The Griffin's Flight

by K J Taylor

  The others laughed. Erian’s fingers itched, wanting to let go of the bowstring, but he restrained himself. “Senneck,” he said, switching to griffish. “Senneck, what do we do?”

  “They would not dare attack us,” said Senneck, but she sounded uncertain. “We must make them leave without attacking, or—”

  The leader stepped forward, holding out a hand. “Give us yer money an’ those bows an’ anythin’ else ye’ve got,” he said. “After that, ye can leave.”

  Erian gaped. “They can’t rob us!” he said to Senneck, still using griffish. “Senneck, do something! Scare them off!”

  Senneck shoved him out of the way and began to advance on them. “Begone,” she hissed, her tail lashing. “Begone now, or I shall attack.”

  They did back away at that, and for a moment Erian thought they were going to leave, but then the leader gestured at his friends to stay where they were. “We are going nowhere, griffin,” he said, and to Erian’s bewilderment and horror, he said it in fractured griffish.

  Kerod had gone pale. “How do you know that language? Who taught you? Answer me!”

  What happened after that, happened fast. Senneck, infuriated by the sight of her human being threatened, lunged straight for the leader. There was a screech and a shout, a dull thunk, and Erian turned to see Kerod fall, an arrow embedded in his chest.

  “Senneck!” he yelled, and a heartbeat later something hit him in the shoulder, so hard it spun him sideways and sent him staggering to the ground. He landed on his back in the snow, stunned. When he reached for his shoulder he found something stuck there, something long and thin, like a piece of wood or an arrow, but it couldn’t be stuck in him; that was absurd, ridiculous—

  Then the pain hit him. He cried out. “Senneck! Senneck! I’m hurt! Help me! Senneck! Where are you? Help!”

  But Senneck did not come, and he lay on his back, shuddering helplessly, his back wet and freezing cold from the snow, his shoulder turning hot and sticky with blood. He wrapped his good hand around the arrow and kept it there, not knowing what to do. He was bleeding, his shirt was turning red, there was an arrow in him, he was going to die ...

  Screechings and shouts came from somewhere away to his left, and panic flooded through him. Senneck was hurt, they were attacking her, and he couldn’t help her; they were going to die together.

  And after that there was nothing but a grey haze, and pain, and blood.

  27

  The Gift

  The hammer connected with a sickening thump and a crack, and Garnoc screamed and toppled over like a falling tree.

  Instantly the hall erupted. Cries of horror rent the air, mingled with shouts as the slaves moved, some to make for the doors, some to draw their weapons and others to run toward Garnoc, who lay bleeding on the floor.

  “He’s killed him!”

  “He’s mad!”

  Prydwen and Dafydd ran straight at Arenadd. “Ye son of a bitch!” Prydwen yelled.

  Arenadd laughed dementedly. “I did it! It worked! Look!”

  Dafydd crouched by Garnoc. “Garnoc? Garnoc, talk to me!”

  Garnoc sat up, groaning. “Me neck! Me bloody neck! What did ye do?”

  Arenadd came forward, pushing Dafydd out of the way. “Gave you your reward. Look.” He grasped hold of the collar and pulled. For an instant the two of them struggled, Garnoc screaming in protest, and then the collar came away, blood-stained but intact.

  Arenadd backed away and held it in the air. “Look!” he bellowed. “Look!”

  The commotion stopped for an instant, and then broke out afresh.

  Garnoc, though, was silent. He stood up, clutching at his neck. Blood ran over his fingers, but he didn’t seem to notice. He stared at Arenadd.

  Arenadd looked him in the eye, and nodded. “A strike to the right spot. It was true.” He threw the collar down at Garnoc’s feet. “You’re free, Garnoc. My reward to you.” He turned, holding the hammer up over his head. “My reward to all of you!” he yelled. “If you come to me, I will break the collars and make you into men again! You won’t be my property, or anyone’s property! Afterwards, you can go. Leave. You won’t have to take my orders; you can go wherever you want and do whatever you choose. That is your reward!”

  The room had gone quiet, and Arenadd wrapped his fingers around the head of the hammer and smiled an odd, wicked little smile. “So,” he said. “Who wants to be next?”

  The silence drew out a few moments longer, and then Prydwen drew himself up. “I do!”

  “And me,” said Dafydd. “But look, is it dangerous, sir? Garnoc, did that hurt ye bad?”

  Garnoc dabbed at his throat. “No. Tore me up a little, but it’ll heal.”

  “But I don’t like it,” said Dafydd. “Are ye sure?”

  “It’s fine,” said Arenadd. “I swear. I worked out how to do it a while ago, and this evening I tried it with the bodies down in the vault. They’ve all had their collars removed, including my father. And after that, I tried it on myself.”

  Skade gaped at him. “What did you do?”

  “Tried it on myself,” Arenadd repeated. “I found some spare collars in the smithy and put one on myself. Then I broke it off with the hammer.”

  “But why?” said Skade.

  “To see if I’d survive, of course,” said Arenadd. “I wasn’t going to risk anyone else’s life unless I was completely sure I could do it. It put a few holes in my neck, but nothing serious. The spikes are too short to do more than just penetrate the skin.”

  Dafydd and Garnoc looked horrified. Prydwen, however, stared at him with something like awe. “I’ll do it, then,” he said. “I trust ye, sir. Take this collar off me.”

  “Oh, no ye don’t,” a stern voice rapped out. It was Caedmon, limping toward them. He jabbed his stick at Prydwen. “Out of my way, snow-blood.”

  “What d’ye want, blackrobe?” Prydwen sneered. “I don’t take orders from ye now, so get ye gone.”

  “Don’t you dare call him that,” said Arenadd, starting furiously toward him. “Don’t you ever call him that, or anyone else, understand?”

  Prydwen looked startled. “I’m sorry, sir, but—”

  “But nothing. Look down at yourself, Prydwen. You’re not wearing a spotted gown with feathers on the shoulders. You’re a slave just as much as he is, and Caedmon is an old man. He deserves your respect, along with everyone else’s. Now stand aside and let him speak.”

  Arenadd’s stern voice and gaze put all the defiance out of Prydwen, and the Northerner silently moved aside, inclining his head politely toward Caedmon as he did so.

  Arenadd looked at Caedmon. “I’m sorry about that. Speak, hynafgwr.”

  Caedmon smiled slightly and then, to Arenadd’s astonishment, began to speak the Northern tongue. He spoke slowly and a little haltingly, as if he hadn’t done so in a long time. “Lord Arenadd. I think I should say something that I should have said a very long time ago.” There was an air of slight nervousness about him, a sense that he wanted to glance over his shoulder to check for a vengeful guard who might hear him speak the forbidden language. But he held steady and looked Arenadd in the eye. “I want to thank ye, lord,” he said. “For bringing us here, and for protecting us, and for what ye’re doing for us now. I am an old man, and I have not—I have been a slave most of my life. But I would like to ask ye now, Lord Arenadd”—he bowed his head—“take my collar off. Free me. I, Caedmon Taranisäii—”

  Arenadd couldn’t stop himself from interrupting. “Taranisäii?”

  Caedmon nodded very slowly. “I haven’t—” He sighed and reverted to Cymrian. “I haven’t gone by that name in a long time. The Taranisäiis—we’re an old family. It’s said we’re descended from Taranis himself. Nowadays that don’t mean much of anythin’, not with things the way they are. An’ me, now—”

  Arenadd moved closer to him. “How did you become a slave?” he asked quietly. “What happened to you?”

  “A long time ago it was,” said Caedmo
n. “I lived in Malvern then, with my parents. And my sister, my older sister, Arddryn—ye know her, don’t ye?”

  “Of course—the one who started the rebellion. She was a Taranisäii?”

  “Yes. After she got to be a griffiner, the lords up in the Eyrie started harassing her, doing things to try an’ stop her getting above herself. Our parents lost their business, an’ then I lost my house. There was a fire. No-one ever said as much, but I knew they’d had it done. Arddryn took me in, an’ we held up one way or another for a few years, her an’ me an’ the griffin, Hyrenna. But the last straw came when our uncle, Skandar, got arrested on some trumped-up charge for protestin’ over what happened to our parents. He was sold into slavery, him an’ his wife, an’ both were sent southward, an’ we never saw either of them again.”

  “Skandar,” said Arenadd. “Not my grandfather?”

  “Aye, yer grandfather. Yer own father must’ve been born after that; I never knew about it myself. Anyway, Arddryn finally decided she’d had enough, so she went to the Eyrie to complain to Master Anech. Later on she said he tried to have her arrested, but all I knew then was that she an’ Hyrenna left in a hurry. Flew away out of Malvern an’ went into the far North to hide. A few years later they came back, and the rebellion started. Long story short: when people from Malvern started defecting to her, I went with them to find her an’ fought with the rebels for a while. But after those sons of whores called in others to help, the whole thing ended fast. That bastard Rannagon killed Arddryn himself, an’ me and lots of others were sold as slaves. I was sent south in chains, an’ never saw Malvern again.”

  “My gods,” Arenadd mumbled. “Arddryn Taranisäii—I’m her cousin, for gods’ sakes.”

  “Close to it, anyway,” said Caedmon. He sighed and nodded again. “When I heard about what happened to Rannagon, I liked to imagine it was Arddryn did it somehow, that she came back from the dead for revenge on the one who killed her.”

  Arenadd looked away. “People don’t come back from the dead, Caedmon,” he said, and the lie made him feel sick inside.

  “Aye, I know, I know. But now I know yer name ain’t Arren Cardockson at all, like they said.” Caedmon looked at him, bright-eyed. “Ye’re a Taranisäii, just like her an’ me an’ all those brave men who gave their lives for Tara. I lost my freedom fightin’ for Arddryn, but now the moon’s sent ye, Arenadd, to give it back to me.”

  Arenadd gripped the hammer. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” Caedmon snapped, sounding much more normal now. “Swing that hammer an’ stop muckin’ about, boy. I’m ready.”

  Arenadd nodded. “Stand still, then, and lift your chin.”

  Caedmon glanced to his left. “Ye an’ ye,” he said, pointing at Garnoc and Prydwen. “I need ye t’hold my elbows for me, stop me fallin’ over.”

  The two of them moved into position without a murmur, and Caedmon dropped his stick and lifted his chin. “Do it,” he said quietly.

  Arenadd only hesitated a moment. He took the hammer firmly in both hands and struck, hitting the collar directly on the thin line next to the symbol etched into it, where it had been sealed shut long ago. The hammer connected with a loud thump, and Caedmon jerked and let out a half-stifled yell.

  But he recovered in moments, shouting, “Let go! Let go of me, damn ye!” The instant his arms were free his hands went to his neck, grabbing at the collar. He wedged his fingers in under the overgrown skin and began to pull, gritting his teeth and working the collar back and forth until it came open. Caedmon threw it down and wrapped his hands around his throat, his eyes wide with wonder.

  The spikes left a line of pits in his neck, each one horribly red and swollen and dark with ancient dirt and sweat. The collar had been in place for so long that it had left an indentation of pale, warped skin, all wet and peeling and vile. A little blood was leaking from the spike marks, but not much.

  “Are you all right?” Arenadd asked.

  Caedmon finally looked at him, and then, spontaneously, he began to laugh. “It’s gone!” he said, his voice light and almost young. “It’s gone! It’s bloody gone! Twenty-one godsdamned years of my life! Twenty-one cursed years! It’s over!”

  Prydwen grinned and offered him back his stick. “It’s over, all right. It’ll be over for all of us, won’t it?”

  Caedmon pulled himself together. “Aye,” he said, taking the stick. “It’ll be over.” He turned to look at the other slaves in the hall, shaking slightly with emotion, and pointed his stick at them. “We’re free, friends,” he told them. “All of us. Come now, all of ye. Come forward an’ let Lord Arenadd take yer collars. We’ll have no need for them where we’re goin’.”

  Arenadd came to stand at his side. “Caedmon’s right,” he said. “Come on, all of you. Come to me, and I’ll give you your reward. All of you.”

  And they did. The slaves began to come toward their erstwhile master, some fearful, some hesitant, but all of them wanting to come and take their reward. Arenadd was as good as his word. He freed the slaves, one by one, breaking the collars and then handing each man a bandage to help stem the bleeding. A couple of them took more than one blow to destroy the locking mechanism, but all came off in the end. Soon there was a heap of discarded collars by Arenadd’s feet, and his hands were aching, but still more slaves were coming forward, eager now, some reaching out to touch his robe or shouting his name.

  Skandar watched, bemused, for a time, before retreating into a corner to sleep, tail twitching. Skade kept back, standing behind Arenadd as she had once stood behind Welyn, and watched silently. She felt like an intruder, witnessing something that had nothing to do with her and wasn’t her business to see. But she didn’t want to leave, either. She kept her eyes on Arenadd, just watching him until the last collar clanged on the floor and he threw the hammer down next to the heap and wiped his forehead.

  “It’s done,” he said. Then, pulling himself up, he said, “It’s done!” more loudly. “It’s finished. You’re free. Now go. Search the fort and take whatever you want—clothes, weapons, food. In the treasury there are some chests of money. Share it out. It should be more than enough. There are horses in the stables; help yourselves. I’m sure most of you have relatives in Tara, places you can go and find new homes and be out of sight of the authorities. I trust you not to say anything about me or Skade or Skandar.”

  Prydwen was laughing wildly and had already torn off his robe. Bare-chested, he held the bundled cloth in one hand and waved it in the air. “I’ll burn it,” he said. “I’ll burn the cursed thing, find myself a tunic to wear. What d’ye say, lads? We’ll have a bonfire an’ feed it with black robes.”

  Dozens of men, hearing him, cheered their approval.

  “An’ ye, sir,” Prydwen added. “Ye can look in the griffiners’ rooms, find some fine clothes like ye should be wearin’ instead of that filthy thing ye’ve had to wear.”

  Arenadd smiled and fingered his ragged robe. “I’m going to keep this. I’ll wash it and sew up the holes in it.”

  “Why?” said Prydwen, pausing abruptly in his triumphant jig. “It’s a bloody robe, sir, beg yer pardon. It’s a slave’s clothes. Ye’re a hundred times better than t’be wearin’ somethin’ like that.”

  Arenadd shrugged. “I like it. My parents made it for me.”

  Prydwen looked uncertain. “Well, all right then, sir. If ye say so.”

  The other freed slaves were already scrambling out of the hall, thumping into the tables in their rush, and not long after, the room was nearly deserted.

  “C’mon, let’s go,” Dafydd said, gesturing at his two friends. They glanced quickly at Arenadd and went, almost running after the others.

  Arenadd watched them go, and chuckled. “Ah, there’s nothing like a little looting to set a man’s blood afire, is there? This is just like back in the old days, cleaning out smugglers’ houses. We were meant to hand in everything we found, but nobody cared if we took our pick first. I even took some whiteleaf
once. That was the best part of the job.”

  Caedmon had remained behind. “So, we’re all leaving tomorrow,” he said.

  Arenadd nodded. “Where d’you think they’ll go, Caedmon? D’you think they’ll be all right?”

  “I think so,” said Caedmon. “Tara is a big land. Plenty of places to hide. They’ll do well enough, I think.”

  “Where are you going to go?” said Arenadd. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Don’t know yet,” said Caedmon. “Not Malvern, obviously. Somewhere remote, I think. There’s still people out there who’d welcome a Taranisäii.”

  “I still can’t believe that,” said Arenadd. “You, Arddryn’s brother.”

  “It was a long time ago,” said Caedmon. “Afterward I wanted nothin’ more to do with rebels or griffiners or any of the rest of it.”

  Arenadd smiled. “And you didn’t want anything to do with me, either.”

  Caedmon shrugged. “Far as I was concerned, ye was just some griffiner gone bad. Some stupid young fool out to get revenge without stopping to think about the pain an’ trouble he was givin’ everyone else. I didn’t even believe ye were really a Taranisäii. I thought that name’d been stuck to ye by people who saw ye as a hero. After all, plenty of darkmen still know that name an’ believe it has a kind of magic connected with it.”

  “Yes, I can see that.” Arenadd sighed and rubbed his eyes. “You should probably go and see if you can get some new clothes. Skade says there’s some in the treasury; maybe you could try there.”

  Caedmon nodded. “I should get goin’ before they take everythin’ for themselves, the greedy beggars. But Arenadd”—he rested his hands solemnly on the younger man’s shoulders—“it was an honour to be here with ye today, an’ a greater one t’be set free by ye. Truly.”

  “The honour was mine,” said Arenadd, bowing to him. “Hynafgwr.”

  Caedmon smiled at him and shuffled out, leaving Arenadd alone in the room with Skade and Skandar.

  Arenadd yawned and rubbed his back. “Well,” he said, half to himself, “that’s it, then.”