The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy) (33 page)

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Authors: K. J. Taylor

BOOK: The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy)
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Despite herself, Elkin couldn’t help but admire what her enemy had done. He had planned all of this down to the last detail. She was utterly at his mercy. Unless she was rescued, the Eyrie would have to accept his demands . . . whatever they were.
Elkin shivered again and curled up under her blankets. There was only one way for the Dark Lord’s plan to fail. It wasn’t a way she wanted, but now she was beginning to be afraid that it might happen against her will.
She could feel sweat prickling on her forehead. In her stomach, a sick churning had stopped her from eating the food they had brought her. Whatever she had eaten that day hadn’t stayed down for long.
She knew the sickness was returning. And without Kraal’s magic, this time it would kill her.
She slept for most of the rest of that day, aware of the pain in her lungs slowly increasing every time she woke up. The nausea increased as well, and she vomited again, bringing up nothing but mucus and bile. Her stomach had nothing left to give and contracted emptily as she retched, making her entire gut hurt. She slumped back, her head spinning.
If anyone visited her again that day, she never saw them. The sickness advanced so quickly and so powerfully that it had fully taken hold of her by the time night came, and when she went to sleep again she slid into a hot, sickening fog of fever and despair.
But it was a fog that took her away from her prison, at least. Vividly coloured and bewildering dreams swarmed around her, flitting in and out of her mind. She thought she was back in her room at Malvern, lying on the floor in front of the fireplace. Kraal was there, trying to comfort her by pressing his great flank against her, but his fur and feathers were burning hot, and she couldn’t breathe. She tried to ask him to stop, to move away, but her mouth was so dry her tongue stuck to the inside of her cheek and would not come free. But then a pair of hands wrapped themselves around her neck, and she was being dragged away, into a darkness and an icy cold that made her tremble violently, even though she was still burning hot.
Strange figures gathered around her as she drifted through the dark. They were robed, each one carrying a sickle. But their heads were the heads of beasts, not men, blank eyed, the muzzles wet with blood. She saw a stag’s head rear above her, its massive antlers spiking into the blackness. It smelt of earth and damp and rotting leaves, and blood.
A voice, muffled and distorted, began to speak.
These are the chiefs of the tribes of Tara, armed with the moon’s blade. These are the ones with snow in their blood, sun worshipper, come see, come run with us, see
. . .
Erian!
Elkin reached out for him. It was a mighty struggle just to lift her hand; she felt as if all her limbs were pinned down. Her hand wove slightly to and fro as it reached into the darkness. “Erian, help me,” she whispered. “Erian, please.”
And then someone took her hand; she could feel their own hand wrap around hers and hold it gently.
“My lady, please, calm down,” a voice murmured. “Let me help you.”
Elkin’s face twitched, deep in her nightmare. “Erian . . .”
A hand touched her forehead. It was gentle and delicate, and cool . . . wonderfully, blessedly cool. Elkin sighed as the coolness spread through her body, soothing the fever.
“Is that better?” said the voice. It sounded sad.
Elkin’s eyes slid open, and she cried out. It was not Erian. It was not her beloved. It was one of the monsters from her nightmare, its wolf muzzle pointing straight down at her, fangs gleaming. She fought to get away from it, shaking violently and clawing at her blankets.
The wolf-man took his hand away. “Please, my lady, don’t struggle,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you; I told you so.”
Elkin slumped back, shivering. “Let me die,” she moaned. “Please, let me die.”
The wolf-man sighed. “Look,” he said, and reached up to his face. He was clumsy; the fingers of one hand were bent and twisted, and the paralysed forefinger hampered the others. But he hooked them behind his ears, and pulled. The wolf face came away, and underneath was that of a man. He looked young, with his pale skin and long, curly hair, but there were bitter lines around his eyes and a long scar on his cheek that made him look older, and worn.
Even in the midst of her fever, Elkin knew she was looking at Lord Arenadd Taranisäii.
But he was looking down at her not with hatred or cruelty but with a kind of sadness, even concern. “My friends told me you were ill,” he said. “I came to see if I could help you.”
Elkin pulled away from him, her eyes burning with hatred as much as from fever. “Stay away from me,” she gasped. “Monster!”
But he laid his hand on her forehead again, and kept it there, and she did not have the strength to knock it away. “Let me cool you down,” he said softly.
Elkin’s eyes fluttered shut. “No . . .”
“Don’t give up,” he told her. “Hold on. It isn’t your time, my lady Elkin.”
“Don’t,” she mumbled, but her voice was weak. She felt herself beginning to relax under his touch, wanting him to stay. “Don’t,” she said again.
“I am very cold,” he murmured from above her. “Maybe it’s because I’m dead. Or maybe the Night God made me that way. I hate the sun. It makes me feel so tired. But at night . . .”
At night comes the cold,
Elkin thought, relishing the idea.
Cold like his hands
.
Lord Arenadd seemed to know that she didn’t want him to leave any more. He murmured to her as he clumsily pulled her damp hair away from her face with his maimed hand and covered her with a blanket. “You need to drink something,” he said. “Here.”
She let him pour it into her mouth: cold water, tasting of herbs.
“Our healer made it,” said Arenadd. “She says it’s perfect for a fever. I don’t get sick any more, myself. At least . . . not the way mortals do.”
Elkin swallowed the last of it. “Want . . . I want . . .”
He leant closer. “What is it, Elkin? What do you want?”
She shuddered, and then tears began to flow down her face. “I want to go home.”
He chuckled as he leant over her, his long hair brushing her face. “And you will, Elkin.”
“No,” she whispered. “The sickness will . . . kill me, before you . . . do.”
“But you
are
going home, Elkin,” Arenadd repeated. “That’s why I came to see you, so I could give you the news myself.”
Elkin stirred. “What?”
He pulled away abruptly. “Yesterday our messenger finally arrived with word from Malvern. The remnants of the council have given in to my demands. As soon as you’re a little stronger, we’ll take you out of here to the meeting place we’ve chosen, and there you’ll be handed back to your friends. They’ll take you home.”
Elkin shivered. She wanted to believe him so badly, but part of her still held back. It had to be a lie, some kind of cruel joke. He was torturing her with false hope.
“Do you feel better now?” he asked.
“A little,” she admitted.
Arenadd smiled. “Good. Can’t afford to lose you now, can we?” He stood up. “I’ll leave you to sleep. I’ll bring you something to eat later. Maybe an apple or two. Or even a pear.” He nodded to her and left.
Elkin rolled onto her back. She could still feel the touch of his hand on her forehead. The fever had abated for now, and she felt exhausted. But she was still alert enough to think.
Fruit,
she thought.
Perfect for illness. But . . . how would he find
. . .
An instant later, the obvious reply came to her and she groaned—a low, hopeless groan. Of course.
Pears
.
There was only one place in the North where you could find pears without ordering them specially.
Fruitsheart.
They’d taken her to Fruitsheart. It was hundreds of miles away from Malvern—right in the middle of one of the richest regions in the North, and absolutely the last place anyone would expect them to be. The chances of her officials thinking to look there were close to none.
That cunning bastard,
she thought.
He’s outwitted us. He’s outwitted
me.
But the memory of the sympathetic way he had looked at her kept coming back, and she wondered . . . couldn’t help but wonder . . .
 
 
 
E
rian never quite knew how he managed to move Senneck up the beach and away from the water, but he did. The brown griffin stirred as he was attempting to drag her out of the surf, and started to thrust weakly with her paws, but she was not strong enough to move without his help.
By the time they were above the waterline, Erian’s legs were trembling. His back ached and his head was pounding.
He took a deep breath, renewed his grip on Senneck’s forelegs and pulled. Senneck pushed with her hind legs, and after a few moments of painful struggling she slid a little further up the beach. Once she had come to rest, Erian slumped down beside her.
“I think . . . this is far enough . . . for now,” he panted. “You can rest.”
Senneck raised her head briefly, and then laid it down again. She was asleep in moments. Erian looked up at the sky. The sun was going down now, and it would be dark very soon. They were exhausted, they had nearly died, but they had made it. They were on the Island of the Sun. He had no doubts at all about that.
Part of him wanted to get up and leave Senneck to recover while he began his search of the island, but he knew he couldn’t do it. Not just because he couldn’t leave Senneck, especially in such a vulnerable state, but also because he knew he simply didn’t have the strength for it.
He managed to get up and stagger over to where he had left his sword sticking out of the sand, and sat down by Senneck with it. His vision was grey; he felt dizzy and ill.
You need to rest,
he told himself, stupidly.
Just for a moment
.
He lay down beside his partner with the sword clasped in his hands and was asleep in a moment.
Dawn the next day came in a blaze of red and gold. Erian woke up slowly and was bewildered to find himself half-buried in damp sand. His clothes were soaking wet, and he pulled himself free with a sucking noise. Fortunately the sword was still touching his hand, and he hauled it out and tried to wipe some of the sand off with his cloak. Beside him, Senneck whistled softly in her sleep. Her beak was half-covered, but her nostrils were still exposed, and Erian had an unpleasant moment of shock when he realised that this was probably all that had stopped her from suffocating during the night. She was fine.
Erian scraped the sand away from her beak and gently lifted her head onto her talons. She stirred but didn’t wake, and he stroked her head as he sat and looked up at the mountain, while the sun rose from behind it like a great flaming eye.
 
 
T
he weeks that had followed Elkin’s kidnapping had been little but pure misery for her partner.
Kraal flew slowly and wearily, hampered slightly by the pair of heavy bags slung over his shoulders but much more by the sheer and utter humiliation he had endured since Elkin had vanished—right in front of him, in their own home!
Arenadd’s predictions had been absolutely correct.
At first, while he had made a frantic search for her, Kraal had pretended that nothing was wrong, believing he would find her soon enough. But he found nothing, not even a lingering scent. Before long the other griffins and their humans had realised that something was badly wrong and had finally found out the truth. After that the real search had begun. Kraal had circled endlessly over the Eyrie, calling for his human, while the city was scoured for any sign of her or her kidnapper.
Nothing. The Shadow that Walks had escaped.
After that . . . after that, Kraal had been lost. Without Elkin beside him, he felt as if his heart had been torn out. He had no ambassador to speak for him, no-one to confide in, no-one to protect. Without Elkin, he was more than alone; he was helpless. Diminished. A griffin without a human had no status, no command. He could not lead without her. And worse than that was the knowledge that he had lost her. He had been there when she had been taken, and he had failed to protect her. In the face of that, all his strength and his magic meant nothing. Other griffins, while they hid it, lost their respect for him.
He knew, bitterly, that they were mocking him behind his back. The Mighty Kraal, brought to his knees by a mere human—outwitted, stripped of his power in a heartbeat.
After two long, gruelling days, the message had
finally come
. A griffiner had flown to the Eyrie from a small outlying city to the east, saying that she had been visited one night in her private chamber by a man in a black robe who handed her a piece of paper and said it was for Kraal alone. Then the man vanished into thin air.
The city had been searched, of course; the griffiner had given the order within moments of the incident.

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