cage jerked and began to move downwards, through the trapdoor and into the void. It went down and down, swinging gently from side to side, the mountainside passing in front of him. It drew level with a platform that jutted from the rock and came to a stop. There were more guards on the platform, and they hurried forward and snapped a set of wooden holders into place at the base of the cage, to secure it.
Arren tried not to look down, but he couldn’t help it. Through the slats he could see the ground so far below, right under his feet.
His whole body went cold. He stood absolutely still for a heartbeat, and then he ran forward and started to wrench at the door which faced the platform. “Let me out! Please, I can’t stay in here! No!”
The guards paid no attention; they returned to their posts without even looking back at him. Arren yelled until he was hoarse, but went utterly unheeded.
He slumped into a sitting position, his arms wrapped around the bars in front of him, gripping on as if they were the only thing holding him up. He could feel himself trembling violently all over. The wind tugged at his hair and he closed his eyes. He was going to fall . . . The floor was going to break and he was going to fall . . .
His eyes had gone wide and staring, bulging with terror. He looked toward the other cages that hung alongside his, and then at the guards, beseeching them. “Help me,” he whispered. “Someone help me.”
19
Hanging
“... Arren? Arren?”
Very slowly, Arren looked up. There was a strange, fixed look on his face, and he squinted at the person looking down at him as if he had no idea what he was seeing.
Someone nudged him in the shoulder. “Arren? Arren, say somethin’.”
The blankness in Arren’s face receded slightly. “Bran?”
Bran looked relieved. “Thank gods, I thought yeh didn’t recognise me. Arren, listen, there’s someone here to see yeh.”
Arren looked past him. There was a woman standing behind Bran. She was holding a piece of paper and a stick of charcoal, and was watching him without much interest. Seeing him looking at her, she came forward. “Arren Cardockson?”
Arren nodded vaguely.
“I understand you’ve been condemned to death,” said the woman.
Arren said nothing, and the woman glanced at Bran, who nodded.
“Well then,” she said, “I’ve been sent to make you an offer.”
Arren looked up at her and listened silently.
The woman took that as her cue and went on. “You have two choices facing you at this point,” she said. “You can either accept the immediate death sentence or you can volunteer to fight in the Arena tomorrow. Now, if you choose the Arena and you win the fight, you’ll be set free. If you’re interested, put your mark on this piece of paper and everything will be arranged. You will be allowed a weapon in the Arena, and you will be given better food beforehand. Make your choice.”
Arren was silent.
“Should I take that as a refusal?” said the woman.
The sound of her voice seemed to recall him to his senses. “Which one would I be fighting?” he said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Which griffin would I be fighting?”
“There would probably be more than one,” said the woman. “Why do you ask?”
“I want to fight the black one,” said Arren. “I want to fight—I want to fight Darkheart.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” said the woman. “Darkheart is very popular at the moment. He goes into the Arena nearly every week.”
“Alone,” said Arren.
“I’m sorry?” the woman said again.
Arren’s grip on the bars tightened. “If you let me fight the black griffin on my own—just him and me—I’ll say yes.”
The woman looked thoughtful. “I’ve never had anyone make a request like that before.”
“Promise me,” said Arren, hauling himself up on the bars. “Promise me I can fight the black griffin, and I’ll do whatever you want.”
The woman hesitated a moment, then nodded. “I don’t see why not. I think Orome would like the idea. Yes, I agree. Just give me a moment.” She knelt, placed the piece of paper on the wooden decking beneath her and scribbled away with the stick of charcoal, adding a few extra lines. This done, she offered the charcoal to Arren. “Just put your name here, or an X or whatever you like. Just as long as it’s your mark.”
Arren stared at the blank spot on the paper for a few moments and then gripped the charcoal stick