The Griffin's Flight (73 page)

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Authors: K.J. Taylor

BOOK: The Griffin's Flight
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Dad!
He started, suddenly remembering the little urn of ashes sitting in his shelter. He had completely forgotten about his plan to take it to the circle with him.
Don’t forget to take it,
he told himself as he ordered his fringe and tucked a few stray bits behind his ears.
The sun was beginning to go down, and he continued to absently comb and re-comb his hair and think about his father. Their relationship had always been a little strained after he had become a griffiner, of course, and Arenadd had flatly refused his father’s plans for them all to go to the North.
“I should’ve listened to you, Dad,” Arenadd muttered. “But no-one ever does, do they? We never listen to our parents until it’s too late. And I paid the price for it. We both did. And so did Eluna. But I hope you’re proud of me now.”
He sighed and lost himself in memories of his childhood and the times when he and his parents had been happy together. He thought of his friends, too. Gern, who had died, and Bran, his best friend, who had done so much for him ever since they were children together. And Flell, too. Sweet Flell.
Arenadd shut that memory away. He didn’t want to think about Flell ever again or see her face, those blue eyes, so like her father’s, and the horror he had seen in them that night.
Arren, what have you done? What’s happened to you? You’re not my Arren any more. You’ve changed, you’ve changed, Arren, what have you done?
He stood up abruptly and stuffed the comb back in his pocket. Night had fallen. Very soon, the moon would rise. It was time.
 
W
hen Arenadd returned to Taranis Gorge he found the deer carcass gone, but there was no other sign that anyone had been there during his absence. He took the urn and left immediately, following the track up out of the gorge.
He hadn’t been back to the circle since that first day, but he found the way easily enough, climbing the slope until he was up on the plateau and then walking on through the snowbound forest until the trees began to thin and he saw a light ahead.
He reached Taranis’ Throne and found them all there. Long wooden staves had been stuck into the ground to form a ring inside the stones, and their tips had been wrapped in cloth soaked in animal fat and set alight so that the entire circle was illuminated. The light played over the masks, lighting copper-covered eyes and inlaid spirals, fangs and horns. The Northerners had stationed themselves between the stones. At the centre, four more burning staves had been placed around the altar, and something was lying draped over it. Arenadd wondered what it was, but he had no time to look closer. Arddryn was there, frail but imposing in her griffin mask.
“Welcome,” she said. “Welcome.”
Arenadd bowed to her. “I have come,” he said, hoping this was the right thing to say.
“Ye have come to the sacred circle, on the night of the Blood Moon,” said Arddryn. “Are ye willin’ to do what must be done, to appease the spirits of the night an’ the stars an’ the moon, so that they will bless ye an’ accept ye?”
“I am,” said Arenadd.
“Good. The moon rises now. Drink this.”
He took the carved wooden cup she offered him. It looked to be full of wine, and he took a sip. The liquid was thick and warm and tasted nothing like wine. He gagged on it. “Ye gods, what is this?” he said, forgetting himself for a moment. “It tastes like blood.”
“Drink,” Arddryn repeated.
Arenadd forced himself to obey, but the cup seemed to take forever to empty. He gulped it down, his mouth filling with the horrible metallic tang of what he knew was blood, fresh blood. When he was done, he gave the cup back.
“Good,” said Arddryn. “Now turn an’ face the moon.”
Arenadd did. It had risen high over the treetops, a bright silver orb. But something strange was happening. The moon should be full, he knew, but it wasn’t. There was a patch of darkness at its edge, as if a shadow was moving over its surface.
“The Blood Moon,” Arddryn intoned, from behind him. “It’s coming. See, darkness begins to swallow the moon. The darkness of shadows, the darkness of death. The moon’s power waxes an’ wanes; when it is full, it is strongest. But when darkness comes, when our people are in danger an’ our land defiled, the moon begins t’be swallowed, just as the South swallows the North an’ takes what is ours for itself. When the dark time comes, we must honour the moon an’ give up our own blood to bring its power back an’ bring the Blood Moon that protects an’ blesses us. Ye, Arenadd of the Wolf Tribe, must do this.”
While she spoke, Arenadd could see the shadow moving slowly but inexorably over the moon’s surface, smothering its light. “My gods,” he breathed. “It’s really happening. It’s disappearing!”
“It’s dying, Arenadd,” said Arddryn. “Wanin’ for the last time. If ye don’t do somethin’, we’ll all die.”
Arenadd turned to her. “What do I do? Tell me.”
“Take this,” said Arddryn.
It was a copper dagger, its blade etched with the phases of the moon, and very sharp. Arenadd gripped the hilt. “Tell me what to do.”
“Go into the circle, Arenadd,” said Arddryn. “Ye will know what to do there.”
Arenadd nodded. He took the urn from his pocket and put it down at the edge of the stones, and then walked toward the altar. Arddryn went to stand between the stones where he had entered the circle, and looked on silently with the others.
When Arenadd reached the altar he saw at once what was happening. The thing lying on the altar was a man, naked and tied hand and foot. Arenadd had never seen him before. He was middle-aged, a Northerner with a scarred, tough frame decorated with blue spirals. He looked up at Arenadd with dull, mute terror.
Arenadd came on until he was standing over him, and looked down at his face, taking in his lined features and pointed beard. The man’s chest was heaving; he was paralysed with fear, his skin slick with sweat.
Arenadd looked up at the sky. The moon had darkened even further; now the shadow covered more than half of it and was encroaching over the piece that remained. Only a crescent was left.
Then he looked at the man again. He could feel the dagger in his hands, its hilt cold and slippery. He was sweating, too, he realised. But he felt calm.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
The man stirred. “Ouen. Ouen. Please—”
“I’m Arenadd.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I am Arenadd Taranisäii of the Wolf Tribe. I am the destroyer of Eagleholm. I am the man without a heart.”
The crescent was growing thinner and thinner. Even without looking up he could feel the light dimming.
“Please,” Ouen repeated. “Please, don’t.”
Arenadd looked at him, taking in his wide eyes, the mouth drawn back into a terrible grimace, the trembling in his hands. He was looking at a man who knew he was about to die and whose very being screamed out for life, for freedom, for a chance to run from the circle and be safe and alive once more. He gripped the dagger and brought it forward, so the tip was pointing straight at Ouen’s heart. One thrust and it would be done.
And then, as he hesitated, it happened. The shadow slid silently over the moon, extinguishing its white light completely.
From the edge of the circle, the masked men and women let out a low collective groan. On the altar, Ouen stilled, his eyes fixed on the emptiness where the moon had been. “No.”
Arenadd felt nothing. “Join me, Ouen,” he rasped, and brought the blade down with all his strength.
His aim was true. The dagger went in up to the hilt, and blood spurted from around it. Ouen gasped and jerked, and then was still, the dagger buried in his chest.
As Arenadd let go of the hilt, he heard a great shout from the Northerners. In that same moment, light came from above, dim red light. He looked up and saw the moon had returned. But it was no longer white or silver. It had turned a dull, ghastly red.
The Northerners started up, shouting as one. “Blood Moon! Blood Moon!”
Arenadd turned to them, wanting to go toward them and out of the circle, but something compelled him to look up once again. He did, staring fixedly at the red moon.
It’s beautiful,
he thought, and then he was falling, toppling forward and downward, into an endless dark dream.
 
A
renadd
.
Arenadd opened his eyes. “What? Who’s that? Who’s there?”
Arenadd, look at me. See me. See me. See
.
Arenadd looked around. He was still in the circle, but something had changed. The Northerners were standing in the same places as before, but they looked different. Then he realised that the masks were not masks at all but their real faces. Women with the heads of animals were staring at him. The altar was still there, but Ouen’s body had vanished, leaving only a pool of blood. The sky was black from edge to edge, swallowing up everything outside the circle, as if it were floating. Stars glittered, but the moon had gone.
“Where is it?” he said. “Where did it go?”
Arenadd. I am here
.
He realised that there was light behind him. He turned, and there she was. A woman, tall and elegant, bare-breasted, with a silver mantle thrown over her shoulders. Her hair was pure black, like the night, and her skin was white as snow. In one hand she held a sickle. In the other she had a silver orb; it was the moon, somehow able to fit into her hand, even though it looked the same size as before.
The woman regarded him, unsmiling, and he saw that one of her eyes was gone. She had no scar, but where her eye should have been there was nothing but a blank hole.
Arenadd knelt. “My lady,” he breathed.
She came closer.
Rise
.
He did. “You’re the Night God.”
Yes. I am the moon; I am the stars; I am death and darkness. I am the mistress of the North, the mistress of all tribes
.
Arenadd looked around. “Is this a dream?”
This is truth,
she said.
Arenadd, tell me what it is you seek. Why have you summoned me?
“I didn’t mean to summon you,” said Arenadd. “I didn’t know—”
You do not know many things, but I will tell you. Thank you for coming here, Arenadd. Thank you for coming to the North. Here, my power is strongest, and here is where you belong. Here is where you have always belonged, in my land
.
“I don’t understand. What do you want from me?”
What I want is what you gave me,
said the lady.
And you
—
you are looking for something. I feel it in you
.
“My heart,” said Arenadd. “I came here because I wanted to find some way to lift the curse on me.”
You have already asked another,
said the lady.
I can taste it on you
.
“Spirits,” said Arenadd. “I found a place where they are and I asked them to help me.”
And they refused
.
“Yes.”
They are Gryphus’ creatures,
said the lady.
The Southern god has no love for you or for me or for any of our people
.
“But can you help me?” said Arenadd.
The lady didn’t seem to hear him. She lifted the silver orb and put it into the empty socket in her face so that she had two eyes, one black, one silver.
My power is weakening,
she said.
My chosen people have been subjugated and humiliated. Gryphus’ followers have taken all they have, and if my people do not remember soon, I shall die. The sun and day and light shall triumph, and all will be lost
.
“Arddryn’s people remember you,” said Arenadd.
They cannot last forever. Arenadd
… Her voice faded, and for a moment the glow that surrounded her faded, too.
Arenadd, you must know … what you have come here to learn
…
it was I who brought you back
.
For an instant, a memory flashed in front of his eyes: the bright glow of the moon that shone on him and Skandar, reflecting in the griffin’s eyes as he looked up at it and died.

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