by K J Taylor
The instant he emerged, the roar of the crowd hit his ears. He looked up and saw hundreds of people sitting high above him on the rows of seats. There were even a few griffiners there. They were so close to him, separated only by the high wooden walls of the pit and the net of steel cables stretched between them. He could see their faces hanging above him.
A man was shouting over the noise of the crowd, from the podium where Orome had taken up position with Sefer by his side: “Arren Cardockson, the Mad Blackrobe, condemned for abducting a griffin chick, famed for his insane bloodlust! Darkheart the black griffin, killer of man and griffin alike! They fought once before, and today they fight again, to the death!”
Arren barely heard him. He looked around quickly, taking in his surroundings. There was no sign of the black griffin yet, or anyone or anything else. The pit walls were bare wood, marred by deep scratch marks and dark stains. Underfoot there was sand, brought up from the shores of Eagle’s Lake. And there was nothing else. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Overhead, the crowd was shouting. Some were chanting. Chanting a name. “Darkheart! Darkheart! Darkheart!”
Arren looked at the spear. The shaft was about as long as he was tall, and made of cheap, splintered wood. The head was worn and a little rusty but sharp enough, broad and well barbed. He could kill a griffin with it, in theory at least.
“Darkheart! Darkheart! Darkheart!”
Arren looked up at them, and a feeling of fierce rage overcame him. He lifted his head and screamed. “Arren! Arren! Arren!”
“Arren!”
“Arren!”
The shouts were faint, but they hit him almost as if they were physical blows. He scanned the crowd, trying to see where they had come from. The voices continued to shout his name, and then he saw them. They were in the front row, standing up, calling to him.
“No,” Arren whispered. “No, please, don’t do this.”
But he knew they could not hear him, and that they would not obey even if they could. Annir and Cardock had come to watch their son fight for his life, and their voices chanted his name, a solitary counterpoint to Darkheart’s name.
Arren moved toward them, wanting to call to them, but then a loud metallic thump made him turn sharply, raising the spear.
A gate had opened in the wall on the opposite side of the pit, and even as he turned, the huge shape of the black griffin charged through it, beak open wide to screech. “Darkheart!”
Arren gripped his spear. “Come to me,” he snarled softly. “I’m ready.”
The beast had seen him. Darkheart started to run toward him, but then horror and disbelief thudded into Arren’s stomach as the black griffin spread his wings wide and leapt into the air.
20
Pact
They had unchained the griffin’s wings.
The realisation shot through Arren’s brain as he watched Darkheart fly up and over the pit, flying clumsily but with growing confidence. There were no chains on his forelegs, either. The only thing left was the collar, embedded among the feathers on his neck and gleaming in the sun, and Darkheart was plainly well aware of that. He flew as high as the net would allow him, screeching his name, while above him the crowd reacted with amazement and wild excitement.
Rage and hatred followed quickly on the heels of Arren’s fear. He ran toward the centre of the Arena, pointing his spear upward, preparing himself for when the griffin swooped. But Darkheart showed no interest in him at all. In fact, he seemed completely oblivious to his presence. He flew around the pit, silent now, head turned upward to stare at the crowd. As Arren watched, he turned on his back and latched his talons onto the net, biting at it. The steel cables would not break, but he wedged his beak into one of the gaps and tried to squeeze through it, even though it was hopelessly small. When that didn’t work he thrust a foreleg through and groped at the empty air above the net, as if hoping to find something he could grab. A few moments later, he let go and dropped. His wings unfurled and he resumed his circling, looking for a place where the net was weak or irregular. Arren watched him as he grabbed another part of it and tried to break through, letting out a deafening screech when it held firm. Next he tried the edges, where the net joined the wall of the pit, digging his talons into the wood. But there were guards stationed all around the edges of the pit, and they thrust downward with long spears, forcing the black griffin to retreat. He persisted for some time, snarling, and then suddenly let go and resumed his circling.
Arren’s rage only increased as he watched him. That great dark shape, with its mottled black-and-silver wings and its black legs hanging beneath it, dragged his mind back to that day at Rivermeet, when he had stood in the field with Eluna and seen what he did not yet know was the agent of his own destruction, soaring high above.
And now, as then, he steeled himself and called out a challenge. “Darkheart!” he screamed in griffish, raising his spear over his head. “I have come for you!”
Darkheart looked down at him, and Arren continued to shout, hurling threats and curses at the black griffin with all his might.
Darkheart suddenly appeared to forget his bid for escape. He circled lower, and Arren could hear him hissing as he closed in, his circles becoming smaller as he targeted him, as he had once targeted his prey. Arren rammed the spear-butt into the ground beside him, pointing the blade straight at the griffin, and braced himself, his breathing a low rasp. All he had to do was wait. When Darkheart swooped down on him, he would wait until the last moment and then duck, leaving the creature to impale himself on the spear.
Darkheart flew still lower. Then, without warning, he folded his wings and dropped.
Arren heard his mother scream from above. For a heartbeat he stood utterly still, looking up at the raging monster falling toward him, and then he prepared to throw himself flat on the ground, holding on to the spear as tightly as he could.
Darkheart’s talons lashed out, wrenching the spear from Arren’s grip and hurling it aside. He landed with an almighty thud, right on top of him.
Arren felt pain rip into his leg as he was knocked backward, landing hard on the sand. One of Darkheart’s talons had caught him a glancing blow and sent him flying, but Arren did not stay down for long. His body took over and seized control of his brain, and he rolled, vaulted upright and ran without a moment’s pause. As he ran, he heard the thump of paws and talons hitting the sand and knew that Darkheart was chasing after him.
The spear was there, ahead of him, stuck in the sand. He grabbed it as he ran past, wheeled around and then turned, pointing it at the oncoming griffin.
A griffin would not run onto a sharp point willingly. He had seen it dozens of times. They would charge, but then wheel away at the last moment. As long as he had the spear, he could defend himself.
Darkheart ran straight at him, without even slowing down. When Arren swung the spear toward him, his beak shot out, catching it just behind the point. The griffin snatched it out of his grasp, so hard and so suddenly that it bowled him over. As Arren struggled to his feet he saw the griffin advancing slowly, his eyes burning with bloodlust. He was still holding the spear in his beak, but as he advanced he bit down on it, shattering the wooden shaft into splinters.
Arren turned and ran.
Darkheart pursued him with awful speed, his wings spreading wide. As Arren tried to dodge him, he beat his wings hard and launched himself into a glide, talons outstretched. They hit Arren hard in the shoulders, and he felt them try to grab hold of him as he fell forward. But they failed to get a grip, and Darkheart shot past him and collided with the wall of the pit. He landed in a heap, hissing furiously, and Arren got up and ran back the way he had come, running as he had never run before in his life. Up ahead he saw the spearhead, glinting among the sand, and he bent and snatched it up.
That brief delay was more than enough. Before he had even straightened up, Darkheart was on him. His beak shot out, and Arren only just managed to dodge it. The blow, which would have taken his head clean off if it h
ad hit him, slashed straight through his tunic and left a deep cut in his shoulder.
A redness closed over Arren’s senses, and the pain vanished completely as the fighting madness took him. He threw himself straight at Darkheart, screaming, and hit him bodily in the chest. It took the griffin completely by surprise. He staggered back a few paces, and Arren stabbed the spearhead into him again and again, piercing his chest and shoulders. It hit the griffin’s collar and bounced off with a loud clang, and then Darkheart recovered himself and swung his head sideways, sending his attacker flying. The spearhead flew out of Arren’s hand and was lost in the sand, and as he tried to get up, Darkheart leapt. One huge forepaw slammed down on Arren’s chest, pinning him to the ground, the talons entrapping both his arms. The barely healed breaks in his ribs turned into white-hot agony, and he screamed.
In the crowd above, Annir, too, screamed. “Arren! No!”
Arren struggled wildly, trying to wriggle out from under the griffin’s crushing weight, but Darkheart brought his other front paw down, trapping him. He could see the griffin’s face looming above him, the eyes cold and savage, the features angular, the beak chipped and sharp. Darkheart’s breath smelt of death and decay, and the collar shone around his neck.
Arren’s wounded face twisted. “Kill me,” he snarled. “Finish it!”
Darkheart stared at him, unmoving for a moment, and then he brought his head down toward him. His eyes and beak filled Arren’s vision, so close he could hear the air whistling through the creature’s nostrils.
Cold, crushing terror came into him, paralysing him, and he screwed his eyes shut and turned his head away, bracing himself for the end.
“Arren Cardockson.”
Arren’s fear turned to bewilderment. He opened his eyes and turned his head back again. Darkheart had not moved. He was still there, above him, his talons pressing down.
“Arren Cardockson,” the griffin said again.
Arren just stared.
Darkheart’s eyes were wide, almost . . . frightened. “Arren Cardockson.”
Arren tried again to break free, to no avail.
“Arren,” the griffin repeated. “Arren. Arren.”
Arren stilled. “Darkheart,” he said, not knowing what to do.
“Arren.”
Arren turned his head away. “Kill me,” he said again.
“Arren,” said Darkheart. “You . . . Arren.”
Arren closed his eyes. “Yes.”
Darkheart paused, and then brought his head down still lower, until they were almost touching. “Arren,” he said. His voice was deep, slow and rumbling, like distant thunder. “You . . . Arren. You . . . human. You want . . . die?”
Arren could feel himself shaking uncontrollably. Yes. He wanted to say it. He wanted to shout it for them all to hear. Yes. Kill me. I want to die. Kill me.
“No,” he whispered.
The talons tightened around him. “Free . . . me,” the griffin’s voice rumbled.
Arren looked up, uncomprehending.
“Free me,” Darkheart said again. “Let me fly away. Free me, Arren Cardockson. Free me or I kill you.”
“Free you?” Arren said.
“Promise,” said Darkheart. “Promise free me. Promise and I not kill. Promise, Arren Cardockson.”
He could see the look in the griffin’s eyes. He could see it as clearly as he could see the cracks in his beak and the raw flesh around the edges of the collar. It had been there all along. “I promise,” he said softly. “I will set you free, Darkheart.”
Darkheart was silent for a moment. “Dark human,” he whispered. “Dark human, dark griffin. Promise me, Arren Cardockson.”
“I promise,” Arren said again. “I swear it. I swear.”
Silence reigned in the pit. Even the crowd had gone quiet.
Then Darkheart let him go. He lifted his talons and backed away, and Arren struggled upright and staggered away from him, blood streaming from beneath the collar and soaking into his torn and filthy tunic. He was gasping for breath and his chest was agonising, and he stumbled toward the wall and collapsed at its base, unable to move.
But Darkheart made no move to go after him. He watched him briefly and then turned away and began to groom his wings, apparently oblivious to the baying crowd above him.
Arren could hear them, but their voices seemed to be coming through a kind of curtain. He lay on his side, feeling as if a great weight was dragging down on his limbs, his senses dulled by pain. The wound on his face was bleeding again; he could feel the hot liquid trickling over his cheek like tears. More blood was coming from his neck. Too much blood. It was making him dizzy and confused. He made a brief attempt to get up, but then slumped back. A short time later, he blacked out.
The crowd had watched it all. They had seen the black griffin pounce on the prisoner and knock him down, and they had waited expectantly, knowing what would come next. Waited for the wet crunch and the blackrobe’s brief scream as his chest was crushed to a pulp. Waited to see him die.
But they had waited in vain. The black griffin had covered the blackrobe with his wings and brought his head down toward him, and they had sat back, disappointed. He was merely going to kill him with his beak, and they wouldn’t even see it happen. Not even the battle that had preceded it would make up for that.
And then they saw the black griffin move away, and they looked toward the spot where he had been, expecting to see the blackrobe’s mutilated remains. But they were not there. They saw the blackrobe get up and lurch toward the wall, and saw the black griffin glance briefly at him and then turn away. The blackrobe collapsed, either dead or wounded, and the griffin merely sat and groomed himself. They continued to wait, filling the air with savage shouts, but nothing happened. Neither man nor griffin moved.
In the end Darkheart rose onto his paws and walked away toward the gate he had entered by. He tried to open it, and when it wouldn’t move he lay down on the sand and went to sleep.
He didn’t wake up until the gate opened and the griffin handlers came through and threw a net over him, tangling his wings. He started up and rushed at them, but they expertly avoided his beak and talons and wrestled him into submission. The chains were put back on his wings and legs, more were attached to his collar, and he was dragged out of the pit, screeching and struggling.
Arren, though, did not get up. He lay where he was, unmoving, until a pair of guards hurried into the pit and carried him away.
Falling, he was falling.
There was blackness everywhere, and icy wind rushing past him. He could feel the void pulling him in, pulling him down, faster and faster, and somewhere below him the ground waited, hard and unforgiving. His scream was whipped away in the wind. Blood was coming from his chest, but the drops flew away, straight upward, and he fell.
And then he hit the ground.
Arren opened his eyes and groaned. He was lying on his back on a hard surface, and every inch of him hurt. But there was something warm covering him and a pad under his head, which made him feel safe.
His vision was blurry, but he managed to make out a ceiling above him. It was wooden. Was he in his home?
No. His own ceiling had been different: peaked in the middle and criss-crossed with wooden beams, and beyond those had been the underside of the thatch. And his home didn’t exist any more. It had burned down. He had seen it burn. And after that he’d . . . he’d . . .
Memories came rushing back. The chick, the trial, the cage and after that the pit and the black griffin, swooping down on him, its screech ringing in his ears. Darkheart!
Fear gave him strength. He sat up sharply, nearly falling over when the sudden motion made his head spin. He felt weak and shaky, and the collar was heavy.
He was back in his cage. It was still daylight, and he had been lying on the floor, by the door. Someone had picked up the black robe and put it over him like a blanket. He shoved it off and rubbed his head. His eyes were aching.
“Hello, Arren.”
Arren looked around sharply and saw Bran standing on the other side of the door. “Bran?”
Bran looked shaken. “Yeh all right?”
“My head hurts. Bran, what—what happened?”
Bran nodded at the floor beside him. “Brought yeh some food.”
Arren managed to pick up a piece of bread. Chewing felt like the hardest struggle of his life.
Bran watched him. “I came to watch,” he said. “At the Arena, I mean. Arren, what happened?”
Arren dropped the piece of bread. “Bran, what’s going on? Are they going to set me free?”
“I dunno. Arren, I’m sorry for what I said.”
Arren shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Are my parents coming to see me again?”
“Don’t think so. They ain’t lettin’ no-one in except guards. Arren, how did yeh do that?”
“How did I do what?” The sound of Bran’s voice was making his headache worse.
“Control the griffin!” Bran said urgently. “How’d yeh make it back off like that?”
“I didn’t. I don’t know what happened. It just didn’t kill me.”
“What? Yeh didn’t do nothin’?”
“Yes. Bran, please, I’ve got to know. What’s going to happen to me now? Are they going to let me out?”
“I dunno,” Bran repeated. “I think they ain’t decided yet. This ain’t never happened before.”
“They’ve got to let me go,” said Arren. “I survived, didn’t I?”
“Yeah . . . I guess yeh did.”
Arren lay back. They had to let him go. It wasn’t just an empty promise they made to tempt prisoners; it was law. A prisoner who survived the Arena had to be set free. They couldn’t break the law. Not when everyone knew about it.
“Guess you’ll find out,” said Bran. “Eat. They’ll come and see yeh soon, I reckon.”
Arren nodded vaguely and went back to his food. But he felt much better now. He was going to be released, he knew it. They’d let him out of the cage and send him home. He’d go to Idun and stay with his parents until he was better, and then . . . after that, he would just have to decide what to do next.