by K J Taylor
Saeddryn laughed. “Why? Why would we want t’do that when ye’re so much more useful alive? Nerth.” She nodded to him, and he came toward her, holding a large sack.
Saeddryn accepted it and reached inside. “We’ve devised a punishment,” she said. “For ye. As a reminder. As a sign to those who see ye. Garnoc?”
Garnoc nodded grimly and turned to look at the brazier burning beside him. “It’s ready.”
“Good. Iorwerth?”
Iorwerth stepped up and took a griffiner from the group, hauling him forward by the shoulder. He came readily enough, obviously realising it was futile to resist.
“Ye can do it now, Garnoc,” said Saeddryn.
Garnoc grinned nastily. As the griffiner was brought to the brazier, he took the man by the wrist. With his other hand, he pulled a long metal rod out of the coals. On the end was a small symbol, glowing red hot. The griffiner’s eyes widened at the sight of it, and he tried to break free, but Iorwerth grabbed his other arm and twisted it behind his back.
“Don’t worry,” said Garnoc. “It won’t hurt forever. Just a whole lot, for a long time.”
He pressed the brand into the back of the man’s hand and held it there.
The victim screamed, long before the smell of burning flesh had begun to rise. The people nearby grimaced in disgust, some rubbing their noses.
Finally, Garnoc withdrew the brand and put it back into the brazier. “Collar’s next,” he said, and the man was hauled away to stand in front of Saeddryn again.
She reached into the sack and pulled out a heavy metal ring. A slave collar, still hanging open, the spikes inside it sharp but crudely made, so that they were rough and serrated at the edges.
Saeddryn smiled coldly. “I’m sure ye’ll be able to live with it,” she said. “An’ if it gets infected . . . what’s one less slave?”
The man screamed. “No! Don’t!”
His pleading was in vain. Saeddryn stepped forward and snapped the collar shut around his neck. The spikes went deep, and stayed there.
“Take him away,” she said, waving a dismissive hand, and the man was led, shaking with pain and shock, back to his place, while the crowd jeered.
“Next!” said Saeddryn.
And so, despite their screams and threats, the griffiners who had survived the sack of Malvern were brought forward one by one to receive Saeddryn’s punishment. A brand and a collar each.
When it was done, Saeddryn confronted the row of bleeding, shivering griffiners, some of them openly sobbing.
“Now ye’ve suffered the pain yer kind inflicted on generations of our people,” she told them. “Now ye’ve felt our humiliation. Now listen.”
They listened, most of them pale with fear.
“I’d keep ye,” said Saeddryn. “An’ see what work I could get out of ye, but everyone knows griffiners don’t know the meanin’ of hard work. Without yer precious power, without slaves t’care for ye, ye’re useless.”
One of them broke down. “Please don’t kill us,” he sobbed. “Please! For pity’s sake!”
Saeddryn stroked Aenae’s sleek shoulder. “Why bother?” she said. “No. My friends an’ I have decided. Ye—all of ye—are banished. Get back on yer griffins an’ fly out of here, an’ don’t stop flyin’ until the Northgates are behind ye. An’ never come back.” She leant closer, her face twitching with passion. “Go back to the South, sun worshippers.”
Later, once the griffiners had fled, Saeddryn turned to the crowd of baying slaves.
“Now!” she yelled. “I bid ye come t’us. One by one, come an’ be given yer reward for what ye have done. In the name of great Lord Arenadd and the Mighty Skandar, come!”
And the slaves came. One by one, they came.
Garnoc was ready for them. Iorwerth and Torc would hold each slave by the shoulders to steady him, while the big Northerner struck, just once, with a heavy metal hammer. And one by one the collars broke and fell away. One by one, the slaves were set free.
And, somewhere, lost and utterly alone, Arenadd spun through the darkness.
But no. Not alone. Never alone. Never.
The Night God hovered above him, whispering his name. Arenadd. Arenadd. Sweet Arenadd.
Arenadd said nothing. He turned away from her in the void, crying for his Skade, not knowing or caring about the Night God or the North or even Skandar.
Arenadd. Arenadd, you have done so well. I am so happy. Arenadd, listen . . .
“Go away!” Arenadd screamed. “Leave me alone! I never want to see you again, understand?”
But she would not leave. Arenadd, she said.
Arenadd sobbed harder. “Skade is dead. My heart is dead. I have nothing left.”
You have me, said the Night God. And you always shall.
“Why should I care?”
Because you have done my will, and you have fulfilled all your promises. She laughed—a light, joyful laugh. My strength returns, Arenadd! My people are rising! Their souls have awakened once more; their pride has come back! The North is free! And you have done this, Arenadd, my sweet Arenadd. You have done this for me, and for them. I am so grateful to you.
He turned on her, his eyes burning with insanity. “Then kill me,” he said. “If you’re grateful to me, kill me! Let me die! Please, kill me.”
Arenadd, I cannot do that.
“Of course you can’t,” he snarled. “I’m already dead. Leave me, then.”
I shall not, she said. Arenadd, why do you rage?
“Skade is dead! Don’t you understand, you heartless witch? She’s dead. The only woman I ever loved is dead. You should have protected her! Why didn’t you do something?”
I cannot give life, she said. You know that. I can only take it away.
“Then you wanted her to die?” said Arenadd. “Then you willed it?” But his rage couldn’t last. He wanted to scream at the Night God, to vent all the horror inside him and free himself from it forever. But he didn’t have the will. As he shouted at her, his voice broke and he collapsed, sobbing again.
Come, the Night God whispered. Let me comfort you.
Arenadd no longer had the strength to resist. He pressed himself against her, and she held him, embracing him as Skade might have done. Her touch was icy cold, but it soothed him.
My poor, sweet child, she said. My Arenadd, my love. You have fought so bravely, so long. You have given all you have.
Arenadd relaxed into her as he cried. “Skade. Oh, Skade. Why?”
Death is a mystery, said the Night God. Like life.
“Where is she?” said Arenadd. “Where did she go?”
Skade was a woman, but she had the spirit of a griffin, said the Night God. Like all griffins, she will become a part of the land and its magic forever.
“No,” said Arenadd. He sobbed harder. “No. Not that. Don’t let her fade away. Please. I want to see her again. I want—”
Aaahhh . . . the Night God sighed, her breath a cold night breeze. Arenadd, in return for what you have done and as a favour to Skade, who helped you so faithfully, I shall grant that wish. I shall gather her soul to me and take it into the heavens as a star. When you look upward at night, she will be there by my eye, looking down upon you.
Arenadd shuddered. “Thank you . . . master.”
The Night God was still for a long time. Finally, she stirred. And now I think it is time for you to awaken, Arenadd.
Arenadd tensed. “No. I don’t want to go back.”
You have left your body helpless, said the Night God. Your friends think you are dead. If you do not hurry, they shall burn or bury you.
“Good,” Arenadd said flatly. “Let them do it. Let me stay dead, forever.”
She laughed softly. Oh, Arenadd.
Hope rose inside him. “I can stay? As a reward—you’ll let me stay here? You’ll let me sleep forever? You’ll give me peace?”
The Night God rose. You still have work to do, Arenadd, she said, and pushed him away from her.
A
nd Arenadd fell. The void rushed past him, and he saw the Night God above, her light still bright but growing further and further away.
“Curse you!” he screamed.
His fall ended in a sickening thud.
Arenadd tried to move, and when he did he felt as if there was a terrible weight dragging him down.
He knew it was his body. His cursed body.
It jerked into a sitting position, driven by his will and by the Night God’s magic. The eyes opened.
Arenadd awoke.
He lifted a hand and rubbed it over his face; it felt cold and stiff. But it was becoming more supple already. He took his hand away and looked around, wondering where he was.
He was sitting on a stone slab in a darkened room, and though it was too dark to see much, he could sense other slabs around him. Each one had an occupant.
Arenadd slid off his slab and onto the floor, and stretched. His back ached, and the wound Erian’s sword had left was full of dull, burning pain.
Arenadd rubbed it and started to look for a way out of the room.
There was a door not far away. He pushed it open and went through.
Beyond was a corridor; it looked vaguely familiar, and Arenadd followed it. He wasn’t aware of it, but he still moved like a predator.
The corridor took him upward, into what he eventually realised was the Council’s Tower. It was still standing, then.
There didn’t seem to be anyone around. When he reached the entrance to the councillors’ chamber, he could hear noise coming from the other side. He stopped and pressed his ear against the door and heard voices. Hundreds of voices, thousands of voices. Human, and griffin as well.
He was about to straighten up and open the door when he heard one voice in particular, rising above the crowd. Eventually the crowd went quiet, listening.
“. . . shall take axes and fire to this cursed place.”
Saeddryn.
Arenadd listened more closely.
“As the great Arenadd would have wished, we shall tear this city apart,” Saeddryn declared. “And when we are done, we shall make true Northern homes on this spot.”
Arenadd straightened up. “As the great Arenadd would have wished?” he repeated to himself. “Nice, Saeddryn. Very nice. But perhaps I can help you there.”
He checked himself to make sure he looked presentable: fortunately, someone had washed him and put a clean robe on him. He smiled slightly in satisfaction, pushed the door open and went in.
They didn’t see him at first, but he saw Saeddryn, standing on the platform with Aenae and still speaking to the crowd. “. . . shall make this land ours again!” she said. “Once Malvern has been levelled—”
Arenadd strode toward her. “Excuse me, cousin,” he said. “But I don’t think that is what I said I wanted.”
Saeddryn stopped dead, and turned. Her eye widened in horror. “Arenadd!”
Screams and shouts came from the gallery. Around the platform, Garnoc, Iorwerth, Torc and the others gaped at Arenadd as if they were seeing a ghost.
Arenadd pushed past them and climbed onto the platform. “Hello, Saeddryn. I was wondering if you could tell me—”
She pulled away from him, openly frightened. “Arenadd. How . . . how . . .”
Arenadd sighed. “The Night God has sent me back, Saeddryn. It would seem she still has more for me to do. Where’s Skandar?”
“Wh—” Saeddryn, pale faced, managed to pull herself together. “He’s alive, but unconscious. We don’t know if he’ll wake.”
Arenadd nodded. “He will.” He glanced down and saw his sickle hanging from her belt. He reached down and took it. “Ah, there it is. Thank you for looking after it. Now.” He turned to face the crowd, which had begun to shout his name. “I’m sorry I haven’t been here for a while,” he told them. “But I’m back, and I feel much better now.”
The crowd had risen to its feet. “Arenadd! Arenadd! Lord Arenadd!”
Arenadd glanced at Saeddryn, then looked at the crowd again.
Then he knelt. “My friends,” he told them. “My followers . . . you have won this war for me, and won your own freedom. I, Arenadd Taranisäii, have done everything in my power to help you. Now I have come back, to give you my thanks. And to offer you my service again.” Silence had fallen, and he raised his head. “My people. Men and women of the North . . . I am yours. What would you have me do? What do you want from me? I am your servant now. Give me my orders.”
Silence. Deep, dark silence.
Then a voice came. Not from the crowd.
“King Arenadd!” it shouted.
Iorwerth. He stepped forward, his fist raised. “King Arenadd!” he said again. “King of the North! King of Darkmen!”
The crowd heard him, and they took up the cry—more and more of them, louder and louder, until the chamber rang with it.
“King Arenadd! King Arenadd. Taranisäii! King of the North! King of Tara!”
Arenadd felt a shudder of misery inside him. He stood up. “Then so be it!” he called back, raising his sickle in the air. “If you would have me be your king, then I shall be.”
Saeddryn paused for a moment, obviously taken aback. But then she came to Arenadd’s side and took hold of his other hand, raising it into the air along with her own. “King Arenadd!” she shouted. “We shall make him king!”
Outwardly, Arenadd’s face was full of triumph and pride. Inside, his dead heart shrivelled with despair. Gods save me, he thought.
When the crowd had begun to quieten, Arenadd looked quickly at them. He knew that whatever he said in the next few moments would be remembered forever. Later on there would be arguments and debates, but for this brief time they would do whatever he said.
“My cousin Saeddryn said we would destroy this city,” he said. “I heard her as I came in, saying we would raze Malvern to the ground.”
“Aye,” said Saeddryn, her eye shining. “Malvern will be destroyed, along with every one of the cities the Southerners built, an’ we shall live the way darkmen were meant to live, among the trees an’ the mountains.”
Arenadd laughed. “Destroy it?” he said. “Destroy Malvern, after we fought so hard to win it? No!”
Saeddryn paused. “What, sir?”
“I’m not going to destroy Malvern!” said Arenadd. “I’m going to live in it!”
The crowd had gone quiet.
“We will not destroy Malvern,” Arenadd called. “We will make it our own. This is a good city, strong and well built. I will make this the seat of my government, along with all the cities the griffiners built. Tara will be a great land under our rule, and we will show the world that we can be as wealthy and powerful as any one of the griffiner states in the South. That is what we will do!”
In the cheering that followed, Arenadd turned to look at his councillors. Iorwerth, Garnoc and Torc both looked excited. But Saeddryn, Cai and Nerth looked utterly dismayed.
Arenadd ignored them. He had known some of them wouldn’t like it, but they would have to put up with it. Tara would never survive unless it adopted the ways of its neighbours and learnt how to defend itself. The old ways were dead. This was the way of the future. The griffiners had been right about that, at least.
Afterward, when he had finished making his proclamations, Arenadd slipped into the shadows and escaped from the councillors’ chamber. Unseen, he darted away through the corridors until he had found Skandar.
The dark griffin had flown to the top of the Council’s Tower, into the massive nest that had once belonged to his father. Even though he could not have known that this was where the Mighty Kraal had lived, some part of him must have sensed that this, the highest and best of the griffin roosts in the Eyrie, was now his by rights.
Arenadd walked through the marble-lined audience chamber, admiring its design. Yes, this would be a good place to live. The Eyrie Mistress’ old bedroom beyond it looked comfortable enough. But he would have to replace most of the furniture. No matter.
He
passed through the archway and into the nest, and there was Skandar, curled up in the straw as though asleep.
Arenadd went to him. “Skandar. Dear old Skandar.”
Skandar’s massive flanks rose and fell with each breath. There were deep wounds on the back of his neck and on his belly, but Arenadd knew he would survive them. After all, few griffins were as tough as a wild griffin, and Skandar had been blessed by the moon.
Arenadd sat down beside him and patted his shoulder. “You fought so well, Skandar. You’re already a legend.” He made a bitter half-laughing sound. “And so am I.”
He waited by him for a long time, unspeaking.
At last, Skandar stirred, and his eye slid open and focused. “Human,” he croaked.
Arenadd touched his head. “It’s over, Skandar,” he said. “We’ve won.”
Skandar blinked. “Win?”
“Yes. The war is over, and the North is ours. Skandar, listen. They’ve made me king. Your human is a king. And you, Skandar . . . you own this land now. It’s your territory, forever.”
The dark griffin sighed. “Home,” he said. “Home.”
Arenadd felt tears burning in his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “We’re home now, Skandar.”
Home.
King Arenadd Taranisäii the First was crowned two days later in the councillors’ chamber, at night, when the moon shone through the openings in the ceiling.
He stood on the Eyrie Mistress’ platform with Skandar beside him and the council standing in a ring around them, while Saeddryn began the ceremony, speaking the ancient Northern words that had been passed down through generations but had not been used in hundreds of years.
Up in the gallery, the witnesses had gathered. Former slaves, former renegades, former vassals, with the unpartnered sitting among them wherever they chose. Now all of them were free citizens of Tara’s new kingdom.
Skandar looked up at the griffins with pride. His fur and feathers were neat and shining with health, and his stance was regal and proud. Gold, silver and copper rings gleamed on his powerful forelegs. He looked like the most magnificent Eyrie Master who had ever lived.
