The Griffin's Flight

by K J Taylor

  “Ridiculous,” she muttered and tore it open with her beak. “Straw would be far more comfortable. Do they think I am a cat?”

  Erian stretched out on the bed. “Still, it’s better than sleeping in the open, isn’t it?”

  “Sufficiently. Bring me food.”

  “Of course, but couldn’t I just—?”

  “Now,” said Senneck. She laid her head on her talons and closed her eyes. “Venison, if you can find it. And water.”

  Erian bit back a sigh and strode out of the room. He’d grown used to Senneck doing this: even when there were servants or other people ready and willing to bring her food, she preferred him to do it himself. When he had complained, she had fixed him with an icy stare and said, “I carry you. I protect you. I give you your status. And this is the thanks I receive?”

  Since then he had never even thought of protesting again, but, he comforted himself, at least this was nothing unusual. He’d known about it before he’d become a griffiner. Griffins were notoriously selfish and demanding creatures. They expected the best of everything, and if it wasn’t vital for them to do something for themselves, they wouldn’t do it. Many of those partnered with high officials in cities spent most of their time eating and sleeping and enjoying all the luxuries their humans could provide, and Erian knew well enough that Senneck resented his inability to do the same for her.

  And she was right, he thought as he made for the kitchens. Under the circumstances, bringing her some food was a very small price to pay.

  This time, however, it proved too much. There was no fresh meat in the kitchens or in the stores. The best he could find was a side of salted beef and some cheese. He carried those up to Senneck, dreading her reaction, but, thankfully, she merely gave him a steely look and ripped into the slab of meat with a little more force than was necessary.

  Erian sat down on the bed and chewed listlessly at an apple. “How far do you think it is to Malvern?”

  She tore the rib cage apart before she replied.

  “Another day should be enough to take us out of these accursed mountains. Beyond that is farmland. I do not know exactly how long it will take to reach Malvern from there, but the travelling should be easier.”

  “Thank Gryphus,” Erian mumbled.

  They spent the rest of that day resting and left the next day at dawn, without waiting to say farewell to their hosts. The captain had already been ordered to be on the lookout for the supply wagon that would be coming his way some time over the next few weeks. Erian’s belongings would be on it, along with his new personal slave, and he had asked for a message to be sent to him at Malvern to inform him when it had arrived safely.

  Meanwhile, Senneck flew on. Erian sat comfortably in the hollow between her neck and her wings and felt the wind whip through his hair. He was feeling oddly cheerful that day and sang to himself as they flew.

  “For the traitor’s reward is the blade of a sword, and Scathach the One-Eyed became . . .”

  At noon they stopped to rest, and Senneck preened her feathers and then napped while Erian walked around on the barren grey road, stretching his legs and munching on some dried travel rations he had stuffed in his pocket.

  A while later they were ready to go on. Paradoxically, though, Erian felt tired and listless now and passed the rest of the flight in a kind of trance, wanting to slip into a doze but forced to stay awake, leaning in harmony with Senneck as she flew.

  But as evening drew closer he saw signs that they were near their destination. The mountains were growing smaller, and he could see hills and plains beyond them in the distance. Senneck’s estimate had been correct; they would be there soon.

  At long last, as the sun dipped close to the horizon, Senneck slowed and began her descent. She landed at the very edge of the mountains, by a strange landmark.

  Erian carefully slid off her back and went to inspect it. It was a huge stone—taller than he was—standing on its end. Its pitted grey sides were covered in intricate spiral patterns, the carvings weathered by time. Picked out among them, fitted in elegantly among the swirling lines, was a ring of thirteen globes.

  “The full moons of the year,” said Senneck, coming up behind him. “This is a blackrobe stone.”

  “I didn’t know they made things like this,” said Erian. He ran his fingers over the carvings, marvelling at them.

  “Their ancestors are said to have made many stones like this,” said Senneck. “Great circles, built on hilltops. One stone for every phase of the moon. They used them as temples. On their holy nights they would sacrifice children and cover themselves in blood.”

  Erian shuddered. “Why?”

  “They believed it gave them power,” said Senneck. “The blood could change them into wolves or reveal the future. The ‘Blood Moon,’ they called it. Or so I have heard.”

  Suddenly the stone looked far less beautiful. Erian took his hand away from it. “Gods. If they’d overrun Cymria—why is this stone here, anyway?”

  “The blackrobes put it here to mark the edge of their territory,” said Senneck. “This is the boundary. As soon as we pass beyond it, we will be in the North.”

  18

  Mutterings

  The camp wasn’t so much one camp as it was many. The slaves, one hundred and fifty men in all, had split themselves up into smaller groups, which were now scattered among the trees. Most of them had been able to light fires, each one carefully placed at the base of a tree so that the branches would dispel some of the smoke and make it less visible from a distance.

  All of it had been planned and directed by Arren, or Lord Arenadd as the slaves were calling him. Cardock walked among them, watching and listening.

  It had been close to a week since their escape from Herbstitt, and they were making steady progress toward the mountains. Arenadd had taken every precaution, frequently consulting Caedmon and the handful of men who had become something of an inner circle for him. Very few of the slaves at large had spoken to him directly yet, although Cardock had seen him make several attempts to put them at their ease. They remained deeply wary of him. They did as he commanded, through Caedmon, who remained a go-between as he had been back at Herbstitt, but they kept as far away from Arenadd as they could, and to a man they refused to look him in the eye.

  Cardock walked among them now, listening in on their conversations. Most of them fell silent as soon as they saw him, but he picked up the gist easily enough.

  “What are we gonna do when we get there? When’s he gonna tell us?”

  “. . . wanted to say goodbye at least. Gods, I miss her.”

  “Look at his eyes. You can see it. Next time he’s near you, look at them, proper like. He’s mad.”

  “. . . mad.”

  Cardock had heard talk like this dozens of times over the last few days, and it failed to surprise him now. He didn’t know if Arenadd was aware of what his new followers were saying among themselves, and so far he hadn’t had the will to tell him. Then again, telling him anything was next to impossible now.

  Hunger made his stomach twinge, and he sighed and walked back to the largest fire, which was right at the centre of the camp. By now he knew the eight figures that sat around it: Caedmon, Nolan, Annan, Torc and the four Northerners. Olwydd and his friends had taken to carrying their new weapons everywhere with them and had formed themselves into a kind of bodyguard for their leader, who had taught them a few things about basic mêlée combat.

  Cardock approached the fire on the opposite side from where they sat. Caedmon and Nolan quickly shuffled aside to make room for him.

  “There you are,” said Nolan. “There’s some mutton left. Want a bit?”

  Cardock sat down and helped himself to a chunk of the overcooked, greasy meat, which had been cut from a sheep stolen from an unattended flock by one of the raiding parties they had formed. “Where’s Arenadd?” he asked tersely.

  “Lord Arenadd is up on the hilltop with his griffin,” Olwydd told him.

  “Has he
had anything to eat?”

  Olwydd hesitated at that. “I don’t know.”

  Cardock looked at Torc. “Has he?”

  The boy looked nervous. “No, Cardock, sir, I don’t think so.”

  “Didn’t you offer him anything?”

  “Yes, sir. He didn’t want it, sir.”

  “He didn’t eat anything yesterday, either,” said Cardock. “Did he?”

  “No, Cardock, sir,” said Torc, staring at the ground.

  “Why not?” said Cardock. “Didn’t you insist?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You should have,” Cardock snapped. “He ordered you to make sure every man here got his fair share of food, and that should include himself.”

  “Go easy on him wouldya, Cardock?” said Nolan, coming to the defence of the petrified Torc. “You think the boy could tell Lord Arenadd what to do?”

  “He’s your master now,” said Cardock. “You can’t let him starve himself. If he isn’t eating, then at least tell me about it.”

  Nolan looked hesitant. “I see where ye’re comin’ from an’ that, but I don’t think he’d be happy if he found out we were spyin’ on him, like. I knew about this one slave, told his master’s secrets to someone else an’ got his—”

  “This isn’t like that,” said Cardock. “I’m his father, understand? I have the right to know.”

  Nolan sighed. “All right.”

  “Good.” Cardock stood up, taking some cold mutton and a couple of apples. “I’m going to go and talk to him.”

  “Watch out for the griffin, sir,” Torc piped up.

  “I plan to,” Cardock muttered, and set off up the slope of the hill where Arenadd was keeping a lookout with Skandar.

  He made the short climb, slipping a little on the wet leaves. It was late evening, and the stars were beginning to come out. Soon it would be full night, but for now people and objects were visible, albeit as detailed shadows.

  The top of the hill was obscured by a large rocky outcrop. Cardock paused at the edge of it to rest, panting. His neck throbbed under the collar, and he rubbed pointlessly at it. Even now the thing was a torment; a slave collar never allowed the punctured flesh beneath to heal completely, and the pain drove some slaves mad.

  He pulled himself together and walked in among the stones. “Arren?” he called, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself but afraid of what might happen if he surprised him.

  This was absurd, he thought. Beyond absurd. He was frightened of his own son. Or at least of the thing that followed him everywhere like a shadow.

  There was no reply to his call. It was growing darker, and he sped up, watching and listening, every sense alert for a sign of the griffin that had to be lurking somewhere on the hilltop.

  As he reached the crest proper, he could see the remains of a pale, watery sunset still lingering on the horizon. Just up ahead, the fading light showed him the silhouette of his son, alone, sitting in a bare patch of ground amid the outcrop.

  Cardock stepped closer. Arenadd was sitting hunched, hugging his knees, something Cardock hadn’t seen him do since he was a child trying to hide away from the world.

  Cardock thought of calling out to him, but something held him back. He stayed where he was, clutching the little bundle of food, just watching, his insides beginning to churn with a sense of inexplicable dread. Something was wrong.

  Very slowly, he realised that Arenadd was crying. Not loudly or passionately, but with soft, half-stifled sobs that sounded as if they had been going on for a long time.

  Cardock’s throat felt constricted. “Arren?”

  The instant he spoke, the strange stillness vanished. There was a thump and a scrabbling sound, and in a heartbeat something huge and horrible was rearing up in front of him, all feathers and talons and lashing tail, hissing and spitting like a piece of hot iron. A hard blow to the chest hurled him to the ground, the bundle of food flew out of his grasp and then the thing was on him.

  Cardock couldn’t even scream. He lay there, pinned to the ground by a massive set of talons, half-crushed, his chest exploding with pain. He struggled feebly, but it was hopeless. All he could do was gasp his panic, sharp stones grinding into his back as the griffin pressed down yet harder.

  Skandar brought his huge beak down and sniffed at the trapped human, the air hissing through the griffin’s nostrils. He recognised the scent, and relaxed. He knew this one; it wasn’t dangerous and sometimes brought food. He removed his paw and went after the other scent he had caught, one he found much more inviting.

  Cardock struggled upright, groaning, and was in time to see the monstrous griffin scoop the chunk of mutton out of the dirt and swallow it with a quick toss of his head. He searched the ground for more but only succeeded in finding the apples, which he flicked aside before lifting his head to glare reproachfully at Cardock.

  Cardock didn’t dare do more than bow his head. “Sorry,” he gasped. “Sorry.” He didn’t know if the griffin understood.

  Skandar stared at him a moment longer and then looked away, apparently no longer interested. Cardock looked past him but couldn’t see any sign of Arenadd. He knew there was nothing he could do.

  “I’ll go,” he mumbled to the griffin, and stumbled back down the hill.

  Skandar watched him go with a dispassionate eye. Inwardly, though, he was pleased. He didn’t want another human near, confusing him. Not while his own human was unwell.

  The pair of fruits the old male had brought were still lying nearby. He couldn’t fathom why humans liked to eat them, but perhaps Arren would want them. Perhaps they would make him better somehow.

  Skandar nudged them together and managed to pick them up in his beak. They sat there precariously, threatening to fall out, but he kept his head carefully still and walked back to where Arren was. He had stood up when he heard the other human and was staring at Skandar now, black eyes glimmering in the faint light left from the Day Eye.

  Skandar put the fruits down in front of his human. “Eat,” he rasped. “Food.”

  Arren looked at them but didn’t pick them up. “I don’t want them,” he said.

  “Eat,” Skandar repeated patiently. “Eat now. Sick, need food.”

  Arren made that strange shuddering sound that he had been making a lot lately. “It won’t help, Skandar.”

  “Eat,” Skandar said yet again.

  But Arren turned away. “Nothing can help me,” he said quietly.

  Skandar’s tail began to lash. “You eat,” he said. “Eat now. Eat, get better.”

  “I’m not sick, Skandar.”

  “You sick,” said Skandar. “A sick griffin, not eat. Sick human, not eat. You not eat, you die.”

  The shuddering again, but Arren turned back and picked up the apples. “Fine. I’ll eat them if that’s what you want.”

  Skandar watched approvingly as he bit into one. “I want you—do not want you die.”

  “I know.”

  “Want you live,” said Skandar. “Want keep you, Arren Cardockson. Keep you forever. Mine. Mine always. Mine.”

  “I won’t leave you, Skandar,” Arren said softly. “I can’t. I understand that now.”

  “Mine,” Skandar repeated.

  Cardock reached the edge of the rocky outcrop at a staggering walk, but then his terror finally bubbled to the surface, and he broke into a sprint. Once he hit the slope, the treacherous ground and poor light forced him to slow down, but he moved as fast as he could, tripping over rocks and branches, and stumbling through thickets of damp soap-bush and piufex grass.

  When he reached the edge of the firelight that marked Caedmon’s camp he came to a stop and leant against a tree for a few moments, panting and clutching at his aching chest.

  Once he had calmed down, he straightened up and walked into the circle of light.

  The others glanced up. “How was he?” Caedmon inquired.

  Cardock stared blankly at him for a couple of heartbeats, his mind flitting back to the sobbing fi
gure at the top of the hill. “I . . . don’t think he was hungry,” he said at last. “But the griffin was.”

  Nolan winced. “Took the meat, did he?”

  “Uh, yes. He did. Could I—” Cardock realised he was shaking slightly. “Could I sit down, please?”

  They shuffled aside hastily, and Caedmon got up. “Ye gods, ye’re as white as a lily. Come, siddown, warm yerself up. Someone get him some water, hurry up.”

  Cardock sat down and tried to slow his breathing. The warmth of the fire touched him, soaking through his clothes, and he shuddered slightly, but it helped to soothe him. Torc put a water bottle into his hands, and he drank.

  After a little while he began to feel better. “Gods,” he mumbled, putting the bottle aside and rubbing his hands over his face. “I didn’t know what’d happened—the thing just leapt out at me.”

  Nolan looked sympathetic. “Did the same thing t’me once, sir. Nearly vomited up me own heart, I did, sir. No surprise you’re a bit shaken up.”

  Cardock took his hands away from his face. “You really don’t have to call me sir.”

  “I do, sir,” said Nolan. “You’re Lord Arenadd’s father, ain’t you? An’ you’re a free man, too. Everyone knows about that. You was set free, an’ Erian the Bastard sold you back. But you’re a free man far as we’re concerned; you didn’t do nothin’ wrong. We’re just slaves, us. We call every free man sir. I was born knowin’ that.”

  “Well, if that’s the way, I’d like t’know why ye ain’t callin’ us sir,” Garnoc put in suddenly. “We’re free, same as”—a polite nod toward Cardock—“yer new master’s father here, but I ain’t heard no sirs from ye to me yet, Southerner.”

  Another man would certainly have flared up in response to this, but Nolan only ducked his head nervously. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean no disrespect or nothin’, only—”