The Dark Griffin

by K J Taylor

  Rannagon looked at her, and then at Arren.

  Arren looked back, his glazed expression fading away. “Kill me, then,” he said. “Finish it.”

  “Shoa was right,” Rannagon said. “I trusted you once, but I was a fool. A blackrobe will always be a blackrobe, no matter where he lives or how.” He raised the sword. “Goodbye, Arren Cardockson.”

  Arren closed his eyes. He could feel Shoa’s talons moving away from his throat, so that Rannagon would have a clear strike. Let me die, he thought. Please just let me die.

  But then, quite suddenly, as he lay and waited for death to come, he felt a strange energy rush up inside him. It was hot and vital and powerful, like fresh blood moving through his veins. It felt like love.

  His eyes snapped open, and he screamed. “Arren! Arren!”

  “Kill him!” Shoa shouted.

  Rannagon moved his feet, balancing himself, and then brought the sword down as hard as he could.

  A screech came from overhead, shattering the night. Rannagon, caught unawares, deflected his blow at the last moment. His sword hit the edge of the balcony and bounced off, nearly wrenched from his grasp. He looked up and saw the huge dark shape fall out of the sky.

  It collided with Shoa with the force of a falling tree, bowling her over. She smashed through the doorway and back into the study, and as Rannagon turned, too stunned to even raise his sword, he saw the yellow griffin in the firelight, grappling with a huge black-and-silver monster. The two of them grappled with each other, hissing and snapping their beaks, talons tearing great holes through feather and hide.

  Rannagon ran forward. “Shoa! No!”

  The two griffins pulled apart and rested a moment, crouched low and snarling. Shoa moved to protect her partner, and the black griffin looked at the door to the balcony and then started toward it, his fight apparently forgotten.

  He had seen Arren.

  Man and griffin stood a little way apart, regarding each other, and then Darkheart stretched his beak out toward Arren and held it there. Arren reached up tentatively and touched it. Darkheart stiffened slightly, but he did not attack. He sat very still for a moment, and then he came forward and touched his beak to Arren’s chest, his claws kneading at the ground. Arren put his hands on the griffin’s head, touching the feathers, and Darkheart closed his eyes and purred softly.

  But this strange moment of peace did not last. Shoa rose up, spreading her wings. “Be gone, monster!”

  Darkheart turned sharply and crouched low, shoulders raised. “Mine!” he hissed. “Mine!”

  Shoa rushed at him. The black griffin was ready; he reared up onto his hind legs and latched his claws into her chest and throat. Her hind legs came up and kicked him in the belly, tearing off lumps of fur and skin. Darkheart sank his beak into the back of her skull and twisted it, making her scream.

  Arren looked past the two griffins and saw Rannagon. He was near the door, sword in hand, obviously torn between fleeing and staying to help Shoa.

  “You stay where you are, Rannagon!” he shouted, and ran at him, dodging around the two griffins. Shoa tried to strike him, but Darkheart rammed into her flank, knocking her aside. She landed awkwardly on her side, and he pushed her onto her back, tearing into her belly with his beak and talons. Shoa’s claws sank into his head and face, but she had already lost. Darkheart knew how to kill other griffins. His beak ripped through the skin on her belly and the thin layer of muscle beneath, and her bowels slid out, bloody and glistening.

  Rannagon started to run forward. “No!”

  Arren slammed into him, head-on, knocking him back. Rannagon staggered backward and nearly fell, but he regained his balance and launched himself at Arren.

  Orome’s broken blade deflected Rannagon’s, and Arren drove forward recklessly, swinging the weapon with all his might. He forgot all notion of blocking, or even aiming, and hit Rannagon in the shoulders, arms and chest. Rannagon, panic-stricken, started to retreat.

  “Lord Rannagon!”

  The shout had come from the other side of the door leading into the rest of the Eyrie.

  Someone thumped on it, hard.

  “Lord Rannagon, are you all right? Lord Rannagon!”

  Rannagon raised his sword. “I’m being attacked!” he shouted back. “It’s the—”

  Arren thrust. The blade was aimed straight at Rannagon’s chest, but before it connected, the old lord’s own sword lashed out. There was a loud metallic crack, and then Arren was backing away, staring blankly at the shattered hilt in his hand.

  The door broke open, and two people and a griffin burst through. Rannagon glanced quickly at them, and it was that gesture which sealed his doom.

  Arren ran straight at him, screaming Eluna’s name, and hit him in the throat with the hilt of Orome’s sword. A long shard of metal still jutted from the spot where the blade had once been joined, and it drove straight into Rannagon’s neck, through the skin, through the flesh and into the great vein in his throat. Arren wrenched the hilt sideways, tearing the wound open wide, and Rannagon fell, his sword dropping out of his hand.

  Silence reigned in the room for what felt like a long time. Shoa lay dead, her body torn wide open by Darkheart’s beak. Rannagon was still moving, but only a little. Blood gushed from his throat in a torrent, and a few moments later he stilled.

  Arren, standing over him with the bloodied sword hilt still in his hand, saw the people in the doorway. Erian, with Senneck. And Flell.

  Her eyes were fixed on his face. “Arren, what have you done?” she whispered.

  Arren threw the hilt away. “I have had my revenge,” he said. He stepped forward and picked up Rannagon’s sword, and pointed it at Erian. “If you think your father was a great man, then ask yourself why he betrayed me. And ask yourself why even death did not stop me from killing him,” he said.

  Erian’s face was pale and he was breathing hard. “I—I—”

  Arren laughed. “And you call yourself a griffiner.”

  Senneck stalked toward him. “Murderer,” she rasped.

  There was a movement from behind Arren, and Darkheart appeared. He darted forward and struck Senneck across the face with his talons, violently knocking her aside. She got up and started to hiss at him, but he was larger than her, and his look was murderous.

  “Mine,” he said, starting toward her. “Mine!”

  Arren turned away and went to the fireplace. He picked up a fallen book and held it over the flames until the pages caught. “You should have believed me,” he said to Flell, and threw the burning book across the room. It landed on the heap of papers that had fallen from the overturned table, and they caught and began to burn fiercely. A spark landed on a pool of oil spilt by a broken lamp, and flames billowed toward the roof, setting fire to the bookshelf and the tapestries on the walls. In an instant, half the room was ablaze.

  Arren pointed at Flell and Erian. “Run,” he said, then turned and ran out onto the balcony. Darkheart paused a moment, still watching Senneck, and then went after him. Out on the balcony, he snatched Arren up by the back of his robe and then took off with a single powerful leap, flying up and into the night and taking Arren with him.

  Back in the study, Flell tried to go toward her father’s body. Erian grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her back.

  “No!” she shouted. “I have to—”

  “It’s no good,” Erian snapped. “There’s nothing you can do for him. We have to get out of here.”

  Flell had to be dragged away by her half-brother. He hustled her down the corridor, shouting as loudly as he could: “Fire! Fire! Wake up! Get out! Fire!”

  But most of the Eyrie’s occupants would never hear his warnings. As the fire spread, burning up through the roof of Rannagon’s study and into the level above, there was nothing anyone could do to put it out. Most of the building’s interior was wood, and all anyone could do now was run.

  As Flell ran, pulled along by Erian’s desperate grip, she could hear the shouts of alarm comi
ng from all around. People were waking up, and griffins as well. They were confused, but they could smell the smoke was wafting down the corridor behind them. Senneck ran ahead, clearing a path, and the three of them reached the great council chamber. From there, they made their escape.

  When they reached the street outside, Flell looked up and could see the flames billowing out of Rannagon’s balcony. They were huge and fierce, burning so high they touched the balcony above it, which was already beginning to catch. Griffins were flying overhead, screeching and bewildered.

  She started to sob. “What are we going to do? What are we going to do?”

  Erian hugged her. “It’s all right, Flell. We’re safe.”

  “But Father!”

  Erian looked up at the Eyrie, his eyes fixed on the burning balcony, which was already beginning to crumble. “He’ll pay for this, Flell,” he said. “I swear it by my father’s blood. The blackrobe will pay. If I have to hunt him for the rest of my life, I will.”

  “And I shall help you,” said Senneck.

  That night, the Eyrie burned.

  There was no large source of water nearby, no way to smother the flames. They spread through first one floor and then the next, until flames were showing in every window and balcony. There were dozens of griffiners inside, and nearly all of them were asleep. They had no chance.

  Flell, standing in the street below, where the other survivors had gathered, could hear the screams. She saw griffins fly up, alone, having left their partners behind in their panic, and then circle overhead, calling for them. Some went back in, but of those most never re-emerged.

  Erian was trying his best to help organise the people who had escaped, shouting his explanation to bewildered and frightened griffiners. “The blackrobe did it! He’s alive! He murdered my father! Someone has to go after him!”

  Many griffiners had already taken to the sky and were flying off in all directions, trying to spot the fleeing black griffin. But their search was in vain. In the dark, a black griffin would be nearly invisible. Arren had escaped.

  And Flell cried. She held on to Erian, letting his warm body comfort her, and sobbed as though her heart would break. Thrain came from her house, where she had left her, and rubbed herself against Flell’s leg, cheeping her concern. Flell picked her up and held her close, her tears wetting the little griffin’s feathers.

  Erian put his arm around her. “Flell, it’s all right. It’s all right. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

  “Arren, how could you?” Flell whispered between sobs. “How could you?”

  “He’s evil,” Erian rasped. “Like the rest of his kind. He’ll die for this.”

  After a time, Flell stilled and her sobs died down. “Erian . . .”

  “Yes, Flell?”

  “Erian, I—I’m—I . . .”

  “What is it, Flell?” said Erian. “It’s all right, you can tell me. I’m your brother, remember?”

  Flell stared at the ground. “Erian, I’m pregnant.”

  Arren dangled from Darkheart’s beak, unable to see a thing. He could tell they were high up; the air was cold as ice, and there was a strong wind. The collar of his robe had pulled tight around his neck, half-choking him, but he didn’t really notice. Flell’s horrified face filled his vision. Arren, what have you done?

  Far below and behind him, he could see the faint light of the burning Eyrie. It would all be destroyed, he realised. He hoped so.

  Rannagon’s sword was still clutched in his hand. He thought of letting it go, but something made him keep hold of it. And why not? It was his now. He’d fought for it.

  The back of his robe started to tear. He felt himself slipping and grabbed blindly with his free hand, catching hold of one of Darkheart’s talons. The griffin’s paw twitched slightly, and then he suddenly let go. For one heart-stopping moment Arren was hanging in midair, and then Darkheart wrapped his talons around him and clutched him to his chest, holding him firmly in place with his face pressed into his feathers. They were warm and soft, almost comforting, and he did not struggle. Darkheart wasn’t going to kill him. He knew that well enough by now.

  They flew on toward dawn. Arren had no idea what direction they were going in, but he knew they were leaving Eagleholm far behind, and that was enough. He slept briefly, lulled by the steady beating of the black griffin’s great heart, and when he woke up again it was dawn. Darkheart was flagging; he was flying lower now, and his wing beats seemed clumsy. He began his descent even as Arren woke up, and finally landed in a small clearing in a forest. There he put him down and lay beside him, breathing slowly and heavily.

  Arren was stiff and chilled, but he sat up, groaning, and inspected his surroundings.

  There was nothing but trees all around, tall and strong, their leaves sighing in the early-morning breeze. Birds sang here and there.

  He looked at Darkheart. The black griffin turned his head toward him and looked at him almost placidly.

  Arren dared touch his beak, and Darkheart merely sighed.

  “Thank you,” said Arren. “For what you did. You saved my life.”

  Darkheart’s eyes were alert. “We fly,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Arren. “We fly. Where are we?”

  “Arren,” said Darkheart.

  “Yes, Darkheart?”

  Darkheart closed his eyes and laid his head on his forepaws. “Arren,” he muttered again.

  “Why did you do it, Darkheart?” said Arren. “Why did you come after me?”

  Darkheart looked up again. “Mine,” he said. “You . . . mine.”

  “I don’t belong to you,” said Arren. “I don’t belong to anyone. Not even myself. You can’t own somebody.”

  Darkheart got up and pulled Arren toward him, covering him with his wing. “Mine,” he said. “My human. Mine.”

  Arren almost pulled away, but then he stilled. “You can go wherever you like,” he said. “I won’t stop you.”

  “Home,” said Darkheart.

  “There isn’t one,” said Arren. “Not for us. They took our homes from us, Darkheart.” He looked up at the sky, searching for any hint of griffins’ wings. Nothing. Just a clear open sky, lit by dawn. “They’ll be after us,” he said softly. “Maybe not now, but soon. They want to kill us.”

  Darkheart snorted. “I fight. You fight.”

  “Yes. We can do that, can’t we?”

  Arren got up and walked around the clearing. He was still limping a little, but he would be all right. Darkheart lay and watched him carefully, not letting him out of his sight.

  Arren stopped and looked back at him. The black griffin’s presence was still menacing. He was still dangerous. He was still a man-eater. And yet . . .

  Arren closed his eyes. What did that matter? How did it make him any different?

  “We’re murderers,” he said, looking up. “Both of us. You and I are the same.”

  Darkheart seemed to understand. “Dark griffin. Dark human,” he said.

  “Yes, Darkheart,” said Arren, going to him and touching his head. “Both of us.”

  “Where . . . we go?” said Darkheart.

  Arren knew. “North,” he said.

  It had to be north.

  He paused, looking at the griffin. “You don’t have a name, do you?” he said.

  “Name?” said Darkheart.

  “Yes,” said Arren. He touched his chest. “Arren.”

  “Darkheart,” said Darkheart.

  “No. Darkheart isn’t a name. It’s a label. They called me blackrobe. So you’re Darkheart? Darkheart and Blackrobe, is that what we are? No.” Arren touched the black griffin on the head, feeling the silver feathers while he thought.

  “Skandar,” he said at last. “Your name is Skandar.”

  Darkheart looked up at him. “Skan . . . dar?”

  “Yes. It’s a Northern name. A warrior’s name. Skandar. Not Darkheart. Skandar.”

  Darkheart looked thoughtful. He lay down to rest, muttering. “Skandar. Skandar.”
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  Arren watched him, and couldn’t help but smile. “Arren and Skandar.”

  Later, when Skandar was asleep, Arren sat down by the griffin’s flank, with the sword on the ground in front of him. He touched it gingerly. It was worn, but sharp and well made. I’ll keep it, he thought. I’ll need it. One day, when they catch up with me, I’ll need it.

  He put one hand to the side of his neck and kept it there for a long time, concentrating.

  Nothing. No heartbeat.

  I’m the man without a heart.

  A cold determination came over him. He pulled the robe more tightly over his shoulders and snuggled against Skandar’s flank. North. They would go to the North. There were hundreds of people there who looked like him. He would not be noticed.

  I’ll find my parents, he thought. I’ll get them to safety. And after that, I’ll look for a way to change back. Something that will make my heart start beating again.

  For a moment, he thought of Rannagon. And Flell. And the burning Eyrie. Had he really done those things? Had he?

  He looked at his hands. There was blood on them, and more on his robe. Murderer, his mind whispered.

  “No,” he said aloud. “No. A killer survives.”

  Griffiners were not quite human. Many people said so. After so long living among griffins, they became griffish themselves. And griffins killed. For food, for pride, for revenge. For survival. They did not understand weakness or timidity. His old self—the man he had been—was completely alien to them. Why should he be weak and submissive, always looking to others for approval, always afraid of himself and his own nature? He had killed, and it had been right. Not good, not kind, but right for him. The only way. A griffin’s way.

  I will go to the North, he thought again. I’ll find a place to hide.

  He looked at Skandar. The griffin’s huge sides moved in and out in time with his deep, rumbling breaths, but in his sleep he looked almost peaceful.

  And I won’t go there alone.

  About the Author

  “A lot of fantasy authors take their inspiration from Tolkien. I take mine from G. R. R. Martin and Finnish metal.”