The Griffin's War (Fallen Moon Trilogy) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1 - Whispers

  Chapter 2 - Condemned

  Chapter 3 - The Night God’s Promise

  Chapter 4 - Reunion

  Chapter 5 - The Half-Breed

  Chapter 6 - The Chosen One

  Chapter 7 - Night Travels

  Chapter 8 - Gwernyfed

  Chapter 9 - Starting a War

  Chapter 10 - Warwick

  Chapter 11 - Rebirth

  Chapter 12 - The War Begins

  Chapter 13 - The Council

  Chapter 14 - Treasures

  Chapter 15 - An Old Friend

  Chapter 16 - Memories

  Chapter 17 - The War Begins

  Chapter 18 - Evil Tactics

  Chapter 19 - The Sea and the Sky

  Chapter 20 - Outwitted

  Chapter 21 - On the Island of the Sun

  Chapter 22 - Raising the Banner

  Chapter 23 - The Weapon

  Chapter 24 - Fatherhood

  Chapter 25 - Skade’s Quest

  Chapter 26 - Traitors

  Chapter 27 - Plots

  Chapter 28 - Skenfríth

  Chapter 29 - Consequences

  Chapter 30 - Lost Memories

  Chapter 31 - Endings and Beginnings

  Chapter 32 - The Siege

  Chapter 33 - Waiting

  Chapter 34 - Homecoming

  Chapter 35 - Preparation

  Chapter 36 - Sun and Moon

  Chapter 37 - Arenadd’s Triumph

  Chapter 38 - King of the North

  About the Author

  Dark Destiny

  For Arenadd, the journey through the shadows with Skandar was like using his own newly discovered gift—but a hundred times more powerful. This wasn’t mere shielding. He clung on to his partner’s back, feeling the massive strength beneath him; and despite the icy cold, despite the fact that he couldn’t see anything around them but black void, he had never felt so powerful in his life.

  But it was humbling, too. For the first time he was beginning to see the full extent of Skandar’s power. It had brought him back from death, and now it was taking them all to freedom.

  Unseen in the darkness, Arenadd began to smile. They had the power, and soon they would have a plan. The Night God’s will would be done, and he and Skandar would take everything the world had denied them for so long.

  Anyone who stood in their way would die.

  Ace Books by K. J. Taylor

  The Fallen Moon

  THE DARK GRIFFIN

  THE GRIFFIN’S FLIGHT

  THE GRIFFIN’S WAR

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

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  South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  THE GRIFFIN’S WAR

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  HarperCollins Australia mass-market edition / January 2010

  Ace mass-market edition / March 2011

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-47726-7

  ACE

  Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Dedicated to Jackie French.

  This book doesn’t have any wise mentors, but I do.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to all my friends. Allison, my friend and brilliant illustrator; Stephanie, my friend and publisher; Jackie, my friend and mentor; Anne, my friend and mother; Rod, my friend and father; and Claire, my friend and sister. And thank you as always to all the awesome people at the Eyrie, because without readers a book is a sad thing.

  And final thanks to Nightwish, whose album Dark Passion Play was the soundtrack to all my work here.

  Author’s Note

  The language of the Northerners is Welsh, a very ancient and beautiful language.

  Accordingly, in line with the rules of Welsh pronunciation, “dd” sounds like “th.”

  Hence our protagonist’s name, Arenadd, is pronounced as “Arrenath.” Likewise, Saeddryn is pronounced as “Saythrin,” and Arddryn is pronounced as “Arthrin.”

  Cymria

  The North

  1

  Whispers

  Huddled alone in a cell deep below the city of Malvern, Arenadd Taranisäii sang. He wasn’t sure of the words or the tune. In fact, he couldn’t quite remember what he was trying to sing. That didn’t matter. Keeping his bandaged hand tucked in against his chest, he opened his mouth wide and sang as loudly as he could. His voice came out cracked and raucous.

  “. . . danced around the tree when you came to look for me, round and round the . . . tree we went . . . back again . . . take my hand and we’ll . . . something something . . . dance around the—” He broke off in a fit of coughing.

  He had lost track of how long he’d been here. Time had no meaning when there was no light, and even less when you couldn’t sleep. And pain made every moment drag out and stretch. He hadn’t eaten anything in a while, but that didn’t seem to matter much. His mouth hurt where one of his teeth had been knocked out. The swelling on the side of his head had claimed one eye, so seeing wasn’t easy, either. But none of it hurt as much as his hand.

  He sang anyway. It was all he could think of to do, the only thing that seemed to block out the whisperings in his head.

  He thought he must be going mad. His mind was a jumble. Sometimes he would think that someone else was there with him in the cell, until he blinked and they disappeared.

  Arenadd, the voice whispered again.

  He waved his good hand around wildly. “Go away!”

>   The voice kept on calling, and he sang again until it went away. After that he dozed for a short while.

  When he woke up, there was someone else there. A blurry person, standing in a doorway made of light. He blinked and rubbed his good eye, but the intruder didn’t leave. The figure came into focus.

  Eventually, he realised the person was talking to him. He jerked his head toward him. “Eh? Eh? Who’s that? Rannagon? Is that you? Have you come back for me?”

  The reply came: “It’s me. Remember me?”

  Arenadd blinked some more, until he finally took in the person in front of him. A stocky, blond young man with a boyish freckled face and blue eyes. Familiar eyes. Eyes full of disgust and hatred—and fear.

  Arenadd grinned horribly. “Erian Rannagonson. Malvern’s favourite bastard. Why are you here? Want me to bite your ear off next?” he said, and cackled.

  Erian retreated slightly. “I wanted to see you one last time. Ask you something.”

  Arenadd dragged himself forward, pulling on the chains that held his wrists to the wall. “The last time before what? Eh, Bastard? What’s poor Arenadd got coming next?”

  Erian’s eyes spat hate at him. “They’re going to hang you in the morning, murderer.”

  Arenadd rubbed his head with his good hand. “Finally. Lazy Southern bastards took forever.”

  Erian glanced over his shoulder. “Listen to me. Listen!”

  Arenadd just stared at him, through a red-rimmed black eye.

  “I want to know something,” said Erian. “Why did you do it? Why did you kill my father?”

  “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  Erian stared blankly at him for a moment, and then gave a strangled shout of frustration. “Answer me! Why did you do it? Why did you really do it?”

  The voice had begun to whisper again. It was growing louder. Tired anger coursed through the muddle in Arenadd’s mind. Pushing at the floor with his feet, he tried to get up—and fell back against the wall when his chains caught. “What do you want from me, you sun-worshipping nitwit?” he yelled. “I killed him because he killed me. That’s why.” He slumped, chest heaving. “Now bugger off and leave me alone.”

  Erian tried to question him more, but Arenadd started to sing again and didn’t stop until he went away.

  Once he was alone, he stopped singing and tried to think. So, they were going to hang him. At last, he was going to leave this cell. Tomorrow he would be given death . . . or his chance to escape. Only time would tell which. And by now he would welcome either one.

  Erian let himself be escorted out of the dungeon. His heart pounded sickeningly the entire time. In his head, the vision stayed with him. The bony, wild-eyed wreck of a man, crouched in the corner with one bandaged hand cradled against his body, long black hair matted into ropes around his swollen face. The pointed chin beard crusted with blood, the black robe and leggings all torn and filthy. And that voice, harsh and crazed . . . mad.

  He wished he knew why he had gone to visit him at all. He had been there when Arenadd had been captured, the murdering blackrobe raving all the while. He had seen Malvern’s council sentence him to death without a trial, after the Master of Law had claimed that Arenadd was insane and couldn’t be tried. Even the guards Erian had bribed to let him in had warned him. Violent and deranged, they said. But Erian had gone anyway.

  He was glad when he emerged from the narrow dungeon corridors and back into the more spacious lower level of the Eyrie tower.

  Senneck was there, idly grooming a wing. She came to meet him. “Are you satisfied now, Erian?”

  He shook his head vaguely. “I don’t know.”

  “Did he tell you what you wanted him to?”

  “No. He won’t say anything except nonsense. He didn’t even look afraid when I told him he was going to be hanged.”

  “So be it, then,” said Senneck. “Let us go and meet with the Mighty Kraal now. He will be waiting.”

  Erian walked obediently beside her, up the ramps toward the upper levels of the tower. She moved unhurriedly, with the graceful loping gait of all griffins, her tail waving gently behind her. Erian kept pace easily, though his mind was elsewhere.

  “I just don’t understand it!” he burst out at last.

  Senneck didn’t look back at him. “Understand what?”

  “Any of it! He did all those terrible things, killed all those people—murdered my father—and he didn’t even have a reason! That’s why I went down there,” he added, realising it just at that moment. “I wanted him to give me a reason. But he didn’t. I just don’t understand why something like that could just . . . happen.”

  Senneck’s back paws padded on the carpeted floor. “There does not have to be a reason, Erian.”

  “Yes there does! The gods wouldn’t—”

  She stopped and turned her head sharply toward him. “There are no gods. Do not delude yourself. Nothing happens but what is made to happen by us and by nature.”

  Erian gaped at her, before hastily backing down. “I suppose you’re right,” he mumbled, as she turned away and walked on. “It’d just be easier that way.”

  “Nothing is easy.”

  “I know.” Erian adjusted the sling holding his right arm. The shoulder still ached.

  “Besides,” Senneck added more kindly, “the murderer is done with now. We have played our part, and all that is left for us is to claim our reward!”

  Erian cheered up a little at that. But a moment later his heart quailed when he remembered that seeing the Mighty Kraal would also mean seeing his human partner. Beautiful Lady Elkin. The woman he now knew he loved but who did not love him in return. But, he told himself quickly, now maybe it would be different. He had caught Arenadd Taranisäii, the notorious destroyer of Eagleholm, the man who had stolen a gang of slaves and led them to overrun the mountain fort called Guard’s Post and kill everyone inside it. Arenadd had been one of the most wanted men in Cymria, and Erian had been the one to finally capture him. Now he and Senneck were due to be rewarded, but that didn’t matter so much to Erian as the idea that maybe Elkin would be grateful to him. Maybe she would even respect him now for what he had done.

  He held on to that hope all the way up to the very top of the tower, where Lady Elkin’s audience chamber was. But the moment he stepped into the big marble-lined room, that hope died.

  The middle of the audience chamber featured a stepped platform made from slabs of white marble. It may have been large, but it was dwarfed by the massive griffin that crouched at its top. The Mighty Kraal, his white feathers glossy in the lamp-light, golden eyes half-closed. There was nobody else with him.

  Erian, feeling as if a lead weight had replaced his stomach, knelt in front of the platform. Beside him Senneck bowed her head to the superior griffin, saying nothing.

  The Mighty Kraal regarded them both. Finally, he lifted his head and spoke. “You have come to ask me for your reward, Senneck?”

  “I have,” she said.

  “And that is all?”

  Senneck’s tail flicked uncertainly. “All, Mighty Kraal?”

  He looked at her, then at Erian. “You have nothing to tell me?”

  “I have not,” said Senneck.

  Erian felt the giant griffin’s gaze burning through him. Feeling he should say something, he finally came up with: “I heard they’re going to execute the murderer tomorrow.”

  “That is true,” said Kraal. “But you and I were both there to hear it. Do you have any other thing to tell me about this man you call your enemy?”

  Erian squirmed under that golden stare. “He’s mad.”

  Kraal kept his gaze on him a moment longer, before finally looking away with a dismissive huff. “I will give you your reward now.”

  He used his beak to hook something from under his wing and dropped it in front of Senneck. It was a leather bag, heavy with gold oblong. Erian picked it up happily; he could buy new clothes with this, and a new bow, and better food and nesting material
for Senneck.

  “You may go now,” Kraal told them both, and without waiting for a response he settled down and closed his eyes.

  Erian left the audience chamber very gladly, clutching the bag of oblong. “He’s a very odd griffin, isn’t he?”

  “He is old,” said Senneck. “And I think he has been idle here too long. A griffin that grows bored can become lazy and foolish—inclined to mystical thoughts.”

  “He doesn’t look that old to me,” said Erian.

  “I do not know his true age,” Senneck admitted. “But he is at least as old as your father was, and probably older. Stories of him go back many, many years. My mother told me about him when I was a hatchling, and said her own mother had once told her.”

  Erian rubbed his head. “Good gods. Do griffins live that long?”

  “Some of them do, it would seem,” said Senneck. “Now, let us go back to our nest. I am ready to eat.”

  On his platform in the audience chamber, the Mighty Kraal shifted and scratched his flank. Yet another meeting with Senneck and her human, and something still nagged at him. Senneck was simple enough. Young and ambitious, as arrogant as every young griffin who had only just chosen a human. But her human was another question. He looked very much like his father, but there was something else about him. Whatever it was, it wasn’t anything particularly special. He wasn’t important as humans went, just a lowly newcomer to the Eyrie. He wasn’t a great fighter or particularly intelligent for a human. But despite all that, Kraal couldn’t shake off that feeling. That feeling that was almost . . . familiarity.

  The sound of a door opening behind him brought him back to the present. He didn’t need to look to know who the intruder was.