The Dark Griffin (39 page)

But they had waited in vain. The black griffin had covered the blackrobe with his wings and brought his head down toward him, and they had sat back, disappointed. He was merely going to kill him with his beak, and they wouldn’t even see it happen. Not even the battle that had preceded it would make up for that.

And then they saw the black griffin move away, and they looked toward the spot where he had been, expecting to see the blackrobe’s mutilated remains. But they were not there. They saw the blackrobe get up and lurch toward the wall, and saw the black griffin glance briefly at him and then turn away. The blackrobe collapsed, either dead or wounded, and the griffin merely sat and groomed himself. They continued to wait, filling the air with savage shouts, but nothing happened. Neither man nor griffin moved.

In the end Darkheart rose onto his paws and walked away toward the gate he had entered by. He tried to open it, and when it wouldn’t move he lay down on the sand and went to sleep.

He didn’t wake up until the gate opened and the griffin handlers came through and threw a net over him, tangling his wings. He started up and rushed at them, but they expertly avoided his beak and talons and wrestled him into submission. The chains were put back on his wings and legs, more were attached to his collar, and he was dragged out of the pit, screeching and struggling.

Arren, though, did not get up. He lay where he was, unmoving, until a pair of guards hurried into the pit and carried him away.

F
alling, he was falling.

There was blackness everywhere, and icy wind rushing past him. He could feel the void pulling him in, pulling him down, faster and faster, and somewhere below him the ground waited, hard and unforgiving. His scream was whipped away in the wind. Blood was coming from his chest, but the drops flew away, straight upward, and he fell.

And then he hit the ground.

Arren opened his eyes and groaned. He was lying on his back on a hard surface, and every inch of him hurt. But there was something warm covering him and a pad under his head, which made him feel safe.

His vision was blurry, but he managed to make out a ceiling above him. It was wooden. Was he in his home?

No. His own ceiling had been different: peaked in the middle and criss-crossed with wooden beams, and beyond those had been the underside of the thatch. And his home didn’t exist any more. It had burned down. He had seen it burn. And after that he’d . . . he’d . . .

Memories came rushing back. The chick, the trial, the cage and after that the pit and the black griffin, swooping down on him, its screech ringing in his ears.
Darkheart!

Fear gave him strength. He sat up sharply, nearly falling over when the sudden motion made his head spin. He felt weak and shaky, and the collar was heavy.

He was back in his cage. It was still daylight, and he had been lying on the floor, by the door. Someone had picked up the black robe and put it over him like a blanket. He shoved it off and rubbed his head. His eyes were aching.

“Hello, Arren.”

Arren looked around sharply and saw Bran standing on the other side of the door. “Bran?”

Bran looked shaken. “Yeh all right?”

“My head hurts. Bran, what—what happened?”

Bran nodded at the floor beside him. “Brought yeh some food.”

Arren managed to pick up a piece of bread. Chewing felt like the hardest struggle of his life.

Bran watched him. “I came to watch,” he said. “At the Arena, I mean. Arren, what
happened
?”

Arren dropped the piece of bread. “Bran, what’s going on? Are they going to set me free?”

“I dunno. Arren, I’m sorry for what I said.”

Arren shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Are my parents coming to see me again?”

“Don’t think so. They ain’t lettin’ no-one in except guards. Arren, how did yeh do that?”

“How did I do what?” The sound of Bran’s voice was making his headache worse.

“Control the griffin!” Bran said urgently. “How’d yeh make it back off like that?”

“I didn’t. I don’t know what happened. It just didn’t kill me.”

“What? Yeh didn’t do nothin’?”

“Yes. Bran, please, I’ve got to know. What’s going to happen to me now? Are they going to let me out?”

“I dunno,” Bran repeated. “I think they ain’t decided yet. This ain’t never happened before.”

“They’ve got to let me go,” said Arren. “I survived, didn’t I?”

“Yeah . . . I guess yeh did.”

Arren lay back. They
had
to let him go. It wasn’t just an empty promise they made to tempt prisoners; it was law. A prisoner who survived the Arena had to be set free. They couldn’t break the law. Not when everyone knew about it.

“Guess you’ll find out,” said Bran. “Eat. They’ll come and see yeh soon, I reckon.”

Arren nodded vaguely and went back to his food. But he felt much better now. He was going to be released, he knew it. They’d let him out of the cage and send him home. He’d go to Idun and stay with his parents until he was better, and then . . . after that, he would just have to decide what to do next.

Bran looked up at the sun. “Well, I gotta go. Shift’s about to end. I’ll be back here tomorrow, though. Good luck till then, eh?”

Arren swallowed. “Thanks, Bran. For—well, for being here.”

Bran smiled slightly. “Yeh can thank the roster for that.”

“You know that’s not what I mean, Bran.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Bran. “G’night, Arren.”

He nodded again and walked back toward his post, where two more guards had just arrived to take over from him and his colleague. Arren watched as they disappeared into the cave, and then finished off the rest of his food. There was bread and cheese, but there was an orange as well. For some reason the sight of it put a lump in his throat.

The sun started to sink below the horizon, and he dozed in his cage, too tired to even care about the drop below him any more. Perhaps he was losing his fear of heights.

Voices from the platform woke him. He looked up and saw three people standing by the guard post, talking to the guards. Arren’s heart leapt. It was Orome, with Sefer and the woman who had visited him the previous day. He got up, a little shakily, and came forward to meet them. Sefer’s weight made the platform creak as the red griffin came to stand on the other side of the cage door; he sat back on his haunches to watch, as Orome joined him.

Orome was looking at Arren with open admiration. “Well, hello, Arren! I have to say I didn’t expect I’d ever get the chance to speak with you again. Oh, yes, this is my wife, Emogen. I believe you’ve already met.”

Arren nodded formally to them. “Orome, what’s going on? Are they going to let me go?”

“Arren, I really can’t tell you how amazed I was by what happened in the pit today,” said Orome. “Everyone was. I mean, I’ve seen what has to have been more than a hundred fights, but I’ve never seen anything like that. Can I ask how you did it?”

“I didn’t do anything,” said Arren. “It was the griffin who did it.”

“Yes, but you must have done something to make him spare you,” said Orome. “What was it? Did you talk to him?”

“Wild griffins don’t talk, remember?” said Arren. “Orome, they’ve got to let me out of here. I survived, didn’t I?”

Orome ignored the question. “So, you really didn’t do anything?”

“Yes. Can I please go home now?”

Orome shook his head. “Astonishing. There’s been a lot of argument about it, actually. Some people are claiming that you used some sort of Northern magic to tame the griffin. You didn’t, did you?”

Arren put a hand to his forehead. “Northerners don’t
have
magic,” he almost snarled. “I don’t have any powers, all right? I’m just an ordinary person, and I’m not interested in entertaining anyone; I just want to get out of here.”

“You can’t be that ordinary,” said Orome. “Not if you managed to make Darkheart act like that. He’s the most savage griffin I’ve ever seen, and unpredictable as well. Actually, the only thing you can always expect him to do is kill as many people as he can the moment he’s let out. But he’s not himself any more. He won’t eat or drink anything; he just lies in his cage and does nothing. I—well, forgive me for saying this, but when we sent you into the pit today I wasn’t expecting to have a body to retrieve afterwards. He hadn’t eaten in days; he must have been ravenous. Which is another reason why I can’t believe what happened. I think the crowd was a bit disappointed, though. We’ve never had a fight that had such a—well, such an indecisive ending. But look on the bright side: you’re nearly as popular as Darkheart now. They’re calling you the Mad Blackrobe. They all saw how you attacked the griffin like that, with nothing but a spearhead. It was very impressive. And I hope we can see you do it again soon.”

Arren gave him a deadly look. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not interested.”

“Unfortunately that’s not up to you,” Emogen interrupted. “You agreed to this.”

“I agreed to fight the black griffin and
you
said that if I won I could go free,” Arren snapped.

“Yes, so you’ll just have to hope that next time you do win,” said Emogen.

“But I—”

“The fight was inconclusive,” Emogen said in formal, almost faraway tones. “Neither one of you truly won—though since you collapsed and Darkheart didn’t, that would in theory make him the winner. A truce—I suppose you can call it that—a truce is not a victory. Your agreement will not be fulfilled until one of you is dead.”

“Cheer up,” Orome advised. “No matter what happens after this, you’re going to go down in history for what happened today. Even griffins are talking about it.”

“I don’t want to go down in history!” Arren shouted. “I want to go home, godsdamnit!”

Orome gave him a dispassionate look. “Well, that’s not my problem. Even if you did somehow manage to make Darkheart lose his senses, you’re still a criminal, and as far as I’m concerned, you don’t have any worth to anyone except as entertainment. So I’d advise you to be a bit less uppity, Arren Cardockson.”

“But it’s not fair!”

“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you stole that chick,” said Orome. “See you tomorrow.”

With that he turned and left, and Emogen went with him. Sefer lingered a moment to peer curiously at him, and then jumped almost lazily off the edge of the platform, making the entire thing shake. Arren, turning instinctively to watch, saw the red griffin’s wings open and watched him soar away over the landscape. Vertigo instantly made the ground lurch beneath him, and he fell over sideways, grabbing at the bars to save himself from falling. He hit the bars of the cage awkwardly and, for what felt like the hundredth time, the collar tore into his neck. He let out a maddened snarl of both pain and rage, one which turned into a string of swearwords. It didn’t make him feel even slightly better. He lurched upright and staggered toward the door and began to wrench at the bars, trying with all his might to make them break. They shook and creaked against their bindings, and splinters stabbed into his palms, but they would not give. Each one was as thick as his forearm and held in place with metal rivets. The door itself was sealed with a chain, and none of it had an inch of give in it anywhere. Maddened by fear, he tried to squeeze through one of the gaps between the bars. It was far too narrow for his head to fit through, but he persisted anyway, until one of the guards wandered over and shoved him away. He fell onto his back and lay still, breathing heavily, then suddenly grabbed hold of the collar and tried yet again to pull it off. Still it would not come off. Still it weighed him down. Still it hurt. He realised then that it never would come off. He was going to wear it for the rest of his life.

21

Freedom

N
ight drew in over the city. In his cage behind the Arena, Darkheart dozed. And in his own cage not very far away, Arren slept restlessly; his hands curled into fists, and his legs twitched as if he was trying to run somewhere. His face, too, moved, the forehead creasing as he mumbled in his sleep.

“. . . help me, I’m falling, help me . . . falling . . . help me . . .”

Then he was walking along the street toward his home, with Eluna beside him, and Gern there, too, chattering about the latest fight at the Arena. Arren pretended to listen, to humour him. Gern was always hurt if someone complained or looked bored.

Look at that,
Gern kept saying.
Look, sir
.

They had reached the door of his home, and the key was in his hand. He put it into the lock and turned it, but the instant the door swung open, flames billowed out and he realised the house was on fire. He backed away, but Eluna pushed past him and ran ahead, straight into the heart of the flames.
Eluna! Come back!

He ran forward, trying to get to her, but he could not. The door would not come any closer. It was just ahead of him, so close but always out of reach.

Gern was still there.
Sir, look,
he said again.

Arren turned to him.
Gern, help me
.

Sir,
said Gern.
Look. You’re falling
.

And then he was falling. The ground beneath him vanished and there was nothing but darkness, pulling him down. High above, the black griffin circled, his screech echoing in the night. It grew louder and louder, cutting through Arren’s brain, until the world shook with it. The ground beneath him lurched, and he suddenly realised he wasn’t falling any more, he was lying on his back and the ground was shaking.

He lay still, heart pounding. The ground lurched again, and he heard something to his left. He sat up, and the sudden burst of pain from the collar convinced him that he wasn’t asleep. It was still night-time, and the moon was high in the sky. He was still in his cage, which was swinging alarmingly, the wooden rods that held it to the platform rattling. When he looked up, he saw something huge hanging over the side of the cage. It was moving. He could see the outline of a tail, lashing at the bars, and for a moment, horrible fear caught in his throat. It was a griffin, a dark griffin, it was coming to get him, it was—