Master of Hawks

by Linda E. Bushyager

  He thrust deeply into the enemy mind, seeking the answer, but inner shields blocked him. So he battered at his enemy’s motor controls while skillfully sending a concealed probe that seized the nervous system. The ploy worked, and for a moment he found himself staring around the square through a stranger’s eyes. That was when he realized that the man stood not thirty feet away, at the corner of the city hall.

  Suddenly Hawk struck back sharply, pushing Jaxton out so fiercely that Jaxton found himself fighting to control his own body against the other’s assault. The power of the onslaught surprised and frightened Jaxton. Evidently his previous encounters with the hawk-telepath had been only at a great distance; at this close range his opponent’s strength was formidable. Perhaps too formidable.

  He tried to use the Pendant of Thantos against the man, but discovered that he needed all his power for the telepathic duel. Unable to use sorcery, he ordered his men forward.

  “Get him,” he yelled hoarsely, pointing to the short, bearded man dressed as a pilgrim who stood strangely still amidst the chaos. “He’s the one causing this.”

  While they ran toward Hawk with drawn swords, Jaxton felt a wave of pain as the other lashed against his shields. Realizing that he might not be able to win the duel, he decided to break off contact and let his men capture the telepath. He slashed out with all his might and then abruptly severed the connection.

  Released from the bond, the birds that could still fly fluttered up into the sky in fear and bewilderment. The shadows of their beating wings swept across the faces of the terrified people. Then they were gone.

  The dazed pilgrims fell on their knees, thanking N’Omb for deliverance from the strange attack. Some gestured with their hands, drawing circles in midair to signify a prayer to N’Omb. The superstitious people thought that the sign could protect them against sorcery.

  Soldiers ran in to try to restore order.

  Meanwhile, Wagner Prenis had reached Hawk.

  “I want him alive,” Jaxton yelled as his aide’s sword flashed in the sunlight.

  Without a weapon and momentarily stunned by Jaxton’s final blow, Hawk had no choice except to submit.

  Jaxton stepped forward and inspected Hawk intently. “What are you doing here?” The other gave no answer. “Your life will be spared if you speak.” The hawk-telepath’s eyes met his defiantly. “No? But you will answer my questions sooner or later, make no mistake about that.” Jaxton motioned to the soldiers. “Take him down to the city hall dungeon and put him in the shielded cell. I’ll question him later—until then he can consider the consequences of silence.”

  As two of the men herded Hawk toward the city hall, Jaxton turned his attention to Wagner Prenis. “Double the guard and put them on immediate alert.

  This may have been a diversion while York tries to attack Kellerton or to cut our supply route to Swego. I want scouts on the Keller Road in both directions, and I want a messenger sent to S’Stratford.”

  “There’s been no word of any York troops in the area for days,” mused Prenis.

  “We can’t overlook any possibility. Get going and report back to me as soon as you can.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jaxton surveyed the square. The N’Omb priests seemed to have taken the bird attack in their stride and were now helping the injured and urging the rest of the pilgrims to enter the shrine. They evidently intended to continue the Saint Steffan services in spite of the attack.

  Quickly he searched the area telepathically through the eyes of nearby birds. Empire soldiers still manned the city walls, the traffic on the Keller Road appeared to be normal, the fields and forests just beyond the city remained serene.

  Satisfied that York was not attacking the city, Jaxton felt sure that the bird attack had been calculated to discredit him and, through him, the Empire. He sought out Father Richards, the shrine’s high priest, and found him examining the twisted body of a pigeon near the cathedral’s main door. The sleeve of his white velvet robe was stained, and a bit of torn skin with feathers still attached clung to his shoulder.

  Richards let the dead bird fall from his hand as he turned to glare at Jaxton Sinclair. A wave of anger splashed across his face in a dark red tide.

  “What was the meaning of this?” He gestured toward the blood-splattered cobblestones, the broken bodies of birds, and the frightened pilgrims. As his voice boomed, the crowd twisted toward him and stared at Jaxton with growing suspicion.

  “Please listen to me,” replied Jaxton in a low, authoritative voice. “We’ve captured the man who did this; he’s a bird-telepath from York.”

  “What!” Richards’ disbelief was evident. He and the townspeople would much rather blame the attack on the Empire that had captured their town than on their own people. “I can’t believe York would do such a thing … “

  “Please come with me to the city hall and you can see the man for yourself.” Jaxton pressed the priest’s arm gently, and the man began to move forward. “Believe me, the Empire had nothing to do with this. We would not violate the sanctity of N’Omb for any reason. York has committed this sacrilege in an attempt to discredit me, but fortunately we were able to capture their spy.”

  Richards’ expression had become stoic. “I’ll examine this man, but I still find it hard to believe that York was behind this senseless attack. It is incredible that anyone would disrupt the Saint Steffan festival! Why nothing like this has ever happened before.”

  “Obviously York has no respect for N’Omb,” replied Jaxton, as he led the way into the city hall. He felt relieved when its door closed behind them, shutting out the accusing looks and angry glances. He was tempted to place the city under curfew, but he knew that would only increase the townspeople’s resentment and suspicions. He had to obtain the York telepath’s confession, either willingly or through torture, to lay to rest any doubts that the N’Omb priests would have about the origin of the bird attack.

  One of the prison guards escorted them down the narrow stone steps into the dungeon. They passed the guard stationed at the first level and then descended into the deserted second level. The dark holes on this floor were empty except for the shielded one that lay at the end of the corridor. Its walls, ceiling, and door were covered with a fine silver mesh inlay that effectively blocked telepathy and sorcery. Rune-inscribed posts in the four corners cast spells that also prevented magic from taking place within the room.

  Through the silver lattice covering the iron grille in the door, they could see the York telepath sitting calmly on the plain wooden shelf that served as his bunk. His cloak and belt had been taken, and dark bruises on his jaw indicated that he’d put up some resistance before being tossed into the cell.

  “So you have captured someone,” noted Richards with a trace of sarcasm. “But what proof do you have that he planned the attack?”

  “He’s a bird-telepath—look at the scars on his arms and hands!” Jaxton pulled up his sleeve and displayed his own bird-clawed arm. “Those marks are like mine—the scars of someone who has handled birds all his life. Believe me, I know this man; I’ve fought him before. When I saw the birds attacking today, I engaged him in a telepathic duel and stopped his attack.”

  Father Richards reexamined the prisoner. “Who are you?” he asked, but Hawk continued to stare indifferently at the floor.

  “Even if he is a telepath and did start the attack, what proof do you have that he is from York? He could be a thief who tried to distract the crowd while he committed some robbery, or he could be some sort of heretic trying to disturb our services.”

  The prisoner looked up at this and grinned. Excitement flushed his face, and he glowered in passable counterfeit of the manic passion of a fanatic. “Down with N’Omb,” he cried, suddenly rising to his feet and rushing forward. He banged against the door with a fury that shook the thick oak slab. “Death to the priests of N’Omb. They bleed us dry with their constant demands for tribute. While they live in luxury, our children starve!”


  “Enough of this, you spy,” shouted Jaxton in dismay. “He’s trying to trick you, can’t you see that? I know he’s York’s man.”

  He pulled Richards back from the cell as the telepath continued to curse and .blaspheme against N’Omb. “Guard, did you search the York spy?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the guard, stiffening to attention “He put up a bit of a scrap when we searched him, but we didn’t find much.”

  “Come on, Father Richards, let’s take a look. Perhaps he was carrying the proof you want.”

  Jaxton moved back to the guard’s station at the end of the corridor and began to examine the meager pile of possessions lying on the table. There was a standard pilgrim’s cloak of coarse gray wool, a common brown belt without markings, a handkerchief tied around a bit of journeybread, a few coins, and an innocuous-looking piece of knotted cord that might serve as a garrote. Then he spotted a slender gold chain peeking out from beneath the cloak.

  He pulled up the chain and gasped as he saw the small jade pin suspended from it. He reached for the pin warily, as though it might burn his hand, and then studied it intently. The shape of seven leaves, tips outward, was unmistakable—it was the symbol of the S’Akron family.

  However, the pin represented more than that. Memories of his childhood flashed through his mind as clearly and sharply as if they had just taken place.

  His mother sat brushing her long brown hair. On her dress was a small jade pin of seven leaves. She talked about his grandfather, the Lord of Akron, and explained that although her brother would rule when her father died, Jaxton should never forget that he was in line for the throne. She pointed to the pin and explained that the seven leaves represented the seven provinces of Akron. It had been a gift from her father. The Sinclairs owned most of the land in one of those provinces.

  Wearing a gown of gold and silver and green, she bent to tuck him in before she went out to a ball, and the leaf pin glittered at her throat.

  His mother, dressed in simple gray, supervised the packing for a pilgrimage to baptize and bless her newborn son, his brother, who lay quietly in his cradle. His name would be Gregory, after her father, the lord of Akron. She told Jaxton to be good and that she would bring him back a special present for his coming ninth birthday. He remembered her lifting the pin from her jewel box, studying it, returning it, and then taking it out again. “I shouldn’t take this,” she said, “but it’s always been special to me—kind of my lucky piece. Do you think I should take it?” He nodded and then watched her pin the piece of jade inside her traveling cloak. He felt a surge of pleasure at sharing her secret bit of self-indulgence.

  She kissed him good-bye, told him to study his lessons, and promised that he could go with her on the next pilgrimage. Handing his baby brother to the nurse inside the carriage, she’d patted him once more and then stepped inside.

  His mother had never come back. And the pin, his brother, and the whole party of pilgrims had disappeared without a trace. They had been seen last heading away from the N’Omb shrine at Elmera toward the Shrine of the Three Miracles.

  “Is something wrong?” asked the high priest.

  Jaxton clenched the pin inside his fingers and tried to look unconcerned. “No, nothing. There’s nothing here of interest—it’s just an ordinary necklace. However, we have methods to get the truth out of this man, as I’m sure you know. I’ll let you know what we find out.”

  He put his arm around the priest’s shoulder and guided him toward the stairs. “Meanwhile, I hope you’ll explain what has happened to your congregation. I want them to know that the Empire had nothing to do with this incident.”

  “Well, the man seems to be some sort of fanatic, and for the moment we’ll let it go at that. You may not have had anything to do with this, Lord Sinclair, but neither am I willing to believe that York is behind this. We have N’Omb sorcerers capable of casting certain spells to bring forth the truth from this man … “

  “That may be useful, perhaps tomorrow, but I want to question the spy myself first. He is my prisoner.” “I understand, Lord Sinclair.”

  Jaxton beckoned to one of his soldiers. “Please show Father Richards out and advise the men to give him whatever assistance is necessary to aid the injured and clean up the damage.” He hoped the gesture would help pacify the priest and convince the townspeople that the Empire had not been responsible for the bird attack.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Jaxton watched until they had gone and then looked at the pin again.

  What sort of a plot is this? he wondered. Or is it coincidence? He pulled the Pendant of Thantos from beneath his tunic and examined the gold border of leaves that surrounded the amber spellstone. The shape, style, and the individual leaves were identical to the jade pin’s. It was definitely the insignia of the S’Akron family. Moreover, the pin itself seemed to be an exact duplicate of the one that had belonged to his mother.

  Suddenly a chain of logic clicked through his mind that he could not accept. Perhaps the pin was not a duplicate… .

  A turmoil of fear, curiosity, and anger whirled through his mind, but his features became dispassionate. Tucking the Thantos stone beneath his shirt, he walked back to the shielded cell. Then he swung the jade pin in front of the grille.

  “Where did you get this?”

  Hawk leaped forward at the sight of his pin and grabbed the bars. “Give it back to me.”

  “Where did you get this?” Jaxton repeated with the threat of lightning behind the thunder of his voice.

  “It’s mine; it’s of no value to you. Please give it to me.”

  “Why do you want it so badly?”

  “It’s just an ordinary pin. It was my mother’s, that’s all.”

  Jaxton jerked back from the door. “What do you mean? Who was she?”

  Hawk did not reply, but his fists clenched and his eyes watched the pin with longing.

  “Who was she? Tell me, and I’ll give you the pin.”

  Thinking that it could do no harm to tell his captor the truth in this instance, and believing that it might regain him his mother’s pin, Hawk replied, “It was my mother’s, but I’m afraid I can’t tell you who she was. She and her party were killed by highwaymen when I was a baby, and that’s all I have of her or know of her.”

  Jaxton’s expression became dark with fury, and he snatched the pin out of Hawk’s view and put it in his pocket.

  “But you said you’d give it to me.”

  Backing away, Jaxton tried not to think about the knowledge that was suddenly thrust on him.

  “You’re a liar,” he yelled at Hawk, while a part of his mind coolly appraised the man’s face and said, yes, his nose is shaped like my father’s; and his eyes are brown like mine and hers.

  Then he whirled and stalked out. No. It’s impossible, he thought.

  “Lord Sinclair, shall we begin the torture?” called the guard, running to catch him.

  “Not now, not yet. I’ll let you know … “

  He struggled to control his thoughts. It can’t be. But he could devise no other explanation. No one else knew about the pin, and the man seemed to be telling the truth. He was about the right age, there was the slight resemblance, and, moreover, he was a bird-telepath as Jaxton was and as Jaxton’s father had been.

  He tried to add up the facts so that they came out coincidence, but the odds were against it. He suddenly wanted to go back to his room to think, to understand, to escape.

  His fingers felt for the pin inside his pocket. The jade was cool and undeniably real, as undeniable as the truth he knew he must face.

  My brother is alive, he thought.

  And there was more than that.

  My brother is my enemy.

  15

  Hawk’s body shifted uncomfortably on the wooden slab that served as his bed. He edged his legs away from the roughness of cracked wood until they touched the silver-covered stone wall. Slowly the chill seeped through his trousers, forcing his legs back toward the jagged area. The
sharp, splintered board dug into his leg again, so he turned over and curled up into a fetal position, hugging himself to fight the dungeon’s damp cold.

  For perhaps the hundreth time he wished that they had given him a blanket or at least had let him keep his cloak; then his lips twitched into a smile that was almost a grimace—how foolish to be angered at the lack of warmth when he should be thankful that conditions were not much worse. So far they’d given him much better treatment than he’d expected or could hope to continue to receive.

  He wondered why they had left him alone throughout the day rather than beginning the torture they’d threatened. He puzzled over Jaxton Sinclair’s questions about his pin and the man’s strange reaction to his answers. Considering the events that the dawn undoubtedly would bring, he wondered if he would be able to withstand the torture. As a telepath he would be able to shield himself partially from pain and even from the thought probes of a human telepath or the truth spells of a sorcerer.

  That made him think about Jaxton Sinclair again. What strange quirk of fate had brought to Kellerton the one man capable of destroying his carefully thought out plan? Indeed, it seemed that since he’d first crossed paths with the falcon-telepath at the ruins of Castle Buchanan, he had been caught up in a web of fate or circumstance. From that moment he had been thrust from his role as an observer into the center of the action, and now it seemed somehow inevitable that he and Sinclair had clashed again.

  He felt somewhat pleased, however, about his performance during their second meeting. This time he’d not only been strong enough to shield himself from Sinclair’s attacks, but he had also been powerful enough to return them with effect. He realized now that his telepathic abilities had been weakened by the distance separating him from Jaxton during their first clash. At close range he was apparently the other’s equal, perhaps his better. He only wished he had been able to continue their duel to its conclusion, whatever the outcome.