The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy)

by K J Taylor

  Bran managed to find his voice. “Arren.”

  The expression flickered briefly. “Tell me your name.”

  Bran tried to lean forward. “Arren,” he said again. “Arren, it’s me. It’s Bran. Don’t yeh know me?”

  “Bran, is it?” said Arenadd. His voice was flat and cool. “Would that be short for something?”

  “Arren!” said Bran. “Arren, for gods’ sakes, what’s wrong with yeh? Don’t yeh remember me?”

  Arenadd’s eyes were utterly expressionless. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Now answer my question. What is your full name?”

  Bran slumped in his chair. “Branton Redguard, son of—”

  “And where are you from, Branton Redguard?”

  Bran snapped. “I’m from Eagleholm!” he yelled. “Same as you! Arren—”

  Arenadd held up a hand to silence him and looked at the guards. “You can go now.”

  They looked uncertain. “Are ye sure, sir?” said one. “He’s a tough one—what if he gets free?”

  Arenadd drew a dagger and stabbed it into the tabletop, where it stuck. “I said get out!” he roared.

  The guards bowed hastily and left, closing the door behind them. Once they had gone, Arenadd got up and began to pace back and forth behind his chair, keeping his head turned away from Bran.

  Bran tried to break free of the shackles. They wouldn’t budge. “Arren,” he said again, “I ain’t . . . please, just look at me. What’s wrong with yeh?” His voice softened. “Why can’t yeh look at me, mate? What’s the matter?”

  Arenadd ignored him.

  “Don’t yeh remember me?” Bran said. “I’m yer friend. I’m yer best mate, remember? We used t’drink at the Rat together—us an’ Gern, remember?”

  Arenadd stopped pacing.

  “D’yeh remember?” Bran persisted.

  There was a silence. Then Arenadd heaved a deep sigh and rubbed a hand over his face.

  “Arren?”

  Finally, Arenadd turned to look at him. “Bran, what are you doing here?” he said.

  In that instant, Bran felt a tide of warm, wonderful relief flow through him. This was his friend. This was his voice, his face. “Arren!” he said. “Yeh know me; yeh remember?”

  “Of course I remember,” said Arenadd, his voice irritable and wonderfully, brilliantly familiar. “Stop babbling.”

  “What was all that about, then?” said Bran, trying to wave a hand toward the door. “I don’t . . .”

  Arenadd slumped back into his chair. “Use your brain, you idiot. I couldn’t say anything in front of them.”

  “Arren—”

  Arenadd waved him into silence. “Stop that.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Calling me Arren.”

  Bran blinked at him. “Why? What’s wrong with it? It’s yer name, ain’t it?”

  “Not any more. Did you come from Malvern?”

  “Yeah, I did,” said Bran. “I live there now.”

  “You saw Lady Elkin, then?”

  “Yeah. Arren—”

  “Did you see her audience chamber?” Arenadd continued.

  “Yeah. Look, Arren—”

  “Where is it? What does it look like?”

  Bewildered and afraid, Bran described it as well as he could.

  Arenadd listened closely. “Good. Thank you. Is that all you have to tell me?”

  “No!” Bran almost shouted. “Arren, listen. I came lookin’ for yeh.”

  Arenadd’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “To warn yeh. It’s the Bastard—Rannagon’s son, remember him?”

  “What about him?”

  “He thinks he’s some kinda . . . I dunno, some kinda chosen one. He’s gone off somewhere with that griffin, Senneck. They’re lookin’ for something, some weapon or somethin’ to kill yeh.”

  Arenadd stared, then snorted. “Oh good grief. What is this, a fairy story? You came all the way here to tell me that? Can’t you tell me something a bit more useful, like what Malvern’s doing? Do they know where we are?”

  “No,” said Bran. “Arren, don’t yeh get it? They’re gonna kill yeh!”

  Arenadd shrugged. “Thanks for the help, but that doesn’t really scare me any more. Now tell me: what are they doing in Malvern? What else do you know?”

  “Nothing,” said Bran. “I swear.”

  “So you say. But we’ll see about that.”

  “I don’t know anything!” Bran yelled. “Arren, for gods’ sakes, let me go!”

  Arenadd looked away. “I’m not Arren any more. And I can’t be your friend any more, either. I’m a Northerner now, a proper Northerner. And that makes you my enemy.” He called for the guards. They came in immediately, and Arenadd moved away from the table, ignoring Bran altogether.

  “Take him back to his cell,” he said. “We’ll find out what he knows. One way or another.”

  Bran couldn’t say anything. He had already said everything he had to say. He let the guards unshackle him and pull him out of the chair, but this time he didn’t go where they directed him to. They had to drag him out of the room by the elbows, backward, and all the while he kept his eyes on Arenadd, staring at him in disbelief. Arenadd looked back, unflinching and silent.

  16

  Memories

  Bran lay awake for hours that night, staring into the darkness and trying to think, but nothing seemed to make any sense to him now. He couldn’t comprehend what had happened or think about it clearly. Arren was gone. Arren was . . . changed. Erian had been right, horribly right. This wasn’t Arren any more. This wasn’t the quiet, clever young man he had once known; this was someone else, someone with Arren’s body and Arren’s face and Arren’s voice and knowledge, but someone who was not him.

  Arren is dead.

  “Gods,” Bran mumbled into the shadows. “He’s gone mad. He’s . . . gone.”

  He had no illusions about his situation now. Arenadd’s dispassionate face and voice stayed with him, and he knew there was no hope for him. Not now. The old Arren would have done something to help him, but this one would not. Tomorrow he would be tortured, just as Arenadd had been, and after that he would die. Assuming he survived the torture.

  He forced himself not to think about that. Instead, he tried to think of Flell. He could picture her face as he had last seen it, looking at him with worry and grief. Just come back, Bran, she had said. Please, just come back. Don’t die.

  He imagined that he could still feel her kiss on his forehead, and that made him smile a little. Sweet Flell. At least she was safe. And the child.

  Bran rubbed his aching forehead and sighed. Laela wasn’t his daughter, but he still felt as if he was her true father. The poor child would be doomed, he knew. If she survived to adulthood, it would be only to face a life of loneliness and persecution; nobody would ever fully accept her. Not her father’s people, or her mother’s. Half-castes were rare, and that was for a good reason. She wouldn’t be able to hold down a job or marry. And if Bran died, she and her mother would be defenceless.

  And even if he did escape with his life, he wouldn’t be much use to them now. Not if Kraeya was dead.

  Tears weren’t Bran’s way. He felt a lump in his throat, and he let out a hoarse bellow of rage and despair and slammed his fist into the wall. Pain exploded in his hand, but he didn’t care. He lurched upright, yanking at the chains with all his might, swearing violently.

  The chains held fast. He struggled against them a little longer and then slumped back, shuddering. Got to keep my strength up, he thought once he had calmed down. Got to think. Try an’ escape later, when they’re not ready for it. Pretend to be asleep, an’ take the bastards unaware.

  Deep down, he knew any escape attempt would be a failure. But he preferred to die fighting. It would be easier that way, and faster. Yes. Maybe he could take one of them with him, too. He’d make them sorry they’d taken Captain Branton Redguard prisoner.

  Yes . . .

  Eventually, worn out by fear
and exhaustion, he fell asleep.

  Someone thumped him hard in the arm. Bran groaned but didn’t move.

  The hand thumped him again. “Bran,” a voice hissed. “Bran! Wake up!”

  Bran’s eyes flicked open. “What?”

  There was a sigh, and someone tugged at his arm. “Come on, get up. Move!”

  Bran stirred and tried to look up. “Arren?”

  “Shut up!” the voice hissed. “I’m taking the chains off you now. Attack me and you die, understood?”

  Heart pounding, Bran sat up and waited while the manacles were removed from his wrists. Arenadd, only half-visible in the darkness, dragged him to his feet.

  “Can you walk?”

  “Yeah,” said Bran. “Arren, what’s goin’ on? What are yeh doin’?”

  “Come on,” Arenadd said briefly. “Follow me, keep silent, do what I tell you. Is that clear?”

  Bran rubbed his wrists. “Why should I do what yeh tell me?” he asked sullenly.

  “Because you’ll die if you don’t. Now move.”

  Every sense on the alert, Bran followed him out of the cell. The corridor outside was poorly lit and apparently deserted. Arenadd paused to look both ways and then beckoned him along it, away from the interrogation room.

  Bran followed, searching the walls and floor for a weapon he could use. He found nothing, and caught up with Arenadd at the end of the corridor. “Arren, what’s goin’ on? What are yeh doin’?”

  Arenadd gave him an impatient look. “I’ve forgotten—were you always this stupid?”

  Bran itched to hit him. “I just wanted t’know what’s happenin’. What are yeh doin’, Arren?”

  Arenadd took a key from his pocket. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m getting you out of here.”

  Bran’s eyes widened. “What? Yeh mean, lettin’ me go?”

  “Yes. Now shut up before I change my mind.” Arenadd fitted the key into the barred door ahead of them and shoved it open.

  Bran grinned disbelievingly. “I knew it,” he said. “I knew yeh hadn’t forgotten.”

  “Not quite. Now, are you going to do what I tell you?” Bran nodded. “Just follow an’ keep quiet?”

  “Yes. If we run into anyone, make a break for it.”

  “Got it.”

  Arenadd nodded curtly and led the way out of the prison corridor and up a flight of stairs. The upper levels were dark and quiet, and Bran realised it must still be night. He followed Arenadd through several more rooms and down a corridor, which led them out into a little courtyard and through a gate into the city.

  Once they were there, Bran allowed himself to let out a deep sigh of relief. “Thank gods.”

  Arenadd turned to him. He was wearing a black robe and leggings underneath, and there was a dagger in his belt. He looked tired and worn. “You can’t stay in the city,” he said briefly. “You’re the only Southerner left; you’d be spotted instantly.”

  “How do I get out of the city?” said Bran.

  Arenadd walked on, beckoning to him. “I’ll show you.”

  They began to make their way through the streets by moonlight. It was quiet here, and Arenadd seemed to relax slightly. Once someone passed close by them, and he tensed and pulled Bran into an alley to hide until they had gone. Other than that brief encounter, they saw no-one. They reached a small gate in the outer wall. It was locked, but Arenadd picked the lock and ushered Bran out and into the sheep paddocks that surrounded the city.

  Once they were well away from the walls, and the guards there who might see them, Bran fell in beside his old friend and dared to break the silence. “Why are yeh doin’ this, Arren? I thought you was gonna kill me. I thought yeh’d . . . gone mad.”

  “I’m a Northerner,” Arenadd said calmly. “We’re all a little mad, you know. Especially when we’re angry.”

  They reached the edge of the paddocks and entered a grove of trees, and Arenadd remained silent all the while. Finally, when they were under cover, he stopped and stood with his back to Bran, and sighed.

  Bran approached him cautiously. “Arren? Can yeh at least tell me why yeh helped me?”

  Arenadd didn’t turn around. “I’m losing my memory, Bran,” he said.

  Bran froze. “What?”

  “I don’t know why,” said Arenadd. “I don’t even know what I’m forgetting. There’s just . . . big blanks in my head. I don’t remember anything about my childhood any more. I can’t even remember how you and I met, or why we were friends, or whether I ever trusted you.”

  “Arren—”

  Arenadd kept his back to his former friend. “I am . . . I’ve changed, Bran. I’m not what I used to be, or who. That fall, back at Eagleholm . . . killed me. I don’t have any life left. I don’t even have a heartbeat. And soon I’ll have no past, either. It’s leaving me, all of it.”

  “Then why did yeh help me?” said Bran. “If yeh don’t remember—”

  “I still remember some things.” Arenadd turned around. “I owe you, Bran. You saved my life.”

  “But I didn’t!” said Bran. “I tried to save yeh, but—”

  “Not then,” said Arenadd. “Before then. After Eluna died. What happened to her destroyed me. I didn’t want to live any more. If you and Gern and Flell hadn’t helped me, I probably would have drunk myself to death. I didn’t tell you this, but”—he looked away—“that night when you came to see me, when you came to see if I was all right, I . . . there was . . . I had a rope. In Eluna’s old nest. When you came, I was about to use it. If you hadn’t come then, I would have been dead.”

  “You was gonna . . .” Bran went cold as he remembered that night and the drunken, dishevelled wreck that had greeted them, with that dead look to the eyes. “You were gonna kill yerself.”

  “Yes. But after you came, I changed my mind. I decided I still had something to live for, because I had friends.”

  Bran moved closer to him. “Yeh still do, mate. An’ if yeh remember that, then . . . well, yeh ain’t changed. Arren Cardockson ain’t dead; he’s you.”

  Arenadd shook his head. “Not for long, Bran. I remember it now, but I won’t forever. I don’t know how long it’ll be gone, too, sooner or later. Arren—who I used to be—he’s still alive, but only just. He’s dying. Soon he’ll be gone. I think, one day, I won’t even remember who Arren Cardockson was at all. But I’m helping you for the sake of his memory. No other reason.”

  “What are yeh gonna do?” said Bran.

  “I’m already doing it,” said Arenadd. “Now go. Get out of here, and don’t come back. Don’t let me find you again, because if I do I’ll probably kill you.”

  Bran looked pleadingly at him, but Arenadd’s voice had become distant again. He was retreating. “How do I get away?” he asked. “If . . . if Kraeya’s . . .” He tensed. “Kraeya. My griffin. Where is she? What happened to her? Is she . . .”

  Arenadd shook his head. “Skandar is the biggest griffin I’ve ever seen, and the strongest. But he’s not very fast or agile in the sky. Your—Kraeya, did you say her name was?—found her wings after she fell. Skandar says he chased her a very long way before he gave up and came back.”

  Bran’s eyes lit up. “She’s alive?”

  “As far as I know. I don’t know where she is, but I doubt she’ll go far. A griffin always comes back for her human.”

  Bran hesitated for an instant and then took his old friend in a fierce embrace. Arenadd let out a quick “Hey!” but gave in. He was thin and light in Bran’s arms; it seemed as if there was nothing left of him inside the robe.

  Bran let go of him. “Thank you,” he said solemnly. “I don’t care what yeh say, Arren, you ain’t changed as much as yeh think.”

  Arenadd gave a lopsided smile. “Get going, you big lump. I’ve got to get back to the tower before Skade wakes up and finds I’m missing.”

  “Who’s Skade?” said Bran.

  “Oh. Well . . .” Arenadd rubbed his twisted fingers. “She’s someone rather special.”


  “Oh, right.” Bran grinned. “Well . . . that’s good. I’ll tell Flell—”

  Arenadd froze. “Flell? She’s here?”

  “Yeah, at Malvern.”

  Arenadd lurched forward and grabbed him by the shoulders. “Malvern?” he almost shouted. “She can’t be at Malvern! What’s she doing there?”

  “She came with me,” said Bran, taken aback. “We’re . . . we got married.”

  Arenadd’s face was full of horror. “She can’t be in the North!” he said. “For gods’ sakes, Bran . . .”

  “What?” said Bran. “What’s wrong with that?”

  Arenadd gripped him more tightly. “Get—her—out of here,” he said. “Go back to Malvern, take her and leave. Immediately.”

  “But why?”

  “Because—it doesn’t matter why. Just do it!” said Arenadd. “You’ve got to keep her away from me! I don’t care where you take her; just don’t let me find her.”

  “Why?” said Bran.

  “Because if I find her, I’ll kill her,” said Arenadd. “Understand? If I see her, if I know where she is, she’s dead, along with anyone who tries to stop me.”

  “But why?” said Bran. “What did she do to yeh? I know she left yeh, but that’s no reason—”

  “I can’t tell you, you wouldn’t understand,” said Arenadd.

  “But as long as she’s at Malvern, she’s in danger. Promise me you’ll take her away, Bran.”

  “I—”

  “Promise me,” Arenadd repeated. “I saved your life, remember? You owe me. Promise you’ll take her away.”

  “I . . . I will,” Bran stammered. “I promise.”

  “See you keep it,” said Arenadd. “Oh, and one other thing.”

  “What?”

  “I was never here. I had nothing to do with this. You escaped on your own. If you tell anybody, I swear I’ll hunt you down. My followers can’t know, and neither can my enemies. Don’t even tell Kraeya. Just say you escaped by yourself. Understand?”

  Bran nodded. “Lips are sealed, mate.”

  “Good.” Arenadd pressed a sword into his hand. “Yours. Now go, and good luck.”