Others fell in behind him as he ran. Olwydd, Prydwen and Dafydd, all shouting his name.
Arenadd uttered no sound at all.
When they reached the highest floor they found it a strange haven of quiet. The fight hadn’t reached here yet. Arenadd paused and wiped the bloody sweat off his forehead.
“They should be up here somewhere,” he said. “Come on.”
Skandar had already gone on ahead. Arenadd caught up with him at a sprint, realising that all the noise the griffin was making would alert anyone up here who might have been caught off guard. But there was little point in trying to restrain him; Skandar charged along the corridor, snarling and berserk, all his natural ferocity let loose for the first time in months. He had been forced to travel with dozens of humans, constantly surrounded by creatures he saw as weak and irritating and edible. Only his respect for his partner had held him back. But now that was over. Now that was done. Now was the time to do what he had desired to do but been denied the chance to for far too long.
Arenadd knew him too well to be unaware of this. He slipped past Skandar and ran ahead of him, every sense on the alert. This floor looked disused; there was no sign of any guards about. The doors lining the corridor, all closed, were large and well made. Griffiner quarters, he knew. They had to be. The second griffiner he had seen flying over the fort had to be here somewhere.
The others had fallen behind. Arenadd and Skandar charged up a ramp, turned another corner, and there was a door bursting open. Something huge and horrible came rushing out: a griffin, beak open, screeching.
Arenadd caught a brief glimpse of the sword-wielding man behind the beast before Skandar shoved him aside and attacked.
Arenadd heard thudding bootsteps behind him as the others arrived. The two griffins were grappling with each other, but he quickly saw that Skandar was in trouble. His enemy, smaller than him but obviously strong, seemed to have wounded the black griffin’s foreleg, judging by the way he was holding it when the two parted for a moment.
He made a quick decision. “Kill the griffin!” he yelled to the others, and ran at it, sword raised.
The blade came down on the creature’s shoulder, and blood and feathers fell away. The griffin screeched and lashed out, hurling Arenadd aside. His head hit the wall with an audible crack, and he fell limply to the ground, his vision exploding into red before it abruptly faded to black.
From somewhere off to his left he heard Olwydd.
“My lord!”
After that there was a confusion of thumping, screeching and the shouts of his friends. Pain brought Arenadd back to consciousness a few moments later. He groaned and opened his eyes, and his blurred vision showed him a strange grey-brown mass moving just above him. He lay there peacefully for a few moments, wondering what it was, then a high, thin scream cut into his ears. It was a sound he knew by now, filled with agony and despair. The sound of a dying man.
Arenadd groped at his belt. Miraculously, his fingers found the hilt of his dagger and closed around it. He drew it and pulled himself into a half-sitting position, squinting at the thing above him. His vision grew less blurry, and he suddenly knew where he was: lying underneath the enemy griffin. Its furred belly was directly above him.
The scream had stopped. Arenadd braced himself and thrust the dagger deep into the griffin’s belly.
The creature reeled away, screeching yet again, and Arenadd wriggled out from under him and crawled away as fast as he could. The griffin lurched toward him, and it could well have been the end of him, but Skandar, who had fallen back after his partner was injured, took his opportunity and attacked.
This time he had the advantage. The other griffin, staggering from his wound, took a savage blow to the head and fell onto his forelegs. Skandar was on him in an instant, his beak shattering the back of the other griffin’s skull. The griffin slumped, twitching, but these last throes were cut short when Skandar broke his neck with another blow.
Lord Tuomas was a witness to his partner’s demise. He let out an inarticulate scream and charged, sword raised.
He never stood a chance. The three surviving Northerners ran to attack him, but Skandar cut him down before they reached him, leaving the griffiner to die in a pool of his own blood.
And after that, quite suddenly, it was all over.
When the others helped him up, the first thing Arenadd saw was Olwydd, dead. The Northerner’s head had been nearly severed by a blow from the griffin’s beak, but his sword was still held loosely in his hand.
“He died trying to save ye, sir,” said Prydwen.
Arenadd found his sword and slung it on his back. “Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s go. We’ll carry him.”
He checked Skandar; the griffin was panting and exhausted, bloodied in several places, but not seriously hurt. Before they left, Arenadd picked up Tuomas’ sword. Skade would like it.
They returned to the lower levels to find the fighting over with. Most of the guards were dead; a few, including Captain Burd, had been taken prisoner. They had all been taken into the mess hall and their hands tied together.
Arenadd scarcely paid them any attention. “Have the dead brought in here, too,” he ordered.
It took a long time for them all to be gathered, and Arenadd, unwilling to stay in the mess hall and do nothing, went to look for Skade.
He wandered through scenes of horror. Bodies lay everywhere, both dead and wounded, some screaming out for help or to be given a quick death. Arenadd ordered Prydwen and the others to kill anyone who was mortally wounded. His expression distant, as if his mind was on something else, he picked his way through the devastation while they obeyed.
“Skade, my father—where are they?” he said to everyone he met.
Most shook their heads. Eventually, though, he saw a face he recognised: Madog, who had shared his dormitory at Herbstitt.
“They’re both a few rooms along, sir,” he said. “I’ll show you the way.”
Something in his voice made Arenadd’s scalp prickle. “Are they all right?” he asked.
“I don’t know, sir,” said Madog.
Skade was in what had once been a guard’s bedroom. Cut and bleeding but alive, she crouched beside Cardock, who had been laid down on the bed. When she saw Arenadd, she jumped up and ran to meet him.
“Arenadd! Are you hurt?”
Arenadd embraced her tightly. “I’m fine. You?”
“Well enough,” said Skade, letting go. “But your father …”
Arenadd walked over to the bed. Cardock was lying motionless on his side. His mouth was slightly open, and from its corner blood had trickled and dried.
Arenadd knew without even asking that he was dead.
Skade laid a hand on his arm. “I am sorry, Arenadd. Truly. I did my best to protect him, as you asked me to, but it was very confused. People were running everywhere; we were being attacked from all sides … Your father took a blow to the head.”
Everything seemed to have become vague and distant, as if there were a wall around him. He was dimly aware of a buzzing in his ears and a dull throbbing from his head. He felt nothing.
“I am sorry,” Skade said again. “If it comforts you, I killed the man who did this.”
“It’s all right,” Arenadd mumbled. “I don’t—I’m all right—I …” But his voice didn’t want to come any more. It faltered and fell silent, and he closed his eyes and tried to breathe.
“Arenadd?” Skade’s voice drifted toward him, quiet with concern. “Arenadd?”
Arenadd opened his eyes. “Here,” he said, holding out Tuomas’ sword. “It’s—it’s for you. Your own sword. It belonged to the other griffiner. He’s dead. Him and the other griffin. Skandar killed them.”
Skade did not take it. “Arenadd, you should not be—”
Arenadd couldn’t make himself look at what was on the bed. He dropped the sword and turned away. He was in time to see Skandar ducking his head to get through the door. The griffin moved slowly and with pain, panting a little with his beak open.
The sight of him seemed to bring some of Arenadd’s mind back, and he started toward him. “Skandar! Skandar, come here!”
Skandar looked up and limped toward him. “Hurt, human,” he rasped.
Arenadd ignored him. He turned and pointed at Cardock’s still form. “Heal him,” he said.
Skandar merely blinked, uncomprehending.
“Heal him!” Arenadd shouted. “Do something!”
Skandar crouched down, holding his wounded leg off the ground. “Not understand.”
Arenadd could feel his shoulders heaving. “You did it with me,” he said. “Do it again, damn you! Bring him back! Use your magic!”
Skandar shivered his wings. “Not have magic,” he said.
“Yes, you do!”
“Not have,” Skandar repeated.
“Gods damn you!” Arenadd screamed, suddenly losing control. “You insufferable cretin! What in Scathach’s name is wrong with you? You’re a bloody griffin! You’ve got magic; you’ve got magic I’ve never
seen
before! For gods’ sakes, you
brought me back from the dead
. That was
you
!”
Skandar began to look slightly distressed. “Not understand.”
“You—have—magic!”
Arenadd bellowed. “Use it! Save him!”
He had gone too far. Skandar stood up, tail lashing. “Not understand,” he said. “Not want. You should not shout. Do not want.”
“Just do it!” said Arenadd, waving an arm at Cardock. “Just bloody do it, or I’ll leave you and never come back, understand? Understand?”
Skandar started forward. “You mine!” he screeched. “Mine! You do what I say!
Mine!
My human! Mine!”
“Skandar, my father is
dead
,” said Arenadd. “Understand? They killed him. You have to bring him back. Like you did with me. You’ve got to do it!”
Skade grabbed his arm. “Arenadd!”
“Let go!” Arenadd snapped. “This is none of your business.”
She kept hold of him. “Arenadd! Stop it, or I will bite you.”
Arenadd calmed down very slightly. “Skade, he has to—”
“You are accomplishing nothing,” Skade told him. “You are only making Skandar angry with you. For the sky’s sake, look at him. He is hurt, exhausted. Even if he knew how to control his magic, wielding it now would damage him more than you could imagine.”
Arenadd hesitated, but Skade’s voice did not allow any argument. He looked at Skandar and saw that the griffin had faltered, panting again. There was blood on his foreleg, and more soaked into his feathers. He looked as if he were at the end of his strength.
Arenadd felt a strange calmness come over him. “Yes. You’re right. Skandar, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. My father wouldn’t have wanted to live the way I do. He deserves to rest in peace, the way a man should.”
“Not have magic,” Skandar mumbled.
Arenadd bowed his head to the griffin and smiled. “If you say so, Skandar. Now, excuse me a moment—”
But as he turned back to look at Cardock’s body, all his serenity vanished as abruptly as it had come. His strength left him, too, without any warning, and he dropped to his knees.
“Dad—”
And then he was crying, crying harder than he had done in weeks, his whole body shaking with sobs—not the half-swallowed sobs that he had allowed himself those few nights when guilt had overcome him, but great, gulping, shuddering sounds that gave him physical pain. He managed to raise himself a little, but collapsed again beside his father’s resting place, grasping one of the cold hands and holding it close.
Skade did not try to interfere. She kept back and silently watched him cry, knowing there was nothing she could or should do.
Arenadd did not stop crying for a long time. Eventually, though, he found he could speak.
“Dad,” he sobbed. “Dad, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I know there were so many things … wanted me to be, but I was … let you down, said all those things I shouldn’t have … on my birthday. When you brought me the robe, and I wouldn’t put it on, and I said those things—but I’m not ashamed, Dad, I’m not, I’m not. I’ll never feel that way again, I swear. I’ll lead them to the North; I’ll keep them safe, I swear. I’ll keep them all safe.” That seemed to calm him. The sobs died down and he rested his head on the edge of the bed, still clasping his father’s hand. “I’ll keep them safe, Dad,” he said again. “I swear it. I’ll find Mum and set her free, I’ll tell her what happened and I’ll make the North my home. Always. I swear.”
24
Dancing in the Dark
T
he ceremony that would mark Erian’s appointment to lordship took place about two weeks after his and Senneck’s arrival at Malvern. Erian had spent most of that time working under Lord Kerod, who had become even more open and friendly toward him since their first meeting. Erian had followed Senneck’s advice and said nothing about the wasted afternoon in the office, and that appeared to have done the trick; Kerod made no reference to it the next day and gave Erian the legitimate job of sorting through a stack of farmers’ letters full of complaints and suggestions. That was a little more interesting, at least.