The Dark Griffin

by K J Taylor

  Arren sat on a chair in front of the desk, which was piled high with papers. There was a fireplace in one wall, and a steaming kettle hung over the fire. “I—” He was about to politely decline, but the sweet smell of stewing herbs changed his mind.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Shoa took up position next to Rannagon’s chair, while he crossed to the fireplace and filled two mugs from the kettle. He gave one to Arren and sat down on the other side of the desk. “Now then, I have had a report from Captain Bran; he tells me the raid went fairly smoothly. But he added that it did not go as smoothly as we would have liked.” He looked pointedly at Eluna.

  Eluna understood the human tongue perfectly well, even if her vocal cords didn’t allow her to speak it. “The man was a smuggler and a chick-thief,” she said. “He had attacked Arren and was trying to escape. So I killed him.”

  “And ate him?” Rannagon said sharply.

  Eluna bowed her head. “I was hungry, my blood was up—”

  Shoa leant forward over the desk and bit her on the forehead, hard enough to draw blood. “You must learn to control yourself,” she said. “You are not a wild griffin, Eluna.”

  Eluna didn’t dare look her in the eye. “I am sorry, Shoa. I will try to be more careful in future.”

  “And you, Arren?” said Rannagon, looking keenly at him. “What was your reaction to this?”

  “He stopped me,” said Eluna. “He stood up to me until I calmed down.”

  Rannagon looked at the bandage. “And?”

  “The smuggler injured me,” Arren lied. “That was why Eluna killed him.”

  “I see. Well, that is understandable. So, these smugglers had a griffin chick in their hideout, did they?”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Arren, hiding his relief.

  “I take it you returned it to the hatchery?”

  “Yes, my lord. Roland says it’s in good health.”

  “Excellent. It sounds as if you have foiled another criminal operation, Arren. Well done. I will see to it that you receive a commendation for it.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “As for the dead smuggler”—Rannagon sighed and shuffled some papers on his desk—“I see no reason for a formal hearing. Your explanations mesh with what Captain Bran told me, and I am disinclined to make much fuss over the death of a criminal.”

  Relief flooded through Arren’s chest. He drank some of the tea. It was sweet and strong, just how he liked it. “Thank you.”

  “However, the family will have to be compensated,” Rannagon added. “You will, of course, be expected to pay.”

  Arren’s heart sank. “How much?”

  “Two hundred oblong is the standard amount,” said Rannagon.

  Arren’s heart sank even further. “I—I can’t afford that much, my lord.”

  “Oh. I see. Well . . .” Rannagon looked thoughtful. “As it happens, I do have a way that could help you earn some extra money. But you must keep it to yourself. If anyone asks, I will deny any knowledge of it.”

  “I understand. What is it, my lord?”

  Rannagon rummaged through the papers and came up with a rather grubby-looking scroll. “Ah, here it is. We have received word from one of the villages down in the South. A place called Rivermeet. It seems a wild griffin has been preying on livestock. And now, it seems, people as well.”

  Arren grimaced. “What does this have to do with me, my lord?”

  “There is a bounty on this griffin,” said Rannagon. “A substantial one. If you kill it, you will be rewarded with a hundred and fifty oblong. But there is more.”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “The managers of the fighting pit at the Arena have put in a request for more wild griffins. The bigger and more ferocious the better. If you can capture this griffin alive and without any serious injuries, the bounty will be even higher.”

  “How much, my lord?”

  “Four hundred oblong, I believe. More than enough to pay your debt.”

  Arren thought about it. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  “It’s straightforward enough,” said Rannagon. “I’ve done it myself more than once.”

  “Is there a deadline for paying my debt?”

  “I’m afraid so. It must be paid within a month at most. Longer than that, and the amount will go up.”

  Arren cursed under his breath. “How far away is this place?”

  “Two or three days’ flight. I’ve been there a few times.”

  “But how do I catch a wild griffin?” said Arren. “Should I take someone with me?”

  “You could, but they would take part of the bounty. Look,” Rannagon said kindly, “I promise, it’s easy. Here.” He reached into his desk drawer and handed Arren a small stone bottle. “This is a special poison. If you soak an arrowhead in it and then shoot it at the wild griffin, it will be knocked unconscious in moments and won’t wake up for half a day. How good a shot are you?”

  “Quite good, my lord.”

  “Good, good. I suggest you take it. A bit of excitement for a change, eh? I’ll get someone to look after the marketplace while you’re gone.”

  “I’m really not sure—”

  “Come on, now,” said Rannagon, in a jolly kind of way. “Wouldn’t you rather be doing something adventurous instead of dealing with paperwork and chasing criminals? I remember when I was younger I was up and about all the time. See.” He waved a hand at the wall over the fireplace, where a row of dried griffin tails were hanging up. “Six man-eating griffins. Shoa and I fought them face to face. The local people treated us like heroes.”

  Arren felt slightly sick. “Can’t they just be bargained with?”

  Rannagon chuckled. “Bargained with? That’s a laugh. They’re savage, Arren. Yes, you can speak to them, but they won’t listen. They look upon humans as just another kind of food. Trust me; I’ve seen people try and parley with wild griffins. More than one of them died for their trouble.”

  “But my lord—”

  “We will do it,” said Eluna.

  Arren stopped, looking at her.

  Rannagon looked pleased. “Do you think you can persuade your human to change his mind, Eluna?”

  “We will go,” Eluna said firmly. “Both of us. We will capture the wild griffin and avenge his victims.”

  “Excellent,” said Rannagon. “I knew I could rely on you.” He handed the bottle to Arren, who took it reluctantly. “Here, take this as well,” he added, offering him the scroll. “It includes more details about the griffin and a map to help you get to Rivermeet. Can I rely on you, Arren?”

  Arren knew he was beaten. “I’ll do my best, sir. When should I leave?”

  “As soon as possible. Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? But—”

  “The sooner you leave, the smaller the risk you run of failing to make the deadline,” said Rannagon. “I will look after things while you’re gone.”

  “Yes, my lord. Thank you.” Arren stood up.

  “You’ll be fine. Oh, yes, take this with you.” Rannagon stood to put something into Arren’s hand. “For good luck.”

  It was a small beaked skull. Arren realised with an unpleasant shock that it was from a griffin chick. The beak and the rims of the eye sockets had been coated with silver, and the entire thing painted with bright patterns and then coated with lacquer. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “I got it on one of my jaunts,” said Rannagon. “With old Elrick. You remember him, don’t you? Roland’s father. Then I was given this position and couldn’t afford to go on wild trips all around the country. Damn if I don’t miss it. I’d give anything to come with you.” He paused. “Just promise me you won’t tell anyone in the Eyrie about it. I don’t want people knowing I’ve been handing out assignments like this. I’ll inform Riona and the other officials you’re gone, tell them you’re on some other assignment. Understood?”

  Arren stuffed the grisly trophy in his pocket, along with the scroll and the bottle
. “I understand. Thank you for your help, my lord.”

  “Not a problem at all.” Rannagon sighed. “We’ll miss you while you’re gone. Flell certainly will. And Riona, as well.”

  “Riona?” said Arren, surprised.

  “Oh yes. She’s very fond of you, Arren. In fact”—Rannagon smiled—“keep this to yourself, but I spoke to her about you a few days ago. She told me she’d prefer you to move out of that little house of yours out in the city.”

  “She did?” said Arren, shocked. “Why? What did I do?”

  “Oh, nothing. But as an Eyrie official, you should be living in the Eyrie. The Master of Trade is supposed to have a place on the council, after all.”

  “I know,” said Arren, rather sourly.

  “Yes, and Riona thinks it’s time we acknowledged it. You’ve proven you’re more than capable, and we could do with your help up here.”

  Arren gaped at him. “Do you really mean that?”

  Rannagon nodded. “That’s what Riona said, and I agree.”

  “No, that’s not—”

  Rannagon grinned at him. “We still have to put it to the council, of course—and I’m sure they’ll be more inclined to support you if you come home a hero from Rivermeet. Now, you go and get ready. And don’t tell anyone else about what I said, understood?”

  Arren managed a nod. “Yes, my lord.”

  Rannagon returned to his desk and sat down. “Goodbye, then. And good luck.”

  When Arren and Eluna had gone, Rannagon slumped in his chair and put a hand over his face. “Well, that’s that,” he mumbled.

  Shoa nibbled his hair. “The dark one must be stopped,” she said. “We both know this. Trust in me, Rannagon. It will be better for us when it is done.”

  “I suppose.” Rannagon kept his voice neutral; Shoa was annoyed enough with him already.

  “And now,” the yellow griffin went on, “there is the matter of the bastard.”

  Rannagon sat up sharply. “Leave him alone, Shoa. He’s done nothing wrong.”

  “The Master of Law cannot be father to a bastard,” Shoa said harshly.

  “But I am,” said Rannagon. “He’s my son, Shoa. I won’t hurt him. Not for anything.”

  Shoa turned away, her tail swishing in irritation. “We shall see.”

  5

  At the Sign of the Red Rat

  When Arren got back to his home, he found a large crate waiting for him just outside the front door. He lugged it inside before he opened it, and found it full of different goods: cloth, cheeses, sausage, vegetables and—he smiled to himself—a string bag full of oranges. There were also five bottles of mead and two of wine, and a large roll of high-quality thick leather. It was technically forbidden for marketplace officials such as him to do this, but no-one really cared if he and the guards took their pick of whatever items they seized before they handed them over to the authorities. Even Rannagon knew about it but was prepared to turn a blind eye. Stealing from a thief was hardly a heinous crime.

  Arren spent some time packing away the contents of the box, while Eluna went to her stable to rest. He found several bottles of salve in among the other things, almost certainly placed there deliberately by Bran. He was pleased about that; his arm was aching savagely now.

  He fetched a roll of bandages from a cupboard, sat down at the table and took the lid off the salve. Taking the bandage off his arm was extremely painful, but he gritted his teeth and tossed the bloody cloth into the fireplace. The wound started to bleed again, but he hastily slapped some salve onto it and wrapped it up tightly. The salve did its job quickly, and the pain started to fade even while he was doing up the bandage. He sighed gratefully and sat back in the chair to rest.

  After a few moments, he sensed a presence. He looked around and saw Eluna sitting in the door to her stable, watching him.

  Arren sat up straight. “Hello,” he said carefully.

  Eluna said nothing. She looked away and scratched the floor with her talons. Then she came toward him, moving slowly, and crouched by the chair, head bowed.

  Arren touched her head. “What’s wrong, Eluna?”

  She looked up at last. “I . . . am sorry for what I did.”

  A true apology from a griffin was a very rare thing. Arren got off his chair and knelt by her, resting his head against her shoulder. He could feel her heart beating through her skin, strong and steady, like a drum. “It’s all right, Eluna. I understand.”

  Eluna sighed. “I did not mean to do it. I feel like a fool. To attack you in front of other people—you are my human, and I should not have humiliated you like that. I made myself look like a stupid hatchling.”

  “Is that why you said yes to Rannagon?”

  “Yes. To earn my honour back. And yours.”

  Arren let go of her. “Do you really think we can do this, Eluna?”

  “Yes. You are brave and strong. You can fight. So can I. This wild griffin cannot hurt us if we act together.”

  Arren remembered the bottle in his pocket. “I suppose I shouldn’t be scared. Rannagon has faith in us. And I have faith in you.”

  Eluna blinked. “You do?”

  “Yes, Eluna. I always have done. I let you—” He smiled. “When we were chicks, you bit the top off my ear. But I still trusted you.”

  She chirped. “And if I bit the top off your other ear, would you trust me even more?”

  Arren chuckled. “Maybe. But you shouldn’t do it now. Wait a while. If you ever lose my trust, you’ll know how to win it back.” His confidence grew. “We can do this, Eluna,” he added softly. “I know we can. You and me, working together. And we should see something of the world, shouldn’t we? Before we’re too old and tired for it. Before we—before we become councillors.”

  “It was just talk,” said Eluna. “It may not happen.”

  “No. Rannagon wouldn’t lie to me, and Riona wouldn’t lie to him. And neither of them would have said anything if it was just talk. Good gods, can you imagine that? Us on the council? A blackrobe advising the Mistress of the Eyrie?”

  “Not a blackrobe, Arren,” said Eluna. “A griffiner.”

  Once Arren had finished putting away the last of the goods, changed into a clean tunic and locked his sword up in the chest, he started packing for his journey. He’d never travelled much before, and especially not on griffinback, but he knew well enough that it would mean having to travel as lightly as possible. Eluna would only just be able to carry him and a few light objects.

  That meant leaving his sword behind. He unpacked his bow and strung it, testing the string. It was strong and well waxed, and the bow itself was still supple. Arren nocked an arrow onto the string and aimed it experimentally at the wall, drawing back as if to loose it. But he relaxed the string and put the arrow back into the quiver with the others. The bow still had plenty of spring in it. It hadn’t seen much use; the only things he’d ever aimed it at were an archery butt and, once, a rabbit. Still, he knew he was a good shot. And a griffin was a big target. He wrapped the bow up in oiled leather and strapped it to the quiver. That would go on his back. There was a packet of spare bow-strings in the chest, and he put that on the table next to the bottle of poison and the skull talisman.

  He stopped to eat an orange and think. What else should he take? A clean tunic would probably be a good idea, and some salve and bandages. And a cloak to wear in the air. Food was out of the question, apart from a few snacks to go in his pocket. He’d have to take some money and buy food along the way. People were generally happy to help a griffiner; he’d probably be given it for free. Best not to take too many chances, though. Arren knelt and lifted a loose board out of the floor beneath the table. There was a box underneath, and he filled a small leather pouch with oblong-shaped pieces of metal from it and tied the pouch to his belt. Fifty oblong should be enough to get by on. If the worst came to the worst, he could always ask Eluna to hunt. She wouldn’t like it, but it would be better than starving.

  Once he’d packed everythin
g into a small shoulder bag and fetched Eluna’s harness from the stable, he stacked them neatly in a corner and sat down to have some lunch. Eluna had spent the time dozing by his hammock, but she woke up at the smell of food and gave him an expectant look. Arren got up and took a large wrapped parcel from a cupboard by the window, saying, “All right, I haven’t forgotten about you—hope it’s still fresh.”

  He pulled off the cloth wrapping. Inside was a gory lump of meat: a raw goat’s leg with half the haunch still attached. Eluna stood up when she saw it, tail swishing. “If you throw it—”

  Arren smiled and placed it down in front of her. “No, no. It’s a bit heavy for that. Just try not to make too much of a mess.”

  Eluna tore into it, digging her talons into the floor.

  Arren tried to ignore the sound of splintering wood. “How is it?”

  “Good,” Eluna mumbled.

  Arren returned to the table and his own lunch. “It’s got to be better than this sausage. I can’t believe someone went to the trouble of smuggling it.” He ate it anyway. It wouldn’t keep while he was gone.

  Once they’d finished eating, Arren stood up and brushed the crumbs off his tunic. “All right. We’d better go and see Flell, and my parents, and let them know what’s going on. Are you ready?”

  Eluna yawned and stretched. “I will come.”

  Arren picked up the roll of leather. “Mum and Dad will be glad to get this. There’s twelve pairs of boots in it, if I’m any judge. Well, let’s go.”

  He stuffed the scroll in his pocket before he left. They’d probably want to see it.

  They visited Flell first. Never politically minded, and lacking an official position, she lived close to the Eyrie in a fine stone house that had once belonged to her mother. Its large windows must have been a help to her because she saw Arren coming and came out to meet him, her griffin following at her heels.