The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy) (57 page)

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Authors: K. J. Taylor

BOOK: The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy)
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Erian weakened and ate the last of the meat and mushrooms by way of celebration, giving some to the chicks, who were becoming restless again.
As he sat back to allow himself a quick rest while he ate, he felt a sudden coldness around his legs. Water.
He looked down and saw blue ocean swirling around his ankles, then his calves, then up toward his knees . . . how could it be getting in so fast?
For a few moments Erian stared blankly at it, unable to comprehend what was going on, and then a piece of wood bumped innocently against his leg.
“What?” he said aloud, before realisation came crashing down on him like a collapsing roof.
It’s a piece of the boat!
A stream of griffish and human curses babbled out of his mouth as he finally sprang into action. He thrust an arm into the water, grabbing for the sword. His fingers closed around the blade, and he hauled it out and tucked it under his arm. His other hand caught the bucket as it floated away from him, and he began to bail as fast as he could.
It worked—barely. He managed to reduce the level of water in the boat with a mighty effort, but there was obviously a very large hole, and deep down he knew he could never hope to keep up his bailing.
In desperation, he snatched up the broken plank and tried to find the place it had come from. He found it eventually—the hole was nearly as big as his hand—and managed to wedge the board back into place, but it didn’t come close to plugging the leak, and he knew it would work itself loose again in no time at all.
Taking advantage of this brief respite, Erian slung his sword on his back and found the other bucket. The chicks, sodden and whimpering, clustered around him for comfort.
“It’s all right,” Erian told them, lying, while he continued to scoop water out of the boat, using both buckets at once this time.
It was only a temporary measure, and he knew it.
Senneck, oblivious, flew on. The land ahead grew closer, but it was too far away, too far . . .
Erian opened his mouth to call her, and heard an ominous splintering sound come from beneath him. An instant later, water gushed in. He bailed frantically, practically flailing at the water. It was a hopeless effort. The water came in torrents, swamping
The Pride of Gryphus
in no time at all. The chicks, panic-stricken, climbed on top of him to try to escape, clinging to his arms. Erian tried to shake them off, but they held on instinctively, weighing him down, hampering his efforts to save the boat. A wave, crashing over the bows, snatched one of the buckets and washed it away, and he lost the other one in a clumsy attempt to retrieve it.
The boat lurched alarmingly, juddering as the waves tore at it. And then, finally, it surrendered itself to the inevitable. Erian felt the planks begin to come apart beneath him, and did one of the most quick-witted and sensible things he ever did in his life.
He half-rose, supporting himself on the boat’s hull even as it broke, and lurched toward the prow with the chicks still clinging to him.
An instant later,
The Pride of Gryphus
fell to pieces, consigning its three passengers to the water.
Weighed down by the sword and by the two chicks, Erian sank like a stone.
He struggled desperately, trying to hold on to the rope he had managed to grab at the last moment. It slid through his hands, escaping from him . . . but then the fragment of wood still attached to the end hit his hands, giving him a place to grip. He held on with all his might, and the rope pulled him upward, along with the chicks, dragging them along just at the surface. Safe.
Erian, coughing and spluttering, took one hand away from the rope and looped his arm around the terrified chicks, pulling them up to keep their heads out of the water. Rannagon prudently decided to climb onto his surrogate father’s shoulder, which was above water, while his weaker sister simply dug her talons into Erian’s arm and relied on that to keep her safe.
Erian wrapped his other arm around the rope, putting all his effort into not losing his hold on it. He looked up at Senneck—she didn’t seem to have noticed what had happened—probably exhausted, and putting all her effort into flight.
Erian cursed himself for not calling to her sooner; he couldn’t do it now, not properly. He opened his mouth to try, and was rewarded with a throatful of salt water for his trouble. Spitting it out, he held on and hoped Senneck would notice his predicament before he and the chicks all drowned.
This horrible continuation to his journey back seemed to last forever. His arm, already sore from half a day of near-constant bailing, throbbed in protest. He couldn’t tell if the chicks were well. Rannagon seemed fine, more or less, but his sister barely moved, and Erian had the constant paranoid conviction that her head was underwater or that he was holding on to her too tightly and strangling her. He had no idea how close they were to land by now; he was too low in the water to see anything ahead but more waves.
But it did not last forever. Eventually, Senneck did indeed look down and see what had happened; Erian saw her head move. A moment later she began to beat her wings hard, flying higher. The rope went taut as she pulled it with her, and Erian clung on as it dragged him out of the water, chicks and all.
Senneck was not done yet. She flew still higher, lifting her passengers until they were well above the waves, and then she moved on toward land as fast as she could.
Erian found himself dangling in midair, his feet just above the water, with the chicks still holding on to him. Rannagon quickly lost his grip but managed to catch hold of Erian’s arm, and Erian scooped him up with his sister.
In a way, this new state of affairs was worse than before: without the water to support him, it was much harder to hold on to the rope. But at least they wouldn’t drown now.
Erian managed to turn his head to look in the direction Senneck was going.
The mainland is there! Right there!
It was barely any distance away; he could see the sand, the cliffs, the trees, everything!
The realisation gave Erian strength, and he redoubled his grip and waited, determined to make it.
When they were close—so close Erian could see the waves lapping at the shore—the rope suddenly went slack.
He fell back into the water, hitting it with a loud splash. Frantic, he let go of the rope and tried to swim. But he’d never make it: the sword was too heavy, and he couldn’t swim and keep the chicks above water at the same time.
He churned forward as quickly as he could, barely able to keep his head above water. The chicks let go of him and began to swim, propelled by instinct. But they would never make it, Erian thought. They could never . . .
And then his feet hit sand. He struggled on, not quite believing it, but as the next wave let him go, he found it again. Before long he could walk along the bottom, and relief surged through him.
He forged his way toward the land, occasionally knocked down by a wave but managing to find his feet again. The chicks swam ahead, surprisingly powerful and certain in the water. Erian followed them on through the surf, until they reached the beach and climbed up it; he went after them, staggering through the wet sand until he was away from the water, then he collapsed.
The chicks flopped down beside him, panting, and Erian managed to reach out and pet them reassuringly. “Well done. Well done.”
While he lay there recovering from his ordeal, Senneck appeared. She was limping and her wings dragged on the ground, but she stumbled over to her chicks and nudged them urgently, cooing to them. They stirred and looked up pathetically at her, and she lay down on her belly, inviting them to shelter under her wings. They went to her and huddled against her flanks, shivering. But safe.
Senneck touched Erian with the point of her beak. “Erian. Erian, look at me.”
Erian raised his head and managed a watery grin. “Let’s not do that again.”
She hooted. “I am glad to see you are safe. I am sorry I did not realise you were in trouble sooner than I did, but I was tired and had let my mind wander.”
“It’s all right,” Erian mumbled, knowing this was the most emotional apology he could expect from her. “We survived.”
“I would not have dropped the rope,” Senneck added. “But the stick broke, and I could not catch it in time—we were lucky you were so close to shore. Thank you for protecting my chicks.”
Erian rolled onto his back, ignoring the sword beneath him. “You’re welcome.”
Neither of them had the energy to say anything more after that. Erian thought of trying to get up and find a sheltered spot above the high-tide line, but he didn’t have the will. Instead, he fell asleep. He was wet and coated in sand, he had lost most of his possessions, he was trembling with fatigue . . . but he had come home at last.
 
 
 
H
undreds of miles away, Lord Arenadd Taranisäii stood at the top of Fruitsheart’s tower with Skandar and looked down on his city.
It had been nearly six months since Skade had left on her quest. Six months since the war had begun. Six months that had taken their toll.
Arenadd stroked his beard. He had become thinner, and his face had taken on a slightly hollow, tired look. But his black eyes were utterly calm, as if nothing could ever frighten or trouble him. Despite the protests of his friends and followers, he still wore the black robe of a slave, and it, like his hair and beard, was obsessively clean and neat.
Beside him, Skandar glanced at him and then looked away to watch the sky. The dark griffin was scarred from combat, but if anything, he looked even bigger and more powerful for it. He had finally shed the last of his tendency to be unsettled and nervy like the wild beast he had once been, and now his stance was full of self-confidence.
After the first battle with the griffiners, it hadn’t been long before Malvern sent more to attack. But this time the troops they sent were ordinary men with conventional weapons—a large number of them. None of them, of course, were Northerners. Even now the griffiners were unable to forget the old laws and let their vassals use weapons.
With the unpartnered, and the help of all those who had joined them since the taking of the city, Arenadd’s followers fought back against the attackers and did it surprisingly well. The troops on the ground were adequately led, but they fought half-heartedly, and many of them chose to run rather than stand their ground when the unpartnered attacked. It hadn’t taken Arenadd long to understand why: they were demoralised. And who could blame them? Every one of them had to know that the unpartnered and their leader had effectively destroyed the majority of Malvern’s most powerful griffins. What chance would ordinary soldiers have?
Very little, though the siege lasted for a good week. Then a simultaneous attack from the ground, led by Saeddryn, and from the air, led by Skandar and Arenadd, forced the army to break ranks and finally wiped them out.
Many of the soldiers had surrendered. All of them were killed. Arenadd had no use for prisoners.
Skandar stirred and hissed. “We win,” he said. “Win war.”
“Yes,” Arenadd murmured. “I think we may have.”
Less than three months after the victory over Malvern’s troops, after sporadic attacks by griffiners, which had not succeeded, something had happened that had nearly made Arenadd evacuate the entire city.
A huge flock of griffins—nearly seventeen hundred of them of various ages—had come flying from the South. From Malvern. While Arenadd and Skandar gathered the unpartnered ready for a fight they knew they had no hope of winning, a small group of griffins had broken away from the Southern flock and come to the tower with a message.
The message was stark and simple.
“We are unpartnered griffins,” one of them had said. “The last of those from Malvern. We know that a griffin called Kaanee has decided to abandon his home and ally himself with you, Mighty Skandar, and you, the cunning Lord Arenadd.”
Arenadd had told her it was true.
“We have come to join with you,” the griffin told him. “Some of us do not like it, but you have destroyed many of the Mighty Kraal’s greatest allies, and we choose to make you our leader rather than fight you. We will not follow a griffin who cannot fight.”
And that was that. In the course of a single day, the unpartnered went from a battered and somewhat demoralised group of less than seventy to a huge army powerful enough to destroy any city.
That was when Arenadd knew the war was won. His plan had succeeded, far more effectively than he had ever imagined. With the griffins of Malvern on his side, there was no enemy who could hope to defeat him. Unless . . .
Saeddryn had been quick to point it out.
“If Malvern calls to its friends in the South, we’ll be destroyed,” she told him baldly. “Ye know that, sir. We would’ve won the war last time, with my mother . . . we were winnin’, sir,” she added defensively. “But when the other Eyries got talked into helpin’ their friends up here, they sent their best griffiners. They destroyed us once. They could do it again, sir. Even to ye.”

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