at Darkheart. The black griffin turned his head toward him and looked at him almost placidly.
Arren dared touch his beak, and Darkheart merely sighed.
“Thank you,” said Arren. “For what you did. You saved my life.”
Darkheart’s eyes were alert. “We fly,” he said.
“Yes,” said Arren. “We fly. Where are we?”
“Arren,” said Darkheart.
“Yes, Darkheart?”
Darkheart closed his eyes and laid his head on his forepaws. “Arren,” he muttered again.
“Why did you do it, Darkheart?” said Arren. “Why did you come after me?”
Darkheart looked up again. “Mine,” he said. “You . . . mine.”
“I don’t belong to you,” said Arren. “I don’t belong to anyone. Not even myself. You can’t own somebody.”
Darkheart got up and pulled Arren toward him, covering him with his wing. “Mine,” he said. “My human. Mine.”
Arren almost pulled away, but then he stilled. “You can go wherever you like,” he said. “I won’t stop you.”
“Home,” said Darkheart.
“There isn’t one,” said Arren. “Not for us. They took our homes from us, Darkheart.” He looked up at the sky, searching for any hint of griffins’ wings. Nothing. Just a clear open sky, lit by dawn. “They’ll be after us,” he said softly. “Maybe not now, but soon. They want to kill us.”
Darkheart snorted. “I fight. You fight.”
“Yes. We can do that, can’t we?”
Arren got up and walked around the clearing. He was still limping a little, but he would be all right. Darkheart lay and watched him carefully, not letting him out of his sight.
Arren stopped and looked back at him. The black griffin’s presence was still menacing. He was still dangerous. He was still a man-eater. And yet . . .
Arren closed his eyes. What did that matter? How did it make him any different?
“We’re murderers,” he said, looking up. “Both of us. You and I are the same.”
Darkheart seemed to understand. “Dark griffin. Dark human,” he said.
“Yes, Darkheart,” said Arren, going to him and touching his head. “Both of us.”
“Where . . . we go?” said Darkheart.
Arren knew. “North,” he said.
It had to be north.
He paused, looking at the griffin. “You don’t have a name, do you?” he said.
“Name?” said Darkheart.
“Yes,” said Arren. He touched his chest. “Arren.”
“Darkheart,” said Darkheart.
“No. Darkheart isn’t a name. It’s a label. They called me blackrobe. So you’re Darkheart? Darkheart and Blackrobe, is that what we are? No.” Arren touched the black griffin on the head, feeling the silver feathers while he thought.
“Skandar,” he said at last. “Your name is Skandar.”
Darkheart looked up at him. “Skan . . . dar?”
“Yes. It’s a Northern name. A warrior’s name. Skandar. Not Darkheart. Skandar.”
Darkheart looked thoughtful. He lay down to rest, muttering. “Skandar. Skandar.”
Arren watched him, and couldn’t help but smile. “Arren and Skandar.”
Later, when Skandar was asleep, Arren sat down by the griffin’s flank, with the sword on the ground in front of him. He touched it gingerly. It was worn, but sharp and well made. I’ll keep it, he thought. I’ll need it. One day, when they catch up with me, I’ll need it.
He put one hand to the side of his neck and kept it there for a long time, concentrating.
Nothing. No heartbeat.
I’m the man without a heart.
A cold determination came over him. He pulled the robe more tightly over his shoulders and snuggled against Skandar’s flank. North. They would go to the North. There were hundreds of people there who looked like him. He would not be noticed.
I’ll find my parents, he thought. I’ll get them to safety. And after that, I’ll look for a way to change back. Something that will make my heart start beating again.
For a moment, he thought of Rannagon. And Flell. And the burning Eyrie. Had he really done those things? Had he?
He looked at his hands. There was blood on them, and more on his robe. Murderer, his mind whispered.
“No,” he said aloud. “No. A killer survives.”
Griffiners were not quite human. Many people said so. After so long living among griffins, they became griffish themselves. And griffins killed. For food, for pride, for revenge. For survival. They did not understand weakness or timidity. His old self—the man he had been—was completely alien to them. Why should he be weak and submissive, always looking to others for approval, always afraid of himself and his own nature? He had killed, and it had been right. Not good, not kind, but right for him. The only way. A griffin’s way.
I will go to the North, he thought again. I’ll find a place to hide.
He looked at Skandar. The griffin’s huge sides moved in and out in time with his deep, rumbling breaths, but in his sleep he looked almost peaceful.
And I won’t go there alone.
About the Author
“A lot of fantasy authors take their inspiration from Tolkien. I take mine from G. R. R. Martin and Finnish metal.”
Born in Canberra in 1986, Katie J. Taylor attended Radford College, where she wrote her first novel, The Land of Bad Fantasy, which was published in 2006. She studied for a bachelor’s degree in communications at the University of Canberra and graduated in 2007 before going on to do a graduate certificate in editing in 2008. K. J. Taylor writes at midnight and likes to wear black.