The Griffin's Flight

by K J Taylor

  Arenadd shrugged. “I don’t know, magic? Some sort of blessing?”

  Arddryn prodded him. “He had help,” she said. “He had Taliesin, didn’t he? His great friend, the sorcerer, the one who made him chief of chiefs and went into battle beside him.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. Where is he?”

  “There,” said Arddryn. “There they are. Taranis an’ Taliesin together.”

  Arenadd looked at it, and faltered. “But that’s—Taliesin was a—?”

  “Of course he was,” said Arddryn. “Don’t ye know anythin’?” She touched the carving and smiled her warped smile. “Humans have no magic. Griffins do. An’ Taliesin was one of the most powerful ever lived.”

  Arenadd scratched his beard. “Taranis was a griffiner, then. So that’s how he could fly.”

  “Aye, an’ that’s how he united the tribes,” said Arddryn. “With Taliesin beside him, no-one could fight him. No-one except other griffiners. But that ain’t why Taranis died. Ye know the story?”

  “Taliesin betrayed him.”

  “So he did,” said Arddryn. “Taranis, see, he was a great man, an’ great men lean toward foolery. Taranis became arrogant, self-centred, thought he was invincible. He started takin’ his partner f’granted, an’ that’s why Taliesin left him.” She prodded him again, hard. “There’s nothin’ a griffin gets from ye he couldn’t get from someone else. Havin’ a griffin choose ye is an honour, boy, the greatest anyone could ever have. If ye treat yer griffin wrong, if ye think ye can do as ye please, if ye think ye can take an’ give nothin’ back, ye’ll find yerself alone when ye need him most, an’ that’ll be the end of ye.”

  “I know,” said Arenadd.

  “Now, I’ve seen the way ye are with Skandar,” said Arddryn. “Ye’re patient with him, an’ that’s good. He’s no genius, but he’s cleverer than he looks. Now he’s used t’ye, he won’t leave ye easy. If ye’re going t’fight, ye need him beside ye.”

  “Yes, of course, but—”

  “I want ye t’understand that,” Arddryn interrupted. “I mean it, Arenadd. If ye fight, ye fight together. Never try t’fight alone. That’s for ordinary men an’ women. Ye’re a griffiner, an’ ye fight with Skandar or not at all. Understand?”

  Arenadd nodded with as much sincerity as he could muster. “Of course I do. I won’t forget it.”

  “Good. Good.” Arddryn was breathing heavily as she snuffed out the lamp and put it aside. “Now let’s go.”

  They left the cave, and she led him through the pass and deeper into the mountains, until they reached a tiny valley. Tall pine trees grew there, and they walked in among them. Snow covered the ground, and as Arenadd walked through it he saw he wasn’t the first to do so. There were tracks everywhere. He had never been to this place before, but it looked as if others had many times. Bone ornaments were hanging from the trees, spiralling gently in the early morning breeze, and as they pressed on, Arenadd saw they were following a defined path, which ran alongside a small stream. Trees lined it, spaced at regular intervals, and shapes had been cut into them at eye height: the phases of the moon, each one represented by a few lines. Further on he heard the sound of voices, and they emerged into a clearing and found the others all waiting in a ring around a silver pool.

  Arenadd stopped at the edge of the clearing and looked uncertainly at them. They were standing at perfect intervals around the pool, each one in front of a tree, and he found it difficult to tell who was who. All of them, men and women, were bare-chested, clad in nothing but simple fur kilts. Their faces were covered by masks carved from dark wood and inlaid with copper and silver, each one a different animal. Bear, fox, stag, wolf, snake, crow, boar, their eyes big and blank and staring.

  Arddryn didn’t hesitate. She walked forward, and a woman wearing a fox mask came to her and silently handed her a mask of her own, this one of a great beaked griffin with silver eyes. She put it on and took her place by the pool, where a space had been left.

  She turned to Arenadd. “Come forward.”

  Arenadd did.

  “Tell me yer name and yer tribe,” she intoned.

  Arenadd straightened up. “Arenadd Taranisäii of the Wolf Tribe.”

  “And why have ye come here among us this day, Arenadd Taranisäii?”

  “To be initiated,” said Arenadd.

  “Do ye swear this in the name of the moon and the night and the stars, and the great god of the night that watches over us all?” said Arddryn.

  “I do swear it.”

  “Then come forward to the pool and name me as yer chief an’ swear to honour me an’ do my will,” said Arddryn.

  Arenadd hesitated, but he knew he had no choice. He went to the spot indicated and knelt in front of her. “I recognise you as my chief and swear to do your will. I swear it by the moon and the night and the stars, and the great god of the night that watches over us all.”

  Arddryn touched him on the shoulder. “Rise, Arenadd of the Wolf Tribe.”

  He did.

  “Take off yer clothes,” Arddryn commanded. “Cast yerself into the pool an’ wash away yer boyhood. Ye shall emerge from it a man.”

  Arenadd looked at the pool. There was ice around its edges. Even with his robe on, he felt cold. But he shrugged it off and put it aside, along with his boots and trousers. Naked and shivering, he stepped toward the pool. He nearly slipped on the ice at the edge, but managed to recover, and stood there, staring at the freezing water. The prospect of going into it made him feel sick, but he took a step forward until he was ankle deep.

  The cold hit him like a hundred tiny daggers. He gasped and began to shiver. For an instant he was gripped by the urge to run out, grab his robe and simply make a run for it. He looked back and saw Arddryn’s mask staring at him.

  I can’t do this. I can’t bloody well do it! This water’s half-frozen. If I go in there it’ll kill me!

  He stopped. For a moment he stood there, frowning, and then he started to laugh. He laughed harder and harder, a dark, cracked laugh with an edge of madness. Then he threw himself forward, into the pool.

  The water folded in over him and took him into itself, and he sank to the bottom. The shock of it nearly knocked him unconscious, and moments later the pain hit him and he jerked violently, struggling to get away from it. The pain bit into him, affecting every inch of him. His skin burned, his eyes ached, his head pounded, his limbs went numb and then seized up and refused to move, and he was floating head-downward, helpless and close to blacking out.

  But it only lasted for a moment. As he hung there in the water, panicking, something awoke inside him. Without any warning, a massive, powerful jolt went through him, making him convulse. His heart gave a single beat, and the strength came rushing back into his limbs. His fear vanished, and he began to move, thrusting upward from the bottom as hard as he could.

  His head broke the surface, and he sucked in a great gulp of air and began swimming back to the edge. Solid ground rose up beneath him, and he found his feet and staggered onto dry land, coughing and shivering. The others were still there, but none of them made a move to help him, and he returned to Arddryn and made a clumsy bow to her. She inclined her head in acknowledgment and gave him a fur kilt of his own.

  “Now ye have proven yer worthiness,” she said while he put it on. “And shown yer strength. Ye are ready to be marked as one of us.”

  The man in the wolf mask came forward carrying a long bone needle and a stone jar. Arddryn took it and opened it, revealing that it was full of blue pigment.

  “Now be still,” she commanded. “Do not flinch.”

  When Arenadd saw the needle he quickly guessed what they were about to do. But he said nothing and stood as still as he could, bracing himself. The wolf took the needle and dipped it into the ink before stabbing it into Arenadd’s chest. Arenadd gasped and gritted his teeth but didn’t move.

  The tattooing took a long time. Arenadd continued to keep as still as he could, though he ached all over with cold.
The needle punctured his skin again and again, slowly moving over one side of his chest and then up onto his left shoulder and down his arm to his elbow. A large patch of skin was covered in bleeding puncture marks and ink, and he could see the intricate spiral patterns underneath.

  Then, at last, it was done, and the wolf silently withdrew.

  “Now,” said Arddryn. “Leave here. Ye must go back to the gorge. Take a bow an’ a knife, nothin’ more, an’ go out into the forest. Ye must hunt a deer or a wolf or a bear or a boar—whatever beast ye can find. Hunt it alone, kill it, an’ bring it back whole for us to see. Then, when that is done, ye must go back to the place where ye killed it. Stay there, pray, contemplate, bathe yerself in the spirit of our land. When night comes, go to the circle, an’ go alone. Ye must be there by moonrise, before the moon has cleared the trees. When the Blood Moon begins, it will be time. Now go.”

  Arenadd nodded wordlessly and left, pausing to pick up his clothes. He waited until he was well away from the pool before he put his trousers and boots back on, though he left his chest bare. He had to keep the tattoos clean.

  Back at the gorge, he bundled his robe away in his shelter and slung his bow and arrows over his good shoulder. He found his knife and hung it from his belt. There was no sign of Skandar or Hyrenna anywhere as he left the gorge, and he wondered where they both were. Off flying together again, perhaps. There was no reason for either of them to take part in the ceremonies; this was a human thing, after all.

  Arenadd spent most of that day hunting. It wasn’t easy; he was still inexperienced, and most of the game seemed to have moved away from the gorge. He knew a few good hunting spots that Nerth had shown him, and he visited those one after the other. Most of them were a good distance away, though, and he spent a fair portion of the day simply walking to them. His shoulder and chest continued to throb horribly though the cold helped to numb them a little.

  Some time after noon, he happened across a large white deer. He stalked it as Nerth had taught him to do, and finally managed to kill it with a lucky shot. After that he had to drag the carcass back to the gorge, which was far easier said than done. Several times he began to think he’d have to cut it up in order to get it there, but he persevered, tying the deer’s forelegs together and hauling it through rocks and fallen trees and snow-drifts, up several hills and back to the gorge. It was further than he had thought, and with the burden of the deer to slow him down it was evening by the time he arrived. The settlement was still deserted, and he laid the deer down beside the remains of the communal fire and collapsed next to it, utterly exhausted. Sweat had soaked into the tattoos, making them sting, and his hair clung to his head.

  He ate several handfuls of snow to cool himself down, and did his best to clean the dirt and deer hair off himself with a few more. Once he had his breath back, he got up and reluctantly left the gorge again.

  He knew he could never get back to the place where he’d killed the deer and return in time, so he simply walked a decent distance from the gorge and chose a flat rock in a clearing to sit down on and began his contemplation. He had no idea what he was supposed to be contemplating and spent quite a long time just sitting there, his mind a blank. Eventually, feeling tired and a little irritated, he took a comb from his pocket and began to drag it through his hair. It had become quite tangled during the hunt.

  The rhythmic dragging of the comb helped to soothe his jangled nerves, and he began to relax. So this was it. He was becoming a true Northerner, just as his father had always wanted him to.

  Dad! He started, suddenly remembering the little urn of ashes sitting in his shelter. He had completely forgotten about his plan to take it to the circle with him. Don’t forget to take it, he told himself as he ordered his fringe and tucked a few stray bits behind his ears.

  The sun was beginning to go down, and he continued to absently comb and re-comb his hair and think about his father. Their relationship had always been a little strained after he had become a griffiner, of course, and Arenadd had flatly refused his father’s plans for them all to go to the North.

  “I should’ve listened to you, Dad,” Arenadd muttered. “But no-one ever does, do they? We never listen to our parents until it’s too late. And I paid the price for it. We both did. And so did Eluna. But I hope you’re proud of me now.”

  He sighed and lost himself in memories of his childhood and the times when he and his parents had been happy together. He thought of his friends, too. Gern, who had died, and Bran, his best friend, who had done so much for him ever since they were children together. And Flell, too. Sweet Flell.

  Arenadd shut that memory away. He didn’t want to think about Flell ever again or see her face, those blue eyes, so like her father’s, and the horror he had seen in them that night. Arren, what have you done? What’s happened to you? You’re not my Arren any more. You’ve changed, you’ve changed, Arren, what have you done?

  He stood up abruptly and stuffed the comb back in his pocket. Night had fallen. Very soon, the moon would rise. It was time.

  When Arenadd returned to Taranis Gorge he found the deer carcass gone, but there was no other sign that anyone had been there during his absence. He took the urn and left immediately, following the track up out of the gorge.

  He hadn’t been back to the circle since that first day, but he found the way easily enough, climbing the slope until he was up on the plateau and then walking on through the snowbound forest until the trees began to thin and he saw a light ahead.

  He reached Taranis’ Throne and found them all there. Long wooden staves had been stuck into the ground to form a ring inside the stones, and their tips had been wrapped in cloth soaked in animal fat and set alight so that the entire circle was illuminated. The light played over the masks, lighting copper-covered eyes and inlaid spirals, fangs and horns. The Northerners had stationed themselves between the stones. At the centre, four more burning staves had been placed around the altar, and something was lying draped over it. Arenadd wondered what it was, but he had no time to look closer. Arddryn was there, frail but imposing in her griffin mask.

  “Welcome,” she said. “Welcome.”

  Arenadd bowed to her. “I have come,” he said, hoping this was the right thing to say.

  “Ye have come to the sacred circle, on the night of the Blood Moon,” said Arddryn. “Are ye willin’ to do what must be done, to appease the spirits of the night an’ the stars an’ the moon, so that they will bless ye an’ accept ye?”

  “I am,” said Arenadd.

  “Good. The moon rises now. Drink this.”

  He took the carved wooden cup she offered him. It looked to be full of wine, and he took a sip. The liquid was thick and warm and tasted nothing like wine. He gagged on it. “Ye gods, what is this?” he said, forgetting himself for a moment. “It tastes like blood.”

  “Drink,” Arddryn repeated.

  Arenadd forced himself to obey, but the cup seemed to take forever to empty. He gulped it down, his mouth filling with the horrible metallic tang of what he knew was blood, fresh blood. When he was done, he gave the cup back.

  “Good,” said Arddryn. “Now turn an’ face the moon.”

  Arenadd did. It had risen high over the treetops, a bright silver orb. But something strange was happening. The moon should be full, he knew, but it wasn’t. There was a patch of darkness at its edge, as if a shadow was moving over its surface.

  “The Blood Moon,” Arddryn intoned, from behind him. “It’s coming. See, darkness begins to swallow the moon. The darkness of shadows, the darkness of death. The moon’s power waxes an’ wanes; when it is full, it is strongest. But when darkness comes, when our people are in danger an’ our land defiled, the moon begins t’be swallowed, just as the South swallows the North an’ takes what is ours for itself. When the dark time comes, we must honour the moon an’ give up our own blood to bring its power back an’ bring the Blood Moon that protects an’ blesses us. Ye, Arenadd of the Wolf Tribe, must do this.”

&nbs
p; While she spoke, Arenadd could see the shadow moving slowly but inexorably over the moon’s surface, smothering its light. “My gods,” he breathed. “It’s really happening. It’s disappearing!”

  “It’s dying, Arenadd,” said Arddryn. “Wanin’ for the last time. If ye don’t do somethin’, we’ll all die.”

  Arenadd turned to her. “What do I do? Tell me.”

  “Take this,” said Arddryn.

  It was a copper dagger, its blade etched with the phases of the moon, and very sharp. Arenadd gripped the hilt. “Tell me what to do.”

  “Go into the circle, Arenadd,” said Arddryn. “Ye will know what to do there.”

  Arenadd nodded. He took the urn from his pocket and put it down at the edge of the stones, and then walked toward the altar. Arddryn went to stand between the stones where he had entered the circle, and looked on silently with the others.

  When Arenadd reached the altar he saw at once what was happening. The thing lying on the altar was a man, naked and tied hand and foot. Arenadd had never seen him before. He was middle-aged, a Northerner with a scarred, tough frame decorated with blue spirals. He looked up at Arenadd with dull, mute terror.

  Arenadd came on until he was standing over him, and looked down at his face, taking in his lined features and pointed beard. The man’s chest was heaving; he was paralysed with fear, his skin slick with sweat.

  Arenadd looked up at the sky. The moon had darkened even further; now the shadow covered more than half of it and was encroaching over the piece that remained. Only a crescent was left.

  Then he looked at the man again. He could feel the dagger in his hands, its hilt cold and slippery. He was sweating, too, he realised. But he felt calm.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  The man stirred. “Ouen. Ouen. Please—”

  “I’m Arenadd.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I am Arenadd Taranisäii of the Wolf Tribe. I am the destroyer of Eagleholm. I am the man without a heart.”