The Shadow's Heart

by K J Taylor

  The sounds faded away from Laela’s mind. She opened her eyes and saw Oeka’s image rippling outward, losing its shape. Everywhere around her, other images flashed in and out of existence. People, griffins, even objects like tables and chairs. She caught glimpses of people talking, griffins wandering in and out, furniture moving, books being written. And she saw people die, trampling those same books as they fought for their lives and lost them. Blood pooled on the floor and splashed on the walls, then disappeared. She saw all these snatches of the past before they vanished, and Oeka’s fading shape drifted upward through the ceiling and was gone.

  Only Yorath remained, writing away endlessly at his table. But Laela knew she couldn’t do anything for him.

  She left the library silently, closing the door behind her, and went away back up the tower to her own rooms. Yorath was lost, and so was Oeka. Senneck had been right. No griffin was meant to have this kind of power. She had said that Oeka would be destroyed by it, and she had been.

  But as long as Oeka was still alive, Laela knew that Saeddryn would never dare come back into the Eyrie. Not after what had happened last time.

  Laela went through her bedroom, and peeked into Skandar’s. The giant griffin was fast asleep in his straw, exhausted by a hard fight and a long flight. His muscular flanks moved steadily in and out as he breathed, and his huge beak rested on his talons.

  The sight of him made Laela feel better. More confident, at least. As long as she had Skandar and Oeka, she was safe. They would protect her until Kullervo returned, and then they would all work together to destroy Saeddryn once and for all. With the Mighty Skandar beside her, even Saeddryn was barely a threat.

  SEVEN

  WE CAN BE HEROES

  Heath heard Myfina leave, but he was too weak to move, or even call out a goodbye. He had no idea how long he had been lying here, or what might be going on outside. Only the belief that he was under Caedmon’s protection made him feel safe enough not to struggle. He had done his duty, had proven his loyalty, and for now there was nothing more he needed to do. So he let himself slip away, surrendering to the sweating, blurry grip of fever.

  He slept most of the time — or stayed awake and hallucinated. It was often hard to tell the difference. But he saw things either way. He dreamed about his father, who looked like a tall man with a shadow for a face. He saw the Mighty Skandar, but he was tiny: a kitten with wings. A snake slithered over his face, and felt so convincingly cold and smooth that he tried to swat it away. But Myfina came to stop him, and her voice and touch woke him up from what he hadn’t even realised was a dream.

  Sometimes he heard a voice, mumbling a constant stream of gibberish.

  Eventually he realised it was his own.

  In time — he never knew just how much time — the dreams became less real. The fever was receding. He began to sleep — proper, restful sleep that left him feeling stronger when he was awake. Once during that time he became vaguely aware that something was happening — he heard sounds coming from somewhere outside. But they seemed muted, and he dismissed them as another dream and slept again.

  One day, he woke up yet again. But this time it was different. His head felt clear for the first time in … in … however long it had been. He blinked and moved his head; his mouth felt dry and sticky, and he couldn’t see properly. He tried lifting his arms — they moved, but so slowly and weakly that for a while he thought they must have heavy sheets draped over them.

  He lay there for a while, resting and trying to put his mind back together. He dozed briefly, but his body seemed to have had enough sleep at last. His mind must have grown bored of being cloudy too, because it cleared even further, and let him look around. That was when he realised that he could only see out of one eye, but he felt too dopey and sleepy to be shocked by it.

  He lifted a clumsy hand to his face instead. His fingers touched rough cloth. Bandages, he thought. The wound underneath ached savagely. His growing fear only made it worse. What’s happened to my face?

  Ultimately, that fear was enough to make him move. He dragged himself out of bed with a strength that surprised him, and hastily patted himself down. Arms, legs, stomach — all still there, thank goodness. His stomach did feel sore and fallen-in, though. Food would be the cure there. But his face …

  Squinting awkwardly through one eye, he stumbled around the room in search of something reflective, or something edible. He found a stack of clothes left on a table — his own. Someone had put a nightshirt on him at some point.

  He reclaimed his clothes and put them on with fumbling hands. An unpleasant whiff told him that they hadn’t been cleaned, and he grimaced.

  ‘Argh!’

  He waited until the line of pain over his nose and cheek went away, and ate some stale bread that someone had left lying around.

  He felt rather miffed that nobody had been there when he woke up to pat him on the forehead and tell him to rest and so on. He was sure that someone had been there, though maybe he’d only been imagining it was Myfina. Surely she had better things to do. Then again, she’d left, so maybe she’d gone off to do whatever those better things were.

  As it was, there was nobody about. Heath sat down for a while to rest and lace up his boots. Maybe he should go and look around, assuming he wasn’t hideously deformed now and people wouldn’t just run away. He should probably look at himself first.

  There were no mirrors around, of course; they were so expensive that usually only high-ranking griffiners owned them. But when Heath checked the inside pocket of his tunic, he found his own precious mirror still there.

  Rather than hideous, he looked slightly ridiculous. The bandages made a white stripe right across his face, covering his eye, his nose and one corner of his mouth. They looked clean, at least. He supposed he should probably leave them on, but … the fear over what might be underneath was too much to resist.

  Very carefully, hesitating when the pain threatened to flare up again, he peeled the bandages away.

  The wound began on the bridge of his nose, dangerously close to the corner of his left eye, and ended on his cheek. It was swollen and red, crusted with yellowy scabs, but it was much smaller than he had expected. More importantly, it didn’t itch and burn any more. He rubbed cautiously at it, and winced as a scab broke away and blood appeared. But it was blood, at least, clean blood. The wound would leave a scar, but the infection was gone. He should recover. And even if it would mean having a big scar on his face … well, it would come with a good story at least. How many other people could say they had been scarred by the Shadow That Walked? Not many living people, definitely.

  Feeling much better, he put the bandage aside and smoothed down his clothes. He should find some clean ones, before he went to find Caedmon and find out what was going on.

  His relieved feeling and simple plan stayed with him as he made for the door. But both of them were torn away when he trod in something sticky. He glanced down and saw a patch of something on the floor, something dark and reddish brown. It almost looked like …

  … blood.

  Heath’s skin prickled. He turned quickly and saw more of the stuff, making a trail past his bed. It led to the next bed along — that was empty, but the sheets were rumpled and stained. And there was more than enough blood around for him to know that whoever had shed it hadn’t got off that bed under their own power.

  Heart fluttering, he made for the door and opened it.

  There was a corpse in the hallway.

  Heath’s heart started to flutter. He didn’t stop to look more closely at the body; the smell was enough to tell him it wasn’t about to get up again. There were more dead people further on, lying on the floor or propped up against the walls. He turned a corner and sunlight hit his face. But it wasn’t coming from a window. Someone — something — had torn a hole in the wall. Icy wind stirred his hair as he skirted around the crumbling gap in the floor. From here, he had a magnificent view of the city. But it only took a glance to tell him what
had happened.

  Columns of smoke rose into the air from several different places, drifting apart as griffins flew through it. Dozens of griffins. He saw them everywhere, perching on rooftops, flying over the walls, walking through the streets. None of them had riders. Heath knew there were a handful of unpartnered griffins living in Skenfrith. But this many …

  ‘The Unpartnered,’ he mumbled aloud. ‘Oh no …’

  The fear grew in him, dull and numbing. He moved on through the tower, hurrying now despite his spinning head. But everywhere he went he saw the same things, more and more of them. Dead people, lying where they had fallen. Furniture shattered, floors torn up, walls and doors broken down. Blood everywhere. He even came across one or two dead griffins, and those were the worst. Those were the first corpses that he saw torn open and mutilated, their ribcages stripped and poking out through their withered hides like teeth. Something had been eating them, and he knew exactly what.

  ‘Oh gods …’

  He stopped by every dead human he found, feeling sick to his stomach, and the fear grew and grew that sooner or later he would find one that he recognised. Caedmon, or Myfina, or even Lady Isolde, who hated him. And if Skenfrith was destroyed then they must be here, somewhere, unless they had been eaten as well.

  Horror, and the lingering traces of fever, nearly made him vomit. But he took several deep breaths and went on. He knew what he had to do. If anyone here was left alive then they might need his help. If not, then he had to escape the city. Staying where he was would mean death.

  Searching the whole tower took a long time, especially since had to stop and rest every so often, but he managed it eventually. He didn’t find anyone. The only living thing he saw was a griffin. Thank the Night God, it was asleep, and he managed to sneak away without waking it up.

  That was all. No Caedmon, no Myfina, no Saeddryn. He did find some bodies he recognised — some he knew by name, some only by sight. Caedmon’s followers, all of them, and some his councillors, all torn apart by talons and beaks.

  A terrible loneliness and despair came over Heath. Was he the only one? The only survivor, the only living human being in this ruined tower? The only one of Caedmon’s friends left?

  No, he told himself. Caedmon wasn’t here, and that meant he could still be alive. Heath vowed silently that he would keep going until he found him.

  He rested again, then began to climb back down the tower. If there were other survivors, then maybe they had taken shelter under the tower, in the underground storage chambers. He’d been down there once, and he knew the entrances were too small for griffins to fit through.

  Coming back down the tower felt even more laborious than going up it. His legs were starting to feel wobbly, and his dizziness was getting so bad that he even considered finding a bed and snatching some sleep. He took a few more deep breaths instead.

  There was another problem. The sleeping griffin was still there, and with no way around it, he had to try and sneak past again. At first it looked as if he was going to succeed. As far as he could tell, he hadn’t put a foot wrong, and hadn’t made a sound.

  Yet the griffin’s eyes opened and looked straight at him.

  Heath froze.

  The eyes focused, and a low rasp came from somewhere inside the creature’s throat.

  Heath was not a griffiner, or a noble of any sort. Despite his fine clothes and refined speech, he had been born a commoner. He knew almost nothing about griffins and how to behave around them.

  Which was why, when the griffin started to lift its head, he did what someone like Caedmon never would, and ran away.

  The griffin, seeing movement, did what any predator would and bounded after him.

  All of a sudden, Heath’s dizzy head and aching legs meant nothing. Dodging broken tables and dead people, he sprinted down the spiralling corridors faster than he had ever thought he could go. The thudding paws of the griffin were so loud that they always sounded as if they were right behind him. He could hear the thing’s breathing, and nearly convinced himself he could hear its heartbeat as well. But it was only his own heart, thumping sickeningly in his ears.

  Panicked thoughts raced through his head. He had to find somewhere to hide, somewhere the griffin couldn’t follow. The storage chambers, if he could only get there before …

  Indoors, he should have been faster than something as big as a griffin. But he wasn’t. The griffin couldn’t dodge the way he could, but it didn’t have to. It just ploughed through whatever got in its way, and when Heath managed to slam a door in its face it broke it down with a blow from its beak. The only advantage being indoors gave him was that there wasn’t enough room for the griffin to make a leap and land on top of him.

  Heath was weak, and the griffin was strong, and that was enough. In his terror, Heath took a wrong turn and in an instant the griffin was on him. It backed him into a corner, blocking him when he tried to get past it, and finally knocking him down with an irritable huff.

  Heath tried to drag himself away, but there was nowhere to go. Visions of the broken bodies he had just seen flashed across his mind, and he covered his face and braced himself for the end.

  Flanks heaving like a bellows, the griffin shoved him with its beak. He felt it touching him, and cringed when its hot breath blew over his skin. The sharp tip of its beak nipped at him and he groaned.

  But the death-blow didn’t come. He risked a peek, and saw the beast looking down at him through a pair of huge orange eyes.

  ‘Er …’

  The griffin cocked its head. ‘Hssch,’ it hissed.

  Heath thought fast. It wasn’t trying to kill him. It seemed to be inspecting him for some reason, and now it started sniffing at him.

  In his old life as a professional thief and liar, he had mingled with many different people. One or two of them had been griffiners. And, thank gods, he had taken the time to learn a thing or two from them.

  ‘Er,’ he said again. ‘Er … oh shitting gods … er … eeshesh?’ The griffish word felt wrong in his mouth and sounded even wronger, but he thought it meant ‘friend’.

  The griffin pulled its head back. ‘Aaaak,’ it croaked.

  ‘Eeshesh,’ Heath said again. ‘Er … keek yaa kran ee.’ ‘Do no harm.’ Or so he hoped.

  The griffin huffed at him and sat back on its haunches. It made some sounds he couldn’t even decipher, let alone understand.

  Very carefully, Heath stood up. ‘Eeshesh. Esh kee kraa.’ He finished by clicking his teeth and bowing, having just promised to do whatever the griffin wanted. In theory. The griffin eyed him. It was male, judging by the ear-tufts, and very unusually coloured — in shades of yellow and brown, with striking spotted hindquarters. He had never seen a spotted griffin, or one with such an attractive coat.

  The spotted griffin made more sounds that might have been speech, and put its head on one side.

  ‘I’m Heath,’ said Heath, who had exhausted the limit of his griffish by now and felt some comment was required. When the griffin just stared at him, he touched his own chest in the universal gesture for ‘me’, and said, ‘Heath.’

  ‘Heeth,’ said the griffin. It — he — touched himself on the chest with his beak, and made a sound.

  Heath looked blank.

  ‘Eck-hoo,’ said the griffin, more slowly. ‘Eck-hoo!’

  ‘That’s your name?’ asked Heath.

  The griffin clicked his beak. ‘Eckhoo,’ he said yet again.

  Very cautiously, Heath allowed himself a smile. ‘Echo, is it? Your name’s Echo?’

  The griffin prodded him with his beak. ‘Heeth,’ he said.

  Heath tried not to flinch. ‘Pleased to meet you, Echo. And, er, thank you for not killing me. Can I go now?’

  Echo didn’t reply, of course, but he let Heath walk around him and move away. Then he started to follow.

  Heath knew he was being followed — a griffin walking in your footsteps wasn’t exactly easy to miss. But since this one seemed friendly enough, he dec
ided to keep on going and hope the griffin would lose interest.

  Echo, however, had other ideas. He overtook Heath in a few steps, and began to drive him into the nearest room.

  ‘What is it?’ Heath asked nervously. ‘You want me to go with you? All right, I’m with you …’

  He let Echo push him into the room, which turned out to be someone’s living quarters. They were empty now, but the furnishings quickly told him the room had been meant for a griffiner. Echo continued into the adjoining nest chamber. Heath spotted a short sword hanging on the wall of the main chamber and grabbed it before he followed. He’d never used a sword before, but having one in his belt made him feel better.

  In the nest chamber, Echo took a drink from a trough before turning back toward the doorway, where Heath stood. Echo unhooked something from a peg and dropped it at Heath’s feet.

  It was a pair of belts connected by a pair of long leather straps with loops sewn into them. Heath had seen enough of these to know that it was a griffin harness.

  Echo pushed it toward him, so he picked it up.

  ‘You want me to put this on you?’

  Echo offered up his neck.

  Shrugging, Heath put the harness on — luckily, this was fairly straightforward. He took a lot of care not to buckle it on too tightly; this griffin might have decided not to attack him after all, but even partnered griffins were more than willing to bite their humans. Every griffiner had a few scars from it, which was probably why griffiners had developed such good methods for treating infected wounds. Heath had a personal reason to be glad about that nowadays.

  Echo kept still until the harness was on, and once it was he lowered his head even further and bent one foreleg, presenting his shoulders to Heath.

  Heath frowned. ‘What is it? Did I put it on properly?’

  Echo shuffled closer to him, and gave him a none-too-gentle shove with his shoulder. Heath stumbled, and instinctively grabbed the harness to steady himself. Instantly Echo jerked away — pulling Heath with him and effectively throwing Heath over his shoulders and onto his back. Heath got off instantly, and for a moment he thought Echo’s angry shriek was because of the unwelcome contact. But before he could try to apologise the griffin was coming at him, turning, bending, displaying his shoulder and back, and finally trying, by shoving, to make Heath fall onto him again.