The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy)

by K J Taylor

  Skandar hissed to himself in dismay.

  Other griffins were already gathering. One dared to come close and inspect Arenadd. He recoiled quickly. “The human is dead!” he said.

  Others took up the cry. “Dead!”

  Skandar rose up, screeching in rage. “Not dead!” he roared.

  They backed away at once, intimidated.

  “Mighty Skandar, the human has metal talons through his body,” one ventured. “He cannot have survived.”

  Skandar pecked at one of the protruding knives, trying to pull it out, but could not grip it. He dismissed it with a scornful hiss. “My human Shadow That Walk,” he declared. “Not die. He wake again soon, see.”

  The other griffins did not look convinced.

  Skandar ignored them. He sniffed at Arenadd again, thinking. The human was hurt, and he needed help. But not from him. Other humans could help him. The female, Saeddryn—she knew how to heal. Arenadd had told him she had helped before.

  A plan slowly formed in his mind, and he clicked his beak in satisfaction. Yes. He would take Arenadd to Saeddryn, and she would help him. There was nothing more to be done here, anyway. The battle was won and the enemies were dead.

  He lifted his head. “I go back, to fruit-nest,” he said. “Take human. You, griffin, stay here. All stay here. Protect this nest, fight if others come. I say do this.”

  Skree, the largest of the griffins who had come with them to Skenfrith, bowed her head. “I hear and obey, Mighty Skandar,” she said. “We shall guard this city with our lives.”

  “Good,” said Skandar. “I go now. Return soon, when my human is healed.”

  “Yes, Mighty Skandar. I will make sure all of us know it.”

  Skandar flicked his tail and lifted Arenadd back up with his talons. He heard a clattering sound as the sickle fell onto the stonework, and he stared at it for a moment before scooping it up in his free paw. That was Arenadd’s talon; he needed it to fight and would be unhappy if it was lost.

  “Go now,” he said, and took off.

  He was tired from the journey to Skenfrith and even more tired by the battle, but he shook off his tiredness and dived back into the shadows. He had grown used to them by now, and he liked them. They were cool and refreshing, and he could feel them giving him extra strength. This was his magic, and he loved it.

  The flight back to Fruitsheart passed quickly, and he left the shadows when he was over the tower. But the moment he emerged he could tell that something bad had happened.

  Smoke was rising from several places down in the city; he could smell burning wood and flesh. Huge areas of the city had been utterly destroyed, and the Governor’s Tower looked as if it was barely standing. Chunks were torn out of the stonework, as if a giant griffin had attacked it with its beak.

  When Skandar landed at the top, he saw several dead griffins lying scattered there. Moments later, he was attacked. He heard the aggressive cries of griffins from above and the running paws of humans below. Skandar laid Arenadd down between his forepaws and reared up angrily to protect him.

  But the griffins did not attack. They swooped at him, only to wheel away at the last moment. As they did so, the humans emerged. Northerners all, armed with steel talons.

  Skandar dropped back onto his paws and hissed at them. Dark humans were usually friends, but these smelt of anger and fear.

  One of them ran ahead of the others and gestured at them. “Stop! Stop, it’s Skandar, ye idiots!”

  The humans slowed and then halted, but kept their weapons at the ready. They were all afraid of him. Skandar did not care. He liked to be feared.

  The human who had shouted came toward him. She moved unevenly and with pain, and there was blood on her, but Skandar recognised her when she stopped and bowed to him.

  He stretched his beak out to scent her, and grunted to himself. Saeddryn.

  Saeddryn bowed again. “Skandar,” she said, and then, in broken griffish, “Where’s Arenadd . . . ?”

  Skandar regarded her for a moment and then gently lifted Arenadd in his talons and laid him at her feet.

  Saeddryn dropped her sword and knelt by her cousin’s side. “Oh no. Oh holy moon . . .”

  Skandar wrapped his tail around his hindquarters. “Hurt,” he said roughly. “You help.”

  Saeddryn swore as she feverishly ran her hands over Arenadd’s chest, probing at the knives where they entered his body. “Oh, shadows help me, what happened to him?”

  Skandar only watched her, waiting for her to do something. She would know what to do.

  Saeddryn pulled herself together. “Come here,” she said sharply to her companions. “We have t’take him below.”

  They advanced nervously, their eyes on Skandar. Instantly he reared up, hissing and rasping. “Stay away!” he warned. “You stay away!”

  Saeddryn cringed, but did not run away. “Please, Skandar, we have t’take him away from here,” she said. “Can . . . can ye understand Cymrian?”

  Skandar didn’t, but he grasped her meaning easily enough. “Not take!” he hissed. “Leave here. He stay with me, I protect. You . . . heal, heal now. Help.”

  “Well . . .” Saeddryn touched one of the knives. “I could . . . I guess I could take the knives out; that’d help . . . try an’ bandage the wounds . . .” She straightened up. “Ye an’ ye! Come back here, ye damned cowards. I want ye t’go below. Get clean water, bandages an’ that stuff we use on wounds. Run!”

  The humans fled, and Saeddryn slumped down by Arenadd. She prudently avoided looking Skandar in the eye as she spoke to him. “They’ll be back soon enough, an’ I’ll do what I can. But . . . Skandar . . .” She tried griffish, stumbling over the words. “I think . . . will not . . . heal.”

  Skandar clicked his beak. “My human Shadow That Walk,” he said. “Magic human. See him die once, then wake. Never die and stay dead. My human walk in shadow.”

  Saeddryn did not understand. “Well . . . I’ve seen him recover from wounds almost as bad as these,” she mumbled. “Though I dunno what he’s gonna say if he wakes up again. Gods, it all happened so fast.” She winced and touched her face, where there was blood.

  Skandar said nothing. He waited patiently with her until the other darkmen returned. She dismissed them again and then set to work.

  First she pulled the knives out, groaning softly when she saw how long they were, and how sharp. Arenadd did not react when she pulled them out. His eyes, which were open, had a glassy look about them, as if there was nobody behind them.

  Once Saeddryn had laid the knives in a neat pile beside her, she pulled Arenadd’s blood-soaked robe open and set about cleaning his skin. The wounds looked ghastly, but he hadn’t bled much, and she finished swabbing them and put on some herbal paste that would fight infection. That done, she wrapped bandages around his torso until she had covered all the cuts.

  “There,” she said, sitting back and wiping her forehead. “I’ve done what I can. The rest is in the Night God’s hands.”

  Skandar chirped his satisfaction. “Female do good work!” he said. “My human wake soon.”

  Saeddryn stood up, wiping her hands on her gown. “Listen, Skandar, we have to take him inside. We were attacked only a short time ago, an’ the bastards could be back. If they come, ye’ll be right where they can see ye.”

  Skandar only stared at her, uncomprehending. “You go now,” he said eventually. “Bring meat.”

  Saeddryn paused. “Hungry?” she said, in griffish.

  “Am hungry,” Skandar agreed. “Bring meat.”

  Saeddryn nodded and left. Once she had gone, Skandar pulled Arenadd toward him and lay down, cradling him against his chest, where his feathers would keep him warm.

  Saeddryn returned with meat, and Skandar gulped it down. Using so much magic had made him ravenously hungry, and when he was done he sent Saeddryn to bring more.

  Sated, he yawned and laid his head down over Arenadd, covering him with his neck.

  “Skandar,” said Sa
eddryn. “Skandar, ye have t’come inside. Ye need shelter, an’ so does he. Skandar, can ye understand me?”

  Skandar didn’t, and even if he had, he wouldn’t have listened. No human could tell him what to do. No human could persuade him, either, except for Arenadd. Arenadd was the clever human who always knew what to do. Saeddryn was nobody. She could do useful things, but she was not for talking to or listening to.

  Besides, Skandar didn’t need to be told what to do. He knew what he was doing.

  Saeddryn lingered nearby for a long time, apparently reluctant to give in, but she eventually saw reason and left.

  Satisfied, Skandar settled down to sleep. He wanted to be near the moon. It reminded him of the beautiful griffin who had come to him and made him feel safe.

  Night came while he slept. He woke up briefly as the moon rose, and felt Arenadd jerk and begin to breathe again as its light touched them. Skandar sighed contentedly and went back to sleep.

  Erian gripped the sword more tightly and stared intently at the target hanging in front of him. It was swinging wildly back and forth, still juddering from the impact of his last blow. Moving targets were always more difficult to hit, but they were the most likely kind. And now he had been entrusted with Gryphus’ weapon it was his duty to ensure he knew how to use it.

  The target swung back toward him, turning sideways so he could see the vulnerable spot he had daubed on it with a handful of mud. He planted his feet well apart and struck.

  His aim was true, and the sword hit it right in the centre. The target folded around the blade and then broke apart in a shower of dry grass and twigs.

  Erian lowered his sword, panting and grinning. “That’ll teach you to get in my way, you evil straw dummy,” he said, and chuckled at his own joke.

  Well, that was probably enough for one day. He stretched and rubbed his aching back before walking back toward the village.

  Senneck was sunning herself outside her hut, watching her chicks fight over the remains of their most recent meal. She looked up when Erian approached and greeted him with a chirp.

  Erian sat down beside her, holding the sword across his lap. “By Gryphus, they’re getting big, aren’t they?” he said.

  Senneck yawned widely. “Perhaps they know how urgent our business is,” she said.

  “They’re very clever chicks,” said Erian, with as much pride as if they were his own offspring.

  The chicks broke off from their play and waddled over to inspect him. Erian petted the male. He trilled, liking it, and pushed his head against the man’s hand, asking for more.

  Erian scratched him under the beak. “You’re a handsome one aren’t you, Rannagon?” he murmured. “Eh? I bet one day you’ll be as big and strong as your mother.”

  The chick chirped. “Rannagon!”

  Erian grinned. The chicks had been using basic words and phrases for a while now, and “Rannagon” was one of the first words the male had ever used. “My father’s name,” Erian said. “Rannagon.”

  “Rannagon!” the chick repeated. It would be a long time before he knew what it meant.

  Erian sighed contentedly and leant back against the wall of the hut. He didn’t mind that he had to wait before they could leave. In a way, he felt it was necessary; it was a time for him to train with the sword and learn to use it, a time for him to meditate and plan. And a time for him to be with Senneck and her chicks, and think about things other than war and death for a while.

  Out here, in the sunlight and the peaceful silence, nothing seemed very urgent.

  He ran his fingers over the sword blade. Other than the rippled marks, nothing had changed as far as he could tell. The weapon was as heavy as it had been before, the hilt had the same tarnish marks and ingrained dirt, and the blade was still notched. It didn’t feel any sharper or stronger. But Erian knew in his bones that it was not the same sword it had been when he had brought it to the island.

  You would be so proud, Father, to know your sword has become Gryphus’ weapon.

  Erian tried to imagine what Lord Rannagon would say if he were there and knew what had happened. But his father’s face had faded in his memory by now. His eyes had been brown, hadn’t they? No, no. Blue. They were blue. Just like mine. The line of Baragher the Blessed carried his blue eyes for generations. And now—

  He stiffened as a chill suddenly bit into his bones. The sun seemed to darken, and as the shadows around him lengthened he felt a terrible sense of dread come over him.

  The chicks whimpered and ran to their mother, who had half-risen as the darkness came, beak opening.

  Without thinking, Erian pressed himself against her. “Senneck, what’s happening? Why is it so dark?”

  The darkness passed as quickly as it had come, and the warmth of the sun returned along with its light.

  Erian relaxed, but cautiously. The day had gone back to normal, but the sense of dread stayed inside him. “What was that, Senneck? Did you feel it?”

  “Yes.” She looked skyward as she kneaded gently at the sand with her talons. “You felt it, then?”

  “Yes. It was . . . I don’t know. I felt so scared all of a sudden. Senneck, what did you feel?”

  “I had a sense of something,” she said. “I do not understand it, but perhaps because I am a griffin I could feel it more powerfully than you.”

  “Feel what?” said Erian. “Is there something here? Are we about to be attacked?”

  “The world has shuddered,” Senneck said in distant tones. “And so, as a part of it, did we.”

  “But why?” said Erian.

  “Something terrible has happened,” said Senneck. “Somewhere. I do not know what it may be.”

  Erian’s fists clenched. “It’s him,” he said. “I know it is. He’s done something. Senneck, what if . . .” Paranoia swept through him. “What if we’re too late? What if he’s already in Malvern? What if he’s killing Elkin and the others right now? What if—”

  “Be calm,” said Senneck. “There is nothing to be gained from panic.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. We shall leave here the instant my chicks no longer need me.”

  Erian scratched the ragged beard that had slowly covered his chin. “Can’t we just bring them with us?”

  “I cannot carry them as well as you,” said Senneck. “We shall barely be able to reach land again as it is.”

  “But I’ve been thinking,” said Erian. “What if . . .” He hesitated, and then plunged ahead. “I thought may be I could make a boat. You could fly overhead to help me navigate, and I could get back to land that way. I could take the chicks with me.”

  Senneck started to say something and then stopped. She put her head on one side, thoughtfully. “You think you could make a boat?” she said eventually. “I did not know you knew anything about them.”

  “I don’t, really, but—but there’s already a boat here. In the village. I could dig it out and see if I could do anything with it. Maybe I could repair it! And even if I can’t, I can look at how it’s made and learn what I can. It’s got to be worth a try.”

  Senneck thought it over. “I do not see why not. It would be better than doing nothing.”

  “I can’t do nothing,” said Erian. “Not now. Not if . . .” They were silent for a moment, sharing the same thought. If Kraeai kran ae’s power had increased, if he had won some victory or committed some evil great enough to make the whole world shudder, then nothing mattered any more but to return to the North as quickly as possible. Not even the chicks were important enough any more.

  The Dark Lord had to be stopped.

  Arenadd woke up and greeted the new day with a yawn.

  He sat up and rubbed his back. It ached, and no wonder: he’d been sleeping on hard stone. But he felt wonderfully refreshed and alert. Godsdamnit, that was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in months, he thought.

  As he looked around, he realised he was on top of the Governor’s Tower in Fruitsheart. Skandar was there, still sleep
ing.

  Arenadd stood up as the memory of the previous day came back. Skenfrith, the attack . . .

  The knives!

  He clapped a hand over his chest, searching for them, but they were gone, and he sighed in relief.

  “Skandar.” He patted the griffin’s shoulder. “Skandar? Wake up.”

  Skandar’s eyes cracked open, and he peered at him.

  “Good morning, Skandar,” said Arenadd. “Are you hurt?”

  Skandar yawned and got up. “Am not hurt. Human . . . hurt?”

  “I don’t think so. Skandar, why are we here? Why aren’t we at Skenfrith?”

  “You hurt,” Skandar said. “I bring you here, to female. Tell her help you, she help.”

  “Saeddryn? You mean Saeddryn?”

  “Yes. Female help.”

  “You brought me back here so she could take the knives out,” Arenadd guessed. “I don’t know how to thank you, Skandar. You did exactly the right thing. You’re a clever griffin, aren’t you?”

  Skandar blinked modestly. “You clever. I fight, you think. But you heal now?”

  Arenadd prodded his chest. There was no pain. “I feel fine. What happened at Skenfrith?”

  “Leave griffin there, tell them guard nest,” said Skandar. “Then come back here.”

  “So, all the enemy griffins at Skenfrith died?”

  “Yes. Human run from tall nest, we kill. Some not come; they die.”

  Some of the humans ran out of the towers, and the griffins killed them, Arenadd translated. The rest died in the fire. Good. “Then we can probably leave them for a while and talk with . . .” He trailed off as he suddenly noticed the damage to the tower and the city, and the dead griffins scattered nearby. “What happened? Skandar, what . . . was there an attack?”

  “Must be,” Skandar said carelessly. “Not while we here.”

  Arenadd’s gaze travelled over the city, noting the smoking craters. “Firebombs. Must have been. The griffiners must have . . .” He looked around quickly and found his sickle, which he scooped up and put back in his belt. “Come on. We have to talk to Saeddryn.”

  “Plan now,” Skandar agreed.