The Griffin's Flight

by K J Taylor

  He shut that memory out.

  “... and Rannagon disarmed me and was going to kill me,” he continued, “but I sent out a call, and Skandar came. He must have been looking for me. He stood between me and them, and he said ‘Mine! Mine! My human! Mine!’—just that, over and over again. Then he attacked Shoa. After all that time he spent in the Arena, he’d learnt how to fight. He killed her, and I killed Rannagon a few moments later. He was distracted when he saw Shoa die, and I ran at him and stabbed him through the throat. That was how he died.”

  Arenadd wrapped his arms around his knees and looked at his audience. None of them had moved. “And that’s about it, really,” he added. “I took the sword, and Skandar and I flew away,”

  All of a sudden, Nerth began to laugh. “So that’s how the mighty Lord Rannagon died, is it? Stabbed with a broken sword, by someone who’d never fought before?” He laughed even harder. “Lord Rannagon the mighty, killed by a broken sword! Hah!”

  Some joined in the laughter, but others let out whoops and jeering. Half a dozen of them edged over to Arenadd and patted him on the shoulders, muttering to him.

  “Thank ye, Arenadd, thank ye.”

  “We’re honoured to have ye here, Arenadd.”

  “I’m glad to have met ye.”

  “Ye’re the one we’ve waited for,” said Wynne.

  Being touched made Arenadd uncomfortable. “Thank you.”

  Once the camp had quietened down a little, he sat cross-legged and rested his chin on his hand, trying not to see all the admiring stares being directed at him.

  Gods. Everywhere I go, people want something from me. Everyone wants me to be something.

  “Some people think I’m a hero,” he said aloud, not really meaning to.

  “A hero is what ye are, Lord Arenadd,” said Nerth. “An’ don’t ye think it’s otherwise.”

  Arenadd sat back. “Some say I’m a hero, and some say I’m a villain. But—”

  “Villain?” Wynne scoffed. “Ye killed a murderin’ tyrant, brought him t’justice. Where’s the villainy in that?”

  Arenadd felt a sudden helpless anger go rushing through him. He stood up. “No,” he said, so sharply that everyone stared at him. “I’m not a villain or a hero. I’m a human being. And that’s all I want to be.”

  He stalked off to his own shelter.

  He’d been provided with a simple bed of furs and a pillow stuffed with dry grass, and he got into bed and covered himself up. He stayed there, feeling both angry and embarrassed, hoping no-one would bother him.

  They didn’t, and he eventually drifted off to sleep.

  That night he dreamt of Rannagon again, but this time he was in Skandar’s body, looking out through his eyes. His shoulders were massive and powerful, and his fingers were long talons. He could feel his wings stirring on his back and his tail swishing behind him.

  Rannagon pointed a sword at him. Stay away from me! he yelled, in Shoa’s voice. Kraeai kran ae!

  Arenadd felt no fear. He reared up and lashed out with his beak, and Rannagon fell, blood gushing from his throat. It was exactly the way it had been that night in the Eyrie, but this time there was no fire and no-one bursting through the door. Arenadd looked down at Rannagon’s body and made a contented rasping sound deep in his chest. He could smell the blood and the flesh that contained it. The scents made his mouth water, and he tore into the food, ripping off great chunks and swallowing them. The taste of blood was like metal on his tongue, and he loved it.

  Skandar returned at noon on the tenth day, appearing without warning as Arenadd was sitting outside Arddryn’s cave, trying to fix a hole in his boot. He heard the sound of wings and looked up, and his face split into a smile when he saw Skandar coming in to land.

  The griffin touched ground and strutted toward him. “Human!” he crowed.

  Arenadd ran to him. “Skandar! There you are!”

  Skandar rubbed his head against Arenadd’s cheek. “Not leave! Always come back!”

  “You sound cheerful,” said Arenadd. “Where have you been?”

  “Mating,” Skandar told him, without embarrassment, “Hyrenna and I fly together, hunt together. Mate. Now I have had two females.”

  Arenadd laughed. “I’m sure you’ll have more one day. Where’s Hyrenna?”

  “Coming,” said Skandar. “She has been teaching me.”

  Arenadd stared at him. “You’re speaking differently. How did that happen?”

  “Hyrenna,” said Skandar. “She make—makes—made me speak with her. Often. That make—makes me—made me speak better.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Magic,” said Skandar.

  Arenadd tensed immediately. “She taught you how to use your magic?”

  “I have magic,” Skandar said proudly. “Powerful magic. You”—he shoved at Arenadd with his beak—“have no magic. You are human. Humans not have.”

  “I told you that,” said Arenadd. “I told you you had magic. Do you know what it is now, Skandar? What’s your power?”

  Skandar backed off. “Not know,” he said, reverting to his old curt tones. “Not tell.”

  “But do you know if you can help me?” said Arenadd. “Can you—” He moved closer. “My heart. Can you make it beat again?”

  “Not know,” Skandar repeated.

  A horrible thought occurred to Arenadd. “You didn’t tell her, did you? You didn’t tell Hyrenna about me, did you?”

  Skandar looked away, and the awful apprehension rose up inside him.

  “You didn’t tell her, did you?” he said, more sharply. “Skandar—”

  “Not tell,” Skandar said at last.

  “Good. You mustn’t tell anyone, Skandar. No matter what happens. They can’t know. Do you understand?”

  Skandar looked upward. “Hyrenna.”

  Arenadd followed his gaze and saw the other griffin flying low over the camp. She landed neatly on top of the heap of rocks that hid Arddryn’s cave, and leapt down to the ground from there. Skandar went to her and nuzzled her neck. She bit at his shoulders and half-playfully shoved at him until he moved, making those same high chirping sounds she had made before.

  Arenadd waited politely until Hyrenna broke away and came toward him. He remembered his manners and bowed, hiding his anger toward her.

  Hyrenna gave a quick yawn. “Greetings. Where is Arddryn?”

  “In the cave, sleeping,” said Arenadd. “Can I ask how your, uh, time away was?”

  She dipped her head. “It was good for both of us. And how are you settling into your new home, Arenadd?”

  “I think I’m learning a lot,” he said shortly.

  “Excellent. Now I am going to rest. Skandar, you should go and find a place to nest before it is too dark.”

  Skandar rasped his agreement and loped off to explore the area. By now the captive griffin had been moved into a makeshift cage hidden in the gorge, and Skandar began tearing up the bushes where he had been, looking for a hollow to lie in.

  Hyrenna, meanwhile, chose a spot at the base of the rock heap, where there was some sunlight, and lay down.

  Arenadd went to her. “Hyrenna?”

  The griffin watched him serenely, looking for all the world like a giant house-cat curled up in front of a stove. “Yes, human?”

  Arenadd glanced quickly at Skandar. “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but did you and Skandar ... ?”

  “Yes.” She flicked her tail and added quite calmly, “I am going to lay eggs.”

  Even though he had been half-expecting it, the revelation still took him aback. Eluna had died before ever choosing a mate, and as a result he’d never had any first-hand experience when it came to griffish mating habits. Since griffins could talk, it was easy to think of them as giant furred-and-feathered humans, but moments like this were a sharp reminder of how very un-humanlike they were. Just like that, he thought. She saw him, decided she liked him, and half a moment later they’re busy making eggs. Just like Skade did with m
e. Is that how they always do it?

  “My gods,” he mumbled.

  Hyrenna clicked her beak. “You should not be so embarrassed. Sit, rest.”

  Arenadd sat down not far from her head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “You are human,” she said kindly. “You do not mate the way we do.”

  “We do sometimes,” said Arenadd, half to himself, “Trust me.”

  “And it is not a thing you should be ashamed of. Now tell me, how is Arddryn?”

  “She’s well,” said Arenadd. “She’s been teaching me how to read the spirals.”

  “As I expected her to,” said Hyrenna. “For a very long time, she told me that if another Taranisäii ever came here she would teach him or her everything she knew.”

  “I don’t think I understand why it’s so important,” said Arenadd. “Being a Taranisäii, I mean.”

  “It matters more than you think,” said Hyrenna. “You know what the word means.”

  “Of the blood of Taranis. Of course I know. But we aren’t actually descended from Taranis. Even if he existed it must have been more than five hundred years ago—there’s no way of proving it, and anyway, hundreds of people could be related to him. I wouldn’t be surprised if someone made the name up to impress people.”

  “But that does not matter,” said Hyrenna. “The name of Taranis still means much to your people, Arenadd. To be a Taranisäii means that others will respect you and believe that you have a power others do not.”

  “I suppose so.” What does it matter? Arenadd paused. “Hyrenna, I know griffins don’t like to be asked, but—”

  “You wish to ask me about magic?” said Hyrenna.

  “Yes. I was wondering if Skandar had discovered his power yet. I asked him but he wouldn’t tell me.”

  “That is not for you to know,” said Hyrenna. “I instructed him not to tell you anything.”

  “I understand,” said Arenadd. “But does he know what it is yet?”

  “No. He is on the way, though. I will continue to teach him. When the time comes, he may tell you what his power is and you may see him use it—but that is for him to decide.”

  “Thank you for helping him,” said Arenadd. “With his speech, too. I’ve been trying to help him learn, but he won’t always listen to me. I think he likes to be monosyllabic just because it’s easier.”

  “He is strong-willed,” said Hyrenna.

  “Oh yes.”

  Arenadd fiddled with his beard. “There’s something else I wanted to ask you.”

  “Ask.”

  “This might sound a bit odd, but I’ve always wondered about it,” said Arenadd, hoping he sounded casual enough.

  “Yes?” said Hyrenna.

  “Can people come back from the dead?”

  Hyrenna gave him a silent yellow-eyed stare that lasted so long he began to wonder if he’d offended her in some way, or worse, given too much away.

  Finally, the griffin stood up. “No. There is no magic that can do that.”

  “But if a griffin had the power—”

  “It cannot be done,” Hyrenna repeated. “The instant the heartbeat stops, the soul flees, never to return. There is no coming back, for man or griffin.” She walked away, leaving Arenadd alone, full of a terrible, dark fear.

  Almost without thinking, he put his hand to his neck and kept it there, breathing deeply. His skin was cold, his heart still and silent. Dead.

  All of a sudden, he wanted to cry. He sat down on a rock, his head in his hands, and tried to fight off the tears aching in his throat. If Skandar could not help him, and the spirits had refused, what was left for him?

  There must be a way. There has to be. There has to be.

  The spirits had done more than torment him. Skade had told him they offered advice—what had they told him to do? Go him they offered advice—what had they told him to do? Go back to the North, blackrobe. But they’d said more than that.

  “My own pagan ways,” he mumbled aloud. “Seek out the Night Eye. The moon.”

  He felt a little calmer then. The spirits had said to go to the North, and he had. And they had hinted that the Night God could help him. And why not? She was the god of his people, his own guardian, in a way. Her eye had been shining on him on the night of his death. Perhaps she had done something as well.

  That was when he saw that he had to stay with Arddryn. The ceremony, he thought. I have to be there. I have to see the Blood Moon; I have to be at the circle if that’s when the moon is powerful. There’s magic in the land. Magical places. If the stones are magical, then maybe they have the power. Maybe.

  33

  The Blood Moon

  After that night he stopped thinking of trying to leave. He stayed in the gorge and worked even harder to try to fit in and learn all Arddryn and her friends had to teach. Many of those living in the gorge were fighters: veterans from Arddryn’s rebellion, or their offspring, who had been taught their parents’ skills. They were happy to help him develop his skills in combat, armed and unarmed, and that was one area where he excelled.

  As time passed, he knew that he was changing. He felt stronger, calmer, more confident, free now of the anxiety he had lived with for months on end. Now that he had enough to eat every day, he put some weight and muscle back on and began to take on the lean, wiry physique of the others in the gorge. He even began praying to the moon when it rose in the evening, muttering to it in the Northern tongue just as the others did, though he didn’t know if he truly believed in it.

  But if he was changing, it was nothing compared to what was happening to Skandar. The dark griffin returned to the gorge most nights, choosing to roost on the cliff top overlooking it, as Hyrenna did. He visited occasionally, but quickly became uninterested in Arenadd’s daily life and took to spending most of his time rambling through the mountains doing whatever he chose. He often flew away with Hyrenna and didn’t return for days on end, and Arenadd knew she was teaching him in much the same way as Arddryn was teaching his human.

  Whatever Skandar was learning, it showed in him more and more as the weeks went by. He became calmer, more settled and peaceful in himself, free of the nervous tension he had once carried everywhere. His conversation became more complex, and he became, if not friendly, then at least no longer openly hostile toward humans.

  With his company, and with the presence of the other Northerners who had begun treating him as one of their own, Arenadd began to feel more at home in the gorge. He stopped having nightmares. The lingering sense of guilt and shame over Eluna’s death—and Rannagon’s as well—began to leave him little by little.

  Only one thing stopped him from completely accepting his new life, and that was Skade. Once the initial shock had worn off and he settled down in the gorge, he began to miss her. He found himself thinking about her constantly, wondering if she was safe and worrying that she wasn’t, and agonising over what she might be going through while he was gone. Had Saeddryn explained what he was doing? Had she told Skade that he would be back, or that he would be gone forever?

  If Skade thought he had abandoned her after all, what would she do? Would she come to try to find him, or leave Eitheinn? Or would she actually act on the wild threat she had made and tell Saeddryn about what he was? He didn’t think she would. Even if she did, nobody would believe her—how could they? But he still wanted to see her again, more than anything else.

  Saeddryn didn’t come back to the gorge. He kept watching out for her, counting the days and hoping to see her, and even asked Arddryn if she was coming. Arddryn said it was unlikely she would visit before the Blood Moon, and looked oddly pleased about it.

  Two months—two moons, as the Northerners put it—passed without any sign of her. The second full moon waned into the next month, and then began to wax once more. The Blood Moon was approaching. Arenadd watched the moon every night, noting the gradual increase in size. A crescent became a half-moon, and then began to swell outward into a perfect white globe.

&nb
sp; Arenadd already knew the time had come when Arddryn woke him up one morning. “It’s time. Come.”

  Arenadd crawled out of his shelter and found her waiting, clad in a heavy bearskin robe, with a strip of leather tied around her head to cover her ruined eye. She said nothing but beckoned him to follow her. Arenadd rubbed a handful of snow into his face to wake himself up, and obeyed. The others in the gorge must have been either absent or still asleep, because the entire settlement was deserted and silent. They walked through it and to Arddryn’s cave via the track.

  Inside, Arddryn gave him something to eat and sat down to light a small clay lamp.

  “I’m sorry t’wake ye so early,” she said. “But ye have to prepare. The Blood Moon is tonight, an’ we have things t’do before.”

  “I understand,” said Arenadd.

  “Good. Come here.” Arddryn stood up and motioned for him to come closer. “Look,” she said, holding the lamp close to the wall so that shadows moved over the images carved there.

  “What do they mean?”

  Arddryn ran her fingers over them. “They’re stories. Written in pictures. Look here. See? Here.” She was indicating the figure of a human cut into the stone. It was clearly male, tall and clad in a long robe like Arenadd’s own. “This is Taranis,” said Arddryn. “King Taranis, our ancestor. Ye see here—the crown on his head? It was given to him by the moon itself, in the form of a woman. Aye, the one-eyed woman, the one Southerners call Scathach. She was our god, an’ the moon is her eye. See her, here? There, that’s her, givin’ him the crown an’ her blessin’.”

  Arenadd examined the carving. “I see.”

  “Ye’ve heard the tale of Taranis,” said Arddryn. “We all have. But there’s not many know the whole story, who Taranis really was an’ why he could do what he did.”

  “He’s a legend,” said Arenadd. “People in legends can do anything. Some people even say he could fly.”

  “Oh, but he could,” said Arddryn. “He could fly.”

  “Why, did he have wings?” said Arenadd, unable to stop himself.

  She gave him a sharp look. “Ye can stop that now, or I’ll turf ye out of here before ye can blink. Think, Arenadd. What do the stories say? What did Taranis have?”