The Griffin's Flight

by K J Taylor

“Yes, but—”

  “You should never be ashamed of what you are,” Skade said softly. “I thought you would know that already. You have taught that lesson to me yourself.”

  Arren shivered. A cloud had covered the sun, and suddenly it seemed much colder. “I suppose you’re right, but what have I got to be proud of?”

  She shrugged. “What does anyone have to be proud of?”

  Arren huddled down beside her, hugging his knees. He glanced upward. “I think it’s going to”—a drop of water landed on his nose—“rain.”

  Skade sighed. “So now we must be wet as well as hungry.”

  It was a light, cold drizzle, not enough to soak into their clothes right away but more than enough to be unpleasant. Arren and Skade drew back under the feeble shelter offered by the dead tree and waited resignedly for it to clear. The rain fell thicker and faster, making the mountain appear hazy. Arren watched it gloomily. It almost looked as if there was mist or smoke rising from the ground.

  “Well,” he said, “isn’t this fun?”

  There was no reply from Skade. He glanced at her and saw she was sitting very still.

  “Skade?”

  She put a hand on his arm. “Can you hear that?”

  Arren listened carefully. “What does it sound like?”

  “I hear a voice.”

  “What? Where?”

  Her grip tightened on his arm. “Look,” she whispered.

  Arren followed her gaze. The fog around the heap of boulders looked very thick. In fact—

  He froze.

  “Do you hear it now?” said Skade.

  Arren nodded silently. There was a sound coming from the boulders. It was faint, but insistent. It sounded like voices. A soft muttering of voices. He stood up slowly and stepped toward it, heedless of the rain. Whiteness was swirling around the stones, growing thicker even as he watched. The muttering was coming from somewhere inside it. It sounded like many voices, but the words were impossible to discern.

  “The spirits,” he breathed. “My gods. Skandar was right.”

  The mist thickened. Arren watched it, almost hypnotised, but something stopped him moving closer. The voices grew louder and took on a harsh edge.

  Arren backed away. “Skade, I don’t think we should go near it. Skade?”

  Skade stepped slowly forward, staring straight at the mist. Her lips were moving, forming words, but Arren couldn’t hear them.

  Inexplicable fear rose up inside him. “Skade, what are you doing?”

  She reached a hand out toward the mist. “Welyn.”

  “What? Skade, don’t—”

  She turned her head sharply to look at him. “Can you hear it?” she demanded. “Can you hear him?”

  “I can hear the voices,” said Arren. “I don’t know what they’re saying.”

  She paused a moment. Listening. “It is Welyn. I can hear him. He is calling me.”

  The mist rose up higher and higher, obscuring the stones. Arren could see a faint glow inside it. And still the voices swirled and whispered in his ears, hissing and threatening.

  Skade stood tall. “I come,” she said.

  Arren grabbed her arm. “Skade, no!”

  She turned on him suddenly, all hissing anger. “Let go of me! I must go!”

  Arren tugged at her arm, trying to pull her away. “Welyn’s not in there, Skade. There’s no-one in there! Please, don’t go in. It’s dangerous. They’ll hurt you.”

  She wrenched herself free. “No. I must go. Welyn is among the dead, and that is where I must go.”

  “Please,” said Arren. “Please, I don’t want you to go. Stay with me.”

  “Why?” She snarled the question, all her affection toward him gone. She was quivering slightly where she stood, full of pent-up rage and aggression.

  “You don’t understand!” Arren burst out. “Skade, I love you.”

  She stared at him. “What?”

  “I love you,” Arren repeated. “I want you to stay with me. Please.”

  Skade looked at him, then at the mist, and then back at him. “I do not understand you.”

  Arren took her hand. “I mean that I—it’s like choosing. When a griffin chooses a partner. You said you wanted me for your mate. And now I know that I want you, Skade.”

  She shook her head. “Stop it. You are raving, Arenadd.”

  “No! Skade, please don’t say that. I’m not mad. Please, try and understand—”

  Skade pulled her hand free. “Listen to yourself!” she snapped. “Think of what you are saying! This is insanity!”

  “It’s not. I swear it’s not. I wouldn’t lie to you, Skade.”

  She moved a little closer to him. “You were a good mate,” she said more softly. “And I am glad that you were pleased to be mine. But that is all we were. Our pairing is over now. We have had our time. I am a griffin, and you are a human. You knew that when we found the cave I would enter it and be changed back into my true form. My kind do not linger together. We pair, and then we part. Always.” She turned away from him, toward the whispering mist. “And now I must go. Goodbye, Arenadd Taranisäii.”

  Arren knew he couldn’t stop her. He stood there, filled with pain and confusion, all his strength and all his certainty gone. “Skade—”

  But Skade did not look back. She stepped forward, her damp hair hanging over her shoulders, and did not look back. The mist opened up, and now Arren saw that the boulders were no longer there. There was nothing in front of him but the mist, and beyond that there was a great space, full of whispering whiteness and pale light. Skade stepped into it, and the mist rolled silently back to fill the place where she had been, leaving no sign of her.

  “Skade!”

  Nothing now, nothing. Only the voices and the drumming of the rain. And then, as Arren watched, he saw the mist begin to fade. It was dying down, thinning out and vanishing into the air. The light at its heart dimmed, and he began to see glimpses of the heap of boulders that had been there before. There was no trace of Skade.

  Panic-stricken, Arren began to walk toward the boulders. Instantly the voices rose up around him, no longer muttering but loud and full of anger.

  Go, they rasped. Go now. Turn back. Go!

  Arren felt sick with fear. But the thought of Skade gave him courage, and he drew his sword. “No,” he snarled, and ran forward.

  The mist swallowed him.

  Inside the spirit cave there was nothing but whiteness. And cold. It wrapped itself around Arren, numbing him, making him slow and clumsy. He stumbled on blindly, clutching his sword for comfort, calling Skade’s name all the while. The voices had gone now, at least, and he felt stronger. He broke into a run.

  It was impossible to tell how fast he was going, or where he was going. The mist was utterly featureless, a blank void in which he could see nothing but himself.

  “Skade? Skade! Skade!”

  Arren stumbled on something and fell forward. He landed heavily, and the sword flew out of his hand. He got up, swearing, and groped around for it, but he couldn’t find it.

  “Godsdamnit! Skade, are you there? Skade, for gods’ sakes—”

  Arren.

  Arren froze. “Who said that? Is someone there?”

  Arren.

  He suddenly realised that the whiteness was gone. He hadn’t seen it disappear; it was simply there one moment and absent the next.

  Arren blinked, puzzled. There was no mist. No voices. No light. He was standing in a perfectly ordinary stone cave dimly lit by a hole in the ceiling. The floor was sandy, the walls and roof jagged. There was no sign of Skade anywhere.

  “Hello?” he called, a little uncertainly. “Is there anyone—?”

  Arren.

  He turned, and there she was. Real and solid, large as life, sitting on her haunches, watching him, her tail wrapped around her talons.

  Arren gaped at her. “Eluna?”

  The white griffin put her head on one side. You should not be here, she whispered.

&n
bsp; Arren backed away. “No. No, this isn’t right. This isn’t real. You’re not real. You’re dead.”

  Eluna stood up. Why have you come here? You were not meant to come here.

  “I’ve come to—I want—Eluna, where is this? Why are you here? You’re dead!”

  We did not call you here, said Eluna, and Arren knew it wasn’t her voice. It was soft and whispering, like the sound of distant wind. It sounded like many voices speaking at once.

  “Eluna, are you a spirit?”

  We are the dead, said Eluna. Why have you come here to us?

  “I have come to be healed,” said Arren.

  Then tell us what may be healed, said the white griffin.

  “There’s a curse on me,” said Arren. “My heart—”

  Yes. But it is a curse that needs no healing.

  “Please!” said Arren, starting toward her. “Please, make my heart beat again. I beg you.”

  There was a curse upon the man called Arren Cardockson, said Eluna. We know this. He was cursed by the griffin called Shoa. She wove her spell around the skull of a griffin chick, and her partner, Rannagon, gave it to him. The instant he touched it the curse was upon him. He was doomed to die within less than a year. It was fulfilled on the night after his twentieth birthday. He fell from the edge of the city and died among the stones, in the moonlight. Now the curse is complete.

  “No!” said Arren. “No, not that curse, I mean the other one.”

  There is no other—

  “My heart!” Arren half-shouted, thumping his chest. “Please, you have to make my heart beat again.”

  There is no other, Eluna’s whispering voice repeated.

  “It’s a curse,” said Arren. “I have no heartbeat.”

  Eluna’s shape began to waver, becoming misty and unreal. You have no heart, Kraeai kran ae.

  “I want it back,” said Arren. “Please. Give it back to me.”

  You cannot be healed, said Eluna. A curse cannot be lifted that does not exist.

  “But you have the power! You have to—”

  Mist began to swirl around Eluna. She was disappearing, fading into it. You dare command us, Kraeai kran ae?

  “If you can help me, then do it,” said Arren. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t want to be this way. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Whiteness was rising from the floor, surrounding him. Eluna disappeared, leaving nothing but a glow of light from her eyes. You, the voices hissed. You dare to come here, monster, you monster, you murderer without a heart, you dare come here and tell us we must help you? You dare that?

  “Yes,” said Arren. “I do. Give me my heart back.”

  It was closing in around him now, cold and smothering. And who are you who dare do this?

  “I am Arren Cardockson, and I—”

  No. Arren Cardockson is dead. You are not him. You are Kraeai kran ae. You are the man without a heart.

  “Then I am Arenadd Taranisäii,” Arren shouted back. “I am the man without a heart. Give it back to me, and I’ll do whatever you ask.”

  The cave had vanished, covered up by the mist. It wrapped itself around him, taking him into itself, lifting him from the floor and holding him, suspended helplessly. He struggled, but the mist would not let go.

  Kraeai kran ae, Kraeai kran ae! the spirits hissed, again and again.

  “Let me go!”

  No faith, they whispered. No mercy. No rest. No heart. No life. The dead who walks among the living cannot be one of them, any more than north can be south.

  Arren tried to speak, but his voice died in his throat. My heart, he thought. Give me back my heart.

  A heart is not a thing that can be given or taken, said the spirits. And we do not wish it. You are not cursed, Kraeai kran ae. You are a curse.

  No. No. I’m not, I’m—

  The force holding him grew stronger, pressing in on him, spreading a crushing pain through his whole body. It was a feeling he knew, one he had felt in his dreams. It was the pain he had felt as he lay at the foot of the mountain, staring sightlessly up at the moon and the looming presence of Skandar, blood trickling down over his fingers.

  Hear us now, the spirits said, their voices needling, cold, full of contempt. There is no place for you. You are not wanted; you should not be here. We shall tell you now that when your end comes, you shall be alone. Your body shall rot and your bones shall be left for animals, and no living soul shall ever mourn for you.

  Arren couldn’t reply. All he could feel was the pain. It was everywhere, inside and out. His bones were breaking; he could feel them twist and crack inside him. He couldn’t move or breathe or even think. His heart was pattering frantically.

  While you walk, hundreds will want you gone, the spirits promised. They will hunt you their whole lives, seeking your destruction with their every breath. But where you go, death shall always follow. They will hate you, Kraeai kran ae. Hate you with their very souls.

  He could feel his heart beating now. But slower and slower, weakening as the blood flowed out of him. He was dying. His heart was dying.

  Seek out the Night Eye for your hope now, said the spirits. Take up your own pagan ways. But we do not want you. Farewell .

  Arren felt his heart stop.

  Go back to the North, blackrobe, the spirits said, their voices full of sneering mockery.

  And then there was nothing but silence, and blackness.

  10

  Herbstitt

  It was very cold. Arren shivered and curled up more tightly. His robe was wet.

  Something grabbed him by the collar, and he was being hauled to his feet. He flung out an arm as his eyes snapped open, but too late. A rough hand grabbed him by the wrist, and there was a loud metallic snap as something closed tightly around it. Someone had grabbed his other arm, too, and before he knew what was happening he was being dragged backward. It was dark, and rain was still falling, but the moon had come out, and there were lights nearby. Lights and people.

  The hands that had dragged him upright flung him down against a tree, and as he fell he realised his hands were manacled together. Terrified, he tried to get up and run, but someone kicked him in the stomach, and he keeled over, wheezing.

  “All right, you son of a bitch,” a voice snarled. “We’ve got you, so don’t try anything on.”

  Arren managed to sit up as someone brought a torch over. The guttering flame showed him a group of men clad in rough leather armour. They were armed and had the easy confidence of people used to travelling and fighting.

  Arren’s hand went to his belt, dragging the other with it as he groped for his knife, but it was gone. He tried to get up, but one of the men grabbed hold of the manacles and dragged him forward, nearly tipping him onto his face.

  Arren struggled wildly, wrenching at the chain. “Let go of me!”

  They hit him again, this time in the head, but he barely felt it in his terror. He twisted sideways, breaking free of the man’s grip, and hurled himself at the nearest of them. It took the man by surprise; Arren knocked him sideways and ran for it.

  Footsteps came up fast behind him, and something hit him in the back of the knees. His legs folded, and he stumbled to the ground. They were on him instantly, hitting him from all sides. He made a few attempts to defend himself, but the blows continued to fall, hard and merciless. Finally, half-conscious and bleeding badly from a cut lip, he slumped onto his side and lay there, gasping. The next time they dragged him to his feet, he didn’t resist.

  One of them hit him hard in the face. “Thought you could get away, did you, blackrobe?”

  Arren sagged, groaning. “Please stop hitting me.”

  The man hit him again. “Shut your face!”

  “Come on, Russ,” another voice cut in. “I’m getting soaked here. Let’s just get him back to camp.”

  “Wait a moment,” said the one called Russ. “You”—this was to Arren—“is there anyone else here with you?”

  “No,” Arren said without hesita
tion.

  Russ drew back his hand to hit him again. “You sure about that, blackrobe?”

  “There’s no-one else!” said Arren. “I swear!”

  Russ lowered his hand. “Fine, whatever. I don’t see why we should be wasting our time with this kind of crap anyway. Here,” he said, turning to one of his companions, “toss me that rope, will you?” He caught it and wrapped it around Arren’s manacled wrists, binding them tightly together. He tugged at it a few times to make sure it was secure and then took hold of the loose end. “Right, let’s get going. Daen, could you bring my horse over here?”

  He tied the end of the rope to the back of the animal’s saddle while his companions mounted, and then got up himself. “Let’s go. You go ahead, Jono.”

  The group set out, four in all, riding in single file. Russ was at the back, and Arren had to walk behind him, the rope threatening to drag him down if he was too slow. He knew it would be pointless to try to pull back; the rope was thick, and besides, they’d only start hitting him again. He limped along after the column, looking back desperately over his shoulder at the mountain. He could just see the dead tree and the heap of boulders. There was no sign of anything unusual there, and no sign of Skade or Skandar, either. He was on his own.

  They rode out of the clearing and away over the rocky landscape, heading southward. As Arren walked, he tried to untie the rope pinning his wrists together, but it had been tied expertly and refused to budge. His fingers were longer than those of a Southerner, but even so he couldn’t get hold of the knot. It had been tied on the side furthest away from his mouth, too, making it nearly impossible to get his teeth into it. He did manage to after a few tries, but it was too tight to be undone that way, and it was slick with rain. Even so, he continued to wrench at it, trying again and again to get a grip on it. He fell too far behind and was instantly pulled to the ground when the rope went taut. The horse dragged him along behind it while he tried to get up, but Russ quickly noticed and called a halt. He dismounted, strode over to Arren and pulled him upright.

  Then he hit him again. “Bloody well keep up or I’ll cut your ears off, understand?”

  After that Arren gave up and walked obediently along behind the column, rain slicking his hair to his head and trickling down his face. His robe was already soaked, and its weight slowed him down. He ached all over from the beating; his legs and back were starting to stiffen. Little spots of light flickered in his vision, and his head was spinning. He groaned softly. The encounter with the spirits still loomed large in his memory, but it was already starting to feel hazy and unreal. Like a dream. Or a nightmare. But deep down he knew it had been real.