“I hope not,” said Arren. “I shouldn’t think he’d want me, anyway.”
“You’re
brave
,” Torc piped up. “You’re like a wolf.”
Arren glanced at him. “Wolves aren’t brave.”
“Well, you are,” said Torc. “Running away is brave. If they catch you, you die. I could never do it, not ever.”
“Couldn’t you?” said Arren. “Are you sure?”
“There ain’t no point in it,” another slave interrupted. “Really, there ain’t. Why go north? You’ve never been to the North. I’ve met Northerners. Most of ’em hate us. Call us Southerners and water-bloods and suchlike. Anyway, from what I’m told, the North’s a terrible harsh place. Ice an’ snow and bears, an’ savage people living out in the wilderness, catching travellers to eat.”
Arren looked around at them all. “Why go north? Yes, indeed, why go north? That’s a good question. I’ve been asked it many times. I’ve asked it myself. Why—go—north?”
“There’s nothin’ there,” said Annan, though he sounded a little uneasy.
Go back to the North, blackrobe,
Arren thought. “Because the North is our home,” he said. “It has to be. What do we have out here in the South? What is there out here for us except collars and whips and chains and hard labour all our lives? We’re slaves here, and we’re lost. This isn’t our land; we’re not
made
for it. This land belongs to Southerners, and while we’re in their land, so do we. But the North—if the North is where we came from, then the North is the only place we could ever call home. I’ve never been there, either, any more than you have, but I say that if our ancestors would fight even against griffiners to defend it, and die to do so, then the North is where I belong. And so do you.”
Nolan chuckled. “You sound like my old grandad goin’ on about that. Northern pride! And what’ll you do when y’get there, then, Taranis? Try an’ hide out in some peasant village? Run off into the forest to join the savages? There’s griffiners there, too, you know. Lots of ’em.” He became serious. “Now, look here, Taranis. It’s good to have somethin’ to dream about, if it keeps you goin’ an’ so on, but you need a good dose of the real world. The North ain’t ours; it’s theirs. None of our lot have lived there free since before my great-grandad was born. Griffiners own it, just like they own the rest of the country, an’ nothin’ an’ nobody can stand against them or ever will.”
Arren was silent for a long time. “Tell me about the North,” he said at last. “I’ve told my story, now it’s someone else’s turn. Tell me a story about Tara.”
Nolan sat back. “I’m no storyteller. Get Torc to do it.”
Torc nodded. “I’ll tell a story, sure. Which one do you want to hear?”
“Tell us about Taranis,” said a voice.
It was Olwydd. The shackled Northerner walked slowly into the room, closely followed by Prydwen.
Nolan started up. “Here, you’re not supposed to come in our dorm.”
Olwydd shrugged. “Caedmon’s asleep; who’s gonna stop us?” He went over to the fire, stepping between the men seated around it, and managed to wedge himself in next to Arren, whom he pretended not to see. “Go on, boy,” he said to Torc. “Tell us the story of Taranis the Wolf.”
Torc looked uncertain. “Taranis already told us his story,” he said, trying to grin.
Prydwen gave him a withering look. “He means the
other
Taranis, boy. Don’t play stupid.”
Torc cast an appealing glance at Arren. Arren hadn’t missed the tension that had come into the room with the two Northerners, and he shrugged with exaggerated care. “I’d like to hear it if you’re willing to tell it, Torc.”
The boy nodded unhappily. “All right. I’ll tell it, then.”
Prydwen had sat down by his friend. He picked at his collar and settled down to listen, deliberately looking away from Arren.
Torc began. “Long ago,” he said, “hundreds of years ago, before your grandfather’s grandfather was born, the North was called Tara. Our people owned it; it was their land and their blood was in the soil. The clans lived there free—Deer and Wolf and Crow and Bear—and roamed wherever they chose. They made their houses from sticks and snow, and hunted wolf and deer and boar, and they herded black sheep and used their wool to make robes that would protect them from the cold. They called themselves the darkmen or the moon people, and they had healers and shamans who spoke with the voices of the gods and were given magic by the light of the moon. But one night, when the half-moon was out—the time when great things happen and the world turns—a boy was born. His name was Taranis, man of Tara, and he was born to the Wolf Clan. He grew up swift and strong, and cunning like a wolf, and some say he learnt to change his shape and become a wolf, with a wolf’s pelt and sharp teeth. His elders said that one day he would become leader of his clan, and he did, when he fought the old leader and killed him, which was the way of the darkmen.
“But Taranis was not content to lead just one clan, just one people. He had a brother, Taliesin, who was fierce and wise, but wild, and he and Taranis decided they would make themselves greater than any clan chieftain. Taranis called the other chiefs together at a gorge where there was a stone circle built by giants long ago. Now that gorge is called Taranis Gorge. When the chiefs came together, Taranis told them he would become master of their clans as well as his own, and they told him he must defeat them and their people in battle if he would. But Taliesin was too cunning. He wove his magic around the chiefs as they sat there within the circle, and all of them were turned to stone. Now they still sit there, a circle inside a circle.
“When the clans learnt of what Taliesin and Taranis had done they were very afraid. But they did not attack the Wolf Clan, because their chiefs were dead and they had no-one to lead them. And since Taranis and Taliesin had killed them, they must replace them. That was the law. So Taranis became master of all the tribes, and he told them, ‘You shall not be four clans, but one: the greatest clan, the Moon Clan. And I shall give you riches and glory such as you have never seen.’ And he led them south, toward the mountains of Y Castell, where the land was warm and rich. They passed through the mountains, a hundred thousand strong warriors, united. And Taranis led them against the people of the South, and he humbled them, and took their land and their wealth for his own. Even when the terrible griffin-lords united against him they could not win; the men of Tara stood strong and fought strongly and with courage, and even mighty griffins fell before them. It was said even the gods could not stand against them, certainly not the soft Southern god. And Taranis was strong and proud and said that he would live forever, and that one day all the land would be his.”
Arren had heard a version of this story before, but he listened anyway. It was close to its ending now.
Torc’s small face grew solemn. “But Taranis fell. Before he could have his glory, he fell. Taliesin grew jealous, and the two of them argued, and then Taliesin left and vowed he would not return. Taranis was too proud to turn back; he marched on with his people and fought the griffiners one last time. But in the midst of the battle an arrow struck him, and Taliesin was not there to heal him. And so Taranis died there alone, calling Taliesin’s name with his last breath. And as soon as he died, his men had no leader and could fight no more. The griffiners smashed them that day, and when the battle was done the Moon Clan was no more. They were Bear and Wolf and Crow and Deer once again, and they would no longer fight as one. Some fled, some stood and fought. But after that there was no more hope. The griffiners killed all those who fought, and chased the rest back through Y Castell and into Tara, and there they took it for themselves and broke the clans and made them all into slaves. And from then on there was never another leader to fight them and no more hope, and the moon itself wept as the snow turned red with Northern blood.”
The story ended there, and Torc fell silent.
“What happened to Taliesin?” said someone.
Torc shrugged. “Some say he killed himself when he found out that Taranis was dead; others say he turned himself to stone. And others say he never died.”
Arren sighed. “You’re a good storyteller, Torc. It’s not quite the same tale as the one I heard, though. In the one my father told, it was Taliesin who killed Taranis. And they weren’t brothers; they were father and son.”
“In the one I heard they were only friends,” Prydwen put in. “But still, a well-told story, boy. Well done.”
Torc looked nervous but pleased. “Thank you. It’s not my favourite story. It always makes me sad.”
“Well, why shouldn’t it?” said Olwydd. “It’s a story of our fall and our shame.”
“
Your
shame, maybe,” Annan muttered.
Olwydd glared at him. “
Our
shame,” he repeated. “We are all Northerners, and the story is ours.” He cast a quick glance at Arren as he said this. “All of ours,” he said again.
“Oh, quite,” said Arren, not liking how this was going. “But remember that stories are stories.”
“And what do ye mean by
that
?” said Prydwen. He sounded irritated.
“I mean that there’s no point in getting worked up about it,” said Arren. He put aside his empty bowl. “As for me, I’ve always liked stories, but I prefer the ones about real people.”
“Taranis
is
real,” said Olwydd.
“How do you know?” said Arren.
The older man laced his fingers together and looked down his nose at him. “It doesn’t matter if there was truly a man called Taranis,” he said. “At the heart, all stories are true.”
Arren nodded. “Yes, I suppose you’re right there. But tell me”—he took in a deep breath; this was going to be a big risk—“I don’t suppose there are any stories about real people that you’d care to tell?”
Olwydd gave him a look. “Which real people?”
Arren leant forward. It was now or never. “What do you know about the man called Arren Cardockson?” he asked softly.
Silence followed. The slaves around the fire shifted uneasily. Even Prydwen looked unsettled.
“Why d’you want to hear about
him
?” said Nolan.
Arren shrugged with forced casualness. “I’ve been hearing things. Not many things, but I’ve heard that name mentioned. I ran away months ago; I don’t have any idea of what’s going on in the world right now. All I know is that people have been mentioning someone called Arren Cardockson. Why?”
“Why d’you want to know?” said Annan.
“Idle curiosity,” said Arren. “What can you tell me about him?” He glanced around at them. “Anyone?”
There was more silence.
“Eagleholm’s destroyed,” Nolan said at last. “Did you know that?”
“Yes, of course,” said Arren.
“Well, Arren Cardockson’s the man what destroyed it.”
Arren blinked. “What? How?”
“No-one really knows—” Nolan began.
“I’ll tell ye what
I
heard,” said Olwydd. “Shall I?”
“Go on,” said Arren.
“Arren Cardockson lived at Eagleholm,” said Olwydd. “He was—is—a Northerner, like us.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” Nolan interrupted. “Man’s a griffiner; everyone knows that. One of their own, turned mad.”
“A
Northerner
,” Olwydd repeated. “I tell ye, he’s a Northerner. He was a slave to the Eyrie Mistress, Riona—”
“Shut up!” said Nolan. “You dunno what yer talkin’ about, you ignorant snow-blood. There
are
no slaves in Eagleholm. Don’t you know bloody anything? The Lady Riona sent them all away. While she was in the North she fell in love with a Northerner, but he broke her heart, and when she came home and became Mistress she couldn’t bear to look at a Northerner any more, so she rid her lands of them all for good.”
“Well, she must have kept one behind, then,” said Olwydd, unmoved. “Just this one, Arren Cardockson, who she kept as her lover. But one day he went mad and decided he could be a griffiner like her, so he stole a griffin chick, and then he murdered Riona and set fire to the Eyrie and ran off, him and the griffin.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard!” Nolan stormed. “Listen, the man was a griffiner.”
“Oh?” said Olwydd, “Then
ye
can tell us what really happened, if ye’re that certain. Go on.”
“Fine, I will. Arren Cardockson was a griffiner, but his griffin was killed in an accident—”
“Because he killed it,” Torc put in. “He went mad and killed it.”
“Shut up, Torc. His griffin died, and he went insane and tried to steal another one, but he was caught and sentenced to death. But on the day of the execution he broke free and used magic to turn himself into a terrible black griffin, and he killed the Eyrie Mistress and her council and broke the Eyrie to pieces before he flew away. He’s still out there in the wild somewhere, mad and lusting for blood. They say he’ll be back to destroy the other Eyries some day.”
Arren groaned quietly. “So, that’s the story, is it?” he said, raising his voice. “Arren Cardockson is a Northerner who was a slave in lands where there
aren’t
any slaves any more, but he was also a griffiner, and he went insane and stole a griffin chick and then turned
into
a griffin and killed the Eyrie Mistress. Do I have that right?”