The Griffin's Flight

by K J Taylor

  “Because where else could I go?” said Arren. “It’s the only place where our people live free.”

  “Free!” Olwydd growled. “There’s scarce more than a hundred Northerners could call themselves free, even in Tara. We’re slaves or vassals. Even in our own land we can’t marry or move house or buy land without leave from the griffiners at Malvern. And if ye stand up an’ be yer own man, gods help ye then.”

  “Is that why you’re here?” said Arren.

  Prydwen nodded. “They caught us tryin’ to leave our village to join the others up north, near Taranis Gorge, where the standing stones are.”

  “Others?”

  “Free Northerners,” said Olwydd. “Rebels. The ones who left the cages and went to the wild, where the land is too cold for Southerners.” He snarled to himself. “We went to seek freedom with them, and so Lady Elkin took what freedom we had already.”

  “Is it even possible to get through the Northgates?” said Arren. “On foot, I mean.”

  “There’s passes and suchlike,” said Prydwen. “There’s a few who’ve made it.”

  That wouldn’t be a problem, Arren thought. If he ever did get back to the Northgates he wouldn’t be passing through them on foot. He would go there with Skandar or not at all. And before then he would have to go to Norton to find his parents.

  There were commanding shouts from nearby and a general stirring among the slaves.

  “Looks like we’re back on duty,” said Olwydd. He gulped down the last of his water and stood up.

  Arren stood, too, holding the remains of his bread. “Well, it was good to meet you.”

  Prydwen nodded as he rose. “Makes me happy to know there’s at least one darkman here who’s still got his balls.”

  Arren glanced quickly over his shoulder and moved closer. “So, we’re agreed?”

  “I never agreed to anything,” said Olwydd.

  Arren shrugged. “If you say so. But since I know you’re interested in escaping, and you know I am, too—well, I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt for us to share any plans or ideas we might come up with.”

  The others were already returning to their work. “So, we’re to take ye with us if we escape, and ye’re to do the same for us?” Olwydd said quickly.

  “Something like that,” said Arren. He nodded to them. “I’m in the first room nearest the gate. You know where to find me.” That said, he walked back toward the mortar buckets, hastily wolfing down the last of his bread. It was hard and made from poor-quality flour, but just then it tasted delicious.

  13

  Tales of Tara

  Arren’s feeling of pride lasted a good way into that afternoon’s work. He wasn’t completely sure why, but he had to admit that things were looking up. Nobody had any suspicion of his true identity or was asking any really probing questions yet, and now he had a couple of allies. Prydwen and Olwydd looked like tough and resourceful men; there was no doubt whatsoever that they were looking for ways to escape, and Arren had every intention of helping them. If he could find a way of getting the leg-irons off, that would be the most important first step. But it had to be done quickly, he decided. He couldn’t expect to remain anonymous forever. People were already taking something of an interest in his background. The man who seemed to be in charge was obviously too harassed to waste time talking to runaway slaves, but if anyone here had a description of what Arren looked like . . .

  Arren started to feel slightly sick again. He dumped more water into the bucket and stirred rapidly with the stick, distracting himself with the work. If only there was some way of hiding the scar on his face and the tattoo; he made a mental note to keep his robe on at all times.

  Nolan had stopped making conversation. He was working away steadily next to Arren, now apparently bent on finishing the day so he could get back to the slave-house and rest. Arren felt curiously guilty for having dodged him at lunch.

  The afternoon seemed longer than the morning had. Arren mixed what felt like a dozen buckets of mortar while the others carried blocks from the quarry and a third group worked on the wall itself. The gap, which had been big enough to drive a wagon through at the beginning of the day, was slowly beginning to shrink. It would probably be fixed within a week or so, but doubtless there were others. There were only about thirty slaves working at this spot; those who hadn’t gone to the quarry had spread out to other parts of the wall. Arren wondered if they worked in rotation. It would give him a better picture of how close they were to finishing the job. He would be in a lot of trouble once the wall was fixed and the slaves began to be sent back to their homes. They couldn’t very well send him to Canran, and if they still didn’t know who he was by then—which didn’t seem likely—he could be sold anywhere. The gods alone knew where he might end up. Wylam, Withypool, even over the sea at a place like Amoran. He would never find Skandar again if that happened. And Skade.

  Arren wondered where she was. Alive, dead, lost. He thought of the last thing she had said to him. Our pairing is over . . . We do not linger together. We pair, and then we part. He tried to remember if she had pushed him or hit him. It didn’t matter. What she said was painful enough. He had confessed and been spurned. She had chosen the imagined whisperings of a long-dead boy over him. And now she was gone, and he knew he would never see her again.

  The thought made a lump form in his throat. He gripped the stirring stick fiercely, until his knuckles whitened. Why do you care? he asked himself. She used you. Bedded you, toyed with you and then abandoned you. If you’d never met her . . .

  But he couldn’t disguise his misery as anger for very long. If he had never met Skade he would still be lost in the countryside, surviving on grubs and beetles. If he had never met her . . . then you wouldn’t be here in Herbstitt, wearing a pair of leg-irons, with a brand burned into you and whip marks on your back, his mind whispered.

  Arren sighed as the completed bucket of mortar was carried off and an emptied one dumped next to him, ready to be refilled. He started to measure out the sand and lime for what felt like the hundredth time that day. He wished Skandar was there.

  “What’s the matter, Taranis?” Nolan’s rough voice broke into his thoughts. “You look all miserable.”

  “What?” Arren shook himself. “Oh. Just thinking.”

  “Thinking about somethin’ sad, by the looks of it,” Nolan observed. “Ooh, watch out, here comes the governor.”

  Arren followed his gaze and froze. It was the man from the tower. He was nearby, talking to the guards, and as Arren watched he turned to look straight at him. Arren looked back, full of a wild impulse to run away. They were all looking at him. He could see the man—the governor, Nolan had called him—saying something to the guards, asking them some question. They were too far away to be heard, but Arren thought he could hear them in his head. I’ve just had word from Canran. There’s a blackrobe they’re looking for; his name is Arren Cardockson, and he has a scar on his face. He’s wanted for killing a griffiner. I want to question that new slave that was brought in yesterday.

  But then the governor looked away, and Arren thought he was going to faint with relief. They weren’t coming any closer. He went back to work, still watching them surreptitiously. The man wasn’t a griffiner; all he had with him was that big hunting dog, and if he hadn’t suspected anything the night before, why should he start suspecting now?

  Arren tried to convince himself that was true, but he kept an eye on him anyway.

  “Ah, don’t worry about him,” said Nolan. “He don’t take that much interest in us. He’s just come to check on how the work’s goin,’ like usual.”

  “How long has he been governor here?” said Arren.

  Nolan scratched his beard and yawned. “He ain’t the proper governor; he’s just fillin’ in while Lady What’s-Her-Name is off at Canran.”

  “And how long will it be before she comes back?”

  “Don’t ask me. Could be weeks, could be months, could be a few days. Makes no difference to
me.”

  Arren watched as the governor finished his conversation with the guards and then walked away to talk with those nearer to the wall, his dog following at his heels. His path took him quite close to the mortar buckets, and as he passed, Arren ducked his head in the hopes that he wouldn’t be noticed. The governor barely favoured him with a glance, and Arren breathed easier. But his breath caught in his throat as the man glanced over his shoulder and then stopped abruptly, turning around. Arren shrank back, but then he realised what it was that had made him stop.

  It was the dog. The animal was backing away from its master. Arren stopped to watch, vaguely interested. The governor called to his pet, but the dog didn’t move. Finally, he strode over to it and grabbed it by the collar. The dog went with him for a few steps, but then began to dig in its heels. Arren could hear it whimpering. A lifetime spent around griffins had taught him a lot about how animals behave, and dogs weren’t that dissimilar to griffins. This one was crouching low, ears laid flat. It was terrified.

  The governor seemed to know that; he crouched and petted the dog’s head. “Now, what’s gotten into you?” he murmured. “There’s nothing to be scared of. Come on.”

  He stood up, still trying to coax the dog into following him, but it wouldn’t. Arren could see the creature’s yellow eyes staring straight at him as it whined and cowered, wanting to flee but loath to leave its master.

  Finally, the governor lost patience. “Fine,” he muttered, and strode off. The dog lingered a few moments and then ran away with its tail between its legs.

  “What was that all about?” said Nolan.

  “I think it was frightened of me,” said Arren.

  Nolan glanced at him, apparently trying to decide if he was joking, and then laughed. “Yeah, I can see that. You look scary enough.”

  Arren smiled, but his heart wasn’t in it. Maybe the dog could smell griffin on him. Most animals were afraid of griffins. But he had seen other animals cower and run when he came near them. Not all of them did, but the more intelligent creatures, like rats, always did. It frightened him more than he would admit.

  The governor didn’t stay much longer. He talked briefly to the guards by the wall and to Caedmon as well, who had spent the day walking among the slaves and supervising them, and then headed back toward the town, having shown little interest in Arren.

  Nevertheless, Arren felt much calmer once he had gone.

  Little by little the sun dipped toward the horizon, and the day’s work started to draw to a close. The slaves were working more slowly now, and Arren could feel himself flagging. His hand burned, his back throbbed and his head ached, and the leg-irons were starting to chafe. All he wanted to do was go back to his hammock and sleep.

  Finally, just as the sun was beginning to set, Caedmon gave the command, and the slaves began to pack up. The last of the mortar was either used up or thrown away, the ladders were taken down, and hammers, chisels and the flat mortar spreaders—Arren couldn’t remember what they were called—were packed into their boxes while a pair of guards watched closely and counted them to make sure nobody had stolen one. Closely watched all the time, Arren and a group of men carried them to the small stone hut where they were stored, and after that he and his fellows were formed back into a column and marched to the slave-house.

  Arren shuffled into his dormitory, forced to take small steps because of the irons. The others were already flopping into their hammocks or sitting down cross-legged near the fire to rest. Torc was there, busily throwing chopped potatoes into the pot along with a few other vegetables. Arren wasn’t surprised to see that there was no meat. It was far too expensive to feed to slaves. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation and made for his hammock. His back was bleeding again, but he was too far gone to care. He lay on his stomach, arms dangling over the sides, and let himself relax.

  He must have dozed briefly; he was woken up by voices and the sound of metal on metal. Torc was serving out the stew, and the others were crowding around to fill their bowls.

  Arren got laboriously out of his hammock. The prospect of another bowl of overcooked vegetable slop didn’t appeal to him very much, but lunch had been a long time ago and he knew he had to keep his strength up. As it was, he was already thinner than he should be.

  Torc grinned hopefully at him as he ladled out a generous helping of stew. “You gonna tell us about where you come from, Taranis?”

  “Hm?” Arren blinked at him. “What? Oh. There’s not much to tell, really.”

  Most of the others had their food now and had seated themselves around the fire to eat. Annan leant over to prod Arren with his spoon. “Go on, don’t be shy. Why’d you run away? We all like a good story.”

  Arren sat down. “It’s really not very interesting,” he said, playing for time.

  “Tell us anyway, an’ we’ll be the judges of that,” said Nolan.

  Arren shrugged. “I was a carpenter, at Withypool. Building houses, that sort of thing. And then one day—” He hesitated. “My collar got infected,” he said. “It hurt all the time, day and night, and nobody would do anything about it. I was desperate; I tried everything. And then one day I hit it accidentally, and it broke. It came off, and I didn’t know what to do; I knew I’d be in big trouble when my master found out. And then I thought—” He paused again, feeling rather pleased with himself. “Withypool is near the sea, and I liked to watch the water and think about faraway lands. Amoran and Erebus and Liawinee and Eire. I thought—I knew—I’d never see those places. I’d never see anything but Withypool and building and work and my master treating me like his property, which was what I was, and after my collar came off, I thought, why shouldn’t I have a choice? Why should I let myself be a thing that belongs to someone, instead of a man? Don’t I have two hands and a mind of my own and a soul? Why should where I go and what I do be someone else’s choice? And so that night I broke out of my cell and I ran away, vowing I’d never let myself be a slave again. I went to the North because it was the only place I could think of, the only place where I thought I could be free. And here I am.”

  Silence followed. Arren looked at the others nervously, not quite sure what it meant and whether he had gone too far.

  “Aren’t they going to send you back to your master, then?” one man asked eventually.

  “I hope not,” said Arren. “I shouldn’t think he’d want me, anyway.”

  “You’re brave,” Torc piped up. “You’re like a wolf.”

  Arren glanced at him. “Wolves aren’t brave.”

  “Well, you are,” said Torc. “Running away is brave. If they catch you, you die. I could never do it, not ever.”

  “Couldn’t you?” said Arren. “Are you sure?”

  “There ain’t no point in it,” another slave interrupted. “Really, there ain’t. Why go north? You’ve never been to the North. I’ve met Northerners. Most of ’em hate us. Call us Southerners and water-bloods and suchlike. Anyway, from what I’m told, the North’s a terrible harsh place. Ice an’ snow and bears, an’ savage people living out in the wilderness, catching travellers to eat.”

  Arren looked around at them all. “Why go north? Yes, indeed, why go north? That’s a good question. I’ve been asked it many times. I’ve asked it myself. Why—go—north?”

  “There’s nothin’ there,” said Annan, though he sounded a little uneasy.

  Go back to the North, blackrobe, Arren thought. “Because the North is our home,” he said. “It has to be. What do we have out here in the South? What is there out here for us except collars and whips and chains and hard labour all our lives? We’re slaves here, and we’re lost. This isn’t our land; we’re not made for it. This land belongs to Southerners, and while we’re in their land, so do we. But the North—if the North is where we came from, then the North is the only place we could ever call home. I’ve never been there, either, any more than you have, but I say that if our ancestors would fight even against griffiners to defend it, and die to do so, then the N
orth is where I belong. And so do you.”

  Nolan chuckled. “You sound like my old grandad goin’ on about that. Northern pride! And what’ll you do when y’get there, then, Taranis? Try an’ hide out in some peasant village? Run off into the forest to join the savages? There’s griffiners there, too, you know. Lots of ’em.” He became serious. “Now, look here, Taranis. It’s good to have somethin’ to dream about, if it keeps you goin’ an’ so on, but you need a good dose of the real world. The North ain’t ours; it’s theirs. None of our lot have lived there free since before my great-grandad was born. Griffiners own it, just like they own the rest of the country, an’ nothin’ an’ nobody can stand against them or ever will.”

  Arren was silent for a long time. “Tell me about the North,” he said at last. “I’ve told my story, now it’s someone else’s turn. Tell me a story about Tara.”

  Nolan sat back. “I’m no storyteller. Get Torc to do it.”

  Torc nodded. “I’ll tell a story, sure. Which one do you want to hear?”

  “Tell us about Taranis,” said a voice.

  It was Olwydd. The shackled Northerner walked slowly into the room, closely followed by Prydwen.

  Nolan started up. “Here, you’re not supposed to come in our dorm.”

  Olwydd shrugged. “Caedmon’s asleep; who’s gonna stop us?” He went over to the fire, stepping between the men seated around it, and managed to wedge himself in next to Arren, whom he pretended not to see. “Go on, boy,” he said to Torc. “Tell us the story of Taranis the Wolf.”

  Torc looked uncertain. “Taranis already told us his story,” he said, trying to grin.

  Prydwen gave him a withering look. “He means the other Taranis, boy. Don’t play stupid.”

  Torc cast an appealing glance at Arren. Arren hadn’t missed the tension that had come into the room with the two Northerners, and he shrugged with exaggerated care. “I’d like to hear it if you’re willing to tell it, Torc.”

  The boy nodded unhappily. “All right. I’ll tell it, then.”