The Griffin's Flight

by K J Taylor

  One of them had been against Arren himself.

  Skandar’s condition made Arren feel slightly ashamed, but he knew that he, too, was far from a picture of health and perfection.

  At twenty years old—he had celebrated his last birthday in prison—he was tall and lean, almost gaunt. He’d always been thin, but months of poor and sporadic food supply had made him even thinner. His face was pale and angular, with a raised, twisted scar on one cheek that looked almost like a tear track. He had curly black hair that had grown long and wild and permanently tangled—much to his dismay—and he had a pointed beard, which had also become unkempt and needed trimming. His eyes, too, were black—cold and glittering and wary—and the ragged robe that was his only garment had once been black as well, though now it was stained and grubby. It had no collar, and thus there was nothing to hide the deep, ugly scars on his neck. There were dozens of them, making a ring clear around it, like a necklace. It looked as if he had been stabbed repeatedly with a dozen small daggers.

  Arren rubbed the scars without thinking, and sighed. He hadn’t seen another human in a very long time; neither of them dared go too close to inhabited areas. The trouble was that he was too recognisable, even on his own. Northerners were fairly common in Cymria, but not Northerners like him. No-one would look twice at a Northerner under normal circumstances; after all, slaves were hardly worth looking at. But a free Northerner—one without a collar or a brand—would attract attention straight away. Even if he managed to go on his way without being harassed, people would remember him. And then they would tell other people, and sooner or later a griffiner would hear about the wild-looking Northerner with the scar on his face.

  By now they all must know that he was a wanted man. The different griffiner-owned city states were not unified by a single ruler, but they were allies. Capturing and handing over a fugitive would be an excellent way to foster good relations with a neighbour, and no Master or Mistress of an Eyrie anywhere in the country would want to be discovered harbouring someone who had committed his crimes. Stealing a griffin chick was enough to warrant an immediate death sentence, but murdering a griffiner was a hundred times worse.

  Arren knew perfectly well that if he was ever caught he would be hideously punished, most likely tortured to death. Unspeakable things had happened to the few people found guilty of killing a griffiner. They had been burned at the stake, buried alive, starved to death, cut up and fed a piece at a time to vengeful griffins—punishments that would never be meted out to any criminal but the very worst and most hated of all.

  Why am I afraid? he thought, and not for the first time. Why should any of that scare me? I’m already dead.

  But he knew why. He could still be hurt. He could still feel pain. And if those things happened to him . . .

  Arren shuddered and held on to Skandar to reassure himself. The black griffin wouldn’t let anything happen to him, not while he could still fight. He had already saved Arren’s life several times. Whatever his faults were as a travelling companion, he would always protect his human partner.

  The only problem, Arren knew, was that they had nowhere to go. They were trying to reach Norton—a town that was part of Eagleholm’s territory—but Arren didn’t have a map or much idea of how to navigate. He knew it was north of Eagleholm, and indeed they had been heading north, or at least roughly north, but Arren had an unpleasant feeling that they were too far west. At this rate they would reach the Northgate Mountains before they got anywhere near Norton, and the idea of turning back from there wasn’t at all attractive. Skandar wasn’t much help, either; until their flight from Eagleholm he’d never flown anywhere outside of the Coppertop Mountains, where he was born, and he had no knowledge or experience of long-distance travel. He seemed content to fly wherever Arren suggested, apparently believing that his partner knew things and had skills he lacked.

  Arren could understand why; to Skandar, all humans had mysterious powers. And he, Arren, had had the power to capture him and put him in a cage and then take him to Eagleholm, where he had sold him to the Arena. In Skandar’s mind, Arren had the power to make cages, and therefore the power to unmake them. And he was the only human at Eagleholm the griffin had known back in his old home. Therefore, the black griffin had decided that Arren was the key to escaping and going home. He must have formulated a plan of some kind, though when and how Arren didn’t know.

  The punishment for stealing a griffin chick was death. But while waiting for his sentence to be carried out, Arren had been offered an alternative: volunteer to fight in the Arena and win his freedom. He agreed, but insisted that he fight the black griffin, alone. After all, it had killed Eluna, and perhaps this would be his chance for revenge.

  They had fought, and Arren had lost. But instead of killing him, Skandar had pinned him down and promised to spare his life if he in turn promised to free Skandar from his cage. After Arren had escaped from prison he had returned to keep that promise, and it had both saved and cost him his life. Though Skandar was wild, though he was fierce, in his own way he was as intelligent as a human. And he understood gratitude.

  Humans did not have magic. Griffins did.

  3

  Skade

  Noon, and it was fiercely hot. Insects chirped and whirred in the damp air. There were clouds drifting over the sky, thick and grey and growing in number. Thunder rumbled very quietly, but it was getting closer.

  As the first few drops began to fleck the ground, Skade stood on the edge of a rocky shelf and stared fixedly at the pool far below her, while the rising wind tugged at her long silver hair. The water was dark with rotting leaves, almost black, and its surface captured the sky and the trees above like a mirror, rippling gently as the raindrops struck it. When she leant forward over it, she could see her own face looking back up at her, faint and wavering, but there.

  She was shuddering. Even now, she couldn’t bear to look.

  Her whole body hurt. Her feet were cut and bleeding, and dirt had worked its way in to make them sting. There were cuts and grazes on her face, arms and legs, and her clothes were torn. Her head ached with exhaustion, and her stomach felt like a gaping void inside her.

  She was weak now. The knowledge of it filled her like a disease. She lifted her head and tried to call, but her voice was feeble and the sound would not come properly. All she could manage was a pathetic rasping sound, like a sick chick.

  She turned away from the water, unable to make herself look any longer. Weak, her mind shouted at her. Weak!

  The image of her own face still swam before her eyes. She could not make it leave her alone.

  Tears wet her cheeks. She hated them. They were weak. They weren’t natural.

  But she could still see. Her eyes were blurred by tears and exhaustion, but they showed her what she needed to see. She took a few unsteady, clumsy steps back and picked up a large chunk of stone. It was heavy, and it grazed her fingers, but she could lift it. She carried it to the edge of the cliff, and there put it down and rested. Her back heaved, and she could feel her pathetically tiny heart pattering away inside her chest, protected by nothing but thin little ribs.

  She thumped her fist into her chest, hissing to herself. “Weak! Weak!”

  Once some of her strength—such as it was—had returned, she picked up the rock again, hugging it to herself. It bruised her, but she didn’t care.

  “I will not live like this,” she rasped, and jumped.

  She hit the water and immediately sank, weighed down by the stone. She held on grimly and let it drag her downward until it landed on the bottom and she was dangling upward, anchored in place. Even then, she did not let go. Her breath escaped in great silver bubbles; she forced her eyes open and saw it rush past amid the suspended debris, shimmering and almost beautiful. Her lungs started to hurt, and her head pounded, but she did not let go of the rock.

  She opened her mouth wide and breathed in water. It flooded into her body in a torrent, and she began to jerk and convulse, her legs
kicking as if she were being strangled. Her vision went red, and then black, and then she lost consciousness. A few moments later she went limp. Her grip on the stone slackened, and she drifted slowly back to the surface and floated there, face-down. The sun, strong despite the grey cloud, warmed her exposed back, but she did not feel it.

  The wind was picking up. Arren awoke from a shallow doze to find that the sky had darkened. Clouds were gathering, and with them came wind. It blew through Skandar’s feathers, lifting them, and pulled at his wings, making him buck slightly in the sky. The griffin put his head down, trying to streamline himself, and without it to shelter behind, Arren was nearly wrenched off his seat. He threw himself forward, lying flat against Skandar’s neck, and held on grimly.

  As the wind increased steadily, he heard thunder rumble overhead. Lightning flashed a few moments later. They were right on top of it.

  Arren thumped Skandar on the side of the head. “Go down!” he shouted over the noise.

  Skandar jerked his head irritably but gave no other response.

  “I said fly down!” Arren yelled. “We’ll be blown away if you don’t!”

  For a few horrible moments it seemed that Skandar either hadn’t heard or was ignoring him. But when the rain started to fall a short time later the black griffin finally began his descent. It wasn’t easy; the wind gathered under his wings and wrenched them backward, making the feathers bend ominously, and his tail was whipped this way and that, unable to steer properly. As he flew lower, trying desperately to home in on a landing site, the wind continually pulled him away from it, forcing him to make several attempts and once nearly flipping him over backward. Arren did his best to help or at least not be a burden; he moved forward as far as he could, using his weight to counteract the effect of the wind. It helped; Skandar finally dipped below the level of the trees, and there the wind dropped dramatically. Still, he landed clumsily, ploughing through a thick stand of soap-bush and stumbling to a halt at the base of a tree. The landing threw Arren off, but fortunately he landed on a heap of dry grass.

  He got up, rubbing his back, and hurried toward Skandar, who was disentangling himself from the broken branches, and hissing.

  “Skandar, are you all right?”

  Skandar managed to get up and struggle out of the undergrowth into a clear spot, where he sat on his haunches and began to groom his feathers. He limped very slightly and looked irritable, but he appeared to be fine.

  Arren waited until he calmed down and then patted him on the leg. “Are you hurt?”

  Skandar’s head turned sharply toward him, so he backed off immediately, but the griffin only got up and inspected him. “You hurt?” he rasped.

  Arren shook his head. “I’m fine, are you?”

  Skandar sniffed at him and then sat back and resumed his grooming. “Not hurt.”

  “That’s good.” Arren looked up. The clouds were clearing already, but there were still a few drops of rain falling. He scowled. “It wasn’t even a proper storm. Just a quick sun shower. Bloody thing. We may as well rest here for a while. I’ll see if I can find anything to eat.”

  Skandar looked up as he started to walk off. “You go?”

  “Not far,” Arren promised. “I’ll stay close enough for you to hear me, all right?”

  Nevertheless, Skandar got up and followed him at a distance as he set out to explore the area.

  They were in a stand of tall spice-trees that looked virtually identical to the last one they had been in that morning. The only real difference he could see was that the ground was rockier and less flat: they were in more mountainous country now. Arren headed downhill, hoping to find water.

  The ground flattened out a little, and as the trees began to peter out he saw why: the soil was thin, and here and there patches of stone were showing through. Up ahead, stone took over from soil almost entirely; there was a bare stretch of it, without any vegetation except for lichen and the occasional patch of grass clinging on. But he could also hear the gentle sound of running water. There must be a stream somewhere up ahead.

  The rocky stretch ended in a sharp drop, more a shelf of rock than a true cliff. Arren went as close to the edge as he dared and looked down. Sure enough, there was a large pond below. It was fed by a thin trickle of water that spilt over a heap of tumbled rocks. Though it was so thin it was a rivulet rather than a stream, it would do. He didn’t like the look of the pond itself; it was murky and full of dead leaves. In fact—

  He froze.

  “Oh my gods.”

  Skandar came up behind him. “Danger?” he inquired.

  Arren fumbled with the fastenings of his robe. “There’s someone in the water,” he said.

  It seemed to take forever to undo the straps holding the sword to his back and then struggle out of his robe; he wrenched it off his shoulders and tossed it aside, sword and all, and then dived from the edge without waiting to take off his boots.

  He hit the surface of the water with a loud splash and a cold shock, and for a moment he was struggling to recover himself. But he broke through the surface and began to swim toward the floating body as fast as he could. It was a woman, face-down, her long hair waving in the water like weed.

  Arren grabbed her by the arm and managed to turn her over; for a moment she started to sink, but then she bobbed to the surface again. She wasn’t moving. Panicking, he swam for the shore, dragging her behind him. She was heavy, and the struggle to keep her on the surface kept forcing him downward. He reached the rocky lip of the pool, half-drowned, and climbed out backward, pulling her with him. She came slowly, the remains of her dress catching and dragging on the dry stone, and he let go once she was half out of the water, legs still partly submerged. He began to pound her on the chest, between her breasts. It was a crude method; he’d learnt it years ago and never tried it before, but now the knowledge flooded back into his mind without being called. He stopped to check her pulse and breathing; there was a weak heartbeat, but he couldn’t detect any breath coming from her mouth. Desperate, he put his mouth over hers and blew air down her throat as hard as he could, trying to reinflate her lungs, then put both hands on her chest and pressed down on the bony plate that supported her rib cage. He blew into her mouth again, then turned her over and thumped her on the back, hoping this would help.

  Without warning, she gave a jerk and began to vomit up water. Arren laid her on her back and she coughed and vomited. The water bubbled out of her mouth and onto her chest, mucky pond water with fragments of rotting leaf in it. Arren fought down his disgust and pushed on her chest a few more times, encouraging her to breathe. Once she had brought up the last of the water, she opened her mouth wide and started to cough and wheeze. After a while, it settled into true breathing, and Arren sat back, giddy with relief.

  There was a thump, and Skandar landed behind him. The griffin came over to inspect the woman, and Arren moved instinctively to protect her.

  Skandar sniffed at her, and then looked up. “Food?” he asked hopefully.

  “No,” said Arren. “Absolutely not. No more eating humans. I’ve told you before.”

  Skandar sat back on his haunches. “Strange human.”

  Arren couldn’t help but agree with that. Now that he had time to look more closely at the woman, he found her appearance very puzzling indeed. Her hair was silver. Not grey or light blonde, but silver. Yet she didn’t look old. In fact, she looked about the same age as he was. Her skin had an odd silvery sheen to it, and her features were sharp and hard; she had a pointed nose and small chin. She was barefoot and wore a very torn and dirty grey dress, which, sticking to her skin because it was wet, revealed how thin she was.

  Arren stood up and lifted her onto his shoulder, then staggered away from the pool, with Skandar in tow. She hung limply, apparently still unconscious. He found a patch of sunlit grass and laid her down as gently as possible, placing her arms by her sides and pulling her dress over her as well as he could.

  This done, he turned to Skandar
. “Skandar, could you just—” He broke off. Asking the griffin to keep an eye on her for a few moments did not seem like the most intelligent idea. “I mean,” he went on, “could you just get my robe and my sword? I left them on top of the cliff.”

  Skandar appeared to listen, but he didn’t move.

  “If you go and get them, I’ll catch you another lizard,” said Arren.

  Skandar stood up. “Big lizard?”

  “The biggest I can find. Now go and get the robe.”

  Skandar paused to consider the offer and then flew off. He returned a few moments later and dropped the robe and sword next to Arren, then looked at him expectantly. “Lizard?”

  “Later,” said Arren. He picked up the robe and used it to cover the woman. She looked as though she was starting to recover; she stirred when he touched her, and he put his hand on her forehead. “It’s all right,” he told her. “You’re safe.”

  Bored, Skandar started to take an interest in her again. “Food?”

  Arren pushed his beak away. “No, Skandar.”

  “Hungry,” the griffin complained.

  “Well,” said Arren, deciding to use a different tack, “there’s no point in eating her. Look how thin she is. She’s even thinner than I am. Why don’t you go and catch something bigger? A goat, maybe.”

  Skandar made a grab for the woman, but Arren smacked him in the face. “Don’t you dare.”

  The black griffin hissed at him and snapped his beak, trying to intimidate him, but Arren glared at him until he looked away.

  “I go find food,” the griffin muttered sullenly and flew off.

  “Thank gods for that,” Arren said aloud. He patted the woman’s face. “Hello? Can you hear me?”