The Shadowed Throne

by K J Taylor

  Kullervo went closer and clicked his beak in astonishment. “Gold! It’s gold!”

  He tapped the shining trough, and, sure enough, the yellow surface dented slightly under his beak-tip. Not just gold but pure gold.

  Fascinated, Kullervo explored further. There were no fresh scents here—no sign that anything had lived here recently other than the odd bird. He found bones scattered among the nesting material, most of them cracked into pieces. At one time, at least, a griffin had lived here.

  But what griffin would be great enough to have a roost like this?

  The afternoon sun, drifting downward to shine through the opening, gave Kullervo his answer eventually.

  Shadows appeared on the wall opposite the opening, cast there by the light. Kullervo looked upward, and saw the words cut into the stone. They had even been inlaid with silver.

  SKANDAR’S TOWER.

  Kullervo chirped to himself, in amazement. “The Mighty Skandar! This was his place! So . . .” He turned, looking again at the golden trough, the mouldering nest and the shattered bones. “So this was . . .”

  He lay on his belly, and made a wheezing noise.

  “So the great King Arenadd made this place for his partner. Another home, by the mountains. They must have been his favourite place. How many times did he come here? Did they come together, to be away from Malvern? Were they . . . happy here?”

  A hiss escaped from Kullervo’s chest. He stood up, his tail swishing from side to side. With a loud scream, he smashed his head against the water trough. The gold dented and cracked, and he struck again, and again, until a piece of it broke away.

  Not seeming to notice the blood welling in his eye, Kullervo bounded toward the wall and reared up, setting his talons into the words that stood out there.

  He snarled, and pulled downward with all his might. His talons curved and snagged on the stone, leaving rows of ugly scratches that tore the silver out of the carving.

  Kullervo turned and stalked out, up the ramp, and out of the tower.

  The cool air calmed him down. He scored his talons through his chest-feathers, and impulsively took to the air. Flying would make him feel better.

  He circled for a time, until his heartbeat had slowed. But the joy and excitement of his journey was gone now, and he set out toward the mountains without ceremony, wanting to finish what he had set out to do and be done with it.

  On a wide plateau, not far into the mountains, he found Taranis’ Throne. Thirteen dark stones jutted out of the snow like jagged teeth, forming a circle around another stone. This one lay on its side, flat-topped like a table. Kullervo landed on it and peered around at the stones, taking in the elaborate spiral carvings cut into them.

  The stones were weathered, pitted and smoothed by the wind. To Kullervo, they looked as if they had stood there since the beginning of time itself. They were sacred, these stones, and his griffish senses picked up the feeling of magic in them and the earth they ringed.

  Soon, Kullervo began to feel uneasy. The silence in the circle became oppressive and threatening, and the stones seemed to rise higher, making bars of shadow on the snow around the altar where he perched.

  His fur stood on end.

  Kullervo flew up and out of the circle as quickly as he could. He went in search of Taranis Gorge instead, but it proved a little harder to find. The plateau dropped away on three sides, and there were plenty of valleys around it. Which one was the gorge he was meant to find?

  Confused, he landed on a mountainside ledge and put his bundle of possessions down in front of himself. The map was still there, tucked securely under the belt. He gripped the bundle in his talons and tugged at the map with his beak. The leather kept slipping free when he pulled on it. After several tries, he pierced it with the tip of his beak and yanked it free, pinning it down before it could blow away.

  Fumbling with his talons, he unfolded the map and held it open, peering at the lines and text on it. The griffish side of him found the map perplexing and couldn’t grasp the concept of reading the place-names on it. No griffin could read, or had the ability to learn how.

  Using human-like abilities now was hard, but Kullervo had practised. He concentrated hard, ignoring the griffin’s insistence that the marks meant nothing, and wrestled the meaning out of them. There was the circle—Taranis’ Throne, he repeated mentally. Circle means stones. Throne. And there, to one side of it, a dark mark and a label. Gorge. Mark there . . . means Gorge. To . . . West. Sunward.

  Kullervo turned to face west, and let himself relax. The map had told him what he needed to know.

  He did his best to put the map back, but it quickly proved to be impossible. Griffin talons were simply far too clumsy to manage it. Irritated, he lifted the bundle in his beak and took the map in his talons. One forepaw would now be hampered, and he hoped he wouldn’t run into any danger. If he did, the map was lost.

  The gorge, at least, was easy to find now. He flew low over it, watching the ground for any sign of movement. If Saeddryn and Aenae were indeed here, then Aenae would attack him the moment he got too close. The big griffin’s territorial instinct would be the first thing he acted on when he saw an intruder, regardless of what he and his human had planned.

  Kullervo flew back and forth several times, braced for an assault.

  None came. He flew even lower, until his back paws brushed against the treetops. Still nothing—

  A cry split the silence. Panic-stricken, Kullervo turned clumsily on one wing and wheeled away from the source. He recovered and turned in the air, looking quickly for the sight of another griffin coming at him.

  He saw nothing, but, moments later, the cry came again. It was the harsh, piercing scream of an adult male griffin—not the customary territorial call but the much more frightening screech of a griffin challenging another to a fight.

  Wisely, Kullervo didn’t return the cry and accept the challenge. He flew higher, ready to flee, but didn’t leave. He searched desperately for any sign of another griffin, knowing that unless he saw Aenae with his own eyes, there would be no proof that he had found what he was looking for.

  The cry came a third time, and even though the aggressive griffin didn’t come flying up to the attack, Kullervo finally spotted him. There, in the side of a mountain, was a cave. The griffin was standing in the entrance with his wings spread, screaming violence at the hovering Kullervo.

  It was not Aenae.

  Kullervo hovered uncertainly, torn between fleeing and staying to look closer. But his fear gradually receded when he realised that, despite his screaming threats, the other griffin hadn’t moved. Even from here, Kullervo could see that it wasn’t Aenae. He knew what Aenae looked like—he had memorised the description of him. This was a griffin of monstrous size, dark and silvery, with a jet-black beak and an enormous wing-span.

  Skandar.

  Kullervo faltered as the obvious conclusion arrived. This had to be Skandar. What other griffin had this coat, this massive frame? What other griffin would be hiding here, in a place the Mighty Skandar had lived before, with his human?

  Kullervo circled around over the cave. Below, Skandar continued his abuse. Now there were words in among the screechings and snarlings.

  “You go! Go or die! Mighty Skandar kill! Kill you!”

  Kullervo knew all too well what Skandar was capable of, and what he could and would do to anyone who made him angry or disobeyed him. But he stayed where he was, kept there by the knowledge of what finding Skandar meant. Skandar must know the answers to questions Laela had avoided. Answers that could change everything. Of all the people in Tara, only Laela and Skandar had been present when King Arenadd had supposedly died. Laela refused to talk about what had happened.

  But perhaps Skandar would be different.

  Kullervo could taste it now—the sense of something that had defined the world for him all his life. His
father. The giant griffin down there, threatening to kill him, could lead Kullervo to the man he had missed since childhood. To him, it meant more than the Kingdom or Laela, or his quest, or anything else. Even the extreme danger he was about to put himself in didn’t matter.

  And that was why Kullervo tilted himself downward, and flew straight toward the cave. “Mighty Skandar!” he called. “I am your servant—”

  That was as far as he got. Skandar shot out of his cave like a boulder out of a catapult. He came straight at Kullervo’s chest and throat, and his intention was plainly not to hurt, or drive away, but to kill.

  In the end, only Kullervo’s small size saved him. Instinctively, he struck the air with his wings and shot straight upward and over Skandar’s head. The wind from the giant griffin’s wings filled Kullervo’s, and he used the momentum to fly away as fast as he could. Skandar chased him, but though he was terrifyingly fast for his bulk, Kullervo was faster and more agile, and he just barely managed to flick his tail out of Skandar’s reaching beak.

  Skandar might still have caught him, but before they had gone too far, he abruptly broke off the chase and flew away. When Kullervo risked turning back to investigate, he saw that Skandar had gone back to his cave.

  He landed in the branches of a pine tree and gasped for breath. His mouth tasted of blood.

  Fortunately, he’d managed to keep hold of his precious bundle, and he deposited it in a fork of the tree before settling down to rest. When he was calmer, he started to think.

  Something didn’t make sense here. Why was Skandar so reluctant to leave the cave? Even if he had chosen this as his new territory, no griffin would turn back like that if there was another male about.

  There had to be something important in the cave, and Kullervo resolved to find out what.

  But how?

  Briefly, he considered changing back into a man. Maybe Skandar would see his resemblance to his own human and be prepared to listen.

  Kullervo rejected that idea very quickly. In human form, he would be even more defenceless, and would have no easy way to escape. And the transformation would leave him too weak to change again without plenty of food and rest. In these mountains, the chances of finding a good meal were beyond tiny.

  It had to be the griffin shape, then. But what could he do?

  Eventually, hunger stirring in his stomach gave the answer. Skandar would have to leave his cave sooner or later if he wanted to eat. All Kullervo had to do was wait.

  But first things first. He tucked the map away with the rest of his belongings and flew away from the tree to hunt.

  Kullervo had never been a very good hunter, but patience and several failures finally won him a feral goat. He carried it back to his tree and ate it before he went to begin his vigil.

  He found a vantage-point on the side of a mountain not far from Skandar’s cave, and there he settled down, his eyes fixed on the cave-mouth.

  There was no sign of Skandar. He must be inside.

  Kullervo waited.

  He waited through the night and into the next morning. During that time Skandar only left his cave once, very briefly, to drink from a small pool at the base of the mountain. He was within sight of the cave the entire time and returned to it instantly. After that, he did not emerge again.

  Kullervo didn’t give up. He stayed where he was, not even leaving to drink. The pool was too close to Skandar’s cave for comfort, and he didn’t want to be seen.

  But Skandar did not come out.

  Kullervo groomed himself to occupy his time. When he eventually started to get hungry again, he fought it down, reminding himself that Skandar must be hungrier. The only question was who had the most endurance.

  Nearly two entire days passed before Skandar finally left his cave. The dozing Kullervo woke up with a jolt to the sound of massive wing-beats, and nearly died of fright when the shadow fell over him. He scrambled to his paws, but the shadow passed over and was gone, and as he looked upward, he saw Skandar flying away over the mountains.

  Kullervo hissed his triumph and opened his wings. He beat them a few times to work out the stiffness and flew toward the cave without a moment’s delay.

  The moment he landed at the lip of the cave, a foul stench punched him in the gullet.

  Nostrils burning, he took a few hesitant steps inside.

  The space was comparatively small—it was hard to imagine how Skandar had managed to fit inside. It was also far less impressive than he had imagined; all jagged rock and cold wind. And that smell . . .

  At the far end of the cave, he could see something lying on the floor. He moved toward it, and the smell grew and thickened until he could almost taste it. He had already guessed what he was going to find.

  It was a rotting human corpse.

  Kullervo nosed at it, examining it as closely as he dared. The body wore a mouldering pair of leggings that had turned a sickly brownish colour, and boots whose leather had cracked and peeled open in the damp. Everything else was exposed.

  He could see the pale flesh, bloated and split, the limbs bent and twisted in ways that showed the broken bones through decaying muscle. There wasn’t much left of the face at all. The eyes had disappeared into their sockets, and the skin had worn away to show the skull beneath. The lips had drawn back over the teeth in a twisted snarl.

  But there was enough left for Kullervo to see. Enough black bristles still clinging to the chin, enough long, curly strands of hair left to stir in the wind.

  Kullervo looked at the dead, sneering face whose empty sockets seemed to stare back, and felt sick and afraid.

  All his life he had tried to imagine how his father would look at him when they finally met, and now he knew. King Arenadd had greeted his son with a smile.

  Kullervo rested by his father’s body for a while, fighting back the human tears that the griffin’s mind rejected.

  Despite his hesitation, he knew what he had to do. The King’s remains must be taken back to Malvern. They were the proof Laela needed that he was indeed dead. And they should be properly buried as well. Whatever Arenadd had been, he deserved a proper resting-place.

  Kullervo pushed away the emotions threatening to force his body to change shape and stood up. He wrapped his talons around the body and began to drag it toward the entrance.

  Something snagged on an outcrop, and the corpse tore open with a sick, wet noise. Instantly, the smell burst out, a thousand times more powerful than before.

  Kullervo let go of the disintegrating body and stumbled away. He vomited, and the stench of acid joined the miasma.

  The shape-shifter couldn’t take it any more. He turned away toward the entrance, and there was the Mighty Skandar, blocking his way.

  The monstrous, dark griffin didn’t move. Here, in this confined space, he looked twice as big as before. His slab-like shoulders brushed the ceiling, higher than the heavy, streamlined head and pitted black beak.

  Kullervo flattened himself against the ground, openly cringing under Skandar’s gaze. “No, please don’t . . .”

  Skandar took in Arenadd’s stinking remains and the small griffin cowering in front of him. His chest and flanks seemed to inflate, and a slow hiss filled the cave.

  “Mine.”

  Kullervo backed away. “Please, Mighty Skandar, I am your servant. I meant no—”

  “MINE!” Skandar screamed. “My human, mine!”

  There was no room for a leap. Skandar made a horribly fast, scrabbling charge, straight at Kullervo.

  The shape-shifter’s mind shut down, man and griffin. He tried to back away, but there was nowhere to go. Slipping in the rotting flesh under his paws, he pressed himself against the cave wall.

  A shocking blow to his face smashed his head against rock. He ducked to avoid the next one, and stupidly ran straight at Skandar. One talon caught in a crack, and he felt it snap clean o
ff as he shoved between the raging monster’s forelegs and crawled under his belly. With no room to manoeuvre, Skandar wriggled backward to try to catch him, but he was too slow. Kullervo burst out and into the open air.

  But Skandar would not be escaped again. He freed himself from the cave and whirled around, rearing onto his hind legs.

  One massive talon hooked into Kullervo’s haunches. Chunks of fur and hide came away and the smaller griffin was hurled onto the lip of the cave. Something inside him cracked, but there was no time to tell what. Before the pain had even registered Skandar was on him. One hind leg twisted and screamed agony at him, and an enormous crushing grip closed around the base of his wing.

  Kullervo screeched and flailed helplessly, unable to pull free. He kicked backward with his good hind leg, catching the giant griffin in the chest, but he might as well have kicked a boulder. Skandar shook him mercilessly, like a dog with a rat, and hurled him down the mountainside.

  Kullervo never knew how he managed not to fall to his death. He tumbled head over tail, bashing into rocks, too confused to know what to do, and in the end it was pure griffinish instinct that saved him. He rolled over a rock and into space, and his wings opened out of pure reflex, and beat hard.

  Some inner voice screamed that his wing was broken, he couldn’t fly, his body had been torn apart, he couldn’t fly, shouldn’t fly . . .

  But he flew. Blindly, maddened by fear, he flew.

  Maybe Skandar chased him. Maybe he let him go. But there were no more attacks. He had escaped.

  11

  Oeka’s Choice

  Oeka had heard Laela’s cry, but she ignored it. She turned her back on Malvern and flew southward as fast as she could. To Laela, it must have looked like she was fleeing, and in a sense she was. For a griffin, every journey was a flight anyway.

  Oeka had never really flown any great distance before. She had spent her early life entirely in Malvern’s Hatchery with the other unpartnered griffins and had never had any reason to leave—at least until she had chosen Laela.