The Dark Griffin (30 page)

Arren spent the next two days in agony. Every moment he expected someone to come after him, at home or at work or out in the street. No-one did. He didn’t see Flell, either; he avoided her, and she was probably doing the same. He avoided Bran and Gern as well, and when he wasn’t at work, he spent every moment barricaded in his house. He began carrying his sword with him wherever he went and wore his leather breastplate under his tunic. When nothing happened, his tension didn’t decrease—in fact, it worsened.

Roland was quick to notice the change in his demeanour. “What’s the matter, lad?” he inquired. “You look terrible. And why do you have your sword with you? I’ll admit it’s a rather nice one, but why carry it around all day? Isn’t it a tad heavy?”

“There’s a problem with muggers,” Arren lied. He’d prepared this excuse beforehand. “I don’t want to be attacked on the way home.”

“Ah, I see,” said Roland. “Fair enough, I suppose, but there’s no need to keep the thing on your back all day. Just put it over by the door until you leave, why don’t you? I wouldn’t worry about anyone stealing it. The chicks will yell loud enough to wake the dead if they smell anyone they don’t know come in here.”

Arren hesitated a moment before he obeyed, but he quickly saw that Roland was perfectly correct. No-one would attack him in here. Not with so many witnesses. He undid the straps holding the scabbard onto his back, and put the sword down by the door, leaning it against the wall of the pen beside it. Then he picked up his broom and resumed sweeping the floor.

Roland wandered over to inspect the sword. “I can see you’ve been taking good care of it,” he said, pulling it out of the sheath and examining the blade. “That’s good. My father was very fond of this sword. He told me it was used in proper warfare by his grandfather. Against Nor—oh, I’m sorry, Arren.”

Arren shrugged and pushed a heap of dust toward a hole in the floor. “I’m not all that good with it, but I’m very proud to own it. I keep thinking I should get someone to teach me proper swordplay. I mean, I know the basics, but that’s about it. I practise, though.”

“Well done,” Roland said approvingly. “Truth be told, when Rakee was still alive, I never took much of an interest in fighting. In fact, for a while I considered joining the priesthood.”

“You did?” said Arren, surprised. The priesthood was highly respected, but the only griffiners that ever joined it were the ones who had been deemed to be useless or undesirable in some way.

“Oh yes,” said Roland. “I was very religious back then. But my mother wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Wait until you’re old, if you really must,’ she said.” He chuckled. “Of course, by the time I’d started to go grey I’d already lost interest in that idea. I never could settle down to anything when I was your age. Or when I was twice your age, come to that. No, the priesthood is holy and everything, and learned, of course, but nowadays I think they were rather out of touch with the rest of the world. Always looking back when they should be looking forward.”

Arren had seen the city’s temple from the outside plenty of times but had never been inside it. “I don’t think I really believe in any gods,” he said, turning to sweep out a particularly stubborn corner. “I’ve always liked the idea of religion, but I never really could
believe.
Not properly.”

“Didn’t your parents pass their beliefs on to you?” said Roland.

“No. They taught me about it, but, well, they’re not very religious. I know that—” He paused, almost embarrassed to say it. “Well, Northerners never had priests, as far as I know. They worship on their own. You know, in private. So it’s just between them and their god.”

Roland gave him a quizzical look. “
They
, Arren?”

“That’s what I said.”

Roland paused a moment and then shrugged and made for the door to his home. “Well, I think we’ve done about enough for today. You can be off home once you’ve finished with the floor. Just wait a moment and I’ll get you your pay.”

He disappeared into his home and returned to put a bag of coins on the table before bidding Arren goodbye and going back through the door.

Arren finished sweeping the floor and put the broom back on its hook. He yawned as he pocketed the money. It had been another long day. He’d had to help Roland with a recalcitrant chick that didn’t want to swallow its medicine, and the thing’s talons had left a large hole in his tunic. He’d have to sew that up before he went to bed.

He picked up his sword from its spot by the door and strapped it back on, then left the hatchery. It was sunset, and the horizon was bright orange and gold. He sighed when he saw it, and turned for home, walking quickly and keeping to places where there were plenty of people.

He turned the corner into his street and reached the door to his home. He unlocked it and went inside, and the moment the door closed behind him he relaxed. Back in his own territory.

He unfastened the sword from his back and put it down on the table, and that was when he noticed that something was different. The door leading out to the balcony was hanging open. When he went to close it, his eyes adjusted to the gloom and he finally saw what was wrong.

His home was ruined. The furniture was smashed; the cupboards were hanging open with their contents strewn all over the floor. Someone had slashed his hammock to ribbons, and his clothes had been thrown over the balcony; he could see a solitary tunic hanging forlornly on the railing like a banner.

Arren swore. He looked for his lamp, but it was lying in a corner, broken into three large pieces, and he swore again and made for the stable. There should be another one in there.

He passed through the doorway, and froze. There were people in there, shrouded and anonymous in the gloom. They stood up and came forward to meet him. Arren turned to run back through the door, but someone had already moved to block it. He lashed out and managed to hit them on the chin hard enough to knock them aside. As Arren dived for the gap, someone grabbed him from behind. They dragged him back into the stable and threw him onto the floor, and in an instant he was surrounded.

A hand hauled him upright, and suddenly he was being struck from all sides. Blows rained down on his head and shoulders, so hard they made stars explode before his eyes. He made an attempt to fight back, but someone thumped him in the stomach and he doubled over, yelping. He staggered backward and hit the wall, and then they were on him. Arren curled up, trying to protect himself, but they continued to hit him, kicking him in the chest, stomach and groin. Helpless and close to blacking out, he started to shout at them.

“Stop it! Stop it! Help me!
Help!
”

They jeered and began to hit him even harder. Something that felt like a falling tree hit him in the chest, and sharp pain shot through him. His head hit the wall so hard it blinded him for an instant. For a moment he tried to get up, groping at the wall behind him, but then he slid down it and landed in a crumpled heap at its base, moaning softly. Hands grabbed his arms and shoulders to hold them still, and someone else seized him by the hair and yanked his head backward. He heard them laughing, and one of them said something he couldn’t make out.

There was a sharp metallic
click
just below his ear, and then pain stabbed into his neck, like a dozen knives. He cried out, but then the hands let go of him. “Try and forget now, blackrobe,” a distant voice sneered, and then something hit him hard in the head and the world was snatched away from him.

16

The Collar

E
luna was calling him. He could hear her. He could
see
her, too, just there in front of him. The white griffin loomed out of the darkness ahead of him, her silver eyes bright.
Arren. Arren
.

He reached toward her.
Eluna? Where are you?

She just stared at him.
Arren,
she said.
Arren
.

It hurts, Eluna,
he said.
Why does it hurt? Eluna. It hurts, Eluna. It hurts
.

Arren
.

I don’t want
—
I don’t want it . . .

And then Eluna was gone and he could see something else. Himself, lying on the ground, while the moon drifted overhead, looking down on him like a great silver eye. A griffin’s eye. He lay still, staring up at it, but his eyes were empty and sightless. There was blood on his face, and more on his clothes. A tear slid slowly down his cheek. But it was thick and dark, and red. A shape loomed above, unmoving. Watching.

And then the world came back.

The first thing he felt was pain. It was everywhere, all over him. He heard himself cry out, and the noise sent red-hot agony through his head. He lay still, gasping, wanting to escape back into unconsciousness, but he couldn’t. He stayed awake, and the pain consumed him. His back ached. His stomach and groin felt as if they had been crushed under a rock, and his chest . . . he couldn’t feel anything in his chest. It had gone numb. His neck hurt, too, and badly. But his head was worse. It made him want to scream, but he couldn’t make his voice obey him. His entire body was out of his control. All it would do was lie still on its side, and hurt.

He managed to open his eyes, but his head hurt so severely that his vision was blurred. Everything was grey around the edges, and red flashed behind his eyes with every heartbeat.

Some perverse inner strength made him try to get up, and now he really did scream. The instant he moved, agonising pain crackled through his chest. He fell back down again, and the impact made it a hundred times worse. It made him black out briefly, and when he woke up he couldn’t move at all.

But the pain faded gradually, and his resolve hardened.
Try again,
he thought.

Very carefully, he moved his free arm. It was fine. The wrist and elbow were uninjured and his hand intact, though the shoulder hurt. He could cope with that.

He touched his chest, gritting his teeth in readiness for a resurgence of the pain. But nothing happened. His chest felt strangely . . .
hard
under his tunic, and it took him some time to remember that he was still wearing his breastplate. That was a relief, he decided, the thought moving very slowly through his head. It would have protected him a little.

He checked his other arm. It was also fine. His legs, too, still worked and were more or less pain free.

He paused to prepare himself, then pushed on the ground with his lowermost arm and very gently rolled onto his back. To his surprise, this didn’t make the pain come rushing back. It did surge a little, but not too badly, and he let his head drop. Instantly, pain stabbed into his neck. He winced and reached up to feel the spot.

His hand touched cold metal.

He stopped, bewildered, and started to run his fingers over the surface of it, trying to discern the shape of it. It was smooth and slightly rounded, like a ring, and it went all the way around his neck.

The realisation hit him slowly and coldly, like ice moving down into his brain.

It was a collar.

And, on the skin below it, blood had flowed and dried into a thick crust. When he slid a finger under the collar, he could feel the spikes that lined its insides, embedded in his flesh.

Panic took hold of him. He grabbed the collar in both hands and started to pull at it, trying to make it come off. But it stayed firmly in place, and his efforts only drove the spikes further in. There was a wet tearing sensation and a burst of pain, and fresh blood started to trickle down over his fingers.

Arren let go of the collar and lay still on his back, not daring to move.

He realised, eventually, that he was sobbing.

Wild rage and terror flooded into him. He forgot everything and rolled onto his side, pulling at the collar with all his might, wrenching it upwards, trying to get it over his head. It would not come. He didn’t even notice the agony of his ribs; he jammed his fingers under the collar and pulled outward with all his might. The spikes cut his fingers, and more blood ran down over his wrists. He started to scream and swear, not even knowing he was doing it, thrashing around on the floor in a haze of pain, tears streaming down his face. But nothing he did would make the collar come off. It stayed where it was, its spikes biting into him, its surface becoming sticky with blood. In the end he slumped back onto the floor, sobbing weakly, every fibre of his being screaming out.

“No . . . no . . . oh gods, no . . .”

His head pounded and his chest was agony. His neck continued to bleed, weighed down by the collar. Part of him wanted to call for help, but he knew in his heart that no-one would hear him. And if they did, what then? What would they do when they saw him?

Gradually, though, his terror gave way to rage. Burning, terrible rage, the same rage that had made him attack the two men in the tavern. It took hold of him, overwhelming his senses, blotting out the pain and giving him strength.

Slowly, very slowly, he got up. Broken bone grated together inside his chest; he could
feel
it, and hear it. The collar shifted on his neck, sliding down and settling into place just above his shoulders, the spikes tearing grooves into his skin. But he could stand up. His legs were still sound; the pain was all in his neck, head and torso. The collar unbalanced him, and he staggered sideways and hit the wall. More pain blossomed inside him, but he grabbed hold of one of the roof supports and managed to stay upright. Once he had rested, he turned himself around and began to make his way toward the door, staying close to the wall to hold himself up. Walking was painful, and he had to move very slowly and place each foot carefully. If he trod down too hard, it sent pain shooting up his spine.

He reached the door after what felt like an age and rested there again. It was daytime, but the light coming in through the broken windows was dull and grey, and as he stood in the doorway, lightning turned everything pure white for a heartbeat. Thunder rumbled a few moments later.