by K J Taylor
“Then surrender to me now,” she said, and tore his clothes open.
“Oh, I will,” he said, and smothered the rest of her words with a kiss.
Skade held him tightly, snarling with lust. But despite her outer savagery, inside her heart was full of a tenderness that no-one would ever see. She needed him now as she had never needed him before.
But in a way she was glad to have been away from him for so long. It had been long enough that he would never have to know the truth. She would never tell him about what had happened in the South, or ever mention the hideous creature she had given birth to. He would never see it, or know about it, and she would be free of the shame. She would make other young with him, better young, and they would take away the memory of the deformed thing she had left to die.
She would make him proud. Soon.
Erian and Elkin were married the day after his return, in the Sun Temple. Senneck and Kraal were there as witnesses, along with Senneck’s chicks and every one of the surviving griffiners from the city. Erian, standing at the altar with Elkin, felt a terrible shock thud into his stomach when he realised how few of them there were. Elkin and Kraal were right: the Dark Lord and the dark griffin had decimated them.
The old priest who was the sole master of the temple, along with his crippled griffin, conducted the ceremony, waiting until the moment when the rising sun shone through the temple window and touched the altar, haloing it in gold.
“Mighty Gryphus, giver of life, master of the day, who makes the flowers bloom and the fruit ripen, ruler of the fair people of the South and master of this land, I bid you witness and bless the union of Lord Erian Rannagonson, your chosen warrior, and Eyrie Mistress Elkin the Fair. May they declare their love now, in the sight of you, Gryphus, who are lord over our hearts, and in the sight of these witnesses, who are their friends and family.”
Erian listened as the old man droned on, but he kept his eyes on Elkin. Like him, she was wearing her ceremonial outfit—the same one she had worn on the night of the dance where he had fallen in love with her—and she had decorated her hair with a gold clip studded with gems in the shape of a flower. Erian had had his beard trimmed and neatened by a barber, along with his hair, which was tied back in a little ponytail. He had the sacred sword—now polished to a beautiful shine—strapped to his back, unwilling to be separated from it.
Finally, the priest reached the pivotal moment in the ceremony. “Now may they declare their love and faith to each other in the sight of their friends, the great griffins, and Gryphus’ blazing eye.”
Erian picked up a flower from the altar and held it out. “Like this flower, my love has grown and blossomed under Gryphus’ benevolent light. I ask that you nurture it and bring it to bear its seeds in a future we shall share.”
Elkin wrapped her hand around the stem, and his hand. “I accept this flower,” she said in her light, soft voice. “And with it your love. May it never wither or fade.”
The priest reached out and clasped his own hands around both of theirs, linking them together around the flower. “As a priest chosen by Gryphus to be his voice in the world, I declare this marriage sealed,” he said.
Behind him, his griffin lifted her head to the ceiling and screeched—but she did not call her own name. “Gryphus! Gryphus! Gryphus!”
The other griffins took up the cry—Senneck, Kraal, the chicks, every griffin in the temple—calling with all their might. Creatures of the sun, blessed by the Day God and sent to guide and protect his people, calling to the sky and therefore to him.
As the calls filled the temple, Erian leant forward to kiss Elkin. She pressed herself against his chest, accepting his warmth and his love, and the people in the temple cheered.
Afterward Erian and Elkin walked out of the temple hand in hand, Elkin holding the flower.
Erian felt as if his heart were swelling with love when he looked at her. My wife, he thought. My beloved Elkin. Mine forever.
That same morning, Arenadd went into the streets of Fruitsheart to talk to the slaves. They had been prepared for it, and they gathered in the square out the front of the Governor’s Tower, filling it from edge to edge. More than half of them couldn’t fit, but they climbed onto nearby rooftops, perching there like an enormous flock of sparrows. None of them wanted to miss what their new master was going to say.
Arenadd, a tall and imposing figure in a new robe decorated with silver spirals, stood on the platform that had once been used for public executions. He wore a heavy silver band around his neck, an ornate parody of a slave collar. Skandar stood beside him, his feathers glossy with health, his forelegs decorated with dozens of rings taken from the treasury, which he had adopted with pride.
Arenadd looked down at the endless rows of faces, nearly all of them turned upward to look at him.
Some ordinary Northerners had decided to come, but most of them were slaves. He could see the weak early morning sun gleaming on hundreds of collars, and the sea of black robes that filled the square. Slaves tough and hardened from lifetimes spent toiling in mines and fields and building sites. Slaves scarred by whips and chains and the lifelong knowledge that they would never be free or see their homeland again. Northern slaves back in the North at last.
Arenadd knew he couldn’t speak for long.
“Brothers!” he called, using Cymrian. “My brothers, my sisters! My blackrobes!” He grinned as he said it. “Blackrobes, they called you, and they made you wear those robes as a humiliation, like the collars around your necks! I am Lord Arenadd Taranisäii, the Shadow that Walks, sent by the Night God to save you and save this land! I wear a black robe! I wear a collar! I have lash marks on my back and a brand burned into the back of my hand, but I am a free man! And I have come to tell you that the robes you wear are not a mark of shame but of pride! I tell you, the black robe is not the clothing of a slave but of a king. King Taranis, master of the tribes, the last ruler of the North—of Tara, as it was known when it was still ours. Like you, he wore a black robe. Like you, he wore a collar around his neck. But he was a great king, a man who drove his enemies away like rats, a man no-one could defeat. I say, you are men and women of the North! Men of Tara! My people, Taranis’ people! I say, it is your right to stand up and say ‘I will be free, and no man may say otherwise!’ I say, as this land was given to us by the Night God, as she blessed us with her beautiful black hair and eyes, her grace and cunning—I say we shall take it back. I say the people of the South, the cursed usurpers who worship the arrogant sun and the glaring day, shall be driven away by you. You are not slaves now, and you never shall be again. I, Arenadd Taranisäii, who have brought you home, shall remove your collars and your bondage if you will fight for me!” He took a deep breath. “Brothers and sisters, men and women of the North, will you fight to be free?”
The crowd didn’t shout. They didn’t scream or bellow. They roared.
Arenadd drew his sickle and raised it over his head. “Will you fight?”
And the slaves roared their approval, stamping on the ground and shouting, again and again. Chanting a name. “Arenadd! Arenadd! Lord Arenadd! Lord of Darkmen! Lord Arenadd!”
Arenadd grinned his wolfish grin. “Then we shall go to Malvern!” he shouted. “And we shall go today! We shall march on that accursed city, and we shall find our enemies there and smash them. We shall break them and drive them away like the vermin they are.”
And the slaves shouted back, howling their approval.
“If,” said Arenadd, once they had calmed down. “If you do not want to fight, then you do not have to. Stay here if you choose. But if you choose to stay, I command you to find another warrior and give him your robe to wear. Every man or woman who charges into battle with me today shall wear a black robe. From today, it will never be shameful to wear a slave’s robe—a king’s robe. Those who choose to fight, come to the tower and my friends will give you each a weapon. We march at noon.”
His piece said, he fell silent and watched the crowd s
urge toward the tower. He had left orders for the gate to be opened, and the slaves passed through them in a torrent. In the bay where supplies were usually unloaded, Garnoc, Yorath, Torc and Nerth would be waiting with a cart full of weapons to distribute. There wouldn’t be enough for everyone, though Arenadd had emptied every armoury they had captured, down to the last dagger. Those who didn’t get a weapon would be given a tool instead: a wood axe, a kitchen knife, a pickaxe . . . even just a sharpened piece of wood. How they were armed didn’t matter. They could fight, and they would.
As Erian was leaving the temple with Elkin, a voice called to him from behind.
He turned, grinning. “Yes? What the—?”
It was a thickset young man with a coppery beard. “Erian. Ye gods . . .”
Erian stared at him. “Branton Redguard. I didn’t know . . .”
Bran stared back, unreadable. “We din’t think yeh were comin’ back.”
“Well, I have,” said Erian, suddenly feeling resentful. “How’s my sister?”
“She’s . . . good,” said Bran. “We left yer quarters a while ago, after I got hold of somethin’ a bit bigger. More room for us, an’ it suited my status better anyway.”
Erian blinked. “Status?”
“Oh, yeh din’t know?” said Bran. “I’m the new Master of War.”
“You? Master of War?”
Bran snorted. “I’m the only one out of these useless snivellin’ drips ’ere what actually knows how t’fight an’ lead. There wasn’t much choice anyway after half the damn griffiners in Malvern got themselves killed.”
“Congratulations,” Erian said sourly and turned away to follow his new wife.
“Yeah, same t’you,” Bran said to his retreating back.
“Bran.” Flell appeared at his side and caught his arm. “We should get back. I don’t want to leave Laela alone any longer.”
Bran turned his head. “Of course. Let’s go, love.”
They waded through the crowd and were joined by Kraeya. “There you are,” she said. “I thought I had lost you. Come, let us go home.”
They got onto her back, and the red griffin flew back to the Eyrie and alighted on her new personal balcony. Once inside, Bran and Flell dismounted and went through the nest and into their own chamber.
Laela was there, asleep in her crib and watched over by Thrain. The grey griffin was an adolescent by now, though she was still small and thin.
“Flell,” she said, coming to her and rubbing her head against the woman’s hand.
Flell scratched her cheek feathers. “Hello, Thrain. How’s my little girl?”
“Well enough,” said Thrain. “I stayed close to her as you asked me to.”
“Good.” Flell went to the crib, anxious despite herself. Laela was a sturdy child, but Flell and Bran had conspired to keep her a secret from everyone else in the Eyrie, knowing that if anyone saw her they would instantly realise she was a half-breed. Not even Elkin knew; her eyesight was poor, and though she had seen the child once, she had apparently failed to notice her black hair.
Flell reached down to touch her daughter’s cheek. “You poor little thing,” she murmured.
“Her father’s comin’ ’ere,” Bran said bluntly, from behind her. “He’s comin’ soon.”
“I know,” said Flell, without looking around.
“We shouldn’t still be here,” Bran added.
“We don’t have anywhere else to go,” said Flell. “And perhaps . . . perhaps Erian . . .”
Bran gave a hollow laugh. “If this plays out the way people’re sayin’, ye’re gonna lose either yer brother or the father of yer child. Which one’s better?”
Flell turned. “Don’t say that, Bran. Please.”
“There’s no choice,” said Bran. “Is there? Sooner or later, yeh’ve gotta face it. We both do. Arren’s not gonna let anythin’ stand in his way, an’ certainly not that halfwit brother of yours. An’ after that, what then? What if he comes up here? What if he finds us?”
“He wouldn’t do it,” Flell said flatly. “I don’t believe it. Arren would never hurt me, and he would never hurt his own child.”
“I’d have said that once,” said Bran. “But now . . . now I ain’t so sure, an’ neither are you. Admit that.”
“No,” said Flell. “Because I am sure, Bran. My Arren is a good man. He wouldn’t kill a child. Not his own child.”
Bran came closer and put a gentle hand on her arm. “But what if he doesn’t remember about you an’ him?”
Flell stilled. “Not even then. And he will remember. I trust him.”
“Perhaps you do, but I do not,” said Thrain. “I have not forgotten how he was when he returned that night. He put fear into my heart even then.”
Flell said nothing. Bran, watching her, could feel her fear and despair, and he wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her. He wanted, too, to tell her the secret he had been keeping for so many months. Arren remembered me. He had me, but he didn’t kill me. He let me go. He remembered me.
But deep down Bran knew the last traces of the man who had spared him were gone now. Arren was gone, utterly gone, and only the Dark Lord Arenadd remained.
The march to Malvern took more than two weeks. Iorwerth had organised the carts of supplies that would follow the army, and Saeddryn and Nerth kept the troops in formation while Arenadd and Skandar kept control of the unpartnered flying above them, scouting ahead every so often to check for danger. But nothing happened. If any enemy troops were left in the area, they fled almost instantly at the sight of Arenadd’s army—thousands strong, their faces hard with determination, every single one gripping a weapon they looked ready to use at any moment.
When they reached the spot where they had to cross the river, a team of a hundred slaves, well trained and used to working as a group, gathered wood and rocks and built a crude dam in a matter of a day. The army had to cross it in a single column, but they managed it well enough, and when some of them lost their balance and fell in, the unpartnered flew down and plucked them out of the water.
By noon the next day, the walls of Malvern were within sight.
That evening a huge camp sprawled over the landscape, patrolled by the unpartnered. At the centre, Arenadd and his friends had their own fire.
Skade sat close to her beloved, holding his hand. It went without saying that she had refused to stay behind in Fruitsheart.
“I suppose you’ll be coming into Malvern with us,” Arenadd murmured to her.
“Of course,” she said. “You will be fighting for your life, Arenadd. I must be there to witness it . . . so that I will know if you are safe.”
He hugged her. “Of course I’ll be safe.”
“Then I shall witness your victory,” she said grimly.
Not far away, Skandar, Hyrenna and Kaanee sat together.
“Tomorrow, I fight,” Skandar remarked. “Tomorrow, Malvern.”
“Yes,” said Hyrenna. “You and I, fighting side by side at last.”
“And I,” said Kaanee. “I shall be beside you, with my human. I will be proud to fight alongside two such great griffins.”
Hyrenna dipped her head to him, flattered. “Tomorrow you shall see the great Hyrenna fight as she did long ago, when Arddryn’s rebellion was at its height and the powerful griffiners trembled. I am old, but my power has not diminished. I shall make our enemies suffer once more.”
“Tomorrow, I will unleash death,” said Skandar, with unexpected eloquence. “Will show you what I can do! Am ready for this, have been ready a long time. My human”—he added proudly—“my human and I fight together, and we win. No human, no griffin stop us.”
Kaanee trilled politely. “With your power on our side, victory is certain, Mighty Skandar. However—”
Skandar looked sharply at him. “What however?”
“Kraal,” said Kaanee. “‘Mighty’ Kraal, now no longer mighty. Shall you fight him, master?”
“Will find,” Skandar hissed. “Will find,
fight, kill.”
“You must, master,” said Kaanee. “Already you have taken so much from him to prove your power over him. All you must do now is kill him. If you face him in combat and defeat him, it will silence the doubters among us, and we shall be yours forever.”
Skandar drew himself up. “Will kill. Will kill him. Swear it.”
“And we trust you to do it, Mighty Skandar,” Kaanee intoned.
Skandar looked up at the darkening sky, full of equally dark excitement. He had no doubt that he would defeat Kraal; doubt wasn’t something Skandar experienced very often, particularly when it came to a fight. But he hadn’t fully realised until now just what it would mean when he did the moon-griffin’s bidding and killed the Mighty Kraal.
Of course, it only made sense. This territory was Kraal’s. Therefore if he, Skandar, killed Kraal, he would win it from him.
Soon, it will be mine, he thought. This big land, full of prey and females. I want it. I will have it. Soon . . .
36
Sun and Moon
The next day dawned bright and cold, and the army broke camp and resumed its march toward Malvern. As they neared it, they could see the men up on the walls, a good number of them and well armed.
But Arenadd had already planned for this, and the word had been put out among the army. They halted when they were just out of arrow range, and the plan went into action.
Kaanee and Iorwerth rose into the sky together, with Saeddryn, and the unpartnered went with them. They flew over the walls, far too high to be hit, and launched themselves straight at the Eyrie.
On the ground, Arenadd climbed onto Skandar’s back and nodded to Nerth. Nerth reached out nervously and took hold of Skandar’s tail. The griffin hissed irritably but didn’t move, and behind him the army formed into a long line, each man clasping the hand of the man behind him. Arenadd had told them in no uncertain terms that they had to hold on with all their strength and not let go for any reason. He hoped they would obey.