by K J Taylor
Green light came from her throat in a torrent, spreading out ahead of them. Where it touched the waves, they froze in place. Their colour changed from blue to grey, and Erian, thunderstruck, saw the greyness spread away toward the horizon. Senneck continued to send her magic forth, until a huge expanse of ocean had turned to stone.
The green light faded. Senneck flew on a few moments longer, and then she landed. Her paws and talons hit the stone waves, and cracks instantly spread over them.
“Off!” she screamed at Erian. “Get off!”
When he was too slow to obey, she threw him off. He landed hard, on his back, but pulled himself upright, staggering on his numb legs. “What?”
Behind them was open ocean, but ahead and to both sides there was the stone Senneck had made, shaped exactly as it had been before, when it was still water.
“Senneck!” Erian exclaimed. “You’ve saved us!”
Senneck did not reply; he turned to look at her, and saw her lying on her side.
His elation quickly turned to sick fear.
“Senneck! Are you all right?”
She did not reply. He could see her flanks heaving in and out like bellows.
Erian sat down beside her. “You’ve exhausted yourself,” he said sympathetically. “But you can rest now.”
“No.” Senneck’s voice was low and rasping, and she raised her head. “No . . . rest.”
“Senneck, you—”
The brown griffin heaved herself to her feet. “We . . . walk,” she said. “Come. The stone will not hold us forever. Do not stop moving.”
Erian walked beside her, suddenly frightened again. “How long will it hold us?”
“Do not know,” she said shortly. “Long enough. Stay alert. If I say, get back on, and I will fly.”
Erian touched her on the shoulder. “I understand. There’s no need to talk.”
They made slow progress, hampered partly by the frozen waves but also by their own exhaustion, Senneck’s in particular. Erian quickly found himself marvelling that she was still standing upright. Using magic took a lot out of a griffin, and she had already been flying for half a day when she had used hers.
Even so, he knew she was right. The stone couldn’t hold them forever.
They had gone some way before it inevitably began to crack. Erian felt his blood freeze when he first heard a low, grinding, snapping sound, just below his feet. He looked down and saw hairline cracks unfurl from beneath his heel. They widened, and he saw water begin to seep through.
Panic bit into him. “Senneck—”
“I know,” she said tersely. “Tread lightly.”
Erian did his best, trying to imitate the soft padding of her hind paws. But the cracks continued to appear wherever he put his feet down, and he knew the stone was weakening by the moment. Water began to pool around his feet, deepening gradually. Soon it was up to his ankles. Ahead, the island loomed large. It was so close, but if the stone broke now . . .
An almighty crack made the false ground beneath them shudder.
“Run!” Senneck screeched, and charged. Erian broke into a run, trying to keep up with her, but even in her weakened state she was faster than him. She quickly outstripped him, leaving him floundering in water that was now up to his shins, while all around him the stone broke and fell apart, sinking into the depths. Erian struggled on desperately, mouthing a prayer to Gryphus to save him. But still the water continued to rise. Soon, there would be nothing left to stand on—and with the sword strapped to his back, he would sink like a stone.
Ahead, Senneck continued to slosh through the water. She raced forward and then launched herself into the sky. Moments later, a massive crack opened in front of Erian, and water came surging through. He stopped, looking frantically for an escape route, but the crack was directly in front and widening. He couldn’t jump across. The water rose higher and higher, faster and faster. It reached his knees, then his waist and then his chest. He fumbled at the straps holding his sword in place, meaning to abandon the weapon, but he was far too slow. The water swirled around him, dragging him down. And then, at last, Senneck swooped down and grabbed him, wrapping her talons around his shoulders. She struggled to lift him, her wings beating hard, but as the stone finally crumbled away completely she plucked him out of the water and flew straight for the island, water dripping from her feathers.
Erian felt a greyness close over his eyes as Senneck flew that last, agonising distance. She landed inelegantly, in the shallow water just before the shore, dropping Erian as she did so. He landed face-down in a wash of water, and just barely managed to summon the strength to drag himself out and up onto the wet sand of the beach, where he flopped onto his stomach and promptly fainted.
When he woke up, some unknown length of time later, every bone and muscle in his body felt as if they were burning. He felt chilled and sick, and his mouth was full of sand.
Only the thought of Senneck made him try to get up. He managed to raise himself high enough to look back for her, and the cold, sick feeling in his stomach increased. She was lying in the surf, the water dragging at her wings and tail. Her head lay outstretched in front of her, beak open. She was unconscious . . . or dead.
20
Outwitted
In her prison, cut off from all light except that which came from a candle on the table, Elkin lay on the straw pallet her captors had given her, and shivered.
Down here, unable to see the sun, she had no way of telling how much time had passed—but she knew it must have been weeks.
Her bonds had been taken off, and she had been given fresh clothes and bedding. They had given her plenty to eat and drink, too, and water to wash herself with. She was well looked after, and they had not hurt or molested her. Every day her meals were brought in, but she never saw the faces of her gaolers. All of them wore masks; she had seen three different ones by now. Usually it was the crow face that came, but sometimes it was the deer or the bear. She hadn’t seen the wolf again since the first day, and though she had not seen his face, she knew Arenadd hadn’t visited her again. At least, not where she could see him.
She had tried to escape, of course. But it took her less than a day to see that it would be impossible. The door was thick wood, and they kept it locked even when they were inside with her. Even if she had had the means to dig her way out, she couldn’t, as the room was lined with stone. A philosopher had once written that any room’s weakest point was the door, but as far as Elkin could see, there was no way she could use this one. The people who brought her food and drink never came alone; there was always someone else waiting on the other side of the door, and whoever came inside didn’t have an obvious weapon she could wrestle away from them. And she wouldn’t be able to fight them, anyway, even if she was armed. She was thin and frail, utterly unsuited for combat, and she had no illusions about that.
The only weapon left to her was her mind. But even that was failing her.
Her captors never spoke in her presence. If she spoke to them, they acted as if they hadn’t heard her at all. And they were Northerners; she could tell by their build and the black hair that hung down their necks, behind the masks. She was a Southerner—and not just one of the race they despised but one of their greatest leaders. There was nothing she could offer them that they would accept. Most likely they had been warned to expect her to try to bargain or plead her way to freedom—and who would dare to disobey Kraeai kran ae?
Despite herself, Elkin couldn’t help but admire what her enemy had done. He had planned all of this down to the last detail. She was utterly at his mercy. Unless she was rescued, the Eyrie would have to accept his demands . . . whatever they were.
Elkin shivered again and curled up under her blankets. There was only one way for the Dark Lord’s plan to fail. It wasn’t a way she wanted, but now she was beginning to be afraid that it might happen against her will.
She could feel sweat prickling on her forehead. In her stomach, a sick churning had stopped her fro
m eating the food they had brought her. Whatever she had eaten that day hadn’t stayed down for long.
She knew the sickness was returning. And without Kraal’s magic, this time it would kill her.
She slept for most of the rest of that day, aware of the pain in her lungs slowly increasing every time she woke up. The nausea increased as well, and she vomited again, bringing up nothing but mucus and bile. Her stomach had nothing left to give and contracted emptily as she retched, making her entire gut hurt. She slumped back, her head spinning.
If anyone visited her again that day, she never saw them. The sickness advanced so quickly and so powerfully that it had fully taken hold of her by the time night came, and when she went to sleep again she slid into a hot, sickening fog of fever and despair.
But it was a fog that took her away from her prison, at least. Vividly coloured and bewildering dreams swarmed around her, flitting in and out of her mind. She thought she was back in her room at Malvern, lying on the floor in front of the fireplace. Kraal was there, trying to comfort her by pressing his great flank against her, but his fur and feathers were burning hot, and she couldn’t breathe. She tried to ask him to stop, to move away, but her mouth was so dry her tongue stuck to the inside of her cheek and would not come free. But then a pair of hands wrapped themselves around her neck, and she was being dragged away, into a darkness and an icy cold that made her tremble violently, even though she was still burning hot.
Strange figures gathered around her as she drifted through the dark. They were robed, each one carrying a sickle. But their heads were the heads of beasts, not men, blank eyed, the muzzles wet with blood. She saw a stag’s head rear above her, its massive antlers spiking into the blackness. It smelt of earth and damp and rotting leaves, and blood.
A voice, muffled and distorted, began to speak. These are the chiefs of the tribes of Tara, armed with the moon’s blade. These are the ones with snow in their blood, sun worshipper, come see, come run with us, see . . .
Erian!
Elkin reached out for him. It was a mighty struggle just to lift her hand; she felt as if all her limbs were pinned down. Her hand wove slightly to and fro as it reached into the darkness. “Erian, help me,” she whispered. “Erian, please.”
And then someone took her hand; she could feel their own hand wrap around hers and hold it gently.
“My lady, please, calm down,” a voice murmured. “Let me help you.”
Elkin’s face twitched, deep in her nightmare. “Erian . . .”
A hand touched her forehead. It was gentle and delicate, and cool . . . wonderfully, blessedly cool. Elkin sighed as the coolness spread through her body, soothing the fever.
“Is that better?” said the voice. It sounded sad.
Elkin’s eyes slid open, and she cried out. It was not Erian. It was not her beloved. It was one of the monsters from her nightmare, its wolf muzzle pointing straight down at her, fangs gleaming. She fought to get away from it, shaking violently and clawing at her blankets.
The wolf-man took his hand away. “Please, my lady, don’t struggle,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you; I told you so.”
Elkin slumped back, shivering. “Let me die,” she moaned. “Please, let me die.”
The wolf-man sighed. “Look,” he said, and reached up to his face. He was clumsy; the fingers of one hand were bent and twisted, and the paralysed forefinger hampered the others. But he hooked them behind his ears, and pulled. The wolf face came away, and underneath was that of a man. He looked young, with his pale skin and long, curly hair, but there were bitter lines around his eyes and a long scar on his cheek that made him look older, and worn.
Even in the midst of her fever, Elkin knew she was looking at Lord Arenadd Taranisäii.
But he was looking down at her not with hatred or cruelty but with a kind of sadness, even concern. “My friends told me you were ill,” he said. “I came to see if I could help you.”
Elkin pulled away from him, her eyes burning with hatred as much as from fever. “Stay away from me,” she gasped. “Monster!”
But he laid his hand on her forehead again, and kept it there, and she did not have the strength to knock it away. “Let me cool you down,” he said softly.
Elkin’s eyes fluttered shut. “No . . .”
“Don’t give up,” he told her. “Hold on. It isn’t your time, my lady Elkin.”
“Don’t,” she mumbled, but her voice was weak. She felt herself beginning to relax under his touch, wanting him to stay. “Don’t,” she said again.
“I am very cold,” he murmured from above her. “Maybe it’s because I’m dead. Or maybe the Night God made me that way. I hate the sun. It makes me feel so tired. But at night . . .”
At night comes the cold, Elkin thought, relishing the idea. Cold like his hands.
Lord Arenadd seemed to know that she didn’t want him to leave any more. He murmured to her as he clumsily pulled her damp hair away from her face with his maimed hand and covered her with a blanket. “You need to drink something,” he said. “Here.”
She let him pour it into her mouth: cold water, tasting of herbs.
“Our healer made it,” said Arenadd. “She says it’s perfect for a fever. I don’t get sick any more, myself. At least . . . not the way mortals do.”
Elkin swallowed the last of it. “Want . . . I want . . .”
He leant closer. “What is it, Elkin? What do you want?”
She shuddered, and then tears began to flow down her face. “I want to go home.”
He chuckled as he leant over her, his long hair brushing her face. “And you will, Elkin.”
“No,” she whispered. “The sickness will . . . kill me, before you . . . do.”
“But you are going home, Elkin,” Arenadd repeated. “That’s why I came to see you, so I could give you the news myself.”
Elkin stirred. “What?”
He pulled away abruptly. “Yesterday our messenger finally arrived with word from Malvern. The remnants of the council have given in to my demands. As soon as you’re a little stronger, we’ll take you out of here to the meeting place we’ve chosen, and there you’ll be handed back to your friends. They’ll take you home.”
Elkin shivered. She wanted to believe him so badly, but part of her still held back. It had to be a lie, some kind of cruel joke. He was torturing her with false hope.
“Do you feel better now?” he asked.
“A little,” she admitted.
Arenadd smiled. “Good. Can’t afford to lose you now, can we?” He stood up. “I’ll leave you to sleep. I’ll bring you something to eat later. Maybe an apple or two. Or even a pear.” He nodded to her and left.
Elkin rolled onto her back. She could still feel the touch of his hand on her forehead. The fever had abated for now, and she felt exhausted. But she was still alert enough to think.
Fruit, she thought. Perfect for illness. But . . . how would he find . . .
An instant later, the obvious reply came to her and she groaned—a low, hopeless groan. Of course. Pears.
There was only one place in the North where you could find pears without ordering them specially.
Fruitsheart.
They’d taken her to Fruitsheart. It was hundreds of miles away from Malvern—right in the middle of one of the richest regions in the North, and absolutely the last place anyone would expect them to be. The chances of her officials thinking to look there were close to none.
That cunning bastard, she thought. He’s outwitted us. He’s outwitted me.
But the memory of the sympathetic way he had looked at her kept coming back, and she wondered . . . couldn’t help but wonder . . .
Erian never quite knew how he managed to move Senneck up the beach and away from the water, but he did. The brown griffin stirred as he was attempting to drag her out of the surf, and started to thrust weakly with her paws, but she was not strong enough to move without his help.
By the time they were above the waterline, Eri
an’s legs were trembling. His back ached and his head was pounding.
He took a deep breath, renewed his grip on Senneck’s forelegs and pulled. Senneck pushed with her hind legs, and after a few moments of painful struggling she slid a little further up the beach. Once she had come to rest, Erian slumped down beside her.
“I think . . . this is far enough . . . for now,” he panted. “You can rest.”
Senneck raised her head briefly, and then laid it down again. She was asleep in moments. Erian looked up at the sky. The sun was going down now, and it would be dark very soon. They were exhausted, they had nearly died, but they had made it. They were on the Island of the Sun. He had no doubts at all about that.
Part of him wanted to get up and leave Senneck to recover while he began his search of the island, but he knew he couldn’t do it. Not just because he couldn’t leave Senneck, especially in such a vulnerable state, but also because he knew he simply didn’t have the strength for it.
He managed to get up and stagger over to where he had left his sword sticking out of the sand, and sat down by Senneck with it. His vision was grey; he felt dizzy and ill.
You need to rest, he told himself, stupidly. Just for a moment.
He lay down beside his partner with the sword clasped in his hands and was asleep in a moment.
Dawn the next day came in a blaze of red and gold. Erian woke up slowly and was bewildered to find himself half-buried in damp sand. His clothes were soaking wet, and he pulled himself free with a sucking noise. Fortunately the sword was still touching his hand, and he hauled it out and tried to wipe some of the sand off with his cloak. Beside him, Senneck whistled softly in her sleep. Her beak was half-covered, but her nostrils were still exposed, and Erian had an unpleasant moment of shock when he realised that this was probably all that had stopped her from suffocating during the night. She was fine.
Erian scraped the sand away from her beak and gently lifted her head onto her talons. She stirred but didn’t wake, and he stroked her head as he sat and looked up at the mountain, while the sun rose from behind it like a great flaming eye.