Authors: K.J. Taylor

The Griffin's Flight (25 page)

BOOK: The Griffin's Flight

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“Withypool.”

“Right, I expect that’s what they told you to say. If that accent’s from Withy then I’m a griffin. Well, it doesn’t make any difference to me where you’re from, and I don’t imagine anyone else will care, either. You’re in our hands now, and as long as you stick to the rules you’ll do well enough. Now hold out your legs.”

Arren did, and watched resignedly as the irons were snapped into place around his ankles.

The guard tugged at the chain to make sure it was secure. “Good. Get up. We’re going to hand you over to Caedmon now, and he’ll get you a bed and tell you anything you need to know. Up you get.”

Arren stood up, and the guard who’d spoken to him shoved him toward the back of the room where there was a heavy iron gate. He unlocked it with a key from his belt, and they went through. Beyond the gate there was a long wooden corridor lined with doorways. Torches set into metal cages were attached to the walls, and light spilt out from the doors as well. Arren, his gait slow and shuffling thanks to the chain attached to his ankles, could hear low voices mixed with the occasional laugh.

The guard closed the gate behind them. “Caedmon!” he shouted. “Get your wrinkly arse out here right now!”

The voices died down, and a few cautious faces peered out of the nearest doorways.

“Caedmon!” the guard yelled again.

There was a brief silence, and then a small boy appeared from the nearest doorway. “I think he’s asleep, sir,” he said.

The guard turned to look at him. “Well, I’m in no mood to wait around for him.” He gave Arren a shove. “Take this son of a bitch into your quarters and give him something to eat, and then go and tell Caedmon he’s got a new man to sort, understand?”

The boy looked at Arren, wide-eyed. “Is he dangerous?”

“Not as dangerous as I’m going to be in a moment. Get on with it.”

“Yes, sir,” said the boy. He darted closer to Arren. “You’re to come with me.”

Arren glanced quickly at the guard, but he was already leaving. The boy retreated through the doorway he’d come out of, and Arren followed.

There was a simple wooden room on the other side. A fire was burning in a metal drum in the middle of the floor, and a large pot was hanging over it. The only furniture was a privy-hole in one corner and a row of hammocks hanging from the roof. But there were people there, too, at least a dozen men of various ages, leaning on the walls or sitting cross-legged on the floor. One or two were asleep in their hammocks.

Arren, standing in the doorway, stared at them with a kind of bewilderment. He knew he shouldn’t really be surprised, but he was weak from pain and couldn’t quite grasp what he was seeing.

The boy tugged at his sleeve. “Come on. You can lie in my hammock for a while, and I’ll give you some food.”

Arren pulled himself together and followed the boy. His back was too painful to allow him to lie down, but he sat on the proffered hammock, cringing and holding his hand against his chest.

The boy regarded him solemnly. He looked about twelve years old and was clad in a roughly sewn black robe. His grubby hair was pitch-black, and so were his eyes. He had pale skin, long fingers and angular features, and a thick metal collar was clamped around his neck, the skin above and below it an angry and swollen red.

Arren looked back, his head spinning. Meanwhile, others were coming over to look at him. He stared at them, too. Pale skin, black hair, black eyes, robed and collared. Slaves. Northern slaves.

They were watching him warily, apparently not quite sure what to make of this newcomer. The boy, though, was more forthcoming. “I’m Torc,” he said. “I’m gonna get you some food, and then I’ll go find Caedmon an’ tell him to come.” That said, he smiled nervously and walked off toward the fire.

“So,” one of the others said eventually, “where’d you come from, then? I ain’t seen you before.”

Arren opened his mouth to answer, but stopped when he saw Torc returning. He was carrying a small bowl and a spoon, and held them out toward him. “Here. I got you some stew.”

Arren finally found his voice. “Thank you.”

The bowl contained some kind of thick concoction that appeared to be mostly potatoes. Arren ate it and started to get some of his strength back.

Torc was watching him. “What’s your name?”

Arren put down the spoon. “I’m Taranis.”

“What clan?” said Torc. “I’m Deer.”

“Wh—oh.” Arren hesitated. Nobody had ever asked him that before. “Wolf,” he said at last. There was no point in pretending it was something else; the moment anyone saw his tattoo it would give him away.

“Wolf, eh?” said one of the others. “Same with me. Nice to meet ye then, Taranis. I’m Nolan.”

“I’m gonna go get Caedmon now,” Torc interrupted.

“That lad’s too helpful by half, if yeh ask me,” said another slave, though not without affection, as the boy hurried out. “Dunno why they brought him here, really.”

The one who’d identified himself as Nolan came closer to look at Arren. “Where’n the moon’s name did you come from, then? Not seen many who just shows up in the middle of the night like that. Where’s your collar?”

“It came off,” said Arren.

Nolan picked at the one around his neck. “Wish mine would. How’d you get it off, anyway?”

Arren remembered the night that he had fallen from the edge of the city. When he had woken the morning after, the collar had simply come off. The landing had bent and twisted the metal beyond redemption. “I fell over,” he said. “It hit a rock and broke.”

Nolan whistled. “That’s damn lucky. Could’ve driven the spikes right into y’neck instead. Heard about this man had that happen. Poor bastard ended up crippled an’ had his master put him out of his misery. Well, no point in livin’ like that, is there?”

“You shut up about that friend of yours, Nolan,” another slave snapped. “I’m sick of hearin’ about it, got that?” He looked at Arren. “Where’d you come from, then? You ain’t said yet.”

“Well, he’s a runner, ain’t he?” Nolan said resentfully. “They only puts irons on runners. Where’d you run from, then, Taranis?”

“Withypool.”

“Ah. I came from Canran, meself. Horrible cold place. Got sent here, though, to help with this cursed wall. But if you ran off from there, why didn’t they send you back?”

Arren squinted. His back was agony, and thinking was difficult. “Manpower,” he mumbled. “They said they needed …” He realised he was swaying.

“Hold on a bit, are you okay?” said Nolan, suddenly concerned.

Arren tried to sit upright. “My back,” he said.

Someone took him by the arm, and someone else prodded the wet patch on his back.

“Ah, gods damn the bastards, they’ve flogged him. Here, Nolan, help me with him.”

“I’m all right—” Arren began, but they ignored him. Someone took the bowl of stew from him, and the rest of them helped him out of the hammock and took his robe off, exposing the marks of the whip.

Nolan groaned. “Ye gods, they made a nasty mess out of you, didn’t they? Annan, go get some water.”

The water was fetched, and Arren sat on the floor, gasping in pain as the wounds were cleaned with a wet rag. “I r—
ah
—I really d—
ow
—I really don’t th—”

“You got to keep ’em clean,” Nolan told him. “These gets infected so easy, and then you’re a dead man. Tomorrow I’ll see if I can get some griffin-tail. Does just right for wounds.”

There was a thump at the doorway. “What are ye lot doing?” a voice demanded.

They turned. An elderly Northerner was walking into the room, Torc trailing behind him. His hair and beard were greying and his face was lined, but he looked quite strong as he pointed a heavy stick at Arren. “All right, let’s be having ye, runner.”

Arren got up with some help from Nolan and watched uncertainly as the old man came toward him. “I’m Taranis,” he said, hoping this would help.

The old man looked him up and down. “Taranis, did ye say? What clan?”

The question still caught him off guard. He hesitated. “Wolf Clan,
hynafgwr
.” It was a Northern term of respect that his father had taught him, which meant, roughly, “wise one.” He hoped he had pronounced it correctly.

The reaction was not at all what he had expected. There were sharp intakes of breath from the men around him, and Torc looked horrified.

The old man stood a little taller. “
What
did ye say?”

Arren ducked his head slightly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, but it’s been a long time since I’ve spoken N—”

The old man hit him with his stick. “Shut up! Are ye mad, boy? D’ye want to get yerself killed?”

Arren clutched at the bruise forming on his arm. “What?”

The old man looked disgusted. “I always said runners were stupid, but now you’ve proved yer worse. I’m not going t’waste time askin’ questions, so I’ll just make it plain. I don’t care what yer mam told ye; speaking that tongue’s a fast track to getting yer arms broken, and I ain’t going to try an’ protect ye, understand?”

Arren looked blankly at him, and then glanced around at the others. They were looking at him as if he was mad. Realisation finally dawned. “Oh! Of course, you’re not allowed to—sorry. Sorry. I forgot …
sir
?”

“Caedmon will do fine,” said the old man, mollified. “Anyway, so, where was I? Oh, right. Taranis, I’m told yer a runner, but they’re makin’ ye part of our group instead of sending ye back to yer master. It’s not up to me to say what they should and shouldn’t do with ye, so I’ll just do my duty so’s I can get back to my hammock. I’m in charge of the men here, so if there’s ever a squabble or somethin’ else what needs sortin’ out, I’m the one ye come to. I gets my orders from the tower, and then I pass ’em on to ye, so I’ll be the one ye’ll be gettin’ yer directions from. Now, here’s the rules, an’ I’m expectin’ ye to listen.”

“I’m listening,” Arren said politely.

“Good. The slave-house here is where we live when we ain’t workin’, but we’ve got a big job to do here before we’re off, so you’ll be spendin’ most of the day out of doors. Do as yer told, no laggin’ or complainin’, no backchat—the usual. What job did ye do before ye ran off?”

“Wh—uh, carpentry,” Arren said hastily. It was the most menial of the jobs he’d done over the years; during his time as a junior griffiner he had been briefly assigned to help the government division that dealt with the extension and repairing of the huge wooden platforms that made up most of Eagleholm. It hadn’t gone very well, but he had picked up a few skills.

“Well, it’s a start,” said Caedmon. “Ye don’t look to be in very good shape, so I expect ye’ll be given lighter stuff to do at first. Haulin’ blocks, mostly. Not too tricky. But here’s the part I’m most interested in makin’ sure ye’re aware of.” He jabbed at Arren with his stick. “Ye’re a runner. And we don’t look too kind on yer sort. Ye can blather on about how yer master beat you an’ didn’t give ye enough food and how runnin’ away was the only option an’ anyway all men were meant to be free, but that ain’t gonna win ye no respect from me or anyone else here, understand? I don’t care what happens to ye if ye run away; it’s yer risk. But if ye manage to get them irons off and do a runner, it’s not ye I’m worried about. Let me promise, if any of us catches ye tryin’ to run off, we’ll stop ye.”

“Why?” said Arren.

“Why? I’ll tell ye why. Because if ye run, we’re the ones who gets punished. There was one of us run off from here a few months back, and afterward none of us ate for three days. Two of the bastard’s bunk mates were flogged for helpin’ him get away. That’s what’ll happen if ye run. Ye hear me, Taranis?”

Arren nodded miserably.

“Good,” said Caedmon, straightening up. “Just as long as we’ve got an understandin’. An’ now I’m off to bed.” He paused, and then smiled at last. “Welcome, Taranis. We’ll be glad to have ye here, I’m sure. The lads always like havin’ someone new to talk to. Maybe tomorrow we can chat properly, an’ ye can tell me more about yerself.”

Arren held out a hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, sir.”

Caedmon gave him an odd look, but shook it anyway. “Talk fancy, don’t ye? Well, g’night, Taranis.” He inclined his head slightly and left the room.

Arren sat down again and reached for the bowl of stew. It was cold, but he ate it anyway.

Torc had come over and was looking at his back. “That looks horrible! Does it hurt bad?”

Arren swallowed. “Yes.”

“How’d you get that scar on your face?” Torc added.

Very briefly, Arren thought back to the night of his arrest, when his house had burned down and the kidnapped griffin chick, terrified by the flames, had twisted in his grasp and torn his face with its beak. “I was in an accident,” he said.

“What sort of accident?” said Torc, apparently fascinated.

“Leave him alone, Torc,” said the man who had snapped at Nolan. “He’s had a hard time.”

BOOK: The Griffin's Flight

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