Free The Griffin's Flight by K.J. Taylor

beard like this one. It was in all the history books, the ones that described the savage Northerners trying to invade from the cold lands beyond the Northgate Mountains centuries ago. Unlike the brown-haired people of the South, the Northerners had never forged an alliance with the griffins. They had come south in great numbers and had waged war with the Southerners, a spectacularly idiotic thing to do. Today, the only surviving Northerners were either slaves or vassals.
    Arren ran his fingers through his still-wet hair. It looked a lot better now. Maybe Skade would take him more seriously if he didn’t look like a beggar.
    Sudden realisation dawned. Arren scrambled to his feet and dashed off, swearing.
    It seemed to take forever to get back to the camp. He stumbled through the trees, still cursing. Idiot! He must have spent half the damn morning mooning over his reflection, and the gods alone knew what could have happened while he was gone.
    He finally reached the clearing and slumped against a tree, panting. Skade was there, awake now and sitting near the fire. Skandar was on the other side of it, and the two of them were glaring at each other.
    Arren came closer. The meat he’d put over the fire was still there, burned to a crisp.
    “What’s going on?” he asked, using griffish.
    Skade turned to look at him. “Where have you been?” she said abruptly.
    “I was—getting a drink,” said Arren. “Why did you let the meat burn?”
    The silver-haired woman nodded toward Skandar. “Your friend would not let me touch it.”
    Arren crouched beside her and pulled the spit out of the ground. He examined the meat, but it was patently obvious that it was inedible. He dumped it in the fire. “Why did you do that?”
    The black griffin clicked his beak. “Your food, not hers.”
    Arren hesitated briefly. He had to concede that made sense. Regardless, he said, “Well, it was for her, too. Now you’ve forced her to let it go to waste. Can’t you stop being a pain in the neck for once?”
    Skandar dug his talons into the ground, obviously aware that he had just been insulted. “You ask,” he snapped. “She tell. Now.”
    Arren groaned inwardly. So much for diplomacy.
    Skade, however, laughed. She had an odd, harsh laugh, but it was sincere enough. “Your friend knows what he wants, doesn’t he?”
    “I’m sorry,” said Arren, reverting to Cymrian. “He doesn’t speak griffish very well, and … he’s not very good with people.”
    “I can see that,” said Skade, using Cymrian for the first time since they’d met. She spoke it quite well, but with what Arren easily recognised as an Eastern accent, typical of someone from Withypool or its surrounds.
    Skandar was watching them. Now the griffin suddenly advanced, tail swishing ominously from side to side. “You talk, talk to me,” he hissed.
    His voice was low with anger, and Arren quickly saw that he had made a mistake. He turned to Skade. “Look, Skandar and I have talked,” he said, speaking griffish now, “and we’ve agreed that if you want us to help you, then you have to help us first.”
    Skade glanced quickly at Skandar. “I do need your help,” she said. “I confess that now. And you have been a great help to me already. What exactly do you need me to do for you?”
    “We go North,” Skandar said instantly. “You tell us way.”
    “No,” said Arren. “Not yet. Skade, I want to go to this spirit cave with you. If you’ll let me, I’ll come with you. Afterward, we can go our separate ways.”
    “No,” Skandar rasped. “Norton. You say we go to Norton. Not cave. Norton.”
    “Well, the plan’s changed,” said Arren. “Norton can wait.”
    Skade was giving him a long, slow look. “And why do you want to go there, Taranis?”
    “Because …” Arren faltered. “Because there are things I want to see there. If there really are spirits living there, then they could give me guidance. Besides,” he added, with a sudden burst of