Beside him, Arenadd’s insides twisted with terror as he saw the very thing he had dreaded for months, ever since he had fled from Eagleholm: the dark shape of a griffin, flying straight toward them.
“Oh holy
gods
. Skandar!”
Too late. Skandar made a stumbling rush forward and leapt into the air, flying straight at the other griffin and screeching at the top of his lungs. The other griffin turned sharply to avoid him, but he wheeled after it with astonishing speed and attacked.
Arenadd didn’t see the two griffins actually meet, but within moments of the attack Skandar jerked in midair and dropped, falling head downward with his wings flailing ineffectually before they managed to open partway and slow him down a little. He hit the ground just outside the circle, sending up a shower of snow, and as Arenadd ran toward him the other griffin came down to land in the way.
As Skandar struggled to rise, the other griffin ran at him. He managed to regain his paws and reared up to attack, but then he reeled backward, grabbing at the air, and collapsed on his side, as if he had been hit by something. The other griffin did not attack but stood over him as he continued to struggle against some unseen force. It was plainly a losing battle. Finally, after being knocked down yet again by whatever was hurting him, Skandar lay down in the snow and made no further attempts to rise.
Arenadd acted quickly. He raised his sword and made a silent run toward the strange griffin, intent on its unguarded back. If he could disable it, then Skandar would be freed from whatever magic it was using on him and could finish it off in moments.
He reached the griffin and brought the sword down as hard as he could on its back legs. The moment the blade struck home, pain lanced through his hands. He screamed, and the sword went flying, spinning away into the snow. Before he could make another move, something hit him in the chest and he was flicked backward, tumbling like a leaf caught in a gale.
He landed on his back in the snow and lay there, stunned. The snow soaking into his robe helped to clear his head, and he began trying to get up, but his limbs had gone numb and clumsy and refused to move.
He heard a crunching sound from somewhere to his left, and a sword point was pressed into his neck. “Don’t ye move, blackrobe,” a voice rasped.
Arenadd coughed. “K-kill me now. Don’t take me back to Malvern; just kill me.”
The sword point was withdrawn, and a hand grabbed hold of his. “Shut up an’ get up, ye damned fool.”
Arenadd managed to stand. “Godsdamnit. Where’s Skandar? Please, let him go. If you’re going to take me to Malvern—”
“Malvern?” the voice repeated; it was dry, elderly and female. “Malvern my arse. Are ye Arenadd Taranisäii?”
Arenadd’s vision cleared, and he looked at his captor properly: an old woman, her hair faded to dark grey shot through with white. It had blown over her face, but as she flicked it back behind her ear he recoiled. One eye was sharp and black. The other was lost in the middle of an enormous scar that cut through her face from her forehead to her jaw. It was old and gnarled, almost certainly inflicted by a sword blow, which had crushed the bridge of her nose and given one side of her mouth a permanent sneer.
“Who are
you
?” he said, without even thinking.
The sneer twisted even further. “Ask me questions ye ain’t answered an’ I’ll see ye buried alive, blackrobe. What’s yer name an’ where are ye from?”
Arenadd bowed. “I’m sorry. My name’s Arenadd Taranisäii.”
“Son of who?” the old woman asked instantly.
“Uh, Cardock.”
“An’ grandson of who?”
“Skandar Taranisäii.”
The part of her face that was still capable of it softened. “Skandar, ye say? Born where?”
“Malvern. He died in Eagleholm.”
The woman moved closer. “When? How?”
“Only a year or so after he got there.”
“An’ his son?”
“Only a boy then. He grew up with the other slaves and was set free when he was ten, when they were all sold or freed. He married a woman called Annir.”
“An’ where is he now?” said the woman.
Moving slowly and carefully, Arenadd reached into his robe and brought out the urn.
“How did he die?” the woman asked.
“He was killed at Guard’s Post,” said Arenadd, putting the urn back in his robe. “When a group of slaves captured it.”
She cocked her head. “Slaves? At Guard’s Post? How?”
“They escaped from Herbstitt,” said Arenadd. “Someone set them free and took them to the North. They captured Guard’s Post along the way, and then their leader took their collars off and let them go.”
“Leader? What leader?”
“It was me,” said Arenadd. “There was a man with the slaves; his name was Caedmon Taranisäii. I set him free and he told me to go to Eitheinn and say he sent me.”
The woman nodded. “So ye are Arenadd Taranisäii.”
“Yes.”
“Ye are the one who murdered Lord Rannagon Raegonson, at Eagleholm,” said the woman.
“I am,” said Arenadd.
“Can ye prove it?” said the woman.
“Yes. My sword. It’s his sword. I think it landed over there somewhere.”
The woman glowered at him and limped away to look for it. A short distance away, Skandar was crouched at the talons of the woman’s partner, hissing but intimidated into staying still.
The woman found the sword and pulled it out of the snow, lifting it with evident difficulty. She was very thin, but there was a wiry strength about her in spite of her great age.
Arenadd went to her and helped her lift the sword. “See? That’s his name, engraved there just below the hilt.”
She waved him away and examined the sword herself, running her fingers over the hilt and then the blade, testing its edge with her thumb. “His sword,” she muttered. “Then he is dead.”
Arenadd knew by now that she wasn’t an enemy. “I killed him with a broken sword,” he said, astonished by the steadiness in his own voice. “Skandar fought Shoa and killed her, and I killed Rannagon. I stabbed him in the throat with the sword, and he died at my feet.”
The sword fell out of the woman’s hands, and without a word she spun around and punched him in the jaw.
The blow was surprisingly strong, and so unexpected that Arenadd staggered and nearly fell. “What—?”
The woman pointed at him. “That was for stealin’ from me.”
“What? I haven’t—”
She touched the scar on her face. “Sixteen years I waited. Sixteen years, swearin’ that one day I’d kill him for what he done. Sixteen years of seein’ his face every night an’ swearin’ with my whole soul he’d die for what he did to mine.”
Arenadd bent and picked up his sword. “This sword did that to you?”
“Did that, an’ took the lives of dozens of the best warriors who ever drew breath, aye. An’ now I find ye stole my revenge from me, Arenadd Taranisäii.” She snarled to herself. “Still, it had to be done, an’ I’m happy knowin’ it were a Taranisäii what done it. An’ I’m grateful ye came to tell me yerself, Arenadd.”
Arenadd rubbed his jaw. “I’m sorry, but who
are
you?”
She snorted and began to walk toward her griffin. “Who d’ye think I am, ye brick-headed Southerner? I’m Arddryn Taranisäii. Saeddryn’s mother.”
Arenadd followed her. “You’re supposed to be dead!”
“Bah. I’m as good as. Rannagon cut my face so bad it near killed me, an’ I’m too old an’ sick t’fight now.”
The griffin standing over Skandar turned to look at her partner. She was younger than Arddryn, middle-aged by griffish standards. She was thickset and compact, with mottled brown feathers and white patches on her face and wings. Her hindquarters were ash grey and her tail feathers white.
Arenadd bowed to her before he looked at Skandar. “Is he all right?”
The brown griffin yawned and sat back on her haunches. “I have not hurt him.”
“Skandar.” Arenadd went to him and touched his head. “Skandar, are you hurt?”
Skandar finally managed to stand, though he staggered a little. “Not hurt, human.”
“Good. Now be respectful. This griffin is much older than you, and more powerful.”
Skandar glared at the brown griffin. “My territory,” he hissed. “You go, or die.”
She hissed back. “This land is mine, dark griffin. I own it, and I will kill anyone who tries to take it from me. If you attack, I will use my magic on you again. If I want to, I can crush your bones.”
“Easy, Skandar,” said Arenadd. “We don’t have to fight. They’re friends.”
“Not have, not want,” said Skandar, but he had the sense to keep still and lower his beak toward the other griffin.
She looked satisfied. “So you are Arenadd Taranisäii,” she said. “The grandson of Skandar.”
“Yes,” said Arenadd. “And you?”
“I am Hyrenna, and you are welcome in my territory. Tell me”—she looked at Skandar—“I am curious. How did you come to have the same name as your partner’s grandsire, Skandar?”
Skandar only stared at her.
“He didn’t have a name when I met him,” said Arenadd. “So I named him.”
Hyrenna cocked her head, much like Arddryn before her. “No name? Why?”
Arenadd explained.
“Ah,” said Hyrenna. “So, Skandar, have you discovered your magic?”
“Not have,” Skandar muttered.
“He hasn’t,” said Arenadd, lying.
“Then I shall teach you,” said Hyrenna.
“Teach?” said Skandar.
“Yes.” Hyrenna moved closer to him and nibbled at the top of his head. “I have been waiting for you, Skandar, for a long time. There is something I want from you. If you do as I ask, then I will let you stay in my territory and I will teach you everything your mother would have taught you if she had lived. You will learn how to discover your magic, and to use it.”
Skandar began to sniff at her. “What want?”
Hyrenna brought her head close to his and began to speak in rapid griffish, too fast for Arenadd to follow properly, though he caught snatches of it.
“… need …”
“… not understand …”
“… everything you want …”
“… yellow, sun, want …”
“… go, go, fly now …”
Then the two griffins began to make odd chirping and trilling noises, and went into a frenzy of sniffing and nuzzling, pawing and pushing at each other, as if they were wrestling. They lifted their beaks high and pressed their bodies together, chest to chest, and rose onto their hind legs to shove back and forth, paws scuffing in the snow. The two humans moved away and watched them until Skandar broke away and looked at them. “Human?”
Hyrenna bit at the nape of his neck. “My human shall look after him. Come, now. We shall find them again later.”
That seemed to satisfy Skandar. The big griffin took to the air in a flurry of wings; Hyrenna inclined her head briefly toward Arenadd and Arddryn, and flew up to join him.
“Where are they going?” said Arenadd.
“Don’t worry, they’ll be back ’fore night,” said Arddryn. “Leaves ye an’ me t’talk.”
“Yes, but where are they going?”
“Don’t ask me. Somewhere in the mountains. Hyrenna’ll have the place picked out by now, f’sure.”
Arenadd watched the two dark shapes circle above, drifting away toward the mountains further north. “How did she do that? I’ve never seen Skandar obey someone like that before. I can get him to do things sometimes, but I always have to spend half a day arguing with him first.”
Arddryn cackled. “Hyrenna knows some good methods of persuasion, I reckon. When it comes to males, ev’ry female does.”
Arenadd blinked. “What, they’re not—?”
“Aye, matin’,” Arddryn said carelessly. “Been a long time, it has.”
Everything fell into place in an instant, and Arenadd wanted to slap himself. “Ah. Of course. I didn’t know even griffins could be that fast, though.”
“When ye’re in Hyrenna’s situation, there’s no such thing as too fast,” said Arddryn. “It’s been twenty-odd years since she’s seen another griffin, an’ she’s gettin’ old an’ hasn’t had chicks. She wants ’em. We both do.”
Arenadd nodded. “I think I understand. More griffins here means there could be more griffiners one day—on your side. Am I right?”
“Aye. Ye know what’s goin’ on, right enough. I don’t want t’be the last griffiner among the darkmen.” She shivered. “Now, come. Come. The camp ain’t far from here, an’ I ain’t wantin’ t’stay out here too long. Come, I’ll show ye the way.”
Arenadd walked beside her. “You’re not thinking of restarting that rebellion, are you?”
Arddryn gave him a sharp look. “Why d’ye ask, Arenadd?”