The Dark Griffin (16 page)

A vision of the black griffin flashed across Arren’s brain, and he shuddered and felt tears run down his face.

Deanne hugged him. “There, look, just calm down. I’m sorry, Arren, I shouldn’t have—here, get up and come with me. You need to keep busy.”

“I want to go home,” Arren mumbled.

“You will, soon. Just come along and help me, would you? We have to get that cage finished and dragged back into the village. Might need an extra pair of hands. C’mon, up you get.”

Arren stood up wearily and let her lead him back to the field. It was still raining. The cage was completed, and the people who’d made it were now busy reinforcing and stabilising it; under the supervision of Kryn and his fellow griffiner. Their griffins were nearby, keeping a close watch on the captive black griffin, not liking being in the rain but refusing to leave their humans unguarded.

The sight sent fresh pain through him, and he gritted his teeth as Deanne helped him over the fence.

“Now, you’d better go and get your bow back,” she told him. “Go on, before the rain wrecks it. You’d better take the string off it, too.”

Arren felt vaguely irritated by her motherly tone, but he wandered off obediently and found his bow, lying where he’d dropped it. He removed the bowstring and threw it away. The rain had already ruined it. The quiver wasn’t too far away; he gathered up the fallen arrows and stuffed them back in, along with the unstrung bow. The work helped; he concentrated on what he was doing and let his mind go blank. It was better that way.

Once he’d slung the quiver on his back, he turned to see what the others were doing. The villagers had finished working on the cage and were now trying to lift it. Arren wondered briefly why they weren’t just dragging it, and then realised that the cage would probably come apart if they did. Besides, the ground was now very soft underfoot and dragging anything large and heavy over it would be a nightmare. Lifting it, though, didn’t look like a much easier option.

A strange energy filled him. He walked over to the cage. “Can I help?”

They glanced at him. “Shouldn’t you be resting, sir?” someone asked.

“Can you lift it?” Arren asked, ignoring him.

“Possibly,” said Kryn. He glanced at the people who’d spaced themselves around the cage. There were plenty of them; most of the village’s population had come to help. “All right, has everyone got a grip? Good. Now,
heave
!”

They lifted as one. The bars of the cage shifted dangerously, straining against their binding, but it came up out of the mud with a faint sucking sound.

“All right, let’s move,” said Kryn, pulling it toward the fence. The carriers shuffled in that direction for a short distance before they had to stop and put down the cage so they could rest.

Tamran, the third of the griffiners, stretched and rubbed his back. “Ow. Well, it’ll take ages, but we’ll make it. Eventually.”

Arren had been looking for a spot where he could get a grip and help move the cage, but couldn’t find one. In the end he settled for walking on ahead and warning people about unexpected tussocks and other things they could trip on. As they neared the fence he looked over at it and paused—how were they going to get the cage over it?

“Kryn?”

Kryn glanced at him. “Yes, Arren? What is it?”

“How are we going to get it past the fence?”

“I’ve already asked about that,” said Kryn, rubbing his chafed hands. “The nearest gate is all the way back there, so we’re going to take out the palings. Arren, can you go into the village and find something to take the nails out with?”

Arren nodded and walked off, glad to be doing something useful. He went back to the shed where he’d found the shovel, and took down a hammer from a shelf. It had a pair of prongs on the back for removing nails—he knew their purpose from the brief time he’d spent helping to replace some planks near the edge back at Eagleholm.

It should do the trick. He took it back to the fence and began levering out the nails that held the palings in place. The nails were old and rusted, and several of them broke in the process, but he got them all out and lifted the heavy pieces of wood out of the way, leaving a large gap in the fence which the cage should fit through. It did, and the bearers staggered their way into the village and finally set it down in a handy barn.

Kryn leant against the cage and wiped the rainwater off his forehead. “Phew! Thank gods that’s over. Well done, Arren. And to the rest of you—excellent job. I’ll see to it that you’re all properly compensated for your time. I hope there aren’t any problems with keeping this in here until the wagons arrive to pick it up?”

“It shouldn’t be a problem, sir,” said the man who owned the barn.

“Good, good. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to have a word with my friends here.”

The villagers left. Arren paused, not knowing if he should go with them, but Kryn gestured at him to join the griffiners.

The three griffins had stationed themselves around the cage and were watching its occupant. The black griffin stared back, unmoving.

“Now,” said Kryn, “someone has to keep an eye on it. Keep it fed and watered and make sure it doesn’t escape. They’ll have to stay here during the night as well. We can’t leave it unguarded for a moment.”

“Why?” said Tamran.

“Some of those people looked quite angry,” said Kryn. “It’s been killing their friends and family, don’t forget. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them want a chance to take their revenge on it now it can’t fight back.”

“Oh,” said Tamran. “Good point.” He glanced at the others. “Who’s going to do it, then?”

“I will,” said Arren.

They looked at him. “Arren, you really shouldn’t,” said Tamran. “You’ve had a nasty accident, and—well, you should be resting. Why did you even come out into the field again?”

“Because I told him to,” Deanne interrupted. “His injury isn’t that bad, and it won’t do him any good to sit around on his own. He needs to keep occupied. It’s the best way to deal with stress. If you want to guard the cage, Arren, by all means, do it. I’ll ask someone to set up a bed for you in here.”

“Just a hammock,” said Arren.

“All right, if that’s what you want. And”—Deanne glanced at the black griffin—“be careful. Don’t get cocky just because it’s tied up. And if anyone else comes in here, keep a close watch on them. If anyone killed this griffin they would be guilty of having destroyed the Eyrie’s property, and it would be our duty to arrest them. No matter who they were,” she added meaningfully.

Arren unslung his quiver and sat down on a bale of hay. “I’ll be sure to keep a lookout, then,” he said shortly.

H
e spent the rest of that day sitting in the barn, watching the black griffin. A trough was brought and placed by the cage, close enough for the creature to reach, and Deanne brought a bucket of water to fill it with. “We’ll take the ropes off its beak now,” she told Arren. “Let it drink.”

Arren stood up. “But it might use magic.” Griffins used their mouths to cast magic, which was yet another good reason to keep this one’s beak tied shut.

Deanne put the bucket aside and drew her knife. “I doubt it. It’s probably more interested in a drink right now. And I’ve added something to the water. It’ll make it drowsy.”

Her griffin thrust a foreleg through the bars of the cage and pinned the black griffin’s head down, and Deanne reached in and cut the ropes around its beak. She withdrew swiftly, and once she was well out of reach her griffin released his captive. The black griffin’s head shot forward in the blink of an eye, and its beak narrowly missed the other griffin’s leg. The other griffin hit it in the face with his talons and returned to Deanne’s side, his tail twitching in a dignified manner.

Arren had restrung his bow with one of his spares, and he nocked an arrow and pointed it at the black griffin’s head, ready to loose it the instant the creature showed any sign of using magic. But the black griffin only glared at him and then dragged itself toward the trough. It poked its beak through the bars and drank awkwardly, throwing back its head to swallow. Once it had satisfied its thirst it laid its head down and sighed. It looked exhausted, and no wonder, but Arren glanced at Deanne before he relaxed the bowstring.

Deanne scratched her griffin’s neck. “It should have taken enough. Watch; it’s working already.”

Sure enough, the black griffin’s eyes were closing. It yawned and clumsily folded its legs under its belly, and a few moments later its tail ceased its twitching.

“There,” said Deanne. “It’ll sleep for the rest of the day, most likely, and when it wakes up it’ll still be weak and confused. Even if you did get close enough for it to attack you, it won’t be able to see properly. That doesn’t mean you should tempt fate, though.”

Arren shook his head. “I’m not stupid.”

“Good. We’ll give it something to eat in the morning. Everything it eats or drinks from now on will be drugged. We can’t risk it being properly awake. You just stay here and don’t leave unless you have to.”

“Yes, my lady,” said Arren, suddenly remembering his manners.

“You don’t have to call me that,” Deanne said kindly. She glanced around at the barn’s interior. “It may get a bit boring in here on your own—d’you want something to read? I brought a book with me.”

Arren nodded. Why not?

“All right. I’ll bring it along, and some food as well.”

She came back with a bowl of hot stew in her hand and a book tucked under one arm.

“Here you go,” she said, giving him the stew. “That should warm you up.” She placed the book on the hay bale beside him. “It’s not a bad read at all, quite interesting. It was a present from my son.” The title was
A History of the Peoples of Cymria
.

Arren took the spoon out of the bowl of stew. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem. I’ll come back later and visit you.”

Deanne left with her griffin beside her, the two of them moving together, almost as if they were one being. Never completely alone.

Arren ate the stew. It was mostly vegetables, with some low-grade meat mixed in, but it tasted fine and was hot. He paused between spoonfuls to check on the black griffin. It was still asleep, perhaps lulled by the rain drumming on the roof. Arren was glad about that. He didn’t want to see those silver eyes staring at him again.

He finished the stew and put the bowl aside. Now that he was alone and had nothing to distract him, there was nothing to stop him thinking. Nothing to keep him from starting to realise the enormity of what had happened.

Eluna was dead
.

Arren stared and stared at the black griffin. It had killed her. It had taken away his partner, his protector, his friend. It had taken Eluna. An image of her danced behind his eyes, like lightning in darkness: the wound in her chest, like a massive eye weeping blood. He saw the black griffin’s talons descending on him and heard its screech in his ears. His hands ached for his sword. He imagined bringing the blade down on the black griffin’s neck or driving it into the creature’s flank.

Arren started to reach for his bow. All he had to do was hit it once, in the eye, or maybe the chest. He could say it had woken up and tried to break out. He could say it had lunged at him and that he’d panicked. He could say all sorts of things.

They wouldn’t believe him.

He picked up the bow and took an arrow from the quiver. It was right there, right in front of him, completely helpless. He could kill it in an instant. What did it matter if he got in trouble? He had captured the griffin. It belonged to him now. The owners of the Arena couldn’t complain if he chose not to sell it to them.

Arren stood up and walked slowly toward the cage, drawing the bowstring back tight. He pointed the arrow through the bars, aiming the point at the black griffin’s eye. He couldn’t possibly miss.
Just let go,
his inner voice whispered.
Just let go
.

“Arren?”

Arren turned sharply. Deanne, standing in the doorway, flung up a hand. “Arren!”

Her griffin sprang forward, snarling, and Arren realised he was pointing the arrow straight at the griffiner. He hastily relaxed the string and threw the bow aside. “Deanne, I’m sorry. You surprised me.”

The red griffin hissed at him, tail swishing, and Arren bowed low to him. “I am sorry,” he said in griffish. “I did not mean to do that.”

The red griffin eyed him suspiciously for a few moments and then returned to Deanne’s side. She laid a hand on his shoulders but kept her eyes on Arren. “What were you doing?”

Arren went back to the bale of hay and sat down. “I thought it was stirring,” he said.

Deanne glanced at the black griffin, which hadn’t moved an inch since it had fallen asleep. “No need to be so jittery. It’s sound asleep. And you really shouldn’t point an arrow at it like that; you could very easily have let go of the string by accident. And don’t stand so close to the bars. I already warned you about that.”

“Sorry.”

She came over and placed a large iron lantern next to him. “Here. For when it gets dark.”

“Can I have some blankets?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, I completely forgot. I’d better see about that hammock, too.”

Arren paused as something suddenly occurred to him. “Deanne?”

“Yes?”

“Why did you come here?”

“We came here to deal with the griffin,” said Deanne. “We’d been given the assignment about a week before you suddenly disappeared.”

Arren stared at her. “You mean you knew about it all the way back then?”

“Of course we did. We don’t just rush off on these assignments, you know. They have to be planned first. We left the day after you did.”

“Who told you about it?”

“Lord Rannagon, of course. He always handles things like this. What’s the matter?”

Arren looked away. “I—nothing. Never mind. I was just curious.”

Deanne frowned at him. For a moment she looked as if she was going to say something, but then she turned away, saying, “I’ll just go and get those blankets.”

Arren stared at the book without really seeing it. His mind was racing. What was going on?