The Dark Griffin

by K J Taylor

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “To the hatchery.”

  She fluttered her wings, apparently pleased. “I would like to see Keth again. Why are we going?”

  Arren looked grim. “Those men stole a griffin chick. We have to take it back.”

  Eluna stopped dead. Arren watched her carefully. The griffin nosed at the cage. “I can smell—”

  Arren lifted the cloth, revealing the chick. It peered out at Eluna, and she laid her beak against its beak. Then she looked up at Arren. He looked back stonily.

  Eluna screamed. The noise was loud and furious, and she reared up and screamed again. “Thieves! Scum!”

  Arren patted her to calm her down. “I know, Eluna, I know. It’s all right, we got them.”

  “I got them,” Eluna rasped. “I killed the one who attacked you.”

  “Yes.” Arren pulled the cloth back over the cage and walked on, trying to hold it steady as the chick shifted inside. Neither of them looked at the bloody bandage on his arm.

  The hatchery was on the edge, next to the market district. Arren and Eluna both knew the way there, but even if they hadn’t, it would have been fairly easy to find. There were dozens of griffins flying over it.

  The hatchery itself consisted of a collection of wooden buildings, which were some of the biggest in the city. They had to be. Around them there were pens full of animals—mostly goats—feeding on racks of hay. The griffins circled lazily overhead, enjoying the morning sun. Most of them were young, smaller than Eluna. The air was full of their screeching voices and the bleating of the goats.

  Arren and Eluna went along the walkway between the pens. A man paused in the act of refilling one of the water troughs and waved. “Hello, Arren. Nice to see you here again. What’s that you’ve got there?”

  “It’s a present for Roland,” said Arren. “Is he up yet?”

  “I think so, yeah,” said the man. “He’s in the hatchery, or he should be.”

  “Thanks.” Arren made for one of the smaller buildings. It had large windows, which had been thrown open to let in the light, and the doors opened easily when he pushed on them. He backed through, carrying the cage, and found himself in a big open room. Most of it was lined with pens, and in them were the chicks. The place rang with their piping voices and the scuffling of talons on the wooden floor. When Arren came in, the noise redoubled. He smiled to himself. He loved the hatchery. It was where he and Eluna had first met, years ago.

  There was a huge griffin there, crouched in the middle of the room. She was old—her feathers greying, her beak chipped and one eye whitened—but she stood up and came toward him at once, tail swishing. Arren stood still and let Eluna go forward. She loped toward the old griffin, moving confidently, and clicked her beak. The old griffin sniffed at her and then relaxed. “Eluna.” She looked past her. “And Arren. Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Keth. Are you well?”

  “I am,” said Keth. She sat back on her haunches. “I am pleased to see you, Arren Cardockson. And you, Eluna.”

  Arren bowed. “We’re here to see Roland. Is he here?”

  “I will call him,” Keth said. She raised her head. “Keth! Keth!”

  There was silence for a short while, and then a man emerged from a back room. He was short and stocky, and his once-yellow beard was greying. There was a griffin chick nestled in his arms. “Hello, what’s this?” he said, speaking griffish. He stopped when he saw Arren. “Arren Cardockson!” he said, and beamed. “And Eluna, of course!”

  Arren went to meet him. “Hello, Roland. How are you?”

  “In excellent form, thank you, lad.” Roland scratched the griffin chick under the beak and put it back into its pen. “Poor little thing has a touch of scale. Should be all right, though, with a little care. So, what brings you here?” He saw the bandage on Arren’s arm. “Oh dear, what happened to you?”

  “It’s nothing,” said Arren. “Roland—”

  Roland looked at him, and then at Eluna. “Has she bitten you?”

  “There was a bit of a scrap this morning,” said Arren. “We raided a smugglers’ den and one of them fought back.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Roland, relaxing. “A nasty business. So, what have you brought me?”

  Arren’s jaw tightened. “We found this in with the rest of their loot.” He pulled the cloth aside.

  Roland froze. “Oh, dear gods.” He took the cage from Arren and tore the cloth away, looking in anxiously at the chick. It looked up at him and fluttered its wings. “Food?” it said.

  Roland looked up. “Where did you find this?”

  “In their cellar,” said Arren. “With the rest of the crates and things. I checked through it all; this was the only one.”

  “A red, by the looks of it,” said Roland. “Seems to be in good health, thank Gryphus.” He opened the cage and lifted the chick out, murmuring to it in griffish to soothe it. It gripped his arm with its small talons and then snuggled up against his chest. “Roland,” it muttered.

  “One of mine, definitely,” said Roland, handing the cage back to Arren. He touched the chick, checking it for injuries. “A bit thin—few bruises—nothing serious. Thank you so much, Arren.”

  Arren put the cage on the floor. “What were they thinking?”

  Roland looked grim. “A griffin chick can fetch a very high price, if you know who to sell it to. Or perhaps they hoped they could win its trust, join the griffiners.”

  “They must have been idiots,” said Arren.

  “Quite.” Roland found an empty pen and put the chick into it. It sat down amid the fresh hay, still looking hopefully at him. He fed it some goat meat from a pouch tied to his belt.

  “Well, we’ve caught them,” said Arren. “We might not find out who stole it, though. Some of the smugglers weren’t there, and one of the others was killed trying to escape. Hopefully one of the ones we caught will talk.”

  “They may as well,” Roland growled. “They’ve got nothing left to lose. I don’t condone the use of wild griffins as punishment, but anyone who does what they did deserves the worst Rannagon can offer them.”

  “One of them already had the worst Eluna can offer,” said Arren. “She killed him.”

  Roland’s expression changed. “Ah.” He looked at Eluna. She looked back calmly.

  “I’d better go. I have to report to Rannagon,” said Arren. “He’ll want to hear it from me first.”

  “Don’t worry, lad,” Roland said gently. “You won’t be in trouble for this. The man was criminal scum of the first order. He deserved worse, and he would have had it, too.”

  Arren nodded. “He attacked me. Eluna saw it.”

  “Ah. Then the case is clear-cut. I doubt you’ll have to do more than explain yourself to Rannagon. He’ll believe you. He’s fond of you, you know. In fact he told me—no, never mind.”

  “What?” said Arren.

  Roland shook his head and smiled. “No, no, I’ll leave you to find out on your own. It’s not my place to say. Now, off you go.”

  Arren bowed to Keth before he left. “See you later, Roland.”

  “Right you are, lad. And say hello to Flell for me.”

  “I will.” Arren left the hatchery.

  Rannagon Raegonson was the Master of Law in Eagleholm, though he was generally referred to as “the reeve,” an old word for a judge or sheriff. Where Arren ruled the marketplace, Rannagon was master of the prison district. It was his responsibility to judge and sentence criminals—hard work, and frequently unpleasant. Arren didn’t envy him. In fact, he had been offered the chance to work as Rannagan’s apprentice but had turned it down. Rannagon was old, and if he died before retiring, his apprentice would be given his position. That was something Arren didn’t want.

  The prison district was on the far side of the city, but Arren made instead for the very centre of the city. That was where the Eyrie stood. Riona, the Mistress of the Eyrie, lived there, along with many of the more senior griffiner
s. Arren had visited the Eyrie many times, mostly on official business; he had to deliver completed paperwork there and report anything important that happened in his sector.

  The Eyrie was a tall stone building, but it wasn’t quite a tower. It had a squat shape to it, and its walls were festooned with large balconies. Each one was attached to the room of a senior griffiner, and there were indeed griffins perched on many of the balconies, haughtily watching Arren’s approach. Others were flying overhead.

  There were two guards in front of the gate in the stone wall surrounding the Eyrie. These weren’t ordinary guards, though, like Bran and his comrades. Each had a griffin beside him and wore a heavy, polished steel breastplate.

  Arren nodded formally to them. “Good morning. Arren Cardockson, Master of Trade. I’m here to see Lord Rannagon.”

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “He should be, yes.”

  The guards stood aside. “Go in, then,” said one. “Lord Rannagon should be in his office.”

  “Thank you,” said Arren.

  The Eyrie was grandly decorated inside. Fans of dyed griffin feathers hung from the walls, along with fine wooden carvings and painted shields. Lanterns hung from the ceiling, made from glass tinted red and yellow. The corridors were wide, to allow easy passage for a griffin, and the doors, too, were big. Arren and Eluna passed through them without any trouble. They met a few other people along the way, nearly all griffiners accompanied by their griffins; most of them recognised Arren and greeted him pleasantly.

  Rannagon’s office was on the other side of the building, and the quickest route was to go through the huge chamber at the centre of the Eyrie. It dominated the structure, taking up two storeys. Arren was happy to pass through it. It was almost certainly the grandest room anywhere in the Eyrie, and definitely the grandest in the city: the grand council chamber, where Lady Riona and the elders she led met to discuss affairs of state and diplomacy, and make important decisions. Once these meetings had been open to the public, but not any more. Even junior griffiners, such as Arren, weren’t allowed to attend unless it was for a purpose. Arren had often wished to see the chamber when the councillors were in it. As it was, he stopped to admire the lofty ceiling with its painted frieze of stars and flying griffins, and the brightly coloured banners that hung from the gallery. The Mistress’ seat was right in the centre.

  Today, there was someone in the chamber already.

  Arren paused in the doorway. The stranger was sitting on a couch set up next to the Mistress’ carved chair, eating a bunch of grapes and looking very much at his ease. There was a griffin crouched beside him.

  The stranger looked up. “Hello,” he said. “Have you come to bring me a message?”

  Arren came toward him. Eluna went ahead of him to size up the man’s griffin, clicking her beak diplomatically. The griffin was larger than her, though not enormously, and had dark-brown feathers and fur. It was female, and its neck was an extraordinary red colour, unlike anything Arren had ever seen before. She stood up and sniffed cautiously at Eluna, who bowed her head and chirped.

  Arren, meanwhile, was looking at the man. He was tall and thin, like himself, and his skin was a rich brown colour. His hair was black and rough, and he had a neat moustache, sprinkled with grey. He eyed Arren through a pair of intelligent dark eyes. “Good morning.” He had an accent unlike anything Arren had ever heard before, quick and slightly nasal.

  Arren bowed. “Good morning, my lord. I didn’t expect anyone to be in here. I’m Arren Cardockson.”

  The man looked at him with renewed interest. “So, you are the Northerner I have heard about.” He stood up. “My name is Vander Xantho, and this is Ymazu. I am pleased to meet you.”

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you before, Lord Vander,” said Arren. “May I ask where you’re from?”

  “You may. I have come from Amoran to speak with the Mistress of the Eyrie.”

  “You’re a diplomat?”

  “Yes.”

  Arren thought quickly. “Amoran, that’s in the East, right?”

  Vander nodded. “So it is.” He was looking at Arren, taking in his sharp features and black eyes. “Forgive me. I have never seen a Northerner who was not—”

  “In chains?” Arren interrupted, more sharply than he had intended.

  “I am sorry,” said Vander. “I did not intend to offend you.”

  “It’s all right, my lord,” said Arren. “My father was set free when he was a boy.”

  “I see.” Vander rubbed his neck. “It was a strange thing to come here and find no slaves.”

  “There were plenty here before I was born,” said Arren. “Lady Riona sold them all after the famine.”

  Vander nodded. “Yes, I had heard that story.” He smiled slightly. “I am glad to have met you, Arren Cardockson. I have heard a great deal about you.”

  “You have?” said Arren, surprised.

  “Oh yes. The only Northern griffiner in the country, or so they say. And something of a rising star, it would seem. Master of Trade at—how old are you, may I ask?”

  “I’ll be twenty in a few months, my lord.”

  “Nineteen years old,” said Vander, shaking his head. “Astonishing. I was nineteen when I first met Ymazu here. Tell me, how did you come to be a griffiner?”

  “My parents were visiting the hatchery,” Arren explained, “to talk with Roland—that’s the man who runs it. They took me with them; I was only three. I wandered off while they were busy.”

  “A small child alone in a building full of griffins,” said Vander. “Not a desirable thing.”

  “No. My parents say they were terrified; they thought they’d find me dead. But they found me in the nursery with the hatchlings. I’d opened up most of the pens and let all the chicks out. And one of them was Eluna. Some of the chicks were trying to bite me—actually, I’ve still got a scar on my little finger. But Eluna was fighting them off.”

  “Xanathus!” Vander exclaimed. “She attached herself to you when you were a child?”

  “Yes, my lord. In the end they had to separate us by force.”

  “They didn’t let her go with you?”

  “Of course not. But Lord Roland let me keep on visiting her in secret. The Eyrie didn’t find out about us until we were both ten, and by then it was too late to separate us.”

  Vander blinked. “So, after that you were allowed to keep her?”

  Arren grinned. “The elders didn’t have much choice but to let me become a griffiner. Eluna wouldn’t leave me.” He put his hand on her head. “And we’ve been together ever since.”

  “An astonishing story,” said Vander in griffish. “And a remarkable griffin,” he added, to Eluna. “I have never seen a white griffin before, nor one as beautiful.”

  Eluna looked up at him and chirped, pleased. “And I have never seen a griffin like you, Ymazu,” she said to the brown griffin. “The red feathers on your neck are not like any I have ever seen.”

  Ymazu raised her head and half-spread her wings, revealing that their undersides were as red as her neck, edged with dark green. Eluna shivered her own wings, evidently much impressed.

  “Tell me,” said Ymazu, speaking for the first time, “what is your power, snow griffin?”

  Eluna bowed her head. “I do not know.”

  Ymazu seemed to understand. “There will be time to discover it,” she said.

  “Thank you,” said Eluna.

  “And her human impresses me just as much,” Vander said graciously. “I have no doubt that you will go on to great things, Arren Cardockson.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  Vander looked up. “And now I’m afraid our conversation must end.”

  Arren turned, and his heart thudded hard when he saw Riona herself come into the chamber.

  The old woman walked stiffly, leaning on a staff. Beside her was her griffin, Shree, moving with a steady, rolling grace, his grey shoulders humped.

  Arren caught his breath and k
nelt, while beside him Eluna folded her forelegs and touched her beak to the ground. “My lady,” he whispered.

  Riona looked down at him. “Hello, Arren. Please, get up.”

  Arren stood. “I’m sorry, my lady, I didn’t mean to intrude. I was—”

  “He was talking to me, my lady,” Vander interrupted, bowing to her.

  Riona wore a fine white gown, and her long hair was shot through with silver. Her face was wrinkled and weather-beaten. She was old—nearly seventy—but she was not weak or feeble. An Eyrie Master or Mistress had to be strong. She smiled at Vander. “Greetings, Lord Vander. I am sorry to have kept you waiting. And you, Arren, please leave us. We have matters to discuss.”

  “Yes, my lady,” said Arren. “I hope your talk goes well,” he added politely and left.

  He passed out of the chamber via a door in the opposite wall and closed it behind him. Once in the corridor outside, he leant against the wall and slumped. “Phew! Good gods, that gave me a fright.”

  Eluna was looking pleased. “I liked that griffin. Her human, too.”

  “They were interesting, weren’t they?” said Arren. “I’ve never met an Easterner before. I wonder what he came to talk to Riona about.”

  Someone coughed. Arren turned, surprised, and saw a man standing a short distance away. There was a griffin by his side.

  “Lord Rannagon!” he exclaimed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

  Rannagon smiled. “Not a problem. I’m glad to see you here, Arren. I was afraid something might have happened to you.”

  “I’m sorry, my lord, I got held up.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter,” said Rannagon.

  Arren bowed to Rannagon’s griffin. “I am pleased to see you, Shoa.”

  Shoa clicked her beak. “And I you, Arren Cardockson.” She raised her head, neck feathers shivering, and looked down on Eluna. “And you, Eluna.”

  Eluna bowed her head, saying nothing.

  Rannagon yawned. “Aaah . . . excuse me. I had a rather late night. Shall we go now?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  They walked off along the corridor and up a flight of stairs into a different part of the Eyrie. This was Rannagon’s domain, where he lived with his wife, Kaelyn, and where he did much of his work. The old man opened the door to his office and showed Arren in. “Sorry about the mess. Please, sit down. Can I get you something?”