The Dark Griffin

by K J Taylor

  He began to run this way and that, darting back and forth and colliding blindly with the rocks all about, and then he fell over onto his side and began to thrash, tearing at himself. Strange whimpers and grunts came from him as he tried with all his might to let the scream out. But all in vain. He stilled and then thrashed again, churning up the soil. The moonlight touched his face, and then something broke inside him.

  Light burst out of him. Black light. It was like a hole in the world that outlined every hair and feather, its edges shimmering silver, a darkness so intense that it was darker than the night all around, darker than his fur. It grew in intensity, making his outline ripple and distort, like water. Darkheart ceased his struggles and became stiff, as though dead. Then he jerked upright, not as if he had decided to stand but as if he had been dragged to his paws. His head came up and his beak opened, pointing down at Arren’s body.

  And then he screamed.

  The sound burst out of him like blood from a wound, and it was no griffin’s voice, or human’s, or the voice of any other living creature. It was like a thousand voices all screaming at once, or like the sound of a gushing torrent of water, huge and fast beyond comprehension. It was a sound that had never been heard in the world before.

  And with it came light. It came from Darkheart’s beak, pouring out of him like water. The glow around him faltered and then faded, and the light moved out of him and into Arren’s body, vanishing inside it and transferring the glow to him. His hair and skin were haloed with the darkness of a living shadow, which made his outline warp and twist before it reformed into its old shape.

  The scream stopped abruptly, and Darkheart’s beak snapped shut. He slumped onto his belly, panting and exhausted, but unable to look away. He saw the light move over Arren’s body, embracing him, and then it began to fade, retreating into his skin and disappearing like water soaking into the earth. Then it was gone and it was all over.

  Darkheart’s head dropped and he became still, his eyes gently sliding shut. His tail continued to twitch for a time, and then that, too, fell to the ground and did not move again.

  The stars began to go out, the moon faded and the first light of the sun appeared over the horizon. As the sky lightened, birds began to chirp in the trees, and in the city above, griffins called their names, announcing their presence to the world. Another day had come, but neither Arren nor Darkheart saw it.

  Darkheart woke up slowly, rising out of a morass of dark dreams. His body ached and he felt strangely drained and weak, even vulnerable. He sat up slowly and yawned, his wings opening wide. It made him feel slightly better, but it was not until he began flexing his front legs to ease the stiffness in them that the memory of the previous night came rushing back. He stopped dead, head darting this way and that to take in his surroundings. It was dawn, and he was sitting among some rocks by the base of the mountain. There was sky above and trees in front of him, and a lake beyond that.

  He stood up sharply, tail twitching, and scanned the sky. No sign of other griffins. He could fly away without being seen.

  He looked down and saw Arren, still lying where he had been the previous night, and that was when he remembered everything else. The struggle, the scream, the light . . . and the strange and terrible feeling of something pouring out of him and into the human’s body, taking all his strength with it.

  Darkheart sniffed at Arren, and pushed him lightly with the back of one talon. He was no longer stiff, but he still did not move.

  Yet Darkheart persisted. He continued to nudge him. “Arren,” he whispered.

  And then something happened. A great jolt went through Arren’s body and travelled into Darkheart, making him shriek in alarm and back away. It had felt like a single, massive heartbeat—one so powerful it had made his entire body jerk with it.

  On the ground, Arren’s mouth opened wide and he breathed in a great gasp of air. He twitched once, all over, and then started to breathe again, his chest heaving frantically. His eyes snapped shut as he coughed, but then he opened them again and looked up at Darkheart, and they were alight with life and intelligence and personality. Alive.

  The first thing Arren felt when he woke was pain. It went ripping through him in one massive burst, like a giant heartbeat pumping burning-hot blood through his system. He felt himself jerk violently, and then his mouth opened and he began to breathe. The moment the air flooded into his lungs, the pain disappeared. He sucked it in greedily, and it brought everything back. Light, sound, thought and vision. His eyes opened and he saw the black griffin looking down at him, looming in the sky like a feathered mountain.

  He tried to get up for a moment, but then slumped back, trying to think. He didn’t know where he was or how he had got there, or what had happened to him. He couldn’t even remember his own name.

  His hand went to his throat, and touched a cold metal surface. It was scratched and dented, clinging to his neck, and he pulled at it. It came free with a sick, wet sound, and he flung it aside and sat up. He felt strong, and he stood up and dusted himself down. There was an arrow sticking in his leg. He pulled it out and dropped it, then looked around. He was in a forest at the base of a mountain, among some rocks, and there was a huge black griffin sitting nearby watching him.

  He looked at it, trying to remember what it was. There was something familiar about it.

  The black griffin stood up. “Arren Cardockson,” it said.

  And then he remembered. It came rushing back in an instant, hitting him all at once. Run, fight, escape, fear . . . and then the fall. He remembered seeing Bran’s face as he toppled backward and then fell from the edge of the city. He remembered falling into darkness, screaming, the wind tearing at him, blood crawling up the shaft of the arrow embedded in his body and being whipped away. And he remembered hitting the ground. He remembered the agony that had smothered him as he looked up at the face of the black griffin . . . and died.

  When Arren opened his eyes, he found himself lying on the ground. He hadn’t even realised that he had fallen over. He got up and patted himself frantically, feeling his stomach, chest and face. It was all still there, just as it had been before. His curly hair, grown quite long over the last few months, the ragged beard that Flell had complained about, the puckered scars left by Shoa’s talons, the wound under his right eye. The collar was gone, but it had left a ring of puncture wounds all around his neck. They were bleeding, but they didn’t hurt. In fact, nothing hurt. There was no ache in his back, no twinging from his ribs. There was an arrow wound in his leg, but that didn’t hurt, either. Nor did the slash on his cheek.

  Panic-stricken, he turned and ran away from the black griffin as fast as he could go, dashing into the trees. His wounded leg was weak, but he didn’t let it slow him down much. He ran on until he reached a small pool among the trees and there limped to a stop and fell to his knees by the water’s edge. He splashed his face and then drank, and it helped to clear his head. As the water stilled, he looked down into it and saw his face reflected back at him.

  His own eyes stared into his, and he, too, became still, taking in the face that looked up at him.

  He looked the same—and yet different. His face was still pale, with black eyes and a black beard, and black curls hanging over his forehead. He looked dirty and his face was gaunt and thin, making it appear even more angular than before.

  It was still his face. But there was something wrong with it. Something he couldn’t quite pinpoint that had changed. He did not know what it was, and yet it struck fear into him.

  “What’s going on?” he whispered. “What’s happened to me?”

  He felt different, too. It wasn’t weakness or sickness or pain, but there was something wrong in his body. He patted himself all over again, searching for some sign of it, and again there was something wrong, but he didn’t know what. Something about the feel of his skin and flesh. It was cold, he realised. Colder than it should have been. Then he touched his throat again, feeling the wounds left by the collar a
nd trying to understand why they didn’t hurt.

  They did hurt, he realised suddenly. In fact, all his wounds hurt. But somehow the pain felt faint and unimportant, without the power to distress him.

  He dabbed at the blood on his neck, and once again the feeling of wrongness came over him. It was in his neck, that was it. Whatever was wrong with him was centred around it. He rested his hand on it and kept it there, trying to find it. It was something about how his neck felt to the touch. Something missing.

  That was when he realised. It came upon him slowly, like an old memory, and his face slackened gently in horror. He moved his hand and pressed it into his neck, feeling desperately for the thing that was missing, but in vain. He tried his chest, and then his wrists. Nothing. Not a sign. It simply wasn’t there any more.

  “No,” he moaned. “No! This can’t—this can’t happen!”

  He pounded his fists hard against his chest, but nothing happened. He made himself breathe as fast as he could, until his head spun, but still nothing.

  Arren began to shake. “No,” he whispered. “No!”

  There was a noise behind him. He turned sharply and saw Darkheart standing there, watching him in silence.

  He got up and started toward the griffin, limping on his wounded leg. “What have you done to me?” he screamed. “What have you turned me into?”

  Darkheart drew back a little, confused. “Arren,” he said. “You live. You live.”

  Arren hit him hard in the face. “Give it back!” he yelled. “Change me back!”

  Darkheart retreated under his onslaught, hissing. “Arren,” he said. “Arren!”

  Arren continued to hit him, feeling not the slightest trace of fear. “This is your fault! You monster!” He lunged forward and grabbed the griffin around the neck, squeezing tight, trying to kill him.

  Darkheart kicked him, knocking him off and sending him flying. He landed against the base of a tree but got up almost instantly. “Make it come back!” he shouted, snatching up a stick. “Give it back!”

  Darkheart said nothing. He sat on his haunches and watched the human, uncomprehending.

  “Give it back!” Arren shouted again. “G—” His voice faltered and he fell to his knees, sobbing brokenly. “Oh gods, oh gods, help me, help me.”

  Something touched his head and he looked up. Darkheart was there, crouched in front of him, the wind ruffling his feathers. “Arren,” he said softly.

  Arren shoved him. “Go away,” he said. “Leave me alone.”

  Darkheart did not move. Arren got up and walked away from him, but he followed, not taking his eyes off him.

  Arren snatched up a rock. “Go away!” he screamed, and hurled it. It hit Darkheart on the beak, and he stooped and picked up a handful of others. He pelted the black griffin with them until he backed away, tail lashing. “Get away from me! Go on, go away!”

  At last, Darkheart turned and began to walk off.

  Arren took a few steps forward and threw rocks and sticks with all his might. “And never come back!” he yelled.

  Then the black griffin was gone, and he was alone. He stood still for a few moments, breathing heavily, and then let the rock he held fall out of his hand. There were tears on his face, making his wound sting, but he felt too drained to cry. He wrapped his fingers around his neck, holding on to it gently. The skin was cold and sticky with blood, but those things did not bother him. The thing that struck fear into him, the thing that made him shake and made his stomach churn, was something that wasn’t even there any more.

  His heart was not beating.

  Arren stayed in the forest for some time, not knowing what to do. He didn’t know if he was dead or alive, or even if this was still the real world. Maybe this was the afterlife.

  But it did not look like it. It was too . . . real. And in his heart he knew that it was the world of the living. He was dead, but he hadn’t left it.

  He wandered over the rocks where he had died, and found something lying wedged between two boulders. Orome’s sword. He pulled it out and found that part of the blade had broken off, but the rest was still sharp, and the broken edge was jagged, almost barbed. He made a few experimental swings with it, and then put it into his belt.

  This done, he went back to hide among the trees. Would people still be looking for him?

  Either way, he knew he had to leave. Though where he would go he had no idea.

  There was a terrible silence among the trees, pressing down on him, and suddenly he couldn’t bear to be so alone. He wanted someone to be there, anyone.

  He turned away from the mountain and walked off through the trees, stumbling a little on the slope. Up ahead was Snake Hill, its sides dotted with the houses that made up Idun. He wanted to see his parents again. They had to know that he was all right. He wasn’t afraid of being caught. What would it matter if he was? There was nothing left they could do to him.

  The sun was well up by now, and plenty of people were up and about in the village. Arren ducked behind houses and other pieces of cover to avoid being seen, slowly making his way up the hill toward his parents’ house. He was surprised by how easy it was. For some reason, when he walked his boots made virtually no sound at all. His senses were sharp and alert, perfectly attuned to danger, and he dodged through the village like a hunting cat, unseen and unheard.

  He reached his parents’ home and went around the back, where there were some crates stacked. He hid behind those until he was sure the coast was clear, and then pushed the back door open and slipped in through it, closing it behind him as quietly as he could. Safe.

  He paused there to catch his breath and then walked toward the doorway leading into the main room. He could hear voices coming through it, and called out, “Mum! Dad! Are you there?”

  Dead silence fell. Arren entered the room, ducking slightly to get through the door, and there they were, getting up from the table where they had been sitting. His mother froze, staring at him. There were tears on her face, and she was clutching something to her chest: it was the black robe they had given him when he was in prison.

  Arren managed a watery grin. “I—uh—I hope you don’t mind.”

  There was silence and then his mother flew across the room and flung herself on him. Cardock was close behind her, and the two of them hugged their son as tightly as they could. Both of them were crying.

  “Arren!” Annir sobbed. “Oh gods, Arren, Arren, you’re alive, you’ve come back to me, thank gods.”

  Arren didn’t move. He let them embrace him, feeling their warmth all about him, taking away the coldness in his body. He could feel Annir trembling as she sobbed, and he held on to her as well as he could, feeling a peculiar sense of relief. They were here, they were real, they were alive. He was home.

  Cardock let go, his face pale with disbelief. “Arren, how did this happen? Where did you come from?”

  Arren looked past him, and his expression changed when he saw who else was sitting at the table.

  Bran, frozen in horror.

  Arren’s hand went to his belt and pulled out the broken sword. “You,” he snarled, starting forward. “What are you doing here?”

  Bran stood up sharply, knocking over his chair. “No!” he exclaimed. “No, it’s impossible!”

  Arren pointed the sword at him. “I should kill you,” he said.

  Cardock grabbed him by the arm. “Arren, no, don’t. It wasn’t his fault. He came here to tell us what happened. He brought your robe back to us. He said they hadn’t found your body—he came to say sorry to us.”

  Bran’s face was blank with terror. “You’re dead,” he whispered. “You’re dead!”

  “Get out of here, Bran,” Arren hissed. “Stay away from my parents.”

  Bran’s hand went to the hilt of his own sword, but he didn’t draw it. “Arren,” he said, backing away. “There’s—in yer chest. Can’t yeh feel it?”

  Arren glanced down and suddenly noticed the broken shaft of an arrow embedded in his body. He gr
abbed it and pulled it out. The point was sharp and covered with gore; he looked at it blankly and then tossed it aside. Bran moaned softly, and Arren pointed the sword at him again, straight at his face. “Go,” he said again. “Get out of here. You were my friend once; otherwise, I would kill you. Get out and don’t come back. If you tell anyone you saw me, I’ll hunt you down.”

  Bran stayed where he was for a moment, trembling, and then he turned and ran out of the house as fast as he could go. Arren heard the door slam behind him. He turned away and put the sword back into his belt. “Mum, Dad, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want any of this to happen. I had to come back and see you before I left.”

  They were silent for a time, watching him with something almost like fear, but then Annir embraced him again. “I thought you were dead,” she whispered. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  Arren held on to her a little awkwardly. “I’m all right, Mum,” he lied. “Really. I’m fine. See?” He let go of her and pointed at his neck. “I got that collar off.”

  Cardock took him by the shoulder. “Arren, you’re bleeding.”

  “It doesn’t hurt,” said Arren.

  Annir touched him gently. “You should lie down,” she said. “I’ll get some salve.”

  Arren allowed himself to be led to their bed, and took off his tunic so that Annir could attend to his wounds. She put ointment on his neck and chest and covered them with bandages, then rolled up his trouser leg and dressed the second arrow wound, in his shin.

  “There, does that feel better?”

  Arren nodded and sat up. “I’m a mess, aren’t I?” he said.

  Annir was looking at him, her eyes bright with tears. “I don’t care how you look,” she said. “I’ve got my boy back, and that’s all that matters to me.”