by K J Taylor
When the city was directly below him, he wheeled around and flew in a tight circle. He screeched a command to the griffins, and then folded his wings and dropped.
Arenadd instantly lost his grip with his knees, and very nearly lost everything else, too. He had persuaded Skandar to wear a harness, and he had tied his own wrists to it before they left, and thank the Night God for that. As Skandar dived, Arenadd flapped helplessly in midair like a human flag, the straps around his wrists the only thing keeping him from tumbling out of the sky.
Skandar ignored his partner’s troubles. All his attention had to be focused on what he was doing.
Skenfrith grew larger and larger below, as if it were hurling itself toward them. All around Skandar, griffins were falling out of the sky.
There were other griffins visible below them now, flying idly over the city. None of them seemed to have noticed the danger hurtling toward them from above.
Skandar chose his moment. He closed his eyes for an instant and burst into the shadows without slowing.
Blackness enveloped them. The wind seemed to vanish, and everything slowed. Arenadd finally managed to grab the straps and pull himself onto Skandar’s shoulders, leaning back so far his head touched the griffin’s wing.
The enemy griffins were silvery shadows moving below them like fish in a pool. Skandar chose the nearest of them and flicked a wing to roll sideways, directly above the enemy griffin. He opened his talons wide, folded his wings back as far as they would go and plummeted.
Arenadd closed his eyes and braced himself for the impact.
When it came, it felt as if they had flown into a stone wall. Arenadd lost his hold on the harness again and jerked backward so hard the straps cut into his wrists.
Skandar’s dive ended in a clumsy sideways spin that nearly knocked him out of the sky. But he recovered and managed to right himself with a skilful flick of his wings.
The griffin he had struck fell toward the city, its own wings trailing uselessly behind it. It was probably dead already.
Arenadd dragged himself upright and slumped across Skandar’s neck. He could feel blood on his hands, and though he wasn’t in any pain he knew that the moment they left the shadows his spine would be sheer agony. No griffiner would ever be suicidal enough to actually be on his griffin’s back during a manoeuvre like that. No mortal griffiner, anyway.
Skandar didn’t pause to gloat over his victory. Around him the unpartnered griffins had begun their own attack. Some had hit their targets, others not. Skandar saw an enemy griffin that had escaped unscathed, and attacked it. He passed directly over it and lashed out with his beak on his way. The blow broke the other griffin’s wing and sent it spiralling helplessly down into the city.
It was a short fight. The enemy griffins were caught completely unprepared, and few of them had a chance to fight. Kaanee’s griffins—the unpartnered, as Arenadd had dubbed them—fought ruthlessly and did not let a single one escape. Perhaps the enemy could have put up more of a fight, but Skandar stopped that. The constant attacks from a griffin they could not see, a griffin who struck in complete silence, drove them into a panic. After that, the unpartnered made short work of them.
Once the last of them was dead, Skandar flitted back into the sunlit world, and Arenadd groaned as the pain finally hit him. But there was no time to worry about that. The black griffin gave another commanding screech and flew toward the two griffiner towers that loomed over the city. Many of the unpartnered had already begun to attack them. Arenadd had directed a group of griffins whose power was fire to fly to the nest entrances and hurl flames through them. The strategy must have worked: he could already see smoke beginning to plume out as the nesting material caught fire.
Some griffins who had been inside when the attack began emerged from the towers and were instantly set upon by the unpartnered ones that Skandar had brought with him. The black griffin himself flew between the towers, seeking out targets wherever he could. It quickly became clear that the griffins in Skenfrith were all but defeated.
Arenadd fumbled with the straps around his wrists, and managed to peel them away from the bruised and bleeding flesh as Skandar came in to land on top of the larger of the towers. Once they had touched down, Arenadd dismounted and limped around to his partner’s head.
“You did it, Skandar,” he said. “You’re a fine commander, you know.”
Skandar clicked his beak. “No talk!” he said. “Now, fight!” Arenadd grinned and freed his sickle from his belt. “Yes. Now it’s my turn. Let’s go.”
They found the trapdoor set into the brickwork in a moment. It was made from solid wood, but a few blows from Skandar shattered it into pieces. Arenadd jumped through it and into the tower, all his senses alert and ready. Somewhere deep in his chest, where his heart had been, the dark thirst awoke once again.
Time to kill.
Grinning to himself, he darted down the corridor without a sound.
The griffiners in the tower were in a panic, faced with the twin threats of attacking griffins and a fire beginning to spread through the building. Most of them were more interested in escaping the flames than trying to fight, and when Arenadd appeared in their midst they had no time or presence of mind to organise themselves.
For Arenadd, it was almost a game. Whenever he saw an enemy he would jump into the shadows before he struck. The sickle was a perfect weapon; now he had had time to become used to it, he found it easier and easier to use. The wickedly sharp inner blade could open a throat with one blow, and the tip finished the job. He struck from behind, unseen, and watched blood spurt away from him like water.
As he worked his way down the tower, killing everyone he met, he stopped using the shadows. Skandar needed his strength, and besides, he could fight without their cover.
A woman appeared around a corner and stopped, open-mouthed in shock at the horrible blood-spattered apparition coming toward her. She had the presence of mind to draw her sword, but too late. Arenadd ducked under her arm and struck.
Moments later, she was dead.
As he stepped over her body, Arenadd wanted to laugh, and he did—a wild, crazed laugh that went on and on and sounded nothing like his usual self. Oh gods, he loved this so much. Why had he ever thought that there was anything wrong or horrifying about killing? Why had he ever doubted his master?
The Night God was in him now, whispering silently in his mind, pushing him onward. He didn’t know what she was saying, but he could guess. Yes, Arenadd, yes. Kill them. Kill them all.
“Kill them all,” Arenadd repeated, as he cut a man down where he stood. “Kill them all. Kill the sun worshippers. Kill them all, yes, yes.” And he laughed.
There didn’t seem to be anyone else on this level. He made a quick check of the rooms—very quick, since the flames were spreading. The air was full of smoke, enough to suffocate an ordinary man. But not him. No, not him.
He descended to the next level. The air was much clearer here, but there didn’t seem to be any people about. Arenadd rounded a corner and went into a side chamber, where a man with a bandage wrapped around his face stepped out of the shadows and stabbed him in the chest.
Arenadd stopped dead, staring in astonishment. “What . . .”
The man lunged forward and stabbed him again. He left the knife embedded in Arenadd’s body and drew another from his belt.
Arenadd looked down. There were two hilts protruding from his chest. He looked up again, with an almost shocked expression. “Where in the Night God’s name did you come from?” he said. “What are you doing?”
The bandaged man stabbed him again. “Die!” he screamed. “Die, curse you! Why won’t you die?”
The pain hit Arenadd out of nowhere, like an animal lunging at him. He staggered, and the man took advantage of this to stab him yet again. Arenadd made a weak swing at him with the sickle, but the man easily dodged it.
Arenadd reached up for one of the knives and tried to pull it out. But all his strength seemed to h
ave gone. His knees buckled, and he fell.
The man stepped toward him. He was trembling with pent-up terror as he drew his last knife. “This is for my wife, you son of a bitch,” he snarled, and stabbed downward with all his strength. The knife slid through Arenadd’s ribs, directly into his dead heart.
Arenadd jerked and coughed, bringing up blood, and then he was still.
Arenadd could feel the knives embedded in his body, and he could feel the sickle still clutched in his hand. His mind screamed at him to move—to get up, to pull the knives out and kill the one who had attacked him—but his body would not obey. The knives would not let him heal. They were sapping his energy, taking away his strength. Making him helpless.
He fought to stay awake for as long as he could, but there was nothing he could do. Take them out! he pleaded. Someone take them out!
But no-one came to help him. He could feel the heat around him growing more and more intense, and he was dimly aware that the tower was burning down. If he did not escape from it soon, his body would be destroyed and he would have a fate worse than death.
There was a crash and a thud, and something hit him hard in the chest.
And after that everything vanished and he spiralled away into absolute blackness.
He was not alone in the dark. As he lay there, he became aware of a presence coming toward him. Soon it was hovering over him, pure white and glowing, but somehow keeping its light within and never dispelling the comforting darkness. He knew her at once, even without seeing her face. Her beautiful face.
He tried to get up, but he could not. He had no body here; he had left it behind.
“Master,” he said.
Arenadd. Her voice was soft, but so powerful. You have made a terrible mistake.
“Master,” he said again, struggling to reach out to her. “Master, please, don’t leave me. I need you.”
You were a fool, she said. To think you could fight alone! Why did you go into battle without your griffin? I sent him to you to fight beside you! To protect you! You have gone without him before and suffered for it. Why did you think you could do it again?
Arenadd coughed. “The building was on fire; I didn’t want him to get hurt. Besides, they were only other humans. I can handle humans, I . . .”
Yes, that must be why you have found yourself disabled and trapped inside a burning tower, she said, and her voice was not accusing but icily matter-of-fact. Your overconfidence has brought you to this.
A spike of defiance rose in him. “Of course I was overconfident,” he said. “You made me immortal. You gave me powers, you told me I was the Master of Death. All my victories were so easy because of you. Why shouldn’t I have been confident?”
Your victories were easy because you were lucky! she said, and her voice was not loud or angry, but full of a rushing and roaring like water. And because you planned them well! Do you not understand, Arenadd? I am too weak to interfere! All I can do in this world is through you! If you do not emerge victorious, I shall never be powerful again!
Arenadd shrank back in the darkness. “I’m sorry, master. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have . . . I want to help you. I want to do your will, I do. I belong to you.”
Her presence became softer and kinder. I hear you, and I am pleased. You have done well thus far, and I begin to trust in you, as you have trusted in me. Arenadd—
“Please,” said Arenadd. “Can you help me? I want to get out of here so I can keep fighting for you, but I need help.”
Arenadd, she repeated. I cannot stay long. Tell me what you wish. Do you wish to become more powerful? Do you wish for your powers to increase?
“I—” Arenadd stopped. He hadn’t known that he could become more powerful. “How?”
Only tell me, she said. Do you wish for your powers to become greater?
“Yes,” said Arenadd.
If you bind yourself to me utterly, your transformation will be complete, the Night God whispered. She said it seductively, almost like a lover. If you give up what has made you mortal, there will be no more fear. No more doubt.
Arenadd strained to reach her, almost lusting for her presence. “Tell me how!” he said. “I want to—I want to do that. How, master? How?”
It will be simple, she said. Painless.
Somewhere inside him, a flicker of doubt awoke. But he pushed it aside. “What is it? Tell me, and I’ll do it.”
You must give up the last of your mortality, said the Night God. Shed the final traces of the man you were.
“You mean my memories?” said Arenadd. “I’ve forgotten so much already . . . I didn’t understand why.”
Yes. Your memories. Give them to me, she breathed. Give them up, give them all up. Discard them as if they were an old suit of clothes. Forget the mortal utterly, cast him aside. Become Arenadd Taranisäii, from mind to spirit.
Arenadd was silent for a long time, trying to think. It was so difficult to think in her presence; he felt as if she filled his mind from end to end, drinking in his essence like water. Forget.
Could he do it? Should he do it?
Answer me, said the Night God, interrupting his thoughts. Answer me quickly, Arenadd Taranisäii, Lord of Darkmen.
“But my memories . . .”
What use are they to you? She sounded almost angry now. What use have they ever been? Your life before you died was nothing but pain and misery! You have been rejected and persecuted since the day you were born, and nobody has ever loved you!
“No—”
Shall I show you?
And she did show him, bombarding him with memories, dozens of memories—all real, all vivid, all terrible.
A small boy cowering as other children pelted him with mud and stones. Blackrobe! Blackrobe!
An older boy now, nearly ten, trying in vain to fight off a dozen much older boys before he fell, bleeding from the nose and mouth. Blackrobe! Filthy blackrobe! Moon lover!
And the boy grew older, but no matter where he went or who he spoke to, the reaction was always the same. Stones thrown at him, insults and sneering that followed him wherever he went, every day. Nowhere to hide.
Blackrobe!
Now he was a man, and another man snarled hate at him. Go back to the North, blackrobe!
A blond-haired young man, one he recognised, watching him with open disdain. Are all slaves this insolent?
A brown griffin, hissing contempt as she leant down to tear his ear. Not just a blackrobe, but an arrogant blackrobe.
And still the memories came, more and more of them, suffocating him with hate and despair. He saw himself betrayed, beaten, tortured, tried and sentenced to death for a crime he had not committed. He saw himself fall from the edge of the city, the arrows that sent him there still embedded in his body as he hurtled to his death.
Arenadd screamed. “Stop! Stop it! Make it stop! I don’t want to see any more!”
Finally, mercifully, the memories stopped coming. You see now? the Night God said. See the misery you lived in before you came to me?
Arenadd breathed hard; he felt as if he had been rescued from drowning. “But . . . but wasn’t there . . . something?” He strained to remember, grasping at memories that stayed just out of his reach. “There were people . . . friends . . .”
False friends, and a lover who betrayed you for another man, said the Night God. Only that.
“But . . . I don’t . . . don’t remember . . .”
You do not wish to see it, said the Night God. But you must, and soon. The only ones who have ever cared for you or accepted you were your own people.
“And Skandar and Skade.”
Yes.
Arenadd lay there, staring at nothing. “Then I had nothing at all. Back when I was . . . when I was . . .” He shuddered and made a sound that was almost a sob. “When I was Arren Cardockson.”
Nothing, Arenadd. Truly nothing.
Arenadd tried to speak, and fell silent. The memories still hurt, like the knives stuck in his body. “I . . .”
What do you choose? said the Night God. Choose, Arenadd.
“Take them!” Arenadd shouted, the words so full of pain they were almost a scream. “I don’t want them. Take them away, please! Let me forget. Let him die. Let Arren Cardockson die.”
Her light increased. You have chosen wisely.
Arenadd lay still. “Take them,” he said again. “Take them away from me forever. I don’t want to remember it ever again.”
You never shall, she soothed. I promise. You will be under my protection. Rest now, and when you wake all shall be well.
“It won’t,” Arenadd said bitterly. “Even if you let me forget and make me more powerful, I’m still done for. I’ll never get out of this cursed tower, not like this.”
She chuckled; it was an oddly human sound for her to make. Do not fear, Arenadd. Your partner has not abandoned you. Even now he is dragging you out of the tower to safety. He will know what to do; trust in him.
Arenadd let out a great sigh. “Oh, master, I’m so sorry. I should never have let this happen. I’m such an idiot.”
Do not blame yourself. At least your mistake has allowed us to meet again. And you like to see me, don’t you?
“I do,” he said instantly.
Good . . . good, Arenadd. I am proud to have you serve me. Now rest. You have worked so hard. When you awaken, all will be well.
And Arenadd slept.
29
Consequences
Skandar emerged into the open air, carrying Arenadd’s limp body in his talons. Smoke had invaded his lungs, and he paused in the street outside the tower, coughing and retching. Once he felt better he took off with a flick of his wings and flew back to the top of the tower, where he put Arenadd down and inspected him.
The human lay utterly still, like a dead thing. He smelt of blood, and that cold metal scent he usually had. Skandar tried nudging him to wake him up, and speaking to him, but nothing worked.