by K J Taylor
Cardock closed his eyes for a moment. The knowledge must have warned him that he could not expect any mercy.
Erian decided to stop playing games. “I’m the son of Lord Rannagon Raegonson,” he said. “And three months ago I saw him murdered in front of me by a man who bore a striking resemblance to you, Cardock. A man I believe visited you before he committed his crime.”
“We don’t know anything,” Cardock said at last.
Erian leant forward. “Don’t think you can hide information from me, blackrobe,” he hissed. “Your position is dangerous enough already. I could have you both killed instantly if I wanted. Who would care about the fate of Northern filth like yourselves? You’re in my power now, and what happens to you depends on whether you give me what I want.”
Annir clutched her husband’s hand more tightly. “We can’t lead you to him,” she said in a strange, flat voice. “We don’t know where he is. We don’t know anything.”
“You were expecting to meet him in Norton, weren’t you?” said Erian. “That’s why you were still here. You were waiting for him to come to you. But he didn’t come. Or did he?”
“No,” said Cardock. “He didn’t come here. We don’t know where he is. We haven’t seen him.”
Erian rolled his shoulders as he mulled this over. “But you knew he planned to come here, didn’t you?” he said at last.
Silence.
Erian nodded. “I see. He knew you would be wanted by the authorities once he had become a murderer, so he told you to run here. But he didn’t come. He lied to you. He and the black griffin have flown away and left you to your fate. But what more could you expect from a monster?”
“My son is not a monster!” Cardock burst out. He lurched forward, only to be hauled back by his guard. “You listen to me, boy,” he snarled at Erian. “Your father deserved to die, understand? He deserved to die for what he did to us. He was in the North; he helped them massacre our people there. He was just as much of a murderer as you call our son. What Arren did was not murder. It was justice.”
Erian lashed out, striking him hard in the face. Unable to contain himself, he followed it up with a second blow, which broke Cardock’s nose. Cardock cried out, struggling to get free of the manacles, while Annir tried desperately to help him. It was a futile effort. Erian sat back as the two of them were restrained.
“You listen to me,” he spat. “Arren Cardockson is a wanted man. Wanted by me. I intend to find him and see to it that justice is carried out. Now you’re going to tell me what I want to know, or suffer until you do. Tell me where he’s going. Where is he really going? Where is he hiding? Where—is—Arren—Cardockson?”
Cardock spat a mouthful of blood onto the table. “I don’t know, and I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”
Erian sighed. “Very well.” He looked at the guard holding Annir. “You, guardsman.”
“Sir?”
“How are your quarters?” said Erian. “Are they comfortable?”
“They’re not bad, sir,” said the guard.
Erian looked at Annir. “But could they perhaps be a little more pleasant than that? A little less . . . lonely, maybe?”
The guard grinned. “We’re always up for some company, sir.”
“Excellent,” said Erian. “Take her away and let her keep you company for a while. I’m sure she can find ways to entertain you.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“No!” Cardock lunged toward his wife, grabbing her hands as the guard began to haul her away. “For gods’ sakes, no!”
Erian raised a hand to stop the guard. “You have something to say, Cardock?”
Cardock leapt at him with a scream of pure fury; Erian drew back a little in surprise, but the guards already had the matter in hand. The one near the door came over to help, and he and his colleague dragged Cardock away from the table, throwing him to the floor. He tried to get up, still fighting with all his might to get at Erian, but the guards threw him down again and began to hit him, kicking him in the stomach and groin. He curled up, trying to protect himself, but they continued to kick him; his yells were punctuated by horrible thuds and thumps.
Annir, still in the clutches of her own guard, started to sob. “Stop it! Stop it!”
“That’s enough,” said Erian.
The guards stopped at once, and Cardock rolled over on the floor, gasping in pain.
“Let him go,” Annir sobbed. “He hasn’t done anything, he’s—”
Erian stood up. “Just tell me what I want to know,” he said. “And it will all be over. Why protect a murderer? Do you know how many people died in that fire? It wasn’t just my father he killed. There were others. Dozens of others. Innocents. Children .”
Annir sobbed harder. “No. Don’t. Don’t—”
“Just tell me where he went,” said Erian. “Tell me where he was going to go after he met you. Tell me and you’ll be out of these dungeons for good.”
“North,” Cardock rasped.
“I’m sorry?” said Erian.
“North,” said Cardock, struggling to get up. “My son is going north. To his own country. He’ll f—he’ll fight you there. All of you, you murdering tyrants. You can’t—can’t win against him. He’ll punish you, he will, for what you did to us. He’ll—”
Erian sighed. “North,” he said in an undertone. “Now it all makes sense. Of course he’s going north. He thinks he can hide there. Well then,” he said aloud. “If Arren Cardockson has gone north, then north is where I’ll go. You, help him up.”
The guards hauled Cardock to his feet, and Erian stepped around the table to face him.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he said. “And if your beloved son wants to fight us, so be it.”
Cardock looked him in the eye. He was bleeding badly and swaying, but he stood tall—taller than Erian—facing him proudly. “He’ll kill you, brat,” he said. “When you find him, he’ll kill you.”
“He can try, if he wants to,” said Erian.
Annir broke free of her guard and went to her husband’s side; they made no effort to stop her but let her reach him and clasp him to her. She let go and turned to look at Erian. “Set us free,” she said. “We gave you what you wanted.”
“I’ll do to you what should be done with every blackrobe,” said Erian. He nodded to the guards. “Brand them, collar them and sell them.”
Something nudged Arren in the shoulder, waking him up. He groaned and rolled over. “What’s—?”
He opened his eyes and saw something huge looming over him. He gave a yell of fright and scrabbled away from it as fast as he could go. Skandar backed off, wings opening, hissing. Arren sank back down again. “Skandar, what the—?”
The griffin sat back on his haunches, clicking his beak. “You sleep,” he said reproachfully.
Arren sat up and made an effort to pick the bits of leaf out of his hair. “Well, yes, that’s what I generally do at night.” He looked at the spot where he had been lying. Skade was still there, curled up. She was starting to wake.
The recollection of the previous night came back to Arren. He rubbed his face. “Ye gods.”
Skade turned over. “What, Welyn?” she mumbled.
Arren shook her gently by the shoulder. “Skade, it’s me. Wake up.”
She sat up, yawning. “Is it morning?”
“Yes.” Arren looked around at the camp. The fire had gone out. Skandar was sitting next to it, tail twitching impatiently. He’d eaten the last of the meat and had sharpened his talons on a nearby tree. He looked perfectly alert and healthy.
Skade followed his gaze. “Are you better?” she asked Skandar.
The black griffin regarded her for a moment. “Not sick any more,” he conceded.
Arren got up. His robe and the front of his trousers were hanging open, and he refastened them hastily. “There’s no pain?”
Skandar yawned. “Hungry.”
“I’ll take that as a no.” Arren looked at the sky. The sun was wel
l up. “I suppose we should get going, then.”
“We should conceal all of this first,” said Skade. “We do not want to be tracked.”
Arren shook himself. “Yes, you’re right. I’ll demolish the lean-to; you bury the fire.”
“As you wish.”
Arren quickly dismantled the crude shelter, saving the sheepskin blanket. He found his sword and strapped it on, and retrieved his knife from the fireside. Skade quickly finished covering the heap of ash and coals with leaf litter, and then scattered the sheep’s bones.
Arren watched her surreptitiously. She looked completely unflustered, as if nothing had happened at all. It made him feel strangely embarrassed. He tried to think clearly, but it was hard. His head was full of memories, little snippets, little pieces of speech. I want you for my mate, I want you, I want . . .
His hands fumbled with the crude straps holding his sword to his back. He tried his best, letting himself remember it all, trying to identify the emotion beneath it.
Skandar had grown tired of waiting. He got up and came forward. “We go,” he said.
Arren returned to the present. “Yes, of course. Skade?”
She came to his side, looking speculatively at Skandar. “Can he carry both of us?”
Arren shrugged. “I think so, but not all day. He carried two sheep at once just a few days ago.”
Skade glanced at him. “I only saw one.”
Arren smiled slightly. “The other one was in his stomach. Skandar, what do you think?”
The black griffin clicked his beak; if he had been human, he would have been scowling. “Can carry you,” he said.
Arren knew he was annoyed by the suggestion that he couldn’t. “Of course you can,” he said soothingly. “I’ll get up first.”
Skandar lowered his head and let Arren climb onto the gap between his neck and his wings. Arren settled down there and then looked at Skade. “Now you get up behind me.”
She approached carefully, not wanting to provoke Skandar in any way. He didn’t react, but merely ruffled his wings irritably. Skade paused uncertainly, apparently trying to decide how best to get on without hurting him.
Arren reached down to her. “Here, take my hand.”
She did, and he pulled her up over Skandar’s shoulder. She managed to get her leg over and settled down behind Arren, putting her arms around his waist. Skandar didn’t like this much; he shifted around, hissing softly. For a moment, the horrible thought crossed Arren’s mind that he might try to throw them off. He didn’t, but now would be a very bad time to provoke him.
“I’ve never done this before,” said Arren. “Griffins aren’t supposed to carry two people at once, but Skandar’s very large for a griffin, and he’s strong. Aren’t you, Skandar?”
“Am strong,” said Skandar, mollified. “We fly now.”
“Just hold on to me, Skade,” said Arren, tensing as the griffin spread his wings. “Try and move as I move, and for gods’ sakes, don’t let go.”
“I am ready,” Skade said calmly.
Skandar, too, was ready. He paused a moment, then set off in a rough, shambling run across the campsite. His wings opened wide as he ran, and he began to beat them, harder and harder. They lifted him a little each time, but his paws remained stubbornly on the ground; he ran on, faster, beating his wings with all his might as the trees at the edge of camp loomed up in front of him. Arren started to panic. He’d been through dozens of take-offs, and none of them had been like this. Skandar couldn’t get off the ground, he’d—
The trees were there, directly in front of him, and then they were gone, rushing past as Skandar broke into a sprint, folding his wings to fit through the forest. The motion jolted Arren violently up and down, and he lay as flat as he could, doing his uttermost to keep still and not throw the griffin off balance. He could feel Skade’s arms wrapped around his waist, holding on tightly. She was light, but not enough; they were going to fall off.
The landscape cleared again as the trees opened up at the banks of the pond. In a moment they were going to plough straight into the water.
Skandar’s wings opened again, and he jumped. They were stuck in midair, gravity dragging at them, and then Skandar’s wings beat, hard, and Arren’s stomach felt as if it had dropped straight into his boots as they finally made it into the air.
Skandar flew higher, lurching a little, but struggling on determinedly. For a few moments it looked as if they weren’t going to clear the trees, but they made it, passing so close to them that the griffin’s tail snagged briefly on a branch.
Skandar levelled out with some effort and began to fly away over the trees, heading directly north, and Arren felt his heart soar. They had made it.
He sat up, letting himself relax, moving with Skandar. “It’s all right!” he called to Skade when she tensed behind him. “We’re in the air!”
“Thank the stars in the sky!” she called back over the wind. “I thought we were going to fall into the pond!”
“I don’t know how long he can keep it up, though!” said Arren. “And landing will be a bit tricky as well!”
Skade leant forward so that she could talk directly into his ear. “I am sure we will be fine,” she said. “I have faith in him, and in you.”
That made Arren feel better. He smiled to himself, some of his inner turmoil cooling.
“You know,” he said, “I feel—”
“What?”
“I said I feel—” Arren shouted.
“What do you feel?” said Skade.
“I feel that—” Arren gave up. “Never mind. We’ll talk later!”
And that was how the day’s flight began. Arren had been right; Skandar could not carry two people for an entire day. He was much clumsier in the air now and could not fly as high; he could only soar for much shorter distances and constantly had to resume beating his wings in order to regain the height he kept losing. But he toiled on regardless, and Arren knew what he was probably thinking. Taking off was more strenuous than remaining in the air, so stopping to rest would actually wear him out faster. It was easier to just keep going. Arren only hoped that he wouldn’t push himself too hard.
Noon drew closer and they stayed in the air. Arren dozed briefly and woke up again with a start. Falling asleep now would be a bad idea. To distract himself, he watched the landscape below them. It was still thick with trees, but he could see the creek peeking through here and there. They were following it. He nodded to himself. Sensible.
Then Skade shifted behind him, reminding him of her presence. He started slightly, his mind instantly refilling with uncomfortable thoughts. What have I done?
His stomach was churning. It had felt right. It had felt more than right, but—
Well, how do you feel about her? he asked himself, almost sternly.
The answer came slowly, nearly obliquely, as if it was embarrassed to do so. He examined it, forcing himself not to push it away, trying to accept it, and that was when it all became clear in his mind. Arren knew he was falling in love.
Again! he raged. So soon after Flell—you bastard! How could you be so—?
Then, without warning, he laughed. The sound was snatched away by the wind the instant it was out of his mouth, but he laughed on regardless. He couldn’t help it. Here he was, Arren Cardockson, the heartless one, the destroyer of Eagleholm, worrying about right and wrong. The sheer ridiculousness of it was almost too much to bear.
It was as if the laughter cured him of his fears and his guilt. The moment he stopped, he felt a new and powerful certainty that swept them all away. What did it matter whether it was right or wrong? If he didn’t care, and Skade didn’t, then that was all that mattered. Who else would even know about it? Nobody, he thought. Skade was right. What do we care?
He sat up straighter on Skandar’s back, suddenly relishing the feeling of Skade’s warm body pressed against his. Fierce Skade. His mate.
Arren’s euphoria lasted until partway through the afternoon, when Skandar
slowed his progress and started to circle, looking for a place to land. By now the creek had joined itself to a river, and the griffin found an open space by its banks and began to fly lower. Arren leant forward, holding on tightly.
“Brace yourself!” he shouted.
The landing was not a pleasant one. At first it seemed they were going to be all right; Skandar managed to retain his balance as he descended, wings half-folded, tail turning sideways to steady himself. But Arren was quick to see their danger. He leant forward as far as he could, yelling at Skade to do likewise as the wind whipped his hair away from his face. He could see the ground below getting closer and closer very fast, too fast. Panic shot through him. Skandar couldn’t slow himself enough; the extra weight was dragging him down. And then the ground was no longer below them; it was there, directly in front of them. Arren closed his eyes and braced himself.
Skandar’s talons hit the ground with a massive thud, ploughing up sand and dirt. His momentum pitched him head forward, and Arren was thrown from his back. He smacked into the ground so hard it knocked all the breath out of him and made his vision go black, rolled down a steep embankment and fell straight into the river. The cold shock of it engulfed him, and the next thing he knew he was floundering in the water. It was deep and the current was powerful. All his instincts screamed at him to get out, and he started to flail desperately, trying to swim. Too late, he remembered the sword still strapped to his back. He managed to break the surface once, and gasped in a lungful of air before it dragged him down again. He rolled over and over as he sank, wrestling with the straps, but they had expanded in the water, and the shock of landing had nearly knocked him senseless. Panic-stricken, he grabbed hold of the sword by the hilt and tried to pull it out, but he couldn’t get purchase. His lungs were bursting; he was going to drown.
Something snagged on the back of his robe. He let go of the sword and made a grab for it, and then he was being dragged inexorably backward. He forced his eyes open and saw nothing but dark water and a whirl of silvery bubbles escaping from his mouth and nose. Then something wrapped itself around his waist and hauled him upward, back to the light.