The Griffin's Flight

by K J Taylor

  The man looked at Arren again. “It’s not him.”

  Russ paused. “What, sir?”

  “You heard me,” said the man. “That’s not him. You’ve got the wrong man.”

  “Are you sure, sir?” said Russ. He sounded surprised.

  “Yes. I know what he looks like, and this isn’t him. He’s too young. The runner doesn’t have a scar on his face, either.”

  Russ looked at Arren. “Oh.”

  The man leant over the table. “Show me your hand, blackrobe.”

  Before he could obey, one of the guards grabbed Arren’s forearm and yanked it forward. The man examined the back of Arren’s hand. “No brand. Where is his brand?” He looked up at Arren: “Where’s your brand, blackrobe?”

  Arren gaped at him, too bewildered to speak.

  The man made a sound of irritation and let go. “This is wonderful. Instead of bringing back that cursed runner, you’ve brought me this idiot.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, sir,” Russ snapped. “How was I supposed to know? A blackrobe on his own with collar scars on his neck—what else could I have done?”

  “You could have checked his hand,” the man said acidly.

  “Look, sir,” said Russ, calming down, “we were out near the mountains, it was freezing cold and pissing with rain, and we were running out of supplies. I figure one blackrobe’s pretty much like another. Now are you going to pay me, or should I take him somewhere else?”

  The man paused to think it over. “You,” he said to Arren, “can you talk, blackrobe?”

  Arren swallowed. “Uh, yes. Sir.”

  “Thank gods for that. Where did you run away from?”

  Arren’s mind raced. “I—uh—W-Withypool, sir.”

  “You’re not local, that’s obvious,” said the man, in an oddly satisfied tone. “Don’t they brand slaves over there?”

  “Uh—no, sir,” said Arren.

  “Why wouldn’t they?” said Russ.

  The man, though, waved him into silence. “It’s this new system: some people just mark the collars. Makes no difference to me. What’s your name, blackrobe?”

  “Er—Taranis, sir,” said Arren.

  “And what are your skills?”

  Arren looked at him blankly.

  “What can you do, blackrobe?” the man said impatiently. “What sort of work did you do in Withypool?”

  “Oh. I—uh—” Arren pulled himself together. “I know some carpentry, sir. And I can—” He was about to say that he could read and write, but decided against it. “I know how to cook,” he said lamely.

  The man snorted. “Educated, are you? Do you know anything about building, then?”

  “A little. Sir.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Russ.

  The man looked at him, irritated. “Yes, what?”

  “If this isn’t the one that ran away from here, then what are we supposed to do with him? You know you’ll be in trouble if—”

  “If what?” the man interrupted. “If the Withypoolians find out we picked up one of their runaways? Don’t make me laugh.” He looked at Arren. “Blackrobe, this is your lucky day. If your master had been the one to catch you, you’d probably have your tendons cut.” To Russ he said, “He’s not ours, but he’ll do. I’ll buy him from you.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea, sir?” said Russ, in a tone that suggested he didn’t think so. “He’s a rebel, fought back something fierce when we caught him. He’ll try and run off again, sure as fate.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of that,” the man snapped. “But the new lot are late, and Lord Holm will have my head if we don’t get the wall ready in time. We need the extra manpower. Now, how much do you want for him?”

  “I’ll take the standard fee for catching him, plus the regular sum for a decent slave,” Russ said promptly. “I make it nine hundred oblong, sir.”

  “Absolutely not. You can have four hundred, and that’s flat.”

  Russ nodded. “Fine.” He took hold of Arren’s shoulder. “I’ll just be taking him away with me now—”

  “Six hundred, then,” the man snapped. “That’s my final offer.”

  “Seven hundred and we’ll call it quits.”

  There was dead silence while the two of them glared at each other. Finally, the man shrugged. “Seven hundred it is. Take him down to the dungeon with the guards and I’ll have the money ready when you get back.”

  Russ nodded. “Deal.”

  “Have him branded with the Herbstitt iron,” said the man, now speaking to Arren’s guards. “And when you’ve done that, give him a flogging and fit him with some leg-irons. I don’t want to have to deal with another runner. And find a collar for him, double time. I don’t want anyone asking questions.”

  Arren’s blood ran cold. “You can’t—”

  The man looked sharply at him. “Do you have something to say, blackrobe?”

  Arren opened his mouth to protest, and then shut it again and looked away.

  “I didn’t think so,” said the man. “When you’re done, take him over to the slave-house and let Caedmon deal with him. As for you, blackrobe—look at me, damn you.”

  Arren did.

  “You are not to tell anyone about this, understand? Not a word.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I mean it,” said the man. “If I hear you’ve let anything slip, anything at all, I will give you more than just a flogging. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Arren.

  “Good. Take him away.”

  11

  The Slave-House

  Arren had expected the dungeons to be dark, given that they were underground, but the passage leading down to them was well lit, and so was the guardroom at the end of it. The two guards who had brought him down handed him over to their colleagues assigned to the dungeon, and passed on the instructions their master had given. It all happened with efficient speed. Two of the dungeon guards replaced the others and led Arren to a small stone chamber. There he was pushed into a chair and one guard stayed to watch over him; the other left. While he waited, Arren looked around the room, and immediately regretted it. He was in the interrogation chamber: a set of manacles hung from the ceiling, and there was another pair attached to the floor. A whip hung from a hook on the wall, and there was a brazier intended for heating the torture implements. There was nothing in it but glowing coals, but Arren couldn’t look away from it.

  A few moments later the guard returned carrying a long metal rod with a wooden handle. He thrust the tip of it into the brazier and stood by to wait.

  Arren stared at the branding iron as it slowly heated up. A single metal rune was attached to the end, pitted and blackened from countless heatings and coolings. The coals were already beginning to do their work. He felt cold sweat prickling on his forehead.

  When the guard finally took the brand out, the end of it was glowing red. He put it back in and nodded to his colleague who removed Arren’s manacles. He grabbed Arren’s left arm and twisted it behind his back. Arren cried out and pulled his free arm away from the table in front of him, trying to keep it out of their reach, but they were ready for that. The guard behind him gave him a shove, and as he flung out his arm to steady himself the other one grabbed him by the wrist and wrenched it forward, stretching it out over the table. The guard’s other hand reached for the handle of the branding iron.

  Arren tried to pull free. “No, wait, st—aaaaargh!”

  The glowing metal was pressed into the back of his hand and kept there. Arren struggled wildly, yelling, but they held him still, both of them, and the guard pushed down hard with the brand, keeping it in place for a hideous moment. The flesh made a vile sizzling noise, and Arren’s nose was full of the stench of burning skin and hair—his skin and hair—and he retched as the guard finally took the brand away and let go of his wrist. The other one let go of his left arm, and Arren slumped in his chair, gasping. He cradled his wounded hand against his chest and stared blankly at the two of them,
as if he couldn’t quite comprehend what they had just done.

  The guards didn’t seem to notice. The one behind him took him by the shoulder and pulled him to his feet.

  Arren didn’t resist as he was taken to the middle of the room. A strange numbness was spreading through his body, almost a euphoria. His head was spinning, and he had such a powerful sense of unreality all of a sudden that he could almost believe it was a dream.

  The guard tore his robe off and forced him to kneel. He did so, not really able to think about what was going on. His hand felt as if it were on fire. He could still smell it.

  There were bloodstains on the floor around him, he noticed dully as the guard shackled him to a large iron ring set into the stone. The guard then left the room. Behind him, the other guard took down the whip.

  It was very cold without his robe. He shivered. If only Skandar was there. He thought of the griffin’s warm fur and feathers. Then the whip came down for the first time.

  Arren gasped and shuddered. The pain was so intense that he could scarcely believe it. The guard couldn’t possibly do it more than once; it was ridiculous. He’d kill him or break his back, surely.

  But it was not over, and it wasn’t over for what felt like half the night. The whip cut into his back, again and again, and each time it did, it felt like the guard was striking him harder. At first Arren did nothing but jerk under each blow, too shocked to do anything else. But as the flogging continued and the pain intensified, something inside him snapped and he tried to get up, wrenching at the chains with all his might. It didn’t do any good at all. Blood trickled downward and soaked into his trousers, and that was when he started to scream. Scrabbling at the floor, trying to break free and attack his tormentor, he screamed and yelled at the top of his voice, cursing and pleading. That could not help him, either. The whip rose and fell until his voice ran out, and all he could do was cry out every time it struck him, too weak now to struggle any further.

  Finally, the guard stood back and returned the whip to its hook, and Arren was left cringing on the floor, his back a mass of torn and bleeding flesh. He made an attempt to get up, but his legs gave way and he fell onto his face. He lay there, half propped up by his hands, still tugging feebly at the chains. The manacles had cut into his wrists, and sweat was soaking into the burn on the back of his hand, making it sting. He could feel the blood running over the bare skin on his sides to drip onto the floor, darkening the stains there even further.

  He tried to get up once more, but all the strength seemed to have gone out of him. His vision was fading. From somewhere far away he heard a door open and the sound of footsteps. The other guard had come back, maybe, he thought.

  “. . . don’t have any we can find; he’ll have to go without,” a voice said, but Arren couldn’t think about what it meant. He blacked out.

  Arren didn’t stay unconscious for very long. He woke up as the guards were undoing the shackles but stayed limp, eyes shut, hoping they wouldn’t notice.

  “Poor sod couldn’t take it,” one muttered. “Probably won’t need the irons at all.”

  “Get them anyway,” said the other. “Go on. I’ll wake him up.”

  Footsteps retreated as a pair of hands rolled Arren onto his side. He kept still.

  A few moments later there was a cold shock as a bucket of water was thrown over his head. Arren jerked in surprise and started to cough.

  “On your feet,” said the guard, brusquely but not unkindly. “Come on, blackrobe, we haven’t got all night.”

  Arren managed to lift himself into a sitting position and rubbed his hands over his face. His back was a mass of pain, and his burned hand was throbbing horrendously. His wrists hurt. His legs hurt. Everything hurt.

  The guard grabbed him by the upper arm and pulled him to his feet. “Come on, stand up. That’s right. Here.”

  A cup was thrust into his hand. Arren managed to grasp it, and drank the contents. Water. He coughed again and nearly dropped it. His fingers were stiff and clumsy; it hurt to move them.

  “Here.” The guard draped Arren’s robe over him.

  Arren screamed the instant the rough cloth touched his wounded back, and the cup fell out of his hand as he tried to pull it off.

  The guard, though, took him by the arm and thrust it roughly through the sleeve. “Go on, put it on, it’s not going to kill you.”

  Arren continued to resist as the robe was forcibly put back on him, but the guard ignored his protests. As he was pulling the garment over his chest, his friend returned.

  “He’s awake, then.”

  “He’ll be fine,” the first guard said confidently. “Just a bit of shock. Did you get them?”

  The second guard rattled the pair of leg-irons he was carrying. “Of course I bloody did; what do these look like, chopped onions?”

  “Har har, very funny. Keep them with you for the moment; we’ll put them on him once we’ve got him to the slave-house. He’ll have enough trouble walking as it is.”

  “Good point. Let’s go, then.”

  Arren leant gratefully on his guards as they took him out of the room and back into the main passageway of the dungeon. Now they had finished dealing with him as they had been ordered to, all they wanted to do was be rid of him, and they had nothing to gain from forcing him to walk unaided. They helped him out of the dungeon and back above ground, into the tower, and out through a side door. It was dark outside and the stars had come out. As they emerged into the night air, Arren looked up at them and felt strangely comforted. They were still there, at least. Going into the dungeons had felt like being buried alive, but now he could see the sky again. And it was cold out here, too. The hint of frost in the air helped to soothe his burned hand.

  The guards led him away from the tower, toward the edge of the city. They walked through the near-deserted streets for a while, until they had passed through the market district and were in the residential area. From there they walked on until the last of the houses had gone and crossed a small patch of open ground between them and the crumbling wall. There was another building there, quite large, with a low, flat roof. Faint lights were showing through the windows, and Arren could hear voices coming from inside.

  There were guards there, too. Arren was taken to a small room attached to the side of the building. Inside, several guards were sitting around a brazier warming their hands. One came out to meet them almost as soon as they were within striking distance.

  “Hello, what’s this?” he said, eyeing Arren.

  “We’ve brought the new one,” said one of Arren’s guards. “You should’ve had word from the tower.”

  “Yes, of course. Bring him in, then.”

  Arren was brought into the guardhouse and allowed to sit down on a bench. The guards there looked at him with a certain amount of curiosity.

  “So, this is the runner,” said one. “Doesn’t look like much to me. Where’s his collar?”

  “Couldn’t find one,” said one of the tower guards. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any over here?”

  “I doubt it, but we’ll have a look. Are you going to put those irons on him, or what?”

  “You do it,” the tower guard snapped. “We were supposed to be off duty ages ago.”

  “Fine, hand them over and get lost,” the other replied, taking them. “We’ll take charge of him now.”

  The tower guards nodded briefly to their fellows and left.

  “Right,” said the one holding the irons. “That’s that sorted out. Now then.” He turned to Arren. “What’s your name, blackrobe?”

  “Taranis,” Arren mumbled.

  “And where are you from, Taranis?”

  “Withypool.”

  “Right, I expect that’s what they told you to say. If that accent’s from Withy then I’m a griffin. Well, it doesn’t make any difference to me where you’re from, and I don’t imagine anyone else will care, either. You’re in our hands now, and as long as you stick to the rules you’ll do well enough. Now
hold out your legs.”

  Arren did, and watched resignedly as the irons were snapped into place around his ankles.

  The guard tugged at the chain to make sure it was secure. “Good. Get up. We’re going to hand you over to Caedmon now, and he’ll get you a bed and tell you anything you need to know. Up you get.”

  Arren stood up, and the guard who’d spoken to him shoved him toward the back of the room where there was a heavy iron gate. He unlocked it with a key from his belt, and they went through. Beyond the gate there was a long wooden corridor lined with doorways. Torches set into metal cages were attached to the walls, and light spilt out from the doors as well. Arren, his gait slow and shuffling thanks to the chain attached to his ankles, could hear low voices mixed with the occasional laugh.

  The guard closed the gate behind them. “Caedmon!” he shouted. “Get your wrinkly arse out here right now!”

  The voices died down, and a few cautious faces peered out of the nearest doorways.

  “Caedmon!” the guard yelled again.

  There was a brief silence, and then a small boy appeared from the nearest doorway. “I think he’s asleep, sir,” he said.

  The guard turned to look at him. “Well, I’m in no mood to wait around for him.” He gave Arren a shove. “Take this son of a bitch into your quarters and give him something to eat, and then go and tell Caedmon he’s got a new man to sort, understand?”

  The boy looked at Arren, wide-eyed. “Is he dangerous?”

  “Not as dangerous as I’m going to be in a moment. Get on with it.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the boy. He darted closer to Arren. “You’re to come with me.”

  Arren glanced quickly at the guard, but he was already leaving. The boy retreated through the doorway he’d come out of, and Arren followed.

  There was a simple wooden room on the other side. A fire was burning in a metal drum in the middle of the floor, and a large pot was hanging over it. The only furniture was a privy-hole in one corner and a row of hammocks hanging from the roof. But there were people there, too, at least a dozen men of various ages, leaning on the walls or sitting cross-legged on the floor. One or two were asleep in their hammocks.