K. Taylor - The Shadow's heir

It took most of the morning to dig the hole, but she was used to hard work and kept at it, using the strain to stop herself from thinking about what had happened.

When it was done, she lifted her father’s body into the hole as gently as she could. She folded his arms over his chest and tried to smooth down his hair and beard.

“There yeh go,” she said huskily. “I hope. . hope yeh like it. I did me best. It ain’t much, I know, but it’s the best I could do. I’m sorry.”

She found herself choking on a sob.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” she said again. “Sorry. .”

This time, there was no way to hold back the tears. She slumped beside the grave and cried-not beautifully, or elegantly, or dramatically like people in stories, but in a harsh and untidy way that made her chest hurt. The sobs sounded ugly, and she hated them, but they went on, and she felt as if something had crumbled inside her.

“Oh, Gryphus,” she moaned. “Oh, Gryphus, help me. What am I gonna do? What. .? Oh, Gryphus. . Dad. .”

And she sobbed harder.

A noise disturbed her mourning, and she looked up, tear-streaked, and froze.

Something huge was emerging from the trees, coming forward. It looked like. .

Laela’s mind raced, but she sat very still, remembering the advice her father had given her. With a wild animal, sit very still. They go for movement. .

The thing came closer, moving slowly. Its huge head reared high above her-if she had been standing, she guessed she would barely come up to its shoulder.

At first, it looked like a bird-the head was beaked, and the neck and chest were covered in thick, rusty-red feathers. The legs were thick and muscular, scaled like a bird’s, with long, grasping toes the size of her arm. The talons at their tips made them longer.

But as the creature came closer, Laela saw other things, beyond the wings folded on its back. The other legs-furred and shaped like those of a giant cat. The long, lashing tail, partly covered by a fan of red and yellow feathers.

Laela’s heart had leapt into her mouth. She started to crawl away from the grave, backward, not taking her eyes away from the beast.

The animal ignored her. It stepped over to the grave and inspected it, huffing through its beak and sending up little puffs of dirt.

The word came to Laela through a haze of terror. Griffin.

The griffin paused by the grave, and then clumsily bent its forelegs and put its head down into the hole. Laela could have run then, but the horrible thought crossed her mind that it was going to eat her father’s body, and that pushed her over the edge.

Like a lunatic, she wrapped her fingers around the handle of the shovel and stood up, holding it like a spear.

“Get away!” she shouted. “Leave him alone, damn yeh!”

The griffin pulled its head out of the hole and stared at her. Its eyes were yellow, and to her intense dismay, Laela saw the last thing she had been expecting to see in them: intelligence.

She hefted the shovel, trying to look braver than she felt. “Go on, clear off!” she said, and her voice came out weak and wavery.

The griffin only stared at her. Then, moving slowly and deliberately, it stepped over the grave and came straight for her. Laela stood her ground for a few moments, and then backed away.

The griffin came closer.

Laela’s mind screamed at her to run, but her legs felt weaker than a couple of twigs. She continued to back away, not knowing what to do, until she hit a tree. The griffin cornered her in an instant, its head outstretched toward her.

Laela pressed herself into the bark, sobbing in fear. The griffin brought its beak down to her face, and she closed her eyes tightly and braced herself, ready to die.

She felt the animal’s hot, stale-smelling breath on her face. The beak rubbed against her skin-smooth and hard and rounded, almost like the top of a skull.

Laela dared to open her eyes again and found the griffin’s big yellow ones looking back. It blinked, and then took a step back. For a moment it stood and stared at her, and then it turned and walked away with a swish of its tail.

The instant its back was turned, Laela pulled away from the tree and ran straight back to the house.

She ran, expecting to be struck from behind at any moment, but the blow never came, and she threw herself through the back door of the house and slammed it behind her before collapsing on her father’s bed, shaking violently.

She was convinced the griffin would come looking for her and spent a good portion of that day hiding before she even had the courage to peer out of the window. But the griffin had gone, and it didn’t return.

That afternoon, screwing up her courage, she left the house for the village marketplace. There, she sold everything the house had contained, down to the last stick of furniture. She didn’t care if she was being given what they were worth; all she wanted to do was get it over with and empty the building, which had now become a mausoleum, full of memories of her foster father that she didn’t want to stay.

By nightfall, the house was empty but for her old straw pallet, a couple of blankets, and some food. She had even sold the cook-pots and spoons.

She spent that night lying awake in front of the cold fire-place, staring at the ceiling.

From time to time she cried, but never for long. She felt. . numb.

When morning came, she bundled her few remaining belongings together in a blanket-food, spare clothes, the leather bag that contained all the oblong she had earned in the marketplace, and. .

She crouched at the spot where her father’s bed had once stood and lifted up a few loose floor-boards. He’d thought she didn’t know about them, but she had seen him move them one morning while she pretended to be asleep. By now she already knew what was in there.

She pulled out a wooden box. It was full of oblong, and she tipped them into her money-bag. There were also several bottles of strong barley wine-she hesitated for a long moment before stuffing two of them in her makeshift bag. And, hidden under that. .

Laela brought out a long object wrapped in cloth.

She pulled away the wrappings, and uncovered a short sword. It was a well-made thing with an oiled-steel blade and a plain bronze hilt, and it had been stored with a red leather sheath.

Laela tied the sheath to her belt and replaced the boards before she stood up. The sword’s weight felt reassuring at her hip.

Once that was done, she paused to take one last look around at her former home.

“I’d stay,” she mumbled aloud, in answer to the feeling of longing that hung in the air. “I would, honest. But I can’t. Not any more. But I hope whoever lives here next remembers I was here. An’ Dad. Him, too.”

She left the house via the back door and locked it before walking slowly and warily back toward Bran’s grave.

There was no sign of the griffin. She hastily snatched up the shovel and filled in the grave without looking into it, muttering the ritual prayers as well as she remembered them.

When that was done, she walked away without a backward glance.

Out in the village streets, people openly stared at her as she passed. Some of them called out to her, but she ignored them-whether they were insults or friendly greetings, she didn’t care.

She made straight for the centre of the village, for the modest building that was home to, not the governor of this piece of land, but one of his officials, who had been given the unrewarding job of living in the village and handling its official matters.

Laela nodded curtly to the guard by the door. “I want t’see Kendrick.”

“That’d be Lord Kendrick to you, girl,” the guard snapped.