by K J Taylor
He lay awake like that for a long time, mourning his son and cursing the gods and fate for taking him away along with Annir and everything else. He cursed the Night God, he cursed Gryphus, and most of all he cursed Erian. The sneering brat with the glittering sword and the velvet tunics looted from another man’s wardrobe, whose partner liked to snap and hiss at the slaves and watch them cringe in fear. Erian the Blue, he liked to call himself. Erian Rannagonson. Lord Erian. Erian the Bastard. Erian the Brat. Erian, who wanted nothing more than to see Arenadd tortured to death.
You’ll never get him now, Cardock thought. He’s out of your reach.
It was cold comfort. Outside, the rain fell harder than ever. A storm was building, and the slave-house creaked and rattled in the gale. Thunder rumbled somewhere, low and threatening.
Eventually, Cardock slid into an exhausted, uneasy sleep. He dreamt of Arenadd as he had been as a child: six years old, his black hair neatly combed in spite of his rough clothing. He was playing alone, as he always did, with the little leather griffin his mother had made for him, prattling away to it as if it were alive. The other children, though, were never happy to let him keep to himself, and they wandered over in the hopes of finding something to taunt him with. Blackrobe, one yelled at him. You’re a blackrobe. Da said so.
Arenadd turned to face them. I’m a griffiner, he told them haughtily. You’ve got to bow and say “sir” when you talk to me.
That’s not a real griffin, a little girl shouted.
My griffin’s real, said Arenadd. If you don’t leave me alone she’ll bite you.
Cardock knew what had happened after that. The other children, provoked, had begun to throw rocks and handfuls of mud at him until he had run back home in tears. But now the stones were sharp and drew blood when they hit him, and when he cried out it was a man’s voice and full of mortal pain.
Someone shook Cardock awake. He stirred and moaned. “What?”
“Quiet,” a voice hissed. “Come on, get up an’ keep quiet.”
Tired and disorientated, Cardock climbed out of the hammock and found his feet.
It was quite dark in the room; the torches on the walls hadn’t been re-lit, and the fire had burned low. The gale was rattling the shingles on the roof. Even though it had to still be night-time, he could hear the others stirring around him: soft thumps and mutterings and the rustle of cloth. As his eyes adjusted he could see their shapes by the dim light of the coals under the stew pot; it looked as if everyone was up now and getting dressed.
Cardock was still wearing the rough robe they’d given him and had forgotten to take off his boots, so he shuffled over to the nearest silhouette. “What’s going on?” he asked, trying to keep his voice low.
“I dunno. We’ve just got to get dressed an’ go out into t’corridor like normal.”
Cardock rubbed his eyes; they were sore. “In the middle of the night?”
Someone shoved him in the back. “Move it, you, I can’t see where I’m goin’.”
Others were making for the doorway, and Cardock resignedly followed them. There was very little point in trying to find out what was going on, and if he was slow he would be in trouble. But he wondered vaguely why they were being made to get up at this time of night. What sort of work could anyone do in the dark, and while it was windy and raining as well?
The corridor was already jam-packed with slaves, all talking in low voices. They were as orderly as always, but there was an undercurrent of fear and bewilderment there as well. Cardock could hear them questioning each other, apparently all as confused as he was.
There was light coming from one end of the corridor, the opposite end to where the gate to the guardroom was. And there seemed to be a draught coming from the same direction as the light, he realised. Odd.
Someone jostled him. Cardock shoved back irritably, but before he could say anything there was a sudden disturbance among the crowd.
“Cardock!” someone called quietly.
The cry was taken up by others. “Cardock? Where’s Cardock? Someone bring him forward, hurry!”
Cardock started to push his way in the direction of the voices. “I’m here,” he said. “I’m Cardock. Hello? What’s going on?”
Someone grabbed him by the arm. “There y’are. Quick, come with me.”
“Caedmon. What’s going on? What do they want me for?”
Caedmon’s face, only semi-visible in the gloom, looked pale. “He asked for ye. C’mon. Out of the way! Let us through, damn ye!”
The two of them made an awkward scramble between the mass of bodies, making for the light at the end of the corridor. As they drew closer to it, Cardock began to hear other things being said around him.
“Griffin!”
“He’s got a griffin.”
“It’s him, I know it’s him.”
Caedmon got through first and came to a halt. “I’ve got him, sir.”
Cardock shoved his way through a knot of people, and the first thing he saw was the hole. Something had torn away a great chunk of the wall at the end of the corridor, leaving a gaping hole edged with splinters, on the other side of which something huge lurked—and then someone rushed forward and was embracing him, someone tall and bony and soaking wet.
“Dad! It’s me. I’m back. I’m all right!”
Cardock’s heart seemed to slow in its beating. “Arren,” he gasped. “Arren, is that—?”
Arren let go of him and regarded him carefully by the light of the torch he had handed to Caedmon. “Gods. You look terrible. Have they been starving you?”
Cardock choked. “Arren. Arren! You’re not—but they said you were—”
Arren clasped his shoulder. “It’s okay. Calm down. I’m fine.”
He did not look fine. Cardock saw that straight away. His face was deathly pale, his eyes hollow. His beard was no longer neatly pointed but a tangled mess of dirt-encrusted bristles, and the hair he had taken so much pride in was crusted with mud. But he was alive.
Caedmon was watching them. “So ye really are his father,” he breathed. “And ye . . .” He regarded Arren with deep wariness.
Arren looked back impassively. “Well done, Caedmon. Trusting you was obviously the right thing to do.”
“What do ye want us to do next, sir?” said Caedmon, as sharply as he dared. “I’ve woken everybody up and ye have yer father back as ye asked. What else d’ye intend t’do, may I ask?”
Arren nodded. “It’s time to act. Bring everyone wearing irons to the front, and we’ll be ready.”
“Ready for what?” said Caedmon. “What are ye doing, sir?”
Arren smiled very slightly. “I’m stealing you.”
“What?” said Caedmon. “Sir?”
“You and your friends are slaves, aren’t you?” said Arren. “Property. Property can be stolen, and that’s what I’m doing. Now move. We don’t want to be kept waiting.”
Caedmon bowed stiffly. “Yes . . . sir.”
Cardock went to his son’s side and took him by the elbow. Arren gave him a concerned look. “Dad, are you all right?”
“They told me you were dead,” Cardock said softly.
“I thought they would have. I’m sorry, Dad.”
“It’s not your fault,” said Cardock. “I’m just—I’m so happy you’re alive. I thought I’d lost you again.”
Arren winced. “I’m not going anywhere, Dad. And I’m not leaving you again. That’s a promise.”
“But how can this be?” said Cardock. “How did you—?”
“It was an escape. I was only—” Arren stiffened. “Don’t move. He’s coming.”
“What? Who’s—?”
Arren started to back away from him, moving very slowly. “Don’t move.”
Cardock turned to see what was going on, and his stomach lurched. Something—a big, shadowy something, the same thing he had glimpsed before—was coming toward the hole in the wall. Arren moved out into the open again to meet it, and several of the slaves nearest
to the hole cried out and threw themselves backward as the monstrous griffin appeared from out of the night. A dark griffin, his silver-feathered head capped with black, his hindquarters the colour of jet, big mottled wings opening slightly as he walked.
“Darkheart,” Cardock groaned.
The griffin stopped and sat on his haunches close to Arren, his silver eyes glaring at the slaves inside the building. But he made no move, and Arren went closer and touched his shoulder, saying something to him in griffish. The griffin replied, and the two of them conversed briefly.
Arren turned back to look through the hole. “Where’s Caedmon?” he asked. “Tell him to hurry up! Skandar won’t wait forever, and if guards come . . .”
Cardock looked over his shoulder, but it was too dark to tell what was going on back in the corridor. He stepped through the hole and toward his son instead. Instantly the griffin tensed, his tail lashing.
Arren touched the beast again. “Kri oo,” he said urgently. “Kri oo kra ae ee a.” He punctuated it with a few sharp clicks of the teeth, mimicking the sound a griffin made with its beak.
The griffin rasped something back. Cardock couldn’t tell if it was hostile or not; all griffish sounded angry to him. “Arren, what are you doing?” he said. “That griffin—”
“This is Skandar,” said Arren, turning to him. “He’s my—well, we’re friends.”
“Skandar?” Cardock repeated.
“I called him that.” Arren looked slightly nervous. “He didn’t have a proper name before then. Don’t worry. I told him you’re my father.” He looked past Cardock. “Oh, thank gods.”
Caedmon was back. The old man came forward, leading a group of four men who were weighed down by leg-irons.
Arren nodded to them. “Right,” he said. “You four, sit down on the edge of the hole. This shouldn’t take too long.”
The four men, however, were gaping at the griffin. “What in the gods’ names?” one said.
Arren stepped forward. “Do it!” he snarled, his voice suddenly full of cold command. “I am a griffiner, and I am giving you an order!”
They obeyed hastily. Once they were seated, Arren took a hammer and chisel from his belt and quickly broke the chains. “Good,” he said once this was done. “You’ll be able to walk now. Caedmon, give the order. We’re walking out of here. All of us. Tell them to stay in a column, and no straggling. The weaker ones should stay at the front. Tell everyone to stay as far away from Skandar as possible. If anyone touches him or comes too close to either of us without permission they will be attacked and probably killed. I mean it. I can’t control him, and he’s perfectly capable of killing people if he wants to. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” said Caedmon.
“Good. D—Cardock, you’ll stay with me.”
“Sir,” said Caedmon. “What if the guards come after us, sir? It’s a miracle they ain’t been alerted already.”
“They’re not coming after us,” Arren said flatly. “Trust me. And if anyone does come after us, Skandar and I know how to deal with our enemies. Now move.”
“Yes, sir.”
Caedmon turned and began to relay the orders to the slaves. They—used to doing as they were told—formed up and filed out of the slave-house. Arren began to walk away with the griffin beside him, and they followed at a safe distance. At first Cardock kept well back, too, but Arren silently gestured at him to join him, which he very nervously did, keeping Arren between himself and the griffin, which was watching him menacingly.
It seemed Arren had everything carefully planned out. He led the slaves directly to the little stone building where the tools were kept. The door had been broken down, and he commanded everyone to go in and take something—an axe, shovel, pick, chisel or hammer—anything sharp or heavy. There were some sacks of potatoes there, too, and he told them to take those as well before leading them away to the wall. They passed through a gap in it and walked into the wilderness beyond, the rain still pouring down.
Cardock managed to keep pace with his son. “Arren, where are we going?”
“North,” Arren answered briefly. “To Tara.”
“But why? And why take everyone?”
To Cardock’s surprise, Arren sniggered. “Aren’t you proud of me, Dad? I don’t think I’ve ever done anything this brilliant before. I really don’t.”
“Brilliant?” Cardock snapped. “What’s brilliant about this?” He paused to untangle his robe from a sodden bush. “This—argh! Damn it! This is madness, not brilliance!”
“Well, thank you,” Arren snapped back. “I’m sure some gratitude for getting you out of there was too much to expect.”
“Getting me out, maybe,” said Cardock. “But taking everybody ? How in the gods’ names do you expect to get them all to Tara?”
“They’ve got legs. They can walk.”
“And what about food?”
“There’s farmland most of the way there,” said Arren. “We’ll take what we need. And we can forage. I’ve learnt a few things about that over the last few months, you know.”
“Foraging?” said Cardock. “Forget foraging! We’re not going to get more than two miles. The moment they realise we’re gone, they’ll send people after us. Men on horseback. We’ll be captured or slaughtered.”
Arren laughed. “Captured? Slaughtered? Listen to yourself, Dad. There were nearly a hundred slaves in that building, and that was before you came with the others. I counted them myself. All strong, fit men, used to obeying orders, and all carrying something sharp. It’d take at least a hundred more to capture this lot. And in case you haven’t noticed, you have me with you. And I have Skandar. If anyone tries to lay a hand on me, he’s dead. You know what Skandar can do. You saw him in the Arena yourself.”
“Arren, what are you doing with that griffin?” said Cardock. “That is Darkheart, isn’t it?”
“He used to be.”
Cardock eyed the massive shape of the griffin, which had pulled ahead of them and was shouldering his way through a soap-bush thicket. “Why is he helping you?”
He listened to Arren’s explanation. “I don’t like this,” he said once Arren was done. “That’s a wild griffin there, not a city one. A man-eater. He killed Eluna, didn’t he?”
“Accidentally,” said Arren. “He saved my life, Dad. I trust him.”
“But you can’t control him,” said Cardock. “What if he decides to attack?”
“Control?” said Arren. “Dad, nobody controls a griffin. I didn’t have any control over Eluna. Griffins make their own decisions. They’ll go along with yours if they agree with you or if they don’t care, but the rest of the time—”
“So, what you’re saying is that if he attacks, you can’t do anything.”
“I can put myself in the way if I have to. But look, griffins don’t attack unless they’re hungry or if they feel threatened. Or if there’s a female in heat, which doesn’t apply here. As long as Skandar stays well fed and no-one does anything to provoke him, we’re fine.”
“Well fed?” said Cardock. “On what, exactly? He’s a man-eater!”
“Not any more.” Arren tried not to think of the men Skandar had slaughtered and eaten by the spirit cave. “There’s no meat on a human, Dad. He’d only do that if he was starving. There are cows and sheep here for him to eat. And we’ve been travelling together for months and he hasn’t eaten me yet. It’s fine, I swear.”
“I hope so,” Cardock muttered.
17
An Entourage
At dawn the slaves were still marching. They had spent much of the night struggling over a series of forested hills, in pouring rain all the while, rain that was still falling by the time morning came.
The light of the rising sun revealed a miserable and exhausted group moving in a column but now showing definite signs of flagging. Everyone was soaked, and they had collected plenty of cuts and bruises along the way. But nobody was complaining or showing any signs of rebellion. Arren, noticing this, was
grimly pleased. Slaves didn’t complain, and they didn’t rebel. They did as they were told and nothing more.
Caedmon was still among the forerunners of the group and looked surprisingly strong and alert given his age.
“How are they?” Arren asked him. “How much longer can they keep going?”
“Quite a bit longer, sir,” said Caedmon.
“Good,” said Arren. “We need to get as far as we can as fast as we can. They’ll find us impossible to track through all these hills, especially with the rain. Is Torc all right?”
“He looks well enough to me, sir,” said Caedmon. “Nolan’s looking after him.”
Arren nodded. “You should probably get them to come closer to the front so I can keep an eye on him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Arren watched the old man leave, and shook his head. It was strange to have people obeying him so unquestioningly. Even back at Eagleholm during his time as an official he’d grown used to being questioned when he gave orders, but this was different. No questions, no arguments. He was completely in control.
Cardock had been watching. “You still haven’t told me why you . . . stole them,” he said.
Arren shook himself. “Oh, it’s simple enough.”
“What is?”
“Look at this, Dad.” Arren held out his hand. “See this?”
Cardock saw the brand, and hissed to himself. “Gods damn them.”
“They flogged me, too,” Arren said calmly. “I was there in Herbstitt for over a month, wearing those damned leg-irons and working from dawn until dusk. After I got out of there, I had to rescue you. And I wanted revenge.”
“Like the revenge you took on Lord Rannagon?” said Cardock in an undertone.
“No,” Arren said sharply. Too sharply. “I have no interest in killing more people. One was too many. No, revenge doesn’t have to be murder. They made me a slave because they were short on slaves, so I went back and stole the lot of them. They’ll never finish that wall now.”
