The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy) (27 page)

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Authors: K. J. Taylor

BOOK: The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy)
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“Well, it’s an odd thing,” said Arenadd. “But I myself always thought the best time to escape was at the time when there weren’t any guards about. What d’you think, Saeddryn?”
“He couldn’t have known when they was leavin’, sir,” said Saeddryn. “It’s just bad luck. Anyway, he won’t get far. We’ll find him.”
“Unlikely. We’re leaving today, remember?”
Saeddryn shifted. “I know, sir, but I don’t think it’s a good idea. We can’t let him get away. If he gets back to Malvern an’ tells ’em what he knows . . .”
“I doubt it,” said Arenadd. “He can’t travel that far in time. And besides, they won’t listen to him even if he does get there. He won’t be able to get to the Mistress without a griffin.”
“The griffin’s dead, then, sir? For certain?”
“Yes,” Arenadd lied. “Skandar told me the whole story. He caught up with her and finished her off.”
“Well then . . . I suppose if ye say so, we can let it go,” said Saeddryn, though with evident reluctance.
Arenadd ignored the doubt in her voice. “Good. Tell the others to search the tower anyway; we may as well be on the safe side. But remind everyone we’re going; I want everyone moving out of the city by noon.”
“Yes, sir.” Saeddryn left.
Once she had gone, Arenadd sat back in his chair. “Well,” he said, to nobody in particular. “That’s that sorted out.”
“You do not seem very concerned,” Skade commented.
“I’m not. I got what I wanted out of him already, and, quite honestly, we didn’t have time to do anything much with him except kill him. And what would be the point? A griffiner without a griffin is worthless. I doubt he’ll even bother to try and get back to Malvern.”
Skade nodded. “Perhaps we will catch up with him anyway. He cannot travel far alone.”
“It’s possible.” Arenadd stood up. “Anyway, let’s get to work. Pack up anything you want, but try not to take too much. We’re going to load up an oxcart with supplies down in the courtyard. Let’s hope Skandar doesn’t decide to eat the oxen.”
“Let us hope that
I
do not do the same,” said Skade.
Arenadd chuckled and left the hall.
Everything had been organised in advance, so there was little left to do except see to it that everyone carried out their orders and that there were no last-minute complications.
Supplies, including clothes, food, water and money, had been carried downstairs and were now being loaded onto the cart that would go with Nerth to Taranis Gorge. Another, smaller, cart with one ox had been similarly loaded to go to Fruitsheart with Arenadd and the others. Meanwhile, Arenadd had sought out a few of the locals who were able to read and write, and had given them the task of managing the city as well as they could. He hoped they would cope until the Eyrie found out about the conquest and, inevitably, sent griffiners to deal with Warwick.
Arenadd was well aware of what the consequences would probably be for the locals. No doubt the Eyrie would believe that he or some of his followers were still in the city, and would make every effort to find them or at least find out where they had gone. Knowing how griffiners generally behaved in these situations, they would probably resort to torture and mass executions.
But, he thought grimly, all that would be to his advantage. The worse the consequences were, the more they would enhance his reputation and the greater the impact would be on the North as a whole. And if the griffiners did indeed sink to that level, they would only help to make their vassals resent them even more deeply than before. It would win him exactly the level of support he needed.
He sighed to himself as he supervised the loading of the carts. He had come to like Warwick during his time there, and the thought of its being torn apart that way—and torn apart because of him—made a dull, miserable lump form in his stomach.
This is war,
he reminded himself.
War is ugly. People die. That’s the way it’s always been
.
As he was busy with these thoughts, a voice behind him interrupted. “Sir?”
Arenadd turned, and saw Saeddryn. Nerth was with her, along with Cai, Rhodri and Davyn, and a man he vaguely recognised but couldn’t name.
Arenadd nodded to them. “Hello. Saeddryn, what’s the news? Did you find anything?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, sir. We did all we could, but we couldn’t tell which way he went. He could be anywhere by now.”
“Well, I’m sure you did your best,” Arenadd said generously. “Is there anything else you have to tell me?”
Saeddryn smiled slightly. “It’s just a little thing, sir. I . . . I mean we . . .” She glanced at the man whose name Arenadd didn’t know. “Ye can tell him, if ye like.”
The man glanced nervously at her, and then stepped forward. “Well, uh . . . sir . . . my lord . . .”
“Out with it,” said Arenadd, as kindly as he could. “Come on, I’m a busy man. Do I know you, by the way? I think I’ve seen your face, but I don’t remember your name.”
“Aled, my lord,” said the man. “I was one of them as ye chose t’go with Nerth, my lord.”
“ ‘Sir’ will be fine, Aled. What can I do for you?”
“I’m a smith, sir,” said Aled. “We ain’t allowed t’make weapons no more, sir, but my grandad taught me in secret—how t’make swords an’ that, sir. That’s why ye chose me.”
“Oh yes, I remember. And?”
“Well, yer cousin . . . Lady Saeddryn came t’see me, sir, an’ asked me t’make this for ye, sir,” said Aled. “We decided t’give it to ye now, before we all left. Sir.”
It was a long, thin object wrapped in cloth. Arenadd accepted it, somewhat bemused. “Is it a sword?”
“Not really a sword, sir,” said Aled. “But I did make it for ye, sir; I think Saeddryn said ye know how t’use one, sir.”
It was a sickle, not much different from the sort used to cut grass. But this was obviously not a farming tool. The blade was razor sharp on its inner edge, wickedly pointed and serrated near the tip. A tool, maybe—but a tool for killing. Arenadd turned it over in his hands, admiring the copper reinforcing on the handle and the stars and triple spiral symbol etched into the blade. “It’s beautiful,” he said.
“It’s called a
llafn y lloergan
,” said Saeddryn. “The blade of the moonlight. Did my mother teach ye how t’use one, sir?”
“Yes, a little,” said Arenadd. He flourished the thing experimentally. It didn’t handle the way a sword did, but it had a good balance, and he could tell that a well-aimed slash from it could do a lot of damage, especially aided by the curved inner edge. “So, you had this made especially for me?”
“Yes, sir,” said Saeddryn. “Ye’re our leader, after all, an’ a leader needs a good weapon, especially now ye’ve lost yer sword, sir.”
Arenadd didn’t know what to say. “Thank you. Thank you very much. It’s the finest gift I’ve had in a very long time.”
Don’t forget,
his mind added,
the last present you got was a hanging, so anything would be an improvement, wouldn’t it?
Saeddryn smiled. “I’ve tested it, sir. It’s a fine weapon. I’m sure ye’ll use it well.”
Arenadd imagined using it at Malvern, in the temple, against the Bastard’s sword. The curving point would be perfect at close quarters. A quick blow to the throat . . .
He smiled to himself at the image. “Yes. I’m sure I will.”
“Well.” Saeddryn rubbed her ear. “We’re about ready t’get movin’, sir. The others are gatherin’ up their things an’ should be out soon.”
Arenadd nodded. “Good. This looks like it’s all in order, so I’ll head back upstairs. Skandar’s expecting me.”
“There’s just one thing, sir,” said Saeddryn.
“Yes?”
“Annir. I dunno where she is, sir,” said Saeddryn, with a touch of nervousness. “I’ve asked around, but no-one knows where she’s gone to.”
Arenadd put the sickle into his belt. “My mother isn’t coming with us.”
Saeddryn opened her mouth to ask why, saw the look on his face and shut it again. “Yes, sir.”
Arenadd took a horn off the back of the cart behind her and gave it to her. “Here; keep this close by while you’re travelling.”
Saeddryn took it. The horn had been carved from a long piece of bone and looked quite old. “To call for help, sir?”
“Exactly.” Arenadd tapped the pitted white surface of the horn. “It was made from a griffin’s leg bone. It’s supposed to mimic the call of a griffin. I’ve tried it—it’s not a perfect imitation, but it carries a long way. If you get into trouble, signal, and Skandar and I will come as fast as we can.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good luck, then. I’ll see you later.” Arenadd went back inside.
Up in their temporary bedroom, Skade had finished packing and was dozing at the table, but woke up when Arenadd came in.
“Are we ready to go?” she asked.
Arenadd looked at the small bag sitting next to her on the floor. “Is that all you’re taking?”
“What more do I need?” said Skade. “I have a spare gown, a hairbrush and the jewels you gave me—I could not think of anything else.”
Arenadd paused a moment and then shrugged. “I don’t think I can really argue with that. Anyway, Saeddryn’s waiting for you, so if there’s nothing else you want to do before you go—”
Skade stood up. “Only one thing,” she said, and took him in her arms.
Arenadd smiled and gave her a quick kiss. “I knew I’d forgotten something.”
“Be careful,” Skade told him as she let go.
“I don’t need to be careful,” said Arenadd, touching the hilt of his new weapon. “I’ve got this. And him,” he added, looking toward the archway.
Skandar emerged through it, limping slightly. “Go now,” he said.
Arenadd nodded. “Yes, yes, I’m coming. Just give me a moment.”
He darted over to the bed and did a quick check of the objects he’d chosen to take with him. There wasn’t much: a brush and comb, a razor, a bottle of hair lotion, soap, a tiny packet of salt for cleaning his teeth, and a few other odds and ends. And nestled between the hairbrush and the salt was a tiny stone bottle, etched with a single rune. Arenadd touched it and grinned horribly to himself. He’d found it during a search of the medicine bay, though the contents didn’t have much use when it came to medicine, at least as far as he knew. Anyone who drank it wouldn’t need medicine. Ever again.
Skandar thumped on the floor. “Go now!” he repeated.
Arenadd snapped out of his reverie. “Just a moment.” His eyes darted around the room.
He spotted what he needed, lying discarded in a corner. It was an old leather quiver, with a strap that looped around the chest. Arenadd tipped out a dead spider and some dust, and stuffed his belongings into it, plugging the opening with some cloth. He slung it on his back. “Perfect. Now, let’s go.”
Skandar rasped irritably but bent his forelegs to let Arenadd climb onto his back. The griffin’s tail was lashing; he was full of pent-up energy, and not even his wounds could do much to slow him down.
Arenadd balanced himself on his friend’s back. “It’s been a while . . . all right. I’m r—”
He didn’t get to finish the sentence. The instant he was in place, Skandar darted back through the archway. Skade jerked backward, out of the way, and chuckled to herself as she watched him make a clumsy, stumbling run through the nest, Arenadd clinging on desperately. Skandar passed out onto the balcony and launched himself into the air with scarcely a pause.
Skade shook her head. “The time is come, all speeches done, and now to war they fly. There is no mercy now inside, and so to battle they must ride.” It was a fragment of an old griffish war poem, and she smiled grimly and left the room, ready to begin her own journey at last.
 
 
L
ady Elkin, Mistress of the Eyrie, was sick.
She woke up one morning, after several days of tiredness and aching joints, to a searing pain in her head and a weakness so profound it felt as if her arms and legs were made of lead. She lay in bed, having rolled onto her back with a mighty effort, and tried to yawn. The instant she opened her mouth, the yawn turned into a cough, which turned into a coughing fit, which she instantly regretted. Every cough felt like a blow to her chest, and when it was finally over she couldn’t breathe for several moments. When she
did
manage to breathe in, her lungs burned. She groaned weakly and lifted a hand to her forehead. It felt burning hot.
Part of her wanted to get up. It was morning; she should be out of bed. A million things were crying out for her attention. So much to plan, so much to organise . . .
She made a mighty effort to sit up, but the instant her head lifted from the pillow a horrible wave of dizziness hit her in the forehead and knocked her back.
“Kraal.” Her voice felt useless, barely louder than a whisper. “Kraal!”
It seemed to take forever for the griffin to come, but he did. He always seemed to know when she needed him. His great white head loomed down toward her out of the gloom, seeming almost to glow. “Elkin.” His voice was deep and reassuring. “Elkin. You are sick.”

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