by K J Taylor
And that was what he spent most of the journey back to the mainland doing, in between keeping an eye on the chicks and making sure they didn’t eat all the food.
Eventually, bored and irritated, he started to talk to himself again, a habit he would never lose for the rest of his life.
“. . . cursed thing, useless boat, why didn’t I take any extra palm fibres with me? Damn you, Senneck, why did you have to have chicks? I should have thought of this months ago, so we could go back to Malvern and Elkin . . . Gryphus curse it . . . ”
The chicks were lively at first, running back and forth along the length of the boat, wrestling with each other and keeping up a high-pitched squabbling the entire time. Eventually, growing bored with that, they started to pick at the gaps in the planks, pulling out the waterproofing fibres. When Erian tried to put a stop to it, this instantly became their new favourite game. By midday he was wet, cut and bruised in several places, and utterly exhausted and frustrated.
Unfortunately, though this method of travel was safer than trying to ride on Senneck’s back, it was also slower. The island had faded to a dot on the horizon, but there was no sign of the mainland ahead, and the boat’s progress had slowed since they had set out, as Senneck began to pace herself.
Fortunately for the sake of Erian’s sanity, the chicks eventually became bored of their new pastime and curled up in the prow to sleep. Erian, now thoroughly frazzled, chewed on a dried mushroom while he stuffed the fibres back into place, and then he resumed his bailing as quickly as he could. Fortunately, though the leakage was bad, it wasn’t fast enough to overwhelm the boat.
Once it was as dry inside the little vessel as he could make it, he dared to sit back and rest. Gods, he was tired.
Above, Senneck continued to fly tirelessly westward. Not for the first time, Erian marvelled at her fortitude. He was tired, but Senneck probably was, too, and she would never complain.
He smiled to himself and slid into a doze.
Water touching his hand woke him up. He started and sat up, and was bailing again before his brain had even registered what was going on. The water had also woken up the chicks, who were huddled together in the prow and complaining loudly.
“It’s all right!” Erian told them, as he tossed a bucketful of water over the side. “You’re safe, just calm down . . . let me take care of this, and I’ll give you some food once I’ve finished . . . would you like that?”
Rannagon stared accusingly at him. “Wet! Wet!”
“Yes, I know. I’m wet, too!” said Erian. “It won’t kill you, all right? There.” He scooped up a last bucketful and tossed it away. “That’s better, isn’t it?”
The chicks did not look comforted.
“Want nest,” the female whined. “Want mother!”
“It’s all right,” Erian told her. “Look, up there! That’s your mother, there! She’s with us, see?”
The female did not look comforted. “Want home,” she said again.
Erian unwrapped the meat he had brought. “Here,” he said. “Eat. Your mother told me to make sure you didn’t starve.”
The chicks fell on the food the instant he gave it to them, tearing viciously at it. Erian, watching them, was suddenly struck by how savage they were when they ate and how easily their beaks cut through the crudely butchered goat meat. One day, they would be strong enough to cut through a human body just as easily.
Erian shivered.
Once the chicks had eaten, they came toward him, still demanding their mother. When Senneck failed to appear, Rannagon lay down with his head and foreclaws in Erian’s lap and stared miserably at him.
Erian stroked his head. “It’s all right, Rannagon. She hasn’t gone. She’ll be with you again by tonight, I’m sure.”
The female nibbled at his ragged trousers. “Tired,” she complained. “Wet. Want mother. Want home.”
Erian felt sad for her, suddenly remembering that he wasn’t the only one who had lost a home. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But you’ll find a new home. I’ll show you Malvern. There’s lots of other griffins there, and lots of nests to sleep in, and plenty of food . . .”
The female whimpered. She was smaller and slimmer than her brother, and unlike him she had something of Senneck’s elegance.
One day she’ll be as beautiful as her mother, Erian thought fondly and petted her, too. She recoiled and nipped his finger, hissing.
Erian withdrew. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
The female showed no sign that she was listening. She walked to the prow and perched with her forepaws resting on the side, looking intently ahead.
Erian, following her line of sight, felt his heart leap. The mainland!
It was barely visible—just a grey line on the horizon—but it was there. Unmistakeable.
“Look!” He touched Rannagon’s head. “Look there, Rannagon. D’you see it?”
The chick turned to look but didn’t register any surprise or interest; most likely he had no idea what the line actually was.
“That’s land,” Erian told him, wanting to share the excitement. “A new place. We’ll be there by tonight.”
Or so he hoped, anyway.
Inevitably, the boat began to leak again, and he resumed his bailing.
Despite his hardened muscles and the fortitude he had found on the island, the constant work finally began to wear him down. The sun beat down relentlessly, scorching his back; water soaked into his tunic and dried, leaving it crusted with salt. His hair stuck to his head, he was hungry and there were splinters in his fingers.
Erian’s excitement drained away, little by little, leaving him numbed by the endless repetition. Scoop, lift, tip, scoop, lift, tip . . .
The leaks were getting worse.
Erian risked taking a moment to unwrap some dried meat and stuff it into his mouth, and he resumed his bailing yet again while he ate it. Gryphus help me, my arms are going to drop off—if I don’t drown first.
Luckily, it wasn’t all doom and gloom. Above, Senneck had found an air current and was riding it, barely needing to flap her wings and so conserving valuable energy. The boat sped forward with her; unfortunately, this was why it was leaking more copiously than before.
Still, Erian thought, at least they would get there sooner . . . if they ever did.
The journey dragged on, always with the sun at their backs as the distant coast of Cymria came closer and closer. Eventually, as the afternoon drew in, Erian could see colours begin to emerge from out of the greyness. He leant forward eagerly to look, and as they crested another wave he was convinced he could see the shapes of cliffs and trees as well.
We’re going to make it!
He wanted to whoop aloud, but he forced himself to stay calm and keep on bailing. Too early to celebrate . . .
The land grew closer and closer, tantalisingly distinct now. We’re going to make it . . .
Erian weakened and ate the last of the meat and mushrooms by way of celebration, giving some to the chicks, who were becoming restless again.
As he sat back to allow himself a quick rest while he ate, he felt a sudden coldness around his legs. Water.
He looked down and saw blue ocean swirling around his ankles, then his calves, then up toward his knees . . . how could it be getting in so fast?
For a few moments Erian stared blankly at it, unable to comprehend what was going on, and then a piece of wood bumped innocently against his leg.
“What?” he said aloud, before realisation came crashing down on him like a collapsing roof.
It’s a piece of the boat!
A stream of griffish and human curses babbled out of his mouth as he finally sprang into action. He thrust an arm into the water, grabbing for the sword. His fingers closed around the blade, and he hauled it out and tucked it under his arm. His other hand caught the bucket as it floated away from him, and he began to bail as fast as he could.
It worked—barely. He managed to reduce the level of water in the boat
with a mighty effort, but there was obviously a very large hole, and deep down he knew he could never hope to keep up his bailing.
In desperation, he snatched up the broken plank and tried to find the place it had come from. He found it eventually—the hole was nearly as big as his hand—and managed to wedge the board back into place, but it didn’t come close to plugging the leak, and he knew it would work itself loose again in no time at all.
Taking advantage of this brief respite, Erian slung his sword on his back and found the other bucket. The chicks, sodden and whimpering, clustered around him for comfort.
“It’s all right,” Erian told them, lying, while he continued to scoop water out of the boat, using both buckets at once this time.
It was only a temporary measure, and he knew it.
Senneck, oblivious, flew on. The land ahead grew closer, but it was too far away, too far . . .
Erian opened his mouth to call her, and heard an ominous splintering sound come from beneath him. An instant later, water gushed in. He bailed frantically, practically flailing at the water. It was a hopeless effort. The water came in torrents, swamping The Pride of Gryphus in no time at all. The chicks, panic-stricken, climbed on top of him to try to escape, clinging to his arms. Erian tried to shake them off, but they held on instinctively, weighing him down, hampering his efforts to save the boat. A wave, crashing over the bows, snatched one of the buckets and washed it away, and he lost the other one in a clumsy attempt to retrieve it.
The boat lurched alarmingly, juddering as the waves tore at it. And then, finally, it surrendered itself to the inevitable. Erian felt the planks begin to come apart beneath him, and did one of the most quick-witted and sensible things he ever did in his life.
He half-rose, supporting himself on the boat’s hull even as it broke, and lurched toward the prow with the chicks still clinging to him.
An instant later, The Pride of Gryphus fell to pieces, consigning its three passengers to the water.
Weighed down by the sword and by the two chicks, Erian sank like a stone.
He struggled desperately, trying to hold on to the rope he had managed to grab at the last moment. It slid through his hands, escaping from him . . . but then the fragment of wood still attached to the end hit his hands, giving him a place to grip. He held on with all his might, and the rope pulled him upward, along with the chicks, dragging them along just at the surface. Safe.
Erian, coughing and spluttering, took one hand away from the rope and looped his arm around the terrified chicks, pulling them up to keep their heads out of the water. Rannagon prudently decided to climb onto his surrogate father’s shoulder, which was above water, while his weaker sister simply dug her talons into Erian’s arm and relied on that to keep her safe.
Erian wrapped his other arm around the rope, putting all his effort into not losing his hold on it. He looked up at Senneck—she didn’t seem to have noticed what had happened—probably exhausted, and putting all her effort into flight.
Erian cursed himself for not calling to her sooner; he couldn’t do it now, not properly. He opened his mouth to try, and was rewarded with a throatful of salt water for his trouble. Spitting it out, he held on and hoped Senneck would notice his predicament before he and the chicks all drowned.
This horrible continuation to his journey back seemed to last forever. His arm, already sore from half a day of near-constant bailing, throbbed in protest. He couldn’t tell if the chicks were well. Rannagon seemed fine, more or less, but his sister barely moved, and Erian had the constant paranoid conviction that her head was underwater or that he was holding on to her too tightly and strangling her. He had no idea how close they were to land by now; he was too low in the water to see anything ahead but more waves.
But it did not last forever. Eventually, Senneck did indeed look down and see what had happened; Erian saw her head move. A moment later she began to beat her wings hard, flying higher. The rope went taut as she pulled it with her, and Erian clung on as it dragged him out of the water, chicks and all.
Senneck was not done yet. She flew still higher, lifting her passengers until they were well above the waves, and then she moved on toward land as fast as she could.
Erian found himself dangling in midair, his feet just above the water, with the chicks still holding on to him. Rannagon quickly lost his grip but managed to catch hold of Erian’s arm, and Erian scooped him up with his sister.
In a way, this new state of affairs was worse than before: without the water to support him, it was much harder to hold on to the rope. But at least they wouldn’t drown now.
Erian managed to turn his head to look in the direction Senneck was going.
The mainland is there! Right there!
It was barely any distance away; he could see the sand, the cliffs, the trees, everything!
The realisation gave Erian strength, and he redoubled his grip and waited, determined to make it.
When they were close—so close Erian could see the waves lapping at the shore—the rope suddenly went slack.
He fell back into the water, hitting it with a loud splash. Frantic, he let go of the rope and tried to swim. But he’d never make it: the sword was too heavy, and he couldn’t swim and keep the chicks above water at the same time.
He churned forward as quickly as he could, barely able to keep his head above water. The chicks let go of him and began to swim, propelled by instinct. But they would never make it, Erian thought. They could never . . .
And then his feet hit sand. He struggled on, not quite believing it, but as the next wave let him go, he found it again. Before long he could walk along the bottom, and relief surged through him.
He forged his way toward the land, occasionally knocked down by a wave but managing to find his feet again. The chicks swam ahead, surprisingly powerful and certain in the water. Erian followed them on through the surf, until they reached the beach and climbed up it; he went after them, staggering through the wet sand until he was away from the water, then he collapsed.
The chicks flopped down beside him, panting, and Erian managed to reach out and pet them reassuringly. “Well done. Well done.”
While he lay there recovering from his ordeal, Senneck appeared. She was limping and her wings dragged on the ground, but she stumbled over to her chicks and nudged them urgently, cooing to them. They stirred and looked up pathetically at her, and she lay down on her belly, inviting them to shelter under her wings. They went to her and huddled against her flanks, shivering. But safe.
Senneck touched Erian with the point of her beak. “Erian. Erian, look at me.”
Erian raised his head and managed a watery grin. “Let’s not do that again.”
She hooted. “I am glad to see you are safe. I am sorry I did not realise you were in trouble sooner than I did, but I was tired and had let my mind wander.”
“It’s all right,” Erian mumbled, knowing this was the most emotional apology he could expect from her. “We survived.”
“I would not have dropped the rope,” Senneck added. “But the stick broke, and I could not catch it in time—we were lucky you were so close to shore. Thank you for protecting my chicks.”
Erian rolled onto his back, ignoring the sword beneath him. “You’re welcome.”
Neither of them had the energy to say anything more after that. Erian thought of trying to get up and find a sheltered spot above the high-tide line, but he didn’t have the will. Instead, he fell asleep. He was wet and coated in sand, he had lost most of his possessions, he was trembling with fatigue . . . but he had come home at last.
Hundreds of miles away, Lord Arenadd Taranisäii stood at the top of Fruitsheart’s tower with Skandar and looked down on his city.
It had been nearly six months since Skade had left on her quest. Six months since the war had begun. Six months that had taken their toll.
Arenadd stroked his beard. He had become thinner, and his face had taken on a slightly hollow, tired look. But his black eyes were
utterly calm, as if nothing could ever frighten or trouble him. Despite the protests of his friends and followers, he still wore the black robe of a slave, and it, like his hair and beard, was obsessively clean and neat.
Beside him, Skandar glanced at him and then looked away to watch the sky. The dark griffin was scarred from combat, but if anything, he looked even bigger and more powerful for it. He had finally shed the last of his tendency to be unsettled and nervy like the wild beast he had once been, and now his stance was full of self-confidence.
After the first battle with the griffiners, it hadn’t been long before Malvern sent more to attack. But this time the troops they sent were ordinary men with conventional weapons—a large number of them. None of them, of course, were Northerners. Even now the griffiners were unable to forget the old laws and let their vassals use weapons.
With the unpartnered, and the help of all those who had joined them since the taking of the city, Arenadd’s followers fought back against the attackers and did it surprisingly well. The troops on the ground were adequately led, but they fought half-heartedly, and many of them chose to run rather than stand their ground when the unpartnered attacked. It hadn’t taken Arenadd long to understand why: they were demoralised. And who could blame them? Every one of them had to know that the unpartnered and their leader had effectively destroyed the majority of Malvern’s most powerful griffins. What chance would ordinary soldiers have?
Very little, though the siege lasted for a good week. Then a simultaneous attack from the ground, led by Saeddryn, and from the air, led by Skandar and Arenadd, forced the army to break ranks and finally wiped them out.
Many of the soldiers had surrendered. All of them were killed. Arenadd had no use for prisoners.
Skandar stirred and hissed. “We win,” he said. “Win war.”
“Yes,” Arenadd murmured. “I think we may have.”
Less than three months after the victory over Malvern’s troops, after sporadic attacks by griffiners, which had not succeeded, something had happened that had nearly made Arenadd evacuate the entire city.