  8

  Gwernyfed

  Erian and Senneck made good progress on the first day; Senneck flew for decent periods of time before stopping to rest, rather than attempting to stay in the air for as long as she could, and this proved efficient. Toward evening they came across a village, and Senneck landed, touching down in the open space at its centre.

  Erian dismounted and stretched. “I suppose one of these peasants will give us somewhere to stop for the night,” he remarked, rubbing his sore backside as he looked around.

  The inhabitants had seen them coming. He saw a few pale faces peering at him through windows and from behind doorways, but nobody came out to greet them. A door slammed shut, and somewhere a dog started to yap.

  “That was a warm welcome,” Erian muttered.

  “This is a small village, and isolated,” Senneck reminded him. “They are probably not used to seeing griffins. Wait until they gather their wits.”

  Erian was tired and in no mood for dealing with ignorant darkmen, and he stood and glared at nothing in particular. Beside him Senneck settled down and began to groom her wings, as calm as always.

  Eventually there was movement from a nearby building, and three Northerners appeared, walking slowly toward them. They were simply clad, and all looked highly apprehensive.

  “Finally!” said Erian, turning to face them.

  They stopped, and two of them pushed the third forward, muttering encouragement. The man ventured closer, ducking his head and keeping his eyes averted. “My lord,” he mumbled.

  Erian straightened up. “Look at me.”

  The man did. His eyes were black and unreadable. “Yes, my lord?”

  “I’m in no mood for your nonsense, blackrobe,” Erian snapped. “What village is this?”

  The man flinched. “This is Gwernyfed, lord. I’m Rhys. We’re honest men, lord, an’ we have nothin’ to—”

  “Shut up. My partner and I need somewhere to stay for the night, and we need food.”

  Rhys looked slightly panicked. “Ye—yes, lord. Anythin’ ye need. If ye can wait a little while, lord, I can ask my friends an’ see if anyone has a room spare an’ a stable, lord.”

  Erian sighed. “Fine. Get on with it.”

  Rhys bowed and scurried away. Other darkmen had ventured out now, and Erian watched as they conferred among themselves, speaking quickly and with much gesticulation.

  “Look at those idiots,” he muttered in griffish. “I mean, look at them.”

  “I am looking,” said Senneck. “And I think your view of them has been tainted by the murderer.”

  Erian started. “What? No it hasn’t! I mean, everyone knows . . .” He pulled himself together and tried to think of a counter-argument, but at that moment Rhys returned.

  “We have a place for ye, lord,” he said. “Come this way, an’ we’ll see ye in comfort for the night.”

  Erian nodded curtly and followed him to one of the houses. This one was a little larger, adjoined to the village’s mill house, which had a small stable with accommodation for a single horse at the back. The stable proved to be empty, and looked to have been for some time.

  “Here,” said Rhys, showing them inside. “The . . . yer partner can stay here”—he cast a frightened look at Senneck—“an’ there’s a room for ye inside, lord.”

  “Thank you,” said Erian.

  Senneck went into the stable, looking disdainfully at the dusty straw. “I shall need food.”

  “She needs food,” Erian told Rhys.

  “Yes, lord. The finest meat, lord. The miller can feed ye inside, lord. Come, I’ll show ye to the house so ye can rest an’ clean yerself.”

  Erian sighed. “Fine.” He turned to Senneck. “Will you be all right here?”

  “Well enough, if the spiders do not kill me,” said Senneck. “I shall call if I need you. And you do the same.” She looked at Rhys, her ice-blue eyes narrow. “Be careful. I do not trust these people, and neither should you.”

  “I know. I won’t. I’ll come and visit you later.”

  “Go, then,” said Senneck.

  Erian allowed himself to be shown to the mill house, where he was greeted by the miller, a middle-aged man who let him into the house after casting several veiled looks at Rhys, who hastily excused himself and disappeared. Inside the house there was a single room with a stone-flagged floor, where the miller’s wife was preparing dinner and a row of small faces stared inscrutably from behind the table.

  Erian ignored them all and followed the miller into the adjoining room, where there was a single large bed and several cots on the floor for the children.

  “My bed is yers, lord,” said the miller. “My wife an’ I will sleep on t’floor.”

  Erian gritted his teeth. “Thank you. That will be fine.”

  The miller did not smile. “Ye can leave yer sword here, lord, an’ come for dinner.”

  “Thank you, but I’ll keep it with me,” said Erian.

  “As ye wish, lord.”

  They returned to the next room, where Erian accepted a seat at the head of the table and waited in silence while the miller’s wife added more vegetables to the pot over the fire.

  The two adults kept away from him and made no attempt at conversation, but the children were openly staring at him. There were four of them—three boys and a girl—and eventually the girl came up to him, standing only an arm’s length away.

  Erian ignored her for as long as he could, but the intrusion quickly became irritating.

  “What are you looking at?” he said.

  The girl’s eyes widened, but she said nothing.

  “Well?” said Erian.

  Apparently plucking up some courage, she reached toward him. “Yer sword,” she said.
/>   Her mother hurried over. “Adyna! Stay away from him!” She scooped the girl up in her arms. “I’m sorry, lord,” she said to Erian. “She’s never seen a Southern . . . one of yer people before, lord,” she corrected hastily.

  “She seems to be more interested in my sword,” Erian said sourly.

  The woman eyed it. “She’s . . . never seen one of them b’fore either, lord.”

  On an impulse, Erian drew it. The other children darted away, and their mother gasped and half-fled before she restrained herself.

  Erian laid the sword down on the table. “There. Look at it if you want to, girl.”

  The woman relaxed slightly. “Can . . . can she?”

  “Yes,” said Erian. “They all can.”

  The girl started to wriggle in her mother’s grasp. “I wanna see!”

  “Well, if his lordship says ye can, then take a look,” said the mother, putting her down.

  The girl instantly made for the table and climbed onto one of the stools so she could look more closely at the sword. She turned her head, watching the light play over the blade, and cooed excitedly. Her brothers emerged from their hiding places and came to join her.

  “It’s like ice!” the eldest one said. “See how it glitters there on the edge?”

  “It’s so big!” said another. “How d’ye lift it, sir?”

  “He lifts it ’cause he’s big an’ strong,” the third said instantly. “See how thick his arms are? I bet he’s stronger’n Da!”

  Despite himself, Erian swelled a little with pride. “This sword is very old,” he said. “It belonged to my father. You can see his name engraved there, just below the hilt.”

  They looked respectfully at the engraving.

  “Can ye read, sir?” said the eldest, in awed tones.