The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy)

by K J Taylor

  Erian sighed. He had loved that story then and had often asked the old woman to elaborate on the battle scenes and the creation of the griffiners. Now though . . .

  Could it be true? he thought.

  Maybe it was. After all, the world and its people couldn’t have come into being all by themselves. Something must have been there, some magic . . . and perhaps Senneck was wrong. Perhaps magic, too, had an origin and a creator. Perhaps everything did.

  He killed my father like a coward, the way Scathach stabbed Gryphus in the back. Now she wants to destroy us, just as she did back then. It’s happening all over again, all of it. History repeating, like a giant wheel turning.

  He retired to his shelter with thoughts like these still churning around in his head. Senneck curled up in the entrance and went to sleep before he did, protecting him from the wind.

  Skade woke up with a bad taste in her mouth, and skin that felt as if it had been soaked in hot water. She sat up, pulling the sheets away from herself, and then slumped back to rest. Her head ached.

  Beside her, Arenadd rolled over in bed, mumbling, “Come near me and I’ll bite your nose off.”

  The lamps had burned themselves out, and the room was full of daylight. Skade prodded him in the back. “Arenadd, wake up.”

  He stirred briefly and flopped onto his front, with his face buried in the pillow. Skade sighed and climbed out of bed. She found her gown and pulled it back on, and splashed her face with water from the jug on the table. That helped to wake her up, and she wandered into the nest to check on Skandar.

  Moments later, she came hurrying back. “Arenadd!”

  It took some coaxing, but eventually he rolled out of bed. Naked, and looking very unhappy, he tottered over to the jug and stood there for a long time, staring at it. Then he picked it up and poured the contents over his head before returning to the bed and slumping face-first onto it.

  Skade growled to herself and gathered his clothes up off the floor. “Arenadd, this is no time to be feeling sorry for yourself. You have work to do.”

  He managed to grasp his robe and drag it toward him, but didn’t put it on. “By gods, I am one hung-over Dark Lord,” he mumbled into the pillow. “Remind me to kill myself after I’ve sobered up.”

  Skade sighed. “Put your clothes on.”

  Arenadd levered himself upright and dragged the robe on over his shoulders. “Ugh. I’d say I wish I was dead, but on second thought there wouldn’t be much point.”

  He struggled back into his trousers and boots, and fastened his robe, then took a comb out of his pocket and set to work on his hair. “Curse everything, I knew I should have washed it.”

  Skade, knowing how long his grooming usually took, said, “I shall go and find some food.”

  “Good idea. Could you please find Saeddryn and give her a message from me while you’re down there?”

  “I could do that.”

  “Thanks. Tell her to find Rhodri, Hafwen, Nerth, Cai and Davyn—the old guard. And tell her to find Caedmon as well; he should be there. Tell her I want the hall cleared out and everyone I mentioned to gather there. We have work to do.”

  “If I can find her, I shall pass it on,” said Skade and left.

  Once she had gone, Arenadd searched a cupboard and unearthed a razor and some soap. “Thank gods,” he muttered. He went over to a mirror hanging on the wall.

  As he busied himself with the normal concerns of shaving, washing and neatening his cherished hair, his mind was free. His head still felt as if it was full of straw, and he felt sick and dizzy, but he almost didn’t notice it once his mind began working again.

  The war had begun now, regardless of whether he wanted it to or not. From this point, there was no turning back. A hard and dangerous road lay ahead, and he knew he was facing challenges that would test him more harshly than ever before. He couldn’t pretend to be an ordinary person any more; from now on he had a very daunting pair of boots to fill—not just Arddryn’s but Kraeai kran ae’s. He had to be more than a leader and more than a fighter. If he was going to be Kraeai kran ae and let his people come to his side, then he would have to live up to that at every turn or risk losing them for good. Darkmen were independent by nature; they didn’t look kindly on incompetence or cowardice.

  But just now, none of that worried him much. And why should it? He knew the truth now, knew what he had truly become.

  Why should an immortal fear anything; I don’t have to fear death any more, do I?

  And, more importantly than that, he had Skandar. With the big savage griffin by his side, nothing looked daunting. Arenadd might have doubts, but Skandar had none and never had. And, so far as Arenadd knew, he had never been frightened of anything in his life.

  Arenadd scraped away the layer of soap on his upper lip. And I have a god on my side, he reminded himself. Who could stop me?

  He looked into the mirror and found himself wondering how he could possibly have changed so much. His face looked older and much thinner; the skin was unhealthily pale, the eyes hollow. He looked ill and drawn, but that was probably partly due to the hangover. The scar under his eye looked even more pronounced than he remembered; it nearly reached to the corner of his mouth.

  Remember my face, Bastard . . .

  The face smiled grimly back at its owner. “Erian the Bastard. What a joke.”

  13

  The Council

  When Arenadd arrived at the dining hall, it was to find Saeddryn and her friends waiting for him. But they weren’t the only ones who had come. Annir was there, too, sitting next to Caedmon, and Skade, and—

  A skinny shape rushed across the room and hugged him around the middle. “Taranis!”

  Arenadd smiled and clapped the boy on the shoulder. “It’s Arenadd, Torc.”

  Torc let go. “Sorry, sir. I’m just used t’you being Taranis.”

  Arenadd looked him up and down. “By gods, you’ve grown tall. How old are you now?”

  “Nearly fourteen, sir,” said Torc, with a shy grin.

  Arenadd regarded him. The boy had spent most of his life as a slave, and had the collar scars and the callused hands to prove it, but there was still a certain innocence about his face and eyes. Arenadd couldn’t help but think of him as a boy, though he was a man now by Northern law. He’s only six years younger than I am, he thought suddenly.

  “Torc.” Caedmon’s stern voice came from the table. “Get over here an’ leave him be.”

  Torc looked suddenly embarrassed. “Uh . . . sorry, sir . . . I’ll go.”

  “It’s all right.” Arenadd followed him to the table and sat down. “Well . . . good morning, everyone.”

  “It’s lunchtime,” said Caedmon.

  Arenadd chuckled and then winced. “Yes, well, considering what went on last night, that’s close enough for me. Anyway . . . since everyone is here, we may as well get started.”

  “Saeddryn says ye’ve got somethin’ planned,” said Caedmon.

  “And so I do.” Arenadd nodded toward Annir. “I assume you’ve met my mother?”

  Caedmon, who looked much older than he actually was, directed a brief smile toward her. “So I have, an’ to my enjoyment.”

  Annir unconsciously touched the bandage on her throat as she smiled back. “You didn’t tell me you’d found another Taranisäii, Arren.”

  “I didn’t realise I had at first,” said Arenadd. “And Caedmon, I’m sorry about what happened to Arddryn. I know she was your sister.”

  He nodded slowly. “I never expected to see her again anyway. But I’m happy t’have met my niece. A worthy woman, aye.”

  Saeddryn smiled. “Ye look like her, ye know. Like my mother. Same eyes.”

  “So all the surviving Taranisäiis are back together,” Arenadd resumed. “And we may only be three, but—”

  “Four,” said Caedmon.

  “I’m sorry?”

  The old man patted Torc on the shoulder. “I’ve adopted the lad. Now we’re four.”

  A
renadd paused and then smiled. “Four, then. Well, I was going to ask Torc to leave, but if he’s a Taranisäii then he should stay. Unless he’d rather go?”

  “I’ll stay, sir,” Torc said instantly. “I want t’hear.”

  “So be it, then. Mother, do you want to be a part of this?” Annir nodded silently.

  “Then we’ll begin.” Arenadd reached into his robe and pulled out a scroll of paper, which he opened on the table. “As you can see here, this is a map of the Nor—sorry, Tara. Just let me weight it down.” He picked up a few stray cups and a jug and used them to stop the corners from curling. “That’s better.” He sat down again. “Now that we’ve captured Warwick, we have a good stronghold. I’m tempted to stay here, but obviously we can’t do that.”

  “Why?” said Rhodri.

  “Because we’re not strong enough,” said Arenadd. “Yes, we have walls, and I’m fairly sure a good portion of the locals here would agree to fight for us, but the instant Malvern hears about this Elkin will send her best fighters against us—in other words, griffins. We wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “I’ve thought of that,” Saeddryn interrupted. “There’s ways of fightin’ griffins, sir. Mother taught me how t’make weapons—spear launchers an’ things of that nature. They can take a griffin out of the air.”

  “Yes, I know. But there’s still no point. Even if we managed to hold on here for a few months, what would that achieve? They’d overwhelm us eventually, and that would be the end of it. No. We’re not strong enough to go into open war.”

  “I know,” said Saeddryn. “What, then?”

  “Easy,” said Arenadd. “We become shadows. Invisible. We make ourselves impossible to find, and we force them to fight in the dark. We can disappear, reappear, cause some damage and then vanish again.”

  “Ah!” Davyn grinned. “Covert fightin’, eh? We can do that, sir. That’d work.”

  “Of course it would,” said Saeddryn. “We’d have the advantage. This is our land, not theirs; we could make it work for us.”

  “Indeed,” said Arenadd. “But that on its own won’t win us the war. We need followers. And not just whoever we can pull in off the streets or recruit from villages in the middle of gods-know-where. We need a force that will stay with us, and a large one. We need people who’ll do what they’re told, ones who are used to hard work.”

  “That’s nice, sir, but we can’t expect ’em t’show up just because we need ’em to,” said Saeddryn. “We’ll take what we can get.”

  “An’ our people can fight just fine,” Rhodri added hotly.

  “We ain’t no Southerners with their fancy armour an’ their marchin’ an’ whatnot. We’re warriors. We know about courage an’ honour, an’ we can—”

  “I say we go westward,” Hafwen interrupted. “There’s places out there no Southerner’s ever been—all wild. There’s villages out there that still live by the old ways, an’ they’d help us. It’s said there’s shamans can turn ’emselves into wolves an’ make blood potions that’ll give any man a—”

  “We can’t go chasin’ after legends, Hafwen!” said Saeddryn. “In case ye didn’t notice, we’re tryin’ t’fight a war here, an’ we ain’t got time for fairytales, see?”

  “They ain’t fairytales, Saeddryn. If ye knew anythin’ about—”

  “No. Just shut up. I mean it, Hafwen.” Saeddryn glared at her. “Listen. What we need are real followers, an’ we’ll get those by seekin’ out real people. If we take everyone who’ll come with us from Warwick, we can move on to another city, take that, recruit more an’ then move on. Sooner or later—”

  “It’s too obvious!” said Rhodri. “Ye heard what Arenadd said! If we go ’round with a damned great army draggin’ after us, how long d’ye think it’ll take for Malvern t’find us, eh? It’ll be Tor Plain all over again. We’ve got t’—”

  Arenadd watched them arguing, first with resignation but then with a look of amusement. And then, quite suddenly, he started to laugh.

  The others around the table fell silent and glared at him. “Sir, with respect, this ain’t the time t’be laughin’,” Saeddryn said stiffly.

  Arenadd leant forward, resting his hands on the table. “Thank you, everybody. You just provided exactly the right demonstration.”

  “What demonstration, sir?” said Hafwen. “I don’t see why—”

  “That’s my point!” Arenadd burst forth. “Look at yourselves! For the love of gods, is it any wonder you lost the last war? Saeddryn, I don’t want to insult you, but this is not what wins wars.” He started to pace back and forth. “We’re darkmen, oh yes. And we know how to fight, and we know about courage. But there’s a difference between warriors and soldiers, and I’m sorry to say that it’s soldiers that win wars.” He stopped pacing and faced them. “I can’t lead that kind of follower into battle. The loss of life would be horrific.”

  Saeddryn stood up. “Sir, if ye’re suggestin’ that we don’t know how t’fight—”

  “You argue too much!” Arenadd said. “Saeddryn, Hafwen—all of you—I don’t need this. I don’t need an army that has to argue about everything. You’re too undisciplined. And what I need in my followers is discipline. I need people who’ll do what I tell them without wasting an entire morning debating about it.”

  Saeddryn bristled. “Well, I’m sorry, sir, but ye can’t change people. That’s how we are, an’ if we weren’t that way then we wouldn’t be darkmen. We’re free, sir. Free in the mind. We ain’t scared t’say what we think.” Several of the others nodded and muttered their agreement.

  “Yes, I understand—” Arenadd began.

  “If ye don’t respect us,” said Saeddryn, “then we don’t want ye leadin’ us, sir. Ye can leave if that’s what ye want. I’ll lead my friends if they ain’t good enough for ye.”

  Arenadd waved his hands in the air. “That’s not what I was trying to say, Saeddryn. I’m sorry. No, listen. Yes, I understand all that. Warriors have their uses as well, and I’m sure that will help us. We can do what the enemy won’t expect; they don’t know what we can do. We have imagination and bravery that they don’t. But I need something else—something to complement that, understand?”

  “Well, what would that be?” said Saeddryn, not looking very placated.

  Arenadd paused and rubbed his hands together. The damaged knuckles on his left hand made a horrible cracking noise as they flexed. “I don’t pretend to be an experienced general; in fact I’ve only ever read about warfare in books. But what I do know is that the best armies have balance—a mix of qualities. A thousand screaming darkman warriors will be very good to have, but we need a more conventional kind of fighter to form the core of our army. And I think I know where to find that.”

  “Not mercenaries?” said Saeddryn. “Tell me ye ain’t thinkin’ of that, sir?”

  “What? No, definitely not. They’d be Southerners. Why would they fight for us? Even if we could find enough of them, I’m damned if . . . no. No, I was thinking of other darkmen. They understand discipline, they’ll follow orders without question—it’s bred in them to do as they’re told—most of them are tough and hardened and used to hard work, and they’re quick to learn, as I’ve discovered in the past.”

  Saeddryn went white. “Slaves? Ye’re jokin’. Tell me ye’re jokin’.”

  “Yes!” Arenadd grinned triumphantly. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about: slaves.”

  Rhodri stood up. “Bloody blackrobes! Sir, for the love of the Night God—”

  Arenadd leant over the table and hit him, hard, in the face. Rhodri yelped and toppled backward, and everyone else there stood up sharply, many with yells of outrage.

  Arenadd rubbed his knuckles while Saeddryn helped her friend up. “Never use that word in my presence again,” he said.

  Rhodri, his face bright red on one side, stared at him in shock. “Sir—”

  “I don’t want to hear anyone say that word, Rhodri,” said Arenadd. “Not you, not anybody. Is that unde
rstood?”

  “Sir, I didn’t—”

  “I said, is that understood?”

  Rhodri sat down again. “Yes, sir,” he muttered.

  “Good.” Arenadd slapped his hand down on the map. “Listen to me. I captured Guard’s Post with an army of slaves. They’d had a week or so’s training at most. At most. They overran that fort in a single afternoon. Why? Because they were disciplined. I stole them from Herbstitt. As far as they were concerned, I was their new master; they did what I told them. I told them to capture that fort, and they did. Isn’t that so, Caedmon?”

  Caedmon nodded grimly. “What he says is true. The lads from Herbstitt followed him there on foot an’ fought because he told ’em to. An’ afterward—”

  “Yes, afterward I set them free. That was their reward. And listen to me.” Arenadd took a deep breath. “One of the biggest reasons I even decided to do this is the slaves. And maybe you don’t care about them any more, now they’ve become somebody’s property, but I do. I’ve been a slave. I know what it’s like to be nothing, to be sold for money as if you were an animal. I know what it’s like to be branded and flogged and work all day for nothing but a bowl of slop. Uh”—he glanced at Torc—“I know you made that stuff, Torc. I don’t mean to insult you.”

  Torc nodded gravely. “It’s all right, sir. I know it was rubbish.”

  Arenadd glared at the other Northerners. “And I see my so-called people have short memories as well. Because, in case you didn’t notice, we’re all slaves. Maybe we don’t all wear robes and collars, maybe we aren’t all bought and sold, but we aren’t free, and we’ll never be free until Malvern has been destroyed. We haven’t ruled ourselves in centuries. We can’t own weapons, we can’t worship our own god or speak our own language. They’ve destroyed us. Don’t you see that? They’re taking away the things that make us who we are—turning us into nothing. We’ve got nothing left to be proud of, nothing to believe in, nothing to bind us together. And that’s what they want. They took all that away so we’d forget. If we stopped believing we were our own people any more, then we’d never be able to fight again. We’re second-class citizens in our own home. And those of us who rebel have to hide ourselves away, as if we were ashamed of ourselves. You can call me mad or stupid if you like, but that doesn’t sound like freedom to me.” He drew himself up. “I mean to take our freedom back, and I mean to give those slaves back their pride by letting them do what all Northerners were born to do: fight.”