The Griffin's Flight

by K J Taylor

  “I knew you were a commoner the moment I saw you,” Senneck said icily. “From your clothing, from the way you carried yourself. You had no status; you looked like a peasant. That blackrobe had sent you in alone to amuse himself, in the hopes that you would make a fool of yourself. I did not like him, but I agreed with him. I rejected you the instant I saw you.” She paused. “And then you spoke, and spoke griffish. You proved you knew something. And you told us you were Lord Rannagon’s son. I already knew that Lord Rannagon had a bastard son, and so did my fellows. They rejected you because you were a bastard; they would not dishonour themselves. They all knew what had become of Eluna when she partnered herself to a blackrobe. Even her own parents rejected her for it.”

  “But you chose me,” said Erian. “You chose me.”

  “I took a risk,” said Senneck. “I had grown tired of waiting. And if Rannagon had favoured you enough to acknowledge you as his son, then that meant there was a chance you could overcome your bastardy. It was my hope that, if you became a griffiner, you could persuade Lady Riona to legitimise you. Together, we could have become something more.”

  “And we will,” said Erian. “I swear.”

  “Then become,” Senneck rasped. “I command you. That blackrobe robbed me of my chance when he killed your father and Lady Riona, and I wish to see him dead. But if you continue to allow yourself to be this—this landless, penniless vagabond without even a lordship—I shall abandon you.”

  Erian went pale. “No. You wouldn’t do that. We belong together. We’re partners. You chose me.”

  “I chose you,” she said. “Understand this, Erian. I made you. If it were not for me, you would still be a lowly farm boy. And if I left you, you would become that once again. All you are, you owe to me.” She drew herself up. “So tread carefully, bastard.”

  He hesitated. “I—I will, Senneck. I promise. I won’t forget. I’ll do whatever you want.”

  Satisfaction gleamed in her eyes. “Then do as I say.”

  “I will.”

  “We leave tomorrow,” said Senneck. “No more delays; time is short. We shall go to Malvern immediately and swear our service to Lady Elkin. She will want youth and strength on her side if she chooses to invade Eagleholm’s lands. But first you must go to the Wylamese slave-trader and speak with him. Command him to send the traitor’s mother to Malvern to await our arrival. Return his money to him and say you are buying her back.”

  “Why?” said Erian.

  She gave him a contemptuous look. “You truly know nothing, bastard. The woman will be useful. Use her as your personal slave. And when her son resurfaces, you will have the perfect bait to lure him to you.”

  Very slowly, Erian began to smile. “And when he comes . . .”

  “You shall have a fine statue to sell,” said Senneck.

  It was raining. Drops landed on the bracken fern in a soft pattering that made them glisten and bob gently. More struck the mound of freshly dug earth surrounded by trampled vegetation. There was no marker there, nothing but a heap of dirt to show the spot.

  There was a rustling among the ferns, and a long grey-green shape waddled toward the heap. It was a lizard, nearly as long as a man, moving surprisingly fast on its squat legs. Its tongue flicked in and out, tasting the air. It hated rain. The cold slowed it, made it feel confused and weak. But just now its mind was on something else. There was a smell coming from up ahead, a smell that rid its mind of all else.

  Food.

  The lizard made for the mound of disturbed soil and inspected it, tongue still flicking. It was faint, but unmistakeable: dead flesh lying just under the surface. The lizard paused briefly and then began to dig. Sharp black claws scooped the earth aside with ease, and the creature thrust itself downward. Before long it had dug a sizeable hole, and the scent was becoming stronger. Finally, its questing snout encountered something soft.

  The lizard shovelled more dirt aside and found something pale and reeking of flesh. It took it between its teeth and bit down, shaking vigorously from side to side until the skin broke and it tasted blood. Encouraged, the lizard tugged more strenuously. But its efforts were not rewarded. The lizard’s teeth were small and short, lacking the sharp serrations of a predator. This meat was too fresh to be easily torn apart.

  The lizard hissed to itself in frustration. A find like this would be perfect if it had been allowed to rot for a week or so. But that was far too long to wait; it needed to eat now.

  The lizard dug further, uncovering more of the corpse. It was human, mostly covered in a second skin of the kind humans had. The lizard found the soft midsection, just below the ribs, and nuzzled into it, pulling and biting. The flesh was thin there and could be opened with tooth and claw to expose the innards. Those would be far easier to eat, and they were the lizard’s preferred food.

  The creature dug its claws into the outer skin and pulled hard until it tore, exposing the pale second skin beneath. It bit into that, and began to pull.

  Engrossed in what it was doing, its senses dulled by the cold, the lizard failed to see its own danger. There was a sudden flurry in the rain, a faint crash, and something enormous hit the lizard square in the back. The lizard jerked and began to thrash wildly, hissing, but the struggle was over almost as soon as it had begun. Huge talons closed tightly around its middle, and a black beak larger than a man’s head struck, shattering the lizard’s skull and breaking its neck in one blow. The lizard abruptly went limp.

  Skandar hissed to himself and ripped the lizard in half with a jerk of his neck. He swallowed the front section in one go, gulping a little as it went down.

  The second half was larger, but he was too impatient to tear it into smaller pieces. He threw his head back to tip it down his throat and then, part of the lizard’s tail hanging from his beak, looked down for anything he might have missed.

  That was when he saw the hand.

  Skandar got up, tossing his head again quickly so that the last of the lizard slid down his gullet. His tail twitched. There was a smell, damped by the rain. A smell he knew.

  It took him only a few moments to drag Arren out of the makeshift grave. He wrapped his talons around him and pulled him free as if he weighed nothing. Arren hung from his grip, cold and limp. He was deathly pale, his hair and beard tangled and matted with dirt.

  Skandar lay down on his belly with Arren’s still form cradled between his forelegs, and nosed at him.

  “Arren,” he rasped. “Arren. Wake now. Wake.”

  Arren did not move. He was dead.

  A feeling of desolation rose up in Skandar’s chest. The dark griffin continued to shove at Arren and call his name, waiting in vain for him to respond. His scent was still strong, the same scent he had had during all their time together in the wild. A cold, metallic scent, unlike anything a living creature could have. But a scent Skandar had come to know and to connect with the human he had claimed for his own.

  Finally the griffin gave up and slumped disconsolately over Arren’s body, rain dripping from the tip of his beak.

  All his life he had been alone. His siblings had died, and his mother. The humans he had abducted had died as well. He hadn’t meant to kill most of them, but they had all been so fragile, and most of them had made him angry with the strange whining and moaning noises they made. They were stupid animals who did not know how to speak and could not fly or fight. All of them but one. Just one, this human who had set him free, the one with the special powers, the one who could talk. Skandar had seen him use his magic many times. When they had first met, he had used some power to take away Skandar’s strength and make him sleep, and had trapped him and taken him to a different place, as easily as if he were a newly hatched chick. And he could control other humans, make them do things. When Skandar had known he would face him in the arena, he had known at once what he must do. The human had talked to him; now he must talk to the human, and so he had. He had commanded him to use his magic once again to set him free, and left him alive so he could
do as he had promised.

  That night he had waited. The other griffins in the cages had mocked him, calling him a coward, saying he would be killed for refusing to fight. But Skandar had waited and said nothing, watching in silence, willing the human to come. And he had come. He had fallen out of the sky, fallen into the place with the cages. He could fly. And he had opened the cage and taken away the chains as if they were nothing, bending them to his will, and Skandar had been free.

  Night was coming. Skandar looked down at Arren’s pale face. He had seen him like this before, just once. He had looked for him and had found him lying among the stones beneath the mountain where the humans nested. He had seen him stir and look up, eyes gleaming like two spots of blood. He had whispered a name before he died, and Skandar had watched, not knowing what to do.

  But he had woken up. Somehow, he had died and then woken. Skandar had felt something in his own throat, something he had felt before when the human was there, and that night it finally came out. The scream. The black scream that looked like lightning and felt like fire inside him. It had frightened him then, and it frightened him now.

  The rain had soaked through his fur and was beginning to soak through his feathers as well. His flanks twitched, but he stayed where he was and tried to think. Had he, Skandar, done something? Had he helped somehow?

  He nudged Arren again. “Magic,” he rasped. “Magic now.”

  Only silence and the drumming of the rain replied.

  Skandar thought of the trapped thing in his throat. He had never felt it again after that night. It was gone, like a thorn that had been winkled out of his paw. By now he could barely even remember it. He opened his beak and tried to make something come out, but nothing emerged except a faint strangled whimper. He hissed to himself and pushed Arren further in toward his chest to protect him from the rain, as if he were an egg to be incubated.

  Not knowing what else to do, he settled down to wait.

  He dozed briefly and woke again. It was completely dark, and so he did not see Arren open his mouth and begin to breathe again. But he did feel him stir and hear him groan.

  Skandar got up sharply, beak opening to hiss. But there was no scent of anything else nearby and no sign of an intruder. Arren was moving, trying to lift himself.

  Skandar went to him and nudged at him again. “Arren, get up,” he said. “Get up now.”

  Arren heard him. The griffin’s voice sounded strangely muffled, as if he was dreaming it, but it was really there, dry and commanding as always; the sound of it put a sudden strength into his paralysed limbs. He struggled mightily, all his confusion vanishing as his mind buzzed with one sudden thought. Skandar. Skandar’s here. Skandar.

  He sat up and levered himself to his feet, opening his eyes, and the world came rushing back, the wet, cold, wonderful world. And Skandar was there.

  Arren staggered to him and half-collapsed against his chest. “Skandar,” he whispered, and coughed. He coughed again, harder, bringing up dirt and blood. His chest felt as if it were on fire, but he didn’t care. He clutched onto Skandar, burying his face in the griffin’s silver feathers. “Skandar. Skandar, it’s you. You found me. You f—” And then he coughed again.

  Skandar chirped and nipped at the back of Arren’s neck as if trying to groom him. “Arren,” he answered. “Arren Cardockson.”

  Arren finally let go. “Skandar, where are we? What’s going on?”

  Skandar shook the rain off his feathers. “Find you dead,” he said. “You wake again.”

  Recollection came back. “I dreamt . . .” Arren felt cold all over. “I dreamt I was dead. I dreamt I was buried. I couldn’t move, and it was so cold.”

  “Die, come back,” Skandar said proudly. “Magic. You magic human. Lucky human.”

  Arren wrapped his arms around himself. “Lucky.” He shuddered. “Yes. Skandar, where have you been? I thought you were dead, or lost.”

  Skandar clicked his beak. “You lost,” he said. “You lost. I say, I go hunt. Go, come back, you gone. You gone.”

  “I know,” said Arren. “Skandar, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen; it wasn’t my fault.”

  “Where go?” said Skandar.

  “They caught me,” said Arren. “I was—look.” He held out his hand. “This is what they did to me.”

  Skandar stared at the terrible scar. His tail began to lash. “They . . . hurt?”

  “Yes, Skandar. They tortured me. They made me into a slave.”

  The dark griffin started to hiss. “They hurt you. Hurt human.”

  “Yes. They were our enemies.”

  Skandar’s talons tore at the wet ground. “I see them, I kill. Not let them hurt.”

  “I’d like to do the same,” said Arren. “Skandar, I—” He sat down suddenly.

  Skandar nudged him. “Hurt?”

  “No. Skandar, I’m . . .” Arren took a deep breath. “Skandar, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “What sorry?” said Skandar.

  “You’re a magnificent griffin,” said Arren. “The best and strongest I’ve ever seen. You don’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve to be caught and put in the Arena like that, and you don’t deserve to be here with me now. A griffin like you should never—I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did or spoken to you like I did. I was cruel and I was ungrateful. You saved my life so many times; you helped me to fight Rannagon. You’re the only real friend I’ve got. And I ignored you, I insulted you, I didn’t take your advice. You were right, Skandar. We should never have gone to that cave, and we should never have helped Skade. We should have made her tell us which way to go and flown to Norton without her, like you wanted to.”

  Skandar listened. “We go now,” he suggested.

  “No. It’s too late now.” Arren coughed. “I owe you everything, Skandar. If—if I weren’t a Northerner, and if you had chosen me back at Eagleholm, we could have lived there together, you and I. I’d have given you a proper home and brought you food and bedding and clean water every day. We would have had respect. Other griffins would have bowed to you; you’re so big, they would have respected you. You and I could have been on the council together, and I would have been your ambassador, like I was Eluna’s once. I’d have been your human. Your servant, your partner, your friend. We could have been rich and powerful, and you would have had silver bands to wear on your forelegs, and female griffins would . . .” He closed his eyes and sighed. “So many things I could have given you. If only I was a Southerner, and you weren’t a wild griffin, and if neither of us were murderers. I could have married Flell and had children of my own, and you would have had mates and eggs and chicks. Our names would have been carved on the wall of the temple.”

  Skandar seemed to understand. “I mate once,” he said. “You mate.”

  Our pairing is over. “Yes. But that’s not what I meant. What I meant was that we could have had a home. But we can’t, and it’s my fault. I’m a Northerner. A blackrobe. A darkman.”

  “What Northerner?” said Skandar.

  “I look different,” said Arren. “I am different.”

  “Am different, too,” Skandar said softly.

  Arren was caught completely off guard by that. “W—Yes. Yes. We’re both different, aren’t we?”

  “Different,” Skandar repeated. “Other griffins say ‘You, Darkheart. You freak. Stupid chick. You cannot talk. You know nothing, Darkheart. Know nothing. Speak, Darkheart, speak.’ I speak, they laugh. Hate them. Want to fight, but—not.”

  Arren thought of the huge griffin fighting furiously against his chains in the cage behind the Arena, trying to break free and attack the other griffins that mocked him. “People are cruel,” he said. “And griffins are cruel, too. But I don’t laugh at you, Skandar, and I never will. And maybe I can’t give you all the things I want to give you, but I’ll do my best to give you what you want.” He touched the griffin’s shoulder. “What is it you want, Skandar? What do you want me to do?”

  “You . . . gi
ve me?” said Skandar.

  “Yes. I’m your human, Skandar, for as long as you want me. A griffiner serves his griffin before everything else. What do you want?”

  Skandar was silent for a long time.

  “Just tell me,” said Arren. “No matter what it is.”

  “Home,” Skandar said at last. “Want home, Arren Cardockson.”

  Arren’s immediate thought was of the home Skandar had once had, in the Coppertop Mountains, miles away to the south. His heart sank. “What home, Skandar? Where?”

  “Want home,” Skandar said again. “Mountains. Big mountains. Food. No human, only griffin. Want cave and river and sky, big sky.”

  “There’s mountains in the North,” Arren said slowly.

  “Big mountain?”

  “From what I’ve been told, yes. Huge mountains, covered in snow. And there are white deer and a giant lake and a big empty sky. My father said that in the North you can travel for a week and never see another living person.”

  Skandar cocked his head. “You come?”

  “Yes, if you want me to. We could make it our home, if that’s what you want.”

  The black griffin thought it over. Then he stood up. “We go,” he said firmly. “North, go north.”

  “It could be dangerous, though,” said Arren. “There are griffiners there.”

  Skandar hissed. “Not afraid. I fight, you fight. We go.”

  “Yes, Skandar. You and I. But would you do something for me first? Please? Just one thing?”

  “What thing?” said Skandar.

  Arren held up his hand to show the brand. “Revenge,” he said softly. “You and I, Skandar. We can do it together.”

  16

  Theft

  The day had been long and exhausting, but Cardock had no appetite. Or at least not enough of one to want to elbow his way through the crowd around the stew pot in his dormitory. The other slaves were a loud and unruly lot, and he disliked their company. They had already made it plain that they disliked his; the fresh blood beneath his collar betrayed the fact that he was a tenderneck, not born into slavery, and therefore a troublemaker or a criminal.