by K J Taylor
Rine still looked hesitant. “Forgive me, my lady, but we were given no forewarning that you were coming.”
“I did not send word,” said Skade. “I did not know that I should.”
“I see,” said Rine. “Well ...” He glanced at Burd. “Well, then,” he said, looking at Skade again and appearing to relax, “I see no harm in letting you through.”
Skade’s smile returned, more warmly than before. “Thank you, my lord.”
Burd darted forward and whispered urgently in Rine’s ear. The young griffiner nodded.
“However, we’re still required to quickly examine your slaves, my lady.”
Her smile vanished. “Why?”
“Because—I’m sorry, my lady, and please don’t take this as an accusation—we have been warned that a very dangerous criminal is trying to enter the North. A darkman. He committed a series of murders; no doubt you’ve heard?”
Skade’s eyes narrowed. “Are you suggesting that I am trying to smuggle criminals into Malvern’s lands?”
“Not at all, my lady, but we have to observe the formalities. We’ll want to see the documents proving that you bought these slaves legitimately, and after that the guards will check their brands.”
Skade nodded. “Understood. I will search for the documents in my bag, and perhaps while I am doing that you can begin to inspect the brands.”
“We should—” Rine began.
“Excellent,” said Skade. She turned around. “You,” she said, grabbing a slave at random and shoving him forward. “Show Lord Rine your brand, and be quick about it.”
The slave, a thin young man with a scar on his face, stumbled toward Rine. “Yes, my lady.” He bowed. “My lord.”
Rine opened his mouth to complain, but stopped. “Where is your collar, blackrobe?”
The man shrugged. “Lost it. But I have a brand, see?” He held out his hand. “See? There.”
Rine grabbed it by the wrist. “This isn’t a Withypool brand,” he said. “This looks like—I don’t recognise it. Where is this brand from?”
“I’ll let you see it a little closer,” said the slave, and punched him hard in the face.
Rine toppled backward, stars exploding in his vision. As he hit the ground, he heard the shout.
“Attack!”
It happened in an instant. Rine’s partner lashed out at the scarred slave, and as he dodged it the huge dark griffin rushed forward, slamming into Rine’s griffin and bowling her over. In the same moment, every single one of the slaves pulled a weapon out of his robe and hurled himself at the guards.
Arenadd was almost completely unaware of the chaos breaking out around him. Even as he avoided the attack from the griffin, he ran straight at Rine. The griffiner was struggling to his feet, wide-eyed, mouth opening to shout something, but before he could speak Arenadd had reached him and attacked. His boot lashed out, striking Rine under the chin and knocking him backward, and Arenadd leapt at him, pinning him down.
The two of them struggled together, each one wrestling for control for a few breathless moments. Rine snatched at the dagger in his belt, but Arenadd struck his hand away and began to hit him, punching him in the head with all his strength.
Rine landed a few blows on him in return, but Arenadd didn’t feel them. He continued to strike, again and again, until the griffiner slumped, half-conscious. Arenadd pulled the dagger from his own belt and pressed it into Rine’s neck, and for a moment there was stillness.
Rine said nothing, but Arenadd heard him groan. Blood was coming from his mouth and nose, and his fingers curled, grasping at nothing. From somewhere far away came the sound of two griffins screeching and tearing at each other. Fighting to kill.
Rine groaned again and stirred, and for an instant their eyes met. Rine’s eyes were green, and dim with pain. There was fear there, too. He knew he was about to die.
I am the man without a heart, Arenadd thought. “Join me,” he whispered, and pulled the dagger hard over the man’s throat, tearing it wide open. Blood gushed out, staining his hands and soaking into his robe.
Rine died almost instantly, and Arenadd straightened up, looking down at him. It was so strange how different people looked when they were dead.
A hand grabbed his shoulder. Instantly his senses snapped back and he whirled around, raising the dagger.
“Stop! Arenadd, it is me!”
“Skade.”
“Yes. Are you hurt?”
“No.”
Arenadd looked around. The slaves had overwhelmed the guards, leaving them dead or wounded, and were already pouring up the staircases and into the building. Skandar was over by the other gate, tearing at the griffin, which had fallen and was still lashing out at him. But the fight was already won; even as Arenadd ran to help, Skandar struck the other griffin a blow that broke her neck.
“Skandar!”
Skandar turned away from the griffin’s twitching body. His sides were heaving, his face and chest were bloodied, and one front talon was broken. “Win,” he snarled. “Kill.”
Arenadd wiped his hands over his face, staining it with blood. “Yes. Are you hurt, Skandar?”
The griffin either did not understand the question or didn’t consider it worth an answer. He came to Arenadd and nudged him roughly. “You kill?”
“Yes. He’s dead.”
“Good,” Skade broke in. “Here.” She held out his sword. “Take this, and go.”
Arenadd took it. “Look after yourself, Skade,” he said, and ran.
The slaves had entered the fort, and by the time Arenadd arrived a savage fight had already broken out. Most of the guards had still been in bed, but they were quick to appear when the slaves flooded into the rooms and corridors they called home. Captain Burd had escaped and run to wake up his men, and he and his officers were leading a counterattack.
Even though they were outnumbered, the guards were doing far better than Arenadd had expected. The slaves, unused to fighting, were often unwilling to kill, and some surrendered or tried to run away.
They died.
All the same, he could see that the training he had given them had worked. They were sticking together rather than letting themselves be split up and picked off and were using furniture as temporary barricades. Many of the guards were unarmoured, most were tired, and all were bewildered and ill-prepared.
Arenadd ran through several chambers and corridors, passing scenes of carnage and violence all the while. From time to time he caught a glimpse of someone he knew. There were Olwydd and Prydwen, fighting side by side. Garnoc was defending a group of slaves who had thrown down their weapons, one brawny arm raising his axe to bring it down on a guard’s shoulder. He saw other things, too. Saw Nolan take a sword cut to the stomach. Saw Annan die, stabbed through the throat.
But he ran on, intent on finding the other griffiner and especially the griffin. The guards who saw him tried to stop him, and he swung Lord Rannagon’s sword, thrusting and slashing, blocking other weapons and striking out at unprotected flesh wherever he saw it. Skandar ran ahead, uncontrollable, a raging demon, ripping into any man—friend or foe—who stood in his way. And still Arenadd ran, killing left and right, his body thrumming with the same dark thrill he had felt that night at Herbstitt.
Others fell in behind him as he ran. Olwydd, Prydwen and Dafydd, all shouting his name.
Arenadd uttered no sound at all.
When they reached the highest floor they found it a strange haven of quiet. The fight hadn’t reached here yet. Arenadd paused and wiped the bloody sweat off his forehead.
“They should be up here somewhere,” he said. “Come on.”
Skandar had already gone on ahead. Arenadd caught up with him at a sprint, realising that all the noise the griffin was making would alert anyone up here who might have been caught off guard. But there was little point in trying to restrain him; Skandar charged along the corridor, snarling and berserk, all his natural ferocity let loose for the first time in months. He had
been forced to travel with dozens of humans, constantly surrounded by creatures he saw as weak and irritating and edible. Only his respect for his partner had held him back. But now that was over. Now that was done. Now was the time to do what he had desired to do but been denied the chance to for far too long.
Arenadd knew him too well to be unaware of this. He slipped past Skandar and ran ahead of him, every sense on the alert. This floor looked disused; there was no sign of any guards about. The doors lining the corridor, all closed, were large and well made. Griffiner quarters, he knew. They had to be. The second griffiner he had seen flying over the fort had to be here somewhere.
The others had fallen behind. Arenadd and Skandar charged up a ramp, turned another corner, and there was a door bursting open. Something huge and horrible came rushing out: a griffin, beak open, screeching.
Arenadd caught a brief glimpse of the sword-wielding man behind the beast before Skandar shoved him aside and attacked.
Arenadd heard thudding bootsteps behind him as the others arrived. The two griffins were grappling with each other, but he quickly saw that Skandar was in trouble. His enemy, smaller than him but obviously strong, seemed to have wounded the black griffin’s foreleg, judging by the way he was holding it when the two parted for a moment.
He made a quick decision. “Kill the griffin!” he yelled to the others, and ran at it, sword raised.
The blade came down on the creature’s shoulder, and blood and feathers fell away. The griffin screeched and lashed out, hurling Arenadd aside. His head hit the wall with an audible crack, and he fell limply to the ground, his vision exploding into red before it abruptly faded to black.
From somewhere off to his left he heard Olwydd. “My lord!”
After that there was a confusion of thumping, screeching and the shouts of his friends. Pain brought Arenadd back to consciousness a few moments later. He groaned and opened his eyes, and his blurred vision showed him a strange grey-brown mass moving just above him. He lay there peacefully for a few moments, wondering what it was, then a high, thin scream cut into his ears. It was a sound he knew by now, filled with agony and despair. The sound of a dying man.
Arenadd groped at his belt. Miraculously, his fingers found the hilt of his dagger and closed around it. He drew it and pulled himself into a half-sitting position, squinting at the thing above him. His vision grew less blurry, and he suddenly knew where he was: lying underneath the enemy griffin. Its furred belly was directly above him.
The scream had stopped. Arenadd braced himself and thrust the dagger deep into the griffin’s belly.
The creature reeled away, screeching yet again, and Arenadd wriggled out from under him and crawled away as fast as he could. The griffin lurched toward him, and it could well have been the end of him, but Skandar, who had fallen back after his partner was injured, took his opportunity and attacked.
This time he had the advantage. The other griffin, staggering from his wound, took a savage blow to the head and fell onto his forelegs. Skandar was on him in an instant, his beak shattering the back of the other griffin’s skull. The griffin slumped, twitching, but these last throes were cut short when Skandar broke his neck with another blow.
Lord Tuomas was a witness to his partner’s demise. He let out an inarticulate scream and charged, sword raised.
He never stood a chance. The three surviving Northerners ran to attack him, but Skandar cut him down before they reached him, leaving the griffiner to die in a pool of his own blood.
And after that, quite suddenly, it was all over.
When the others helped him up, the first thing Arenadd saw was Olwydd, dead. The Northerner’s head had been nearly severed by a blow from the griffin’s beak, but his sword was still held loosely in his hand.
“He died trying to save ye, sir,” said Prydwen.
Arenadd found his sword and slung it on his back. “Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s go. We’ll carry him.”
He checked Skandar; the griffin was panting and exhausted, bloodied in several places, but not seriously hurt. Before they left, Arenadd picked up Tuomas’ sword. Skade would like it.
They returned to the lower levels to find the fighting over with. Most of the guards were dead; a few, including Captain Burd, had been taken prisoner. They had all been taken into the mess hall and their hands tied together.
Arenadd scarcely paid them any attention. “Have the dead brought in here, too,” he ordered.
It took a long time for them all to be gathered, and Arenadd, unwilling to stay in the mess hall and do nothing, went to look for Skade.
He wandered through scenes of horror. Bodies lay everywhere, both dead and wounded, some screaming out for help or to be given a quick death. Arenadd ordered Prydwen and the others to kill anyone who was mortally wounded. His expression distant, as if his mind was on something else, he picked his way through the devastation while they obeyed.
“Skade, my father—where are they?” he said to everyone he met.
Most shook their heads. Eventually, though, he saw a face he recognised: Madog, who had shared his dormitory at Herbstitt.
“They’re both a few rooms along, sir,” he said. “I’ll show you the way.”
Something in his voice made Arenadd’s scalp prickle. “Are they all right?” he asked.
“I don’t know, sir,” said Madog.
Skade was in what had once been a guard’s bedroom. Cut and bleeding but alive, she crouched beside Cardock, who had been laid down on the bed. When she saw Arenadd, she jumped up and ran to meet him.
“Arenadd! Are you hurt?”
Arenadd embraced her tightly. “I’m fine. You?”
“Well enough,” said Skade, letting go. “But your father . . .”
Arenadd walked over to the bed. Cardock was lying motionless on his side. His mouth was slightly open, and from its corner blood had trickled and dried.
Arenadd knew without even asking that he was dead.
Skade laid a hand on his arm. “I am sorry, Arenadd. Truly. I did my best to protect him, as you asked me to, but it was very confused. People were running everywhere; we were being attacked from all sides . . . Your father took a blow to the head.”
Everything seemed to have become vague and distant, as if there were a wall around him. He was dimly aware of a buzzing in his ears and a dull throbbing from his head. He felt nothing.
“I am sorry,” Skade said again. “If it comforts you, I killed the man who did this.”
“It’s all right,” Arenadd mumbled. “I don’t—I’m all right—I ...” But his voice didn’t want to come any more. It faltered and fell silent, and he closed his eyes and tried to breathe.
“Arenadd?” Skade’s voice drifted toward him, quiet with concern. “Arenadd?”
Arenadd opened his eyes. “Here,” he said, holding out Tuomas’ sword. “It’s—it’s for you. Your own sword. It belonged to the other griffiner. He’s dead. Him and the other griffin. Skandar killed them.”
Skade did not take it. “Arenadd, you should not be—”
Arenadd couldn’t make himself look at what was on the bed. He dropped the sword and turned away. He was in time to see Skandar ducking his head to get through the door. The griffin moved slowly and with pain, panting a little with his beak open.
The sight of him seemed to bring some of Arenadd’s mind back, and he started toward him. “Skandar! Skandar, come here!”
Skandar looked up and limped toward him. “Hurt, human,” he rasped.
Arenadd ignored him. He turned and pointed at Cardock’s still form. “Heal him,” he said.
Skandar merely blinked, uncomprehending.
“Heal him!” Arenadd shouted. “Do something!”
Skandar crouched down, holding his wounded leg off the ground. “Not understand.”
Arenadd could feel his shoulders heaving. “You did it with me,” he said. “Do it again, damn you! Bring him back! Use your magic!”
Skandar shivered his wings. “Not ha
ve magic,” he said.
“Yes, you do!”
“Not have,” Skandar repeated.
“Gods damn you!” Arenadd screamed, suddenly losing control. “You insufferable cretin! What in Scathach’s name is wrong with you? You’re a bloody griffin! You’ve got magic; you’ve got magic I’ve never seen before! For gods’ sakes, you brought me back from the dead. That was you!”
Skandar began to look slightly distressed. “Not understand.”
“You—have—magic!” Arenadd bellowed. “Use it! Save him!”
He had gone too far. Skandar stood up, tail lashing. “Not understand,” he said. “Not want. You should not shout. Do not want.”
“Just do it!” said Arenadd, waving an arm at Cardock. “Just bloody do it, or I’ll leave you and never come back, understand? Understand?”
Skandar started forward. “You mine!” he screeched. “Mine! You do what I say! Mine! My human! Mine!”
“Skandar, my father is dead,” said Arenadd. “Understand? They killed him. You have to bring him back. Like you did with me. You’ve got to do it!”
Skade grabbed his arm. “Arenadd!”
“Let go!” Arenadd snapped. “This is none of your business.”
She kept hold of him. “Arenadd! Stop it, or I will bite you.”
Arenadd calmed down very slightly. “Skade, he has to—”
“You are accomplishing nothing,” Skade told him. “You are only making Skandar angry with you. For the sky’s sake, look at him. He is hurt, exhausted. Even if he knew how to control his magic, wielding it now would damage him more than you could imagine.”
Arenadd hesitated, but Skade’s voice did not allow any argument. He looked at Skandar and saw that the griffin had faltered, panting again. There was blood on his foreleg, and more soaked into his feathers. He looked as if he were at the end of his strength.
Arenadd felt a strange calmness come over him. “Yes. You’re right. Skandar, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. My father wouldn’t have wanted to live the way I do. He deserves to rest in peace, the way a man should.”
