A Vanishing of Griffins Page 4

Mrs Larkweather, though, looked sick. “Oh, Dunder, what’ve you gone and done?”

  “Well, then,” said Barver, stepping forward. He gave Dunder a rub under his chin, then picked up the rotting cow’s head from the ground nearby. “Go on, boy, fetch it!” he said, and threw the cow’s head as far as he could into the dark depths of the cavern. He turned to Skreep. “I reckon you should gather your King’s body while you have the chance.”

  “Reckon so,” said Skreep. He nodded to the others who’d come with the King, and reluctantly they picked up Arpie’s corpse and started to make their way to the far wall.

  “Oh, heavens, Barver,” said Mrs Larkweather. “Whatever will become of me and Dunder? We killed the King!”

  “I wouldn’t worry,” said Barver, looking at Skreep. “I think Arpie Noss brought on his own end, don’t you?”

  Skreep heaved a sigh and nodded. “I was Arpie’s first mate for fifteen years, and when he took the crown he made me his advisor. Then he ignored every word I said.” He was watching his friend’s body, as its bearers reached the door in the cavern wall. “He enjoyed being King. Worst thing that ever happened to him.”

  “And now a new ruler must be chosen,” said Barver. “Whoever it ends up being, I’ll have to have a word with them about my friend Erner, the Custodian Piper your old King decided to keep prisoner. And about my two friends here, who were chucked down into this cavern to die horribly.”

  Skreep gave him a long appraising look. “Well,” he said. “I’d expect a new King or Queen to release all of them. New monarchs tend to be generous like that. Especially when the prisoners have already fled…” He winked, and Barver winked back. “I’ll bring your friend down.”

  “But what about me and Dunder?” said Mrs Larkweather.

  Skreep smiled. “Oh, I think you two will keep doing what you do best. Just much less often, I hope, if we get a better ruler.” He turned and made his way towards the cavern wall.

  Barver grinned at Alia and Patch. “Maybe the rescue didn’t go according to plan, but we got there in the end. Now we should find Wren, and get going once Erner’s here.”

  A moment later, Dunder reappeared and dropped the cow’s head at Barver’s feet; Barver picked it up and threw it once more. Mrs Larkweather watched her pet chase after it, and there was only love in her eyes.

  “He’ll be sad not to have as many executions,” she said wistfully. “I mean, I know it’s for the best, but he’ll miss it. Dunder does like a tummy tickle, but I think what he likes most is eating people. Or chewing them, at any rate.”

  While Barver played a little more with Dunder, Alia and Patch walked to the cavern wall, to the hole that led up to the trapdoor. The wooden balcony high above them was deserted now.

  “Lift up your hands,” Alia told Patch. He did, and she pointed a finger at the manacles that still bound him. A stream of purple sparks corkscrewed out from her fingertip, and the manacles popped open.

  Patch rubbed his wrists, grateful. Then he climbed into the hole, onto the steeply inclined smooth rock. “Wren?” he called. “Can you hear me?”

  Alia climbed in beside him. “Anything?”

  Patch shook his head. “We could do with some light.”

  Alia created a small bright orb. It floated up, revealing the tunnel curling out of sight above them. They listened for a moment, and suddenly Patch heard a distant squeaking. He recognized it at once.

  “Wren!” he shouted. The squeaking continued. She sounded scared, he thought – lost. “That’s her!”

  “Keep calling,” said Alia. “I’ll send up some more light.” One after another, she created more orbs, while Patch shouted Wren’s name.

  The squeaking changed, growing more excited and less fearful. At last, Wren slid down the rock and landed in front of them, covered in cobwebs. Patch picked her up, dusting her off before he and Alia climbed back down to the cavern floor.

  “I was so worried!” he told Wren.

  She sneezed, and started to sign a reply in Merisax, but she stopped, staring out into the cavern at Dunder running about. She squeaked and pointed, then signed: A monster!

  “Don’t worry about him,” said Patch. “He’s a friend of Barver. All that matters is this: we’re leaving and Erner’s coming with us. What happened to you?”

  I landed on a ledge near the top, she signed. It’s a bit of a maze up there, and…

  Patch waited for more, but she seemed suddenly distant. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  It’s nothing, she signed, and although Patch could see that something was wrong, it would have to wait.

  A loud clang sounded from the armoured door nearby. It opened, and Skreep emerged, Erner leaning heavily on him for support.

  Patch hurried over to them, with Wren on his shoulder and Alia beside him, and they all stared at Erner’s appearance. From this close, it was shocking how frail he looked.

  “Here you go,” said Skreep. “He can barely walk, and he needs tending to.”

  Alia glared. “I should kill you where you stand! Look what state he’s in! The poor lad!”

  Patch expected some kind of denial, but Skreep nodded. He looked tired. “I tried my best to keep him well,” said the advisor. “But there’s only so much disobedience a King can put up with, if you get me.”

  Erner raised his head, and saw them. His smile was broad, though he looked horribly fragile. “Patch…” he said. “Wren…” He took a step forward and almost fell, but Patch caught him, and Alia took his other arm.

  “Don’t tarry long,” said Skreep. “A pirate territory without a King becomes a complicated place very quickly. Complicated, and violent. Safe journey to you all. Especially you, Erner. I wish I could’ve talked sense into Arpie, and Lord knows I tried, but you’re free now.”

  Erner gave him a weak nod in reply, and Skreep hurried back through the door, locking it again behind him.

  With obvious effort, Erner looked up at Patch, struggling to speak. “Why, Patch?” he managed. “Why?” And then he sagged, unconscious.

  For Patch, the physical weight of Erner was nothing compared to the weight of the guilt he felt at what he’d done to his friend. Soon enough, he would have to explain himself, and hope for some kind of forgiveness. He dreaded it.

  They left Pengersick as quickly as they could, and Barver insisted on taking them to Sorkil Island.

  The business of Sorkil was fishing, rather than piracy, and the people were renowned for their friendly nature and generosity. This struck Patch as an odd thing, here in the midst of bloodthirsty pirates, but Barver explained: the pirates of the region knew better than to mess with their source of fresh natter-clumps, lobsters and other gifts of the ocean. As a result, Sorkil was a haven for those pirates who suddenly realized that they much preferred a life of fishing to one of, say, murder.

  That was exactly why Barver had brought them here. They needed a place to hole up for a week or so, to let Erner recover before they set off on the much longer voyage back to Marwheel Abbey.

  As soon as they came ashore, Barver made some enquiries. Within the hour, they’d rented a small cottage on the hill overlooking the port, with an outbuilding large enough for Barver. It was a simple enough home, but it had all they needed: beds and warmth. With Erner safely tucked in, Alia sent Barver, Patch and Wren out with a list of needed supplies, giving them more than enough money to cover it.

  The folk in the port were eager to meet Barver, of course – they were sailors, after all, and while a dracogriff wasn’t quite as big a deal as a proper griffin, he was still enough to create plenty of excitement.

  When they found a suitable shop, they handed over Alia’s list and sought somewhere to have a bite to eat. An inn on the edge of the wharf was perfect; they sat at an outside table, facing the sea, and ordered up some food. Patch and Wren opted for a mutton stew with some bread, Barver a whole smoke-roasted pig. He was hungry.

  They ate mostly in silence, save for the crunch of Barver’s teeth as he devoured the p
ig from the head down, bone and all, while Patch and Wren watched him with amusement.

  “Sometimes a nice bit of bone just hits the spot,” said Barver, a little defensive. “You know what it’s like.”

  “Of course,” said Patch. He and Wren shared a smile.

  All too soon, the food was gone, save for one last trotter, and their stomachs were pleasantly full. They sipped away at some small ale, and Barver raised his tankard in a toast. “To being safe again,” he said, and the others agreed. “Although…” He shook his head, reluctant to go on.

  “What?” said Patch.

  Barver looked at Wren, concerned. “You’ve seemed distracted ever since we left Pengersick. Something’s on your mind.”

  Wren nodded slowly. You’re right, she signed. Something happened. When we fell down the trapdoor, I landed on a ledge. There was a small tunnel, maybe an old drain, and I thought it’d be sensible to follow that rather than just hurl myself down after Patch and Alia.

  She paused.

  After a while, I reached an opening. A wide chamber of some kind, a sheer drop of a hundred feet or more, but I could see another opening on the other side. And there was something there.

  She stopped again, and Patch could tell she was actually afraid.

  “What was it?” he asked.

  A ghost, signed Wren.

  Barver’s eyes widened. He really didn’t like that kind of thing. “A ghost?” he said, sounding nervous.

  Wren nodded. One of the rats from Patterfall, she signed. Even from that distance I could tell. She was staring at me. Staring! I couldn’t move! I was terrified! And then, suddenly, she was gone.

  Wren was trembling. Patch took her in his hands and tried to comfort her. “You were just seeing things,” he said. “You were scared. It’s okay.”

  I know I was just seeing things! she scowled. But it brought it all back to me. I ended up taking charge of all the rats, and I guided them to Patterfall. To their deaths!

  Patch shook his head. “Wren, I was the one trying to rid the village of the rats, remember? And if I’d managed to Pipe the rats over that waterfall, you would have died too! You can’t feel guilty about how things turned out.”

  It was my fault they were trapped in the village, she signed. The whole situation was because of me! My plan was to find them a proper home, somewhere safe where food was plentiful, and instead I led them to a frozen village and an awful death!

  Patch thought back to the moment in Patterfall when Rundel Stone, the great Virtus Piper, had played his Song to get rid of the rat plague.

  The Dispersal, it was called – a Song that had, in times past, been a Song of Execution. Difficult to perform, its effect was to completely destroy the target, reducing it to its smallest components almost instantly, the fragments scattered over a vast distance, spread so thinly that not even a speck of blood would remain. When Rundel Stone had played the Dispersal that day, its power had been extraordinary. If Patch hadn’t helped Wren, she would have died, without any doubt.

  “I don’t think they suffered,” Patch told her. “You know that. They wouldn’t even have known what happened.”

  Wren shook her head. It was the look in that ghost rat’s eyes, she signed. It brought it home just how bad I still feel about it. I failed them all.

  “Guilt is a terrible burden,” said Barver, frowning. “But you must never forget that it means you’re a good person, Wren! Do you think the crooked or the evil truly feel it, even for a second? No! They’ve long cut the guilt out of their hearts. The Hamelyn Piper has never lost a moment’s sleep because of what he’s done, I promise you that. For the rest of us, it’s a hard thing to carry, and we’re all burdened with guilt, all three of us.”

  Patch nodded. “I’m certainly dreading the moment I have to explain myself to Erner,” he said. “But what are you feeling guilty about, Barver?”

  “Bringing you two along on this trip!” said the dracogriff. “Things went very badly back there! If Dunder had eaten you and Alia, that would have been my fault.” He looked sick at the thought.

  Wren gave a squeak of disagreement. Alia’s fault, to be fair, she signed. She was the one who put her foot in it, remember?

  “Perhaps,” said Barver. “Still, each of us has our share of guilt.” He picked up the trotter that was all that remained of his meal, but as he crunched on it, a strange expression formed on his face: a dreamy, far-away look. He swallowed, then raised his eyes to the sky.

  Wren frowned. Is he okay? she signed to Patch.

  Patch shook his head. “I have no idea. Hey, Barver? What’s the…”

  Suddenly Barver stood tall, his wings stretching out beside him. He called out with a great tuneful cry that neither Patch nor Wren had heard from him before. Kikikaa, it sounded like, over and over; then there was a rush of air as a huge shadow passed low overhead, Barver’s call being returned.

  For a moment, Patch felt terrified, thinking back to Tiviscan Castle as the dragons attacked, but then he smiled as he saw what had made the shadow.

  A griffin! Flying just above the rooftops of the port, it continued to call, making two wide circles above, before heading west and disappearing over a low rise.

  Everyone in the port was cheering.

  Where did it go? signed Wren.

  “Back to his ship, I suspect,” said Barver. “He’s almost certainly a pilot.”

  What’s a pilot? asked Wren.

  This, at least, was something Patch knew about from his studies as a trainee Piper in Tiviscan. “That’s what you call a ship’s navigator,” he said. “Especially through the most dangerous seas. And griffins make the best pilots of all! It’s why sailors count them as good luck. Griffin pilots can fly high and signal to the ship how to pass through the most terrifying Treacheries!”

  Treacheries were the greatest threat to shipping in many places of the world – deadly rock formations that lurked just out of sight, ready to rip open the keel and drown all on board.

  “There it is!” cried Barver, pointing out to sea. A large ship had just appeared around a headland, and the people in the port started cheering again when they saw it. A few seconds later, the griffin was visible once more as it swooped down and landed on the vessel.

  Just as the ship was tying up at the docks, the shopkeeper’s lad arrived with a sackful of items, explaining that the heavier goods were still waiting for them at the shop.

  “I suppose we should get back,” said Barver. “We’ve been out long enough, Alia will be wondering where we got to.”

  Wren could see a wistful look in Barver’s eyes, as he watched the pilot griffin. Don’t you want to say hello to that pilot? she signed. I mean, it would be rude not to, surely? We can pick up the rest of the shopping on the way home.

  Barver seemed agitated. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m… Well, I’m a bit shy when it comes to other griffins. I mean, a greeting call is one thing, but actually meeting them…?”

  Patch and Wren stared at him. “You?” said Patch. “Shy? Now I’ve heard everything.”

  “I lived all my life among dragons before I left the Dragon Territories,” said Barver. “My father was the only griffin I’d ever met, until I came to the Islands.”

  “You should go and say hello,” said Patch.

  Absolutely, added Wren.

  Barver weighed things up for a moment, before nodding. “I suppose you’re right, it would seem rude not to introduce myself.” And then, as if it was an afterthought and of absolutely no importance, he said: “My father was a pilot too, you know.”

  Patch and Wren looked at each other, dumbfounded. Barver had only ever mentioned his father once, not long after they’d returned to Marwheel Abbey; they’d been speaking of their families, and Patch had told them about how his parents had died. When he asked Barver about his father, Barver’s reply was short. “He was lost at sea,” was all he said, and his tone made it rather clear it was a topic to avoid in future. So they had.

  Now here h
e was, trying to sound indifferent while he told them more than he’d ever done before.

  “A pilot?” said Patch, as casually as he could manage. “We didn’t know that. Come on, let’s go and say hello.”

  The ship was called the Heaven’s Reach.

  Patch, Wren and Barver stood on the edge of the dock by the stern of the ship, watching the forty or so crew unloading their vessel; the crew sang while one of their number played shanties on a tin whistle. Patch yearned to join in – the musician had a decent enough way with rhythm, and the melodies were solid, but Patch reckoned he could have raised things to a much higher standard, even on a tin whistle.

  And with his Pipe, well… He thought of the Songs that could boost the energy of a flagging labourer – all of them had joyous melodies, and he couldn’t help but smile.

  Barrel after barrel was hoisted up from the bowels of the vessel, their salt-packed catch carried down the boarding ramps to the dockside, and even though the crew looked tired, they were all high-spirited now that their expedition was at an end.

  “I wonder how long a rest they get,” said Patch. “Before they have to set out again.”

  “Two days is all,” boomed a voice from behind them. “Then it’s back to sea for the lot of us!”

  They turned to see the griffin, leaning against the ship and smiling slyly at them. He was much bigger than Barver, his feathers brown and black. “The name’s Shanny Pledger,” said the griffin. He stepped closer and offered his hands to Barver. “And yours, my dracogriff friend? I heard you call!”

  Barver shook his hands – both hands at once, which was the griffin way. “Barver Knopferkerkle,” he said. “This is Patch, and the rat is called Wren.” Patch and Barver always felt slightly uncomfortable introducing Wren as if she was just an ordinary rat, but Wren had a simple rule – if she wanted people to be told that she was actually a girl who’d been cursed, she would wave to them and take a bow, then let Patch or Barver explain. Most of the time, she preferred to go unnoticed.

  “Good to meet you all,” said Shanny. Suddenly he turned to the crew on the deck and yelled: “Watch the yaw on the barrels, you fools, you’ll tip the lot!” He turned back and smiled. “I have to shout at them now and again, to remind them I’m watching. Now tell me, and tell me honestly… what do you think of my ship?” He strode to the hull and patted it with affection.