of the black griffin yet, or anyone or anything else. The pit walls were bare wood, marred by deep scratch marks and dark stains. Underfoot there was sand, brought up from the shores of Eagle’s Lake. And there was nothing else. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Overhead, the crowd was shouting. Some were chanting. Chanting a name. “Darkheart! Darkheart! Darkheart!”
Arren looked at the spear. The shaft was about as long as he was tall, and made of cheap, splintered wood. The head was worn and a little rusty but sharp enough, broad and well barbed. He could kill a griffin with it, in theory at least.
“Darkheart! Darkheart! Darkheart!”
Arren looked up at them, and a feeling of fierce rage overcame him. He lifted his head and screamed. “Arren! Arren! Arren!”
“Arren!”
“Arren!”
The shouts were faint, but they hit him almost as if they were physical blows. He scanned the crowd, trying to see where they had come from. The voices continued to shout his name, and then he saw them. They were in the front row, standing up, calling to him.
“No,” Arren whispered. “No, please, don’t do this.”
But he knew they could not hear him, and that they would not obey even if they could. Annir and Cardock had come to watch their son fight for his life, and their voices chanted his name, a solitary counterpoint to Darkheart’s name.
Arren moved toward them, wanting to call to them, but then a loud metallic thump made him turn sharply, raising the spear.
A gate had opened in the wall on the opposite side of the pit, and even as he turned, the huge shape of the black griffin charged through it, beak open wide to screech. “Darkheart!”
Arren gripped his spear. “Come to me,” he snarled softly. “I’m ready.”
The beast had seen him. Darkheart started to run toward him, but then horror and disbelief thudded into Arren’s stomach as the black griffin spread his wings wide and leapt into the air.
20
Pact
They had unchained the griffin’s wings.
The realisation shot through Arren’s brain as he watched Darkheart fly up and over the pit, flying clumsily but with growing confidence. There were no chains on his forelegs, either. The only thing left was the collar, embedded among the feathers on his neck and gleaming in the sun, and Darkheart was plainly well aware of that. He flew as high as the net would allow him, screeching his name, while above him the crowd reacted with amazement and wild excitement.
Rage and hatred followed quickly on the heels of Arren’s fear. He ran toward the centre of the Arena, pointing his spear upward, preparing himself for when the griffin swooped. But Darkheart showed no interest in him at all. In fact, he seemed completely oblivious to his presence. He flew around the pit, silent now, head turned upward to stare at the crowd. As Arren watched, he turned on his back and latched his talons onto the net, biting at it. The steel cables would not break, but he wedged his beak into one of the gaps and tried to squeeze through it, even though it was hopelessly small. When that didn’t work he thrust a foreleg through and groped at the empty air above the net, as if hoping to find something he could grab. A few moments later, he let go and dropped. His wings unfurled and he resumed his circling, looking for a place where the net was weak or irregular. Arren watched him as he grabbed another part of it and tried to break through, letting out a deafening screech when it held firm. Next he tried the edges, where the net joined the wall of the pit, digging his talons into the wood. But there were guards stationed all around the edges of the pit, and they thrust downward with long spears, forcing the black griffin to retreat. He persisted for some time, snarling, and then suddenly let go and resumed his circling.
Arren’s rage only increased as he watched him. That great dark shape, with its mottled black-and-silver wings and its black legs hanging beneath it, dragged his mind back to that day at Rivermeet, when he had stood in the field with Eluna and seen what he did not yet know was the agent of his own destruction, soaring high above.
And now, as then, he steeled himself and called out a challenge. “Darkheart!” he screamed in griffish, raising his spear over his head. “I have come for you!”