but he was too late. Shoa came rushing out of the study and was on him, knocking him down. His head struck the wall, and stars exploded in his vision. He lay half-conscious, groaning, and Shoa’s talons slammed down, trapping him.
But she did not kill him. She looked back, hissing, as Rannagon emerged, limping. “Kill him, then, if you can,” she said harshly.
Rannagon looked at her, and then at Arren.
Arren looked back, his glazed expression fading away. “Kill me, then,” he said. “Finish it.”
“Shoa was right,” Rannagon said. “I trusted you once, but I was a fool. A blackrobe will always be a blackrobe, no matter where he lives or how.” He raised the sword. “Goodbye, Arren Cardockson.”
Arren closed his eyes. He could feel Shoa’s talons moving away from his throat, so that Rannagon would have a clear strike. Let me die, he thought. Please just let me die.
But then, quite suddenly, as he lay and waited for death to come, he felt a strange energy rush up inside him. It was hot and vital and powerful, like fresh blood moving through his veins. It felt like love.
His eyes snapped open, and he screamed. “Arren! Arren!”
“Kill him!” Shoa shouted.
Rannagon moved his feet, balancing himself, and then brought the sword down as hard as he could.
A screech came from overhead, shattering the night. Rannagon, caught unawares, deflected his blow at the last moment. His sword hit the edge of the balcony and bounced off, nearly wrenched from his grasp. He looked up and saw the huge dark shape fall out of the sky.
It collided with Shoa with the force of a falling tree, bowling her over. She smashed through the doorway and back into the study, and as Rannagon turned, too stunned to even raise his sword, he saw the yellow griffin in the firelight, grappling with a huge black-and-silver monster. The two of them grappled with each other, hissing and snapping their beaks, talons tearing great holes through feather and hide.
Rannagon ran forward. “Shoa! No!”
The two griffins pulled apart and rested a moment, crouched low and snarling. Shoa moved to protect her partner, and the black griffin looked at the door to the balcony and then started toward it, his fight apparently forgotten.
He had seen Arren.
Man and griffin stood a little way apart, regarding each other, and then Darkheart stretched his beak out toward Arren and held it there. Arren reached up tentatively and touched it. Darkheart stiffened slightly, but he did not attack. He sat very still for a moment, and then he came forward and touched his beak to Arren’s chest, his claws kneading at the ground. Arren put his hands on the griffin’s head, touching the feathers, and Darkheart closed his eyes and purred softly.
But this strange moment of peace did not last. Shoa rose up, spreading her wings. “Be gone, monster!”
Darkheart turned sharply and crouched low, shoulders raised. “Mine!” he hissed. “Mine!”
Shoa rushed at him. The black griffin was ready; he reared up onto his hind legs and latched his claws into her chest and throat. Her hind legs came up and kicked him in the belly, tearing off lumps of fur and skin. Darkheart sank his beak into the back of her skull and twisted it, making her scream.
Arren looked past the two griffins and saw Rannagon. He was near the door, sword in hand, obviously torn between fleeing and staying to help Shoa.
“You stay where you are, Rannagon!” he shouted, and ran at him, dodging around the two griffins. Shoa tried to strike him, but Darkheart rammed into her flank, knocking her aside. She landed awkwardly on her side, and he pushed her onto her back, tearing into her belly with his beak and talons. Shoa’s claws sank into his head and face, but she had already lost. Darkheart knew how to kill other griffins. His beak ripped through the skin on her belly and the thin layer of muscle beneath, and her bowels slid out, bloody and glistening.
Rannagon started to run forward. “No!”
Arren slammed into him, head-on, knocking him back. Rannagon staggered backward and nearly fell, but he regained his balance and launched himself at Arren.
Orome’s broken blade deflected Rannagon’s, and Arren drove forward recklessly, swinging the weapon with all his might. He forgot all notion of blocking, or even aiming, and hit Rannagon in the shoulders, arms and chest. Rannagon, panic-stricken, started to retreat.
“Lord Rannagon!”
The shout had come from the other side of the door leading into the rest of the Eyrie.
Someone