The Dark Griffin

by K J Taylor

  And then shouts came from ahead of him. He slowed down, confused, and saw another group of guards come running toward him from the other end of the street. They were heading him off. Arren stopped. He looked back and saw the first group catching up. He was sandwiched between them, with nowhere to go.

  No. There was one way to go. He looked to his left and saw a gap between two houses. It would do. He darted through it, scraping his elbows on the wooden walls. Hope rose in his chest. They would be stuck in this gap; it was barely wide enough for him to fit through, let alone them with their armour. He’d made it. He’d outwitted them.

  He burst out of the gap and onto—

  A stretch of bare planks, jutting out over the edge of the city and into space.

  Arren skidded to a halt and looked desperately this way and that. There was nowhere to go except back through the gap; the houses on either side were built right up to the edge of the planking, and in front of him there was nothing but a sheer drop.

  But it was already too late to go back. Arren turned back the way he had come, and saw that the first of the guards had struggled through the gap and was advancing on him, sword drawn. Others joined him, and then spread out to cover the full width of the platform. They had bows in their hands and were already nocking arrows in place.

  Arren reached to his belt and drew Orome’s sword. Taking it in both hands, he pointed it at them.

  The foremost guard came closer. “Arren,” he said.

  Arren stopped and squinted. “Bran? Is that you?”

  Bran raised one large hand. “Please, Arren, don’t struggle. Just come quietly.”

  Arren did not lower the sword, but the tip was shaking slightly. “Please,” he said softly, as more guards emerged and took up station behind Bran. “Please, Bran, don’t do this. Let me go. Please, just let me go. I’ll never come back here; I’ll go away forever.”

  “Put the sword down, Arren,” said Bran. “Just put it down.”

  Arren looked back over his shoulder at the landscape far below him. The wind blowing up the mountainside was icy cold and tugged at him, seeming to invite him to let himself drop. The fear burned in him, and he went toward Bran. The guards drew back their bows, and Bran raised his sword. “Drop the sword!” he shouted. “Do it!”

  Arren stopped. He looked at Bran, then at the sword, and then hurled it away. It clattered over the planks, fell from the edge and was gone.

  The fear had consumed him utterly. He felt sick and dizzy, and he trembled all over. He lurched away from the edge, holding a hand out toward Bran. “Please!” he said. “Don’t let me fall, Bran, I don’t want to fall. Help me!”

  Bran reached out to grab his hand. “It’s all right, Arren, just take my hand, I’ll get yeh outta here—”

  From somewhere high above, a griffin’s cry echoed, and then one of the guards loosed an arrow. It shot past Bran, narrowly missing his shoulder, and hit Arren square in the chest. He screamed and staggered backward, clutching at the shaft, and then another arrow hit him in the leg.

  “No!” Bran shouted, rushing forward.

  Everything seemed to happen in slow motion then. Bran tried to catch Arren’s tunic, but the bloodstained cloth slipped through his fingers. For a moment, as Arren teetered on the edge, his black eyes looked into Bran’s.

  Then he fell.

  Bran heard his last scream as Arren disappeared into the darkness below, and then he, too, was falling, straight forward, yelling in panic. Hands caught him by the back of his armour and pulled him back, and he crashed onto the planks.

  Someone helped him to his feet. He didn’t look at them. His eyes were fixed on the edge of the planking where Arren had been. “No,” he whispered. “Arren—”

  “Come on, sir,” said one of the guards behind him. “We’ve got to get back to the Eyrie and tell them what happened.”

  Bran turned. “Yeh killed him!”

  “He was about to attack you, sir,” said one of the guards who had fired. “We all saw it.”

  “He was askin’ me to help him!” said Bran. “He was scared!”

  The guard shook his head. “He was going to die anyway, sir.”

  Bran hit him. “That was murder,” he snarled.

  The guards glanced at each other. “He was only a blackrobe, sir,” said one.

  Free! Darkheart struck another human in the chest, almost tearing him in half, and crushed the skull of a second one in his beak. The rest had turned and were trying to run, but he went after them and caught up with them in the tunnel. There he cornered them and killed them, down to the last man, and when he was done, he lifted one of the corpses and swallowed it whole. He carried the rest back to the enclosure, two at a time, and heaped them up by the platform with the others.

  There was no sign of any more guards coming, and he settled down to eat while the other griffins screeched at him from their cages, cheering him on.

  “Kill! Kill! Kill the humans! Kill them all, Darkheart!”

  Darkheart paid no attention. He tore into a second corpse and swallowed the pieces, savouring the taste of blood. Caught up in his hunger and bloodlust, he completely forgot about his wish to escape and continued to eat, gorging himself on human flesh. So sweet. So soft.

  When he was full to bursting, he sat back on his haunches and yawned widely. The sheer amount of food he’d eaten made him drowsy, but he knew he couldn’t stay where he was. Other humans would come, and besides, he wanted to leave here and go back to his valley. He got up and trotted through the open gate and into the tunnel; he knew this place. Maybe the gate would open and he could get into the pit. There could be a way out there.

  But the end of the tunnel was blocked, and no-one came to open the gate. He hooked his claws into it and tried to pull it out of the way, but it wouldn’t move. It rattled when he slammed his body against it, but still did not move, and he turned and walked back the way he’d come, snorting in disgust. There had to be another way out.

  Back in the enclosure, he climbed onto the wooden structure in the centre of the floor and reached up to the net that blocked his way to the sky. His perch shook dangerously beneath him, but he ignored it and bit at the steel cables. They were tough and hard, like the chains that had trapped him before, and they wouldn’t break. Darkheart hissed and bit down harder, then reared up onto his hind legs and latched his talons into the net, pulling on it with his full weight. The frame beneath him held out for a moment, but then broke. For a moment Darkheart hung upside down from the net, and then he let go and dropped, landing among the wreckage with a hollow thud and a splintering sound.

  The net quivered, bobbing up and down over his head, and he looked up at it and screeched his frustration. The other griffins screeched, too, some mocking him and others offering encouragement. Maddened, Darkheart started to demolish the wrecked frame with his beak, knocking down the pieces that remained upright and hurling others aside.

  But this was not enough to calm him down; he turned and ran away through the gate again. But the door to the pit still refused to move. He attacked it until he was exhausted, and then lay down on his belly to rest and try to think.

  He wondered where the dark human had gone. He had thought of killing it when he had first seen it that night, but when it spoke to him—its voice so calm and strong and unafraid—he remembered what had happened in the pit. The human’s presence had calmed him, and he had sat still and waited while it removed his chains and set him free. After that he had been busy fighting the other humans, but what had happened to that one? Had he killed it along with the rest?

  He stood up and stared through the gate at the moonlit pit where they had fought. If he could only get through into it, then maybe the human would be there again and would help him get out. Or maybe he would be back in the enclosure.

  Darkheart turned and went back, tail swishing. The dead humans were still there where he had left them and he picked through the bodies, looking for the dark one. But he wasn’t there. These all had brow
n fur, not black, and they smelt wrong. He nibbled half-heartedly at one, and then lay down on his belly and sighed.

  “Darkheart. Darkheart!”

  The sound finally filtered through to him, and he looked up. Aeya was standing up in her cage and was calling to him.

  Darkheart watched her for a moment, and then looked away.

  “Darkheart,” Aeya said again. “I know how you can get out of here.”

  Darkheart’s head turned toward her, and his tail started to twitch.

  “There,” said Aeya. “The platform, the one you came up on. It has no metal on it. You can break it.”

  Darkheart stood up. “Where?”

  “There, by your talons. See it?”

  It was half-buried under the remains of the frame, but he swept the mess aside and peered at the surface underneath. It was bare wood. He gripped it with his claws and they went in deeply, splintering it.

  “Stamp on it,” Aeya hissed. “Break it!”

  Darkheart reared up on his hind legs and then came down, slamming his forepaws onto the platform. It made a loud cracking sound, and a split appeared down the middle. He struck it again and again, until the entire thing shook under his onslaught and the split grew longer and wider. He stopped hitting it and jammed his beak into it, pulling as hard as he could. Having ripped a large chunk of wood out, he began to tear at the gap he had made, levering out great shards of wood with his beak and talons. Growing impatient, he resumed his stamping, bringing his full weight down on it. And then, quite suddenly, it shattered. His front legs punched straight through the wood up to the joints, and then he was struggling to free himself, screeching. His legs came free, and when he looked down he could see the big hole they had left. Cold air blew up through it and onto his face, and joy rose inside him. “Free,” he whispered. “Free.”

  He stuck his beak through the hole. It was too small for him to fit through yet, but he dug the point of his beak into the edge and pulled upward. After a few moments’ struggle there was a deafening crack and a huge piece of wood broke off, so suddenly that he staggered backward, wings fluttering, the shattered plank still impaled on his beak. He wrenched it off with his talons and returned to the hole. It had nearly doubled in size. He could see the open space through it, and he spread his wings wide over his head and screamed.

  “Darkheart! Darkheart!”

  The other griffins rose up in their cages, screaming their own names. Some, though, screamed his.

  Darkheart glanced back at Aeya. She returned his gaze. “Go, Darkheart,” she said. “Fly free.”

  For a moment he stood there, not moving, and then he went back toward her. He reached through the bars with his beak and touched it lightly against hers. She cheeped softly, like a chick, and then sat down on her haunches. “Go,” she said again.

  Darkheart stayed there for a time, just watching her. “Aeya,” he said at last, and then turned away. He went back to the hole and poked his head through. It fitted, and he thrust his forelegs after it, folding his wings backward to pull himself through. For a moment he became stuck partway, but he dug his talons into the underside of the platform and strained with all his might, until his wings were freed. His haunches and hind legs slid after them, and he fell from the hole.

  But not far. His wings opened wide to catch him, and he flew, gliding away from the mountain and on, over the village of Idun. He could see the lake below him, glittering in the moonlight. Above him the stars shone brightly, and among them was the moon, staring down at him. He soared up toward it, not feeling the ache in his body that the chains and the manacles had left.

  He was free.

  Darkheart circled, his feathered tail turning to balance him, and felt his spirit rise up inside him, hot and vital and alive, like the richest meat and the sweetest water. He could feel the wind in his wings, caressing his face, touching his fur and his feathers. There was the ground below and the sky above, and no chains or humans or cages. He was free.

  He flew higher and called out his name as he had never called it before, letting it travel out over the land like a bird. “Darkheart! Darkheart! Darkheart!”

  He screamed it until he was hoarse, and then flew low over the city, chasing the wind, watching the city’s edge rush below him.

  And then he heard Arren’s last scream rise up from below him.

  Darkheart slowed, his wings fluttering to stop him. The scream echoed from the city, like a griffin’s call but higher and weaker, and he recognised it. It was the same sound he had heard in the pit that day, when the dark human had rushed at him, clutching a piece of metal in its hand. The same sound it had made when he had chased it and knocked it down.

  The name rose up in his head. Arren.

  Promise me, Arren Cardockson.

  Darkheart circled for a time, confused. He remembered how the human had opened the cage and taken away the chains. He remembered the look on its face when they had met in the pit, when he had pinned it down and it had told him to kill it. Darkheart had not understood. Why would it want to die? Why would anything want to die? He remembered how the human had faced him in the field at Rivermeet, how it had shouted out a challenge to him, how it had stayed beside him on the journey to the cages, always watching. He remembered the sound it had made when it had held on to the white griffin’s body. That sound no griffin could make.

  Arren Cardockson.

  Dark human. Dark griffin.

  The strange feeling began to burn in his throat again.

  Arren Cardockson.

  Not knowing what he was doing, Darkheart flew lower, all thought of flying back to his valley forgotten.

  He could see the city, all light and shadow, but he did not want to go there. There were cages there, and humans who would trap him again, and other griffins who would attack. It was not a place for a wild griffin to be. He flew lower, searching the ground at the base of the mountain. There were trees there, all tall and strong. Their smell reminded him of home, and he flew toward them and began to circle, staring straight downward at the ground beneath them. Searching.

  He found Arren in the end. The wind carried his scent up to him, and he flew still lower, following it. It led him to a clear spot among the trees, by a heap of tumbled rocks. He landed almost silently on the earth and walked forward slowly, his eyes fixed on the dark shape sprawled not far away.

  Arren lay on his back among the rocks, unmoving. The collar around his neck was bent and twisted from the impact, and blood was slowly running down his face from just below his eye, like tears. His eyes were wide open, staring at the moon above, and one leg was twisted beneath him.

  Darkheart moved closer and sniffed at him. Arren did not move, and he nudged him gently with his beak. He rolled partly onto his side and then slumped back, but then, as Darkheart watched, he stirred and moaned. He was alive.

  The black griffin could see his face moving. One hand twitched, and the eyes blinked, just once, turning toward him. He looked down on the human, and a strange terror entered into his heart. He crouched beside him, so close they were almost touching.

  “Arren Cardockson,” he said softly.

  Arren’s mouth moved. He was trying to speak. Darkheart brought his head down closer to listen, and heard him say a word. A strange word. Not one he knew.

  “Eluna.”

  Arren’s hand stopped twitching, and his head became still, his face slackening. His shattered chest moved frantically up and down, but then it slowed and weakened until it was barely moving at all.

  “Arren,” Darkheart whispered.

  Arren’s eyes turned toward him, and then looked up at the moon, whose light shone down on his face and turned it black and silver. Then they, too, stilled. One moment they were looking at the moon, and the next something behind them, some light that lived on the other side, had gone out.

  Quietly, mourned by no-one, watched over by the moon and by the looming shape of the dark griffin, Arren Cardockson died.

  23

  Risen Mo
on

  Darkheart stayed by the human’s body for a long time, unable or unwilling to move. From time to time he shifted slightly, his tail twitching, but then he sighed and settled down again, his great shoulders hunched. His wings and legs hurt, and his neck, but he ignored them. He nibbled at his forelegs, where the manacles had rubbed the scales away and left deep scars behind. There was a bald patch on his neck, too, from the collar.

  He looked up at the moon, so bright and cold, shaped like an eye, and felt a deep despair fill him. Suddenly, all his energy had left him, along with his joy in being free. He could fly back to his valley—but he didn’t care about it any more. He couldn’t even remember it properly, and he did not know the way back. He was lost here, in this place he did not know, with no-one who could show him the way.

  He lay down, his head on his talons, and looked at the dead human who had been his only link to home. The one who knew how to open cages, who could appear out of nowhere like a shadow come to life. The one he had known when he was home. The one who wore a collar so much like his own, and who fought like a wild griffin.

  “Arren,” he whispered.

  He pushed at the human’s shoulder with his beak, trying to make him wake up, but he had gone stiff and cold and was not like himself any more.

  “Free me, Arren Cardockson,” Darkheart said.

  But Arren did not reply and never would again.

  Darkheart looked up at the moon once more. It seemed to look back. A powerful longing rose in his chest, and it was not the longing to be home but the longing for something else, something he did not know or understand. He thought of the yellow griffin with whom he had mated all those years ago, the one with blue eyes like the sky. He thought of Saekrae, her eyes and voice now fuzzy in his memory, and he thought of his two siblings and the warmth of their bodies against his. He thought of the nest where he had lived as a chick.

  The longing grew more powerful, and then it moved into his throat. And there, the feeling came back. That burning feeling, that maddening energy. The scream, still trying to get out. He stood up abruptly and opened his beak toward the sky, trying to let it out, but he could not make a sound. The scream caught behind his tongue and would not go, and the feeling grew and strengthened, first a hundred times stronger than before and then a thousand, until his entire body started to shake violently.