The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy) (64 page)

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Authors: K. J. Taylor

BOOK: The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy)
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The ghost of a grin appeared on his face. “I can,” he said. “The Night God is still with me. I trust her.”
He gently took his hand from hers, kissed her on the cheek and stepped forward into the temple. Where Erian Rannagonson, the sun’s champion, was waiting.
 
 
F
rom his place in front of the altar, Erian watched the Dark Lord approach. He came slowly, weakly, his face wearing an open grimace of pain. He looked as if he was at the end of his strength already.
Erian, seeing it, felt the last thing he had expected to feel: pity.
“My gods,” he said. “Look at you. How can you stand to be in here?”
Arenadd came on determinedly. “I’ve passed through the gates of death and returned, Erian,” he said. “Nothing scares me much any more.”
Erian
. He had used his name. Not “Bastard” or “Brat,” but “Erian.” A sign of respect?
“I’m surprised you came here,” said Erian. “I didn’t think you had the courage.”
Arenadd coughed painfully. “It’s easy . . . to be brave . . . when you have a god behind you.”
Erian watched him. “Yes,” he said softly. “I suppose it is.”
Arenadd’s eyes still had their old sly glitter. “So I see you returned from your journey. Tell me, do you think it was worth it? Did you find the magical weapon you were after?”
Erian started—how did
he
know about that? He drew the sword. “My father’s sword,” he said. “Stolen by you but returned to me. Now Gryphus has blessed it.”
Arenadd eyed it. “Is
that
it?” he said. “A notched, rusty old sword? That’s your magical weapon?
That’s
the thing you think can kill me?” And he laughed unpleasantly.
“It can,” said Erian. “But . . .”
But now he saw his enemy again, in this state, he felt like a coward for thinking of attacking him.
“Look,” he said softly, taking a step toward him, “I . . . I know what’s happened to you. I know what the Night God did to you.”
Arenadd looked sharply at him. “Do you, now?”
“I know she’s controlling you,” said Erian. “I know you didn’t want to do what she made you do.”
Arenadd laughed again. “Oh. You’re wrong, Erian. Wrong.”
“How?” said Erian. “How am I wrong,
Kraeai kran ae
?”
Arenadd drew his sickle. “The Night God sent me, and the Night God gave me my orders,” he said. “I had my doubts for a while, but since then I’ve found I’m rather inclined to obey them. Even if the Night God hadn’t promised me everything I wanted in return, I’d still want to do her bidding. After all, she asked me to fight and kill my worst enemies; she asked me to take the revenge I already wanted. She helped me do it. And tell me, Erian Rannagonson, Erian the Bastard, what are you fighting for if not your
own
god?”
Erian drew himself up. “I am fighting for the sun, and light, and life,” he said. “I am fighting for my god, and for my people, and for the woman I love.”
Arenadd chuckled. “I am fighting for
freedom
, Erian. Freedom for my people. Don’t you understand? I am fighting to give them their home back and their right to live the way they choose. I’m fighting for
them
, not myself. As for the woman I love—”
“You aren’t fighting for
that
,” Erian spat, suddenly angry at the man’s calm, mocking tone of voice. “You don’t love anyone,
Kraeai kran ae
. You don’t have a heart.”
Arenadd chuckled again. “You’re right. I’m not fighting for the woman I love. I don’t have to. She’s quite capable of fighting for herself. Now.” He straightened up. “Erian Rannagonson, are you ready to die?”
Erian went into a fighting stance. “Are
you
?” he said.
“Oh, but I already have,” Arenadd said softly, and in that instant, darkness fell.
Erian stopped, fear squeezing his throat. He looked at the floor and saw that the column of light shining down through the domed window above had begun to fade.
Outside in the city, the people paused their fighting and looked up, dumbstruck.
In the sky, a shadow began to cover the sun.
Down in the temple, Arenadd felt all his strength come rushing back. He stood tall, his fingers strong on the handle of his sickle, and laughed a terrible laugh that had an edge of madness in it. “You poor fool,” he said. “Did you think the Night God would let me fight in that condition? Show me what you can do,
Aeai ran kai
.”
And he attacked.
Erian, terror burning in his heart, unable to look away from the dying sun, was utterly unprepared. Arenadd darted forward like a lick of black flame, silent and deadly. His sickle flashed, and Erian gasped and jerked back into reality as blood started to gush from his chest.
“What—?” he shouted.
Arenadd, dancing tauntingly around him, grinned. “Come on,” he said. “Aren’t you even going to fight? Don’t disappoint me.”
Erian felt pure hatred rush through his body, hot and energising and terrible.
“Curse you!”
he screamed, and then he finally attacked.
He knew how to use the sword. His exile had given him more than enough time to practise with it, and now he used it as it was meant to be used.
Arenadd darted here and there, still grinning, dodging every blow that came his way. “Come on!” he said again. “You’re not even trying! Aren’t you even going to
try
?”
Erian let out a scream of pure fury and charged straight at him. The sword caught Arenadd on the arm, leaving a deep gash.
Arenadd’s grin disappeared. He staggered backward, swearing violently.
Erian laughed and swung at him again. “Is that better?” he shouted. “Is
that
what you wanted? Is it? Answer me, you murdering son of a bitch!
Answer me!
”
Arenadd backed away, trying to find his footing again. The sickle couldn’t block Erian’s big, heavy sword, and the blows he didn’t manage to avoid hit him, painfully.
These wounds did not heal. Every single one of them left a line of burning agony behind it, and the sudden, horrible realisation came to him: this weapon could hurt him. This weapon was a real threat.
Arenadd ran forward without any warning, ducking under Erian’s arm. As he ran past, he struck again with the sickle. The blow cut deep into Erian’s sword arm where it joined his body, spattering blood over Arenadd’s robe.
Erian screamed.
The pain was unbelievable. His sword arm sagged, suddenly weak. He staggered sideways, feeling the blood soaking into his tunic; he tried desperately to lift the sword, but he couldn’t. His arm was damaged beyond redemption.
Arenadd, panting and bleeding, stopped to watch him. “I cut the tendon,” he said. “You’ll never use that arm again.”
Erian lurched toward him, holding the sword with both hands. “You . . .” he gasped.
“You what?” said Arenadd, confident mockery returning. “You evil bastard? You murdering piece of filth? You revolting blackrobe? Which one do you want? I’ve got more.”
Erian said nothing. He collapsed against the altar, trembling with pain and blood loss.
Arenadd, advancing on him, became serious. “And now it ends,” he said, and raised the sickle one last time.
Erian looked up and saw his enemy’s face—not angry, not hateful, but full of distant calm. And behind him . . . he saw the light from the window suddenly brighten again.
The sun had returned.
Arenadd gasped, staggering as if he had been hit in the stomach, trying to shield his face from the awful burning light. “Oh no . . .”
But the light brightened, horribly brightened, filling the temple, bringing back Gryphus’ protection.
Erian felt new strength flow through his body. “Arenadd,” he said, and as the Dark Lord turned to face him, he thrust forward, pushing himself away from the altar. He held the sword in front of him with both hands.
It found its mark in the centre of Arenadd’s chest.
Erian drove forward, putting all his strength and all his weight into that single thrust. The sword went deep, until the point had come out on the other side. Straight through the Dark Lord’s dead heart.
A horrible scream rent the air.
Arenadd landed on his back, his good hand clutching at the sword, unable to pull it free. Blood bubbled up around it, and more leaked from the corner of his mouth, but he did not die. He convulsed sickeningly on the floor, screaming and screaming, his limbs jerking and twitching like those of a dying rabbit.
Erian slumped where he stood, holding his wounded arm, and watched in silence.
Arenadd’s struggle did not last for long. He gave one last jerk and then became still, and what sounded like a long, slow sigh escaped from his bloodied lips. His eyes, wide open and staring at the ceiling, dulled and faded.
Erian dared to take a step closer, and then stopped with a jerk and let out an involuntary yell.
Black energy had begun to creep up the sword blade like blood soaking through cloth. More and more of it, until the shining metal had turned utterly black. Then, silently, it crumbled. The sword disintegrated, leaving nothing but black dust that flew away in a light breeze.
Then it was over. Arenadd Taranisäii, the Dark Lord, the man without a heart, once the Shadow that Walks, lay dead on the floor.
Erian sighed. “Goodbye,” he murmured, and began to walk away.
As he stepped over the body, a scream made him look up.
“No!”
Erian stepped aside, half-lifting his good arm to defend himself, as someone ran toward him. But she ran past, straight to Arenadd’s body, and he saw her fling herself down by it, lifting it into her arms. A strange silver-haired woman . . . a woman with yellow eyes . . . a woman he vaguely recognised from somewhere. She was clutching Arenadd’s body, hugging it against her chest, kissing its cold face and calling his name.
Arenadd did not stir.
The woman sobbed—awful deep, racking sobs—and she held his body close, rocking back and forth and crying as though her heart would break.
Erian, looking on, felt his stomach lurch. “Oh Gryphus,” he mumbled. “He was telling the truth.”
He couldn’t bear to look any longer. He turned away, leaving Skade to mourn for her dead lover, and walked slowly toward the door, back toward life.
He had expected to laugh, to feel that something wonderful had happened, to feel . . .
But as Erian limped out of the temple, frightened and in pain, he felt no triumph at all. Nothing but a heavy pain in his chest; it felt almost like grief.
Grief?
he thought.
Grief? How can I be feeling grief for him? He was my enemy! He murdered my father, he murdered . . . he was the Dark Lord
.
But as he stopped and leant against the temple door, all he could think of was the woman crying over his body. Just as Elkin would have cried if Erian had died.
“Gods,” he said aloud. “There really is no triumph, is there? There’s no glory. I killed him, but I can’t be proud of it. There’s no . . .”
His words died in his mouth. He gaped silently, wide-eyed in shock; all the breath seemed to have gone from his body.
What?
he thought.
What?
There was wetness on the back of his tunic. He reached around to touch it, and found . . .
It was a knife. There was a knife in his back.
A hand closed on his shoulder, and he felt cold breath on the side of his face.
“I think I found something wrong with your plan,” a voice whispered. “The appointed time, the chosen weapon . . . but not the chosen warrior. Just a bastard with a sword and the wrong idea.”
Erian felt a sharp pain slice across his throat, and an instant later all the strength went out of him.
The hand let go of his shoulder, and he fell, sliding gently onto the floor.
Erian looked up. Everything was dark . . . faded . . . but there was a face there, looking down at him . . . a face that shouldn’t . . . couldn’t . . .
Arenadd Taranisäii gazed down at his dying enemy. “I knew you weren’t the one,” he said softly. “I knew you couldn’t be. Deep down, I knew I was right. Goodbye, Erian Rannagonson.”
Erian looked up at those black eyes, the sensation slowly draining out of his body. He felt cold now . . . he couldn’t hear anything . . . the world was going dark . . . even his mind felt as if it was emptying.
But he found the strength for one last thought, one last question, one last piece of knowledge.
I’m not the one. I’m not
Aeai ran kai.
Kraal was wrong. But who . . . who . . .?
Alone, mourned by no-one, watched by the bright sun above and the Dark Lord below that, Erian Rannagonson died.

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