The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy) (25 page)

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Authors: K. J. Taylor

BOOK: The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy)
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Another thought rushed into his mind.
Kraeya!
His memory replayed a vision for him of Kraeya, blood soaking into her feathers, fighting for her life against a huge dark griffin. Kraeya falling from the edge of the balcony, bleeding and injured.
“Oh gods,” he moaned aloud. “Gods no. Not Kraeya.”
He tried to think. Kraeya was gone, and possibly dead or seriously hurt. He was locked up and in chains. Northerners had done it. They had been lying in wait with the black griffin, and they had taken him prisoner.
“Oh gods,” Bran said again. “Oh great Gryphus . . .”
He knew that griffin; he had seen it before, over a year ago, in the Arena at Eagleholm. He remembered seeing it, down in the pit, wings chained, slaughtering criminals as if they were ants to be squashed and then turning on its fellow griffins in a fit of rage while the announcer’s voice echoed over the crowd.
Darkheart, the mad wild griffin, who destroyed three entire villages all on his own without ever taking a wound! The biggest griffin ever to fight in the Arena! Captured alive and brought here for your pleasure!
Darkheart, here, and among hostile Northerners. Bran closed his eyes while the inevitable answer came to him.
They had been right. The Bastard had been right. Arren was here, with the dark griffin; he had to be. And these Northerners had to be their followers. Had they conquered the city? Probably. And they had killed Kraeya and taken him captive.
Bran felt a slow tear work its way out of his eye and begin to trickle down his face. Kraeya was dead. Kraeya was gone. And what could they have in store for him? Were they going to kill him, too? But if Arren was their leader . . .
Bran’s fists clenched.
No. Arren’s my friend. He wouldn’t do that. He can’t kill me. He’s got to help me
.
He repeated that in his head several times, trying to calm himself down while he waited for his head to recover. The pain persisted for some time, however, and he eventually slid into a shallow sleep.
When he woke up he felt a little better and was able to use his chains to haul himself into a sitting position against the nearest wall. He found a jug of water placed within reach, drank some of it and used the rest to clean the crusted blood off his face.
After that, he waited. There was nothing else to do.
Time passed. He had no idea how much time. He dozed and woke again, and the headache gradually went away, until nothing was left but a dull throbbing in the back of his skull.
Finally, the door cracked open and light came in. Bran squinted. “What’s goin’ on? Who are yeh?”
Four tough-looking Northerners entered and silently removed his manacles. Bran knew better than to struggle, and allowed them to chain his hands behind his back with a different set of restraints. He stood up when they indicated for him to do so, and let them lead him out of his cell.
“Where are yeh takin’ me?” he asked.
They made no reply, although one of them smacked him in the side of the head. He winced and fell silent. No doubt he’d find out the answer soon enough.
The trip was a brief one. They took him along a short corridor in what was obviously an underground prison complex and led him into a room at the end of it. There was a heavy wooden table there, bolted to the floor, and a chair, which they forced him to sit in before shackling his wrists to the armrests. There were more shackles for his ankles, but to his slight relief they didn’t put those on. He sat as still as he could, looking around the room with an increasing sense of dread.
The room was small, stone lined like the cell and sparsely furnished. But there was a brazier by the table, and he could see the long handles of some branding irons poking out of the cold coals inside. He had seen rooms like this before and even used one once. It was a memory he preferred to keep buried.
Two guards stationed themselves on either side of him, while another went to stand by the door. The fourth opened the door; Bran heard that but couldn’t turn his head far enough to see. There was a brief murmur of voices, and then a little gust of air touched his left cheek as someone walked past him. Bran blinked, confused, as the tall shape made its way around the table, partly shrouded in darkness. There had been no sound. There was
still
no sound. No footsteps, no rustle of cloth. Just a faint swish of air.
The shape sat down in a chair opposite him, face hidden. He saw it shift, turning its head toward the guard by the door. “For the love of gods, could we get some torches in here? I can’t see a cursed thing.”
The guard by the door straightened up. “Yes, sir!”
Bran had stilled when he heard the voice. It had changed, but not completely. He tried to speak, but his own voice failed him.
The guard returned with an armload of torches, and proceeded to put them in the holders around the room and light them. They banished the darkness quickly enough, and Bran found himself staring straight into the face of what had once been his best friend.
It had changed, he saw—changed terribly. It looked older, thinner—almost gaunt. The terrible wound under the right eye had become a thin scar that looked like a pale tear track. The rest of the skin was pale, too, and the eyes were red rimmed. The hair had grown long, and he had a beard now—a neat pointed thing perched on his chin, which made him look sharper and more angular than ever.
But the eyes had changed the most, Bran thought—changed in a way he couldn’t quite define. There was something about the light in them, or the expression. Something that, the more he saw it, the more frightened and despairing he began to feel.
Bran managed to find his voice. “Arren.”
The expression flickered briefly. “Tell me your name.”
Bran tried to lean forward. “Arren,” he said again. “Arren, it’s me. It’s Bran. Don’t yeh know me?”
“Bran, is it?” said Arenadd. His voice was flat and cool. “Would that be short for something?”
“Arren!” said Bran. “Arren, for gods’ sakes, what’s wrong with yeh? Don’t yeh remember me?”
Arenadd’s eyes were utterly expressionless. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Now answer my question. What is your full name?”
Bran slumped in his chair. “Branton Redguard, son of—”
“And where are you from, Branton Redguard?”
Bran snapped. “I’m from Eagleholm!” he yelled. “Same as you! Arren—”
Arenadd held up a hand to silence him and looked at the guards. “You can go now.”
They looked uncertain. “Are ye sure, sir?” said one. “He’s a tough one—what if he gets free?”
Arenadd drew a dagger and stabbed it into the tabletop, where it stuck. “I said get out!” he roared.
The guards bowed hastily and left, closing the door behind them. Once they had gone, Arenadd got up and began to pace back and forth behind his chair, keeping his head turned away from Bran.
Bran tried to break free of the shackles. They wouldn’t budge. “Arren,” he said again, “I ain’t . . . please, just
look
at me. What’s wrong with yeh?” His voice softened. “Why can’t yeh look at me, mate? What’s the matter?”
Arenadd ignored him.
“Don’t yeh remember me?” Bran said. “I’m yer friend. I’m yer best mate, remember? We used t’drink at the Rat together—us an’ Gern, remember?”
Arenadd stopped pacing.
“D’yeh remember?” Bran persisted.
There was a silence. Then Arenadd heaved a deep sigh and rubbed a hand over his face.
“Arren?”
Finally, Arenadd turned to look at him. “Bran, what are you
doing
here?” he said.
In that instant, Bran felt a tide of warm, wonderful relief flow through him.
This
was his friend. This was his voice, his face. “Arren!” he said. “Yeh know me; yeh remember?”
“Of course I remember,” said Arenadd, his voice irritable and wonderfully, brilliantly familiar. “Stop babbling.”
“What was all that about, then?” said Bran, trying to wave a hand toward the door. “I don’t . . .”
Arenadd slumped back into his chair. “Use your brain, you idiot. I couldn’t say anything in front of them.”
“Arren—”
Arenadd waved him into silence. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Calling me Arren.”
Bran blinked at him. “Why? What’s wrong with it? It’s yer name, ain’t it?”
“Not any more. Did you come from Malvern?”
“Yeah, I did,” said Bran. “I live there now.”
“You saw Lady Elkin, then?”
“Yeah. Arren—”
“Did you see her audience chamber?” Arenadd continued.
“Yeah. Look, Arren—”
“Where is it? What does it look like?”
Bewildered and afraid, Bran described it as well as he could.
Arenadd listened closely. “Good. Thank you. Is that all you have to tell me?”
“No!” Bran almost shouted. “Arren, listen. I came lookin’ for yeh.”
Arenadd’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“To warn yeh. It’s the Bastard—Rannagon’s son, remember him?”
“What about him?”
“He thinks he’s some kinda . . . I dunno, some kinda chosen one. He’s gone off somewhere with that griffin, Senneck. They’re lookin’ for something, some weapon or somethin’ to kill yeh.”
Arenadd stared, then snorted. “Oh good grief. What is this, a fairy story? You came all the way here to tell me
that
? Can’t you tell me something a bit more useful, like what Malvern’s doing? Do they know where we are?”
“No,” said Bran. “Arren, don’t yeh get it? They’re gonna kill yeh!”
Arenadd shrugged. “Thanks for the help, but that doesn’t really scare me any more. Now tell me: what are they doing in Malvern? What else do you know?”
“Nothing,” said Bran. “I swear.”
“So you say. But we’ll see about that.”
“I don’t know anything!” Bran yelled. “Arren, for gods’ sakes, let me go!”
Arenadd looked away. “I’m not Arren any more. And I can’t be your friend any more, either. I’m a Northerner now, a proper Northerner. And that makes you my enemy.” He called for the guards. They came in immediately, and Arenadd moved away from the table, ignoring Bran altogether.
“Take him back to his cell,” he said. “We’ll find out what he knows. One way or another.”
Bran couldn’t say anything. He had already said everything he had to say. He let the guards unshackle him and pull him out of the chair, but this time he didn’t go where they directed him to. They had to drag him out of the room by the elbows, backward, and all the while he kept his eyes on Arenadd, staring at him in disbelief. Arenadd looked back, unflinching and silent.
16
 
Memories
 
B
ran lay awake for hours that night, staring into the darkness and trying to think, but nothing seemed to make any sense to him now. He couldn’t comprehend what had happened or think about it clearly. Arren was gone. Arren was . . . changed. Erian had been right, horribly right. This wasn’t Arren any more. This wasn’t the quiet, clever young man he had once known; this was someone else, someone with Arren’s body and Arren’s face and Arren’s voice and knowledge, but someone who was not him.
Arren is dead
.
“Gods,” Bran mumbled into the shadows. “He’s gone mad. He’s . . . gone.”
He had no illusions about his situation now. Arenadd’s dispassionate face and voice stayed with him, and he knew there was no hope for him. Not now. The old Arren would have done something to help him, but this one would not. Tomorrow he would be tortured, just as Arenadd had been, and after that he would die. Assuming he survived the torture.
He forced himself not to think about that. Instead, he tried to think of Flell. He could picture her face as he had last seen it, looking at him with worry and grief.
Just come back, Bran,
she had said.
Please, just come back. Don’t die
.
He imagined that he could still feel her kiss on his forehead, and that made him smile a little. Sweet Flell. At least she was safe. And the child.
Bran rubbed his aching forehead and sighed. Laela wasn’t his daughter, but he still felt as if he was her true father. The poor child would be doomed, he knew. If she survived to adulthood, it would be only to face a life of loneliness and persecution; nobody would ever fully accept her. Not her father’s people, or her mother’s. Half-castes were rare, and that was for a good reason. She wouldn’t be able to hold down a job or marry. And if Bran died, she and her mother would be defenceless.
And even if he
did
escape with his life, he wouldn’t be much use to them now. Not if Kraeya was dead.
Tears weren’t Bran’s way. He felt a lump in his throat, and he let out a hoarse bellow of rage and despair and slammed his fist into the wall. Pain exploded in his hand, but he didn’t care. He lurched upright, yanking at the chains with all his might, swearing violently.

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