The Dark Griffin

by K J Taylor

  There was a sharp metallic click just below his ear, and then pain stabbed into his neck, like a dozen knives. He cried out, but then the hands let go of him. “Try and forget now, blackrobe,” a distant voice sneered, and then something hit him hard in the head and the world was snatched away from him.

  16

  The Collar

  Eluna was calling him. He could hear her. He could see her, too, just there in front of him. The white griffin loomed out of the darkness ahead of him, her silver eyes bright. Arren. Arren.

  He reached toward her. Eluna? Where are you?

  She just stared at him. Arren, she said. Arren.

  It hurts, Eluna, he said. Why does it hurt? Eluna. It hurts, Eluna. It hurts.

  Arren.

  I don’t want—I don’t want it . . .

  And then Eluna was gone and he could see something else. Himself, lying on the ground, while the moon drifted overhead, looking down on him like a great silver eye. A griffin’s eye. He lay still, staring up at it, but his eyes were empty and sightless. There was blood on his face, and more on his clothes. A tear slid slowly down his cheek. But it was thick and dark, and red. A shape loomed above, unmoving. Watching.

  And then the world came back.

  The first thing he felt was pain. It was everywhere, all over him. He heard himself cry out, and the noise sent red-hot agony through his head. He lay still, gasping, wanting to escape back into unconsciousness, but he couldn’t. He stayed awake, and the pain consumed him. His back ached. His stomach and groin felt as if they had been crushed under a rock, and his chest . . . he couldn’t feel anything in his chest. It had gone numb. His neck hurt, too, and badly. But his head was worse. It made him want to scream, but he couldn’t make his voice obey him. His entire body was out of his control. All it would do was lie still on its side, and hurt.

  He managed to open his eyes, but his head hurt so severely that his vision was blurred. Everything was grey around the edges, and red flashed behind his eyes with every heartbeat.

  Some perverse inner strength made him try to get up, and now he really did scream. The instant he moved, agonising pain crackled through his chest. He fell back down again, and the impact made it a hundred times worse. It made him black out briefly, and when he woke up he couldn’t move at all.

  But the pain faded gradually, and his resolve hardened. Try again, he thought.

  Very carefully, he moved his free arm. It was fine. The wrist and elbow were uninjured and his hand intact, though the shoulder hurt. He could cope with that.

  He touched his chest, gritting his teeth in readiness for a resurgence of the pain. But nothing happened. His chest felt strangely . . . hard under his tunic, and it took him some time to remember that he was still wearing his breastplate. That was a relief, he decided, the thought moving very slowly through his head. It would have protected him a little.

  He checked his other arm. It was also fine. His legs, too, still worked and were more or less pain free.

  He paused to prepare himself, then pushed on the ground with his lowermost arm and very gently rolled onto his back. To his surprise, this didn’t make the pain come rushing back. It did surge a little, but not too badly, and he let his head drop. Instantly, pain stabbed into his neck. He winced and reached up to feel the spot.

  His hand touched cold metal.

  He stopped, bewildered, and started to run his fingers over the surface of it, trying to discern the shape of it. It was smooth and slightly rounded, like a ring, and it went all the way around his neck.

  The realisation hit him slowly and coldly, like ice moving down into his brain.

  It was a collar.

  And, on the skin below it, blood had flowed and dried into a thick crust. When he slid a finger under the collar, he could feel the spikes that lined its insides, embedded in his flesh.

  Panic took hold of him. He grabbed the collar in both hands and started to pull at it, trying to make it come off. But it stayed firmly in place, and his efforts only drove the spikes further in. There was a wet tearing sensation and a burst of pain, and fresh blood started to trickle down over his fingers.

  Arren let go of the collar and lay still on his back, not daring to move.

  He realised, eventually, that he was sobbing.

  Wild rage and terror flooded into him. He forgot everything and rolled onto his side, pulling at the collar with all his might, wrenching it upwards, trying to get it over his head. It would not come. He didn’t even notice the agony of his ribs; he jammed his fingers under the collar and pulled outward with all his might. The spikes cut his fingers, and more blood ran down over his wrists. He started to scream and swear, not even knowing he was doing it, thrashing around on the floor in a haze of pain, tears streaming down his face. But nothing he did would make the collar come off. It stayed where it was, its spikes biting into him, its surface becoming sticky with blood. In the end he slumped back onto the floor, sobbing weakly, every fibre of his being screaming out.

  “No . . . no . . . oh gods, no . . .”

  His head pounded and his chest was agony. His neck continued to bleed, weighed down by the collar. Part of him wanted to call for help, but he knew in his heart that no-one would hear him. And if they did, what then? What would they do when they saw him?

  Gradually, though, his terror gave way to rage. Burning, terrible rage, the same rage that had made him attack the two men in the tavern. It took hold of him, overwhelming his senses, blotting out the pain and giving him strength.

  Slowly, very slowly, he got up. Broken bone grated together inside his chest; he could feel it, and hear it. The collar shifted on his neck, sliding down and settling into place just above his shoulders, the spikes tearing grooves into his skin. But he could stand up. His legs were still sound; the pain was all in his neck, head and torso. The collar unbalanced him, and he staggered sideways and hit the wall. More pain blossomed inside him, but he grabbed hold of one of the roof supports and managed to stay upright. Once he had rested, he turned himself around and began to make his way toward the door, staying close to the wall to hold himself up. Walking was painful, and he had to move very slowly and place each foot carefully. If he trod down too hard, it sent pain shooting up his spine.

  He reached the door after what felt like an age and rested there again. It was daytime, but the light coming in through the broken windows was dull and grey, and as he stood in the doorway, lightning turned everything pure white for a heartbeat. Thunder rumbled a few moments later.

  In daylight, the ruin of his home was much easier to see. Everything was destroyed: the cupboard doors had been ripped off, the shelves were broken, all the food had been stamped into the floor, and his clothes chest had been tipped over and the contents were either wrecked or missing. They had even found the secret cavity under the floorboards, and he knew without looking that they’d stolen everything in it.

  They’d taken his sword, too, along with his bow and arrows, and every plate, bowl and cup was in pieces on the floor.

  Arren put a hand over his face. One side of it was badly swollen, and he winced. He’d probably lost a few teeth as well, he thought.

  He breathed deeply, trying to keep himself calm. All right. One thing at a time. He couldn’t stay in the doorway forever. It was just a few steps to the table, and that was still intact. He could make it.

  He braced himself, took in a deep breath, and set out. He reached the table in a few lurching steps and grabbed on to it before he collapsed, gasping for breath. There. He’d made it.

  The chair had been reduced to a heap of shattered wood, but the crate was still there. He managed to shove it into place next to the table and then sat on it, resting his elbows on the table. Sitting down was difficult. It made his back and chest hurt—not horrendously, but continuously, to the point that he considered standing up again. But he couldn’t summon the energy for that and instead slumped over the table. The collar dragged his head downward, and he had to prop his chin on his hand to hol
d it up. There was blood in his beard. He tried absent-mindedly to clean it off while he waited for the pain to subside, which it eventually did.

  His head felt a little better now, and he found it easier to think. Strangely, his first thought was that if he could walk, then that meant he would be all right. He wasn’t too badly hurt. He’d survive, even if he wouldn’t be as flexible as he used to be. They hadn’t killed him.

  Fear suddenly intruded on him. He tried to remember what his assailants had looked like, but he had no idea. He’d only caught a brief glimpse of the one in the doorway, not enough to be sure of anything. But his first thought was that Rannagon must have sent them. Somehow, he’d found out that Arren had told someone the truth. But how? Who had told him? Bran? Gern? Flell? How much did they know? Had there been a spy listening in on him in that alley? Had the others been arrested, or were they dead?

  He started to feel cold all over. In his head, images spiralled, each one worse than the last. Bran and Gern, assaulted like himself, either dead or badly hurt. And Flell, what would Rannagon have done to her? He wouldn’t kill her. There was no way he could do that. Not his own daughter. But the others . . . if anything happened to them, it would be his fault.

  He had to do something, but what? He couldn’t get to them. Just walking across a room had exhausted him. And he couldn’t go outside. Not like this. Not with a slave collar clamped around his neck. If he was still being followed, they would know where he was going. They’d stop him. Maybe kill him. Or maybe they only knew that he’d told, but they didn’t know who he’d told, and now they needed him to lead them to his accomplices. Maybe if he went to Gern’s house or Bran’s, it would mean bringing danger right to their doorstep.

  He realised, dully, that there was nothing he could do. If something had happened to them, it had happened already. If he went to their houses and found them safe, perhaps he could warn them—but they already knew they were in danger. He’d already put them on their guard, surely.

  But what if the attackers came back for him? What if the assault had just been a prelude to his murder?

  No. He calmed down slightly. No. They weren’t going to come back and kill him. If they’d wanted to kill him he would be dead already. This had been something else. A warning. If, mere days before being killed, he was seen in this condition and talked publicly about what had happened, people would get suspicious. If he wanted to keep himself safe, he had to do what they would want him to do: hide, say nothing, do nothing. Just recover and go back to work. Make it clear that he wasn’t going to try anything. Maybe then they’d leave him alone.

  Miserable, helpless anger consumed him. Was this how he was going to spend the rest of his life, looking over his shoulder every day, constantly frightened? How long would it take before they finally killed him? They had already taken Eluna from him, and now they had taken his belongings and his dignity as well. What did he have left that they could take, other than his life and those of his friends?

  Arren’s fists clenched. No. They wouldn’t. He wouldn’t let them. There had to be something he could do. He had to fight back. They weren’t going to make him be silent forever. “I’m going to make them pay, Eluna,” he whispered. “I swear it.”

  It took nearly a week for him to recover sufficiently to leave his house. The bruising and swelling slowly went down, and he found it easier to move, but when he moved he could feel something crack inside him.

  And then there was the collar.

  It plagued him constantly, unbalancing him and weighing him down. He couldn’t lie down properly, and every time he leant in any direction the collar pulled him down and made his wounds start to bleed. Though his other injuries began to heal, the gashes in his neck stayed open. Every time they scabbed or sealed partway, the slightest movement tore them open again.

  But he persevered. He forced himself to eat the food that his assailants had ground into the floor, and he drank as much as he could from the rain-barrel outside. He felt tired and hungry all the time, but little by little he regained some of his strength, and he decided that he was well enough to go out. He had to find out if the others were all right.

  He picked up a strip of blanket and wrapped it around his neck, covering the collar. He couldn’t let people see it. He’d also tried stuffing rags underneath it to stop it moving around, but it fitted too tightly for that. Putting anything underneath made him feel like he was choking.

  He left the house without bothering to lock the door behind him. There was nothing left to steal or break. Almost without thinking, he headed straight for the Red Rat. It was evening, and one of them had to be there.

  The tavern was bustling, as always. When he entered, many people turned to stare at him, and most moved away, casting nervous glances in his direction. He supposed, vaguely, that he must be less than pleasant to look at by now.

  The owner had seen him and came toward him at once. “Are you going to start trouble in here again, blackrobe?”

  Arren shook his head, very carefully. “No. I’m here looking for someone.”

  “Who? And what in Gryphus’ name is that around your neck?”

  “I’m looking for Bran. Or Gern.”

  “What, Branton Redguard? He’s just over there. Go on. But I’ve got my eye on you.”

  Arren ignored him. He could see Bran sitting at a table with some of his fellow guardsmen. Gern wasn’t there and neither was Flell, but the sight of him made Arren’s heart soar with relief. He was all right. He was alive.

  “Bran! Bran!”

  Bran looked up, and his face fell. “Arren?” He got up, ignoring his friends, and hurried toward him. “Arren, good gods, what happened to yeh?”

  Arren grabbed his arm. “Bran, are you all right? Has anything happened? Where’s Flell? And Gern? Are they safe?”

  “I’m fine,” said Bran. “I ain’t seen Flell, but I would hear if somethin’d happened to her. Arren, where’ve yeh been? I’ve been lookin’ for yeh here every night—what’s wrong with yer neck?”

  Arren glanced around quickly. “I can’t say here. Come on.”

  The two of them left the tavern. Outside, Bran said, “Look, Arren, I dunno if yeh’ve heard about it yet, but—”

  “What?” said Arren. “What is it?”

  “Gern’s dead,” Bran said in a low voice.

  Arren went cold. “What? How? When?”

  “It was an accident,” said Bran. “He got caught up in another fight at the Arena and fell down a row of seats. Broke his neck.”

  “Oh no.”

  “I know,” said Bran. “His mum was distraught. Poor kid—”

  “This wasn’t an accident,” said Arren. “They got him. Oh gods, I’ve—I’ve killed him. They found out.”

  “Who did?” said Bran.

  “I told you!” Arren hissed. “There’s people watching me. We’re all in danger. Bran, for gods’ sakes, where’s Flell? Has something happened to her?”

  “She’s fine,” said Bran. “Arren, calm down—”

  “No!” Arren half-shouted. “I can’t! It’s my fault, don’t you see? Gern died because I told him—Bran, you’ve got to get out of here. Go into hiding somewhere, before they kill you, too. I’ve got to warn Flell!” He turned and started to run away.

  Bran dashed after him and pulled him up sharp. “Arren! Stop!”

  Arren tried to break free. “Let go!”

  “Arren,” Bran said sharply, “stop it. Yer babbling. There’s no-one after yeh.”

  “Yes, there is. Bran, are you stupid? Look at me! D’you think this was an accident?”

  “Arren, I—after what yeh told me, I got a couple of mates on street duty to follow yeh. They kept an eye on yer house; they was tailin’ you for a couple of days. They never saw nothin’.”

  “You think I’m losing my mind, do you?” said Arren.

  “No, Arren, I just think yer scared of somethin’ ain’t real.”

  “So, I’m mad,” said Arren. “Is that it?” He reached
up to his neck and started to unwrap the strip of blanket. It fell away and the collar gleamed dully in the torchlight. “Does this look like something that isn’t real?”

  Bran’s eyes widened. “Gryphus, that’s not a—”

  “It’s a slave collar,” said Arren.

  “But how—”

  “Someone broke into my house,” said Arren, hastily covering it up again. “They’ve wrecked everything. They stole everything I owned, and when I got home they attacked me. I’ve got broken ribs and I think there’s a crack in my skull. And when I woke up, I found they’d put this on me, and I can’t get it off.”

  “But Arren, why didn’t yeh—”

  “I can’t,” said Arren. “They’ll come back and kill me. I can’t let anyone see me wearing this, they’ll—I don’t know what to do, Bran.”

  “Well, yeh can’t keep that thing on,” said Bran. “There ain’t—oh my gods, you’re bleedin’. We’ve got to find a blacksmith to take it off.”

  “I can’t afford it,” said Arren. “They took all my money.”

  “I’ll pay,” Bran said firmly. “C’mon.” He took Arren by the arm and dragged him off.

  As they walked rapidly toward the part of the market district where the craftspeople lived, Bran asked questions, speaking in a quick, clipped voice, as he would to any other crime victim. “When did it happen?”

  “A week or so ago.”

  “Who were they? Did yeh get a good look at ’em?”

  “No, it was dark. I didn’t see their faces. There were about six of them, I think. They didn’t talk much.”

  “So, they got in through a window?”

  “Yes, one of the back ones. They must have climbed onto the balcony; one of the back windows was broken.”

  “And they beat yeh up?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, once yeh were down they put the collar on and then left yeh.”

  “Yes. One of them hit me in the head afterwards—knocked me out. I didn’t wake up until the next morning.”