by K J Taylor
She chirped at him, evidently amused. He noticed that there were strange bands of yellow and brown metal on her forelegs.
“Where . . . you come?” he persisted.
She looked northward. “I am from the Eyrie, at Eagleholm.”
He knew that word. “Nest?” he suggested.
She chirped again. “Did your mother never teach you how to speak?”
The black griffin just stared at her.
“I have never seen a black griffin before,” said the yellow griffin. “Is this your home?”
The black griffin glanced back at the valley. “My land,” he said.
The yellow griffin was looking at his forelegs. “Are you wild, then? I do not envy you.”
“Wild?” the black griffin repeated.
“You have no human,” said the yellow griffin.
“Human?”
The yellow griffin sighed and sat back on her haunches. “By the sky, are all wild griffins so slow?” She spoke again, very slowly, emphasising each word: “You are wild. You have no human. I do.”
“What . . . human?” said the black griffin.
“A human is an animal. Small. Weak. But clever. You know, clever? Wise. Cunning. Intelligent.”
The black griffin thought suddenly of the things that had taken Saekrae. “Human speak?” he ventured.
“Yes. They speak griffish. They made the Eyrie.”
“Human fly?”
“No. Only when we carry them.”
The black griffin was appalled. “Carry?”
“Yes. On our backs. Here.” She lowered her head and showed him her shoulders. There was a patch of flattened and broken feathers there. “My human sits here.”
The black griffin peered at it. “Where . . . you human?”
“He is at the Eyrie,” said the yellow griffin. “I came here alone.”
“Why you come?”
“I am ready for mating,” she said matter-of-factly. “I have come to find a male griffin to father my eggs. I have found you. Do you have a mate?”
The black griffin did not understand. “Mate?”
She was looking at him very closely. “Am I the first griffin you have ever seen?”
The black griffin had a vague idea of what she meant. “This my land,” he said. “Me here. No griffin. My mother . . . go.” After that he fell silent, almost exhausted from the effort.
“So you have no mate?” the yellow griffin pressed. “No eggs? No chicks?”
“Chicks dead,” said the black griffin, remembering his siblings.
“Then you will mate with me?” said the yellow griffin.
“What mate?” said the black griffin. He was desperate to understand, and angry with his own ignorance.
The yellow griffin seemed to sense it. “All creatures know,” she said. “I will help you.” She came toward him, moving slowly and with grace; he could see the muscles flowing beneath her tawny fur, and the perfect flexing of her limbs. He sat still and let her come to him, and she lifted her beak toward his, tail flicking, and purred deep in her chest.
He scented at her feathers, taking in the sweet, spicy aroma of them, and she chirped and nibbled delicately at the little tuft of feathers under his beak. He lifted his beak and moved his head closer to hers, wanting more. Encouraged, she moved alongside him, pressing her body against his, and began to groom his hindquarters.
He sensed that he should do the same and began to run his beak through the feathers just behind her wing, a hard-to-reach spot. She crooned and circled around him, nuzzling the nape of his neck. He pushed back, and the two of them groomed each other more and more vigorously, growling and crooning by turns.
The black griffin’s heart was pounding. He did not understand what this thing was or what it meant, but something deep inside him did. He felt hot and confused, but strangely certain at the same time.
“What is this?” he asked.
The yellow griffin rubbed her head against his. “You like it?”
The black griffin closed his eyes. “Yes. Yes.”
“Then do what feels right,” she said. “Like learning to fly.”
And he did. Part of him was confused, even frightened, but the much stronger part of him wasn’t. He pushed and nuzzled at her, growling with a strange almost-aggression, and she turned, tail raised and twitching, beckoning to him. His instincts took over and he dug his talons into her shoulders. She kept still, wings shivering, and they mated, the quick, savage mating of griffins. The yellow griffin screeched and pulled away when the climax came, but she returned shortly thereafter, as the sun went down, and the black griffin was not afraid any more.
The two of them slept curled up together, neither one noticing the cold wind that blew over them.
When morning came both of them sensed that their time was ending. The black griffin wanted to go back to his home, and the yellow female was restless for her own territory. But they stayed together a little while longer.
“I do not envy you,” the yellow griffin said. “You are part of a dying breed. One day there will be no more wild griffins left.”
“I live,” said the black griffin.
“But not for long. These mountains are barren. And places like this are shrinking. Humans always want more land. Soon there will be nowhere left for you or your kind.”
The black griffin was silent for a time. “I want . . . see human,” he said.
The yellow griffin stood up. “I can show you,” she said. “Come with me.”
She flew away over the mountain without another word, and after a moment’s hesitation the black griffin followed.
The yellow griffin flew out over the plains beyond the valley, calmly and openly. The black griffin did not want to follow. Deep down, he was still afraid of the plains. They were unknown. Alien. But he did not want to look like a coward, so he followed her out over the plains, letting his nervousness fall away from him like an old feather.
The air over the plains was warmer than in the valley and it smelt different. Drier and mustier, like grass. Now he could see grass—miles and miles of it, separated into squares and rectangles by thin brown lines. Animals roamed over it, much bigger than any he had ever seen, and here and there clusters of strangely shaped rock stood out from among the greenness.
He caught up with the yellow griffin, circling over one of these formations, and fell in beside her.
“A human place,” she called. “Human nests. This land is their territory. Fly lower if you wish to see them.”
The black griffin obeyed. He circled lower, as if he was singling out prey, and soon he could see the strange creatures that moved among the rocks. They were tiny, only about as long as his foreleg, and they stood on two legs like birds, but they didn’t have wings. He saw them looking up at him. They did not run, but he heard their calls drifting up toward him, and his heart leapt when he realised that they were speaking to each other.
“Humans,” the yellow griffin said again. “They are the key.”
“Food?” the black griffin suggested.
“No—sometimes, maybe.” She fixed him with a steady bright blue stare. “You were a good mate. So I will give you some advice. If you want to live in this world, find a human. Protect it. Keep it safe. Help it. If you do, you will always be safe. Our magic is not enough for us to survive now. Not alone.”
As she spoke—using words he did not know, to express an idea he did not comprehend—the black griffin had a strange feeling in his throat. It wasn’t quite pain, but it wasn’t quite pleasure, either. It felt as if something was lodged in there, something hard and unyielding and burning hot. It made him want to scream.
3
Arren
Eluna’s beak thumping into the wall of her stable woke Arren up.
He stirred and mumbled in protest, but the noise, loud and insistent, wouldn’t let him go back to sleep.
“All right, all right, I’m awake. Just give me a moment.”
The noise stopped, and h
e rolled out of his hammock and stretched. His back cracked nastily, and he rubbed it as he padded across the room to the table. There was a bowl of water there; he splashed his face to wake himself up. Eluna, growing impatient, bashed at the wall again. Arren hastily dropped his towel and went to the cage that hung from the ceiling at about head height, near the window. He opened the hatch in the side and reached in. The rats inside scattered in fright, but he trapped one and hauled it out by the tail. He held the wriggling creature upside down in his other hand and caught two more before he closed the cage.
Eluna banged on the wall again.
“I’m coming,” Arren called.
He positioned himself next to the door leading into the stable and lifted the latch as quietly as he could. It swung ajar, and he waited a moment and then burst through it.
“Catch!” he yelled, and threw one of the rats as hard as he could.
Eluna’s head shot out and she caught the creature in midair, tossing her head back to swallow it. She turned and gave him a triumphant look.
Arren leant against the doorframe and laughed. “Perfect! I should’ve known you’d be faster than me.”
She chirped at him. “Try again.”
This time he threw the rat toward the opposite end of the room. She made a spectacular leap out of her nest of hay and caught it inches from the wall.
Once she’d eaten it, she looked expectantly at him, fluttering her wings. He held up the last rat, as if to throw it. She followed it intently with her eyes, poised to leap again. He jerked it suddenly and she jerked, too, beak opening, but he didn’t let go of it.
Arren grinned and did it again, in a different direction. This time she actually did jump for it, and glared at him when she realised he’d tricked her.
“Throw it!”
Arren held out the wriggling, screeching rat. “See if you can catch this!” He dropped it.
The rat hit the floor and bolted. Eluna went after it, and chased the animal around the room as it darted here and there, desperately looking for somewhere to hide. It went to ground under her water trough, but she hooked it out with a talon and snapped it up before it could escape.
Eluna sat back on her haunches and gave Arren a slow murderous look. He stared back coolly. Eluna lowered her head and half-raised her wings. Then she charged. She ran straight at Arren, bowling him over, and pinned him down with her talons. He landed on his back, thumping his head into the doorframe in the process. As he lay there, helpless, Eluna brought her beak down toward him. “Perhaps you would taste better than a rat,” the griffin said softly.
Arren closed his eyes and braced himself.
She nipped him on the nose and then abruptly pulled away and began to preen her wings. “No, I was wrong,” she said. “You taste like old cheese.”
Arren got up, dabbing at his nose. “I can’t help it. I had mushroom bake last night.”
Eluna rubbed her head against his chest. “Try some venison next time and I will reconsider.”
Arren scratched her under the beak. “When I can afford it, sure.”
She closed her eyes and crooned. “No. Rats are fine for me.”
“Well, they’re cheaper than mushrooms. Maybe I should be eating them, too.”
She chirped her amusement. “They taste best raw and wriggling. Now go and get ready. We have work to do today.”
“All right. I’ll try to be quick.”
Arren returned to his half of the house and opened the window to let some light in. It was only just past dawn, and the light was grey and watery. Arren rubbed the bruise on the back of his head and pulled on a tunic.
He adjusted the tunic and picked up a comb. His hair tended to tangle if he didn’t give it plenty of combing, and he hated it to look messy.
Once he had groomed it to his satisfaction and had a quick shave and washed his face, he made himself a bowl of porridge and dried fruit and ate it out on the balcony. His home was right on the edge of the city, and the balcony had excellent views over the countryside. He liked a nice view, but this one just reminded him of how high up he was. Arren stayed close to the wall of his house and ate quickly, watching the bone wind-chimes swing gently in the breeze to avoid looking at the view.
Nearly all griffiners had some sort of official role in the running of the city. Arren had held several assistant positions before being promoted to his current role, that of Master of Trade. It was his job to manage the city’s marketplace, and anyone who wanted to set up a stall had to apply to him for a licence. He also had to inspect the goods that arrived in the huge crates hauled up to the mountaintop every day, and there were various other administrative things to deal with. It wasn’t the most exciting job, but it meant having some power at least.
Once he’d eaten, Arren went back inside. He filled the empty bowl with water and left it to soak, and then opened a large chest that stood next to the wall by the fireplace. He pulled out a light leather breastplate and strapped it on. Today he had something more exciting than paperwork to deal with.
He found his boots under the hammock where he’d left them and put them on, and then went to the fireplace and lifted his sword down from the wall. He pulled it partway out of its sheath to check on the blade. It was bright and sharp, and he’d kept it well oiled. He slid it back in and strapped the sheath to his back. All ready.
He turned toward the stable door, but Eluna was already there and ready for him. She clicked her beak. “Shall we go?”
Arren nodded.
“Then I will meet you in the city,” said Eluna and withdrew her head. There was a door in the back of the stable that led to a platform which jutted out over the city’s edge. She pushed it open and stood on the platform for a few moments, then took off, with a graceful flick of her wings, flying out over the farmlands below. Arren watched her through the window, marvelling yet again at how powerful she was in the air. He had flown on her back a few times, but there had rarely been much need for it and griffins weren’t built to carry anything heavy a long distance; more than one griffiner had died after their griffin had faltered in midair and dropped them.
Arren shivered slightly at the idea and turned away. He left the house via the front door, locking it and pocketing the key, and walked out into the streets.
The city of Eagleholm was unimaginatively named, but aptly so. Centuries ago people had come across the massive, nearly cylindrical mountain jutting up out of the plains. Not wanting to disturb the gods that undoubtedly lived at the top, these early settlers built their homes around the lake at its base using the chunks of stone that littered the ground, but otherwise they left the mountain alone.
With the rise of the griffiners, the mountain had been selected as the perfect place for the new rulers of the land to build a fortress. Huge trees, selected for their special rot-resistant wood, had been felled hundreds of miles away and hauled to the mountain by teams of slaves. They had had the extremely difficult and dangerous task of carrying the cut and treated timber to the top of the mountain and there using it to build the original Eyrie. Other buildings had sprung up around it over time, and that was how the city of Eagleholm had begun. Later on, during more peaceful times, many more common people had come to live there, and the city slowly grew until huge platforms had to be built out over its sides to make more room. These were constantly being upgraded and expanded, and by now there were at least as many houses on the platforms as there were on the stone of the mountain. Food and other supplies had to be hauled up from the villages below using a massive winching device, and plenty of farmers would come up with their produce and sell it in the marketplace. Other, smaller winches had been built to keep up the supply, and Arren had a team of assistants to help him manage them all.
Of course, more than just food came up with them.
Arren stopped at a crossroads and settled down there to wait for Eluna. Eagleholm had plenty of immigrants and descendants of immigrants living in it, but even so Arren stood out. He was tall and slender, and st
ill had a touch of teenage gangliness about him. He had thick, curly black hair, and the top of one ear was ragged from when Eluna had bitten it a little too hard as a chick. His face was pale and angular, a little stern and unsmiling of expression, and he had black eyes.
He bought an apple from a nearby stall and ate it while he waited. Eluna liked to circle around for a while first thing in the morning, to let her muscles limber up and to enjoy the wind in her feathers.
The streets of the market district were already busy, while the traders set up their stalls. Arren watched idly.
“Morning, sir!”
Arren looked around. “Oh! Hello, Gern. What happened to you?”
Gern fingered the painful-looking cut on his forehead. “I went to the Arena last night and there was a bit of a row. But you should see the other man, sir.”
“Gern, I’m only two years older than you. And we’re friends. You could just call me Arren.”
“Yes, sir. Where’s Eluna?”
Arren pointed skyward. “She’ll be along in a moment.”
“It’s a shame you weren’t at the Arena last night, sir. You missed a brilliant fight!”
“Why, did you break another nose?” Arren asked sarcastically.
“I mean in the pit, sir,” said Gern a little reproachfully. “They’ve got three wild griffins in at the moment, and they all went in the pit at once. Once they’d killed the criminals they started fighting each other. One of ’em died, sir, it was amazing. And I won a bet.”
Arren sighed. “I don’t know why people go to those things. It’s so pointless. And griffins deserve more respect.”
“Not these ones, sir. They’re man-eaters.”
“So they give them more people to eat,” said Arren. “Oh, the logic.”
“They’re just criminals, sir.” Gern eyed him. “Why do you have your sword with you?”
“It’s a secret.”
Gern’s face lit up. “Are you doing another raid today, sir?”