The Griffin's Flight

by K J Taylor

  The silver-haired woman had recovered her strength with surprising speed, and for a while she had apparently been content to stay close to the camp and help him look for food. But he had woken up that morning alone, and he had only seen her once since then, briefly, when he had gone looking for her. He had found her crouched by the base of a tree, glaring at the sky, and when he ventured too close she hissed at him and stalked off.

  Arren glanced at the sky. Nothing.

  They’ve both run off on me, he thought miserably.

  The silence among the trees was oppressive. He couldn’t even hear any insects chirping. Here the sky seemed huge, a massive presence hovering above him, the trees reaching up toward it like pillars. He hated this place. It made him feel as if he were in a cage, being steadily crushed by its great thick bars. He missed his home then, missed it as he had never done since Skandar had left. He thought of his little house on the edge of the city, with the small iron stove and his hammock hanging from the rafters. On cold mornings, when thick mist obscured the view, he would venture out onto the balcony and enjoy the feeling of the wind on his face, hearing nothing but the soft clinking of the bone wind chimes he had bought in the market district. Eluna would be there with him, too, saying nothing, maybe running the tip of her beak through the feathery rudder on the end of her tail to straighten the plumes.

  Arren closed his eyes. He hadn’t thought of Eluna for a long time, but she was in his head now. He remembered her so clearly, too clearly, but somehow when he thought of her, he couldn’t make the image of her in his mind stay still. It was always moving, wavering, as if it were about to fade, and every time he concentrated on it an image of Skandar would flash across his consciousness, as if to remind him of the white griffin’s fate.

  He forced his eyes open again, and shivered. He missed Eluna, and yet he missed Skandar, too. Just as he missed everyone he had known in his old life. Bran, his best friend, and Gern, who had died, and Flell, Flell whom he had loved, Flell who had abandoned him, Flell . . .

  He thought of her, feeling a sickness inside him. Flell, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. He had tried so hard to forget her face as he had last seen it, full of terrible shock. It was futile.

  Misery was starting to overcome his senses. He struggled to get a grip on himself. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about her. Make yourself forget it.

  He thought of Skade instead. She was beautiful. The idea crossed his mind before he could squash it, and he instantly felt disgusted with himself. Flell is pretty, he told himself sternly. She’s human. With her fine brown hair and blue eyes, and the way she—no, don’t think about her. Think of Skade.

  Skade was beautiful. He sighed and let himself admit it. She looked odd, but there was something about her that he found attractive regardless. Perhaps it was her ferocity. She was courageous. Yes, that was a safer thought. She had recognised him as the murderer he was, but where another person might have fled or pretended to be oblivious, she had dared to confront him, when she was weak and starved, holding a sword she could barely lift, let alone use. True, she had waited until Skandar was gone, but for all she knew, Arren was a dangerous lunatic who might try to kill her, too. And yet she had faced him anyway. She had challenged him. She had not shied away; she had not betrayed fear. And her golden eyes, the way they seemed to burn from within, the way the light caught her hair . . .

  Arren tangled his fingers in his own hair and wrenched at it until it hurt, gritting his teeth savagely. “Stop it, stop it, stop it!”

  Well, it doesn’t matter, he thought, trying to calm himself down. Skade was his friend now, and he would help her and protect her as far as he could. If need be, he would starve himself rather than let her die. She deserved more than he did to live, and for her sake he would just have to do his best to act normally. If she knew what he was feeling—

  No. I’m not feeling anything. It’s just a few ridiculous thoughts. She’s a bloody griffin, you sick bastard! What’s wrong with you?

  Actually, she’s not a griffin, a treacherous inner voice whispered. Not any more.

  Arren shut it out and shambled off to find some more wood. Luckily there were plenty of fallen branches in the area, and it hadn’t rained again since he had pulled Skade out of the pond, so they were dry enough. He gathered an armload and carried it back to the camp, where he carefully restocked the guttering fire. Once it was burning strongly again, he went to gather some more wood to pile beside it. It would be sunset fairly soon, and they couldn’t afford to run out of fuel while it was dark.

  Once he had done that, he relented and took a chunk of smoked meat from the bark-wrapped bundle that hung from a nearby tree. He’d eat this much for now and hope it would be enough.

  As he was impaling it on his knife, the sound of rustling bark behind him made him look up sharply.

  It was Skade. The instant he saw her, his stomach started churning. He said nothing but watched her re-enter the camp, moving quickly and picking her way through the rocks and sharp sticks that littered the ground. She reached the fire and sat down opposite him.

  “Hello,” Arren ventured. “D’you want something to eat?”

  Skade said nothing. She looked into the fire, blinking slowly, like a lizard. He could see her chest heaving, as if she had been running, and a hot shiver went right down his spine.

  “Uh,” he said. “Uh, ahem, sorry. I was just—” He pulled himself together. “I’m just going to warm this up a little. Do you want some, too?”

  Finally, Skade turned her face to his. She remained silent but looked him up and down, her eyes moving slowly and deliberately, as if she was looking for something.

  It did very little to make Arren feel less awkward. “Uh, Skade? Is something the matter?”

  Finally, Skade appeared to relax. “Sorry,” she said, looking away. She shook herself with a quick, sharp motion, as if trying to ruffle the feathers she no longer had, and the distant look vanished from her eyes. “I will take some,” she said.

  Arren went to get another piece of meat, massively relieved, as if he had just passed some kind of very important test. “I’m sorry I blundered into you like that before,” he said. “I was just worried about you. I didn’t know that—well, I can understand it if you wanted some time alone.”

  She nodded. “I am sorry. I should not have hissed at you like that, but you took me by surprise.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t realise you hadn’t seen me.”

  Arren put the piece of meat on a flat rock beside the fire and held the other piece over the flames on the end of his knife. “Skade? I’m sorry if this is too personal, but I can’t help but wonder—”

  She looked at him sharply. “Yes?”

  “What was your power?” said Arren. “Before you were—I mean, I know every griffin has a power, and I was just wondering—” He broke off awkwardly.

  Skade smiled and glanced at the sky. “Up there,” she said softly. “That was my power.”

  Arren followed her gaze. “The sky?”

  “The storm,” she said. “I had the power to summon the storm.”

  Arren thought of the sudden squall that had forced him and Skandar to land. “You mean, you made it rain that day? When we met?”

  Her smile faded. “No. I cannot use my magic any more. That storm was a natural one.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Skade snapped.

  “Sorry, sorry, I just—” Arren paused. He couldn’t help himself. “What does it feel like? To use magic?”

  She looked amused. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I’ve just always wondered,” said Arren. “You see”—he turned the meat over—“I never did ask Eluna. She never discovered her own magic before she died, but she always promised me that when she did, she would tell me what it felt like. And now I’ll never know.”

  “Did you ask Skandar?”

  “No. I don’t think he knows his own magic, either. As far as I know, he’s never used it. Besides, I
don’t think he could speak well enough to describe it. So I thought maybe you could tell me.”

  Skade paused and then got up and moved to sit closer to him. Arren shrank away from her slightly, but she only reached past him and took the piece of meat he had put next to the fire. She bit a piece off it and chewed slowly, almost blissfully. “Even I could not describe it to you,” she said at last, just as he had begun to wonder if he had offended her in some way. “Not properly.”

  “I think I understand,” said Arren. “It’s too far outside what humans understand. It would be like trying to tell a rock what it feels like to be in love. Is that right?”

  She appeared to think it over, and then nodded briefly. “Yes. Exactly right.”

  “But could you try anyway?”

  “Heat,” Skade said simply. “It feels like heat. A heat so intense that you feel it should destroy you, but somehow you can contain it. You feel it rushing through you, from every part of your body, into your throat. You cannot move or think. The magic controls you and forces your beak open wide, as if you were going to scream, but what comes out is not sound but light.” She paused. “That is what it feels like.”

  Arren sat back, holding the knife in one hand without really noticing it. “That’s—that sounds amazing.”

  “It is,” said Skade. “And I would give anything to feel it again.” She ate the rest of her meat in silence.

  Arren, bringing himself back to reality with a little effort, pulled his own portion free of the knife and chewed unenthusiastically at it. After four days of very little else, even mutton was losing its appeal.

  “I wonder what power Skandar has?” said Skade, breaking into his thoughts.

  Arren stared at the fire. “I don’t know. Something very intense, I think. Something wonderful—or terrible.”

  “Yes,” Skade said slowly. “I had a feeling when I was near him.”

  “What kind of feeling?”

  “I do not know. This body does not understand it. But something. That griffin is strong. Who knows what his magic could do?” She glanced at the sky. It was a gesture both of them had been repeating very often over the last few days. “Are you going to call for him again?”

  Arren sighed. “I don’t know. What’s the point? He must be miles away by now.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Have you given up on him already?”

  By way of an answer, Arren got up and walked away from the fire. The sun was close to going down now. The light would start to fade soon.

  He lifted his face toward the sky, braced himself and screamed. “Arren! Arren!”

  He repeated it again and again, sending his name into the sky as a griffin would. It was a griffiner trick, one he had been taught very early in his training as a way to signal to his griffin that he needed her. After Eluna’s death, he had used it once more before the burning of the Eyrie, and that time it had not brought her but Skandar. Maybe now it would bring him back, but Arren didn’t believe it. He called anyway, on and on, as he had called every evening since his friend had abandoned him, until his throat hurt too much to continue and he fell silent and wandered back to the fire.

  Skade was watching him with an odd expression; he couldn’t read it, but it unsettled him.

  He slouched down as close to her as he dared and buried his face in his hands. “There, that’s that done,” he croaked. He glanced up. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Skade looked away, “Sorry. I was . . . thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “I am not certain yet.” She shifted slightly. “Is there anything more to eat?”

  “What? Oh. Yes, of course. Just give me a moment.” Arren went to fetch her some more meat.

  As he was unwrapping the bark, the quiet was shattered by a loud noise from behind him. It was somewhere away from the camp, in the trees, and was muffled a little by distance, but it was the unmistakeable sound of breaking wood. And, behind that, a thud.

  Arren turned sharply, reaching for his sword. “What in the gods’ thundering toenails was that?”

  Skade had scrambled to her feet and was standing by the fire, hunched slightly, like a cat poised to run. She paused briefly and then pointed. “That way.” Without waiting for an answer, she ran.

  Arren snatched up the sword and followed, blundering through the trees, his boots catching on rocks and branches and clumps of grass. He had a fair turn of speed over better terrain, but Skade was shockingly fast when she wanted to be. He managed to keep up with her by dint of considerable effort, until she disappeared through a soap-bush thicket. When Arren tried to follow, the branches snagged on his robe and tripped him up, and he lost his patience and hacked his way through with his sword.

  The first thing he saw when he emerged on the other side was Skade. She had stopped and was standing and looking at something big and dark lying on the ground. Something that was trying to get up, one wing flailing awkwardly.

  “Skandar!”

  Arren dashed forward, dropping the sword, and Skade had to leap out of the way to avoid being knocked over.

  Skandar managed to roll onto his stomach, and stared blankly at him. “Arren,” he rasped.

  Arren halted before he got too close, knowing the griffin might see it as an attack if he kept coming. “Skandar,” he said again. “Skandar, for gods’ sakes, I . . .”

  Skandar didn’t seem to hear him, and Arren suddenly felt his insides twist as he saw the strange, rigid posture, the dull, desperate look in the eyes, the saliva glistening around the beak. “Oh no,” he whispered.

  Skandar tried to drag himself closer. “Sick,” he said, the word gurgling in his throat.

  Arren went to him. “No, no, don’t move, Skandar. Lie still. Don’t move too much, I need—”

  The black griffin slumped. “I die,” he said. “Die now, Arren Cardockson.”

  “No,” Arren snapped. “Skandar, listen. I need you to tell me what’s wrong. Where do you feel sick? Where does it hurt?”

  “Hurt,” Skandar repeated, as if he didn’t understand what the word meant.

  “Where, Skandar? Where? Is it your stomach? Your chest? Please, just tell me where it hurts and I can help you. Please, Skandar. Skandar!”

  Skandar’s eyes had closed. Arren dared to touch his head, trying desperately to coax him back into wakefulness. At first the griffin did not respond, and for a horrible instant Arren thought he was dying. Then, without warning, his head jerked forward. Arren darted out of the way as Skandar started to heave and retch, his neck extending as far as it could go, back arching, hind paws scrabbling at the ground. More saliva drooled from the end of his beak, and he made an awful hacking, gagging noise. Then, just as abruptly, he groaned and slumped back down again.

  Arren watched, horror-struck, trying desperately to think what to do. Memories sleeted through his mind, memories of days long gone, days spent in a dusty room with his old mentor, memories of books he had read, books that had seemed boring at the time, but books whose knowledge could help Skandar now. And as Skandar convulsed again, it clicked into place. Arren started to unfasten his robe as fast as he could.

  “What are you doing?” said Skade from behind him.

  Arren threw the garment aside. “It’s his throat,” he said. “There’s something stuck in his throat!”

  Skandar slumped again as Arren came closer. He made no further attempt to speak, and it was plain that he was reaching the end of his strength.

  Arren knelt by him and touched his beak. “Skandar, listen to me,” he said. “Listen. Please. Look at me.”

  Skandar opened one eye and turned it toward him.

  “I need you to open your beak,” said Arren. “There’s something stuck in your throat, and I have to pull it out. Understand?”

  Skandar retched again, and then again, more violently, and Arren scrambled aside as the convulsions returned. The griffin rolled onto his side, legs jerking, beak opening as wide as it could. A wing lashed at the air, so hard it nearly bo
wled Arren over, and his forelegs kicked out wildly. One blow from the right angle could kill Arren instantly.

  Skade darted over and grabbed Arren by the arm. “Arren, get away from him!”

  Arren pulled himself free. “No!”

  Skandar continued to jerk and twitch, his talons clutching at nothing. Arren dodged around them, threw himself down by the griffin’s head, and thrust his arm deep inside the wide-open beak and down his throat. Skandar’s gagging worsened, and he wrenched his head sideways, nearly breaking Arren’s arm. But it was too late to stop now. Arren grabbed hold of his beak with his free hand and pushed the other further in, searching desperately for the obstruction. Skandar made another jerking motion, but then, far worse, he began to still. His legs stopped kicking out, and his breathing became rapid and desperate. He was suffocating.

  Finally, Arren’s questing fingers struck something hard and unyielding. With a little jolt of triumph, he began to feel his way around it, trying to find the best way to get a grip on it and pull it out. It was long and thin, like a branch, and was jammed sideways inside the fleshy tube that led to Skandar’s stomach. Arren, his shoulder now stuck against the corner of the griffin’s beak, searched as fast as he could for any sharp edges. There didn’t seem to be any, so he grasped the thing by one end and pulled. It came unstuck, and he increased his grip and continued to pull it toward himself until, at last, it was out of Skandar’s throat and in his beak, and in a moment Arren was slumping back on the ground by his head, holding something soggy and glistening in his hands.

  Skandar sighed and became still. Arren watched him anxiously, but the griffin’s breathing had deepened and slowed. The unnatural rigidity was gone. He was exhausted, but he would live.

  Skade appeared silently behind him. “You saved him.”

  Arren panted. “I hope so.” He got up, still holding the thing in his hands. “I need to wash my arm. It’s—” He grinned suddenly, full of the strange euphoria that panic leaves behind. “I had no idea griffin spit was so . . . sticky,” he said, trying to wipe it off on a nearby tree.