The Dark Griffin

by K J Taylor

  “But if you were gonna change your name, why change it to something so plain?” said Gern. “If my name were up to me to pick, I’d go with . . . I dunno, something dramatic. Vercingtorix, maybe.”

  “Well, Gern,” said Arren, once the laughter had died down, “you know why I chose something plain instead of something, uh, dramatic? Because there’s a reason why people have plain names.”

  “Maybe it’s ’cause they’re plain people,” Gern muttered.

  “Balderdash. You can be as colourful as you want to be and you can do it without having a name no-one can pronounce—actually, that’s not quite true. About me choosing a plain name, I mean. I didn’t really choose anything. Arren’s just what I called myself when I was three because I couldn’t pronounce my real name.”

  “Ah, so it starts with an A, does it?” said Flell.

  “Arthen?” Bran suggested. “Arenthius? Arinu? Arnren?”

  “No, no, no and no,” said Arren. Beside him, Eluna pecked at the dish of herb-flavoured water she’d been given.

  “Arentho?” said Flell.

  “Areninan?” said Gern.

  Arren threw up his hands. “Good gods, all right, all right, I take it back. There’s no way my real name is that stupid.”

  “Well, what is it then?” said Flell.

  Arren finished off his beer. “Fine,” he said. “But you’ll only tease me about it for the rest of my life. It’s Arenadd Taranisäii.”

  Silence.

  “ ‘Arenadd’?” Flell repeated. “That’s—”

  “Stupid, I know.”

  “Actually, I was going to say it sounds elegant,” said Flell. “What does it mean?”

  “Oh, it’s the name of some old sage from a Northern legend,” said Arren. “My dad reckons I’m being pretentious by refusing to use it. Says I ought to be proud of my inheritance, or something.”

  “Well, yeh should be, mate,” said Bran. “Everyone should be, right? An’ I don’t reckon Arenadd is that bad of a name. Sounds all right to me.”

  Arren scratched his neck. “Slave scars aren’t a proud heritage, and I really wish my father would get that into his head. Arren is fine.”

  “What was that surname, sir?” said Gern. “Taranisi?”

  “Taranisäii,” Arren corrected. “It just means ‘of the blood of Taranis.’”

  “Was that the name of your tribe?” said Gern.

  Arren rolled his eyes. “Gern, I don’t have a tribe. I’m not from the North. I was born in Idun, damn it.”

  “So, who was Taranis?” said Gern.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes you do,” said Flell. “Come on, Arren. You told me about it before. Taranis the Wolf, son of Tynadd Traeganni.”

  “It’s just an old story,” Arren muttered.

  She looked at him kindly. “And you say you aren’t ashamed. Go on, show them your tattoo. I’m sure they’d like to see it.”

  “Depends on where it is,” said Bran, grinning.

  Arren gave up. He rolled up the sleeve of his tunic and turned to let them see the bare skin of his shoulder. There was a tattoo there of a blue wolf’s head holding a white globe in its jaws. Inside the globe was a symbol of three spirals joined together.

  “That’s amazing, sir!” said Gern.

  Bran squinted at it. “An’ my tattoo just says ‘MOTHER.’ What’s it mean, Arren?”

  Arren pulled his sleeve back into place. “It’s the sign of the Wolf Tribe. The moon is—well, Northerners believe it’s the eye of their god.”

  “Do you?” said Gern.

  Arren shook his head. “It’s just a tattoo. I thought it would look good. I was a bit drunk at the time.”

  “It does look good, sir,” said Gern. He paused to pour himself another beer. “So, what’s all this Flell’s telling me about you leaving?”

  “It’s nothing much,” said Arren. “I’m going down South for a while. There’s a problem at one of the villages, and they’ve asked me to deal with it.”

  “Why, does it have something to do with trading?”

  “No. They just need a griffiner. Oh—” He glanced at them all. “I’m not really supposed to talk about it, so just keep it to yourselves, okay? You haven’t told anyone else, have you, Flell?”

  “No, just Bran and Gern. Why the secrecy?”

  “I’m not allowed to talk about that, either.”

  “So, why are you going South, sir?” said Gern.

  Arren took in a deep breath. “Well, it’s like this . . .”

  6

  Rivermeet

  The journey southward began the next day, at dawn. Eluna woke him up as usual, and once he had fed her the last of the rats from the cage, he dressed warmly and slung his bow and arrows on his back then strapped them securely in place. Eluna was impatient to leave and shifted around while he put her harness on.

  “There,” said Arren once it was in place. “We’re done. Just wait a moment.”

  He went back to his half of the house and picked up the box of food. Gern had agreed to collect it some time during the morning, so he left it on the doorstep before he closed the door and locked it from the inside. He’d hidden all his valuables under the floorboards, but he wasn’t particularly worried about them. Very few people would risk breaking into a griffiner’s house. Nevertheless, he put the shutters over the windows and locked the back door to the balcony before he returned to the stable and passed through it to the second balcony, the one without rails, where Eluna was waiting.

  The griffin stretched her wings and flicked her tail, inviting him to get on her back.

  Arren climbed on, put his arms through the loops of the harness and braced himself. “All right. Let’s go.”

  Eluna chirped eagerly and stood tall, bracing her paws and claws on the wood. She darted forward with a sudden burst and hurled herself off the edge of the platform and into space.

  Arren couldn’t hold back a yelp of fright. The wind snatched at his hair and cloak, pulling at him like a giant hand. For a moment they were falling, straight downward, and Arren buried his face in Eluna’s feathers and gritted his teeth. She was there, she was solid, she was a kind of solid ground to hold him up, he wasn’t going to hit the ground, he wasn’t—

  Eluna’s wings opened. Arren’s insides gave a giddy lurch as she pulled out of the dive and swooped upward, shooting into the sky like an arrow. She reached soaring height and levelled out into a steady glide, and Arren breathed deeply.

  “Are you all right?” Eluna asked. A griffin’s voice carried well, even in flight.

  “I’m fine,” said Arren.

  “Good.”

  The journey began.

  At first Arren did his best to keep still and either looked straight ahead or kept his eyes shut, but as they flew on he found himself fighting the temptation to look downward.

  “Look at the sun,” Eluna said suddenly.

  Arren did, and his heart soared. There were mountains to the east, far away in the distance, and the sun was rising from behind them. Bright golden light was spilling out over the landscape, tinted with pink, and the mountains themselves looked black against the red-and-orange cloud behind them. Above that the sky was pale blue, almost purple. It reminded him of Flell’s eyes, and with that thought his fear was suddenly gone.

  “It’s beautiful,” he said, half to himself.

  Eluna said nothing, but he could almost sense her satisfaction as she flew on.

  His fear did return a little later, when he risked a glance downward. They were flying very high, much higher than they had done the previous day. Idun had already vanished, but when he looked back over his shoulder he could just see Eagleholm shrinking in the distance. It looked like nothing, a tiny black hump on the horizon.

  He shuddered and looked away. His heart continued to beat rapidly, and he could feel himself sweating, so he concentrated on trying to remember the precise wording of the letter from Rivermeet. Getting there should be fairly straightforward; he�
�d shown the map to Eluna, and she had said she could navigate there without any problems. All she had to do was follow the river. There were plenty of villages built along it where they could stop for the night, and some patches of woodland where she could hunt if the need arose.

  He and Eluna stopped several times during the day to rest and finally landed that evening in a small town called Lansdown.

  It was a fairly nondescript place, built along the banks of the river. Most of the occupants were farmers.

  When Eluna landed in the square, there was a crowd of people waiting to receive her and Arren. They gathered around, bowing low, all speaking at once.

  “Sir! Welcome, sir!”

  “It’s an honour, sir!”

  Arren stretched. He was stiff and sore after spending so long in the air. “Hello,” he said. Beside him, Eluna yawned. His stomach twinged. “I’m passing through here on official business and I was wondering if there was anywhere I could stay here. And I need to buy food for my griffin and myself.”

  “Sir, anything you want you can have,” one of the crowd said promptly. “Food, somewhere to stay—just ask.”

  “Is there an inn here or something?” said Arren. “I can pay—”

  “Oh no, sir! There’s no need to pay for anything. Please, come with me.”

  Arren wasn’t about to argue. He followed the man with a feeling of tired satisfaction, in spite of the ache in his limbs. Eluna loped beside him, eyeing the people following them. They were sensible enough to keep their distance. Arren was glad about that. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to hold her back if she decided to make a lunge at someone.

  They were shown to the local inn, where there was a room for Arren. The horses were removed from the stable so that Eluna could stay there, and people brought meat for her with astonishing speed. Arren accepted the food they offered him with gratitude, especially when he saw that it included plenty of fresh vegetables. Perishable food was expensive in Eagleholm.

  He was exhausted when he went to bed that night, but it took some time to get to sleep. It was hard to get comfortable in a proper bed instead of a hammock, without the gentle swinging to soothe him. He’d slept in a hammock for as long as he could remember.

  Perhaps it was this vague feeling of unease that gave him an equally uneasy dream.

  It was a dream he knew very well.

  He was standing in the sky. The wind was icy cold and strong, like a river. But the sun was shining brightly and the sky was blue and dotted with white clouds, and he smiled and reached up toward them, wanting to touch them. And he could, he could—

  But then he looked down, and he saw the ground, and it was so far below him, all dark and tiny, and then it was rushing toward him, getting bigger and bigger but never quite reaching him, and he was falling, screaming and screaming, knowing there would be no-one to catch him, knowing he was going to die, and there was nothing but darkness and the howl of the wind and an empty sky mocking him, beyond his reach forever.

  The ground below was dark. It looked like a huge black sea, stretching away into the distance. There was grass down there, shivering and sighing in the wind. Above him a bright half-moon hung in the sky like an eye. Just like his own eye.

  He could see the human, walking over the grass toward the village. It was a large one. He’d been watching it for days.

  The black griffin circled lower. Up here, he was almost invisible. Anyone looking up might have seen his shadow pass in front of the moon every so often, but only for a moment, and even if they did it would be too late. He was too fast for them.

  The black griffin circled lower, intent on the human. It was moving slowly, unable to see where it was going in the dark. Humans had poor eyes. He had thought they were weak, at first. They were so small, so fragile. But they had built this place. They could make their prey obey them. They didn’t have to hunt. And there were so many of them, all somehow able to live together without fighting. It was something alien to him. They were too intelligent to be herd animals, like goats, and yet they swarmed together like a herd.

  The black griffin tensed. Now.

  He dived, front talons spread wide. The human never even saw him coming. He passed over it and snatched it up in his talons before he flew upward again with scarcely a sound, taking the human with him.

  The human didn’t move at first, but as he flew away with it dangling beneath him it started to struggle and cry out in distress. It was calling for help from its fellows, but the black griffin knew it wouldn’t be heard. He flew off in a leisurely way over the village and the fields beyond, heading back toward the mountains and his valley. The human continued to writhe in his grip, and he was glad about that. If it could still move around then it probably wasn’t badly hurt.

  He passed over the tallest mountain and into his valley, and landed in the overhang. There he let go of the human. It tried to crawl away almost instantly, but he blocked its way—not hitting it but simply forcing it to turn back. It found its feet and bolted, taking him by surprise, but he caught up with it in a few quick bounds and dragged it back. It kept on trying to escape, but it was far too slow, and in the end it gave up and huddled in the back of the overhang, whimpering pathetically. The black griffin curled up and watched it. The others had done this, too. He would have to stay awake all night to keep an eye on it, in case it ran again.

  When the sun finally rose, the man woke up from the shallow doze he’d managed to fall into and jerked upright almost instantly, terror hitting him in the chest. The light of dawn showed him the overhang and the huge, hunched shape of the black griffin sitting not far away, watching him. The man pulled back as far as he could into the overhang, staring at the beast in terror. He was expecting it to rush at him at any moment, but it didn’t. It stayed where it was, perfectly still except for the twitching of its tail, not taking its eyes off him.

  The man looked around, searching for a weapon, and that was when he saw them.

  Bones. Human bones scattered over the dirt floor of the overhang. There was a pair of pathetically small skulls at the far end, one smashed open by a huge beak. Bits of torn cloth lay with the bones, along with coins and boots and the bits and pieces of things people carried around in their pockets. And there was a smell, a rank, rancid, choking smell.

  The man started to shudder. He forced himself to look away, toward the weird shapes painted on the back wall of the griffin’s lair. But he could not block the smell from entering his nostrils. His arm and shoulder hurt from where the griffin’s talons had cut into him, and he was cold.

  He realised that there were tears starting to stream down his face.

  “Ee ar kaee?”

  The man turned sharply, raising his hands instinctively to defend himself. The griffin had risen to its claws and was moving toward him, tail swishing.

  “Stay away from me!” he screamed.

  The griffin stopped and sat on its haunches, regarding him threateningly. The man’s eyes darted to and fro as he searched for an escape route, but there was nowhere to go. He backed away until he hit the wall and slid down it onto the ground, nearly sick with terror.

  The griffin moved closer. It stretched its head toward him, beak opening slightly. “Ae aa krae ae?” it said. The sound was a weird, hoarse screech-snarl, low and aggressive.

  The man’s fingers closed around a bone. As the griffin lowered its head to sniff at him, he screamed suddenly and swung the bone as hard as he could, hitting it on the head. There was a hollow thunk as it connected, and he lurched away from the griffin and started to run.

  Something hit him in the back almost instantly. He fell hard onto his stomach, and then the griffin was on him, lifting him off the ground and hurling him back into the overhang. He hit the wall and landed on the floor among the bones, winded and gasping.

  The griffin rose onto its hind legs, wings spread wide, and screeched. The noise was horrible, harsh and ear-splittingly loud. The man clapped his hands over his ears and curled up, trying to
protect himself, but the griffin fell back onto its forelegs and turned away abruptly, lashing its tail. “Ae ao ak krae ee,” it uttered, clicking its beak.

  After that the man didn’t try to escape again. He stayed in the overhang, watched over by his captor, not knowing what to do. There had to be a way to escape.

  The griffin did not sleep, and nor did it take its attention off him for a moment. It spent half the day sitting at the edge of the overhang and just watching him. Several times it moved as if to come closer to him, but it always withdrew. And from time to time it would make those strange sounds again. Later, as noon came, it began to pace back and forth, its movements full of easy grace and power.

  Gradually the man’s terror faded into dull pain and misery. He was hungry and thirsty and cold, but there was nothing to eat or drink and nowhere to run to. After a while he started to wonder how long it would be before the griffin decided to kill him. It was odd that it hadn’t done so already. What did it want him alive for? Perhaps it was just doing it for fun. To toy with him, like a cat with a mouse.

  Anger rose inside him. “You can’t do this,” he rasped at the creature. “You monster! You sick piece of—”

  The griffin paused in its endless pacing and watched him as he spoke. There was an alertness in its eyes, as if it understood. But it only hissed at him and resumed its pacing once he had fallen silent.

  Eventually it seemed to tire of this; it stopped abruptly and looked at him again. He pulled back nervously, and as if this was a signal the griffin came toward him. It cornered him against the back wall, and all he could do was brace himself while it sniffed at him, its beak pressing into his chest. Its feathers smelt dry and musty, and there was dried blood on its beak. He could hear its deep, rumbling breaths.

  The griffin clicked its beak and drew back once more, turning away to look out over the valley. Then it lay down and curled up, folding its wings on its back. It yawned. The man dared to relax a little, keeping his eyes on the beast. Was it tired now? Was it going to sleep? Fear was keeping him awake, but the griffin must have stayed up all night. It had to sleep sometime, surely.