by K J Taylor
Arenadd unlaced his old pair, holding one up to show the hole in the sole. “Anything’s better than these old things.” He threw them aside and put on the new pair, almost reverentially. “Perfect! And look at this, will you?”
Skade looked at the sole of the boot and saw that the leather had been etched with intricate spiral designs. “Surely you did not ask for that?”
“No, the boot maker did that himself. Still, I’ll leave some interesting tracks behind, eh?”
She couldn’t stop herself from smiling at his almost childish look of pride. “Now all you need is a new sword.”
Arenadd shrugged. “I’ll take one from the armoury before we go, but I’ll probably only need a d—”
He was interrupted by a loud thud from next door, mixed with a scrabble of talons. Half a second later he got up and darted through the archway with shocking speed.
Skandar was in the nest. His tail was lashing violently from side to side, sweeping the straw like a feathered broom. “Griffin come,” he rasped.
Arenadd swore. “How many? How close?”
“One, coming,” said Skandar.
“Show me.”
Arenadd dashed out onto the balcony beside him, and Skandar raised his head skyward, indicating the unmistakeable shape of a griffin flying toward the city.
“Godsdamnit,” Arenadd muttered. “I should have known this would happen. It must be someone coming with official documents or something.”
Skandar raised his wings. “Fight!” he declared. “You, me, fight!”
Arenadd tugged nervously at his beard. “Wait. I have an idea.”
Skandar looked sharply at him. “What do? Fight!”
“They don’t know we’re here,” said Arenadd. “They think the people down here are friends. If we hide and let them land on the balcony here, we can trap them inside.”
Skandar hissed. “Yes. Fight close. No escape.”
“Exactly. Come on, we have to get out of sight.”
Arenadd ran back into the nest, where Skade was waiting uncertainly. “Arenadd, what is happening?”
“Griffin coming,” Arenadd said tersely, sounding more like his partner than he had ever done. “Quick, go and round up some of the others. Tell them there’s one griffin, coming to land on the balcony up here. We’re going to catch them unawares.”
Skade nodded and sprinted out of the room.
Arenadd had expected Skandar to be impatient, and angry over being asked to hold back, and was surprised when the griffin looked at him and said, “Where to wait?”
“In the nest, out of sight by the entrance,” said Arenadd. “I’m smaller than you, so I’ll go out onto the balcony and watch. When they’re close enough, I’ll signal for them to land here. Once I’m sure they’re coming, I’ll come inside, and you and I will wait until they pass us. The moment they’re inside, we’ll block the way out and attack.”
Skandar listened carefully. “Ambush,” he said.
Arenadd nodded and hurried out onto the balcony to check. The griffin was getting closer, but it would be a little while yet. He turned to look at Skandar, who had followed him, keeping well back from the entrance to the balcony. “There’s just one other thing we should do.”
Skandar cocked his head to listen.
“I’d like to keep the human alive,” said Arenadd. “So he can tell us what he knows. Could you try not to kill him?”
Skandar shook his head briskly, ruffling the feathers. “Fight griffin,” he grunted.
“I’ll leave the griffin to you,” Arenadd nodded. “It doesn’t matter if she dies. It’s just the human I want. If Skade and the others get here in time, I’ll get them to help me take him prisoner. It shouldn’t be too difficult, just as long as the griffin doesn’t interfere.”
“I kill,” Skandar said instantly. “Not let hurt you, Arenadd.”
“I trust you,” said Arenadd.
They waited in silence while Arenadd watched the griffin draw ever closer, until they were interrupted by Skade’s return. The silver-haired woman sprinted back into the bedroom, closely followed by half a dozen Northerners, including Saeddryn and Rhodri.
Arenadd ran to meet them and quickly filled them in on the situation. “I want you to get the griffiner,” he finished. “Skandar will fight the griffin; the moment you get the chance, go for the human. Separate him from his partner and drag him out of the nest as fast as you can. The griffin will chase you, but Skandar will be able to stop her. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” said Saeddryn. “Don’t worry, sir, I’ll get ’em workin’ together.”
“Wait in here, out of sight,” Arenadd told her, and hurried back to the balcony.
And not a moment too soon. The griffin looked to have sped up. She was close enough now that he could see that she was indeed female. Her wings beat steadily, and he could see the rusty red colour of them and the grey forelegs, folded beneath her.
Arenadd waved his arms and sent out a call in griffish. “Aaekraee, aaekraee!”—come here, come here!
The griffin heard him and angled herself down, flying toward him. Arenadd continued to wave, waiting as she drew closer and closer and began her descent. At the last possible moment, he bowed and waved his arms in a great beckoning motion and then ducked back inside. He had barely made it back to Skandar’s side before he heard a thud and a scatter of talons on the balcony.
“Human?” a griffish voice called. “Where have you gone?”
Arenadd gritted his teeth and waited, pressing himself against Skandar’s flank.
The griffin called out for him again, then hissed to herself in frustration and came through the entrance and into the nest. She was a fine, large female, and her orange-brown hindquarters neatly complemented her rusty feathers. Her human walked beside her, mostly hidden by her wings.
Skandar didn’t wait for a signal from Arenadd. He stepped forward, blocking the entrance with his body, and raised his wings high, rearing up to make himself look even bigger. “Enemy!” he rasped.
The griffin turned sharply and found herself looking straight into the black griffin’s outstretched talons. She reacted with impressive speed; shoving her human aside to get him out of harm’s way, she lowered her head and breathed a column of red magic straight at Skandar’s exposed underbelly.
Skandar howled in pain and fury. He dropped forward, landing on his forelegs, and charged.
The other griffin met him head-on. They collided with a horrid thud and a screech, and the next instant the two of them were grappling with each other, Skandar hooking his beak into the loose skin on the back of his enemy’s neck while she turned her head, trying to bite at his throat, her talons reaching up to tear into his chest. Skandar let go and darted to the side, aiming for her flank, but she lashed out hard with her wing, knocking him aside. The way out was clear now, and she darted toward it. She stopped just outside the entrance, turning side-on to look back into the nest. Searching for her human.
Skandar, recovering his balance, rushed at her with a snarl and a flurry of wings. He hit her in the flank, hard, his talons cutting deep grooves in her skin and flesh. The impact bowled her over, but it had an equal effect on Skandar. While he stepped backward, shaking his head and hissing, she struggled desperately to get up. But her efforts proved to be her downfall. She found her paws and tried to stand, not realising how close she was to the edge of the balcony. Her hind paw lost its grip, kicking out into space, and she slid backward, rasping frantically and trying to get a purchase with her talons.
Skandar, quick to take advantage, ran at her again and lashed out with his beak, straight at the vulnerable spot on the back of her skull. She reacted quickly, twisting out of the way, but the motion dislodged her grip on the balcony and she fell off it, rolling sideways as she went, one wing flailing at the air.
Skandar didn’t pause to see what happened next. He screeched and launched himself from the edge.
Back inside the nest, Arenadd had not been idle. He kept
well back from the fight, cramming himself into a corner to avoid the two giants. The instant Skandar ran out, however, he shouted for his followers and made straight for the griffiner.
The griffiner, a heavily built man whose clothes were surprisingly simple given his status, had hit the wall hard after his partner shoved him aside. He was struggling to get up, one big hand reaching for his sword.
Arenadd got to him and kicked the weapon out of his hand. The man managed to pull himself into a kneeling position, but he was clearly in no condition to fight.
Arenadd nodded to Saeddryn and the others. “Take him.”
They were on the man in an instant, pinning him face-down on the floor and binding his arms behind his back. He struggled, but Saeddryn dealt him a brutal blow to the back of the head, and he went limp—either unconscious or subdued.
“Don’t kill him, will you?” Arenadd snapped.
“He’s fine, sir,” said Saeddryn. “Help me turn him over, Rhodri.”
They grasped the man’s shoulder and flipped him onto his back. He fell limply, head lolling, his eyes half-closed.
Arenadd looked down at the man’s face, wet with blood on the forehead as it was, and felt as if someone had kicked him in the stomach. The captive was young, a few years older them himself. He had rough square features with a reddish beard outlining his jaw and a fringe of uncombed hair hanging over his forehead. His nose had been broken some time in the past, and his mouth, partly open, showed a missing front tooth.
Arenadd’s expression did not change. It’s Bran, he thought, quite calmly. Bran is a griffiner. And now he’s my prisoner.
Bran was half-conscious when they turned him over, and began to recover his senses as he was being taken out of the room. His head hurt so badly his vision flashed red with every heartbeat, and all the strength had gone out of his limbs. The pain clouded his brain and stopped him from thinking clearly; he could hear perfectly well but couldn’t make much sense of what he was hearing. Everything seemed distorted.
A voice said something, something that sounded like a command. Some part of Bran—the part that was still a guardsman—told him he should be up and obeying the voice, but he couldn’t move. Hands grabbed him by the arms and shoulders and began to drag him away, and he hung from their grip like a broken doll.
He blacked out a short time later and dreamed strange and unconnected dreams, or perhaps they were scraps of memory. He remembered the Red Rat, his favourite tavern—saw a vision of it wavering in front of his eyes, full of light and warmth and faces, two faces, yes, there they were . . . he tried to focus on that, tried to remember. There was Gern, the daft boy, grinning and excited, his mouth moving, waving his hands about in the midst of some story. He was always telling stories, was Gern. He wanted to be a guard some day; he was always talking about that. He liked to boast about the fights he won down at the Arena every day; yes, he never shut up about that.
The other face looked on, smiling, a little bemused, but listening with mock seriousness; with those black eyes that always seemed to be looking somewhere else. He was a quiet one, Arren, and wary—had that look as if a wild animal lived deep inside. Never really trusted anyone, not easily, all the time looking for danger. But he’d always been like that, ever since Bran had first met him that day. A skinny little boy, crumpled on his side with his black hair covering his face, moaning softly in pain. Bran stopped to help him, not sure what to do. The boy was afraid but pleading for help—not with words, but in his face. I fell, he said. I fell. The building . . . from the roof. . . my arm’s hurt.
As Bran had carried him back to his home, the boy, half-delirious with pain and fear, said one other thing. I didn’t fall. Someone pushed me. Someone pushed me off. It hurts . . .
He never did cry, though. That wasn’t Arren’s way. Never was. We have no tears, only ice, he’d said once.
Only ice.
Bran woke up, shivering. He was wet and cold. Ice was his first, addled thought.
His senses seeped back, and he became aware of his surroundings. It was gloomy and the air was still, and the surface he was lying on was hard and rough. Stone, he realised. Not ice.
This was an atmosphere he knew, but how? Where had he felt it before?
He lay very still and tried to think. Cold and poorly lit, stone-lined, dank air. He could sense walls very close to him and knew he was in a confined space.
A cell.
He sat up sharply, or tried to. An instant later something caught around his wrists and he fell back with a gasp of shock, hitting his head on the floor. Pain exploded in his vision yet again, and he gritted his teeth to keep from crying out.
Another thought rushed into his mind. Kraeya!
His memory replayed a vision for him of Kraeya, blood soaking into her feathers, fighting for her life against a huge dark griffin. Kraeya falling from the edge of the balcony, bleeding and injured.
“Oh gods,” he moaned aloud. “Gods no. Not Kraeya.”
He tried to think. Kraeya was gone, and possibly dead or seriously hurt. He was locked up and in chains. Northerners had done it. They had been lying in wait with the black griffin, and they had taken him prisoner.
“Oh gods,” Bran said again. “Oh great Gryphus . . .”
He knew that griffin; he had seen it before, over a year ago, in the Arena at Eagleholm. He remembered seeing it, down in the pit, wings chained, slaughtering criminals as if they were ants to be squashed and then turning on its fellow griffins in a fit of rage while the announcer’s voice echoed over the crowd. Darkheart, the mad wild griffin, who destroyed three entire villages all on his own without ever taking a wound! The biggest griffin ever to fight in the Arena! Captured alive and brought here for your pleasure!
Darkheart, here, and among hostile Northerners. Bran closed his eyes while the inevitable answer came to him.
They had been right. The Bastard had been right. Arren was here, with the dark griffin; he had to be. And these Northerners had to be their followers. Had they conquered the city? Probably. And they had killed Kraeya and taken him captive.
Bran felt a slow tear work its way out of his eye and begin to trickle down his face. Kraeya was dead. Kraeya was gone. And what could they have in store for him? Were they going to kill him, too? But if Arren was their leader . . .
Bran’s fists clenched. No. Arren’s my friend. He wouldn’t do that. He can’t kill me. He’s got to help me.
He repeated that in his head several times, trying to calm himself down while he waited for his head to recover. The pain persisted for some time, however, and he eventually slid into a shallow sleep.
When he woke up he felt a little better and was able to use his chains to haul himself into a sitting position against the nearest wall. He found a jug of water placed within reach, drank some of it and used the rest to clean the crusted blood off his face.
After that, he waited. There was nothing else to do.
Time passed. He had no idea how much time. He dozed and woke again, and the headache gradually went away, until nothing was left but a dull throbbing in the back of his skull.
Finally, the door cracked open and light came in. Bran squinted. “What’s goin’ on? Who are yeh?”
Four tough-looking Northerners entered and silently removed his manacles. Bran knew better than to struggle, and allowed them to chain his hands behind his back with a different set of restraints. He stood up when they indicated for him to do so, and let them lead him out of his cell.
“Where are yeh takin’ me?” he asked.
They made no reply, although one of them smacked him in the side of the head. He winced and fell silent. No doubt he’d find out the answer soon enough.
The trip was a brief one. They took him along a short corridor in what was obviously an underground prison complex and led him into a room at the end of it. There was a heavy wooden table there, bolted to the floor, and a chair, which they forced him to sit in before shackling his wrists to the armrests. There were more shack
les for his ankles, but to his slight relief they didn’t put those on. He sat as still as he could, looking around the room with an increasing sense of dread.
The room was small, stone lined like the cell and sparsely furnished. But there was a brazier by the table, and he could see the long handles of some branding irons poking out of the cold coals inside. He had seen rooms like this before and even used one once. It was a memory he preferred to keep buried.
Two guards stationed themselves on either side of him, while another went to stand by the door. The fourth opened the door; Bran heard that but couldn’t turn his head far enough to see. There was a brief murmur of voices, and then a little gust of air touched his left cheek as someone walked past him. Bran blinked, confused, as the tall shape made its way around the table, partly shrouded in darkness. There had been no sound. There was still no sound. No footsteps, no rustle of cloth. Just a faint swish of air.
The shape sat down in a chair opposite him, face hidden. He saw it shift, turning its head toward the guard by the door. “For the love of gods, could we get some torches in here? I can’t see a cursed thing.”
The guard by the door straightened up. “Yes, sir!”
Bran had stilled when he heard the voice. It had changed, but not completely. He tried to speak, but his own voice failed him.
The guard returned with an armload of torches, and proceeded to put them in the holders around the room and light them. They banished the darkness quickly enough, and Bran found himself staring straight into the face of what had once been his best friend.
It had changed, he saw—changed terribly. It looked older, thinner—almost gaunt. The terrible wound under the right eye had become a thin scar that looked like a pale tear track. The rest of the skin was pale, too, and the eyes were red rimmed. The hair had grown long, and he had a beard now—a neat pointed thing perched on his chin, which made him look sharper and more angular than ever.
But the eyes had changed the most, Bran thought—changed in a way he couldn’t quite define. There was something about the light in them, or the expression. Something that, the more he saw it, the more frightened and despairing he began to feel.
