The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy)

by K J Taylor

  “Because I am your lord, and that’s my order to you, Saeddryn. I’ll win this war and destroy our enemies, but I will not marry you. Not now, not ever.”

  Saeddryn stared at him as if he had just slapped her in the face. The apple she was holding fell onto the floor.

  As if the thump had revived her, Saeddryn stood up. “Yes . . . sir,” she said, and left the room with a slow, defeated tread.

  The next day began quietly enough. After a quick breakfast, Arenadd had another meeting with the remnants of his council. Iorwerth had now become Kaanee’s partner and had accepted it with a kind of awe. Arenadd would have to teach him griffish, but for now he had other things to deal with.

  After the meeting, he returned to his chambers and spent some time with the chicks. They seemed lively enough and had taken to him quite well. That surprised him; for as long as he could remember, animals had been terrified of him. Even griffins seemed to feel the fear that drove lesser beasts away from him, but these chicks showed no sign of it.

  Maybe it was Skandar’s blood in them.

  After that, Arenadd and Skandar paid a visit to Nerth. The darkman and his followers were still travelling away from the mountains and toward the hiding place Arenadd had chosen.

  Arenadd had a brief conversation with Nerth. It seemed he had been doing well: they had avoided being seen by travelling mostly at night and were making good progress. Arenadd briefly shared with them everything that had happened, including the deaths of Rhodri and Davyn, and Caedmon.

  Nerth accepted it all in impenetrable silence. “An’ Skenfrith?”

  “Destroyed,” said Arenadd. “None of the griffiners there survived.”

  Nerth looked away. “Good.”

  Arenadd wanted to stay longer but knew he had to return quickly. He gave Nerth and his friends the supplies he’d brought for them and then got back onto Skandar’s back.

  “May the Night God bless you,” he said, and the dark griffin took off.

  When they reached Fruitsheart and landed on the tower as always, it was to find Torc waiting for them.

  Arenadd dismounted. “Hello, Torc. What’s going on?”

  Torc shuffled his feet. “Sir . . .”

  Arenadd looked closely at him. The boy had seemed uneasy and distracted lately, but now he looked downright ill.

  “What is it?”

  “Sir, something’s happened,” said Torc.

  Arenadd tensed. “What?”

  “Come with me, sir,” said Torc.

  Arenadd followed him into the tower, with Skandar trailing uninterestedly after them.

  The boy took him to the room where Caedmon had died. “It’s in here, sir,” he said unnecessarily, pushing open the door.

  Arenadd followed him, and stopped, staring in astonishment.

  Saeddryn was there, rising to meet him. With her was a boy about Torc’s age, clad in the ragged remains of a peasant’s clothes. Limping toward him, leaning on a spear, was . . .

  “Garnoc?”

  The burly darkman bowed low to him. “Lord Arenadd Taranisäii,” he rumbled. “It’s an honour to see yer again.”

  Arenadd looked at him. Garnoc had shed the black slave’s robe he had been wearing on their first meeting and now wore the clothes he had stolen from Guard’s Post, but the scars of the collar were still livid and obvious on his neck.

  “Garnoc,” he repeated. “Good gods. I never thought I’d see you again.”

  Garnoc straightened up and grinned. “I didn’t think t’see you again either, sir, but here we are. Seems yer’ve bin doin’ pretty good since we last saw each other.”

  “How did you get here?” said Arenadd.

  “Walked, sir,” said Garnoc. “Slowly. Had some help from Yorath here, mind.”

  Arenadd looked at the boy. “Oh, hello. Yorath, is it? Where did you come from?”

  Yorath gaped at him in silence.

  Garnoc smacked the boy in the back of the head. “Bow to Lord Arenadd, boy. Ye’re in the presence of a great man, so show some respect.”

  Yorath bowed hastily. “Y-yes, sir,” he said, almost whispering.

  Arenadd couldn’t help but smile. “It’s all right; I won’t bite. Where did Garnoc find you?”

  “He ran away from home t’follow me, sir,” Garnoc growled when Yorath didn’t answer at once. “He was a miller’s son at Gwernyfed, a little peasant village way out east. I told him t’go home, but he wasn’t listenin’ to a word of it, sir.”

  “Y-yes, sir,” Yorath stammered. “That’s the truth, sir. I came’ere t’help ye, sir, I wanted—”

  “Shut up,” said Garnoc. “Sir.” He turned respectfully to Arenadd. “Sir, I’ve never stopped bein’ yer follower after Guard’s Post, sir. I’ve bin travellin’ the land, spreadin’ the word about yer, sir. Makin’ all our people know what happened at Herbstitt an’ afterward, sir. After what happened at Gwernyfed, I knew I had t’find yer, sir. So here I am.”

  “What happened at Gwernyfed?” said Arenadd.

  Garnoc cast a glance at the bed. “It can wait till later, sir. But I came here from Warwick, sir. I’ve brought a good number of men with me, sir. They wanted t’come here t’join yer, sir.”

  Arenadd blinked at him. “You brought . . . Garnoc, how did you know where to find me?”

  Garnoc looked at the bed again. “She told me, sir.”

  Arenadd looked past him and saw a hunched shape lying under the blankets. “Who?”

  Garnoc stepped aside. “I’ll leave yer with her, sir,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. There was nothin’ I could’ve done.”

  He left the room with Yorath. Saeddryn cast a sad look at Arenadd and left, taking Torc’s hand on the way out.

  Alone, Arenadd stepped toward the bed. He was full of apprehension. Who was this? What was going on?

  The person in the bed was a middle-aged woman—or had been once.

  Arenadd stood over her, just looking at her and wondering.

  The woman had long curly black hair and had probably once had strong features. Now she looked withered and shrunken. Her hair had greyed, and her face was lined and scarred with pain.

  Arenadd looked lower. Her hands, resting on the blankets, were a ruin. The fingers had been utterly destroyed, twisted and broken until the skin tore and bled.

  “Tortured,” Arenadd muttered.

  At that, the woman opened her eyes. They were black and blank, like two empty pools. “Arren.”

  Arenadd, driven by some instinct he did not understand, touched her forehead with his good hand. “They tortured you, didn’t they?” he said. “Like they tortured me.”

  The woman stared at him, unblinking. “Arren,” she said again.

  Arenadd frowned. “What are you saying? Are you trying to tell me something?”

  The remains of her fingers twitched. “Arren. Arren. My little Arren.”

  “Who, me?” said Arenadd.

  She looked at him, desperation showing through the pain and despair in her face. “Arren. My Arren. My little Arren.”

  Gods, what did they do to her? Arenadd thought. She must have been driven insane. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I don’t know who that is. Can you tell me your name?”

  She didn’t seem to hear. “Arren was my son,” she intoned. “Arren is dead. The Dark Lord has gone to Fruitsheart, to kill his enemies. My son lies dead at Eagleholm.”

  Eagleholm . . . the name stirred something in Arenadd. “What’s your name?” he said. “How did you know where I was? Can you tell me?”

  “Our family is all dead,” said the woman. “My husband died at Guard’s Post; my son died at Eagleholm. I died at Warwick.”

  “You’ll meet again in the stars,” said Arenadd, wanting to comfort her. “I know you will.”

  Her eyelids drooped. “My son is dead,” she said in a monotone. “He died at Eagleholm. His name was Arren. He died by falling. What came to our house was not my son. My son is dead. His name was Arren. He died the day after his birth
day. His name was Arren. My son is dead.”

  Arenadd realised he wasn’t going to get any sense out of her. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant it. Gods, what had they done to her?

  The woman said nothing more, and Arenadd turned away. He wondered why the enemy had tortured her. How did she know he was going to Fruitsheart, and how had they guessed that she knew?

  Garnoc and Saeddryn were waiting outside for him.

  To his surprise, Saeddryn put a hand on his arm. “How was she, sir?”

  Arenadd glanced at her and shook his head. “She’s incoherent. Whatever they did to her must have broken her mind. I don’t think she even knows how she knew we were here.”

  Saeddryn hugged him tightly. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered in his ear.

  Arenadd let go of her and gave her an odd look. “I’m sure I’ll be fine, Saeddryn,” he told her. “But thank you. Garnoc—”

  “Yes, sir?” said Garnoc.

  Arenadd thought of asking him if he knew who the woman was but pushed it aside. He could find out later. “I want to know more. What happened at Gwernyfed? How many men have you brought with you?”

  Garnoc looked nonplussed. “I’m sorry, sir, but I thought yer’d want a moment—”

  “I’m fine,” said Arenadd, slightly annoyed and beginning to wonder why they were acting as if someone had just died. “Come on, we’ll go to the dining hall and talk there. Saeddryn, can you go ahead and ask them to get some food ready for us? Thank you.”

  Garnoc followed him to the dining hall, still acting as if he was deeply shocked by something but sitting down readily enough when Arenadd indicated a chair.

  “Now,” said Arenadd, taking a seat opposite him. “Tell me everything.”

  “Sir,” said Garnoc. “I met someone at Gwernyfed. Not Yorath—someone else. A griffiner.”

  “Oh?” said Arenadd. “Who?”

  “Someone yer’ve met, sir,” Garnoc said grimly. “Erian Rannagonson, the Bastard.”

  “Him!” Arenadd started; he hadn’t thought of Erian in some time. “What was he doing there?”

  “On his way somewhere, sir,” said Garnoc. “I dunno where. He said—” He winced. “I talked t’him, sir. Din’t want to, but that griffin of his had me pinned. They forced me t’tell them where I’d come from an’ why. Afterward they gave me a message for yer, sir.”

  “What message?” said Arenadd.

  “The Bastard said t’tell yer he was . . .” Garnoc rubbed his shaven head. “Somethin’ . . . he said you was . . . I dunno, Kray kran something.”

  “Yes?” said Arenadd.

  “He said t’tell yer that him—the Bastard—said t’tell yer he was Aee . . . somethin’. Ended with kay. Anyway, he said he was comin’, sir. He said he was gonna kill yer. He said . . . said he knew what you was plannin’, an’ that . . . he said . . .” Garnoc’s expression cleared suddenly. “He said, ‘Remember my face, murderer, it’s the last one you’ll ever see.’ ”

  Arenadd chuckled. “I see he thinks he’s grown a sense of humour.” He lost his smile to think. “Hmm. So he found you . . . but he didn’t kill you?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Garnoc. “He said he wanted me t’give yer that message from him, sir.”

  Arenadd thought about it, and then snorted. “Hah. The Bastard still underestimates me. He’s got no idea.”

  “Sir?” said Garnoc.

  “I know what he is—or what he thinks he is,” Arenadd said dismissively. “The Night God told me a long time ago. But I wonder what he was doing in Gwernyfed?”

  Garnoc’s eyes were wide. “The Night God, sir?”

  “Of course,” said Arenadd. “She talks to me every so often. She gave me my powers, after all; she gives me warnings and advice.” And she takes things in return. “So you don’t have any idea of where he was going?”

  “No, sir,” said Garnoc. “But he was on a journey, sir. Somewhere.”

  Arenadd scratched his beard. “Hmm. Well, I suppose it’s not particularly important for the moment. So you went to Warwick?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Garnoc. “Me an’ Yorath wandered around for a long time b’fore we found out yer were supposed t’be there. He’s a good lad, Yorath,” he added fondly. “Anyway, we went t’Warwick, got there one way or another, an’ found all sorts of chaos when we did. All the griffiners was dead, an’ people were just doin’ whatever they wanted. But most of ’em was goin’ on about you, sir. There was this group there—called ’emselves Wolves. Spent their time goin’ on about how yer were the Night God’s avatar an’ how yer were gonna drive the Southerners out of the North an’ suchlike. Anyway, after I’d bin into the tower an’ found . . . y’know, her”—he paused awkwardly, and went on—“I found ’em an’ told ’em who I was an’ so on. They din’t believe me until I told ’em exactly what yer looked like an’ what yer griffin was called an’ so on. Then I told ’em I knew where yer were, an’ they was all willin’ t’come with me here. So here I am.”

  Arenadd listened. “You’ve done great work, Garnoc,” he said solemnly when the big darkman had finished. “And proven yourself one of my most loyal friends.”

  Garnoc stared at the tabletop. “If it weren’t for yer, sir, I’d still be in Herbstit with a collar around my neck, buildin’ walls for the sun worshippers. It’s my duty t’pay yer back, sir, an’ don’t think the others will’ve forgotten, sir. Dafydd an’ that Prydwen—they won’t have forgotten, f’sure, sir. They’ll be out there somewhere, sir, just waitin’ t’find yer again.”

  Arenadd smiled to himself. Dafydd and Prydwen—two Northerners who had been sold into slavery as punishment for trying to find Arddryn and join her. They had been good friends to him at Herbstitt and had begged to come with him and Skandar. He wondered where they were now and hoped he would meet them again.

  “You’ll be rewarded for this,” he said.

  Garnoc grinned. “Thank yer, sir.”

  “I can’t do much now,” Arenadd went on. “But to begin with you need fresh clothes and a good meal.”

  “I’d love that, sir,” said Garnoc. “An’ Yorath could do with the same, if yer don’t mind. He was a great help on the way here.”

  “Of course,” said Arenadd. “If that’s all you have to tell me, I’ll go and organise it.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Garnoc. “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “There’s one other thing I wanted t’know, sir,” Garnoc said apologetically.

  “Yes?”

  The big darkman’s look was eager, excited. “Are yer really gonna attack Malvern, sir? Are yer gonna set the North free?”

  “Yes, Garnoc,” said Arenadd. “That’s exactly what I’m going to do. But not until after I’ve set every other slave in Cymria free.”

  Garnoc stared at him. “All of them, sir?”

  “Yes,” said Arenadd. “At Guard’s Post, I found out that slaves could be warriors. One day, they’ll help me destroy Malvern. And afterward I’ll set them free, just as I did for you at Guard’s Post. The greatest reward I can offer.”

  Garnoc’s eyes shone. “Yes, sir!”

  Arenadd smiled and left the dining hall.

  Outside, he found Saeddryn. “Ah, hello,” he said. “I was wondering, could you ask someone to find fresh clothes for our new friend? And for Yorath, too.”

  “Of course, sir,” said Saeddryn. She paused. “What did he tell ye, sir?”

  “That the slaves I freed at Guard’s Post have been spreading the word,” said Arenadd.

  “That’s good, sir.”

  “I would certainly say so. How many men did he bring with him from Warwick?”

  “A good two hundred, sir,” said Saeddryn. “They’re undisciplined, but strong an’ willin’, sir.”

  “Excellent. Well, I need to go and get some rest, so if you could get on with that . . .”

  “Yes, sir,” said Saeddryn. “But sir . . .”

  “Yes, Saeddryn?”

  “I dunno if this is the right time,
sir, but I’ve been wantin’ t’tell ye . . .”

  “What is it now?” said Arenadd, more sharply than he needed to.

  She looked up. “Torc asked me to marry him, sir.” She paused. “An’ I’ve said yes.”

  32

  The Siege

  Erian stood back to admire his craft.

  It hadn’t been easy to make. He had dug out the remains of the boat from the sand, but although it had held its shape, it had proven far too weak to float again. Instead, he had had to use it as a template to try to build his own.

  It had taken the best part of two months.

  Erian had no axe. He had no carving tools. All he had were his hunting knife and his sword. He didn’t know the proper names for the parts of a boat, beyond “hull” and “keel”—and he knew their names but not what they looked like—yet after weeks of trial and error, he had managed to re-create the part he thought of as the “spine,” and then the “ribs.” After that he had had to carve the planks that would fill the spaces between the ribs, and it had taken far longer than he had anticipated.

  But his time on the island had taught him patience, and he worked away at his little project day after day, not particularly worried if it would work or not. During that time, Senneck’s chicks had shed most of their baby fluff, and their wings—though not strong enough to support them yet—had grown the long feathers needed for flight. They were already testing them, and Senneck had said they would begin their first attempts at flight soon.

  But they won’t need to fly just yet, Erian thought, as he admired the little boat he had dubbed The Pride of Gryphus. It was crude, certainly, and unlovely, but it was his and he had worked very hard at it. He had tested it several times in the lagoon where he went for water every day. It leaked in a few places, but with a bit more work he hoped it would stay afloat long enough.

  They could go back to the mainland soon.

  To his surprise, the idea filled Erian with trepidation. He had grown so used to life on the island that he almost never contemplated the idea of going back to civilisation. Gods, it had been such a long time since he’d even spoken to another human being.