Read The Griffin's Flight Online
Authors: K.J. Taylor
The Griffin's Flight (34 page)
That night he had waited. The other griffins in the cages had mocked him, calling him a coward, saying he would be killed for refusing to fight. But Skandar had waited and said nothing, watching in silence, willing the human to come. And he had come. He had fallen out of the sky, fallen into the place with the cages. He could fly. And he had opened the cage and taken away the chains as if they were nothing, bending them to his will, and Skandar had been free.
Night was coming. Skandar looked down at Arren’s pale face. He had seen him like this before, just once. He had looked for him and had found him lying among the stones beneath the mountain where the humans nested. He had seen him stir and look up, eyes gleaming like two spots of blood. He had whispered a name before he died, and Skandar had watched, not knowing what to do.
But he had woken up. Somehow, he had died and then woken. Skandar had felt something in his own throat, something he had felt before when the human was there, and that night it finally came out. The scream. The black scream that looked like lightning and felt like fire inside him. It had frightened him then, and it frightened him now.
The rain had soaked through his fur and was beginning to soak through his feathers as well. His flanks twitched, but he stayed where he was and tried to think. Had
he
, Skandar, done something? Had he helped somehow?
he
, Skandar, done something? Had he helped somehow?
He nudged Arren again. “Magic,” he rasped. “Magic now.”
Only silence and the drumming of the rain replied.
Skandar thought of the trapped thing in his throat. He had never felt it again after that night. It was gone, like a thorn that had been winkled out of his paw. By now he could barely even remember it. He opened his beak and tried to make something come out, but nothing emerged except a faint strangled whimper. He hissed to himself and pushed Arren further in toward his chest to protect him from the rain, as if he were an egg to be incubated.
Not knowing what else to do, he settled down to wait.
He dozed briefly and woke again. It was completely dark, and so he did not see Arren open his mouth and begin to breathe again. But he did feel him stir and hear him groan.
Skandar got up sharply, beak opening to hiss. But there was no scent of anything else nearby and no sign of an intruder. Arren was moving, trying to lift himself.
Skandar went to him and nudged at him again. “Arren, get up,” he said. “Get up now.”
Arren heard him. The griffin’s voice sounded strangely muffled, as if he was dreaming it, but it was really there, dry and commanding as always; the sound of it put a sudden strength into his paralysed limbs. He struggled mightily, all his confusion vanishing as his mind buzzed with one sudden thought.
Skandar. Skandar’s here. Skandar
.
Skandar. Skandar’s here. Skandar
.
He sat up and levered himself to his feet, opening his eyes, and the world came rushing back, the wet, cold, wonderful world. And Skandar was there.
Arren staggered to him and half-collapsed against his chest. “Skandar,” he whispered, and coughed. He coughed again, harder, bringing up dirt and blood. His chest felt as if it were on fire, but he didn’t care. He clutched onto Skandar, burying his face in the griffin’s silver feathers. “Skandar. Skandar, it’s you. You found me. You f—” And then he coughed again.
Skandar chirped and nipped at the back of Arren’s neck as if trying to groom him. “Arren,” he answered. “Arren Cardockson.”
Arren finally let go. “Skandar, where are we? What’s going on?”
Skandar shook the rain off his feathers. “Find you dead,” he said. “You wake again.”
Recollection came back. “I dreamt …” Arren felt cold all over. “I dreamt I was dead. I dreamt I was buried. I couldn’t move, and it was so cold.”
“Die, come back,” Skandar said proudly. “Magic. You magic human. Lucky human.”
Arren wrapped his arms around himself. “Lucky.” He shuddered. “Yes. Skandar, where have you been? I thought you were dead, or lost.”
Skandar clicked his beak. “
You
lost,” he said. “You lost. I say, I go hunt. Go, come back, you gone. You
gone
.”
You
lost,” he said. “You lost. I say, I go hunt. Go, come back, you gone. You
gone
.”
“I know,” said Arren. “Skandar, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen; it wasn’t my fault.”
“Where go?” said Skandar.
“They caught me,” said Arren. “I was—look.” He held out his hand. “This is what they did to me.”
Skandar stared at the terrible scar. His tail began to lash. “They … hurt?”
“Yes, Skandar. They tortured me. They made me into a slave.”
The dark griffin started to hiss. “They hurt you. Hurt human.”
“Yes. They were our enemies.”
Skandar’s talons tore at the wet ground. “I see them, I kill. Not let them hurt.”
“I’d like to do the same,” said Arren. “Skandar, I—” He sat down suddenly.
Skandar nudged him. “Hurt?”
“No. Skandar, I’m …” Arren took a deep breath. “Skandar, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“What sorry?” said Skandar.
“You’re a magnificent griffin,” said Arren. “The best and strongest I’ve ever seen. You don’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve to be caught and put in the Arena like that, and you don’t deserve to be here with me now. A griffin like you should never—I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did or spoken to you like I did. I was cruel and I was ungrateful. You saved my life so many times; you helped me to fight Rannagon. You’re the only real friend I’ve got. And I ignored you, I insulted you, I didn’t take your advice. You were right, Skandar. We should never have gone to that cave, and we should never have helped Skade. We should have made her tell us which way to go and flown to Norton without her, like you wanted to.”
Skandar listened. “We go now,” he suggested.
“No. It’s too late now.” Arren coughed. “I owe you everything, Skandar. If—if I weren’t a Northerner, and if you had chosen me back at Eagleholm, we could have lived there together, you and I. I’d have given you a proper home and brought you food and bedding and clean water every day. We would have had respect. Other griffins would have bowed to you; you’re so big, they would have respected you. You and I could have been on the council together, and I would have been your ambassador, like I was Eluna’s once. I’d have been your human. Your servant, your partner, your friend. We could have been rich and powerful, and you would have had silver bands to wear on your forelegs, and female griffins would …” He closed his eyes and sighed. “So many things I could have given you. If only I was a Southerner, and you weren’t a wild griffin, and if neither of us were murderers. I could have married Flell and had children of my own, and you would have had mates and eggs and chicks. Our names would have been carved on the wall of the temple.”
Skandar seemed to understand. “I mate once,” he said. “You mate.”
Our pairing is over
. “Yes. But that’s not what I meant. What I meant was that we could have had a home. But we can’t, and it’s my fault. I’m a Northerner. A blackrobe. A darkman.”
. “Yes. But that’s not what I meant. What I meant was that we could have had a home. But we can’t, and it’s my fault. I’m a Northerner. A blackrobe. A darkman.”
“What Northerner?” said Skandar.
“I look different,” said Arren. “I
am
different.”
am
different.”
“Am different, too,” Skandar said softly.
Arren was caught completely off guard by that. “W—Yes. Yes. We’re both different, aren’t we?”
“Different,” Skandar repeated. “Other griffins say ‘You, Darkheart. You freak. Stupid chick. You cannot talk. You know nothing, Darkheart. Know nothing. Speak, Darkheart, speak.’ I speak, they laugh. Hate them. Want to fight, but—not.”
Arren thought of the huge griffin fighting furiously against his chains in the cage behind the Arena, trying to break free and attack the other griffins that mocked him. “People are cruel,” he said. “And griffins are cruel, too. But I don’t laugh at you, Skandar, and I never will. And maybe I can’t give you all the things I want to give you, but I’ll do my best to give you what you want.” He touched the griffin’s shoulder. “What
is
it you want, Skandar? What do you want me to do?”
is
it you want, Skandar? What do you want me to do?”
“You … give me?” said Skandar.
“Yes. I’m your human, Skandar, for as long as you want me. A griffiner serves his griffin before everything else. What do
you
want?”
you
want?”
Skandar was silent for a long time.
“Just tell me,” said Arren. “No matter what it is.”
“Home,” Skandar said at last. “Want home, Arren Cardockson.”
Arren’s immediate thought was of the home Skandar had once had, in the Coppertop Mountains, miles away to the south. His heart sank. “What home, Skandar? Where?”
“Want home,” Skandar said again. “Mountains. Big mountains. Food. No human, only griffin. Want cave and river and sky, big sky.”
“There’s mountains in the North,” Arren said slowly.
“Big mountain?”
“From what I’ve been told, yes. Huge mountains, covered in snow. And there are white deer and a giant lake and a big empty sky. My father said that in the North you can travel for a week and never see another living person.”
Skandar cocked his head. “You come?”
“Yes, if you want me to. We could make it our home, if that’s what you want.”
The black griffin thought it over. Then he stood up. “We go,” he said firmly. “North, go north.”
“It could be dangerous, though,” said Arren. “There are griffiners there.”
Skandar hissed. “Not afraid. I fight, you fight. We go.”
“Yes, Skandar. You and I. But would you do something for me first? Please? Just one thing?”
“What thing?” said Skandar.
Arren held up his hand to show the brand. “Revenge,” he said softly. “You and I, Skandar. We can do it together.”
16
Theft
T
he day had been long and exhausting, but Cardock had no appetite. Or at least not enough of one to want to elbow his way through the crowd around the stew pot in his dormitory. The other slaves were a loud and unruly lot, and he disliked their company. They had already made it plain that they disliked his; the fresh blood beneath his collar betrayed the fact that he was a tenderneck, not born into slavery, and therefore a troublemaker or a criminal.
he day had been long and exhausting, but Cardock had no appetite. Or at least not enough of one to want to elbow his way through the crowd around the stew pot in his dormitory. The other slaves were a loud and unruly lot, and he disliked their company. They had already made it plain that they disliked his; the fresh blood beneath his collar betrayed the fact that he was a tenderneck, not born into slavery, and therefore a troublemaker or a criminal.
Cardock was happy to keep his distance. He sat huddled in a corner, hugging his knees, and tried to think, while the others jostled and argued among themselves.
He had spent that day in agonies. Even now his stomach was churning. His son was here, in captivity. And Erian the Bastard was here, too. They knew each other by sight. Cardock had already seen the bastard inspect every single one of the Wylam slaves that had come here with him, examining each face as if he expected one of them to become Arenadd’s. And he had seen him again that day, watching the slaves at work. Searching.
Every moment of that day, Cardock had expected to hear something or see something, expected to see people rushing to the tower in agitation, or to hear the news he dreaded: that Arren Cardockson had been found. When nothing happened, it did nothing to ease his mind.
Cardock laced his fingers together and tugged at them. He could feel sweat trickling down his back. Erian was still here. If he hadn’t found Arren yet, then he soon would. He would recognise him the instant he saw him.
His stomach was knotting. He had to do something, but what? He had tried to warn his son the previous night, but he didn’t know if Arenadd had understood. If he went to talk to him again now, someone might see the resemblance and ask questions. Or would the other slaves protect them? It was impossible to say.
The evening dragged on. Cardock ate nothing and ignored everyone who tried to talk to him.
I have to do something,
he told himself again and again.
I can’t just sit here and do nothing. I have to see him again, make sure he’s all right. I have to know
.
I have to do something,
he told himself again and again.
I can’t just sit here and do nothing. I have to see him again, make sure he’s all right. I have to know
.
He got up, moving stiffly, and walked slowly toward the doorway.
Nobody paid much attention to him as he left the dormitory. Reaching the corridor outside, he shuffled along it, rubbing absent-mindedly at the brand scar on the back of his hand. It had healed cleanly enough, but it still itched occasionally.
He reached the door at the very end of the corridor, nearest to the guardroom, and carefully looked inside. It was still very crowded in there; some of the new slaves were busy sewing additional hammocks, but there wouldn’t be enough room to hang one for each of them. Many of them would still have to sleep on the floor. Still, it was a little better than what most slaves could expect.
“Here, you. What’re you doin’ in here?”
Cardock looked up at the hefty slave who had come over to him. “Nothing, I—”
“You’re not supposed to be in here, old man,” said the slave. “If yer lookin’ t’take extra rations out of our pot, forget it. There’s scarcely enough for us.”
“I’m not,” said Cardock. “I’m just looking for someone.”
“Lookin’ for who?” said the man. “Who are you, anyway? Don’t recognise yeh.”
“Cardock Skandarson,” said Cardock. There was no point in lying about it; the other slaves he had arrived with already knew his real name. “I’m looking for …” He frantically searched his memory. “Taranis,” he said at last. “I’m looking for a man called Taranis. Have you seen him?”
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