The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy) (67 page)

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Authors: K. J. Taylor

BOOK: The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy)
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Skade snarled, but Arenadd turned his head away. “Oh gods,” he said. “Oh please gods, no. I can’t do this. Please, master, don’t make me do it. Don’t make me kill her.”
Skade touched his arm. “Arenadd, why do you hesitate? This woman is nothing to you; she is a Southerner, daughter to the man who betrayed you. They must all die, you have said so yourself.”
Arenadd lowered the sickle and forced himself to look at Flell. “Skade, look at her. She’s just a girl. She’s trying to defend her baby. How could I . . .
no
.” He said it sharply, almost angrily, as if he was arguing with an unheard voice. “No. I’m not a monster. I won’t do it.”
Flell’s eyes lit up. “Yes!” she said. “Arren, yes!
Remember!
You’re not a monster! You’re not—
no!
”
Skade looked sharply to her right. “Arenadd!” she yelled, and pushed him aside as a grey griffin burst in from the nest, hissing and hostile.
Arenadd stumbled sideways, turning to face this new threat, while Flell screamed.
“Thrain! No!”
Skade managed to evade the enraged creature’s talons as it ran to attack Arenadd. She turned, and there was Flell, sword raised and shouting.
“You filth!” Skade snarled. “You laid this trap to try and kill us!”
Flell did not hear her. In front of her, Arenadd ducked Thrain’s talons and struck at her throat, trying to defend himself.
Skade’s eyes narrowed, and she gripped her sword more tightly than ever. “You—”
There was a scream and a thump, and Thrain fell, blood pumping from her throat. Arenadd freed himself from her body, stumbling slightly.
“Arenadd, are you hurt?” said Skade.
“No, Skade, I—”
She turned her back on him, trembling with rage. “Well, if
you
will not kill this Southern scum, I will,” she said and rushed at Flell.
Flell turned, caught by surprise. She dodged Skade’s first, reckless blow, and the short sword, slicing past her arm, hit the cradle and embedded itself in the wood, the point an inch away from the infant’s face.
“Not my baby!”
Flell swung her own weapon, as hard as she could. Skade howled and staggered away, bleeding from a deep cut in her back.
“Skade!”
Arenadd screamed.
Flell, half-mad with fear, drew her sword back and thrust.
Arenadd’s scream had not stopped. Flell turned, raising her arm to protect herself, but too late, too late. Arenadd’s sickle found her throat, tearing it open so powerfully her head snapped back. Blood splattered over the cradle, as Flell took a step back and then slid down it onto the floor, her blue eyes still open and staring.
Arenadd did not even see her body fall. He knelt by Skade’s side, reaching down to touch her face. “Skade. Skade.
Skade
.”
She stirred, ever so slightly. Her silver hair was wet with blood.
Arenadd touched her chest, pulling her gown aside to see the wound. The sword had gone deep.
“Skade,” he said again. “Skade, please, look at me. Please, just look at me!”
For a moment she didn’t respond, but then her eyes flickered open. She turned them toward his face, just staring in silence.
Arenadd let out a hoarse sob. “Skade. Skade, can you hear me? Keep your eyes open.”
Skade’s eyes stayed on his face for a long moment. And, even as he looked, he saw the life drain away from behind them.
After that, everything seemed to become unreal for Arenadd.
He stood up, as if in a dream, with his sickle still clasped loosely in his hand. As if in a dream, he stepped toward the cradle where the child lay. As if in a dream, he stepped over Flell’s motionless body and stood over the cradle. Inside, the child stared up at him. It had been wrapped in warm clothes, with a hood that covered the head. But the face peered through, and he could see the eyes. Blue eyes, blue as the daylight sky. The eyes of Rannagon.
Very slowly, Arenadd lowered the sickle into the cradle. He brought it down until the point was touching the soft flesh of the infant’s throat. One blow and it would be done.
“Arren!”
Arenadd snapped out of the dream and looked up as two figures came rushing in—a man and a griffin.
The man stopped in the entrance, breathing harshly as he took in the bloody scene. He saw Flell. “Oh Gryphus save me,” he moaned. “Flell.”
Arenadd looked at him.
I knew you,
he thought.
Bran stepped closer to him. “Arren,” he said. “Arren Cardockson. What have you done?”
Arenadd found his voice. “Stay back, Southerner,” he said harshly. “I have the Night God’s work to do.”
Bran stopped. “Arren,” he said. “Please. Please, don’t do it. Yeh can’t do it.
Don’t do it
.”
Arenadd looked away from him, fixing his gaze on the child. His hand trembled.
Do it,
a voice whispered in his head. His own, or the Night God’s.
“Don’t do it,” said Bran. “Please, don’t.”
Do it
. Do it!
Finish it!
“I have nothing left,” Arenadd intoned in a voice that seemed to come from far away. “I have nothing but this. I must do the Night God’s will. I must . . .”
Do it. Kill it
.
“Arren, yeh can’t,” said Bran, his voice quiet and almost fatherly. “Yeh ain’t no monster, Arren. Yeh never have been. The Arren I know wouldn’t do this.”
Arren Cardockson is dead. Do it
.
“The Arren I know is a good man,” said Bran. “The Arren I know wouldn’t ever dream of doin’ something like that.”
What does it matter?
Arenadd thought.
Why should I care? I’m not that man any more
.
“Arren Cardockson ain’t dead,” said Bran, breaking into his thoughts. “I told yeh. Arren Cardockson ain’t dead, even if yeh’ve tried t’bury him. He’s alive. He’s
you
. You, Arenadd. Yeh can’t make him go away, not ever. He’ll always be there.”
Arren Cardockson is dead,
the Night God whispered.
“No!”
The word tore itself from Arenadd’s throat. He lifted his arm and swung the sickle with all his might.
It flew out of his hand, spinning in the air, and hit the wall, embedding itself point first in the wood, where it stayed, quivering.
Arenadd pointed at Bran. “You,” he rasped. “Southerner. I have an order for you.”
Bran glanced toward the cradle. “Yes . . . my lord?”
Arenadd closed his eyes. “Take him,” he muttered. “Take the child. Take him away from here. Keep him safe. Never, ever let me find him.”
Bran stepped over to the cradle and lifted the child into his arms. “I will. I swear.”
Arenadd walked away, toward Skade’s body. “Now go,” he said.
Bran hesitated. “Arren,” he said. “Thank you.”
Arenadd turned.
“Go!”
he screamed. “Get out of here, you Southern filth, before I kill you! Get out of my city, get out of my land, and never come back!
Go!
”
Bran, clutching the child to his chest, ran to Kraeya’s side and got on her back. The red griffin lingered an instant, watching as Arenadd slumped down by Skade’s side and lifted her into his arms, holding her close. Then she turned and ran away, out through the nest and onto the balcony, where she launched herself into the air and flew away.
The unpartnered tried to stop her. Some came close to catching her. But none of them succeeded, and none of them chased her far. It was almost as if there was a power protecting her and her precious burden, as she fled from Malvern as fast as her wings could take her and never looked back.
 
 
I
n the tower, Arenadd held Skade close. He could already feel her becoming cold and stiff in his arms. And the Dark Lord of the North, the Shadow that Walks, the man without a heart, cried.
He cried as he had not cried in years—as he had not cried even when he was alive, when there had still been a heart in his chest and he had known love and safety and friendship.
Inside, he felt the place where that heart had been become a gaping hole full of darkness and pain. It was all, all he had left now. All he was. All he had become.
Arenadd,
the Night God whispered in his head.
Arenadd
.
He didn’t answer her. Not now. Not any more.
Arenadd
.
He reached into his robe, into the secret pocket where he kept things he might need. Inside, his fingers closed around a stone bottle, and he brought it out into the light. Inside it was all he wanted now.
He pulled the cork out and swallowed the entire contents. They burned inside him, but he welcomed the pain.
Arenadd,
said the Night God.
Arenadd lifted a hand and made an obscene gesture at the empty air. “Here’s to you, bitch,” he snarled, and collapsed over Skade’s body.
Later, when the battle was over and his friends and followers came searching, they found Lord Arenadd Taranisäii limp and cold on the floor. His skin was grey, his eyes unfocused, and there was no trace of a pulse in his neck or on his chest, where a ghastly blackened wound had cut straight through him.
Beside him, so close his outstretched hand touched its face, was the body of a large female griffin. She was slim and elegant, and her feathers were pure silver.
38
 
King of the North
 
T
he days that followed were joyous ones for the people of the North.
Saeddryn, wounded but fit, took command of the undisciplined rabble now filling the city and set them to work. The slaves, accustomed to doing as they were told, systematically searched through the city, uncovering every surviving Southerner still left. They searched the Eyrie as well and found a handful of griffiners who had attempted to hide rather than fight.
They weren’t killed, not yet. Saeddryn had them taken to the old councillors’ chamber, and once they had been secured around the Mistress’ platform, the slaves entered, too. They flocked into the gallery, and when that was full they filled the space down on the floor as well and had to be kept away from the griffiners by a line of guards.
Many of them tried to push past the barrier, screaming insults and threats at the humiliated griffiners. Most of the griffiners stood arrogantly tall, pretending not to hear their bloodthirsty voices. The griffins hissed through the ropes holding their beaks shut.
Saeddryn, with Aenae beside her, looked grimly at them. With her were Iorwerth and Kaanee, both injured, Torc, Iekee, Hyrenna, Nerth, Garnoc, Cai, Hafwen and Yorath. Skandar’s other son, Eerak, had been killed in the fighting.
Saeddryn didn’t wait for silence; she knew she wouldn’t get it.
She turned to face the griffiners. “Ye’ve been beaten,” she told them, her voice strong enough for them all to hear. She was speaking griffish, and the griffiners started in outrage at the sound of it. “Aye, I speak griffish,” said Saeddryn. “Taught t’me by my mother, Arddryn Taranisäii. She fought for the freedom of the North an’ failed only because of the cowardice of yer ancestors. In a fair fight, a true warrior always wins, an’ ye are no warriors. But the North has always bred warriors, an’ ye could never make us forget it. That’s why ye’ve lost.”
“You won by your own evil,” one griffiner said coldly. “And the evil of the Dark Lord.”
There were angry shouts from the Northerners within earshot.
“Be quiet,” said Saeddryn. “Say whatever bitter, arrogant things ye like after this is over.”
“Well, kill us then,” said the griffiner. “Kill us like the cowards you are.”
Saeddryn laughed. “Why? Why would we want t’do that when ye’re so much more useful alive? Nerth.” She nodded to him, and he came toward her, holding a large sack.
Saeddryn accepted it and reached inside. “We’ve devised a punishment,” she said. “For ye. As a reminder. As a sign to those who see ye. Garnoc?”
Garnoc nodded grimly and turned to look at the brazier burning beside him. “It’s ready.”
“Good. Iorwerth?”
Iorwerth stepped up and took a griffiner from the group, hauling him forward by the shoulder. He came readily enough, obviously realising it was futile to resist.
“Ye can do it now, Garnoc,” said Saeddryn.
Garnoc grinned nastily. As the griffiner was brought to the brazier, he took the man by the wrist. With his other hand, he pulled a long metal rod out of the coals. On the end was a small symbol, glowing red hot. The griffiner’s eyes widened at the sight of it, and he tried to break free, but Iorwerth grabbed his other arm and twisted it behind his back.

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