by Andre Norton
“The Eyrie . . .”
Some trick of his voice, its pitch, awoke an echo from the rocks around them.
Eyrie. That was like the wail of a mourner at a Sulcar burn burial.
Tirtha stared. There was certainly little to show that this had been the site of the centuries’ old dwelling place of his race—at least nothing she could distinguish. She had heard that the Eyrie had been so well designed that it had the appearance of a hollowed-out mountain, and that very few, if any, outsiders (and those only the Borderers and males) had ever crossed its one-time drawbridge.
Here was nothing but river stone resembling any other slide they had skirted or crossed during their travels. Her companion held his head well back on his shoulders, gazing up the line of that heap of rocks, as if he hunted desperately for something that should still exist. In turn, she imagined a mist out of the past come to cloak that slide, to show for a heartbeat or two the fortress that had been. Yet she could truly not trace anything at all.
He called, the words she did not know spiraling up, then running into a single sound that might be the scream of a hawk. Three times he uttered that cry. Then he was answered!
Tirtha clutched her reins tighter, her mount shifted foot to send some small stones rattling. The answer was thin, not full-throated—yet she could not deny that she had heard it. Ghosts—the vanished dead who should be peacefully at rest—was she not yet done with them? Had his kin a call for blood vengeance and was that demand strong enough that it could manifest itself in the full light of day? The Falconers had been well warned; surely they had taken refuge down in Estcarp before the churning of the heights. Certainly also her companion could not be old enough in years to have been sword-oathed to one who had lived here before the end of the Eyrie.
The Falconer shouted—for a ringing shout was what he uttered this time, echoing and reechoing—something in the pitch of sound making the ponies snort, the Torgian whinny, and her own ears hurt.
Once more an answer. Then she caught sight of a speck in the sky overhead. Down it struck, as if it would bear with it from the air some intruding prey. She watched with some awe the swiftness of that descent out of the heavens. The flyer passed from sunlight into the more shadowed air of the half-choked cleft into which they had headed.
Now the strike eased, wings flapped, a black body circled, and circling, came closer and closer until it passed above them. A falcon settled on an edge of rock, its wings still a little spread, as if it would take to the heavens again once its curiosity was satisfied.
Black of feather, with the white V marking on the breast, a falcon of the Eyrie—or else the descendant of such a one—wildliving, for it did not wear the scarlet jesses that marked the partnership between man and bird. Bright eyes regarded the unhelmed man. From his lips came a series of birdlike notes, scaling up and down. The falcon answered with a scream, mantling, appearing ready to lift again, be away from this creature of another species who strove to communicate with it.
Still the Falconer forced out sounds, which Tirtha would not have believed any human throat or lips could have shaped. He made no move toward the uneasy bird, simply spoke to it, Tirtha was now convinced, in its own language.
There was no scream; rather the sound the bird uttered in return was not far different from those made by the man. Its head was slightly to one side. Tirtha could believe that it was considering some proposal or striving to come to a decision of its own.
Then, with one more cry, it took to the air. Not to approach the waiting man but to rise steadily with all the force of its wings into the heights from which it had come. There was no disappointment on the weathered features of the man, he simply sat and watched it go.
It was only when it winged to the west and was fully gone from their sight that he seemed to remember he was not alone and looked back at Tirtha.
“This is no road, not now.” His voice was steady, as cool as it had always been. “We must go back and take a northward turning, and that before the dark closes in.”
Tirtha asked no questions, for there was that about him which said he was entirely certain of what he was about, and she had learned to trust his sense of mountain ways. Turn north they did, and in the end found a basin that was clearly the work of men, into which ran a runnel of water, falling out of a pipe made to handle thrice the amount that now trickled through. There was forage of a sort—tough clumps of grass growing along the overflow from the basin—at least enough graze for overnight.
They had no fire. Though there were sticks enough among the stones of the stream's banks for the feeding of one, the Falconer shook his head when Tirtha would have gathered them.
“This is a place of watchers.”
“Falcons?” she asked. “But fire would not rouse them.”
He shook his head again emphatically. “Others have come into this country.”
His exchange of sounds with that bird—what had he so learned? She felt she had a right to demand such information, when he continued: “Such are not outlaws—nor those from Karsten. They are others from the east.”
From the east! That snout-nosed monster out of the dark! Things on the move from Escore over-mountain! With that in mind Tirtha glanced quickly about their camp. It was as well protected by its situation as any place she might have picked, she thought. As soon as the mounts had had some grazing, before the dark closed in, they could bring them up here and tether them, satisfy them with handsful of the grain together with a strewing of salt across the gritty stuff. To reach here any attacker would have to approach along a very narrow way that either one of them could defend alone. It was not the stoutest fortress in the world, but it would have to serve tonight.
They ate sparingly, then brought in the ponies and the Torgian. It was Tirtha's turn for the first rest period of the night, but she was not ready yet to try for sleep. Instead she found herself casting out thought loops, as a cattle herder of the plains might spin his catch rope, striving to pick up any trace of a Dark mind which might be lurking even now to spy upon them.
Dead by tooth and claw—that was what he had said of the stranger. Perhaps that unfortunate invader of these haunted hills had been trailed, preyed upon, by just such a night-running creature as they had faced with greater fortune. Tirtha searched in her pouch for the small packet of herb dust that had served so well during the attack, bringing it out to hand. Twilight was already gray within their refuge. The ponies stamped and whickered, straining a little at their halters, so now she went to share out the handsful of grain with the trace of salt to keep them quiet.
She realized that to sit staring into the growing dark would avail her nothing. The Falconer was on watch and upon his skill she depended with unbroken trust. These were his homelands after all, and he knew best what need be feared.
Tirtha sought to empty her mind and sleep. For a space the dreamless rest that had recently been hers settled down upon her.
When she awoke it was to the summons to take her place on watch. He answered her question before she asked it.
“Nothing.”
Nothing but the night, and the memory that picked at her, of what had crept upon them in the dark before, and of that other night when she had been caught by the cry from the dead, shown something which she thought was hers alone. She sat cross-legged, moving now and then to the animals to smooth her hands across their rough-coated hides, sending soothing thoughts into their minds. For she did not believe that it was hunger alone that kept them restless.
Far keener than the senses of her own kind were those of the beasts. They could measure danger at a greater distance than even her thought-sweep might reach. She no longer wished to try that—knowing that any creature of the Dark could seize upon it as a guide and so be drawn to them.
Yes, out there somewhere, things moved that were not of the world she had known. Legend and the chronicles of Lormt—neither had made such real. One had to confront them for one's self, sniff the foul stench of evil, see it—then one
accepted and understood.
The falcon—what had it seen prowling about these ruined heights? It must be a descendant of those that had once been the pride of the Eyrie. Perhaps such birds, too, had their own legends of another time—one in which they had been companions to men and ridden out to war on a saddle perch. A legend that today had drawn the winged scout to give its warning.
Tirtha wondered if the Falconer had longed for that free flyer to join with him. Or was it only once in the lifetime of each that bird and man united into a fighting, living whole, and when one died there was no second such coupling? There was so much Tirtha did not know and could not ask. For she was certain her companion would count it an intrusion such as might even be strong enough to break his sword oath. His secrets were his, just as hers were hers.
6
IF evil did run that night, it did not seek their camp. Nor did the mounts show any increasing uneasiness. However, Tirtha was not in any way lulled into believing that her fellow traveler's warning had been exaggerated or false. With the morning light she roused from an uneasy sleep to see him carefully checking his dart gun, slipping his small supply of its loadings in and out of their loops on his shoulder belt, as if he would make certain they were ready to hand at a moment's demand. There was only a limited number of them, and Tirtha realized very well that they would be used, if it were necessary, most sparingly and with all the skill he could summon.
She sat up, shrugged aside the folds of her cloak, to thought-listen. There was the essence of life forces which marked man, ponies, Torgian. Nothing else abode here. Caution limited her to a very narrow sweep, but even so fleeting a touch had alerted the Falconer, for his yellow-fired eyes were sharply on her as he turned helmed head in her direction.
“That is folly.” He spoke with cold precision. If they had fallen into slightly easier ways with one another during the days past—very slightly easier—that had changed. Perhaps sight of the ruins of his people's hold had fastened on him the bonds of their long training. She was not of the kin, and she was that distrusted, even hated thing—a woman.
Tirtha refused to be irritated by such change in attitude. All knew the Falconers and their ways—what else could she expect?
“There was nothing during your second watch?” She made only a half-question of that, knowing well that, had there been invasion of the camp territory during her rest, he would have aroused her, even as he had on that other night.
He finished with his examination of his ammunition. Now he drew sword to inspect its edge, his attention seeming more for the steel than for her.
“It is out there, perhaps watching, spying.”
“You know because your falcon would have it so?”
Again he swung a cold and quelling gaze at her. “I have no falcon.” The words were like icy pellets hurled across the small space between them. “The free one and his brood have scouted afar. There are movements through these heights. One needs not touch to know.”
She must not provoke him. Instead Tirtha nodded. “Yes,” she agreed and went to wash her face in the chill water gathered in the basin. The sting of it, like a swift slap, awaked her fully.
They allowed the mounts another short period of graze while they broke their own fast, eating most frugally. Having filled the water bottles, watered their horses, and saddled up, they moved on, the Falconer riding ahead, Tirtha bringing up the rear.
It did not take them long to get beyond the stream and the ragged growth about it, picking a careful way around rock falls. As far as Tirtha could determine they now headed southward. She had no way by which she could calculate how much longer this mountain travel would take. All roads and known trails had been destroyed with the army that had marched along them, on the day the mountains had been moved.
They had been on their twisting trail, having to backtrack sometimes to seek another route (for hereabouts the ravages of the overthrow were far worse and more apparent to the eye), for a period of time well into the morning when they came across the first signs of that drastic wiping out of the invaders a generation ago.
Their discovery was signaled by one of those harsh cries that Tirtha associated with the Falconer, though the sound had not issued from the lips of her companion—rather it echoed from some point ahead. There was a division of possible ways here, and at that sound, the Falconer turned unhesitatingly into the one from which that cry had come.
Ahead, after they had wound their way around another slide of jagged and cruelly broken rock, was a space nearly choked with a fall, even as had been the site of the Eyrie. On a boulder that overtopped Tirtha's head as she rode, perched a bird—like the one that had answered her companion's call the night before.
The sun-struck gleams from metal caught in and among that tumble of cracked and broken stone. There were red stains of rust streaming down from some of these twisted and crushed weapons. Other scraps had remained oddly untouched by the years and the weather, as if they had lain ensorceled during the time since the disaster. A roundish yellowed stone, when touched glancingly by the mare's hoof, rolled over to show that it was a skull.
The falcon screamed again, and the man he appeared to summon slid from his mount, leaving reins dangling. He went to climb that crumbling hill toward the waiting bird. Tirtha watched them narrowly. There was certainly no open path across this battlefield between men and the unleashed Power—why then had they come here?
She saw him reach a rock that brought his head on a level with the waiting predator. Then his hand shot forward as he jerked at one of those bright bits of metal, its surface showing no rust. There was resistance, which his strength bested. What he drew into the open was a hiked blade—not the length of a full sword—nor yet that of a long dagger, but somewhere between the two.
The bird was watching him intently, its head forward as it looked down. Now, as the man pulled forth that weapon, it again uttered a cry—a scream that might be one of fierce triumph—and rose into the air a fraction with a beat of wings. The Falconer held out his arm straight and still, still, and the feathered hunter came to perch on his wrist. It settled there as if it had chosen a resting place it liked well. So it remained for a long moment while the eyes behind the mask-helm and those within the feathered skull met and held a gaze Tirtha knew was silent communication of a kind unknown to her race.
Once more the bird took to the air, this time descending to the pony which the Falconer had ridden. The mount jerked up its head sharply, but the bird came to rest on the empty saddle perch. It folded its wings, and the sound it now made was soft, such as Tirtha thought could never have come from the throat of such a fierce hunter and fighter of the skies.
The Falconer climbed down the rocks, taking the last step as a single leap, for stones began to shift, the knife-sword swinging in his hand, his claw out for balance. Then he looked, not to the waiting bird, but at her.
Something momentous had happened. Tirtha believed that as if it were part of the life-sensing that could reach her at times. There was a change in the man that was not physical, but lay within. Now for a moment he gazed down along the blade he held and then again to her, holding out the find to which the falcon had drawn him.
“A thing of Power . . .” he said slowly.
Tirtha did not attempt to touch it, but she leaned well forward to study it as well as she might. The blade was not smooth, as it had seemed from a distance. Rather it was deeply engraved with a pattern. She saw thereon such symbols as she knew were of the long forgotten elder knowledge, and where the blade widened near the hilt there was also the image of a beast inserted in another metal—blue like the symbol on the valley wall. This was a creature such as she had never seen, though it might not be even a living entity, but rather a dream vision of some adept, used as a chosen mark for his blood and house.
The hilt, which was revealed through the loose clasp of her companion's fingers, was of the same blue metal as that inlay, ending in a bulbous globe of murky substance like a huge dull gem, smoot
hed but unfaceted. Tirtha put out her hand slowly, not to touch it, no. The tingling in her fingers was enough. This was indeed a thing of Power, perhaps never meant to be a slaying weapon at all, rather a focus used by someone who would command forces. Yet who in Karsten would have dabbled, or dared, to meddle with the Power?
Those who had hated and hunted her people professed to believe that any such contact was evil, that they might be blasted out of life by it. They had done all they could to stamp out any contact with it. All with talent had been slain—or else, as in the case of witches, rendered helpless. Witches did not lie with men, but if a man took one by force, then her talent was drained and lost.
Tirtha drew back her fingers. “It is alive—there is Power,” she agreed. “But from Karsten?” There was no denying that what they had come on must have aided the destruction of the invading force. Who among them would have dared carry a weapon charged with Power into a country where that force ruled?
“From Karsten . . .” He spoke musingly, glancing around at the tumble of stones that must hide many dead. “Yes—who and why?”
“And how did the falcon know?” Tirtha dared then to ask.
“The feathered brothers have their own ways,” he answered almost absently. “This would attract such a one.”
He drew the long hunting knife out of his belt sheath, leaned over to slip it into the top of his riding boot. Then he slid his find into its place. It seemed to go easily, though a part of it projected above the edge of the sheath.
“A thing of Power . . .” Tirtha repeated his words. She had no desire to handle it. The energy that had reached her even though her flesh had not touched it was enough to warn her off. Yet if the Falconer had felt that same surge, it did not appear to turn him against a thing that his own people had feared as much as those newcomers in Karsten who were not to the Elder Race.
“It came to me.” He said that evenly, and Tirtha remembered another tale—that story of the Axe of Volt and how it had come into the hands of Koris of Gorm, from the hold of Volt himself, long dead and entombed. Volt's Axe had chosen. Was this once more a case whereby a weapon charged with unknown life had chosen to fit into the hand of a new owner?