Read Online The Griffin's Flight by K.J. Taylor - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: K.J. Taylor
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stirred in his sleep, and his lips formed a single word: falling .
Skade sighed. You are right to sleep uneasily, she thought. Murderer .
S kade was still there next morning when Arren woke up. He’d half-expected her to be gone, and when he was woken at dawn by Skandar’s screech the first thing he did was look toward the spot where she’d been lying the previous night. She was there, and stirred when Skandar screeched again, though she didn’t wake. Arren felt curiously relieved to see her.
Skandar finished his calling and came down to land at the edge of the camp. He stretched and fluttered his wings a few times and then strutted over toward Arren. “We go now?”
Arren scratched his head. “Not yet. I need to eat first. And”—he looked at Skade—“we have to talk to her.”
Skandar shook his head irritably. “Why talk?”
“She hasn’t agreed to help us yet,” said Arren. “I have to talk to her some more and see if she’s made up her mind yet. And if she says no, then I’ll just ask her if she knows which way to go.”
The black griffin started to preen his feathers, hissing to himself. “Not like. Human smell wrong. Look wrong.”
“If she can help us, I don’t care what she looks or smells like. Try and be pleasant to her, Skandar.”
Skandar didn’t reply. Arren left him to sulk and went to check on the sheepskin, which he’d hung from a tree. It was smelly and still a little damp, but it looked to have cured nicely, and he draped it around his shoulders, wool side down, to try to stave off the early-morning chill while he set to work getting breakfast ready. There was still some meat left on the sheep’s carcass that he hadn’t smoked, so he refuelled the fire and cooked it. Skandar, apparently still satisfied from the previous day’s gorging, gnawed on a couple of bones.
While the meat was cooking, Arren walked back to the pool. It still looked filthy—and it hadn’t been improved at all by his having used it as a tanning solution—so he climbed the rocks by the stream that fed it and followed it for a while until he found a spot where it was a little deeper. He drank from it; the water here was clear and fresh, and the taste of dirt in it didn’t bother him. Once he’d satisfied his thirst, he looked speculatively at his reflection. His face looked thin and grubby, and his beard was a mess. So was his hair. I look ridiculous, he thought glumly.
Well, he had some time now. He wandered off and picked branches from a soap-bush and took them back to the water’s edge, where he wet his hair, then crushed the leaves. They released an oily sap, and he washed his hair as well as he could with it. The sap helped soften and dislodge some of the dirt, and from his pocket he took a comb—he’d carved it himself, rather crudely, from a piece of wood—and started to try to put his hair into some kind of order. It wasn’t easy. Skandar generally insisted on leaving shortly after dawn and landed when it suited him. Time not spent in the air generally went toward looking for food, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a moment for personal grooming. His hair had worked itself into a horrible mess.
But he combed away diligently at it until it was as neat as he could make it and then used some more soap-bush sap and his knife to try to do something about his beard. It didn’t work very well: the knife was too blunt to be much good as a razor, and the sap was a pathetically inadequate substitute for real soap. He persisted anyway, removing the moustache that had started to sprout. He hated having hair around his mouth. It made him feel scruffy.
He cut himself a couple of times before he achieved what he was aiming for: a pointed tuft perched on his chin. He’d only started wearing a beard very recently, but when he checked his reflection again he decided it rather suited him.
The faint image in the water smiled grimly up at him. Everyone in Cymria could recognise a
Skade sighed. You are right to sleep uneasily, she thought. Murderer .
S kade was still there next morning when Arren woke up. He’d half-expected her to be gone, and when he was woken at dawn by Skandar’s screech the first thing he did was look toward the spot where she’d been lying the previous night. She was there, and stirred when Skandar screeched again, though she didn’t wake. Arren felt curiously relieved to see her.
Skandar finished his calling and came down to land at the edge of the camp. He stretched and fluttered his wings a few times and then strutted over toward Arren. “We go now?”
Arren scratched his head. “Not yet. I need to eat first. And”—he looked at Skade—“we have to talk to her.”
Skandar shook his head irritably. “Why talk?”
“She hasn’t agreed to help us yet,” said Arren. “I have to talk to her some more and see if she’s made up her mind yet. And if she says no, then I’ll just ask her if she knows which way to go.”
The black griffin started to preen his feathers, hissing to himself. “Not like. Human smell wrong. Look wrong.”
“If she can help us, I don’t care what she looks or smells like. Try and be pleasant to her, Skandar.”
Skandar didn’t reply. Arren left him to sulk and went to check on the sheepskin, which he’d hung from a tree. It was smelly and still a little damp, but it looked to have cured nicely, and he draped it around his shoulders, wool side down, to try to stave off the early-morning chill while he set to work getting breakfast ready. There was still some meat left on the sheep’s carcass that he hadn’t smoked, so he refuelled the fire and cooked it. Skandar, apparently still satisfied from the previous day’s gorging, gnawed on a couple of bones.
While the meat was cooking, Arren walked back to the pool. It still looked filthy—and it hadn’t been improved at all by his having used it as a tanning solution—so he climbed the rocks by the stream that fed it and followed it for a while until he found a spot where it was a little deeper. He drank from it; the water here was clear and fresh, and the taste of dirt in it didn’t bother him. Once he’d satisfied his thirst, he looked speculatively at his reflection. His face looked thin and grubby, and his beard was a mess. So was his hair. I look ridiculous, he thought glumly.
Well, he had some time now. He wandered off and picked branches from a soap-bush and took them back to the water’s edge, where he wet his hair, then crushed the leaves. They released an oily sap, and he washed his hair as well as he could with it. The sap helped soften and dislodge some of the dirt, and from his pocket he took a comb—he’d carved it himself, rather crudely, from a piece of wood—and started to try to put his hair into some kind of order. It wasn’t easy. Skandar generally insisted on leaving shortly after dawn and landed when it suited him. Time not spent in the air generally went toward looking for food, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a moment for personal grooming. His hair had worked itself into a horrible mess.
But he combed away diligently at it until it was as neat as he could make it and then used some more soap-bush sap and his knife to try to do something about his beard. It didn’t work very well: the knife was too blunt to be much good as a razor, and the sap was a pathetically inadequate substitute for real soap. He persisted anyway, removing the moustache that had started to sprout. He hated having hair around his mouth. It made him feel scruffy.
He cut himself a couple of times before he achieved what he was aiming for: a pointed tuft perched on his chin. He’d only started wearing a beard very recently, but when he checked his reflection again he decided it rather suited him.
The faint image in the water smiled grimly up at him. Everyone in Cymria could recognise a
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