Up he went, through the crypt, out onto the Remembrance Lawn, and then to the front of the house. Barver was standing at the edge of the gardens, looking over the tops of the forest. As Patch reached his side, they heard a distant high-pitched screech; Barver answered it, then thrust his arm forward, pointing. “There!” he said, but he had the eyes of a predatory bird, and it was a long thirty seconds before Patch saw it too.
Griffins!
Three of them.
The first was black with white mottling on its wings, and was the largest of the three; the second was predominantly blue, with black wingtips; the third, and smallest, was brown and cream, with streaks of shimmering purple, which suddenly caught the morning light and drew a gasp of appreciation from Barver.
They touched down on the grass a short distance away, and began to walk towards them.
“Wait,” whispered Patch. “I don’t know anything about griffin etiquette! How do I address them?”
“Just be polite,” said Barver. “Follow my lead.”
“But what’s considered polite? Is there anything that’s a real no-no I might do by mistake?”
Barver looked thoughtful. “The greatest insult one griffin can give another is to poo in front of them,” he said. “If you can avoid that, we’ll be fine.”
The griffins reached them, and the largest stepped forward.
“My name is Merta Strife,” said the griffin – Patch suspected this was a she, as the voice was softer than Shanny’s had been. “We seek Brother Tobias of Marwheel Abbey. We went to the Abbey first, and they directed us here, but until we heard your call the place seemed deserted.”
Patch turned and saw Tobias hurrying to join them. Alia was just emerging from the hedge-lined path, and she started running too.
Barver jabbed a thumb towards them. “That’s Tobias coming now,” he said. “Can I ask if you’re here because of Shanny Pledger?”
Patch felt Wren’s claws dig into his shoulder a little – she was as tense as a drum skin.
Merta Strife shook her head. “The Echoes said to speak to Brother Tobias, so we speak to no other.” She eyed Barver over. “You’re a dracogriff?”
“The name’s Barver,” he said with a nod. “It was me who gave the message to Shanny. He said he’d make sure it reached the right ears. A message about a griffin, under a spell, with a box around his neck? A box containing a human heart?”
“We speak to Tobias only,” replied Merta, but she’d paused for the briefest of moments, and her eyes had widened just enough for there to be no doubt: they had brought news of Alkeran!
Barver looked at Wren. “Sorry,” he said. “Shanny wanted a reliable point of contact, and Tobias seemed the obvious choice.”
Tobias reached them at last, his face reddened with effort, Alia only moments behind. Alia gave Wren an urgent look; she clearly knew what this might mean.
“You are Brother Tobias of Marwheel Abbey?” said Merta Strife.
“I am,” said Tobias.
“We seek your help,” said Merta. “A griffin has been found, in a strange condition.”
Barver was close to exasperation. “Yes, yes, under a spell with a box around his neck,” he said. “Can we get to the important stuff, please? Is the griffin alive?”
Merta gave Barver a long, hard look before answering. “Those who found him thought he was dead, at first. He was pulled up in the nets of a fishing fleet in Pardissan, a town in the far south. Lashed to his saddle was the body of a woman, drowned.” She gestured to the blue griffin. “This is Cramber Hoon, the pilot of that fishing fleet. He was there, and witnessed everything.”
Alia raised a hand. “No one tried to remove the box, I hope?”
“No,” said Cramber Hoon. “I’d heard the Echoes, which had said it was a magical device, and its removal would be very dangerous.”
Barver nodded. “I’d been very clear about that,” he said.
Alia patted his arm. “Well done for remembering what I’d told you,” she said. “We have no time to waste! Although we do have to go north first.”
Merta Strife scowled. “Absolutely not! We go south at once, to Pardissan! My only interest is in saving the life of that griffin.”
“We’ve no choice, I’m afraid,” said Alia. “I know some things about the magic that’s keeping the griffin alive, but nowhere near enough.” She looked at Wren, with a hopeful smile. “Underath must still be alive, if the griffin lives.” She turned back to Merta Strife. “We must go north, to Axlebury. We have another passenger to collect!”
The third griffin was called Wintel Dree; she bowed her head in greeting as Merta introduced her.
Tobias handled their side of the introductions, describing Alia as an expert in magical affairs. The griffins were more interested in Wren, however, when they learned of her curse and the possibility that finding Alkeran could be her salvation.
Rundel and Erner opted to remain behind at the mansion, to continue their search through Casimir’s books and papers.
It was time to go. Merta Strife looked the passengers up and down. “You’d better dress more warmly,” she told them. “The low windways aren’t favourable – a two-day journey, but half a day if we take the high windways. They’re cold, I warn you!”
Wintel nodded. “Speed is key,” she said. “But not if your passengers freeze to death.”
Patch waited for Wintel to admit she was kidding, but no admission came. “You’re serious,” he said, and then he looked at Barver. “She’s serious!”
“Yep,” said Barver. “Dragons don’t tend to use the high windways – they don’t fly well in the cold.”
“Will you be okay?” asked Patch.
Barver shrugged. “I’ve not had much experience that high up, but the cold doesn’t really bother me.”
“Well, if you struggle you can always turn back,” Merta told him.
“Come on, then!” said Alia. “Coats! Gloves! Scarves! Extra pairs of socks! I’m sure there’ll be some in the house!”
And so there were. Patch felt rather uneasy about taking things that didn’t belong to him, but Alia waved his concerns away. “Ural would want you to have them,” she said. “Trust me.”
His coat was still serving him well, so he’d taken a long scarf, a pair of gloves, extra socks and a warm woollen tunic. He spotted a cushion that had burst its seams and teased out some stuffing to put into one of his coat pockets. “A little extra warmth for you,” he told Wren.
The passengers were shared out: Patch and Wren on Barver, Alia on Wintel, and Tobias on Cramber. Soon enough they were airborne, Merta Strife at the lead, the others spread out behind her.
“You know the way to Axlebury,” Patch said into Barver’s ear. “Shouldn’t you lead?” They were far enough from the rest that even with his voice raised there was no risk of being overheard.
“Show some respect!” said Barver. “Merta is obviously a Pila.”
“A what?”
“It’s like an Elder,” said Barver. “That’s why Cramber went to her when he found Alkeran. It’s also why Wintel is here – a Pila always has an assistant, like an apprentice, who lives nearby.”
“I didn’t think griffins had rulers.”
“That’s not what I mean. A Pila is an old and highly respected griffin, who’ll give advice and help when it’s needed. And as for her taking the lead, you can bet she knows more about the high windways than I ever will! When we get close to our destination, she’ll let me take over.”
And she did. First, though, came five hours of high-level flight. The air was bitter, yet thankfully dry. Barver had no trouble at all in the cold. Wren made use of the stuffing-lined pocket almost at once, and Patch wrapped his long scarf around his head, fully encasing it. Even with the extra socks his feet quickly went numb in the chill, but when Merta at last asked Barver to guide them, they were able to drop down to warmer air. By the time they saw Fendscouth Tor in the distance, Patch’s toes had woken up again.
On
the far side of the Tor sat the castle of Underath the Sorcerer; below it lay the forest, and within the forest was the shimmering surface of the lake he’d pushed Erner into. He tried hard not to look at it, glad that Erner had stayed back in the mansion.
Barver took them down close to the castle entrance. The passengers dismounted, and removed their extra clothing before they overheated.
Merta Strife sniffed the air. “The person we’ve come for lives in this castle, I presume,” she said.
Alia nodded. “The griffin that was found is called Alkeran. He lived here, with a Sorcerer by the name of Underath. It’s Underath we’ve come to get.”
“Another Sorcerer kidnapped Alkeran,” said Barver. “Presumably the woman you found strapped to his back. The box around Alkeran’s neck is dark magic that allowed the kidnapper to control him. It contains Underath’s heart, cut from his chest.”
Merta blinked in surprise. “His heart?” she said. “So we’re here to collect a body?”
“Actually, no,” said Alia. “He had just enough magic left in him to survive.”
Patch shuddered. Wren and Erner had been the only ones who had actually met Underath and seen the hurried replacement he’d used – a shoe, pulsating horribly in the blackened hole in his chest. But Wren had described it in such gleeful detail, the image was very real in Patch’s memory.
Alia continued. “The fact that Alkeran is alive means that Underath must be alive too. They are paired.” There was an ancient magic between griffins and humans; a pairing, which could only be formed if each would give their life to save the other. If one was injured, the life force of the other would help them recover – or at least stop them succumbing to death. This was the only reason Underath had had enough time to save his own life, and the only reason Alkeran hadn’t drowned. “Time to get on with it,” said Alia. “Everyone stay here, I’ll see if there are any magical protections in place before I knock.” She walked towards the castle doors and stood, arms folded, deep in thought. After a few minutes she shrugged and took hold of an iron-chain bellring and pulled it. A single, deep tone rang out.
They waited.
Alia tried the bell again; and again. She pulled at the door, but it was locked. At last, she walked back to them. She gave the griffins a reassuring smile, then with a tilt of her head drew Barver to one side. Patch and Wren, naturally, stayed close enough to hear.
“Barver, you couldn’t just fly up and see if there are signs of life?” she said, her voice low.
Wren squeaked. Oh, no, she signed. She looked utterly desolate.
“What?” said Barver. “What is it?”
“Alkeran is a whisker away from death,” said Alia. “He’s only alive because he borrows from Underath, yet Underath was only just alive himself. His shoe-heart was using up all his magic.”
Barver frowned. “So Underath could be inside somewhere, unconscious like Alkeran.”
“Exactly,” said Alia. “Just go over the wall into the courtyard. Have a quick look around and report straight back.”
Barver nodded. Up he went, but just as he was about to go over the castle wall he changed direction and flew towards the forest.
“Where is he going?” said Alia, shaking her head in agitation. It wasn’t long before he reappeared, and landed beside them.
“Sorry,” he said. “I spotted someone fishing at the lakeside. Sleeping, actually. I got close enough to be sure: it’s him.”
It can’t be him, signed Wren. She, Patch and Tobias were walking through the forest towards the lake. Barver and Alia had stayed at the castle, Tobias having successfully argued that Underath might react badly if a fearsome dracogriff and a Sorcerer (which Underath would surely be able to recognize Alia as) approached him.
Wren had to go, since she was the only one Underath actually knew, and there was no way Patch was letting her go without him. Tobias, in his simple monk’s habit, hoped to come across as unthreatening.
Wren, meanwhile, was convinced that Barver had misidentified the fisherman. I mean, fishing? she signed. The very idea of catching his own food would give Underath a rash!
When they reached the lake, Patch felt slightly sick. This was where Erner would have been captured by the mercenaries, he thought.
“Well?” whispered Tobias. “Is it him or not?”
At the edge of the water, a man slept, his back propped against a tree trunk. He wore a long tunic, belted at the waist and rather grimy. A simple rod was propped up beside him, the line in the water, a bell at the top of the rod. Nearby was a small fire, burned down to hot embers. A pan lay beside it, together with a bundle of foraged greens.
Wren was open-mouthed with shock. Patch had only seen Underath’s face briefly in the visions conjured up by Alia in the bonfire at Gemspar, but it was definitely him – much grubbier, it had to be said, and his face had a touch of sunburn, but Barver hadn’t been mistaken.
“It’s him all right,” said Patch. Wren nodded, staring. The three of them walked closer, reaching the fire.
Tobias cleared his throat loudly. “Hello, sir!” he called.
Underath opened his eyes, blinking away the sleep. He looked briefly at Tobias, then closed his eyes again. “Don’t often get folk here,” he said. “Don’t you know that castle is owned by a terrifying Sorcerer?”
“You don’t seem all that terrifying,” said Tobias.
This time, the Sorcerer’s eyes snapped open and stayed wide. A sneer spread across his face. He started to stand, something that was clearly difficult for him. At last, he noticed the rat on Patch’s shoulder, and a curious thing happened.
His sneer vanished, replaced by a smile. Not for long, it has to be said – the smile seemed to realize it didn’t have permission to be there, and ran off as quickly as it had arrived. “You!” he said. “Um…um…” He snapped his fingers, concentrating.
“Wren,” suggested Patch.
“Yes! Wren!” said Underath. “I’ve often wondered how you were getting on.”
He’s gone weird, signed Wren. I think he’s broken.
The thought drew Patch’s eyes to Underath’s chest. Hidden under the tunic was a beating shoe; he couldn’t take his eyes away, picturing it from Wren’s very vivid descriptions.
Underath noticed his stare, and brought an arm up over his chest. “Your friend could do with some manners,” said Underath to Wren, and Patch suddenly felt very small indeed. Underath went to the lake’s edge, pulling a catch-net from the water. In it was a single small fish. He shook it from the net, back into the lake. “Slim pickings,” he said. “Doesn’t seem worth the cooking time. I’ll just fry up the greens and call it a day.” He came to the fire and put the pan onto the hot embers, then added his bundle of greens and a little oil from a bottle he took from his pocket.
As the greens simmered, he stood; again, Patch noted how slow his movement was.
Underath frowned, looking at Wren. He reached out, and ran a finger along the black ring around her midriff. “You’ve broken your morphic deflector,” he said, a hint of sorrow in his voice. “That’s why you came, to find out if I had news of Alkeran. Sadly there is none. As you see, I’m surviving, but without the magic to preserve it, the food in the castle is rotten. My wealth is gone too. The mercenaries left soon after you came, stripping the castle of everything valuable. So I fish! I’ve even trapped my own game, once or twice. There are greens to be foraged at the lake-shore.” He sounded exhausted.
“Underath,” said Tobias. “There is news of…”
But Underath’s attention was taken by the smell of burning. In the pan on the fire was a sorry mass of charred green leaves. He crouched and stirred it, forlorn, and looked up with tears in his eyes. “You see what I’ve become,” he said. “In recent days I’ve been worse than ever. Too weak to do anything more than survive, and my only true friend is out there, enslaved by the woman who made me think she was my wife, then attempted to murder me.”
Tobias tried again. “But the—”
“If only I’d hidden my wealth better!” wailed Underath. “Perhaps I could have paid some mercenaries to help me, like she did! Oh, Alkeran, Alkeran, forgive me!”
“Oh, please shut up!” cried Tobias, his patience at an end. Underath, too tired for rage, looked timid, as Tobias counted things off one by one on his fingers: “First, Alkeran’s been found alive in a fishing village in the far south. Second, there are griffins waiting at your castle who will take us there. Third, Alkeran urgently needs your help if he’s to survive. Now are you coming or not?”
Underath looked at Tobias, and there was hope in his tear-reddened eyes. With aching slowness, he stood, and Patch wondered if Underath would even be able to walk, or if Tobias would have to carry the man.
And then, without warning, Underath started running back to the castle, calling out for Alkeran as he went.
Wow, signed Wren. He can really move fast when he wants to.
Patch easily kept up with Underath, leaving Tobias wheezing in his wake. When the Sorcerer broke through the edge of the forest to find a group of griffins, a dracogriff and Alia, he was entirely unfazed. “Tell me everything!” he cried.
“My name is Cramber Hoon,” said Cramber. “I am a pilot for the fishing fleet in Pardissan, a town in the southern reaches of the country of Ginwiddian. It was a clear and sunny morning when the fleet, expecting a good haul of leaping redfin, left harbour and—”
“Tell me not quite everything!” cried Underath. “Start with finding Alkeran, and if I wave my hand like this, skip to the next important part!”
And so the details were passed on. In the middle of it, Tobias reached them at last, panting and muttering under his breath about running up a tunnel already that morning.
“I must gather equipment,” said Underath. “You there!” He pointed to Tobias. “Come with me! I cannot carry everything.”
Underath went to the castle entrance, which he unlocked with a surprisingly small key. He vanished inside, and Tobias grudgingly followed him. A great deal of clattering and banging echoed out of the doorway, and when they emerged again, Underath had a small pouch in one hand, while Tobias was struggling with a heavy sack.
A Vanishing of Griffins Page 10