by K J Taylor
Arren, standing in the doorway, stared at them with a kind of bewilderment. He knew he shouldn’t really be surprised, but he was weak from pain and couldn’t quite grasp what he was seeing.
The boy tugged at his sleeve. “Come on. You can lie in my hammock for a while, and I’ll give you some food.”
Arren pulled himself together and followed the boy. His back was too painful to allow him to lie down, but he sat on the proffered hammock, cringing and holding his hand against his chest.
The boy regarded him solemnly. He looked about twelve years old and was clad in a roughly sewn black robe. His grubby hair was pitch-black, and so were his eyes. He had pale skin, long fingers and angular features, and a thick metal collar was clamped around his neck, the skin above and below it an angry and swollen red.
Arren looked back, his head spinning. Meanwhile, others were coming over to look at him. He stared at them, too. Pale skin, black hair, black eyes, robed and collared. Slaves. Northern slaves.
They were watching him warily, apparently not quite sure what to make of this newcomer. The boy, though, was more forthcoming. “I’m Torc,” he said. “I’m gonna get you some food, and then I’ll go find Caedmon an’ tell him to come.” That said, he smiled nervously and walked off toward the fire.
“So,” one of the others said eventually, “where’d you come from, then? I ain’t seen you before.”
Arren opened his mouth to answer, but stopped when he saw Torc returning. He was carrying a small bowl and a spoon, and held them out toward him. “Here. I got you some stew.”
Arren finally found his voice. “Thank you.”
The bowl contained some kind of thick concoction that appeared to be mostly potatoes. Arren ate it and started to get some of his strength back.
Torc was watching him. “What’s your name?”
Arren put down the spoon. “I’m Taranis.”
“What clan?” said Torc. “I’m Deer.”
“Wh—oh.” Arren hesitated. Nobody had ever asked him that before. “Wolf,” he said at last. There was no point in pretending it was something else; the moment anyone saw his tattoo it would give him away.
“Wolf, eh?” said one of the others. “Same with me. Nice to meet ye then, Taranis. I’m Nolan.”
“I’m gonna go get Caedmon now,” Torc interrupted.
“That lad’s too helpful by half, if yeh ask me,” said another slave, though not without affection, as the boy hurried out. “Dunno why they brought him here, really.”
The one who’d identified himself as Nolan came closer to look at Arren. “Where’n the moon’s name did you come from, then? Not seen many who just shows up in the middle of the night like that. Where’s your collar?”
“It came off,” said Arren.
Nolan picked at the one around his neck. “Wish mine would. How’d you get it off, anyway?”
Arren remembered the night that he had fallen from the edge of the city. When he had woken the morning after, the collar had simply come off. The landing had bent and twisted the metal beyond redemption. “I fell over,” he said. “It hit a rock and broke.”
Nolan whistled. “That’s damn lucky. Could’ve driven the spikes right into y’neck instead. Heard about this man had that happen. Poor bastard ended up crippled an’ had his master put him out of his misery. Well, no point in livin’ like that, is there?”
“You shut up about that friend of yours, Nolan,” another slave snapped. “I’m sick of hearin’ about it, got that?” He looked at Arren. “Where’d you come from, then? You ain’t said yet.”
“Well, he’s a runner, ain’t he?” Nolan said resentfully. “They only puts irons on runners. Where’d you run from, then, Taranis?”
“Withypool.”
“Ah. I came from Canran, meself. Horrible cold place. Got sent here, though, to help with this cursed wall. But if you ran off from there, why didn’t they send you back?”
Arren squinted. His back was agony, and thinking was difficult. “Manpower,” he mumbled. “They said they needed . . .” He realised he was swaying.
“Hold on a bit, are you okay?” said Nolan, suddenly concerned.
Arren tried to sit upright. “My back,” he said.
Someone took him by the arm, and someone else prodded the wet patch on his back.
“Ah, gods damn the bastards, they’ve flogged him. Here, Nolan, help me with him.”
“I’m all right—” Arren began, but they ignored him. Someone took the bowl of stew from him, and the rest of them helped him out of the hammock and took his robe off, exposing the marks of the whip.
Nolan groaned. “Ye gods, they made a nasty mess out of you, didn’t they? Annan, go get some water.”
The water was fetched, and Arren sat on the floor, gasping in pain as the wounds were cleaned with a wet rag. “I r—ah—I really d—ow—I really don’t th—”
“You got to keep ’em clean,” Nolan told him. “These gets infected so easy, and then you’re a dead man. Tomorrow I’ll see if I can get some griffin-tail. Does just right for wounds.”
There was a thump at the doorway. “What are ye lot doing?” a voice demanded.
They turned. An elderly Northerner was walking into the room, Torc trailing behind him. His hair and beard were greying and his face was lined, but he looked quite strong as he pointed a heavy stick at Arren. “All right, let’s be having ye, runner.”
Arren got up with some help from Nolan and watched uncertainly as the old man came toward him. “I’m Taranis,” he said, hoping this would help.
The old man looked him up and down. “Taranis, did ye say? What clan?”
The question still caught him off guard. He hesitated. “Wolf Clan, hynafgwr.” It was a Northern term of respect that his father had taught him, which meant, roughly, “wise one.” He hoped he had pronounced it correctly.
The reaction was not at all what he had expected. There were sharp intakes of breath from the men around him, and Torc looked horrified.
The old man stood a little taller. “What did ye say?”
Arren ducked his head slightly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, but it’s been a long time since I’ve spoken N—”
The old man hit him with his stick. “Shut up! Are ye mad, boy? D’ye want to get yerself killed?”
Arren clutched at the bruise forming on his arm. “What?”
The old man looked disgusted. “I always said runners were stupid, but now you’ve proved yer worse. I’m not going t’waste time askin’ questions, so I’ll just make it plain. I don’t care what yer mam told ye; speaking that tongue’s a fast track to getting yer arms broken, and I ain’t going to try an’ protect ye, understand?”
Arren looked blankly at him, and then glanced around at the others. They were looking at him as if he was mad. Realisation finally dawned. “Oh! Of course, you’re not allowed to—sorry. Sorry. I forgot . . . sir?”
“Caedmon will do fine,” said the old man, mollified. “Anyway, so, where was I? Oh, right. Taranis, I’m told yer a runner, but they’re makin’ ye part of our group instead of sending ye back to yer master. It’s not up to me to say what they should and shouldn’t do with ye, so I’ll just do my duty so’s I can get back to my hammock. I’m in charge of the men here, so if there’s ever a squabble or somethin’ else what needs sortin’ out, I’m the one ye come to. I gets my orders from the tower, and then I pass ’em on to ye, so I’ll be the one ye’ll be gettin’ yer directions from. Now, here’s the rules, an’ I’m expectin’ ye to listen.”
“I’m listening,” Arren said politely.
“Good. The slave-house here is where we live when we ain’t workin’, but we’ve got a big job to do here before we’re off, so you’ll be spendin’ most of the day out of doors. Do as yer told, no laggin’ or complainin’, no backchat—the usual. What job did ye do before ye ran off?”
“Wh—uh, carpentry,” Arren said hastily. It was the most menial of the jobs he’d done over the years; during his
time as a junior griffiner he had been briefly assigned to help the government division that dealt with the extension and repairing of the huge wooden platforms that made up most of Eagleholm. It hadn’t gone very well, but he had picked up a few skills.
“Well, it’s a start,” said Caedmon. “Ye don’t look to be in very good shape, so I expect ye’ll be given lighter stuff to do at first. Haulin’ blocks, mostly. Not too tricky. But here’s the part I’m most interested in makin’ sure ye’re aware of.” He jabbed at Arren with his stick. “Ye’re a runner. And we don’t look too kind on yer sort. Ye can blather on about how yer master beat you an’ didn’t give ye enough food and how runnin’ away was the only option an’ anyway all men were meant to be free, but that ain’t gonna win ye no respect from me or anyone else here, understand? I don’t care what happens to ye if ye run away; it’s yer risk. But if ye manage to get them irons off and do a runner, it’s not ye I’m worried about. Let me promise, if any of us catches ye tryin’ to run off, we’ll stop ye.”
“Why?” said Arren.
“Why? I’ll tell ye why. Because if ye run, we’re the ones who gets punished. There was one of us run off from here a few months back, and afterward none of us ate for three days. Two of the bastard’s bunk mates were flogged for helpin’ him get away. That’s what’ll happen if ye run. Ye hear me, Taranis?”
Arren nodded miserably.
“Good,” said Caedmon, straightening up. “Just as long as we’ve got an understandin’. An’ now I’m off to bed.” He paused, and then smiled at last. “Welcome, Taranis. We’ll be glad to have ye here, I’m sure. The lads always like havin’ someone new to talk to. Maybe tomorrow we can chat properly, an’ ye can tell me more about yerself.”
Arren held out a hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, sir.”
Caedmon gave him an odd look, but shook it anyway. “Talk fancy, don’t ye? Well, g’night, Taranis.” He inclined his head slightly and left the room.
Arren sat down again and reached for the bowl of stew. It was cold, but he ate it anyway.
Torc had come over and was looking at his back. “That looks horrible! Does it hurt bad?”
Arren swallowed. “Yes.”
“How’d you get that scar on your face?” Torc added.
Very briefly, Arren thought back to the night of his arrest, when his house had burned down and the kidnapped griffin chick, terrified by the flames, had twisted in his grasp and torn his face with its beak. “I was in an accident,” he said.
“What sort of accident?” said Torc, apparently fascinated.
“Leave him alone, Torc,” said the man who had snapped at Nolan. “He’s had a hard time.”
“Sorry,” said Torc. “D’you want to use my hammock?” he added, to Arren. “You can have it if you want.”
“No, Torc,” said Nolan. “There’s a spare one at the end of the row. He can have that.”
“Thank you,” said Arren. “I mean, I—” He cringed at the pain in his back.
“Say no more, Taranis,” said Nolan. “Just eat that up and have something to drink afore you turn in; you need plenty of good rest if you’re gonna heal up. Try not to move too much; send Torc if you need anythin’. Stick close to me tomorrow, an’ I’ll try an’ help you keep goin’. Time like this, you needs all the help you can get.”
“I . . .” Arren trailed off, looking at Nolan. Nolan stared back guilelessly. Around him the other slaves were still watching, their expressions not hostile but curious and sympathetic. Even welcoming. And there was something about them, he realised, something about the way they looked at him and the way they spoke, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He felt frustrated that he couldn’t decide what it was, but his mind was in a haze and he couldn’t concentrate properly.
“Thank you,” he said at last.
12
Northerners
In spite of his pain, Arren was so weak and exhausted that he drifted off to sleep fairly quickly, but what sleep he got was uncomfortable and disturbed. He lay on his side in the hammock, covered only by his robe and a grubby woollen blanket, stuck in a horrible half-waking state in which time seemed to stand still. He kept dreaming that it was morning and he was getting up and talking to his new companions; it was the kind of vivid dreaming that felt frustratingly real. He lived the next day over and over again in his head, only to wake up in his hammock to find it was night-time, not quite certain if the events had actually happened or not.
After that, when deeper sleep came, he dreamt the falling dream again. But now, instead of Rannagon, it was Skade who confronted him. Feathers were sprouting from her hands and arms, spiking through the skin like daggers. Blood poured down them, turning the plumage red, and she screamed and grabbed at him, trying to hold on to him with fingers that kept twisting themselves into long talons. He tried to tell her she was hurting him, wanted to pull away from her but wasn’t able to, and then he was kissing her, but her lips were hard and sharp and tasted of blood. Then he was being dragged away from her, and he tried to hold on to her, desperate not to lose her again.
She stared at him, her great golden eyes filling the world. Arren, what have you done? her voice whispered from far away, and then he was falling, falling . . .
He woke up slowly and found himself lying in the gently swinging hammock and staring at the wooden wall directly in front of him. The night had ended, and the room was full of dull grey light filtering in through the cracks in the roof. Arren lay still, trying to think. At first, still befuddled by sleep, he thought he was back in his old home. The wood-plank wall and the hammock dragged his mind back there, and just for a moment he was filled with wild, impossible joy. But then the memory of the last few days returned to him, and all his fears and misery came rushing back. He was not home. He was not safe. He was in captivity, trapped in a slave-house with a pair of heavy irons clamped to his legs and whip marks all over his back. And they had branded him. Marked him as a slave.
And then, without warning, he heard a sound that he had been longing to hear ever since he had been captured: the screech of a griffin. It was faint, coming from somewhere outside, but the instant he heard it his heart leapt. He jerked upright in the hammock, which tipped sideways and dumped him onto the floor. He hit it hard, and almost instantly he cried out as pain spread all over his back. The lash marks, which had scabbed over during the night, tore open, and he felt fresh blood wet his skin.
He struggled to get up, moaning softly. Around him the others were climbing out of their own hammocks, woken up by the screech and by the thump of him hitting the floor.
Arren managed to lift himself into a sitting position. The skin on the back of his hand felt taut, as if it had shrunk, and when he moved his fingers it hurt unbelievably. He squinted muzzily at it. A single rune—the first one in the word “Herbstitt”—had been burned into his flesh. Most of it was black, but the skin around it was swollen and had turned an angry red. He would have a deep scar there once it healed. His back wouldn’t be much better.
There was the sound of footsteps, and Nolan appeared. “Morning. Did yer sleep well?”
Arren managed to stand up, hampered by the irons. “Not really. Nolan, did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” said Nolan. “I heard you hittin’ the floor, no problem.” He grinned, showing a couple of missing teeth.
“No!” said Arren. “I meant that screech! Just now—did you hear it?”
Nolan peered at him. “You feelin’ all right there, Taranis?”
“It sounded like a griffin,” said Arren.
“Oh!” said Nolan. “I see. Yeah, course I heard it. Wakes us up every mornin’.”
Arren’s heart sank. “I didn’t know there were any griffins here.”
“There used t’be a few livin’ in the tower. Now there’s just the one over at the temple, see. Wakes us up in the morning.” Nolan gestured at him. “C’mon, no time to waste. Gotta get somethin’ t’eat before we goes out on the job.”
Arren followed him over to the fire, which was still burning. Someone must have added more fuel during the night. “Where did the griffiners go?”
“Bin called back to Canran, from what I heard,” said Nolan. “Eyrie Master probably wants to talk to ’em about what’s goin’ on right now with Eagleholm.”
There were bowls stacked near the fire. Arren took one and filled it with stew from the pot. “And what is going on?”
“Dunno much about it,” said Nolan. “Just what you picks up from listenin’ in on people. Eagleholm’s finished, though, that’s certain. Griffiners all leavin’. My guess is they’re gonna go in, try and take as much of the land as they can get.” He shrugged and dipped his spoon into his stew. “Griffiners’ business,” he said, as if that were the final word on the matter.
Arren started on his food. He hadn’t really thought about what would happen now that Eagleholm’s Eyrie and its Mistress had been destroyed, but it didn’t surprise him at all to learn that the neighbouring states were already preparing to start taking over its lands. Troops were probably moving in already, and as soon as the forces of two different states met, there would be fighting. Everyone would be grasping for a piece of Eagleholm’s land. His former state had been one of the largest and had included a lake and an enormous stretch of river, not to mention a great deal of fertile ground and several mines. Winning some of that would be more than worth the fighting for it.
Around him the others were getting ready to start the day, some partway through breakfast and others still lacing up their boots. They were talking among themselves in calm voices; they almost sounded like—well, like ordinary men preparing for a day’s work. He was surprised.
Eagleholm had no slaves, at least not during his lifetime. He had never actually seen a slave until the previous night, and until then his parents had been the only other Northerners he had ever known. Consequently he’d never seen the inside of a slave-house before and had no idea what to expect from one. But the picture his imagination had painted for him had been nothing like this. In his mind he’d seen rows of dank cells in which the slaves sat chained to benches, constantly watched over by guards, unable to move free or enjoy the comfort of proper bedding. But here he was seeing—well, the quarters were rough and the food was poor, but it was comfortable enough. He had seen poor people back in Eagleholm whose living conditions were far worse. The slaves weren’t even being guarded, at least not here.
