The Dark Griffin (34 page)

The adult griffins looked around sharply the moment the two humans entered. Arren stopped in the middle of the floor and waited, with Erian beside him.

Almost instantly, the shouts started. The griffins, seeing him, began to jeer in their own language.

“Blackrobe!”

“Ragged ears!”

“Northern brat!”

Arren winced, very glad that Erian couldn’t understand them. He nodded to the boy, who was looking slightly pale. “Well, go ahead. Talk to them.”

Erian glanced at him. “What, just . . . talk?”

“Yes, go on. Introduce yourself.”

“All right.”

Erian moved forward a few paces. The moment he did, Arren darted back the way they’d come and took shelter in the open doorway. When Erian looked back at him, he gestured encouragingly and then settled down to watch.

Apparently reassured, Erian turned his attention back to the griffins. Many of them had come down to the floor and were coming closer to inspect him, their tails twitching as if they were stalking prey. For a moment Erian did nothing, either confused or, more likely, frightened. And then he started to speak. In griffish. “Griffins!” he shouted. “I have come to show myself to you! I am Erian, son of Rannagon! I have noble blood in my veins—the blood of griffiners—and though I was raised as a farm boy, I am strong and brave and a natural leader! I am worthy! I have come all the way to Eagleholm to show myself to you and prove that I am deserving of your mighty company! If there be any griffin here who would choose me, I would consider it the greatest honour and privilege of my life, and I would spend every day henceforth in that griffin’s company, as his friend and servant, always ready to fight against the forces of darkness and preserve the light of peace and justice!” He raised a hand high, fingers spread. “I am Erian Rannagonson! I am worthy!”

Arren’s gleeful expression changed to one of deep dismay.

The griffins had fallen silent while Erian spoke, and now they were gathering around him in a great bustling flock, all fluttering wings and clicking beaks. Erian stood still and watched them, his demeanour almost bewilderingly calm and collected as the griffins began to come forward, one by one. They sniffed at him and looked at him closely, and some touched him, but one by one they turned away and returned to the flock.

And then a large brown griffin came forward. She scented Erian’s tunic and his hands, and then she sat back on her haunches and looked him in the face. He looked back, unmoving. Then, slowly, he reached toward her.

Arren caught his breath. This was insanely dangerous. Anyone who touched a griffin that was not their partner was liable to lose their hand, if not their entire arm.

Erian laid his hand on the brown griffin’s forehead, right between her eyes. For a time there was absolute stillness between them, and then she sighed and bowed her head. Erian withdrew his hand and she abruptly stood up. She nudged him very gently in the chest and then quietly moved to stand beside him.

Deathly silence fell. Erian stood proudly, with the brown griffin beside him. Then he raised his head and screamed.
“Erian! Erian!”

The brown griffin opened her beak toward the ceiling and added her voice to his.
“Senneck! Senneck!”

The other griffins took up the cry, screeching their own names as loud as they could, until the whole room rang with the sound. Standing frozen in the doorway, Arren was seized by a powerful urge to do the same. A scream rose in his own throat and whispered in his ears, pleading with him to release it.
Arren, Arren, Arren
.

“Eluna,” he whispered.

Erian and Senneck turned and began to walk slowly out of the room, keeping pace with each other. Arren saw them coming toward him and was suddenly afraid. It was as if he was watching Rannagon, a younger, taller Rannagon, but with the same hard blue eyes, the same yellow hair. And the griffin—the griffin’s eyes matched his. Light blue. Sky blue. So bright, so perfect.

Arren backed away into the hatchery as they came through the doors, but neither of them so much as glanced at him.

Erian put his hand on Senneck’s shoulder and looked at Arren. “Tell Lord Roland what happened. I am going to find my father. I mean”—he glanced at Senneck—“
we
are going to find my father.”

Arren couldn’t bear to look him in the face. “I will.” Erian took his hand away from Senneck and came toward him, moving slowly. There was an odd expression on his face; it made him look slightly mad. “That’s
Lord
Erian, blackrobe,” he sneered, and shoved him in the chest. Arren fell over backward, hitting the wall of the pen behind him. His collar struck the wood, driving the spikes deep into his neck, and he yelped.

Erian returned to Senneck’s side and the two of them left without looking back, but as they passed through the doors and into the sunlight a word drifted back toward him: “. . . blackrobe . . .”

For a long time, Arren did not move. His neck was aching savagely, as if a griffin’s talons were embedded in the flesh. He got up slowly, cringing and clutching at the collar. Once he had got his balance, he glanced upward. The sun was going down, and the light through the windows was tinted with orange. It was time for him to go home.

Arren looked into the pen behind him. The chick that occupied it stared back. It was a red griffin with orange eyes. “Food?” it said.

He never quite knew how it happened. Moving slowly and deliberately, his hand rose and took hold of the bolt on the gate. He watched with fascination as his fingers wrapped around it, gripped and pulled. The bolt came out with a soft
thunk
, and he pushed the gate open and stepped into the pen. The red chick came toward him, cheeping. “Food! Food!”

Arren knelt in front of it. “Will you help me?” he whispered in griffish.

The chick stopped and peered at him. “Arren?”

“Yes,” said Arren. “Yes, that’s me. Will you help me, little one?”

“Help?”

Arren reached out toward the chick, and his hands closed around its body, pinning its wings to its sides. Instantly, it stabbed its beak into the back of his hand.

He didn’t even feel it. He straightened up, holding it tightly, and backed out of the pen. There, he stopped and looked quickly around. There was no-one there. Just the chicks, chirping in their pens.

The red chick started to struggle, squawking in protest. Arren tucked it under his arm and clamped its beak shut with his hand. He found his cloak hanging by the door where he’d left it and draped it over himself, hiding his wriggling burden from view. Then, watching all the while for the slightest sign of another person, he turned and stole away into the gathering night.

18

A Thief in the Night

E
ven as he reached the edge of the goat pens and entered the market district, Arren heard the sound that came from the hatchery. A high, piercing shriek rose over the rooftops of the city, followed by another and then others, louder and louder. The adult griffins had noticed the missing hatchling.

Terror gripped him and he broke and ran, not even noticing the collar dragging at his neck. The chick struggled, its claws digging into him, but he kept hold of it and ducked into an alley. There was a stack of old barrels there; he huddled down behind them and lifted his cloak away from the chick. It immediately tried to pull free, but he took off his cloak and wrapped it up tightly in the coarse fabric, pinning its legs and wings. The chick screeched in protest, and he grabbed it by the beak. “Quiet!”

The chick looked up at him, and Arren suddenly realised it was trembling with fear. He stroked its head. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m your friend.”

There was a screech from overhead. Arren looked up sharply, and his face twisted with dread. Griffins. Dozens of them, flying over the market district and screeching. The sky was darkened, but he could see their black shapes moving over it, wings beating, tails held out rigidly behind them as they called. They were hunting for him.

The chick heard them and started to struggle even harder, letting out muffled cries. Arren stood up and tucked it under his arm, covering its head with his cloak and holding its beak shut with one hand. The screeches were getting louder, and he ran. He left the alley and sprinted down the street, turned left through another alley and ran on. The griffins were circling overhead, flying so low he could hear the sound of their beating wings.

People were gathering in the streets, staring and pointing at the sky. He did his best to avoid them, but when he turned a corner into a crossroads he found it packed with people. There was no other way through. He ran forward, shoving past them. Some of them shoved him back, but most of them were too distracted to pay much attention to him. He got through the crowd and ran on. As he went, he heard someone shout after him, “Hey, why is he wearing a—”

Arren did not stop. He left the words behind and fled straight toward his home.

“We’re going,” he muttered as he ran, diving into a side street to avoid a low-flying griffin. “We’re going to leave the city. We’ll hide until they’re gone, and then we’ll—”

He stopped dead. Up ahead was the block where he lived. Griffins were circling above it, but they were not the only thing in the sky.

There was a column of smoke rising from the rooftops.

People were running ahead of him, shouting in panic, and Arren ran after them, his heart pounding so hard he thought it would burst. His street was clogged with people, but he ploughed his way through until he reached the centre of them all. They were standing well back from the source of the smoke, all talking at once, and some were already turning to run away.

Arren broke through the crowd, but he already knew what he would see.

The door and both of the front windows had been broken open, and flames were billowing out. The thatch had already caught and, even as he watched, his house turned into a fiery inferno.

Arren couldn’t move. He stood rooted to the spot, frozen in horror.

Behind him, he could hear people yelling. “Get water!” “Wet next door’s roof, for gods’ sakes, before it catches!” “Someone run and warn the—”

Too late, Arren realised the danger. The burning house was a beacon. The griffins started to gather, and the crowd looked up and began to back away. Several griffins came down to land, scattering them in fright. Arren ran. A griffin swooped down directly in front of him, so he turned and ran back toward the burning house. The heat hit him in the face and he stopped and turned back, looking desperately for somewhere else to flee. He could feel the chick fighting even more fiercely to get away. He glanced down. It had shredded the cloth over its head, and now it freed one front talon and ripped his hand away. The instant it could, it opened its beak and called out to the other griffins.

The crowd had fled, and now the street was virtually deserted. And the griffins began to land. More and more of them, their talons thudding down onto the wooden street. And Arren had nowhere to run. They were advancing on him, hissing and snarling.

He held up a hand. “No! You don’t understand—”

The chick freed its paws and wrenched itself out from beneath his arm. He made a grab for it, and in an instant it twisted around and struck him in the face, just under his right eye. Its beak ripped downward, tearing a deep gash from his eye to his mouth. Arren screamed and dropped the chick, and it ran away from him, toward the nearest of the adult griffins, taking shelter behind its foreleg.

The griffin lowered her head and stalked toward him. “Thief!” she snarled.

Blood was running down Arren’s face like tears. “No! I didn’t mean—”

The griffin leapt. An instant before she struck him, a dark figure darted in and shoved Arren out of the way. He landed in a tangled heap, and as he pulled himself upright he saw his rescuer draw a sword and point it at the enraged griffin. She made a rush at him, but veered away at the last minute, intimidated by the sword. Guards were coming, dodging around the edge of the flock to surround Arren, protecting him with their swords.

The griffins backed away, hissing, and the man who had led the charge pushed through his colleagues and pulled Arren to his feet.

“Bran!”

Bran said nothing. He grabbed Arren by the arm and snapped a pair of manacles on his wrists.

Arren stared dumbly at them. “Bran, no—”

Bran turned away and nodded to two of his colleagues. “Get him out of here.”

They came forward and took Arren by the shoulders. “To the prison district, sir?”

“No. The Eyrie.”

A
rren did not try to resist. He walked silently between the guards as they led him away. A group of them went ahead, swords drawn, fending off the griffins that were still trying to get at him. Some of them had taken to the air and were trying to swoop down on him, and the guards suddenly broke into a run. They hustled Arren away from the flock and into the nearest building, and there sat him down on a table.

“We wait here until someone comes and gets them to calm down,” said a voice from the doorway. “Keep an eye out. I wouldn’t be surprised if they started breaking the roof.”

It was Bran, grim-faced and wearing his uniform. Arren tried to get up and go to him, but the guards pulled him back. “Bran, please!”

There was no recognition in Bran’s face. He looked at Arren for only a moment, then went to the door and peered out. “They’re here now. They’ll get it under control.”

“Bran, I didn’t do anything!” Arren shouted. “Someone set my house on fire, don’t you see, they’re trying to—
aah
!”

One of the guards had struck the side of the slave collar, making pain explode in his neck.

Bran turned to look at Arren, and the hard look on his face faded. “Arren, how could yeh?”

“Bran, it’s them, they’re trying to kill me! You’ve got to—” He broke off, crying out as the guard hit him again, this time striking his torn face.

“Stop it,” Bran snapped. “Someone get him a cloth.”

One of the guards by the door fished a bandage out of his pocket and gave it to Arren. “Here. Cover it up with this.”