The Griffin's Flight (The Fallen Moon, Band 2) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Born in Canberra in 1986, Katie J. Taylor attended Radford College, where she wrote her first novel, The Land of Bad Fantasy. 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.

She is also the author of the Fallen Moon Trilogy: The Dark Griffin, Griffin's Flight, and Griffin's War, as well as the Risen Sun Trilogy: The Shadow’s Heir, The Shadowed Throne, and The Shadow’s Heart.

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Murderer.

He could see it again. It was rising out of the darkness, utterly silent, almost glowing. Blood was everywhere. He could feel it matting his hair, running down his face and into his beard, soaking into his robe. It was coming from his neck and from his eyes. And from his hands. They were bleeding. They would not stop bleeding.

He held them out, as his boots were slipping and sliding out from beneath him. The floor was slippery with blood. Help me. Please, help.

The shape was there in front of him now, its eyes turned accusingly toward him. He could see the blood coming from its throat, from the terrible wound. Flames were coming from it, too. He could smell the smoke.

Arren, what have you done?

There was pain in his neck. It was weighing him down, pulling him down, tearing his flesh, bringing the blood out of him like rain and tears.

Somewhere in the gloom he saw a griffin, her feathers white as snow. Arren, what have you done? she whispered.

I'm falling. Help me, I'm falling, I'm falling, help me…;

And then he was falling.

Murderer.

Arren Cardockson woke up on his side, breathing heavily. Sweat had plastered his hair to his head. He could feel more of it trickling down his back, and he sat up, trying to wipe his face clean on his sleeve. The fabric was full of ingrained dirt, so it only served to spread a layer of sticky mud over his forehead, and he lay down on his back, trying to breathe deeply.

He could hear the faint rumble of Skandar's breathing, somewhere to his left, and realised that he must have rolled away from the griffin's flank in his sleep. But he couldn't summon up the energy to move back. Instead he lay and stared up at the sky. It was still night, and a crescent moon was shining. That comforted him slightly.

He shivered. The terror of the dream was fading now, and he tried not to think about it. After all the months that had passed he had hoped that the nightmares would have left him by now, but they hadn't. If anything, they were getting worse.

Murderer, the inner voice whispered.

Arren turned over on his side again, fighting down the impulse. But it wouldn't leave him alone. Unable to stop himself, he put his hand to the side of his neck and waited.

Nothing.

He had been expecting that, but it still sent a dull shock through his chest. It always did.

He closed his eyes and tried not to think. In spite of his exhaustion, though, he couldn't sleep. He never slept well any more. It was partly the dreams, but it was also the fear. It troubled him every time he lay down to rest: the fear that somehow, this time, he wouldn't wake up.

It was strange. He was so afraid of dying, and yet he wanted to die. The idea followed him day and night. If he died, there would be no more fear. No more pain. No more nightmares. No more running, no more hiding, no more hunger. And yet, when he touched the side of his neck and felt nothing, he was terrified. And when he looked up at the sky and thought he saw wings coming for him, he would panic and run for cover. There were so many ways to die out here: poison, cold, starvation, wild animals. More than once, when food had been scarce, he had been convinced that Skandar was going to eat him. But the griffin never did. He'd gone without food for several days at a stretch but had never once attempted to eat the human that he had adopted.

Arren had thought of leaving him, but he couldn't make himself do it. Skandar was his only company, and the closest thing he had to a friend. Most likely he was the only living creature in the world who did not want Arren dead.

Murderer.

Once again the memory of Lord Rannagon's dead body rose up in his mind. The boy has lost his mind. Murderer.

Arren curled up, wrapping his arms around his knees and hugging them to his chest. No, he thought. No. They wanted me dead even before I was a murderer.

Blackrobe.

'I couldn't help it,' Arren whispered. 'I couldn't help it.'

No man chooses his heritage. He can only try and make the best of it. But you…;

Arren clasped his throat. The wounds had long since healed, but the scars were still there, large, deep, swollen and occasionally still painful. He knew he would have them forever.

Every Northerner has a madness inside him. One day it will come through in you.

'No,' Arren whispered again.

The boy has lost his mind.

He rolled over onto his other side, covering his ears with his hands, trying to blot it out. But the accusations were in his memory, not in the world around him, and they could not be escaped.

Murderer.

Arren's black eyes became hard and cold in the darkness. I don't care, he shouted back mentally. You hear me? I don't care that you're dead. I'd do it again if I got the chance.

But still the voice would not leave him alone.

He woke up again at dawn, to the sound of Skandar's screeches. He got up, rubbing his back, and squinted muzzily at the sky. The black griffin was flying overhead, calling his name.

'Darkheart! Darkheart!'

Darkheart. That was the name they had given him when he was a captive in the Arena at Eagleholm. As punishment for his crimes, he was used as entertainment there. Skandar was a man-eater. He had been born wild and had turned to preying on livestock and then on human beings as well. Arren, as a junior griffiner, had been sent by Lord Rannagon to capture him and sell him to the Arena. He had succeeded, in spite of the fact that he had been sent on his own and had no prior experience—but his griffin, Eluna, had met her end at Skandar's talons. Arren had returned home grieving for her, only to find that his mission had not been authorised as he had thought it was. Rannagon then claimed that Arren had gone without permission and in defiance of the rules binding griffiners to stay at their posts unless given leave by the Mistress of the Eyrie. No-one believed Arren's story, and he had been disgraced and cast out of the order of griffiners.

Alone, bereft, without a griffin to protect him, he had lost first the respect of those around him and then all his respect for himself, and from then on his life had begun to spiral out of control.

It was strange, he thought, that it had ended like this, with his having become a partner to the griffin that had killed Eluna and destroyed his life. But then again, it hadn't, he remembered with a little chill. It had ended months before, when he had fallen from the edge of the great mountain-top city and into space, his bid for freedom over and his last hope gone. That was when his life had ended. This, whatever it was, was something else.

Skandar screeched again, and Arren sighed. He still had not been able to persuade the griffin to stop making his territorial calls at dawn and dusk; one reason why he had thought of leaving him. But even if he did leave, he doubted he would get far. To his knowledge no-one else had ever refused a griffin's companionship. Though Arren had tried to, Skandar could not be dissuaded. And in spite of everything the black griffin had done to hurt him, Arren couldn't help but feel a certain bond with him. Every time he tried to make himself hate the black griffin—for his savagery, his bloodlust, for the killings he had committed—he would be forced to confront the cold truth: that he himself was no different, and that whether he liked it or not he had thrown his lot in with Skandar and was now his partner and companion until one of them died.

His calling done, Skandar beat his...