The Dark Griffin

by K J Taylor

  Letting go of her was one of the hardest things he had ever done in his life. He climbed out of the hole, clutching the feather to his chest, and stood there for a time looking down at Eluna’s still form. She looked so peaceful. As if she were only sleeping.

  Arren’s fingers curled around the feather, gripping it so tightly it threatened to snap. He tucked it into his tunic and began to fill in the hole.

  Once he was done, he sat down on the mound of earth that marked Eluna’s last resting place, wrapped his arms around his legs and put his chin on his knees. Nearby the villagers had dragged some uncut fence posts into the field and were lashing them together into a crude cage around the black griffin. The creature was hissing helplessly at them, its tail thrashing like a headless snake. Arren watched it all through dull eyes, not really taking in what he was seeing. He felt numb and empty, as if reality had fled away from him, rendering him nothing but a mindless shell, unable to feel or think.

  People came to him and tried to get him to return to the village, but he wouldn’t move or speak, or even look at them. When they gently tried to pull him away by force he shrugged them off, and after that he was alone, in the cold and the wet, listening to the rain drumming on the ground.

  He huddled silently on the grave and closed his eyes, but the blackness only showed him a picture of Eluna. Eluna dying in front of him, her blood soaking into the ground and staining his hands. He opened his eyes again and stared blankly at his hands. The blood was still there, ingrained in the skin with the mud and sweat. He tried to wipe it away, but it wouldn’t come off. Arren shuddered again and buried his face in his hands.

  The cage was nearly completed by now. People had fetched planks and were sliding them under the griffin to create a rough floor. The griffin had given up on its struggling and was lying still, eyes half-closed in a hopeless kind of way. Arren wondered if it had any notion of what awaited it.

  He looked away. What did he care?

  “Sir!”

  Arren paid no attention.

  “Sir, look! Sir, look up there!”

  The words finally got through to him, and he looked up vaguely. The people building the cage had stopped their work and were chattering excitedly and pointing at the sky.

  Arren looked up, the rain splattering onto his face, and saw three dark shapes circling against the grey cloud that had gathered. Winged shapes. Too big to be birds.

  Arren looked away again. The three griffins landed in the field not far away, and their riders dismounted. Arren was woken from his stupor by their voices, and he allowed himself to be hauled to his feet and led out of the field.

  They took him to one of the houses and made him lie down on a table, where they took off his tunic and began to clean the wound in his chest. It was deep and ragged and began to bleed again as they carefully removed the dirt. Arren winced and closed his eyes. A hand patted his shoulder. “It’s all right, just lie still, you’re going to be fine.”

  Fine! Arren felt like laughing. He kept still as a herbal paste was applied to the wound, and sat up so they could wrap a bandage around his torso.

  “There, all done. You’ll be all right.”

  Arren looked up and saw the face of one of the senior griffiners from Eagleholm. “Deanne?”

  She clasped his hand. “Arren Cardockson—my gods, you look terrible. Where is your griffin?”

  Arren stared at the floor. “She’s dead,” he whispered.

  The three griffiners glanced at each other. “Oh, Arren,” said Deanne. “I’m so sorry.”

  “How did it happen?” one of the others asked.

  Arren’s hands clenched. “She was . . . trying to protect me.”

  “From that brute of a wild griffin,” the other griffiner finished. “For the love of Gryphus, Arren, what are you doing here? What in the world gave you the idea that you could fight that thing on your own? Are you mad?”

  Deanne put her hand on her companion’s arm. “Not now, Kryn, please. The boy’s in shock. Get him a blanket, would you? And a clean tunic if you can find it.”

  The third griffiner brought a blanket, and Arren pulled it around himself gratefully. He’d only just realised how cold he was. The blanket warmed him, but his shivering didn’t stop. He blinked, puzzled. His hands seemed to be shaking. He tried to make himself breathe deeply, and then before he knew what was happening he had started to gasp for air, his chest heaving. His vision started to go grey around the edges, and lights flashed before his eyes. He clutched at his chest, wide-eyed. His skin had gone deathly pale and clammy, and the shaking got worse. The three griffiners were there at once. They dragged him to the fireplace and made him lie down in the warmth, laying the blanket over him. Deanne took hold of his hands and squeezed them tightly. “Arren, Arren! Look at me!”

  Arren’s eyes turned toward her, fixed and bulging.

  Deanne patted his face. “Yes, that’s right, just look at me. Keep looking. Just breathe deeply. Breathe!”

  He started to calm down, and the shaking decreased, but tears were running uncontrollably down his face.

  “It’s all right,” Deanne said softly. “It’s all right, Arren. Just keep looking at me. Breathe deeply. In . . . out . . . in . . . out . . . yes, just like that. That’s right. You’re fine. You’re all right. You’re all right . . .”

  The sound of her voice soothed him, and he slowly relaxed into a faint. When he woke up a few moments later, Deanne gently helped him to his feet.

  “There. Careful, steady there . . . All right, just sit down and I’ll get you something to eat.”

  Arren huddled in the chair, letting the fire warm him. He felt a lot better, physically at least. “What . . . happened?” he managed.

  “You went into shock,” Kryn explained. “It’s like a panic. It happens when something very sudden and violent happens to someone. Do you feel better now?”

  Arren nodded. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “No need to apologise. The same thing would’ve happened to—well, it’s not your fault.”

  Arren looked at him with a terrible, hopeless expression. “What am I going to do?”

  The third griffiner came over, carrying a clean tunic. “Here, put this on. You just rest, all right? We’ll take care of everything. There’s some more people coming to the village right now by road—we sent them on ahead of us. They’ll be taking the griffin back to Eagleholm on a wagon, and we’ll all go back home with them.”

  Arren took the tunic and held on to it as if he had no idea what it was for. He started to speak and then fell silent and looked away. Deanne brought him some food, but he didn’t take it.

  She put it into his hands. “Here. Come on, take it. You need to keep your strength up.”

  Arren started to chew listlessly at the cheese and dried apple. It was poor quality, but he didn’t really notice.

  “That’s better,” said Deanne.

  Arren looked away and finished his food. It made him feel a little better.

  “Now then,” said Deanne. Her two companions had left, probably to go and supervise the completion of the cage, but she stayed where she was, her eyes on Arren. “Tell me, what were you doing here?” she asked.

  Arren stared into the fire. “I came to fight the griffin. Catch it, if I could. For the reward.”

  “On your own?” said Deanne. “For Gryphus’ sake, Arren, what were you thinking? Do you know how dangerous a wild griffin is? You never go after one on your own, even if you are a griffiner! Who even told you about it?”

  Arren looked up, confused. “It was—” He paused, remembering his promise. “Someone told me about it. He said—well, I have a debt to pay, and someone said I could get some money by catching this griffin, so—”

  “Who was it?” said Deanne.

  “I—I’m not allowed to say.”

  She frowned at him. “Why in the world not? Whoever this person is, what did they tell you? Didn’t they advise you to take some help?”

  “
They said I could do it alone,” said Arren. “I—I had some poison. To put on my arrows. That’s how I caught it.”

  “What, so this person told you that you could fight a wild griffin on your own, when you’re—you’ve never done anything like this before, have you?”

  Arren shook his head.

  “But this person persuaded you to do it on your own, without telling anyone where you were going or why, or even asking anyone for advice? Who was it? Was it a griffiner?”

  “I thought I could do it. He said it was easy, and I—”

  “And you just believed him?” Deanne was looking at him in disbelief. “My gods, Arren, I really don’t—I never thought you were reckless, but what you did was insane. You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”

  A vision of the black griffin flashed across Arren’s brain, and he shuddered and felt tears run down his face.

  Deanne hugged him. “There, look, just calm down. I’m sorry, Arren, I shouldn’t have—here, get up and come with me. You need to keep busy.”

  “I want to go home,” Arren mumbled.

  “You will, soon. Just come along and help me, would you? We have to get that cage finished and dragged back into the village. Might need an extra pair of hands. C’mon, up you get.”

  Arren stood up wearily and let her lead him back to the field. It was still raining. The cage was completed, and the people who’d made it were now busy reinforcing and stabilising it; under the supervision of Kryn and his fellow griffiner. Their griffins were nearby, keeping a close watch on the captive black griffin, not liking being in the rain but refusing to leave their humans unguarded.

  The sight sent fresh pain through him, and he gritted his teeth as Deanne helped him over the fence.

  “Now, you’d better go and get your bow back,” she told him. “Go on, before the rain wrecks it. You’d better take the string off it, too.”

  Arren felt vaguely irritated by her motherly tone, but he wandered off obediently and found his bow, lying where he’d dropped it. He removed the bowstring and threw it away. The rain had already ruined it. The quiver wasn’t too far away; he gathered up the fallen arrows and stuffed them back in, along with the unstrung bow. The work helped; he concentrated on what he was doing and let his mind go blank. It was better that way.

  Once he’d slung the quiver on his back, he turned to see what the others were doing. The villagers had finished working on the cage and were now trying to lift it. Arren wondered briefly why they weren’t just dragging it, and then realised that the cage would probably come apart if they did. Besides, the ground was now very soft underfoot and dragging anything large and heavy over it would be a nightmare. Lifting it, though, didn’t look like a much easier option.

  A strange energy filled him. He walked over to the cage. “Can I help?”

  They glanced at him. “Shouldn’t you be resting, sir?” someone asked.

  “Can you lift it?” Arren asked, ignoring him.

  “Possibly,” said Kryn. He glanced at the people who’d spaced themselves around the cage. There were plenty of them; most of the village’s population had come to help. “All right, has everyone got a grip? Good. Now, heave!”

  They lifted as one. The bars of the cage shifted dangerously, straining against their binding, but it came up out of the mud with a faint sucking sound.

  “All right, let’s move,” said Kryn, pulling it toward the fence. The carriers shuffled in that direction for a short distance before they had to stop and put down the cage so they could rest.

  Tamran, the third of the griffiners, stretched and rubbed his back. “Ow. Well, it’ll take ages, but we’ll make it. Eventually.”

  Arren had been looking for a spot where he could get a grip and help move the cage, but couldn’t find one. In the end he settled for walking on ahead and warning people about unexpected tussocks and other things they could trip on. As they neared the fence he looked over at it and paused—how were they going to get the cage over it?

  “Kryn?”

  Kryn glanced at him. “Yes, Arren? What is it?”

  “How are we going to get it past the fence?”

  “I’ve already asked about that,” said Kryn, rubbing his chafed hands. “The nearest gate is all the way back there, so we’re going to take out the palings. Arren, can you go into the village and find something to take the nails out with?”

  Arren nodded and walked off, glad to be doing something useful. He went back to the shed where he’d found the shovel, and took down a hammer from a shelf. It had a pair of prongs on the back for removing nails—he knew their purpose from the brief time he’d spent helping to replace some planks near the edge back at Eagleholm.

  It should do the trick. He took it back to the fence and began levering out the nails that held the palings in place. The nails were old and rusted, and several of them broke in the process, but he got them all out and lifted the heavy pieces of wood out of the way, leaving a large gap in the fence which the cage should fit through. It did, and the bearers staggered their way into the village and finally set it down in a handy barn.

  Kryn leant against the cage and wiped the rainwater off his forehead. “Phew! Thank gods that’s over. Well done, Arren. And to the rest of you—excellent job. I’ll see to it that you’re all properly compensated for your time. I hope there aren’t any problems with keeping this in here until the wagons arrive to pick it up?”

  “It shouldn’t be a problem, sir,” said the man who owned the barn.

  “Good, good. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word with my friends here.”

  The villagers left. Arren paused, not knowing if he should go with them, but Kryn gestured at him to join the griffiners.

  The three griffins had stationed themselves around the cage and were watching its occupant. The black griffin stared back, unmoving.

  “Now,” said Kryn, “someone has to keep an eye on it. Keep it fed and watered and make sure it doesn’t escape. They’ll have to stay here during the night as well. We can’t leave it unguarded for a moment.”

  “Why?” said Tamran.

  “Some of those people looked quite angry,” said Kryn. “It’s been killing their friends and family, don’t forget. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them want a chance to take their revenge on it now it can’t fight back.”

  “Oh,” said Tamran. “Good point.” He glanced at the others. “Who’s going to do it, then?”

  “I will,” said Arren.

  They looked at him. “Arren, you really shouldn’t,” said Tamran. “You’ve had a nasty accident, and—well, you should be resting. Why did you even come out into the field again?”

  “Because I told him to,” Deanne interrupted. “His injury isn’t that bad, and it won’t do him any good to sit around on his own. He needs to keep occupied. It’s the best way to deal with stress. If you want to guard the cage, Arren, by all means, do it. I’ll ask someone to set up a bed for you in here.”

  “Just a hammock,” said Arren.

  “All right, if that’s what you want. And”—Deanne glanced at the black griffin—“be careful. Don’t get cocky just because it’s tied up. And if anyone else comes in here, keep a close watch on them. If anyone killed this griffin they would be guilty of having destroyed the Eyrie’s property, and it would be our duty to arrest them. No matter who they were,” she added meaningfully.

  Arren unslung his quiver and sat down on a bale of hay. “I’ll be sure to keep a lookout, then,” he said shortly.

  He spent the rest of that day sitting in the barn, watching the black griffin. A trough was brought and placed by the cage, close enough for the creature to reach, and Deanne brought a bucket of water to fill it with. “We’ll take the ropes off its beak now,” she told Arren. “Let it drink.”

  Arren stood up. “But it might use magic.” Griffins used their mouths to cast magic, which was yet another good reason to keep this one’s beak tied shut.

  Deanne put the bucket aside and drew her knif
e. “I doubt it. It’s probably more interested in a drink right now. And I’ve added something to the water. It’ll make it drowsy.”

  Her griffin thrust a foreleg through the bars of the cage and pinned the black griffin’s head down, and Deanne reached in and cut the ropes around its beak. She withdrew swiftly, and once she was well out of reach her griffin released his captive. The black griffin’s head shot forward in the blink of an eye, and its beak narrowly missed the other griffin’s leg. The other griffin hit it in the face with his talons and returned to Deanne’s side, his tail twitching in a dignified manner.

  Arren had restrung his bow with one of his spares, and he nocked an arrow and pointed it at the black griffin’s head, ready to loose it the instant the creature showed any sign of using magic. But the black griffin only glared at him and then dragged itself toward the trough. It poked its beak through the bars and drank awkwardly, throwing back its head to swallow. Once it had satisfied its thirst it laid its head down and sighed. It looked exhausted, and no wonder, but Arren glanced at Deanne before he relaxed the bowstring.

  Deanne scratched her griffin’s neck. “It should have taken enough. Watch; it’s working already.”

  Sure enough, the black griffin’s eyes were closing. It yawned and clumsily folded its legs under its belly, and a few moments later its tail ceased its twitching.

  “There,” said Deanne. “It’ll sleep for the rest of the day, most likely, and when it wakes up it’ll still be weak and confused. Even if you did get close enough for it to attack you, it won’t be able to see properly. That doesn’t mean you should tempt fate, though.”

  Arren shook his head. “I’m not stupid.”

  “Good. We’ll give it something to eat in the morning. Everything it eats or drinks from now on will be drugged. We can’t risk it being properly awake. You just stay here and don’t leave unless you have to.”