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Authors: K. J. Taylor

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BOOK: The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy)

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Warwick

T
he journey out of the mountains, which began only a day later, was a long and difficult one, but less eventful than Arenadd had expected. He let Saeddryn take the lead, along with Nerth and Hafwen.

Skandar, of course, flew overhead, ranging here and there, but he never quite went out of sight.

Saeddryn helped them navigate their way out of the mountains, and they eventually emerged into the warmer country of the plains further south. There Arenadd ordered them to make a new camp in a small dell, where there was running water and game.

Nerth and his hunters were able to catch a pair of deer, and Cai, foraging for edible plants, found a ground-bear’s burrow.

They spent a good length of time in the dell, gathering food and building up their strength. During that time Arenadd felt more of his own strength return; his chest and throat stopped hurting at last, and his fingers improved as well, though he didn’t delude himself that they would ever be anything but deformed. His eye, too, finally returned to normal, the swelling going down until it opened again. He was relieved to find that he hadn’t lost any vision.

One evening nearly two weeks after their arrival, he called the others together.

“Now,” he said, once they were ready. “We’ve had time to rest and eat, and I think we’re about ready to get moving.”

“We are, sir,” said Saeddryn.

“I’ve been thinking,” Arenadd went on. “Thanks to Saeddryn, and some of the rest of you, I’ve built a good enough picture of this country in my head to decide where we should go next.” He absent-mindedly rubbed his twisted fingers. “If we’re going to fight, then we need a stronghold, and we need followers. And if we want followers, then we have to attract them to us. Namely, by sending out a message and making it loud enough for the entire country to hear. Now”—he unrolled a small map and laid it out by the fire—“this is my plan.”

I
t had been a trying day for Lord Tynan, governor of the little walled town known as Warwick. He climbed the steps to his private quarters in a foul mood, vowing that the next person who came to him with bad news would be in deep trouble.

Not for the first time, he reflected bitterly on how he hadn’t even wanted this position in the first place. Warwick was one of the larger towns this close to the mountains, but it was absurdly remote—weeks of travel away from Malvern on the ground and several days in the air. Most of the land around it had been converted into pasture land for flocks of black Northern sheep, and the cloth made from their wool was its main source of commerce.

Virtually everyone living in the city was a Northerner. Tynan disliked Northerners. They were a cunning, silent lot, full of lies and trickery and always ready to make things more difficult for his officials—and, by extension, himself. But the last few days had been aggravating even by those low standards. There had been dozens of thefts all over the city, including one in the Governor’s Tower itself. Several criminals had escaped from the local prison and so far had evaded all efforts to recapture them, and there had been a nasty riot in a tavern the night before. All of which he had to deal with in some way, and the truth was that he didn’t know much about law and order. Let the guard deal with it.

This
day, though, had managed to cap it all. There had been an accident in the weaving house: the pair of oxen driving the weaving device had panicked and broken free of their harness, causing enough damage to the thing that it would be useless for days. And so far nobody seemed to have any idea what had set them off or why they had continued their frenzy for so long afterward.

Now, of course, he was going to have to pay for the repairs from out of the treasury, which was already drained after the outbreak of disease in the flocks last year, and Retha was no help at all, spending all her time in her nest and complaining she was “tired.”

With all this on his mind as he entered his chamber, he was so preoccupied that he had taken his boots off and was about to sit in his chair by the fire before he noticed there was already someone sitting in it.

“What in the love of Gryphus!” He recovered his senses. “
What
are you doing in here?”

The man sat back and rested one long leg on the other. “You seem awfully distracted, my lord. I thought you were going to sit on top of me for a moment there.”

Tynan took in the sight of him with considerable puzzlement. He was a young Northerner wearing the black robe of a slave, but he looked very refined: his beard was neatly trimmed into a point, and his hair, which was long and curly, fell in a glossy, well-groomed mane down over his shoulders. There was a long scar under his eye and more on his neck, but he looked for all the world like an aristocrat relaxing after a feast.

Tynan advanced on him. “I said, who are you?”

“Actually, you asked me what I was doing in here,” said the man. He didn’t sound like a Northerner; in fact, his accent was distinctly Southern. He stood up. “Please do relax, my lord.”

Tynan pulled his dagger out of his belt. “What are you doing in here? Who are you?”

“I didn’t want to bother you,” he said, “but I’ve just been down in the city for the last few days. You know, looking around, taking it all in. In fact, you won’t believe this, but I actually met a couple of old friends down there. And made a few more. One of them was kind enough to make me a new robe—nice, isn’t it? Much more comfortable than the last one.”

Tynan gaped at him. He was too bewildered to call the guards. “I’m sorry, but what are you talking about?” he said. “Who
are
you?”

“Just a sightseer,” said the man. “Well, all right, I’m after a few things.” He gave him a bright smile. “You’re the governor of this city, aren’t you?”

“I am,” said Tynan. “And you—”

“Wonderful!” said the man. “I’m very impressed by what you’ve done with it. It’s a beautiful city.” He scratched his beard. “I like it. I think I’ll take it.”

Tynan finally pulled himself together, and shouted for the guards.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the man. “But I’m afraid they can’t come just at the moment. They’ve been taken sick.”

“What d’you mean, sick?” Tynan demanded.

“A rather bad case of being dead,” said the man, quite calmly. “That was probably my fault. I suspect I’m contagious. Now, then . . .”

Tynan glanced quickly at the archway that led to Retha’s nest. There was no sign of her, or of the guards.

“Your partner isn’t available,” the man said, still speaking in light, genial tones. “She’s feeling very, very tired. That, and she’s tied up.”

Tynan darted toward the archway, but the man placed himself in the way.

“Please, stay calm,” he said, holding up his hands.

Tynan ignored him and ran for the door instead. But before he was halfway there the man was in front of him, as if he had appeared out of nowhere.

“I told you to stay calm,” he said. “It really would be better—”

Tynan drew his dagger and attacked, still shouting for the guards.

The man neatly sidestepped his attack, evading the dagger. His own hand shot out, catching Lord Tynan by the wrist. Tynan twisted, agonising pain blasting up his arm to his shoulder. He screamed and dropped the dagger, and the man let go of him and sent him sprawling with a swift kick to the stomach.

“So,” he said, standing over him, “perhaps you’re ready to listen.”

“Kri a-o ei!”
Tynan screeched, clutching his wrist.

The man blinked. “That was rather uncalled for, my lord. I didn’t think your sort even
knew
that kind of language.” He wasn’t even out of breath. “Now, I have an offer for you.”

Pain was clouding Tynan’s senses. “What?”

“I want this city,” said the man. “I need a good home for my friends. Surrender it to me, and I won’t kill you. I won’t even take any of your belongings. You can keep them all.”

Tynan managed to laugh. “You think you can
steal
a city, you lunatic?”

The man lost his smile. “I’m not crazy, just a little unwell. And yes, I do think I can steal a city, as a matter of fact.”

“You’re . . . dead,” Tynan spat.

“Correct. But you don’t have to join me.” The man scratched his beard. “You’re a man who knows about numbers. Perhaps you’d prefer to hear it in these terms: there are six hundred and twenty-five people living in this city. Out of those, there are one hundred and five guards—wait, sorry, ninety-eight guards now—fourteen officials, and you. I make that out to be a hundred and thirteen Southerners, against five hundred and thirteen of my people.”

“That doesn’t mean a cursed
thing
, blackrobe,” said Tynan.

The man kicked him, hard. Tynan doubled up.

“Never use that word in my presence again, or next time I’ll aim lower than your stomach,” the man said.

Tynan threw another griffish curse at him. “You’re insane! You can’t do anything!”

“So they tell me. But I’m afraid I can.” The man sighed.

“You asked for my name. It’s Arenadd Taranisäii.”

Tynan went pale. “What? Not—”

“Yes,
that
Arenadd Taranisäii,” said Arenadd, with a touch of impatience. “I’m afraid Malvern didn’t manage to deal with me as well as they thought. And I intend to make them pay for trying.”

Tynan slumped. “Oh . . . gods.”

Arenadd crouched beside him. “I’m tired of killing,” he said. “I want to do this as bloodlessly as I can. Just give me the damned city and go away. If you don’t, I will . . . you’ll regret it.”

“You’re bluffing,” Tynan whispered. “You can’t do it. You’re on your own.”

“Not any more.” Arenadd stood up. “The people of this city have accepted me as their leader. They’re on my side now. One word from me, and they will tear this tower apart. And as for you . . . well, I could show you what they did to me at Malvern, if you like. A practical demonstration.” He took the glove off his left hand and flexed the fingers. “You hear the bones breaking, you know. It sounds like someone crushing a piece of wood.”

Tynan retched. “No! For the love of gods . . .”

Arenadd watched him dispassionately for a moment, and then put the glove back on. “I didn’t think you’d be interested, somehow. But my offer still stands. Get out of here, my lord. Just go.”

Tynan felt new strength come into him then, and certainty. “Never,” he snarled.

“If you insist,” said Arenadd, and struck.

He watched Tynan’s last, bloody struggle on the floor until the griffiner was still.

“I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything less,” he muttered. He threw the dagger away, at the wall, where it stuck, point-first in the wood. “And perhaps it’s better this way,” he added, and left the room.

T
he capture of Warwick, which would become the subject of dozens of poems, songs and legends, was, in the event, almost ridiculously simple. While Arenadd had not actually won the allegiance of every person in the city, the band of followers he did have on his side—including Saeddryn’s warriors—was enough to storm and then occupy the Governor’s Tower, which was lightly guarded and occupied mostly by Tynan’s officials and their families. By the time the city guard arrived in force, they had barricaded themselves in and armed themselves. A brief siege ensued, but the guards weren’t accustomed to out-and-out warfare, and though they outnumbered the rebels they came off worse. Eventually Arenadd himself led a group out of the tower, and a short but bloody fight took place in the streets surrounding it. Many of the locals fled, but others, having found out who was in the city and why, joined in on Arenadd’s side.

The guards were quickly scattered, and many surrendered or were killed.

Arenadd, fighting at the front of a group that included most of Saeddryn’s band, had armed himself with Tynan’s sword. As a knot of guards they were trying to back into an alley broke and ran, he cut one down from behind, shouting, “After them!”

He sprinted down the main street, narrow-eyed, every sense intent on his prey, his followers close behind him.

The guards stayed together as a group, following the commands of their captain. Arenadd kept at their heels, determined not to let them get out of his sight, but they managed to evade him and finally took refuge in a building at the end of the street.

Arenadd ran straight after them, reaching out to shove open the pair of solid wooden doors before they could be shut. But moments before he touched them, he felt a terrible weakness go rushing through him, all cold and smothering, and panic sparked in his brain. He stumbled to a halt, nearly falling against the doors.

Panting, he glared at the gold sunwheel set into the wood.

One of his followers, a local man, caught up with him. “Hah! They’re done now!” he yelled. “There’s no other way out of there!”

BOOK: The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy)

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