in the chest. Arren fell over backward, hitting the wall of the pen behind him. His collar struck the wood, driving the spikes deep into his neck, and he yelped.
Erian returned to Senneck’s side and the two of them left without looking back, but as they passed through the doors and into the sunlight a word drifted back toward him: “. . . blackrobe . . .”
For a long time, Arren did not move. His neck was aching savagely, as if a griffin’s talons were embedded in the flesh. He got up slowly, cringing and clutching at the collar. Once he had got his balance, he glanced upward. The sun was going down, and the light through the windows was tinted with orange. It was time for him to go home.
Arren looked into the pen behind him. The chick that occupied it stared back. It was a red griffin with orange eyes. “Food?” it said.
He never quite knew how it happened. Moving slowly and deliberately, his hand rose and took hold of the bolt on the gate. He watched with fascination as his fingers wrapped around it, gripped and pulled. The bolt came out with a soft thunk, and he pushed the gate open and stepped into the pen. The red chick came toward him, cheeping. “Food! Food!”
Arren knelt in front of it. “Will you help me?” he whispered in griffish.
The chick stopped and peered at him. “Arren?”
“Yes,” said Arren. “Yes, that’s me. Will you help me, little one?”
“Help?”
Arren reached out toward the chick, and his hands closed around its body, pinning its wings to its sides. Instantly, it stabbed its beak into the back of his hand.
He didn’t even feel it. He straightened up, holding it tightly, and backed out of the pen. There, he stopped and looked quickly around. There was no-one there. Just the chicks, chirping in their pens.
The red chick started to struggle, squawking in protest. Arren tucked it under his arm and clamped its beak shut with his hand. He found his cloak hanging by the door where he’d left it and draped it over himself, hiding his wriggling burden from view. Then, watching all the while for the slightest sign of another person, he turned and stole away into the gathering night.
18
A Thief in the Night
Even as he reached the edge of the goat pens and entered the market district, Arren heard the sound that came from the hatchery. A high, piercing shriek rose over the rooftops of the city, followed by another and then others, louder and louder. The adult griffins had noticed the missing hatchling.
Terror gripped him and he broke and ran, not even noticing the collar dragging at his neck. The chick struggled, its claws digging into him, but he kept hold of it and ducked into an alley. There was a stack of old barrels there; he huddled down behind them and lifted his cloak away from the chick. It immediately tried to pull free, but he took off his cloak and wrapped it up tightly in the coarse fabric, pinning its legs and wings. The chick screeched in protest, and he grabbed it by the beak. “Quiet!”
The chick looked up at him, and Arren suddenly realised it was trembling with fear. He stroked its head. “It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m your friend.”
There was a screech from overhead. Arren looked up sharply, and his face twisted with dread. Griffins. Dozens of them, flying over the market district and screeching. The sky was darkened, but he could see their black shapes moving over it, wings beating, tails held out rigidly behind them as they called. They were hunting for him.
The chick heard them and started to struggle even harder, letting out muffled cries. Arren stood up and tucked it under his arm, covering its head with his cloak and holding its beak shut with one hand. The screeches were getting louder, and he ran. He left the alley and sprinted down the street, turned left through another alley and ran on. The griffins were circling overhead, flying so low he could hear the sound of their beating wings.
People were gathering in the streets, staring and pointing at the sky. He did his best to avoid them, but when he turned a corner into a crossroads he found it packed with people. There was no other way through. He ran forward, shoving past them. Some of them shoved him back, but most of them were too distracted