The Griffin's Flight

by K J Taylor

  “What about the guards?” said Cardock. “How did you stop them catching you?”

  Arren scratched his ear. “There were only two in the guardroom, and both of them were asleep. I picked the lock, snuck in and tied them both up. They never saw me.”

  Cardock relaxed. “Thank gods. I thought you’d—”

  “Killed them?” Arren was giving him a furious look. “You thought I’d killed them?”

  “No. Calm down, I wasn’t—”

  Arren looked away. “Well, what else should I expect you to think? Now that I’m—after what I—I suppose I should get used to it.”

  Cardock opened his mouth to speak but found himself unable to. A painful lump had formed in his chest, although what emotion it was made from he didn’t know.

  Arren looked at him again, and his expression was so full of fear and guilt and longing that for an instant it was as if the years had fallen away and he was a small boy again, looking to his father for punishment or approval. “Do you hate me, Dad?” he asked quietly. “Please, just tell me. Do you hate me for what I did? And Mum, what does she think?”

  Cardock couldn’t bear to look at him any more. “I don’t know what to think, Arren.”

  The march continued well into the day, through endless rainy forest. Arren led them in a roundabout direction, weaving here and there, climbing over some hills and going around others, and made them wade through several streams. The reason was obvious: he was making sure that when people inevitably came after them, they would be extremely difficult to track. The slaves trudged on until the sun was high overhead and the rain began to thin. By then the pace had slowed considerably, and Caedmon and one or two of the weaker ones were showing signs of exhaustion. Arren, seeing this, finally called a halt.

  They settled down in a rocky gorge, taking shelter among a series of large overhangs. Arren managed to find some dry wood and lit a fire with the help of a tinderbox stolen from the guardroom. Skandar curled up close to it to dry his feathers, while his partner sat down by his flank. The griffin looked annoyed and kept making quick jerking motions with his head, and everybody made a wide berth around him.

  Arren, apparently unconcerned, summoned Caedmon again. “I’m sorry to bother you now,” he said, “but I need you to go and bring a few people here to see me.”

  Caedmon stood straight, supporting himself with his stick, all respectful attention. “Yes, sir. Who do ye want me to bring, sir?” He paused. “If ye prefer, I can call ye ‘my lord.’ ”

  Arren sighed. “ ‘Sir’ will be fine. Bring me Nolan, Annan, Prydwen, Olwydd and both of their friends who were wearing irons. And bring Torc as well.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Once he had gone, Arren rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. “Gods, I’m starving. I’d give anything for some roasted goat right now.”

  Cardock was sitting on the opposite side of the fire, well away from Skandar. “I could put some of those potatoes in the fire, maybe.”

  “Not right now,” said Arren. “We need to try and make the food last. Later on I’ll take some men and go foraging. And Skandar will want to hunt once he’s rested.”

  Cardock eyed the griffin. “You named him after my father.”

  “Yes. Your grandfather, really.” Arren looked slightly bashful. “Skandar here is a great warrior, just like you said your grandfather was. I thought the name was right for him.”

  “He’s really your friend, is he?” said Cardock.

  “I think so. Haven’t you ever wondered why he didn’t kill me in the Arena? It wasn’t because of anything I did. He wanted my help, so I gave it.” I sacrificed my life to set him free. If I hadn’t gone back, I would never have died. And he knows it.

  “He chose you?” said Cardock. “Like Eluna did?”

  “He believes I have magical powers,” said Arren. “He’s—he’s like a big child, really.”

  Cardock looked at the massive beast that was now nibbling at the skin between its toes. Each toe was as long as his arm, and considerably thicker, tipped with a curved talon the size of a dagger. “A child,” he said flatly.

  “Yes. He doesn’t know anything about human beings; he doesn’t understand magic, not even his own. I speak griffish better than he does. As far as he’s concerned, I know everything and can do anything. Not that that stops him from bullying me and taking my food when he wants to.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of him, though?” said Cardock. “I saw everything that happened in the Arena. He nearly killed you!”

  “Not really. He only disarmed me and pinned me down. Eluna did that to me a few times, you know. Not when anyone was watching, though.”

  “Eluna did that? When?”

  “Every now and then,” Arren said carelessly. “When she was angry or had a point to make. Griffins are violent creatures, Dad. They like to dominate; it’s their way. But yes, I am afraid of Skandar. Not as much as I used to be, but a little. That’s how it is. No matter what happens, we’re in this together.”

  This was said with a certain amount of pride, and Cardock shook his head ruefully. “You keep strange company, Arenadd.”

  Arren looked over at the slaves sitting huddled on the sandy floor of the overhang, some sleeping, others trying to wring the water out of their robes. “True. Ah, here they come.”

  Caedmon returned, leading the men he’d been sent to find. Torc was keeping close to Nolan, looking pale and exhausted.

  Arren stood up to receive them. “There you are. Come on, come closer and sit down. Don’t worry about Skandar; he’s too sleepy to snap at you.”

  They came closer, all watching him.

  “Sit down,” Arren said again. “You, too, Caedmon. I want to talk to you as well. Go on.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Caedmon. He looked to the others. “Ye heard him; sit down.”

  They did, huddling with Cardock, well away from Skandar. Arren stepped around the fire to confront them. Behind him, Skandar stirred and raised his head to watch them, the tip of his tail twitching ever so slightly.

  Arren sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m very sorry about all this. I know you’re all tired and cold and probably hungry, but I did what I thought was best.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Nolan. “We understand, sir.” He was very pale.

  They’re afraid of me, Arren realised. “Now listen,” he said. “I brought you all here because I trust you. You, Nolan, and you, Annan, and you, Torc—I counted you as my friends before, and I hope I still can. And you, Olwydd and Prydwen—it’s obvious to me that you’re both tough and resourceful men, and willing to fight.” He eyed the remaining two Northerners, both still wearing the remains of the leg-irons. “And you two. I’ve seen you, but I don’t think we’ve been introduced. What are your names?”

  They shifted nervously.

  “Garnoc, sir,” said one, a heavyset man with curly hair.

  “Dafydd, sir,” said his slimmer companion.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Arren. “I’m Arenadd Taranisäii, and my friend is Skandar. And this is my father, Cardock.”

  “So ye really are him,” Olwydd mumbled. “Ye’re Arren Cardockson.”

  “Yes,” said Arren. “Arenadd will be fine. Now tell me”—he started to pace back and forth—“I’m going home, because that’s the only place I can go, and I intend to take you with me. I intend to take all of you. If you want to come.”

  There was silence from the slaves. They’re not used to thinking for themselves, Arren thought unhappily.

  “I’ll go,” Prydwen said at last. “I want to, sir.”

  “And so do I,” said Olwydd. “I’ll follow ye, sir.”

  “So shall we,” said Garnoc.

  “Aye,” said Dafydd. “Tara’s home for us, sir. Returnin’ there’s all we want.”

  “Good,” said Arren. “Then you’ll come. What about you, Caedmon?”

  Caedmon looked back at him, stone-faced. “We’ll be comin’ to Tara with you, sir. All of us.�
��

  “I’m not going to accept that,” said Arren. Everyone must make their own decision.”

  “No, sir,” said Caedmon. “They’re going to follow ye, sir.”

  “You can’t make the choice for them, Caedmon,” said Arren.

  “I haven’t, sir. Ye did that, sir. Ye stole them; they’re yer property now, sir. They’ll do what ye tell them to do. Sir.”

  Arren sighed. “We’ll see. So”—he turned to the four Northerners again—“I can rely on you, then, can I?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Olwydd. “Me, anyway.”

  The other three nodded.

  “Good,” said Arren. He put his hand behind him and pulled a short sword out of his belt. He held it out to Olwydd, hilt first. “Here. This is for you.”

  Olwydd took it very carefully. “This is . . . ?”

  “Yours, yes. I took it from the guardroom. I suppose you know how to use it?”

  “No, sir. I’ve never handled a sword before, sir. In Tara it’s against the law for us to own them, sir.”

  “Well, you own one now,” said Arren. “Take good care of it. If we get into trouble, use it.” He took a second sword from his belt and offered it to Prydwen. “Yours.”

  Prydwen was quicker to take it than his friend. “Thank ye, sir!”

  “You’re welcome.” Arren had a third sword, which he gave to Dafydd, and a fourth, which he kept for himself. “I’m afraid I don’t have one for you,” he told Garnoc. “But an axe will probably do the job as well. See if you can find one. It’s going to be a long journey, and I intend to keep all of you close by me. I’ll need your help to keep everyone together, and if we’re attacked, it’ll be up to you to protect us.”

  The four of them sat a little straighter, eyes shining with pride. “Yes, sir,” said Olwydd.

  Prydwen tested the edge of his new blade. “But what if we’re attacked by griffiners, sir? What do we do then?”

  “If we’re found by griffiners, then you leave them to us,” Arren said grimly. “Skandar and I will fight them.”

  “Are ye sure, sir?” said Olwydd.

  Arren’s black eyes were as cold as death. “I’ve killed one griffiner, Olwydd. I can kill another.”

  Olwydd backed away slightly. “Yes, sir.”

  “As for you—” Arren turned to look at the others. “Caedmon, I’ll need you to help organise everyone. You know how to do that, I’m sure. And if you ever have any advice to offer me, offer it. I don’t want to make a mistake and then find out you could have stopped me doing it, understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Caedmon. “I can do that, sir.”

  “Good. Nolan, you and Torc and Annan are in charge of food. You’ll keep an eye on everything we’re carrying and make sure everyone gets their fair share.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Arren nodded. “That’s everything. You can go now. Get some rest. If anyone wants their own fire, they’re welcome to light it from mine.” As they began to depart, he said, “You stay behind a moment, Nolan.”

  Once the others had gone, Arren went to his friend and touched him on the shoulder. “Nolan. Look at me. Please.”

  Nolan did. “What is it, sir?”

  Arren could feel him trembling. “I’m not going to hurt you. Look, Nolan . . .” He hesitated, not knowing what he could possibly say. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “It’s all right, sir,” said Nolan. He was sweating.

  “No, it’s not,” said Arren. “You’re terrified. Is it because—look, I’m sorry I lied to you, but I had to. If any of them had known who I was . . .”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Please, call me Arenadd. I have a name, you know.”

  “Yes, s—Arenadd.”

  “That’s better. Nolan, just tell me what you’re thinking, would you? I’m not going to have you flogged if you talk to me like a human being.”

  Nolan stared at the ground. “Can I go now, please, sir?”

  “No. Stop that. Look me in the face.”

  Nolan did. “I don’t want—”

  “Out with it,” Arren commanded.

  “You were dead,” Nolan said at last. “You were dead.”

  “No.” Arren gripped his shoulder. “Nolan, I wasn’t dead.”

  “You . . . ?”

  “I was faking.” He’d spent most of the trek rehearsing these words and launched into them now. “Understand? It was all an act. To get me out of there. They took the irons off so I could run.”

  “I buried you,” said Nolan.

  “Not very deeply. I dug myself out again after you’d gone.” Arren smiled weakly. “I heard you say the words for me. You didn’t have to do that. Thank you.”

  “Everyone’s got to have the words,” Nolan mumbled. “So the gods come for them.”

  “Yes.” When you die, it will be alone. No-one will mourn. “You were a good friend, Nolan. I didn’t come back just for my father; I came back for you, too.”

  Nolan appeared to have calmed a little. “You did?”

  “Yes.” Arren let go of him. “I really am all right, Nolan, I swear. I think I’ll be coughing up dirt for a week, but I’ll be fine.”

  Nolan gave a shaky laugh. “I really believed you were dead, you know. I even slapped you to try an’ wake you up, but you never moved.”

  “Nolan, when it comes to playing dead, I’m one of the best,” said Arren. “Trust me on this. Now, I probably shouldn’t keep you up any longer. Go and get some rest. We’ve got a long journey ahead of us.”

  Finally, Nolan grinned the gap-toothed grin Arren knew so well. “Yes, s—Arenadd. I will.”

  When he was a boy, Erian had dreamt of griffins. They had been in his fantasies, night and day. And, like all young people who dreamt of something, he had idolised them, imagining they could go anywhere and do anything. Flying all day with a rider on their back sounded like nothing.

  But it wasn’t. Erian had his father’s solid build and was wellmuscled, and the ornamented sword added significantly to his weight. So did his bow and arrows. Senneck had allowed him to bring them, though she had sneeringly suggested that he have the sword melted down and made into a set of bracelets. Erian had held firm on that issue. He loved his jewelled sword, and not even Senneck’s threats and contempt could make him get rid of it. He hadn’t admitted it to her because he knew exactly how she would react, but he had secretly named it Bloodpride. He knew it was childish, but he didn’t care. Senneck wouldn’t understand. Nobody would.

  There was no way Senneck, who was light and slender by griffish standards, could fly all day with him on her back along with Bloodpride. It meant that their progress northward had been slower than he had expected.

  Still, they were getting there. Immediately after the argument by the archery butts, he’d sent a messenger to the departing slavers to instruct them to send the woman Annir to Malvern at once, and then she and Erian had left Herbstitt. Erian hated the idea of having Annir with him at Malvern. She had her son’s eyes, and she hated him. He’d have to keep a close eye on her, and the prospect of doing so upset him. Nobody had ever wanted to kill him before, and nobody had ever truly hated him, either. Not in the way Annir and her husband did. It was a new experience for him, one that bothered him more than he would admit, certainly to Senneck. The prospect of seeing her angry with him again terrified him.

  Their journey had progressed in stages since then. They would fly for half a day, sometimes a little longer, and take shelter in the homes of farmers and other common people. They were more than happy to help; the common people held griffiners in deep awe. It was thought of as extremely lucky to have a griffin in your home. On the farm where he had grown up, Erian had known a man living nearby who owned a feather he claimed came from a griffin. Everyone who visited him would ask to see it and perhaps touch it, and there were stories of miraculous cures and wonderful good fortune coming as a result. Perhaps it was true.

  After a week or so of this, they had reached the N
orthgate Mountains, and then the real test of endurance began. There was a pass leading clear through to the other side, with a road weaving through it used by traders and other ordinary travellers, but it was by no means easy to navigate. Senneck flew above it, keeping low. Too high and it would be dangerously cold. The vegetation was sparse here and the landscape exposed. When they stopped at night, Erian had to lie down against Senneck’s flank and shelter under her wing. Even so, the cold was nearly crippling at times. He had had no idea it could be like this. It was only early autumn, and yet here it felt at least as cold as midwinter had at home. Erian wondered grimly how much worse it would be when they reached Malvern.

  It took them four days to pass through the mountains, and it grew colder all the while. Fortunately they didn’t have to camp in the open every night: on the third day they arrived at Guard’s Post, an old fortress built centuries ago, during the great war against the Northerners. Once, guarding the pass had been a matter of life and death. Now, though, Guard’s Post was thinly manned and had fallen into disrepair. Only a handful of men now lived there, opening the gates to let travellers through. But their captain assured Erian and Senneck that Lady Elkin had sent word that she was going to appoint two of her griffiners to take up residence in the fort very soon.

  “A very sensible move, too, my lord,” he added. “If it comes to war, like.”

  Erian nodded. “Do you know if she’s planning to send troops into Eagleholm?”

  “I don’t know, my lord.” The captain gave an ingratiating smile. “But if she does, I’m sure she’ll welcome your help, my lord. A strong-looking young fellow like yourself—”

  “That’s enough,” Erian snapped. “You’re forgetting your place, captain.”

  The man’s smile froze. “Yes, my lord. I’m sorry, my lord. Come with me and I’ll show you to your quarters, my lord.”

  Erian couldn’t resist glancing quickly at Senneck as they were led away. She looked impassively back, but he knew she was pleased with him.

  Guard’s Post had quarters for several griffins and griffiners, a relic of a time when ten of them had lived there at all times. Erian and Senneck were taken to one; it was a little run-down but had obviously been cleaned out and refurnished recently. There was a bed and a writing desk for Erian, and for Senneck an enormous sleeping mat made from moth-eaten but well-padded velvet.