The Griffin's Flight

by K J Taylor

  Arren behaved himself, but he wasn’t passive by any means. Every waking moment he was aware of the danger he was in and of the need to escape. He never let himself relax; he kept his distance from the guards as much as possible. He was tempted to rub dirt on his scar, but he didn’t dare; someone would see him do it and would ask questions.

  That was the main reason he soon began to despair of having any chance to escape: he was never alone. Waking or sleeping, day or night, there was always someone there. He was watched by guards every moment when he was outside at work. The rest of the time it was the other slaves watching him, and though he liked their company, he knew they wouldn’t hesitate to betray him if they saw him trying to run away. And, he eventually conceded, he didn’t want to hurt them, either. They didn’t deserve to suffer on his account, and he knew that if he ran, then they would be punished.

  He thought about it constantly, brooding over the problem while he cut and hauled blocks of stone to build a wall for his enemies, a defence made necessary by a conflict he had started. There had to be a way to get out of Herbstitt unseen without casting suspicion on the others. But whatever that way was, it refused to come to him, and time was running out.

  One day, nearly two months after his capture outside the spirit cave, Arren was helping Nolan wrestle a large stone block into position among its fellows at the base of the wall when a shout came from somewhere behind him. He glanced up automatically, and the block lurched in their combined grip.

  “Come on!” Nolan gasped. “Don’t drop it, damn yer!”

  “Sorry.” Arren took a few extra steps sideways, then he and Nolan lowered the block on top of a stack of its fellows. Once it was down, he straightened up and rubbed his back, groaning. “Argh, godsdamnit—what?”

  Nolan gazed past him. “Hey, will yer look at that, then?”

  Arren looked. They weren’t far away from the town’s gates, which hung open. A large wagon had just been driven through them and had come to a stop not far away. Arren squinted at it, confused. There was a kind of cage built over the wagon, and inside there were—

  “Oi!” Caedmon had seen them and came over, scowling. “What d’ye think yer doin’? This ain’t a puppet show. Get back to work!”

  Arren shook himself. “Sorry, sir.”

  Nolan had already taken the hint and was walking back toward the quarry. Arren lagged behind him, chains rattling.

  “Looks like the new lot have got here,” said Nolan, glancing over at the wagon. The governor was there with a couple of guards, talking to the driver. “Not before time, either,” he added sourly.

  “New—?” Realisation dawned. “Oh. Those new slaves who were supposed to be here by now.”

  “That’s right. Looks like there’s a lot of ’em. Hope we got the room.”

  Arren sighed unhappily as they walked toward the side gate that would take them to the quarry. More slaves would mean the work would go faster, and escape would become even more urgent. Still, he was curious to know about them and where they had come from. Perhaps, he thought hopefully, there would be someone among them who could help, someone else who wanted to escape.

  By the time he returned from the quarry, carrying another huge block, the wagon had been driven over to the slave-house and the occupants had been unloaded and taken inside.

  “They’ll be restin’ the day out,” Nolan observed. “None of them’d better take my hammock, or I swear they’ll be sorry.”

  Arren grinned. “Don’t worry, Torc will make sure they don’t.” The boy was in the slave-house that day, cleaning and repairing things with the help of a couple of other slaves who were injured and unable to work.

  Noon came, and the boy reappeared as if by magic to bring them lunch, which as well as the usual bread included a basket of green apples. “They was brought into the tower, but the governor didn’t want them,” he explained. “We get ’em ’cause he’s in a good mood now the new lot are here.”

  Arren took one gratefully. “So, have you talked to any of’em yet?”

  “Yes, sir. They was sent here from Wylam, sir, but they came through Eagleholm lands on the way. One of them said they was delayed there because a griffiner wanted to look at them all. He said he looked at all of ’em and asked their names an’ such.”

  Arren’s blood ran cold. “I wonder why?”

  “Looking for someone maybe, sir,” said Torc. “But that’s why they’re late.”

  “You really don’t have to call me that, Torc,” said Arren.

  “Yes, sir.” Torc grinned at him. “You’ll like the new lot, sir. They’ve got all sorts of stories about Wylam an’ such, and there was one said he come from Eagleholm once, too.”

  “How many of ’em are there?” said Nolan.

  “Dunno,” said Torc. “Fair few. We’ll get this wall done in no time with them here.”

  Arren grinned and ruffled his hair. “What d’you mean, we?”

  Torc grinned back. “Well, you know, you will, then. But you can’t work if you ain’t got any food, sir.”

  “He’s got yer bang to rights there, Taranis,” said Nolan.

  Arren laughed as the two of them went off to eat, but his good humour was feigned. Underneath he was worried. He knew perfectly well why the new slaves had been inspected. This griffiner, whoever he was, had been hoping that one of them was something other than what he claimed to be. Arren could imagine him examining each face, looking for a scar. And a further horrible thought occurred to him shortly afterward: that one of the new slaves would know what the fugitive looked like and begin to suspect Arren. And then they would ask questions he couldn’t answer.

  They were back at the quarry now, and Arren suddenly paused and scooped up a handful of damp soil. He straightened up and rubbed it onto the side of his face, grinding it into the scarred skin as fast as he could.

  Nolan noticed, however, and gave him an odd look. “What in blazes are yer doin’, Taranis?”

  “Got an itch,” Arren muttered.

  “Well, fine. C’mon, help me with this.”

  The rest of that afternoon seemed to last forever. Arren never quite knew how he managed to keep going with all the anxiety burning inside him, but he got through it one way or another, and when the sun began to set he walked back toward the slave-house with Nolan and the others, full of dull exhaustion. He could feel an odd fluttering sensation in his chest, and without thinking he put a hand to his neck. Nothing. Still nothing.

  “You’re always doin’ that,” Nolan said suddenly.

  Arren started. “What?”

  “I said, you’re always doin’ that,” said Nolan. “Touchin’ your neck.”

  “Oh. It’s just a habit.”

  “I know what it is,” Nolan said slyly. “You’re checking, ain’t you? Still can’t quite believe it’s not there any more.”

  Arren stared at him, horrified. “What?”

  “Stop gawping at me like that,” said Nolan. “I meant yer collar. You still ain’t used to not having it, eh?”

  “Oh.” Arren felt giddy. “Yes, you’re right.” There had been several attempts to fit him with a collar, but it seemed Herbstitt only had two, and neither of them were the right size. Arren had noticed that the collars on these slaves had been fitted much more tightly than the one that had been put on him back at Eagleholm. That collar had been loose—he had been able to fit a finger underneath it—and had constantly shifted around, causing the short spikes on its inside to tear into him every time it moved. These collars, however, never moved. Each one was properly fitted to its owner’s neck, and Arren had noted with horror that the skin grew to suit it. Caedmon’s neck had actually begun to absorb his collar, the skin growing over it to claim it for its own. Also, nobody seemed to be suffering from infections. He had managed to get Nolan to explain why: every collar was boiled in alcohol before it was fitted, and the metal itself was a special alloy that discouraged infection. The idea had come from elsewhere and been adopted by Cymrian slavers. Arren
had already learnt that from his studies as a griffiner: slave collars had been invented in Amoran, and the griffiners in Cymria had copied them for their own slaves to wear. Arren wondered if these ones caused constant pain, as his own had done.

  “You’re a strange one, aren’t yer?” said Nolan as they filed into the slave-house. But it was said warmly, and Arren finally realised that since he had first come into the slave-house and taken his place among the slaves, no-one—no-one—had drawn attention to the fact that he was a Northerner. There were no stares, no comments, no condescension or jokes, light-hearted or otherwise.

  Arren felt inexplicably ashamed as he realised this was what he had noticed that first night, the cause of the nagging sense that something was different here. He looked at Nolan and knew that his new friend was doing something nobody had ever done in the past: he was accepting him, Arren, for who he was.

  Arren pulled himself together. “Strange?” he said. “Yes, probably. So people say, anyway.”

  Now in the corridor, they waited patiently until the way was clear for them to enter their dormitory. “Sorry,” said Nolan, “I didn’t mean to insult yer or nothing—oh my gods.”

  Arren looked past him into the dormitory, and groaned. The room was packed. Everyone who normally slept there was having to get past the knot of new men who were now sharing their quarters. There were at least a dozen of them loitering around the fire, all travel stained and weary looking. Caedmon was there, busy haranguing them, but he didn’t seem to be having much success.

  Arren gritted his teeth. “Godsdamnit, what do they think they’re playing at? This lot can’t fit in here!” But he could barely hear himself over the babble of voices. He waded through the crowd, elbowing people left and right, trying to get to Caedmon. “Caedmon, what in the gods’ names is going on?” he yelled.

  A hand grabbed his arm. Arren shook it off. “Caedmon, are this lot going to be—will you leave me alone?” He turned to confront the person harassing him. “Look, bloody w—” He froze.

  The other was a middle-aged man whose curly hair was greying and whose ragged beard was speckled with white. He had a worn and exhausted look about him, and his nose had been broken, but the instant Arren saw him he felt as if he were falling.

  “Dad?”

  The man gaped at him. “What—what—?”

  Arren grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away, unnoticed in the general confusion. There was a clear spot in the corner, and he hustled him into it, glancing around constantly to make sure they were unobserved. Once he was sure nobody was watching, he turned to him. “Dad, what are you doing here?”

  Cardock’s face was pale. “Arenadd! Thank the moon you’re alive.”

  “Shut up!” Arren hissed. “I don’t know who you’re talking about, old man. My name’s Taranis, understand? I’ve never seen you before in my life, so stop giving me that look.”

  Cardock understood. He looked past Arren and then moved closer to him. “What are you doing here?”

  “They caught me,” Arren said in an undertone. “But look, it’s all right, they don’t know who I am; they think I’m a runaway slave. I told them I was from Withypool. Dad, what are you doing here? And”—he grabbed his father’s arm—“you’re wearing a collar! Who did that? Who put that on you? For gods’ sakes, where’s Mum?”

  Cardock’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Arren, listen, listen, you’ve got to understand, they know where you were going. They caught us at Norton. There’s a young griffiner, Erian. You know that name?”

  Arren stared. “Rannagon’s son.”

  “Yes. He’s out there, and he’s looking for you.” Cardock bowed his head. “I’m sorry. I had to tell them. I said you were going to the North; now he’s going there, too. If you go there—”

  “I don’t care,” said Arren. “Where’s Mum?”

  “I don’t know. They sold us both, and I don’t know where they sent her.”

  “Oh gods.” Arren moaned. Female slaves often had it far worse than the men did. There was every chance that his mother had been sold to a brothel somewhere. “This is all my fault,” he whispered. “All my fault.”

  Cardock grabbed his arm. “Listen! Listen, damn it, there’s no time. He’s after you. Erian. He won’t rest until he’s found you, and when he does—”

  “When he does I’ll kill him,” Arren spat. “I’ll kill him with my own hands, I swear. I’ll rip his smug little bastard’s head off.” He saw the shocked look his father was giving him. “I don’t know why you’re looking like that. What’s another murder to me?”

  “Be quiet,” said Cardock. “Someone could hear you. Just tell me what you’re going to do.”

  Arren stared at him, genuinely taken aback. “I’m going to get us out of here,” he said, full of a sudden certainty. “I’ll find a way—”

  “Here, ye!” Caedmon had seen them. “Yes, ye, yer blasted tenderneck, get over here.”

  Cardock darted closer to Arren. “Listen, there’s no time, you’ve got to run for it; he’s coming here, he’s coming—”

  Caedmon hit him with his stick. “I gave you an order, damn ye! Stop harassing the lad and get moving!”

  Cardock gave Arren a desperate look as he was hauled off, and that was the last Arren saw of him. Caedmon, who had finally managed to bring some sort of order, took all those who couldn’t find hammocks out of the dormitory with him. He eventually returned, bringing back a few who hadn’t been able to find hammocks in the other dormitories, either, and would have to sleep on the floor. Cardock wasn’t among them. Arren longed to go looking for him but didn’t dare; it would only raise questions. And besides, the more time he spent near his father, the more likely it was that someone would spot the resemblance between them.

  He had no appetite and went to bed that night full of fear and terrible guilt. It had been bad enough that he was in this situation, but now his father was as well, and his mother. How could he tell them why he had not come to meet them in Norton? And how was he going to free them now?

  Another sleepless night was ended by the screech of the griffin at the temple. It seemed louder and longer than usual this time. Arren climbed out of his hammock, feeling dreadful. A bit of sleep had done absolutely nothing to soothe his nerves. His stomach ached as if he had been punched, and his hand itched and burned. And there was a strange sensation in his chest, too—not pain, but a strange feeling of emptiness, as if there were a gaping hole there. He touched his neck again, unconsciously. Nothing.

  Nolan, who was pulling on his boots, paused to look up at him. “Are yer all right? Y’looks a bit pale there.”

  Arren took his hand away from his neck. “I’m not feeling well.”

  “I know how y’feel,” said Nolan. “I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night with that lot all over the damn floor, snoring.” He glared at the new slaves, who were also stirring. Arren doubted they’d had much sleep, either.

  Torc was already up and was adding fuel to the fire. There probably wouldn’t be enough food in the pot to feed everyone, but Arren didn’t think he could stomach it anyway. He sat down with his back to the wall and waited while the others ate, his mind full of a picture of his father as he had seen him the previous night: his lined face gone pale and gaunt, eyes hollow, the nose crooked from the blow that had broken it. And his mother was still out there somewhere, suffering once again the life of slavery she had been freed from when she was a child—and all because of him.

  Arren clasped his hands together and wrenched, gripping and pulling until it hurt. He wanted it to hurt. You should have died, he thought. You should have stayed dead, you should—

  Nolan appeared from out of the crowd of tired slaves, holding a bowl. “Hey, I got you some food. C’mon, get up, there ain’t much time before we got to get out there.”

  Arren looked up, red-eyed. “I’m not hungry.”

  “C’mon, you gotta eat,” said Nolan. “You’ll be good f’nothin’ if you don’t get somethin’ down y
er.”

  Arren took it and ate a few spoonfuls. It was the same thing he’d eaten every day for months, and he’d grown used to it, but this morning it was like trying to eat vomit. He managed to swallow it, but it caught in his throat and he put the bowl down, retching.

  Nolan looked concerned. “You don’t look good at all. What’s wrong?”

  Arren groaned and put a hand to his chest. “It’s my—there’s a funny feeling here. I don’t know what’s wrong. I need something to drink.”

  “Here, I’ll get it for yer,” said Nolan.

  Arren watched him go, feeling more grateful than ever for his company. Nolan had more or less attached himself to him since their first meeting, and Arren had come to like him a lot; he was a simple man, but honest, and kind as well.

  Nolan returned with water. “Here, drink up. You’ll be fine.”

  Arren drank it in one long swallow. It made him feel a little better. “Thanks, Nolan.”

  “No trouble,” said Nolan, treating him to a gap-toothed smile. He glanced over his shoulder, and sighed. “Ah, here we go, then.”

  The others had begun to file out. Arren went with them, knowing he had no choice and full of an overwhelming sense of dread. The feeling didn’t leave him as the column marched out of the slave-house or when they went out into the open air. In fact, it grew worse. He flinched as he stepped into the open, feeling as if something were about to fall out of the sky and land on him. As the groups were split up and sent off to their different places of work, he looked about frantically for his father but failed to spot him among the dozens of faces.

  Arren’s group was marched toward its place near the gates. As he walked at the back of the line, head bowed, Arren caught a snatch of conversation from the guards flanking them. “. . . found them just lying there. I dunno, that’s just what I heard. There aren’t supposed to be any in Canran, but that’s what they think it is . . .”