Cardock struggled upright, groaning, and was in time to see the monstrous griffin scoop the chunk of mutton out of the dirt and swallow it with a quick toss of his head. He searched the ground for more but only succeeded in finding the apples, which he flicked aside before lifting his head to glare reproachfully at Cardock.
Cardock didn’t dare do more than bow his head. “Sorry,” he gasped. “Sorry.” He didn’t know if the griffin understood.
Skandar stared at him a moment longer and then looked away, apparently no longer interested. Cardock looked past him but couldn’t see any sign of Arenadd. He knew there was nothing he could do.
“I’ll go,” he mumbled to the griffin, and stumbled back down the hill.
Skandar watched him go with a dispassionate eye. Inwardly, though, he was pleased. He didn’t want another human near, confusing him. Not while his own human was unwell.
The pair of fruits the old male had brought were still lying nearby. He couldn’t fathom why humans liked to eat them, but perhaps Arren would want them. Perhaps they would make him better somehow.
Skandar nudged them together and managed to pick them up in his beak. They sat there precariously, threatening to fall out, but he kept his head carefully still and walked back to where Arren was. He had stood up when he heard the other human and was staring at Skandar now, black eyes glimmering in the faint light left from the Day Eye.
Skandar put the fruits down in front of his human. “Eat,” he rasped. “Food.”
Arren looked at them but didn’t pick them up. “I don’t want them,” he said.
“
Eat,
”
Skandar repeated patiently. “Eat now. Sick, need food.”
Arren made that strange shuddering sound that he had been making a lot lately. “It won’t help, Skandar.”
“Eat,”
Skandar said yet again.
But Arren turned away. “Nothing can help me,” he said quietly.
Skandar’s tail began to lash. “You eat,” he said. “Eat now. Eat, get better.”
“I’m not sick, Skandar.”
“You sick,” said Skandar. “A sick griffin, not eat. Sick human, not eat. You not eat, you die.”
The shuddering again, but Arren turned back and picked up the apples. “Fine. I’ll eat them if that’s what you want.”
Skandar watched approvingly as he bit into one. “I want you—do not want you die.”
“I know.”
“Want you live,” said Skandar. “Want keep you, Arren Cardockson. Keep you forever. Mine. Mine always. Mine.”
“I won’t leave you, Skandar,” Arren said softly. “I can’t. I understand that now.”
“Mine,” Skandar repeated.
C
ardock reached the edge of the rocky outcrop at a staggering walk, but then his terror finally bubbled to the surface, and he broke into a sprint. Once he hit the slope, the treacherous ground and poor light forced him to slow down, but he moved as fast as he could, tripping over rocks and branches, and stumbling through thickets of damp soap-bush and piufex grass.
When he reached the edge of the firelight that marked Caedmon’s camp he came to a stop and leant against a tree for a few moments, panting and clutching at his aching chest.
Once he had calmed down, he straightened up and walked into the circle of light.
The others glanced up. “How was he?” Caedmon inquired.
Cardock stared blankly at him for a couple of heartbeats, his mind flitting back to the sobbing figure at the top of the hill. “I … don’t think he was hungry,” he said at last. “But the griffin was.”
Nolan winced. “Took the meat, did he?”
“Uh, yes. He did. Could I—” Cardock realised he was shaking slightly. “Could I sit down, please?”
They shuffled aside hastily, and Caedmon got up. “Ye gods, ye’re as white as a lily. Come, siddown, warm yerself up. Someone get him some water, hurry up.”
Cardock sat down and tried to slow his breathing. The warmth of the fire touched him, soaking through his clothes, and he shuddered slightly, but it helped to soothe him. Torc put a water bottle into his hands, and he drank.
After a little while he began to feel better. “Gods,” he mumbled, putting the bottle aside and rubbing his hands over his face. “I didn’t know what’d happened—the thing just leapt out at me.”
Nolan looked sympathetic. “Did the same thing t’me once, sir. Nearly vomited up me own heart, I did, sir. No surprise you’re a bit shaken up.”
Cardock took his hands away from his face. “You really don’t have to call me sir.”
“I do, sir,” said Nolan. “You’re Lord Arenadd’s father, ain’t you? An’ you’re a free man, too. Everyone knows about that. You was set free, an’ Erian the Bastard sold you back. But you’re a free man far as we’re concerned; you didn’t do nothin’ wrong. We’re just slaves, us. We call every free man sir. I was
born
knowin’ that.”
“Well, if that’s the way, I’d like t’know why ye ain’t callin’
us
sir,” Garnoc put in suddenly. “We’re free, same as”—a polite nod toward Cardock—“yer new master’s father here, but I ain’t heard no sirs from ye to me yet, Southerner.”
Another man would certainly have flared up in response to this, but Nolan only ducked his head nervously. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean no disrespect or nothin’, only—”
“Only we’re wearin’ collars, too,” Garnoc muttered savagely.
“Moon damn it!” Olwydd burst forth. He snatched at his collar, trying to hook his fingers beneath it, but in vain. “These damn things! I hate them! If I could get this off by tearin’ my own arm off, I’d do it. I’d do anything. I’d get it off and melt it down an’ piss on it t’cool it off.” He looked wildly at Caedmon. “How can ye bear it? Tell me true, old man, how d’ye bear it? How can ye live a life with that thing around yer neck an’ not go mad or kill yerself?”
Caedmon sighed. “They don’t hurt forever, lad. Once it heals—”
“I’m not talkin’ about that!” Olwydd shouted. “I’m talkin’ about how can ye wear it an’ just—I mean, don’t ye know what it is? What it means? It’s more than torture, Caedmon. It’s
more
than that. They put this—when they put this on me, when it snapped on, an’ the spikes went into me like they was gonna—it
changed
me. I was a man, but after they put the collar on me I wasn’t any more. I was a
thing
. Something ye could buy or sell. A
thing
.”
“Oh, yes.”
Olwydd broke off and turned sharply to look behind him to see who had spoken.
It was Arenadd. He emerged from the shadows like a ghost, and Cardock felt sick to his stomach at the sight of him. He looked half-dead. Grey-faced and gaunt, his eyes hollow, as if he was deathly sick.
The others recovered themselves hastily. “My lord,” said Caedmon, standing up. “Please, come, sit—move out of the way, all of ye, the Master needs—”
Arenadd waved him into silence with a rather listless gesture, as if his arm was very heavy. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Just—I just want to sit down. And some food. Skandar’s behind me. Give me some meat for him, or he’ll take it.”
They obeyed with the speed of men accustomed to it: Nolan and Torc took the remains of the sheep carcass they had been cutting meat from and put it at the edge of the camp, and Skandar loomed out of the darkness and hooked it with his talons. While the griffin settled down to eat, Arenadd sat down by the fire. The others, including Cardock, moved to the other side, as far away from him as they could get, leaving him surrounded by a ring of empty space, as if he were at the centre of an invisible wall that only Skandar could pass through. Arenadd watched them dully and sighed, the only sign he gave.
Torc served him some mutton, potatoes and an ear of corn, and retreated, bowing and ducking. Arenadd gave no comment but started to eat.
When the silence became too uncomfortable, Cardock said, “So, which way are we going to take next?”
Arenadd said nothing, but Prydwen answered for him. “Around this hill and on through the valley, split up like Lord Arenadd said. One half on the east side, other half on the west, an’ we meet up on the other side an’ follow Lord Arenadd from there. Should be just a day or so before we’re at the edge of Y Castell.”
Dafydd smiled. “T’will be good t’see Tara again, lads.”
“I’ll drink t’that, Dafydd, or I would if I had any wine,” Olwydd said, and grinned.
Cardock rubbed his forehead. “But what are we going to do when we get there? We still haven’t talked about that.”
“We join the rebels, of course,” said Prydwen.
“We’ll do what Lord Arenadd wants us to do,” Caedmon snapped. “I should remind ye, my lad, that he’s master of ye now, an’ that it’s him who’ll be tellin’ ye what to do from now on.”
Cardock coughed loudly. “I’m sure he’ll tell us what he’s got in mind when he’s ready.” He glanced at Arenadd, expecting him to say something at this point, but he was still sitting by the fire, chewing slowly at his food and apparently oblivious to the discussion going on in front of him.
“So he will,” said Caedmon. He gave Cardock an approving look. “Right an’ sensible as always, Cardock Skandarson.”
Cardock chuckled. “Always right! If I had an oblong for every time my wife told me that—” He broke off abruptly, his smile fading as his mind suddenly filled with pictures of Annir. Poor sweet Annir, so far away, so lost and afraid, not knowing where her husband and son were or whether either of them was alive. His dear Annir. He closed his eyes.
“I’m sure you’ll get her back some day, sir,” Torc said.
Cardock looked up. “I’ll never give in. I’ll do anything I have to in order to set her free.”
“I’m sure ye will,” Caedmon said kindly. “If a man’s determined enough, he’ll—”
“I had to do it.”
For the second time that night, everyone stopped.
“What, Arenadd?” said Cardock.
Arenadd looked up. “I had to do it,” he said again. His eyes were bloodshot. “You have to understand that, Dad. I had no choice.”
Cardock dared to shuffle closer to him, stopping when Skandar looked up. “What are you saying, son?” This was the first time Arenadd had spoken to him directly in days.
Arenadd shuddered a little. “I had no choice,” he said huskily. “I had to kill him. Please, you have to understand.” He looked briefly at him, and then stared at the ground, fists clenching. “I had to do it. He killed Eluna. He sent us to our deaths. I was honour bound, had to avenge her, had to punish him for what he did. It was my duty. They made me swear. ‘By friendship bound, by blood sworn.’ The words—I said them at the ceremony. When they made me a griffiner. Protect each other, always. And if one is killed, the other must—it was honour. I swore an oath. His life for Eluna’s, and mine—I had to do it.” His fists clenched harder. “I had no choice,” he intoned.
Deathly silence followed. No-one dared make a move.
Finally, Olwydd spoke up. “We don’t blame ye, my lord. Ye’re no murderer; we know it. What ye did was for everyone, all of us. The North knows it. Yer people know it.
We
know it. Ye stood up, avenged us, showed the griffiners our people aren’t conquered, showed them we can still fight. Ye set us free, my lord. We won’t ever forget that.”
The other three Northerners nodded fervently.
“I’ll never forget seein’ ye,” Dafydd put in, “when ye came to us at Herbstitt. Every night I was there, I swore I’d get free some day. Nothin’ an’ nobody could ever make me give up. I prayed every night, looking for guidance. A sign for what to do. For a while I thought maybe the moon had left me, stopped caring about me. But I was wrong.” He laughed incredulously. “Wrong! I prayed, an’ the moon sent ye.” He looked at Arenadd with something like adoration. “It sent ye to us,” he said, eyes shining. “It brought ye to that slave-house to set us free, take us home. I’m no slave, sir, an’ never will be, but that doesn’t matter. Ye’ll always be a master to me.”
Arenadd’s face betrayed no reaction to this. He stared dully at Dafydd, who looked back for a few moments before he turned nervously away, his air of bravado suddenly gone.
Arenadd appeared to wake up in some way. “How are they?” he asked in a tone of forced calmness, looking toward the trees beyond which the light of the other fires was visible.
Caedmon looked relieved. “Doin’ well, sir,” he said. “Everyone looks t’be in good health to me. Few scrapes an’ whatnot from the last couple days’ walk, but that’s to be expected. We picked up plenty of food at the last farm, an’ I’ve seen to it the load’s distributed properly.”
“How long will it last?”
Caedmon clicked his tongue thoughtfully. “Few days. Four, five maybe. More’n enough to get us to the mountains, sir.”
Arenadd nodded vaguely. “Good. That’s good.” He glanced at Olwydd. “The mountain pass—a week to get through it, didn’t you say?”
“Yes, sir,” said Olwydd. He hesitated. “But that’s only a guess. I went through there before by cart. On foot it could be longer. And that still leaves Guard’s Post. How’re we gonna get past it, sir?”