The Griffin's Flight (32 page)

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Authors: K.J. Taylor

BOOK: The Griffin's Flight
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Arren’s group was marched toward its place near the gates. As he walked at the back of the line, head bowed, Arren caught a snatch of conversation from the guards flanking them. “… found them just lying there. I dunno, that’s just what I heard. There aren’t supposed to be any in Canran, but that’s what they think it is …”
They reached their destination, and the group spread out to resume its different tasks. Arren joined up with the team that would go to the quarry, and they walked together to the gate. It had already been opened for them to pass through, and after that there would be a short walk through the scrubland outside, to the spot where the stone-cutters stacked the newly made blocks.
As he was passing through the gate, Nolan suddenly grabbed him by the arm. “Hey! Look at that!”
Arren turned. “What? I can’t see—”
“On top of the tower!” said Nolan. “Right there, see!”
Arren looked straight toward the tower and saw it, saw the dark silhouette against the sky. His blood turned to ice. He faltered in his step. “No.”
“One of ’em must have come back,” said Nolan. “I wonder what for.”
The griffin shifted on its perch, great beaked head turning toward them as if it was looking straight at him. Arren, heedless of the other slaves jostling him on their way past, saw the shape of a man appear by the griffin’s side and climb onto its back.
A guard thumped him in the side. “Move it!”
Arren couldn’t. His boots seemed to be stuck to the ground, and his whole body had gone cold. Nolan grabbed him by the arm and more or less dragged him away, but Arren went backward, his gaze locked on the tower. He saw the griffin crouch and then leap, wings opening wide as it took off, flying straight toward the wall. And, as it came closer, he saw that its wings were brown, mottled brown like bark, its hindquarters the colour of straw. It was coming straight at him.
Arren’s nerve broke. He turned and ran. Nolan’s grip on his arm fell away, and he headed straight for the trees, not hearing the shouts of the guards.
The irons dragged, catching on sticks and plants, weighing him down and making him slow and clumsy. Arren could not have run far anyway. The empty feeling in his chest had risen and expanded, spreading a coldness through his limbs. There was a roaring in his ears, blotting out all other sounds. He felt as if he were drowning.
A hand caught him by the shoulder, pulling him up short. He staggered, trying to break free even as they started to drag him back. Someone hit him, but he didn’t feel it. Blackness was closing over his eyes; everything had turned hazy. From somewhere far, far away he heard the screech of a griffin.
There was a babbling of voices around him, all faded and confused. Then the veil was ripped away from his eyes, and he saw the starry sky above the city, and the white half-moon shining on the armour of the knot of men in front of him, pointing arrows straight at him. The one in front of them, the one nearest, had no bow, but his short sword was in his hand. His red-brown hair and beard matched his tunic, and he was reaching toward Arren, saying something, telling him to do something.
Arren could hear his own voice, high and thin with terror. “They’re coming! They’re coming for me, please don’t let me fall, no!”
He grabbed at the man in front of him, trying desperately to save himself, but it was too late. One arrow hit him in the leg, and he staggered back, screaming. The second hit him in the chest. The bearded man lunged at him, one hand reaching out, and then he was falling, falling …
Arren didn’t feel himself hit the ground. He landed with a crunch amid the wet bracken and lay there, unable to move. The vision ended and he knew where he was, but there was something wrong. His entire body had gone numb. He could feel the water soaking into his robe and the irons weighing him down. Sticks and broken fern stems were jabbing into him, and his head hurt from where it had hit the ground, but he couldn’t move. His eyes refused to open, and his arms lay at his sides, as heavy and useless as bits of wood, and his legs were the same.
Someone was hitting him, slapping his face. Above the roaring in his ears he could hear voices, rough and impatient. “Get up! Damn it, get up now or …”
Arren tried with all his might to obey, knowing that if he didn’t he would be in trouble—but he couldn’t. He tried to speak, wanting to tell them there was something wrong, but nothing happened. He lay there, unmoving, eyes closed. They continued to hit him for a while, cursing at him, but although he could feel the blows they didn’t hurt.
Finally, someone grabbed him by the front of his robe and pulled him up. He hung limply in their grasp, head lolling.
A hand touched his chest. “I don’t think he’s breathing,” said a voice.
“Check his pulse.”
The hand moved to the side of his neck and lingered there for a while, and then he was suddenly released, flopping back to the ground like a broken doll.
“Godsdamnit! He’s dead!”
There was a brief silence, and then, “You bloody idiot! What did you go an’ hit him like that for! You’ve killed the son of a bitch! What’re they gonna do when they find out?”
“I didn’t hit him that hard!”
“Well, I didn’t hit him at all, an’ I’m damned if I’m taking the blame for this.”
“Look, the bloody griffiner’s gonna be here any moment. Just get the body out of here, an’ we’ll dump it in the scrub. We’ll send someone out to bury it, an’ tell the governor about it later.”
“Tell him what?”
“The truth. He just dropped dead in front of us, an’ we don’t know why. It’s nobody’s fault, so you’d better back me up. I’m not gonna pay to replace him, understand? I’ve got a family to feed.”
“Fine. You get rid of the body, an’ I’ll get back to the slaves an’ get ’em moving again before anyone notices something’s up.”
There was a brief silence and then the crunching steps of the second speaker leaving. The guard grabbed the back of Arren’s robe with his rough hands and dragged him upward before lifting him onto his shoulder and carrying him away through the scrub. Arren’s head and arms hung over the man’s back, the irons still weighing him down on the other side. Eventually, the guard cursed and stopped, dumping him on the ground. He unlocked the irons and took them off, and then picked Arren up again and went on.
Arren didn’t know how far they went. The paralysis had spread into his mind now, and thinking was hard, as if he were trapped in a moment of half-sleep, unable to wake.
Finally he was dumped on the ground, and he heard the guard walk off. Once he had gone, Arren made another effort to move. Still, nothing happened.
A dull panic took hold of him. The irons were gone, but he couldn’t move. He was helpless, trapped inside a body that had ceased to obey him.
I’m dead,
he thought.
I’m dead again, I’m dead
…
He lay there for a long time, trapped in that waking sleep, and at that moment he knew what he wanted above all else.
Skandar. Skandar, please, come and find me. I need you. Please, Skandar. Skandar, I’m your human, please come! Please!
But Skandar was not there and he would not come. He was lost, somewhere out there in the world on his own. Maybe he was looking for his human, or maybe he had forgotten him and had gone back to his wild life. And why should he come now; why should he want to come back for a half-broken slave, or for a dead man?
I sent you away, I told you to go, I told you, Skandar
—
A voice intruded on his thoughts, calling to him through the darkness.
“Taranis!
Taranis!
”
Hands were patting his face, trying to wake him up.
“
Taranis!
Taranis, please, wake up! Please, don’t be dead, please!”
Nolan,
Arren thought.
Nolan stopped crying out, and gave a soft sob. “No.”
“Get on with it!” a harsh voice rapped out. “Go on, you can mourn later!”
“Yes, sir,” Nolan mumbled.
Arren felt his hands move away, and shortly afterward he heard a strange thud and scrape from somewhere nearby. It went on for some time before he realised what it was. Metal on soil. Nolan was digging a hole.
No,
he thought.
No, Nolan, don’t! I’m not dead! Please, don’t!
He struggled with all his might, trying desperately to speak, to tell them not to bury him, to say he wasn’t dead, but his mouth wouldn’t move and neither would his throat. There was no breath in his lungs. He was blind and voiceless.
The scraping stopped, and there was a thud as Nolan threw the shovel aside. Arren felt himself being dragged over the ground a short distance, and then he was dropped into the grave. Nolan lifted Arren’s arms and laid them neatly over his chest, smoothed down his robe and brushed the hair away from his face.
“There,” his distant voice said. “You look much better now. I’ve—this is all I can do. I’m sorry.” There was a silence, and the voice grew a little fainter. “Sir, can I say the words? Please, just quickly for him?”
“Fine, but be quick about it.”
“Thank you, sir.” Arren heard the sound of Nolan’s boots on the ground as he shifted his position, and then his voice spoke again, low and murmuring. “Of earth born and in fire forged, by magic blessed and by cool water soothed, then by a breeze in the night blown away to a land of silver and bright flowers. May the gods receive the soul of Taranis of Withypool, may he look down from the stars and may his wisdom embrace us. This I ask in the names of the lost gods, by the sacred light of the moon.” A pause. “I’m—I’m done, sir.”
“Good. Now fill it in.”
Arren heard Nolan pick up the shovel, heard him dig it into the ground, and a few moments later the first load of wet earth thumped onto his legs.
No! Nolan, don’t bury me, please, I’m not dead!
More dirt was piled on top of him, more and more, until it had covered his face. The sound of the shovel grew fainter, muffled by the soil, until there was nothing but the silence of the grave.
15
 
To Stone
 
E
rian Rannagonson nocked the arrow onto the string and pulled it back, balancing the tip on his other hand. The wood creaked softly as it bent; he loved the familiar feel of it in his hands as he sighted down the arrow at the target. He paused for a moment to line it up, and then loosed the arrow. It hissed softly as it shot through the air and hit the target with a
thunk
, right in the centre, where it stuck, quivering. Erian lowered the bow and grinned. He’d hit it dead centre. Perfect. His teacher had told him he had a gift for archery. Still, wooden butts were dull to aim at. Maybe he should leave the city for a while and see if he could find some game instead. But he’d have to wait for Senneck to get back first.
He selected another arrow. This one stuck in the target right next to the first, so close the heads were touching. Growing bored of this, he decided to challenge himself by testing his speed, grabbing, nocking and loosing each arrow as fast as he could; the butt was soon a forest of wooden shafts. He didn’t stop until he had run out of arrows, and then strolled over to begin pulling them out.
He had had a dull morning. The temporary governor had explained—albeit apologetically—that the wall had to be finished within a few weeks, and hence he couldn’t afford to stop work even for a short time so that Erian could inspect the slaves. Erian had visited each worksite and tried to examine each nervous face in turn, searching constantly for the one that had burned itself into his mind. It had been a tedious process; the only face he recognised was that of Cardock, who had shot him a look of pure and utter hatred before the guards had ordered him to get back to work.
Erian didn’t care. It was only natural that the old man should hate him, and it simply wasn’t possible for him to place the blame for his predicament on his black-hearted son, where it belonged. Erian had no remorse for having sold him and his wife—in fact he was rather pleased by his cunning in having done so. Herbstitt was desperate for slaves, and he’d managed to get a fair price for Cardock. The Wylamese slavers had bought Annir as well, for a lower sum, but it had added up, and Erian was pleased.
Being a griffiner didn’t automatically make you rich, and Erian was painfully aware of that. His father’s property had naturally passed to Flell, as his only true-born offspring, leaving Erian with nothing but the allowance he’d been given before his father’s death. His sword had been expensive, and he had had to pay for it with borrowed money. Selling the murderer’s parents had gone some way toward paying it off. He’d been lucky, too, to find that Lord Galrick had left plenty of his clothes behind in Norton. They fitted him quite well, and nobody had stopped him from helping himself.
He paused to adjust the hang of his new tunic. It was blue velvet, and the shoulders were decorated with griffin feathers dyed to match. He’d even found a pair of blue leather boots to go with it. Now he looked like a proper griffiner.
Erian pulled the last arrow out of the butt and stuffed it into his quiver. As he walked back to his spot, the sound of wings made him look up.

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