The Griffin's Flight Read Online Free PDF Page A

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 wings hard and flew away. He was going to hunt. With any luck he would bring back something for Arren to share, but there was no certainty of that.
    Arren got up and walked slowly around their temporary camp, stretching his legs. The fire had burned down, and he wondered if he should bother relighting it. No. Not much point. They would be leaving it again soon enough. Instead he rummaged in the pocket of his robe, hoping to find food. There were some dried berries and a couple of squashed mushrooms, and he ate them while he set out to forage for something more substantial.
    The campsite was in the middle of thick bushland and quite a long way from the nearest human settlement. Tall spice-trees covered the landscape in every direction, with thick brush growing between them. The spice-trees hereabouts had smooth trunks and no low-growing branches, making them more or less unclimbable, but there were some scrubby wattle trees as well, and Arren wandered around among a nearby stand of them. Clinging to their trunks were thick lumps of sap that could be eaten; he picked off a bit and chewed it unenthusiastically. It didn’t have much flavour.
    As he was poking around its roots, a chirping from above made him look up.
    There was a bird’s nest built between two small branches high up in the tree. A bird was sitting in it; he could just make out its tail.
    Arren grinned. He unlaced his boots and put them aside, and then pulled himself into the branches. His toes were long and flexible, and he nimbly scaled the tree until he was as high as he could reach, just high enough to be within grabbing distance of the nest.
    The mother bird flew off when she saw his hand coming, and he groped his way over the side of the nest and into the bottom, straining to stretch his arm as far as it would go. Sure enough, his fingers brushed against the warm shells of three eggs. He picked them out one by one and ate them raw, perched there in the branches like a possum. They tasted delicious.
    Some of his hunger satisfied, he began to climb back down. When he was at the halfway point, he heard the sound of rustling grass and froze instantly. The rustling came again. It was coming from the base of the tree. Something was moving down there. Arren looked down, searching for movement, and eventually spotted something in the undergrowth beneath the tree. It was far too small to be a human, and he relaxed and continued to climb down, watching closely. Maybe it was something he could catch.
    There was more rustling, and then he saw it properly. It was a huge lizard, nearly as long as he was tall, its throat pulsating gently. It was examining his boots, its great thick tongue flicking in and out.
    Arren descended to another branch, moving as slowly and quietly as he could. The lizard still hadn’t spotted him. He shuffled out onto the branch until he was just above it, tensed and dropped.
    He landed inches away from the lizard, which turned and dashed off at high speed. Arren went in pursuit, his robe snagging on the bushes. The lizard’s legs were