The Dark Griffin (15 page)

Terror shot through him, icy cold and smothering. He began to struggle wildly, pulling on the ropes with all his might, but they would not break. A strange weakness and lassitude filled him and he slumped back onto the ground, gasping for breath. He couldn’t breathe properly with his beak tied shut, and the air whistled painfully through his nostrils.

He lay still for a while, taking in his surroundings. He was lying in a field, very close to the human village. There were humans there, standing not far away and watching him. Many were holding sharp objects in their paws. The black griffin hissed warningly at them, and some of them drew back slightly, but they did not run. They knew he was helpless.

The black griffin began to struggle again, trying to move toward them. His legs were still pinioned together, and he began to jerk his entire body, trying to drag himself over the ground. But his hind legs had been tied to his forelegs, and to his wings, and more ropes were attached to stakes driven into the ground. He could not move in any direction, and the more he struggled, the tighter the ropes became. He felt his skin break suddenly; hot blood trickled down over his back paws.

The black griffin slumped back, groaning softly. The rain continued to fall, running in rivulets down his flanks. Dull fear burned inside him. He was trapped. He couldn’t fly, couldn’t walk, couldn’t fight, and the humans were there and watching him, free to do whatever they wanted to him. Would they kill him?

He stretched his neck upward, straining to look ahead, toward the village. The white griffin was lying there, not far away from him. She was dead. He could see the massive wound his talons had torn in her chest. The human was there with her, the one he had chased. It was cradling the dead griffin’s head against its chest and staring straight at him.

The black griffin looked back, some of his fear giving way to curiosity. This human was different to the others, in more ways than one. The fur on its head was black instead of brown, and the cloth that covered its body was unfamiliar, too. It had not run when he had swooped on it, but had stood firm and faced him. And there had been a griffin with it. Standing by its side. And when he had chased after it, intent on snatching it up off the ground, the griffin had flown at him. She had attacked him, to defend the human.

And now she was dead and the human was holding on to her body. The black griffin did not understand why. She was dead. What good would it do?

The humans around him were looking toward the one by the dead griffin, as if they were expecting it to do something. The human seemed unaware of them, but then it suddenly stood up and walked away, leaving the white griffin’s body lying where it was. The black griffin watched it go, and once again the strange feeling arose in his throat, that feeling of a scream trying to escape. But he could not make a sound.

A
rren didn’t speak to anyone. He jumped over the fence again and re-entered the village, making for the nearest house. There was a shed attached to it, and he shoved the door open and went inside. He paused a moment to scan the rows of tools, then picked up a shovel and left. People had followed him to the shed and were watching him curiously, but he ignored them and returned to the field where Eluna lay. The black griffin was still there, fighting pointlessly against its bonds. People were poking at it with sticks to torment it, and the creature tried to lunge at them, hissing.

“Leave it alone!” Arren snapped at them. They glanced at him and desisted, though reluctantly.

Arren turned away. He paused a moment, looking down at Eluna’s still form, and then thrust the shovel into the ground by her head and began to dig.

People gathered around him.

“Sir?”

“Sir, you’re hurt, you should be resting.”

“Please, sir, let me do it.”

Hands tried to take the shovel from him. Arren jerked it back.
“No!”

“But sir—”

Arren continued to dig. “Get wood,” he muttered. “Build a cage. For the griffin.”

“But why, sir? Weren’t—shouldn’t we kill it?”

“I will take it away,” said Arren. “It won’t bother you any more. Now get the wood.”

“Yes, sir.”

Arren didn’t watch them go. He continued to dig, not noticing the splinters digging into his hands, or the pain of the wound in his chest. The rain continued to fall, turning the dirt to mud even as he shovelled it aside. It dripped red off his tunic and turned him cold all over.

He did not stop digging until he had created a large, deep hole, and then he finally threw the shovel aside and returned to Eluna’s side. The white griffin’s body had gone cold, and her feathers were stained with blood and dirt.

Arren crouched beside her and did his best to smooth down her coat. She wouldn’t want to look dirty and bedraggled ; she’d always hated rain—

He stopped suddenly, choking back a sob. For a moment he sat still, shuddering, but he managed to control himself again. He lifted Eluna under the shoulders, wrapping his arms around her mangled chest, and began to drag her toward the hole. She came slowly, her wings and legs dragging, head bouncing gently on the ground. Arren fell into the hole and pulled her in after him. She landed on top of him, nearly squashing him, but he struggled out from beneath her and began to arrange her body, gently folding her legs in under her belly and curling her tail around her body. He pulled her wings over her like a shroud, and lifted her head in his hands. “Here,” he whispered to her. “You can sleep here, Eluna. You’re safe now.” He kissed her beak and pulled a feather from her neck. “I’ll come back. We’ll meet again, Eluna. I promise.”

Letting go of her was one of the hardest things he had ever done in his life. He climbed out of the hole, clutching the feather to his chest, and stood there for a time looking down at Eluna’s still form. She looked so peaceful. As if she were only sleeping.

Arren’s fingers curled around the feather, gripping it so tightly it threatened to snap. He tucked it into his tunic and began to fill in the hole.

Once he was done, he sat down on the mound of earth that marked Eluna’s last resting place, wrapped his arms around his legs and put his chin on his knees. Nearby the villagers had dragged some uncut fence posts into the field and were lashing them together into a crude cage around the black griffin. The creature was hissing helplessly at them, its tail thrashing like a headless snake. Arren watched it all through dull eyes, not really taking in what he was seeing. He felt numb and empty, as if reality had fled away from him, rendering him nothing but a mindless shell, unable to feel or think.

People came to him and tried to get him to return to the village, but he wouldn’t move or speak, or even look at them. When they gently tried to pull him away by force he shrugged them off, and after that he was alone, in the cold and the wet, listening to the rain drumming on the ground.

He huddled silently on the grave and closed his eyes, but the blackness only showed him a picture of Eluna. Eluna dying in front of him, her blood soaking into the ground and staining his hands. He opened his eyes again and stared blankly at his hands. The blood was still there, ingrained in the skin with the mud and sweat. He tried to wipe it away, but it wouldn’t come off. Arren shuddered again and buried his face in his hands.

The cage was nearly completed by now. People had fetched planks and were sliding them under the griffin to create a rough floor. The griffin had given up on its struggling and was lying still, eyes half-closed in a hopeless kind of way. Arren wondered if it had any notion of what awaited it.

He looked away. What did he care?

“Sir!”

Arren paid no attention.

“Sir, look! Sir, look up there!”

The words finally got through to him, and he looked up vaguely. The people building the cage had stopped their work and were chattering excitedly and pointing at the sky.

Arren looked up, the rain splattering onto his face, and saw three dark shapes circling against the grey cloud that had gathered. Winged shapes. Too big to be birds.

Arren looked away again. The three griffins landed in the field not far away, and their riders dismounted. Arren was woken from his stupor by their voices, and he allowed himself to be hauled to his feet and led out of the field.

They took him to one of the houses and made him lie down on a table, where they took off his tunic and began to clean the wound in his chest. It was deep and ragged and began to bleed again as they carefully removed the dirt. Arren winced and closed his eyes. A hand patted his shoulder. “It’s all right, just lie still, you’re going to be fine.”

Fine! Arren felt like laughing. He kept still as a herbal paste was applied to the wound, and sat up so they could wrap a bandage around his torso.

“There, all done. You’ll be all right.”

Arren looked up and saw the face of one of the senior griffiners from Eagleholm. “Deanne?”

She clasped his hand. “Arren Cardockson—my gods, you look terrible. Where is your griffin?”

Arren stared at the floor. “She’s dead,” he whispered.

The three griffiners glanced at each other. “Oh, Arren,” said Deanne. “I’m so sorry.”

“How did it happen?” one of the others asked.

Arren’s hands clenched. “She was . . . trying to protect me.”

“From that brute of a wild griffin,” the other griffiner finished. “For the love of Gryphus, Arren, what are you doing here? What in the world gave you the idea that you could fight that thing on your own? Are you mad?”

Deanne put her hand on her companion’s arm. “Not now, Kryn, please. The boy’s in shock. Get him a blanket, would you? And a clean tunic if you can find it.”

The third griffiner brought a blanket, and Arren pulled it around himself gratefully. He’d only just realised how cold he was. The blanket warmed him, but his shivering didn’t stop. He blinked, puzzled. His hands seemed to be shaking. He tried to make himself breathe deeply, and then before he knew what was happening he had started to gasp for air, his chest heaving. His vision started to go grey around the edges, and lights flashed before his eyes. He clutched at his chest, wide-eyed. His skin had gone deathly pale and clammy, and the shaking got worse. The three griffiners were there at once. They dragged him to the fireplace and made him lie down in the warmth, laying the blanket over him. Deanne took hold of his hands and squeezed them tightly. “Arren, Arren! Look at me!”

Arren’s eyes turned toward her, fixed and bulging.

Deanne patted his face. “Yes, that’s right, just look at me. Keep looking. Just breathe deeply. Breathe!”

He started to calm down, and the shaking decreased, but tears were running uncontrollably down his face.

“It’s all right,” Deanne said softly. “It’s all right, Arren. Just keep looking at me. Breathe deeply. In . . . out . . . in . . . out . . . yes, just like that. That’s right. You’re fine. You’re all right. You’re all right . . .”

The sound of her voice soothed him, and he slowly relaxed into a faint. When he woke up a few moments later, Deanne gently helped him to his feet.

“There. Careful, steady there . . . All right, just sit down and I’ll get you something to eat.”

Arren huddled in the chair, letting the fire warm him. He felt a lot better, physically at least. “What . . . happened?” he managed.

“You went into shock,” Kryn explained. “It’s like a panic. It happens when something very sudden and violent happens to someone. Do you feel better now?”

Arren nodded. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No need to apologise. The same thing would’ve happened to—well, it’s not your fault.”

Arren looked at him with a terrible, hopeless expression. “What am I going to do?”

The third griffiner came over, carrying a clean tunic. “Here, put this on. You just rest, all right? We’ll take care of everything. There’s some more people coming to the village right now by road—we sent them on ahead of us. They’ll be taking the griffin back to Eagleholm on a wagon, and we’ll all go back home with them.”

Arren took the tunic and held on to it as if he had no idea what it was for. He started to speak and then fell silent and looked away. Deanne brought him some food, but he didn’t take it.

She put it into his hands. “Here. Come on, take it. You need to keep your strength up.”

Arren started to chew listlessly at the cheese and dried apple. It was poor quality, but he didn’t really notice.

“That’s better,” said Deanne.

Arren looked away and finished his food. It made him feel a little better.

“Now then,” said Deanne. Her two companions had left, probably to go and supervise the completion of the cage, but she stayed where she was, her eyes on Arren. “Tell me, what were you doing here?” she asked.

Arren stared into the fire. “I came to fight the griffin. Catch it, if I could. For the reward.”

“On your own?”
said Deanne. “For Gryphus’ sake, Arren, what were you thinking? Do you know how dangerous a wild griffin is? You
never
go after one on your own, even if you
are
a griffiner! Who even told you about it?”

Arren looked up, confused. “It was—” He paused, remembering his promise. “Someone told me about it. He said—well, I have a debt to pay, and someone said I could get some money by catching this griffin, so—”

“Who was it?” said Deanne.

“I—I’m not allowed to say.”

She frowned at him. “Why in the world not? Whoever this person is, what did they tell you? Didn’t they advise you to take some help?”

“They said I could do it alone,” said Arren. “I—I had some poison. To put on my arrows. That’s how I caught it.”

“What, so this person told you that you could fight a wild griffin on your own, when you’re—you’ve never done anything like this before, have you?”

Arren shook his head.

“But this person persuaded you to do it on your own, without telling anyone where you were going or why, or even asking anyone for advice? Who was it? Was it a griffiner?”

“I thought I could do it. He
said
it was easy, and I—”

“And you just believed him?” Deanne was looking at him in disbelief. “My gods, Arren, I really don’t—I never thought you were reckless, but what you did was insane. You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”