The Dark Griffin (41 page)

Silence.

“Darkheart!”

Arren dared to move closer and thump the bars with the back of his hand. “Darkheart!” he hissed again.

There was silence, and then suddenly the griffin’s shadow was moving and shifting, and he saw it stand up, its chains clanking loudly in the silence. He moved back quickly, but the griffin thrust its head forward, straining to reach the bars and hissing.

“Darkheart,” Arren said again, feeling like a fool. “Darkheart, is that you?”

The shadowy griffin did not move for some time, but then it clicked its beak and moved forward as far as its chains would allow. “Darkheart,” it repeated softly.

He recognised the voice. “It’s me,” he said. “It’s Arren Cardockson. I’ve come to set you free.”

A chain clinked. “Arren?”

Arren dared to move closer. “Yes, it’s me. Please, Darkheart, you have to be quiet. I’m going to open the door, and then I’ll come in and take the chains off. But you have to hold still.”

It was doubtful that Darkheart understood all of this, but he paused a moment and then sat back on his haunches. Waiting.

Arren took a deep breath and reached out to touch the door. There was no lock on it, only a pair of huge bolts, each as thick as his arm. He slid one out and then the other, and then slowly and carefully pulled the door open. It swung forward with a faint creak, leaving nothing between him and the black griffin.

Darkheart got up almost instantly and jerked forward, trying to get through the door, only to be pulled back by his chains. He slumped, hissing and rasping in fury.

“Calm down,” Arren whispered. “Please, just let me take off the chains.”

Darkheart stilled. “Free me,” he said.

“I will,” said Arren. “I am.”

Slowly, very slowly, he stepped into the cage. There wasn’t much room in there, and as he ducked under the chain attached to one side of Darkheart’s collar he could feel the griffin’s feathers brushing against his face. Darkheart jerked his beak toward him briefly, but did not attack him, and Arren, wedged between his flank and the wall, felt his way to the base of the griffin’s wings and the manacles pinning them together. The manacles, like the ones he had worn, were held shut by pins. He took them out and opened one manacle, then crawled under Darkheart’s belly to the other side, where he removed the other. The chains slid off onto the floor with a muffled thud, and Darkheart’s wings opened, beating against the walls of the cage that restrained them. The griffin was becoming more and more restless, impatient to be free.

Arren lay flat on the cage floor and reached for the manacles holding Darkheart’s forelegs together. He removed those after some fumbling. “There,” he whispered. “You’re nearly free, Darkheart.”

Darkheart did not need to be told. He raised one foreleg, flexing the talons, then slammed both sets of front talons down on the sand in front of him and let out a deafening screech.

The noise shattered the uneasy silence into a million pieces, waking the other griffins, which started to screech back irritably. Panicking, Arren scrabbled away from Darkheart’s flailing talons and flattened himself against the wall behind him, as far away from his hind legs as he could get. “Shut up!” he shouted over the racket: “Darkheart, no! They’ll hear you!”

Darkheart paid no attention. He probably hadn’t even heard him. He continued to screech, calling his name again and again, and lunged forward against the collar, so hard the walls of the cage shuddered. Arren ran forward and grabbed the griffin’s wing, tugging at it. “Stop it! Stop it!”

The wing flicked backward, bowling him over, and his head hit the wall hard as Darkheart continued to struggle and scream.
“Want fly! Want fly! Darkheart!”

Arren gave up and started trying to squeeze past him, wanting to make his escape before it was too late. But then he heard a sound that made his heart freeze.

Human voices.

There was the unmistakeable sound of the gate to the enclosure opening, and he heard loud footsteps; someone had entered the enclosure. Torchlight lit up the space, and he could hear a man shouting over the screeching griffins. “Shut up! Shut up, godsdamnit!”

It was Orome’s voice. When the griffins ignored him, Sefer’s screech echoed off the walls, loud and commanding. He did it several more times, and they eventually calmed down.

“All right,” said Orome’s voice. “That’s enough from you lot.”

Arren saw the torchlight move and shrank back against the wall of Darkheart’s cage. If Orome or Sefer saw that the door was open . . .

And then he heard Orome’s voice again, loud and shocked. “What in the gods’ names?”

Arren could see him, just barely, standing outside the open cage and staring in astonishment. Sefer was there, too, tail lashing.

“Darkheart, who did this?” said Orome.

Darkheart started to lunge again, trying to get at him.
“Kill!”
he screamed.
“Kill!”

The shadows of the cage door that were cast onto the floor by Orome’s torch suddenly moved. Arren heard the creak of the door, and realised with horror that Orome was closing it. And if that happened he would be trapped inside with Darkheart. He wouldn’t be able to remove the bolts again from the inside.

Without even thinking, he threw himself forward. He dived under Darkheart’s thrashing wing and seized hold of the collar around the griffin’s neck. Darkheart’s struggles almost threw him bodily aside, but he dug his fingers in under the collar and reached desperately for the pin that held it shut.

Orome had stopped dead, holding the cage door. “Arren!” he exclaimed.

Too late. Arren’s fingers found the pin, and he pulled it out. The collar opened and Darkheart was free. He struggled past the chain still stretched in front of him, and then he charged out of the cage, straight at Orome.

The black griffin’s beak hit his gaoler directly in the throat, tearing through skin and muscle like the blade of a huge sword. Blood gushed out and Orome fell.

Darkheart didn’t even pause to finish him off. Sefer had rushed to attack him, and he turned and smashed his talons into the red griffin’s chest. Sefer reeled away and then leapt back without warning, driving his talons into Darkheart’s shoulders.

The two griffins grappled with each other, screeching, and Arren hurried out of the cage and crouched by Orome’s side. “Orome? Orome!”

Orome did not respond. He was already dead, his throat torn so deeply that his head had nearly been severed from his body. Arren reached down and gently closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He straightened up. Darkheart and Sefer were still fighting, both so intent on each other that they were completely unaware of his presence. He skirted around them and ran for the lifting frame. But even as he stepped onto the winch he heard the shouts, and looked up sharply to see a group of men run through the gate and into the enclosure. Panic shot through him. He started to climb the frame as fast as he could, but the support broke and he fell hard onto the platform, which lurched alarmingly.

The men had seen Arren, and the black griffin. They rushed in, raising the long spears they held. But Darkheart had also seen them. He glanced at them for a heartbeat and then threw himself forward, ducking in under Sefer’s beak and hitting Sefer with his full weight. There was a sickening snap as the red griffin’s neck broke, and Darkheart wheeled around and attacked the humans now trying to surround him.

Arren watched in horror as they were cut down, their spears utterly useless against the wild griffin’s rage. There was no time to try to climb the frame again. He ran around them as fast as he could, and darted out through the gate and into the dark tunnel leading to the pit. One man attempted to go after him, but Darkheart struck him from behind, and Arren heard his scream as he ran.

The door to Orome’s office was open, and he ran in and grabbed the sword from the wall. That made him feel a little safer; he stuffed it into his belt and began to search the drawers. He found a ring of keys in one and snatched it, with a little surge of triumph. Then he ran out of the office as fast as he could go.

There were a few torches burning in the tunnel, and he used their light to find his way to the small gate he had seen the day when Darkheart had come to the Arena. He tried several keys before he found one that would unlock it, wrenched open the gate and ran into the passageway on the other side. There were no torches there, but he didn’t slow down. He ran on blindly, heart fluttering, and didn’t know he’d reached the end until he collided with the door. There he tried the keys, one by one, choosing them by feel until one finally worked. The door opened, and fresh air blew onto his face. He threw the keys back into the corridor, slammed the door on them and ran away into the city.

22

Falling

A
rren ran. He left the Arena behind and headed for the market district, where there should be plenty of places to hide. The image of Orome’s dead body kept flashing before his eyes, its neck one huge bloodied wound, and horror came with it.
What have I done? What have I done?

The streets were almost completely deserted at this time of night, but there were still torches burning here and there. Arren stayed out of the pools of light and found a narrow alleyway to rest in. There he sat down with his back to the wall and breathed deeply, trying to compose himself. He had to get out of the city as fast as possible, but how? Ymazu wouldn’t be able to find him now, not in the dark, and if he called out to her he would be heard by every other griffin in the city. No. He was on his own now. Ymazu had told him she wouldn’t fight for him. Most likely she had already gone back to find Vander. If he could get to one of the lifters and conceal himself on it, then perhaps he would have a chance.

He stood up. No sense in staying here. The longer he stayed in one place, the greater the chance of being discovered.

The nearest lifter wasn’t far from the spot where his home had been. He left the alley and loped along the street beyond it. This wasn’t too dangerous; the streets were empty.

A screech came from overhead. Arren looked up sharply and saw several griffins flying over the market district. He didn’t stop to think; he broke and ran, sprinting down the street and to a crossroads. There he turned right and ran on, his mind racing. He had to keep out of the light, find somewhere to lie low until they had moved on.

He turned and ran down a small side street. Nowhere to hide here. Just blank walls. He burst out of the other end and into another street.

Straight into the path of a squad of armed men.

For an instant both he and they stood dead still, staring in surprise, and then Arren turned and ran away from them. The guards came in pursuit, at least six of them, all armed and shouting to raise the alarm. As he ran, realisation flashed across Arren’s mind.
They were hunting for me.
His escape had been noticed; by now every guard in the city must be searching for him.

After that there was no more thought; there was just night, and shadows, and terror. Arren ran as he had never run before in his life, every sense strained to its uttermost, always with the thud of boots and clank of armour following just behind him. The guards were weighed down by their weapons and breastplates—but the collar and the sword in his belt were doing the same to him, and he was still weak from the fight against Darkheart and the strains and shocks of that night. But he didn’t feel any pain. All he could feel was his feet hitting the ground, and all he could see was the street ahead of him, the twists and turns and the places where he could hide. He veered off the main street and into an alley; it was narrow and though he got through it easily enough, the guards had trouble following him. It delayed them long enough to give him some ground; he chose a direction at random and followed it at full speed, searching now for somewhere he could hide.

But he wasn’t quick enough. This street was well lit by the moon, and he heard the voices of the guards behind him. They were shouting at him, ordering him to surrender.

He paid no attention. There had to be somewhere to go, somewhere to hide, some way to escape, there had to be.

He turned another corner, onto another street. This one looked familiar . . . he turned right and went along it, ducking in and out of the shadows. It was a little darker here, more places to hide. The guards were still on his tail. They were carrying torches, and as they drew closer he could see the light throw his shadow ahead of him. They were gaining on him.

But Arren did not give up. He found an extra burst of strength inside him and sped up, leaving them behind. If he could put enough distance between him and his pursuers, it would give him a chance to hide before they saw where he had gone.

It was working. They were falling behind, tired out, and he felt a kind of wild glee. He was getting away. He’d always had long legs and been well coordinated. He was a natural runner, with none of the stockiness of a Southerner. They couldn’t catch him.

And then shouts came from ahead of him. He slowed down, confused, and saw another group of guards come running toward him from the other end of the street. They were heading him off. Arren stopped. He looked back and saw the first group catching up. He was sandwiched between them, with nowhere to go.

No. There was one way to go. He looked to his left and saw a gap between two houses. It would do. He darted through it, scraping his elbows on the wooden walls. Hope rose in his chest. They would be stuck in this gap; it was barely wide enough for him to fit through, let alone them with their armour. He’d made it. He’d outwitted them.

He burst out of the gap and onto—

A stretch of bare planks, jutting out over the edge of the city and into space.

Arren skidded to a halt and looked desperately this way and that. There was nowhere to go except back through the gap; the houses on either side were built right up to the edge of the planking, and in front of him there was nothing but a sheer drop.

But it was already too late to go back. Arren turned back the way he had come, and saw that the first of the guards had struggled through the gap and was advancing on him, sword drawn. Others joined him, and then spread out to cover the full width of the platform. They had bows in their hands and were already nocking arrows in place.