The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy)

by K J Taylor

  Skandar did not want to listen to any more rhetoric. “Fly, now!” he said. “You, climb onto me and I go, now.”

  Arenadd hooked an arm over Skandar’s shoulders and nimbly hauled himself up. He still preferred to fly without a harness, and he held on as well as he could. Once he was in place, Skandar tore at the ground, ripping huge furrows with his talons. He paused for a moment, leaning backward on his powerful legs to brace himself, and then lunged forward, straight into the shadows.

  This was nothing like travelling through that dark realm on his own. Arenadd lay flat, his arms wrapped around Skandar’s neck, as pure blackness rushed past around them. Skandar never seemed capable of becoming lost. He slid through the shadows without a sound, never seeming to change direction, until he opened his beak wide and let out a screech so horrible, so full of pent-up violence, that it made even Arenadd shudder.

  In that instant, the darkness vanished and they were bursting back into the real world—into a large, richly decorated chamber where another griffin was turning to meet them, wings half-open in shock.

  Arenadd was ready. He threw himself sideways, off Skandar’s back, rolling when he hit the floor and using the momentum to land on his feet. As he rose he pulled his sickle free and charged.

  Skandar had hit the other griffin head-on, full in the chest. Now the two were struggling together, Skandar’s talons locked into his opponent’s neck and shoulders while he tore at vulnerable flesh with his beak. The other griffin bit back, tearing a long gash down the side of Skandar’s face, but could not dislodge the talons still stuck in his own body.

  Arenadd had no time to waste watching his partner’s struggle. The griffiner was there, already grasping the hilt of his sword, and Arenadd attacked him instantly, hoping to catch him before he could draw it.

  The griffiner, a solidly built middle-aged man, proved to be faster than Arenadd had expected. He wrenched his sword out of its scabbard and raised it, protecting his face and chest. Arenadd’s own weapon was far too small to knock it aside, and at the last instant he changed his tack, darting away to attack side-on. The griffiner struck, turning to face this new attack, but Arenadd was faster. The hooked point of the sickle pierced the skin, and he pulled it downward, tearing a deep wound in the unprotected flesh under the man’s arm. The griffiner bellowed in pain, like a bull, and charged at him.

  Arenadd did not panic. Combat never frightened him any more, and he grinned to himself and began his dance, moving this way and that to confuse his enemy and make himself nearly impossible to hit. The griffiner, bleeding badly from his wound, came after him, but Arenadd refused to let himself be cornered. He ducked under the wounded arm and struck again, this time with the sharpened edge of his sickle. It opened a long wound over the griffiner’s back, and bright blood soaked into the man’s tunic as Arenadd darted away.

  “Gryphus . . . damn you!” the griffiner yelled, gasping in pain. “Hold still! Fight like a . . . like a man!”

  Arenadd sniggered. “Why would I want to do that? Men die. I prefer”—he wove around the man and cut him again—“to fight like a shadow. Can you kill a shadow?”

  The griffiner made a quick and powerful attack, aiming to flick the sickle out of Arenadd’s hand. It missed, but only just; Arenadd, caught unawares, barely managed to avoid it, and the blade caught him a glancing blow on the arm. He snarled at the sudden pain and made a reckless attack, charging straight at his enemy. The griffiner protected himself with his blade, ready to swing it at Arenadd the instant he came close enough.

  At the last moment, Arenadd dodged sideways. Utterly silent on the wooden floor, he ran past the griffiner and then behind him, and as he ran he struck. His aim was true, and the inner edge of the sickle hit the man full in the throat. The edge did most of the work, but the hook, following it, did the rest. The griffiner made a sickening wet gagging sound and fell to his knees.

  Arenadd stood over him, panting, his eyes burning. “No,” he said. “I don’t think you can.”

  The noise of the fight, short though it had been, had not gone unnoticed. Even as the griffiner fell, dying before he hit the floor, the door burst open and a dozen armed guards ran in. Arenadd turned to face this new threat, holding his bloodied sickle in one hand, and a grin spread over his face. It was not fearful, or angry, or even hateful. It was full of a raw and terrible hunger.

  Skandar raised his head from his kill, blood dripping from the tip of his beak. He saw Arenadd attack, and his heart beat fast, pumping hot blood through his own body, bringing him strength to help his partner. “Fight!” he screamed, and charged.

  The occupants of the Governor’s Tower at Fruitsheart had been warned of a possible attack and had prepared themselves as well as they could. The five griffiners who lived there kept their swords with them, and the griffins stayed alert at all times. The number of guards in the tower was doubled.

  But, truly, there was almost nothing they could have done. Bewilderment only added to the panic that spread when Skandar and Arenadd entered the tower to begin their attack, and man and griffin carved a bloody path through the building, killing every griffin or Southerner they encountered.

  And even if their enemies had been prepared, what could they have possibly done against a massive griffin who could appear and disappear at will, and a man as silent as a shadow, who seemed impervious to any form of attack?

  It was not the first massacre that Skandar and Arenadd committed together. Nor would it be the last.

  When the killing was more or less over and all five griffiners were dead, Arenadd climbed to the top of the tower. While Skandar guarded him, he tore down the banner and threw it from the edge, to float down over the city. He reached into his robe and brought out a large folded cloth. Caedmon and Torc had made it, with his help.

  He tied it to the rope that had held the old banner, and hoisted it high. The wind soon caught it and unfurled it, showing it to the whole of Fruitsheart.

  It was a black flag emblazoned with a running wolf, which seemed to dance as the cloth flapped in the wind. The wolf held a silver moon in its jaws.

  That was the signal.

  Down in the city, Saeddryn had climbed onto a rooftop with help from the others. She raised her arms and shouted in the Northern tongue, the ancient tongue. The forbidden tongue. “The time has come! The moon is rising! Your master’s flag has been raised! Look! Look at the tower! Look!”

  People walking past stopped to gape at her. Saeddryn continued to shout her message over the rooftops, while elsewhere in the city, Rhodri, Davyn and Torc did the same. Even Skade had been taught the words, and she shouted them out, too, calling her beloved’s name with all her strength. Below, people began to look at the tower, and they saw the banner and began to shout their surprise.

  This was Saeddryn’s cue. She picked up the griffinbone horn. “Listen!” she cried. “And I will call!” She lifted the horn to her mouth and blew with all her might.

  A sound like a griffin’s screech echoed up into the sky.

  Up on top of the tower by his partner’s side, Skandar lifted his head and screamed.

  Beside him, keeping well back from the edge, Arenadd saw the panic in the streets below and smiled grimly to himself. The city is mine, he thought. And this time, I won’t run away. The time for that has passed.

  He returned to the pole where his banner hung, and climbed it. Clinging to the top, ignoring the height, he drew his bloodstained sickle and held it high over his head so that the metal gleamed in the sunlight. They would see him in the city, and they would know who he was. They would see their true master and choose to ally with him or . . .

  They will join my side, he thought. They don’t have any choice. The moon is their god, whether they remember it or not, and I am the moon’s greatest servant. And why would they choose the Southerners? No. They are my people.

  Arenadd stayed at the top of the flagpole for a few moments longer and then slid down again.

  “Come on,” he said to S
kandar. “We should go back inside. There could still be enemies to fight.”

  Skandar hissed and gladly followed his partner. This was what he wanted. This was what he had been waiting for. Not running and skulking around in the shadows, but true fighting. Arenadd had promised it to him, and now he had it. He felt the ache of his wounds and tasted blood in his mouth. It made him feel more alive than he had for months. He had bided his time for so long, and now his dreams were coming true at last.

  He walked close to Arenadd, wanting to press himself against the human to show his gratitude. But this was no time for affection. They had work to do.

  Arenadd rubbed the top of his head, just behind his beak, and Skandar closed his eyes briefly and crooned. It didn’t matter. His human understood.

  23

  The Weapon

  Three and a half months after his arrival on the Island of the Sun, Erian sat outside his hut and chewed at a piece of dried goat meat. He didn’t have much left. Tomorrow, he would have to catch another goat. Or maybe he would go back to the shore to look for mussels. It would be less taxing but perhaps more time-consuming. And Senneck would probably want more meat, too.

  The last few months had taken their toll on him. Later on, he would speculate that perhaps the first few weeks of life on the island had done more to change him than all his time travelling with Senneck.

  His appearance had changed, certainly. His face was tanned and weather-beaten, and while he hadn’t quite grown a beard his chin and cheeks were rough with yellow stubble. His hair had grown long, and he had tied it back with a leather thong. His hands, which had grown soft after so much time spent handling nothing but paper and quills, were rough and hard, the fingernails broken.

  There were no mirrors here, and no way for Erian to see his own face, and after so long living away from human contact he had ceased to think about his appearance, but anyone who saw him would have been hard-pressed to recognise him for the boy who had left Malvern long ago. Senneck had not left her nest once since laying her eggs, not even to eat or drink. He had brought her food every day and had hauled in water in a makeshift container fashioned from a broken pot he had found, and she had accepted it but still refused to leave her eggs for an instant. She preferred to be left alone, and her conversation was sparse to the point of virtual silence. Erian had finally realised that she did not want to talk and had left her alone, though his loneliness had been all but unbearable for the first few weeks.

  “Well, she wants to be left alone,” he mumbled. “This is her special time with her eggs. What would I know about it? It’s her business. When they hatch, maybe she’ll start coming out. She doesn’t need me now. Maybe I’ll go hunting today. Yes.”

  He was barely aware of talking to himself; it had been a habit for so long that he did it without thinking. When he did think of it, he forgot about it soon enough. What did it matter? He was alone. Nobody was here to see him. He could walk around naked if he wanted, and nobody would see that, either.

  He finished his snack, and took his bow and arrows out to the field to hunt. By now he had got the process down to a fine art, and he chose a hiding place at random and lay in wait until a goat came within range of his bow. After that, it was just a matter of aiming.

  Afterward, he hauled the carcass back to the village and cut off a leg for himself before taking the rest to Senneck.

  He paused in the entrance to her nest, as always, to announce his presence. “Senneck? I’ve brought food.”

  There was a pause before she answered. “Erian. Come in.”

  He came, dragging the goat with him. “It’s a good big one today. Where do you want it?”

  Senneck, curled up in her nest as usual, said, “Leave it by the door.”

  “All right.” Erian let go of the goat. “Do you need more water, or shall I leave?”

  Senneck yawned briefly. “No. Come here.”

  Erian obeyed, full of curiosity. “Why? What is it, Senneck?”

  She said nothing, but raised her wing. Erian saw what was underneath and stared in amazement.

  When Senneck’s wing moved, it revealed two tiny, shivering shapes. Griffin chicks, newly hatched, all downy and pathetic.

  Erian came closer. “They’ve . . . they’ve hatched!”

  Senneck’s tail flicked. “You may look different now, but you still delight in stating the obvious. Look on my young, Erian.”

  Erian’s face split into a grin. “They’re so tiny! Have you given them names yet?”

  “No griffin is given a name. We name ourselves when we are old enough.” Senneck gently nudged one of the chicks closer to the warmth of her belly fur. “One is a male, and one female,” she added more kindly. “The third egg did not hatch.”

  Erian watched the chicks. Their forequarters were covered in down instead of feathers, and their hindquarters were fluffy, like those of kittens. Their eyes were huge and bulging, but sealed shut. One was slightly larger than the other, but beyond that he couldn’t see any difference between them. They both looked to be about the same colour—a sort of pale yellowish brown.

  “When did they hatch?” he asked.

  “Early this morning,” said Senneck.

  “How long will it be before they’re old enough to fly?”

  “At least two months, but I will be able to leave them in the nest far sooner than that.”

  Erian felt a strange sense of peace spread through his body. “So we can start looking for the weapon soon?”

  “Yes, although I do not know why you have not sought it yourself before now.”

  “I couldn’t do it on my own,” Erian said simply. “You’ve been with me all this way; I can’t end the journey without you.”

  “Well.” Senneck sighed. “Soon I shall be able to help you end it. My chicks’ eyes will open in less than a week, and when that happens I will leave them and come with you.”

  Erian sat down with his back to the wall. “Gods, it’s been so long. I’ve wandered a fair way, but I never saw anything on this island except plants and rocks. Where would we start looking?”

  “I have had plenty of time to think of that,” said Senneck. “We shall try the mountain.”

  Erian rubbed his chin. “The mountain . . .”

  “It is the most obvious landmark on the island, and the most likely place your ancestors would have chosen.”

  Erian began to get excited. “Of course! It makes perfect sense . . . I thought of trying to climb it before, but I didn’t want to go too far or try and go up there by myself.”

  Senneck made a crooning sound in her throat and nosed at her sleeping young. “You have been patient for a long time, Erian, and I am proud of that. Be patient a little longer, and when we are ready we shall go to the mountain.”

  Erian stood up and bowed to her. “I’ll be ready.”

  Three and a half months had been a long time to wait, but after the first few weeks it had ceased to feel like waiting, and the weapon had faded to the back of Erian’s mind while he concerned himself with other things.

  But the week that followed the hatching changed all that. Suddenly, the search for the weapon wasn’t a distant prospect any more but an immediate one. He found himself counting the days, unable to focus on what he was doing. He visited Senneck at every opportunity, and while he said he was only coming to see the chicks, he knew he was really checking to see if their eyes had opened yet, if perhaps the time would come early.

  The chicks grew with astonishing speed; sometimes Erian became half-convinced that they were larger in the evening than they had been that morning. At first they were feeble, too weak to do anything except drag themselves very slowly toward their mother’s beak to accept the food she offered them. But after a few days they were strong enough to begin trying to stand up, gathering their little limbs under their bellies and pushing to lever themselves upright. They became more vocal, too; when Erian came to bring them food he would hear their high, piping voices calling eagerly from inside the hut. I
t was an odd feeling for him; sometimes he almost started to think of himself as a father to them, though male griffins never took an active role in raising chicks.

  One day toward the end of the week, the chicks, now strong enough to begin crawling, strayed out of the nest. Senneck hauled the female back, but the male was out of her reach. Erian was there, though, and he hesitantly reached toward the chick.

  “Bring him back,” said Senneck.

  Erian smiled and gently lifted the chick into his arms, cradling him against his chest. The chick wriggled and squeaked, but he was used to the scent of this human and his squeaks were sounds of protest rather than fear. Erian stroked his head, marvelling at how soft the downy fluff felt against his fingers. The chick nibbled his hand.

  “Aren’t you brave?” Erian murmured. “You’re not afraid of anything, are you? Well, you’re too young to know what danger is, aren’t you?”

  The chick raised his head and peered myopically at him. His eyes were filmy gold.

  Erian gaped. “Senneck! Senneck, his eyes are open!”

  Senneck peacefully clicked her beak. “What colour are they?”

  “Gold.” Erian stroked the chick again. “I wish I could give him a name. I know what I’d call him.”

  “What name would you give him, then?” said Senneck.

  “I’d call him Rannagon,” said Erian.

  “Not a griffish name,” said Senneck. “But a worthy name,” she added.

  “I’d call my own son that.” Erian carried the chick back to the nest and put him down beside his sister. “So . . .” He gave Senneck an imploring look.

  She yawned. “By tomorrow, the female’s eyes will have opened as well. And I am tired of this tiny hut. Tomorrow, you and I shall begin our search. Be ready; have food to bring.”

  Erian straightened up, grinning broadly. “I will, Senneck. I certainly will.”

  She chirped her amusement. “Go, then.”

  Erian left the hut for his own, his heart pounding. After so long, he could barely comprehend that the wait was finally over. One sentence, and it was done. And even though he had had so much time, he hadn’t stopped once to think of what he would do when they were ready to begin.