by K J Taylor
Rannagon’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t presume to speak to me like that. You have not answered my other questions. Why did you run and hide?”
“Because . . .”
“Answer me.”
“Because I knew I had to,” Arren said loudly. “Because I knew no-one would accept it. I knew I had no chance to be a true griffiner again, and so I decided we both had to leave.”
“Why?” said Rannagon. “What were you afraid of, Arenadd?”
“You know the answer to that, my lord.”
“Speak plainly,” said Rannagon. “Speak the truth.”
Arren was silent. He looked down at the wooden edge of the dock, where his hands rested. Long, pale hands with black hair scattered over the knuckles, the manacles resting just behind them. He could see his reflection, faintly, on the surface of the metal. See his own eyes, black and cold as steel.
“Speak,” Rannagon commanded. “Speak now or I will presume that you have waived your right to do so, and I will pronounce sentence on you.”
Arren looked up. “I was afraid of you,” he said.
There was more muttering from the crowd, louder this time.
Rannagon waved them into silence. “Why would that be?”
“You already know,” said Arren. “You know. You knew from the beginning.”
“What did I know, Arenadd?” Rannagon asked steadily.
Arren straightened up. “Griffiners! Listen to me!” he shouted, and pointed at Rannagon. “This man is a liar and a traitor! He drove me to do what I did! He betrayed me!”
The guards grabbed his shoulders to hold him still, as the listeners reacted with a flurry of shouts and screeches.
“Silence!” Rannagon roared. He came toward Arren. “Tell me what I’ve done,” he said, raising his voice above the noise. “Tell them.”
“You killed Eluna!” Arren shouted back, provoking further consternation. “It was your fault! You lied to me and sent me to my death! And then you lied to Riona as well! You told them it was my fault, you said I was a liar and a thief, you said if I told anyone you’d kill me, and then you murdered my friend because he knew the truth! You sent people after me, made them put this collar on me and destroy my house, and then you set it on fire! You took my life!”
This time there were not mutterings or muted exclamations. This time there was an outburst of shouting and screeching, deafeningly loud and terrible with rage.
Arren ignored them completely. “You can’t do this to me!” he half-screamed. “Murderer! Traitor!”
“Shut him up!” Rannagon snapped at the guards.
They took Arren by the elbows and dragged him back from the front of the dock, and one of them clamped a hand over his mouth, silencing him. Arren bit him, and the other guard hit him in the neck and then grabbed him by the hair, dragging his head sideways. He tried to fend them off, but they only hit him harder; he subsided, fists clenched, unable to speak, the guard’s hand once again firmly in place over his mouth.
Rannagon was busy trying to silence the crowd, but without much success. Then Shoa stood up and screeched. Her voice cut across the babble; as it started to die down, she reared up, opening her wings, and screeched again. The crowd went quiet.
Rannagon watched them sternly then turned back to Arren, and the look on his face was not angry or accusing but full of terrible sadness. “Arren, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want to have to do this.”
He turned to address the gallery again. “I had been expecting something like this to happen,” he said, “though I hoped it wouldn’t. I take no pleasure in saying it. I’ve known the accused since he was a boy and considered him a close friend. I was always proud of him for having risen so far from such beginnings, and I cannot express how miserable I was when I learnt of Eluna’s fate. I have been doing my best to help him since then, out of sympathy. I have kept an eye on him for the last few months and have tried to help him recover. As some of you already know, I asked favours of certain people to give him a job if he ever asked for one. I have also spoken to his friends and his employer and some of his neighbours and acquaintances. And, unfortunately, it would seem that he did not recover from the trauma of Eluna’s death. I had hoped that he would improve, but as you can plainly see, he has not.”
There was near-silence, broken only by a few curious voices.
“I can say with complete sincerity,” Rannagon went on, “that I have never in my life held prejudice against Arenadd because of his heritage. I have fought his kind in the past, and I know their history in detail, but I never thought of Arenadd as what some call a blackrobe. To me, he was a friend first, and a Northerner second, as I hope it was with all of you. I saw him not as an upstart raised to our status by some outrageous twist of fate; I saw him as a symbol, and an example. An example of the fact that, no matter what his origins and blood, a man may always rise above his past and become something better.
“It is said—indeed, it is known—that all Northerners have a madness in them. I have seen it myself. It is in their blood to be this way. But Arenadd was not like that. All those who knew him agreed with me. Although he looked Northern and was born of Northern parents, he did not act like them. Few men his age were as civilised and intelligent. Some even called him gentle. However—” Rannagon bowed his head, his demeanour full of weariness and pain. “However, I have now been forced to face the truth. Others have told me about his erratic behaviour recently—his violent outbursts, his paranoia and secrecy, and his wild appearance—and only yesterday I received confirmation. Arenadd cannot be blamed completely for his actions. He cannot help himself. My lords and ladies, the boy has lost his mind.”
Arren’s mouth fell open.
The crowd started to mutter again. He scanned the rows of faces, trying desperately to tell what people were thinking. Most looked surprised or contemptuous. Some looked angry. Others merely looked sad or disgusted. He saw Roland, but the old man’s head was bowed. He saw Flell, and her eyes were on him. There were tears on her face.
Rannagon sighed and resumed. “I had hoped that it was not true—that there was some other explanation for his behaviour—but I cannot close my eyes to it any longer. The evidence is overwhelming. Every single person I have spoken to who has associated with him over the last few months has told me that they feared for his sanity. Yesterday his employer, Lord Roland of the hatchery, came to me with a story that confirmed it. Apparently, Arenadd told him a wild tale in which he blamed me for Eluna’s death and claimed that he was being followed and threatened with death if he should ever reveal it. He told a similar story to other people. His delusion is so complete that he blamed the accidental death of Gern Tailor—which took place in daylight and was witnessed by dozens of people—on some secret group of spies that had been following him around and listening to every word he said.”
“What about the collar?” someone shouted from the gallery. “Where did that come from?”
“Ah,” said Rannagon. “Yes. I am afraid that, most likely, he put it on himself.”
“How?” the same person demanded.
“There are plenty of slave collars left in the city,” said Rannagon. “Mostly kept as ornaments or conversation pieces. As it happens, one went missing from a house on Tongue Street . . . at around the same time as Arenadd was seen in the area. But it seems to have woven itself in with his delusions; I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t even remember stealing it.
“However,” he went on, “while insanity is not a crime, what followed is unforgivable. After he had confessed his delusions to Lord Roland and sent him here to bring me the story, he took advantage of the fact that he had been left to guard the hatchlings, abducted one of them and fled the hatchery, obviously intending to leave the city and find a place to hide with it. Fortunately, by coincidence, his house had caught fire because of an unattended candle—an investigation of the ruins has confirmed this—and he was caught by the adult griffins from the hatchery, who had noticed the missing chic
k and had gone looking for it. There is no doubt whatsoever that he committed this crime. More than thirty people have already testified to having seen him attempting to escape, and the hatchery griffins confirmed that he was the only person in the hatchery when the chick went missing and that they saw him holding it captive. Therefore, I have no choice but to hand down the sentence of death.”
The crowd roared. It was not a shout, not a scream—it was a deep collective bellow, full of rage and hatred and pure, unrestrained bloodlust. Many of the griffins in the gallery rose up, wings spread, and began to snap their beaks, stretching their heads out toward him as if they wanted to tear him limb from limb.
Arren started to struggle, trying to pull away from the hand covering his mouth. The guards restrained him again, but then Rannagon turned toward him and said, “Arenadd Taranisäii, have you anything more to say before you are removed?”
The hand was taken away. “Liar!” Arren screamed. “You godsdamned liar!”
Once again the rage rose up inside him, filling him with terrible strength. He shrugged off the guards as if they were nothing and lunged forward, trying to climb over the wall between him and Rannagon. Shoa darted forward to defend her partner, but Arren managed to hook a leg over the edge of the dock and started to pull himself over. The guards hauled him back, but he slammed into them, heedless of any pain, and began to shout, “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!”
More guards came running. They dragged him bodily away, and he fought every moment of it, lashing out wildly at their faces and screaming. “I am not insane! Liar! You can’t do this to me! Liar! Murderer!”
But there was nothing he could do. The guards took him out of the chamber, to the jeers and screeches of the crowd, and he kept his eyes on Rannagon until the doors slammed on him. Once they had him out of sight of the crowd, the guards beat him into submission. Not laughing or jeering or taking any pleasure in it, but simply hitting him in places calculated to hurt, in a methodical, almost bored way, until he finally stopped fighting back. Once he had fallen silent and gone limp and passive, they hauled him upright and led him away. They left the Eyrie by a back door and travelled a short distance through the city, accompanied by other guards who had been waiting for just that purpose. Arren already knew where they would be going. The prison district. It was very large. Once it had housed nearly a hundred slaves. Now, though, it was virtually empty. Now that the slaves had gone, the only people kept there were criminals waiting to be punished then freed or to be put to death, either by execution or in the Arena, at the claws of wild griffins.
Arren was taken to a large wooden building and there handed over to the prison guards. They checked him for weapons and then took him to a room where there was a row of huge wooden cages resting on sealed trapdoors. The cages were attached to the ceiling by thick ropes threaded through pulleys and wrapped around a series of large windlasses. His new guards removed the manacles and bundled him into one of the cages, tying the door shut behind him. Then they opened the pair of latches that held the trapdoor beneath it shut. It swung open with a loud bang, revealing nothing but empty air underneath. The floor of the cage was made of wooden slats, the gaps between them almost as wide as Arren’s hand. He yelled and hurled himself at the cage door, trying to force it open, but it would not move. The guards ignored him. They went to the windlass and began to turn the handles, and the cage jerked and began to move downwards, through the trapdoor and into the void. It went down and down, swinging gently from side to side, the mountainside passing in front of him. It drew level with a platform that jutted from the rock and came to a stop. There were more guards on the platform, and they hurried forward and snapped a set of wooden holders into place at the base of the cage, to secure it.
Arren tried not to look down, but he couldn’t help it. Through the slats he could see the ground so far below, right under his feet.
His whole body went cold. He stood absolutely still for a heartbeat, and then he ran forward and started to wrench at the door which faced the platform. “Let me out! Please, I can’t stay in here! No!”
The guards paid no attention; they returned to their posts without even looking back at him. Arren yelled until he was hoarse, but went utterly unheeded.
He slumped into a sitting position, his arms wrapped around the bars in front of him, gripping on as if they were the only thing holding him up. He could feel himself trembling violently all over. The wind tugged at his hair and he closed his eyes. He was going to fall . . . The floor was going to break and he was going to fall . . .
His eyes had gone wide and staring, bulging with terror. He looked toward the other cages that hung alongside his, and then at the guards, beseeching them. “Help me,” he whispered. “Someone help me.”
19
Hanging
“... Arren? Arren?”
Very slowly, Arren looked up. There was a strange, fixed look on his face, and he squinted at the person looking down at him as if he had no idea what he was seeing.
Someone nudged him in the shoulder. “Arren? Arren, say somethin’.”
The blankness in Arren’s face receded slightly. “Bran?”
Bran looked relieved. “Thank gods, I thought yeh didn’t recognise me. Arren, listen, there’s someone here to see yeh.”
Arren looked past him. There was a woman standing behind Bran. She was holding a piece of paper and a stick of charcoal, and was watching him without much interest. Seeing him looking at her, she came forward. “Arren Cardockson?”
Arren nodded vaguely.
“I understand you’ve been condemned to death,” said the woman.
Arren said nothing, and the woman glanced at Bran, who nodded.
“Well then,” she said, “I’ve been sent to make you an offer.”
Arren looked up at her and listened silently.
The woman took that as her cue and went on. “You have two choices facing you at this point,” she said. “You can either accept the immediate death sentence or you can volunteer to fight in the Arena tomorrow. Now, if you choose the Arena and you win the fight, you’ll be set free. If you’re interested, put your mark on this piece of paper and everything will be arranged. You will be allowed a weapon in the Arena, and you will be given better food beforehand. Make your choice.”
Arren was silent.
“Should I take that as a refusal?” said the woman.
The sound of her voice seemed to recall him to his senses. “Which one would I be fighting?” he said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Which griffin would I be fighting?”
“There would probably be more than one,” said the woman. “Why do you ask?”
“I want to fight the black one,” said Arren. “I want to fight—I want to fight Darkheart.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” said the woman. “Darkheart is very popular at the moment. He goes into the Arena nearly every week.”
“Alone,” said Arren.
“I’m sorry?” the woman said again.
Arren’s grip on the bars tightened. “If you let me fight the black griffin on my own—just him and me—I’ll say yes.”
The woman looked thoughtful. “I’ve never had anyone make a request like that before.”
“Promise me,” said Arren, hauling himself up on the bars. “Promise me I can fight the black griffin, and I’ll do whatever you want.”
The woman hesitated a moment, then nodded. “I don’t see why not. I think Orome would like the idea. Yes, I agree. Just give me a moment.” She knelt, placed the piece of paper on the wooden decking beneath her and scribbled away with the stick of charcoal, adding a few extra lines. This done, she offered the charcoal to Arren. “Just put your name here, or an X or whatever you like. Just as long as it’s your mark.”
Arren stared at the blank spot on the paper for a few moments and then gripped the charcoal stick and drew a crude picture of a wolf’s head holding the moon in its jaws. The woman took it from him and said, “Exce
llent. I shall go and tell Orome at once. Good luck.” She inclined her head briefly and left.
Arren watched her go and then sighed, almost with relief.
Bran had been watching all this in silence, keeping well back from the cage. “Why’d yeh do that?” he asked now.
Arren looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “I’m going to die, Bran. I want to die fighting. If I can have revenge before then, I’ll take it.”
“Yeh’ll be killed,” said Bran. “The thing’ll tear yeh to pieces.”
Arren sneered at him. “What a tragedy.”
“Stop it,” said Bran. “This ain’t my fault, an’ yeh know it.”
Arren turned away. “Well, that’s nice. Now I’ll feel a lot better when my head comes off.”
“Don’t blame me for this,” Bran snapped. “I was just doin’ my duty. Yeh think that just because we’re friends I can let yeh get away with what yeh did?”
Arren looked back at him, suddenly ashamed. “Bran, I—”
Bran’s anger disappeared, and he came closer to the bars. “Arren, why’d yeh do it?”
Arren bowed his head. “I couldn’t help it. I tried to put up with it for so long, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. It was too much for me. I wanted back what Rannagon took from me.”
“Arren—” Bran hesitated. “Arren, yeh know it ain’t true, don’t yeh?”
“I know what’s real, Bran,” Arren said coldly. “I know that every word I told you was the truth.”
Bran sighed. “Gods, Arren, how did it come to this?”
“Bran, Rannagon killed Eluna. He told me he’d done it.”
Bran turned away. “Stop it. Just stop it.”
“You’ve got to believe me!” said Arren, coming as far forward as he could and grabbing hold of the bars. “Please, just listen to me. I’m not insane.”
Bran looked back at him, his face full of misery. For a moment he looked as if he was going to speak, but then he turned and walked away, head bowed.