The Dark Griffin

by K J Taylor

  Bran looked up at the sun. “Well, I gotta go. Shift’s about to end. I’ll be back here tomorrow, though. Good luck till then, eh?”

  Arren swallowed. “Thanks, Bran. For—well, for being here.”

  Bran smiled slightly. “Yeh can thank the roster for that.”

  “You know that’s not what I mean, Bran.”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Bran. “G’night, Arren.”

  He nodded again and walked back toward his post, where two more guards had just arrived to take over from him and his colleague. Arren watched as they disappeared into the cave, and then finished off the rest of his food. There was bread and cheese, but there was an orange as well. For some reason the sight of it put a lump in his throat.

  The sun started to sink below the horizon, and he dozed in his cage, too tired to even care about the drop below him any more. Perhaps he was losing his fear of heights.

  Voices from the platform woke him. He looked up and saw three people standing by the guard post, talking to the guards. Arren’s heart leapt. It was Orome, with Sefer and the woman who had visited him the previous day. He got up, a little shakily, and came forward to meet them. Sefer’s weight made the platform creak as the red griffin came to stand on the other side of the cage door; he sat back on his haunches to watch, as Orome joined him.

  Orome was looking at Arren with open admiration. “Well, hello, Arren! I have to say I didn’t expect I’d ever get the chance to speak with you again. Oh, yes, this is my wife, Emogen. I believe you’ve already met.”

  Arren nodded formally to them. “Orome, what’s going on? Are they going to let me go?”

  “Arren, I really can’t tell you how amazed I was by what happened in the pit today,” said Orome. “Everyone was. I mean, I’ve seen what has to have been more than a hundred fights, but I’ve never seen anything like that. Can I ask how you did it?”

  “I didn’t do anything,” said Arren. “It was the griffin who did it.”

  “Yes, but you must have done something to make him spare you,” said Orome. “What was it? Did you talk to him?”

  “Wild griffins don’t talk, remember?” said Arren. “Orome, they’ve got to let me out of here. I survived, didn’t I?”

  Orome ignored the question. “So, you really didn’t do anything?”

  “Yes. Can I please go home now?”

  Orome shook his head. “Astonishing. There’s been a lot of argument about it, actually. Some people are claiming that you used some sort of Northern magic to tame the griffin. You didn’t, did you?”

  Arren put a hand to his forehead. “Northerners don’t have magic,” he almost snarled. “I don’t have any powers, all right? I’m just an ordinary person, and I’m not interested in entertaining anyone; I just want to get out of here.”

  “You can’t be that ordinary,” said Orome. “Not if you managed to make Darkheart act like that. He’s the most savage griffin I’ve ever seen, and unpredictable as well. Actually, the only thing you can always expect him to do is kill as many people as he can the moment he’s let out. But he’s not himself any more. He won’t eat or drink anything; he just lies in his cage and does nothing. I—well, forgive me for saying this, but when we sent you into the pit today I wasn’t expecting to have a body to retrieve afterwards. He hadn’t eaten in days; he must have been ravenous. Which is another reason why I can’t believe what happened. I think the crowd was a bit disappointed, though. We’ve never had a fight that had such a—well, such an indecisive ending. But look on the bright side: you’re nearly as popular as Darkheart now. They’re calling you the Mad Blackrobe. They all saw how you attacked the griffin like that, with nothing but a spearhead. It was very impressive. And I hope we can see you do it again soon.”

  Arren gave him a deadly look. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not interested.”

  “Unfortunately that’s not up to you,” Emogen interrupted. “You agreed to this.”

  “I agreed to fight the black griffin and you said that if I won I could go free,” Arren snapped.

  “Yes, so you’ll just have to hope that next time you do win,” said Emogen.

  “But I—”

  “The fight was inconclusive,” Emogen said in formal, almost faraway tones. “Neither one of you truly won—though since you collapsed and Darkheart didn’t, that would in theory make him the winner. A truce—I suppose you can call it that—a truce is not a victory. Your agreement will not be fulfilled until one of you is dead.”

  “Cheer up,” Orome advised. “No matter what happens after this, you’re going to go down in history for what happened today. Even griffins are talking about it.”

  “I don’t want to go down in history!” Arren shouted. “I want to go home, godsdamnit!”

  Orome gave him a dispassionate look. “Well, that’s not my problem. Even if you did somehow manage to make Darkheart lose his senses, you’re still a criminal, and as far as I’m concerned, you don’t have any worth to anyone except as entertainment. So I’d advise you to be a bit less uppity, Arren Cardockson.”

  “But it’s not fair!”

  “Perhaps you should have thought of that before you stole that chick,” said Orome. “See you tomorrow.”

  With that he turned and left, and Emogen went with him. Sefer lingered a moment to peer curiously at him, and then jumped almost lazily off the edge of the platform, making the entire thing shake. Arren, turning instinctively to watch, saw the red griffin’s wings open and watched him soar away over the landscape. Vertigo instantly made the ground lurch beneath him, and he fell over sideways, grabbing at the bars to save himself from falling. He hit the bars of the cage awkwardly and, for what felt like the hundredth time, the collar tore into his neck. He let out a maddened snarl of both pain and rage, one which turned into a string of swearwords. It didn’t make him feel even slightly better. He lurched upright and staggered toward the door and began to wrench at the bars, trying with all his might to make them break. They shook and creaked against their bindings, and splinters stabbed into his palms, but they would not give. Each one was as thick as his forearm and held in place with metal rivets. The door itself was sealed with a chain, and none of it had an inch of give in it anywhere. Maddened by fear, he tried to squeeze through one of the gaps between the bars. It was far too narrow for his head to fit through, but he persisted anyway, until one of the guards wandered over and shoved him away. He fell onto his back and lay still, breathing heavily, then suddenly grabbed hold of the collar and tried yet again to pull it off. Still it would not come off. Still it weighed him down. Still it hurt. He realised then that it never would come off. He was going to wear it for the rest of his life.

  21

  Freedom

  Night drew in over the city. In his cage behind the Arena, Darkheart dozed. And in his own cage not very far away, Arren slept restlessly; his hands curled into fists, and his legs twitched as if he was trying to run somewhere. His face, too, moved, the forehead creasing as he mumbled in his sleep.

  “. . . help me, I’m falling, help me . . . falling . . . help me . . .”

  Then he was walking along the street toward his home, with Eluna beside him, and Gern there, too, chattering about the latest fight at the Arena. Arren pretended to listen, to humour him. Gern was always hurt if someone complained or looked bored.

  Look at that, Gern kept saying. Look, sir.

  They had reached the door of his home, and the key was in his hand. He put it into the lock and turned it, but the instant the door swung open, flames billowed out and he realised the house was on fire. He backed away, but Eluna pushed past him and ran ahead, straight into the heart of the flames. Eluna! Come back!

  He ran forward, trying to get to her, but he could not. The door would not come any closer. It was just ahead of him, so close but always out of reach.

  Gern was still there. Sir, look, he said again.

  Arren turned to him. Gern, help me.

  Sir, said Gern. Look. You’re falling.


  And then he was falling. The ground beneath him vanished and there was nothing but darkness, pulling him down. High above, the black griffin circled, his screech echoing in the night. It grew louder and louder, cutting through Arren’s brain, until the world shook with it. The ground beneath him lurched, and he suddenly realised he wasn’t falling any more, he was lying on his back and the ground was shaking.

  He lay still, heart pounding. The ground lurched again, and he heard something to his left. He sat up, and the sudden burst of pain from the collar convinced him that he wasn’t asleep. It was still night-time, and the moon was high in the sky. He was still in his cage, which was swinging alarmingly, the wooden rods that held it to the platform rattling. When he looked up, he saw something huge hanging over the side of the cage. It was moving. He could see the outline of a tail, lashing at the bars, and for a moment, horrible fear caught in his throat. It was a griffin, a dark griffin, it was coming to get him, it was—

  “Arren Cardockson?”

  Arren looked up sharply. The words had been spoken in griffish, but it was not a griffin’s voice. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he realised that the door to his cage was open. Someone was standing in the entrance, outlined by the torchlight from the guard post.

  Arren stood up. “Who’s that?”

  The figure stepped forward into the cage. “Are you Arren Cardockson? Speak griffish.”

  “I’m Arren. Who are you?”

  The stranger took hold of his arm. “You must come with me,” he said. “And quickly.”

  “What for? Who are you?”

  “Not now!” The stranger dragged him out of the cage, and Arren hurried after him. There was a thud as something hit the platform in front of them; the griffin had leapt off the roof of the cage and landed between them and the guard post. Arren froze. The griffin came toward them, and the stranger went and got on her back. “Get up behind me,” he urged. “Hurry!”

  Arren pulled himself together and climbed onto the griffin’s back. There was only just room for the two of them, but luckily the stranger was slightly built. Arren held on to his waist, and the griffin ran off the edge of the platform and into the air. Almost instantly, she started to fall. Her wings beat furiously, fighting back against gravity; as Arren held on, panic-stricken, she soared clumsily out over the dark landscape and then spiralled upward, away from the prison. When Arren dared to look down he saw Eagleholm laid out below him, a dark, sprawling mass dotted with lights. The griffin flew straight for the centre, already flagging under the unaccustomed weight of two people, and the city got closer and closer as she started to lose height. But she made one last mighty effort and shot forward, the wind rushing past them, her talons grabbing at the air. Ahead, the Eyrie reared up out of the darkness, a great window-studded mountain in the night, coming straight toward them. Arren stifled a scream, and then they hit it. The griffin’s talons latched onto the edge of one of the balconies, and she scrabbled up over the side and promptly collapsed onto her side, flinging the two humans off.

  Arren picked himself up, wincing. The stranger was already up and attending to his partner. She rolled onto her front and lay still, shuddering with exhaustion. “Go,” she rasped. “Hurry.”

  The stranger opened the door leading from the balcony, and light poured out as he disappeared inside, gesturing at Arren to follow. He entered a large and comfortable-looking bedroom with a carpeted floor and a good fire burning, along with several expensive wax candles. There was a table with a jug of wine and a pair of cups laid out on it, along with a bowl of fruit.

  The stranger gestured at a chair. “Sit down. There’s time for you to eat something before you go.”

  Arren sat, staring at him. “Lord Vander?”

  Vander was clad in a black tunic and leggings which didn’t suit him very well, and he looked a little strained. But he poured out some wine and pushed it toward Arren. “Drink. You look as if you need it.”

  Arren accepted it without argument; it was sweet and strong, flavoured with exotic spices. “Lord Vander, what’s going on?”

  “I am setting you free,” said Vander. “Ymazu has agreed to carry you away from the city as far as she can.”

  “But why?” said Arren. “You’ll get into trouble. They’ll probably lock you up, too, if they catch you.”

  Vander shrugged. “I am leaving the city tonight as well. My diplomatic mission is finished.”

  “But if they know you did it—”

  “I do not think the Emperor can forge any kind of lasting alliance with this city,” said Vander, sitting down and helping himself to some wine. “I have seen enough of your ways by now. The Lady Riona is a fine leader and good-hearted, but she is reaching the end of her reign and her council is plainly corrupt. I witnessed your trial yesterday.”

  “But why do you care?” said Arren.

  Vander smiled very slightly. “I took a liking to you when we first met. I admired your intelligence and your refusal to be ashamed of your blood and background. And your courage in the Arena impressed us both.”

  “Yes, but why do you care?” Arren persisted. “Why risk your life to save mine?”

  “Because I am sympathetic to you,” said Vander. “And to the rest of your people. The darkmen are a dying race. Their land is subjugated and occupied, and most of their population live in chains. Despair can destroy a people as no massacre or disease ever can. And though you are not a slave, you have all but been turned into one. You know what it is to be humiliated, to wear a collar and be beaten and locked in a cage like a beast, waiting to be put down as soon as your usefulness comes to an end. It was not enough that your griffin was taken from you and that you were disgraced and cast out from your fellows—now they must use you for their sport.”

  “You know about that?” said Arren.

  Vander nodded. “I have heard things, here and there. Lord Rannagon was very anxious to assure me that the city would not have a Northerner advising its Mistress. He told me that it would not be accepted, by him or by the other councillors. And I heard your accusation yesterday and was inclined to believe it. I had already suspected that those in power were plotting to be rid of you, and it seemed far too convenient that you had simply lost your mind. And they would not listen to you. It made me very angry to see. In Amoran, every man accused of a crime may speak out and defend himself, and his claims will always be taken seriously and investigated. The only time a criminal is ignored and punished without fair hearing is when that criminal is a slave. I watched many trials when I was a boy; my master was a judge, and I learnt a great deal about law while I fetched papers and cleaned the floor.”

  Arren paused. “You mean, you weren’t born a noble?” “No, Arren. I was not,” said Vander. He touched his neck. “The marks have faded now, but I have not forgotten that time.”

  “You were a slave?”

  “Yes,” said Vander. “I was born one. When Ymazu chose me, I was set free.”

  There was a thump from the doorway and both of them turned sharply, but it was only Ymazu. The brown griffin entered, limping slightly, and sat down by Vander’s side.

  “Your griffins are fools,” she said to Arren, “to only choose nobles. No blood makes one man worthier than another. I chose Vander for his courage and his intelligence, because I knew that he could become great with my help, and so he has done. I liked Eluna. She was also wise in her choice.”

  “Thank you,” Arren said softly. “To both of you.”

  Vander stood up. “I am sorry for what happened to you. I hope we can meet again, Arren Cardockson, but now it is time for you to go.”

  “But where should I go to?” said Arren, standing up. “Where can I hide?”

  “One of the neighbouring states, perhaps, could hide you,” said Vander. “But I advise you to go to the North. Some of your own people still live there free; they will, perhaps, accept you. It is your only hope.”

  Ymazu stood. “Come,” she said, and walked out onto the balcony. Arren bowed
low to Vander and followed her. On the balcony, Vander helped him onto Ymazu’s back. “Good luck,” he said. “And to you, Ymazu.”

  Ymazu rubbed her head against Vander’s dark cheek. “I shall see you again soon, Vander.”

  Arren held on to the harness fastened around the griffin’s neck, and Ymazu took off, flying up and away from the Eyrie with easy grace. She could bear up under his weight without any trouble, and began to circle the city, climbing for height. “Where shall I take you, Northerner?” she asked. “Make your choice quickly.”

  Arren’s mind raced. He would have to find somewhere to hide, of course, but the idea of going to the North almost revolted him. It was far away; even if Ymazu was willing to carry him there, it would take at least a month. On foot, it would probably take six. Assuming he wasn’t caught along the way. And, in spite of everything that had happened, in his heart he still felt tied to Eagleholm, where he had spent his entire adult life; it was the only place where he had ever been truly happy and where Eluna’s spirit still lived.

  But, as the night air cut through his ragged tunic and made him shiver, he saw that there was no way he could stay. There was nothing left here for him, only suffering and death.

  His resolve hardened. “I want to go northward. Toward Norton. But first . . .”

  “Speak,” said Ymazu.

  “Do you know where the Arena is?”

  “Beside the prison district,” said Ymazu.

  “Yes. I want to go there before we leave. I still have something to do here.”

  Ymazu was silent for a long time. “Very well. For Vander’s sake. But I will not fight to protect you. If we are discovered, I shall leave you.”

  “I understand.”

  The brown griffin angled her tail and flew downward, toward the dark mass of the Arena. There were only a few sources of light down there, and the enclosure behind the pit was completely dark. Ymazu landed neatly on top of the wall, and Arren got down off her back and perched beside her, looking down at the cages. There was a steel net stretched over the top of the enclosure, fastened to the wall where he stood, but the gaps in it were big enough for him to get through.