The Dark Griffin

by K J Taylor

  He rubbed his ear. It had taken a while to heal, but it was all right now. It was ragged, though, just like the other. The wounds left by Shoa’s talons had more or less healed, too, but they had left scars, which still ached from time to time.

  Arren took a mouthful of cheap mead. Well, it didn’t matter. No-one but Flell was likely to see them, and she didn’t mind.

  It had been nearly a month since he had returned from Rivermeet, and by now his life had settled back into a kind of normality. He continued to work at the hatchery every day and was doing fairly well. He’d requested to work only in the hatchery itself, with the chicks, which Roland had agreed to without argument. Whenever he went into the adult quarter now, he was greeted with mocking screeches from Senneck and some of her fellows. The brown griffin was positively gleeful over having put him in his place and would snap her beak at him every time she saw him. Only Keth was able to keep her out of the chicks’ quarter, and there Arren could have some peace and quiet to get on with his duties. The chicks, at least, had grown used to him, and would happily start up a raucous chorus of “Food! Food! Food!” whenever they laid eyes on him. That always cheered him up a little.

  “Hey, you.”

  Arren looked up. He’d been approached by a pair of heavy-set young men, both of whom were standing uncomfortably close to his table. “Yes?”

  “Are you the Master of Trade?” one of them demanded.

  Arren picked up his drink. “No.”

  “But you used to be, didn’t you?” said the man.

  “Who cares?” said Arren.

  “You’re Arren Cardockson,” the second man interrupted. “You’re the blackrobe bastard who used to be Master of Trade.”

  Arren drank deeply and put down his mug. “And you’re the idiotic loudmouth who comes up and shouts at people in bars. Pleased to meet you.”

  The first man flicked the mug off the table with the back of his hand and grabbed hold of the front of Arren’s tunic. “Listen to me, you snobby little shit,” he snarled. “You talk to either of us like that and we’ll break your kneecaps, get it?”

  Arren looked pointedly at the hand holding on to his tunic. “Yes, I think I can grasp that idea. What do you want?”

  The man let go of him. “D’ you know the name Norbit Tamson, blackrobe?”

  “I can’t say I do, no,” Arren said carefully.

  “You killed him,” the man said.

  Arren looked at him, bewildered. “No, I didn’t. I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve never heard of him.”

  “You son of a bitch!” the man roared, so loudly that people turned to stare at him. “We got him back with one of his arms torn clean off! And a bag of money. Compensation. You murdered my brother, and you give us money? You think you can pay us not to say anything, you piece of shit?”

  Arren stood up. “Your brother’s death was an accident,” he said calmly. “He was caught in a smugglers’ den and was killed when he assaulted me and several of the city guards and then tried to run away. I’m sorry for what happened to him, but it was out of my hands.”

  The man hit him in the face. Arren fell backward, knocking over his chair. As he scrambled to get up, the two men advanced on him. The foremost of them kicked him, knocking him over again. “That’s for Norbit,” he snarled, ignoring the shocked stares of the onlookers. “You’re gonna pay for this, blackrobe. You think that just because you had a griffin you were special? That you were as good as us? That you weren’t a blackrobe bastard howling at the moon like a dog? You thought that?” He spat on Arren’s tunic. “You think you can live like us and wear our clothes an’ that makes you one of us. Riona shouldn’t’ve taken your collar off, slave.”

  It happened in a heartbeat. One moment Arren was lying on his back and the next he had hurled himself straight at the man with a wild scream.

  He hit him hard in the chest, and in spite of his light frame, caught him by surprise and bowled him over. The man landed hard on his back, and Arren’s long fingers closed around his neck.

  The man hit him as hard as he could, in the face and chest, but Arren did not let go. He held on with all his might, squeezing the man’s windpipe until his knuckles went white. His face, once impassive, had twisted itself into an insane, animal snarl.

  The man’s friend came to his rescue after a moment’s frozen shock. He seized Arren by the hair and dragged him off. Arren screamed, half in pain and half in fury. His hand went to his belt and pulled out his dagger, and he whipped around and buried it up to the hilt in the man’s leg, just above the knee. The man bellowed and fell over, blood soaking into his trousers, and Arren turned and kicked the first man in the face, knocking him over again. Then, utterly heedless of the shouts and the people running over to intervene, he started to rain blows down on the man’s face, hard and fast, shouting incoherent curses at him all the while. The man’s resistance quickly gave way in the face of that, and he started to drag himself away, but Arren scrabbled after him and slammed the heel of his boot into the man’s groin. As the victim curled up, screaming, Arren picked up a fallen chair and raised it over his head, ready to strike.

  Someone grabbed him from behind and snatched the chair out of his hands. He twisted in their grip and swung a punch at them, but a hard blow caught him on the chin, stunning him, and he sagged to the ground.

  A pair of strong hands dragged him away; he tried to break free and resume his assault, and received a stinging blow to the top of his head for his trouble. After that he calmed down a little and allowed himself to be taken out of the tavern.

  He was led to a nondescript corner in an alley, and his captor sat him down on a crate.

  “There,” said a voice. “Are yeh gonna calm down, or do I have to hit yeh again?”

  Arren blinked. He had the strange feeling of having just woken up, and he squinted vaguely at the bulky shape in front of him. “Bran?” he managed.

  Bran was still wearing his uniform and had his arms folded. “Yeah, that’d be me.”

  Flell and Gern appeared behind him. Both of them looked horror-struck.

  “Arren!” Flell exclaimed. “What in the gods’ names?”

  Arren rubbed his head. “Who hit me?”

  “That was me,” said Bran. “Hope I didn’t hurt yeh.”

  “I think I’m all right.”

  “Good. Now what in Gryphus’ name was that all about?” said Bran.

  “That was incredible, sir,” Gern interrupted. “I had no idea you could fight like that! You would’ve killed that man if Bran hadn’t pulled you off him.”

  Bran thumped him on the ear. “Shut up. Arren, what were yeh playin’ at?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Arren, suddenly embarrassed. “I—well, he hit me first. He was saying things, calling me a blackrobe. I don’t know what happened. I just snapped.”

  “Well, I could see that,” said Bran. “It was a bit hard to miss.” He exchanged an uneasy glance with the others.

  Flell laid a hand on his arm, somewhat hesitantly. “Arren, I—”

  Arren stared at the ground. “I’m sorry, Flell. I don’t know what came over me.” They were silent, but he knew what they were thinking. “It wasn’t my fault,” he insisted. “I was defending myself. You know I’m not like that.”

  “I thought I knew,” said Bran.

  “To be honest, sir, I thought you were a bit of a—well, not a fighter,” said Gern. “I’ve seen people insult you before, but you never said anything. You just ignored them. Some people reckoned you were violent because you’re a Northerner, but I always said, ‘No, Arren’s not like that. He’s too nice for that sort of thing. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.’ But you—I got your dagger back, by the way. That poor sod pulled it out of his leg and I picked it up.” He was holding it wrapped in a corner of his tunic and removed it rather gingerly, holding it between two fingers. “It’s—uh, it probably needs a bit of cleaning, sir.”

  Bran waved him into silence. “Yeh ain’t been yerself lat
ely, Arren. Flell said—”

  “I told them I had a feeling you weren’t as well as you kept saying,” said Flell. “I knew you couldn’t be. Not after what happened. I know you had to be depressed and feeling guilty, but . . . you’re so jumpy all of a sudden. Haven’t you realised it? You keep looking at corners and doorways and things, and you won’t talk about what happened at Rivermeet. I’ve seen you walking around. You’ve got a—well, a hunted look. What is it, Arren? Have people been harassing you or something? You know we can help you with that sort of thing.”

  Arren shook his head. “It’s nothing.”

  Flell paused to restrain Thrain, who was looking rather jittery. “No, it’s not,” she said firmly, almost sternly. “There’s something going on, and I want to know what it is. You’re hiding something.”

  Arren said nothing, but his eyes darted toward the alley’s entrance.

  “I’m here, Arren,” said Flell. “There’s no-one there.”

  “Please, sir, you can trust us,” said Gern. “We trust you, right?”

  “Course we do,” said Bran.

  “I can’t tell you,” Arren blurted. “Please, just believe me. If I tell you, something awful will happen.”

  Bran touched the hilt of his sword. “Arren, for gods’ sakes, if yer in danger—”

  “I’m not,” said Arren. “But I will be if I tell you, and so will you.”

  “Did someone threaten you?” said Flell.

  Arren hesitated. “Yes. They said that if I told anyone, I would die and so would the person I told. No matter who they were.”

  “Who was it?” said Bran. “Can yeh tell us?”

  “No.”

  Flell took hold of his hand. “But Arren, for gods’ sakes, you can’t let someone get away with this! It’s criminal! My father has to know about it, I’m sure he can do something.”

  Arren grabbed her by the shoulder and pulled her into his arms. As he held on to her, he laid his head on her shoulder and whispered, “It is your father.” He spoke griffish and kept his voice so low that even he could scarcely hear it, but he felt Flell stiffen as he said it and knew she had heard.

  He let go of her and she pulled away, staring at him. She opened her mouth to speak and stopped, half-reached toward him and then turned abruptly and left the alley, carrying Thrain under one arm.

  “Flell, where are you going?” Gern called after her, but she didn’t look back.

  Arren got up. “I should go home,” he said.

  “But Arren—”

  “No, Bran,” said Arren. “I can’t. I won’t. And it doesn’t matter any more. It’s too late for anyone to do anything. If you ask me about this again, I’ll pretend I don’t know what you’re talking about. Goodnight.” He left the alley at a quick stride, and as soon as he was back in the street he broke into a run. He didn’t stop until he reached his own home, and then he slammed the door behind him. But he didn’t relax until he had locked and barred it, and blocked up the windows.

  Arren spent the next two days in agony. Every moment he expected someone to come after him, at home or at work or out in the street. No-one did. He didn’t see Flell, either; he avoided her, and she was probably doing the same. He avoided Bran and Gern as well, and when he wasn’t at work, he spent every moment barricaded in his house. He began carrying his sword with him wherever he went and wore his leather breastplate under his tunic. When nothing happened, his tension didn’t decrease—in fact, it worsened.

  Roland was quick to notice the change in his demeanour. “What’s the matter, lad?” he inquired. “You look terrible. And why do you have your sword with you? I’ll admit it’s a rather nice one, but why carry it around all day? Isn’t it a tad heavy?”

  “There’s a problem with muggers,” Arren lied. He’d prepared this excuse beforehand. “I don’t want to be attacked on the way home.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Roland. “Fair enough, I suppose, but there’s no need to keep the thing on your back all day. Just put it over by the door until you leave, why don’t you? I wouldn’t worry about anyone stealing it. The chicks will yell loud enough to wake the dead if they smell anyone they don’t know come in here.”

  Arren hesitated a moment before he obeyed, but he quickly saw that Roland was perfectly correct. No-one would attack him in here. Not with so many witnesses. He undid the straps holding the scabbard onto his back, and put the sword down by the door, leaning it against the wall of the pen beside it. Then he picked up his broom and resumed sweeping the floor.

  Roland wandered over to inspect the sword. “I can see you’ve been taking good care of it,” he said, pulling it out of the sheath and examining the blade. “That’s good. My father was very fond of this sword. He told me it was used in proper warfare by his grandfather. Against Nor—oh, I’m sorry, Arren.”

  Arren shrugged and pushed a heap of dust toward a hole in the floor. “I’m not all that good with it, but I’m very proud to own it. I keep thinking I should get someone to teach me proper swordplay. I mean, I know the basics, but that’s about it. I practise, though.”

  “Well done,” Roland said approvingly. “Truth be told, when Rakee was still alive, I never took much of an interest in fighting. In fact, for a while I considered joining the priesthood.”

  “You did?” said Arren, surprised. The priesthood was highly respected, but the only griffiners that ever joined it were the ones who had been deemed to be useless or undesirable in some way.

  “Oh yes,” said Roland. “I was very religious back then. But my mother wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Wait until you’re old, if you really must,’ she said.” He chuckled. “Of course, by the time I’d started to go grey I’d already lost interest in that idea. I never could settle down to anything when I was your age. Or when I was twice your age, come to that. No, the priesthood is holy and everything, and learned, of course, but nowadays I think they were rather out of touch with the rest of the world. Always looking back when they should be looking forward.”

  Arren had seen the city’s temple from the outside plenty of times but had never been inside it. “I don’t think I really believe in any gods,” he said, turning to sweep out a particularly stubborn corner. “I’ve always liked the idea of religion, but I never really could believe. Not properly.”

  “Didn’t your parents pass their beliefs on to you?” said Roland.

  “No. They taught me about it, but, well, they’re not very religious. I know that—” He paused, almost embarrassed to say it. “Well, Northerners never had priests, as far as I know. They worship on their own. You know, in private. So it’s just between them and their god.”

  Roland gave him a quizzical look. “They, Arren?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  Roland paused a moment and then shrugged and made for the door to his home. “Well, I think we’ve done about enough for today. You can be off home once you’ve finished with the floor. Just wait a moment and I’ll get you your pay.”

  He disappeared into his home and returned to put a bag of coins on the table before bidding Arren goodbye and going back through the door.

  Arren finished sweeping the floor and put the broom back on its hook. He yawned as he pocketed the money. It had been another long day. He’d had to help Roland with a recalcitrant chick that didn’t want to swallow its medicine, and the thing’s talons had left a large hole in his tunic. He’d have to sew that up before he went to bed.

  He picked up his sword from its spot by the door and strapped it back on, then left the hatchery. It was sunset, and the horizon was bright orange and gold. He sighed when he saw it, and turned for home, walking quickly and keeping to places where there were plenty of people.

  He turned the corner into his street and reached the door to his home. He unlocked it and went inside, and the moment the door closed behind him he relaxed. Back in his own territory.

  He unfastened the sword from his back and put it down on the table, and that was when he noticed that something was different.
The door leading out to the balcony was hanging open. When he went to close it, his eyes adjusted to the gloom and he finally saw what was wrong.

  His home was ruined. The furniture was smashed; the cupboards were hanging open with their contents strewn all over the floor. Someone had slashed his hammock to ribbons, and his clothes had been thrown over the balcony; he could see a solitary tunic hanging forlornly on the railing like a banner.

  Arren swore. He looked for his lamp, but it was lying in a corner, broken into three large pieces, and he swore again and made for the stable. There should be another one in there.

  He passed through the doorway, and froze. There were people in there, shrouded and anonymous in the gloom. They stood up and came forward to meet him. Arren turned to run back through the door, but someone had already moved to block it. He lashed out and managed to hit them on the chin hard enough to knock them aside. As Arren dived for the gap, someone grabbed him from behind. They dragged him back into the stable and threw him onto the floor, and in an instant he was surrounded.

  A hand hauled him upright, and suddenly he was being struck from all sides. Blows rained down on his head and shoulders, so hard they made stars explode before his eyes. He made an attempt to fight back, but someone thumped him in the stomach and he doubled over, yelping. He staggered backward and hit the wall, and then they were on him. Arren curled up, trying to protect himself, but they continued to hit him, kicking him in the chest, stomach and groin. Helpless and close to blacking out, he started to shout at them.

  “Stop it! Stop it! Help me! Help!”

  They jeered and began to hit him even harder. Something that felt like a falling tree hit him in the chest, and sharp pain shot through him. His head hit the wall so hard it blinded him for an instant. For a moment he tried to get up, groping at the wall behind him, but then he slid down it and landed in a crumpled heap at its base, moaning softly. Hands grabbed his arms and shoulders to hold them still, and someone else seized him by the hair and yanked his head backward. He heard them laughing, and one of them said something he couldn’t make out.