The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy)

by K J Taylor

  Skade sat down, lowering him into her lap. “Rest,” she said. “Please, rest.”

  Arenadd didn’t want to, but he didn’t have any choice. The agony from his wound rose up once again, dulling his senses, and he slid into black unconsciousness.

  But he was not alone. He was never alone.

  The Night God stepped silently out of the dark, her pale face beautiful and smiling. Arenadd, she said. Arenadd, my child. You have done so well. You have done magnificently!

  Arenadd smiled weakly. “Thanks, master.”

  You are one step closer, Arenadd, she said. One very big step closer. You have destroyed Gryphus’ champion, the most powerful of the three descendants of Baragher the Blessed.

  “But he wasn’t,” said Arenadd. “He wasn’t Aeai ran kai. He couldn’t kill me.”

  Because I protected you, said the Night God. He was Gryphus’ avatar, but you defeated him. You and I. You have given me great strength, Arenadd, and you have pleased me.

  “It was nothing, really . . .”

  Now, she said. Now you must hurry. You are so close! Only two of them remain, both in the Eyrie and waiting for you. There will be no effort in killing them.

  “Yes,” Arenadd said distractedly. “Master . . .”

  Yes, Arenadd? Speak quickly; there is not much time.

  “Master, why did you take my memories?”

  She paused. You gave them up willingly to me.

  “Why did I do that?”

  Your memories were full of nothing but bitterness. They were the memories of a short and pointless life, a life that achieved nothing and never felt true love or joy. You had no use for such memories, and you wished to become your true self utterly and so attain your true potential.

  “Oh. Did I?”

  Most assuredly, she said, and smiled. Now arise, Kraeai kran ae. Take this new strength I give you, and go to the Eyrie. Find them! Kill them! Finish it!

  When Arenadd woke up, he felt a new and miraculous strength flower inside him.

  He sat up, groping for his sickle. “Where is it? Where is the damn thing?”

  Skade started. “Arenadd, please—”

  Arenadd stood. “I’m fine. Ah, there it is!” He strode over to his sickle and picked it up, feeling no pain from his wound. “Come,” he said. “Let’s go, Skade. You and I still have work to do.”

  As Arenadd and Erian fought, Skandar and Kraal had their own battle.

  The two giant griffins circled each other, darting in to strike. Occasionally one of them tried to use magic, but the other would choose that moment to attack, and neither one found the room for it.

  Skandar beat his powerful wings, climbing higher and higher, with Kraal in pursuit. When he was at his highest, he folded his wings and dropped, straight toward him. Kraal had been expecting this trick. He pulled one wing in tight against his body and flipped easily out of the way. Skandar changed direction in midair, losing speed as he did so, and by the time he struck, Kraal had had plenty of time to protect himself, covering his vulnerable chest with his talons.

  The two griffins plummeted from the sky, locked together and ripping at skin and flesh with vicious hooked beaks, each intent on crippling the other. Skandar attacked Kraal’s chest, tearing through the feathers and into the powerful flight muscles beneath. But doing so exposed the back of his neck to his enemy. It was an opportunity, and Kraal took it. He struck, so hard it made Skandar’s entire body judder.

  The dark griffin let go and flew upward, blood soaking into his feathers. The blow had badly disoriented him, and he flew in a slow, wide circle, listing to one side.

  Kraal, too, was in trouble. He fell, bleeding badly from his chest. Skandar had indeed managed to damage the muscle, and the giant griffin’s wings flailed weakly as he tried to pull himself out of the dive.

  At the last moment, a hair’s breadth away from a high rooftop, his left wing suddenly crumpled. He extended his talons, and an instant later he struck the building.

  The impact made the tiles shatter. Kraal’s talons punched straight through them, breaking the wooden frame beneath. He scrabbled desperately, trying to extricate himself, but the roof simply could not bear his weight, and the more he struggled, the worse his situation became. If one more of the beams hidden under the tiles broke, he would fall through.

  Above, Skandar had recovered his senses. He circled lower, closing in on his enemy.

  His blood ran hot with triumph. Kraal was finished, utterly helpless. He had no hope of freeing himself from the human nest in time, no hope of protecting his vulnerable wings and spine.

  Skandar folded his wings and dived straight at him.

  But Kraal was not finished. Not yet. Not by any means.

  He heard the rush of Skandar’s wings overhead and looked up to see the dark griffin coming, faster and faster, talons spread and ready for a fatal below.

  Kraal felt his heart still. Gryphus, he thought. Grant me this last victory.

  He opened his beak wide and reached into the store of magic that rushed through his veins, fuelling his body. He took only a few moments to prepare himself . . . and unleashed it.

  Skandar saw it coming, and he opened his wings, slowing his descent. Some instinct told him what to do, and as a beam of pure white light rushed toward him he opened his beak and sent his own strength forth, all of it.

  The two beams met in midair—one black, one white. Magic more powerful than the city had seen in many long centuries. Magic of the sun and the moon.

  Where it met, huge streams of grey light coiled away into the air, white and black embracing to create something else, neither light nor dark. But neither griffin could triumph.

  Kraal put all his will into his magic, until his senses faded and his wounds ceased to hurt. He didn’t care if he died, not now. All that mattered was to kill the dark griffin, to destroy him utterly—as he deserved to be destroyed, as he had to be.

  Skandar didn’t think. Not even in the vaguest terms. He had never been inclined to thought, and all he knew now was the power, the command—the fighting rage that had always been in his heart, which commanded him now. He hovered—almost hanging in the air—his entire body rigid with magic. He had never unleashed it this powerfully—not in Fruitsheart, not even before then at Eagleholm.

  But he had already used his magic today. He had already drained his energy. And Kraal had not.

  The black light from Skandar’s beak began to falter and fade, and Kraal’s white energy drove it back toward him, slowly but ruthlessly forcing it to spread out and weaken.

  At that moment, the sun darkened.

  Kraal, taking his eyes off his enemy, saw the flaming orb that was the Day God’s eye suddenly dim. A shadow was moving across it, blotting it out.

  Down in the city, people screamed.

  And still the shadow moved. Bit by bit the sun vanished, in a ghastly parody of the waning moon. The Day Eye was closing. Gryphus’ power was fading. And with it, Kraal’s.

  The white light faded. Kraal fought, putting all his strength into keeping it alive, but all his power seemed to have gone. He resumed his struggle to free himself from the rooftop, trying to get out before it was too late. He freed one foreleg, then the other, and as his magic finally died he threw himself sideways.

  Skandar’s magic touched him as he moved. Kraal felt a terrible numbness spread over his flank and hind leg, and he rolled helplessly down the shattered roof, trying to save himself with his three remaining legs.

  He reached the edge and fell off it, straight down and onto the street.

  The impact slammed pain into his belly and up through his body. He slumped onto his side with his wing crumpled beneath him, gasping in shock.

  His numb hind leg refused to move. He struggled to get up, reaching back to touch it with his beak. There was no sensation left. His leg was completely paralysed.

  Worse, the numbness was spreading.

  Kraal shuddered, his eyes suddenly wide. He could feel a terrible coldne
ss creeping over his skin, needling down into his flesh and bones. It was coming for his heart, and he knew that when it reached there, he would die.

  As he lay on the ground, despair consuming him with the cold, the brightness of the sun returned.

  He looked up through dull eyes and saw the shadow creeping away. The light was coming back. The Day Eye was opening.

  And, as the warmth of the reborn sun touched his fur and feathers, he felt the deathly coldness ease.

  With one last, mighty effort, Kraal heaved himself upright. His paralysed leg dragged uselessly, but the others were still sound, and so were his wings. He made a clumsy run forward, beating them with all his might, and—miraculously—gained the air.

  He flew upward, fighting back against the coldness slowly taking his life, straight toward Skandar.

  The dark griffin was ready for him. He circled about and rushed in for another attack, screeching his own name. “Skandar!”

  Kraal ducked under him, turning on his back as he passed to strike upward, straight at Skandar’s vulnerable underside. His talons found their mark, tearing a deep wound.

  Skandar lurched and screeched again, this time in pain. As Skandar turned to meet his dying father, Kraal turned, too, striking the air in a massive, powerful blow. “Die!” he screamed.

  But Skandar was ready. He angled his wings and flew sideways at the last instant, and as the great white griffin came within range, he hit him with his beak, directly in the head.

  There was a thud and a crack, a tearing of talons, and the Mighty Kraal fell from the sky.

  He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Skandar didn’t pause to watch him fall. He flew away, barely strong enough to beat his wings, not caring about the battle still going on around him.

  All he wanted to do now was find a place to sleep, a safe place where Arenadd could find him and look after him, as he always did.

  Confused by blood loss and exhaustion, he turned toward the Eyrie.

  Senneck, too, was searching.

  She had seen the sun darken—had seen, too, the death of Kraal. Both had frightened her, but she had something far, far more important to worry about. Erian.

  She had wanted to stay with him in the temple, but he had asked her not to, and besides, she wanted to fight. But she hadn’t strayed far from the temple, and now she flew back toward it, her heart pounding with sickening fear. She had seen the dark griffin, and he was riderless. The Dark Lord was not with him, had not rejoined him. Surely that meant he was dead.

  The great dome of the Sun Temple loomed ahead. Senneck easily avoided the unpartnered; without Erian on her back, she was just another one of them.

  She descended toward the temple, toward the open space outside its doors, and as she moved lower she saw the solitary human shape lying just inside the temple.

  Senneck landed and stepped toward it, her tail swishing from side to side.

  It was Erian.

  Senneck broke into a run. “Erian! Erian!”

  Erian lay on his back, utterly still. Senneck slowed, her blue eyes taking in his deathly white face and the blood that had soaked into his clothes.

  “Erian . . .”

  She crouched low beside him, touching his face and chest with her beak, nudging at him in an attempt to make him wake up.

  Inside, she already knew it was futile. She could smell it. Smell the scent of death on him.

  Senneck did not know what to do. She lay down, dragging him toward her, and covered him with her wings, sheltering him as if he were her chick.

  “Erian,” she said softly. “Erian.”

  Curse the sky. Curse everything. Curse the world. It is over. All over. We have lost.

  If Senneck had been human she would have cried, but she did not. She laid her head over her partner’s body and closed her eyes, outwardly expressionless but inwardly filled with utter horror and despair.

  Erian had not won. He had lost. He had fought the Dark Lord, and the Dark Lord had killed him. It was over. Everything they had fought and struggled for was over. Malvern was lost, like the war. The night, the dark and the shadows had won.

  But the battle for Malvern was not over.

  In the streets not too far away from where Senneck mourned, Skade and Arenadd ran, hand in hand.

  Arenadd could feel a hot and wonderful triumph burning inside him, a feeling of euphoria a hundred times more powerful than he had ever had from wine or whiteleaf. It was over. He had won. Won the war, won the struggle with Aeai ran kai, won everything. The North was his; the Night God had been served. All would be well, and he had nothing more to fear.

  By the time they reached the Eyrie, it had already been partly overrun. The unpartnered had broken down the walls on Kaanee’s orders, and their human counterparts had swarmed over them and into the towers themselves, smashing through the doors with axes.

  Arenadd glanced at Skade and grinned. “I know where to go,” he said. “Shall we?”

  She grinned back. “I have dreamt of this day, Arenadd. I have dreamt of it for many long months.”

  Arenadd paused to kiss her cheek. “Some dreams come true. Let’s finish this, beloved.”

  They entered the largest tower together, and the final fight of the war began.

  Inside the tower, there was chaos. People ran everywhere, mostly Northerners, and a few fleeing Southerners. Arenadd saw some of them, cornered, try to surrender. They were killed instantly.

  He walked past it all, sickle in hand. They didn’t need his help.

  Skade had brought a light sword of her own, and she gripped it with a new certainty. “Who are we seeking?” she asked.

  “The last two people I have to kill,” said Arenadd.

  “The Eyrie Mistress?” said Skade.

  Arenadd hesitated briefly; he had completely forgotten about Elkin. “Yes,” he said. “We should find her. She’ll be in this tower somewhere if she hasn’t fled. I doubt she could have gone far.”

  They climbed the Council’s Tower, meeting little resistance along the way. Most of the defenders left in it had already gone, either running to escape or to attack the enemy coming in from below. Here and there, the unpartnered had broken in, some of them wounded and looking for shelter. More than once Arenadd and Skade had to climb over a dead griffin lying huddled in a corridor.

  When they were halfway up, Arenadd stopped by a shattered window. “Look,” he said, and pointed.

  Skade came to join him. She was in time to see Kraal fall. “My gods,” she breathed, unconsciously using the human exclamation. “Skandar . . .”

  “Skandar has won,” Arenadd said proudly. “He’s killed the Mighty Kraal, as he promised he would. I knew he could do it.”

  “Now the unpartnered shall never follow another griffin,” said Skade. “Unless Skandar himself is defeated some day.”

  “I doubt it,” said Arenadd. “There’s no griffin left in Cymria who could beat Skandar. Not now.”

  Skade laughed as they walked on. “And you once tried to drive him away.”

  Arenadd smiled. “He’s not easy to get on with, is Skandar. Neither are you, come to that.”

  She pushed him. “And you think you are more charming?”

  Arenadd flexed his right arm. “I’m not as evil as I look.”

  “You are not evil at all,” she said softly. “Not to me.”

  They had climbed higher while they talked, and now Arenadd stopped. “I haven’t told you this . . . I should have.”

  “What?” said Skade.

  He smiled into her eyes. “When this is done and the Southerners are gone, I’ll rule the North. My people will demand it.”

  “Of course,” said Skade. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because.” Arenadd touched her awkwardly with his good hand. “Because no-one can rule alone. If I become king, I’ll need a queen. You, Skade. You.”

  She stared at him. “Me?”

  “Of course! Who else could possibly do it?” said Aren
add. “Stay with me, Skade, after the war is over. Be my queen; rule by my side. Please.”

  She looked uncertain for a moment longer, but then she smiled. “Oh, Arenadd. Of course I shall. I would not leave you.”

  “Then it’s settled,” said Arenadd, with his old mischievous grin. “Now.” He turned to look at the wall, where there was a huge pair of doors. “This is the way.”

  “Where do they lead?” asked Skade, while Arenadd kicked the doors open.

  “The councillors’ chamber,” said Arenadd. “I’ve been here before.”

  They went in.

  The councillors’ chamber looked far less glorious than Arenadd remembered. The colourful banners and other decorations were gone. Even the mural on the ceiling looked faded, but it was clear that no fighting had taken place here yet. The openings in the roof where the councillors had once flown out were sealed, and all the other doors were shut.

  The room was utterly deserted . . . or looked as though it was, for a moment.

  Arenadd stalked forward, like a cat, straight toward the platform in the middle of the councillors’ seats.

  Lady Elkin, Eyrie Mistress, rose to meet him. “Lord Arenadd,” she intoned.

  Arenadd stopped, and Skade did likewise, a few paces behind him. “Hello, my lady.”

  Elkin looked even paler than usual but completely unafraid. “I only want to know one thing,” she said.

  “Ask me, my lady,” said Arenadd.

  She looked him in the eye. “Where is my husband? Where is Erian?”

  Arenadd paused for a moment and then reached up and opened his robe, exposing the awful wound in his chest. It was blackened, grey around the edges, so deep and wide it had cut through his breastbone.

  “He did this to me,” he said softly. “He had more courage than any man I’ve ever met. He believed in what he was fighting for. Just as much as I did.”

  Elkin looked steadily at him, and the wound. “What happened to him?”

  Arenadd pulled his robe closed and silently held up the bloodied sickle. “I gave him a clean death,” he said. “Painless. I swear.”