The Hawk and the Falcon

by Benjamin Corman

  As Martin walked the streets afterward, heading toward the warehouse where he met with his men, he saw a large man, well-muscled, with a face painted red, and a red palm print on his chest. The man was pressing his own hand to the side of a plaster wall, and when he moved it away, the same red palm print was left there as well. The man turned when he was done and stared at Martin with an unparalleled intensity. Acolytes of Marunda. They were a fanatical warrior caste following the God Marunda. They were said to have originally hailed from Jarkata, across the great northern sea, and were mercenaries, or agitators, depending on who you believed. Said to have often caused enough trouble in a town, in great enough numbers, that the locals had to run them out. Martin wasn’t sure what an Acolyte was doing here, but he supposed it didn’t matter much if there was only one.

  “Brother,” the large man said, as Martin tried to move past him. “Remember, by fire or by sword, by flame or by steel. We come and so must we go.”

  Martin raised an eyebrow at the man and laughed, then moved along, on his way. He met with Ciaran and Roald, and the other men, gave orders for patrol of the streets and money collection from local inns, taverns, and shops, and then when the sun was setting in the sky, as was his custom of late, he made for a local tavern. Ciaran and Roald joined him at a table in the large, crowded hall of The Ribald Lecher which offered roaring hearths, ample ale, and a game of chance or two.

  A tavern troubadour sat in the corner, dressed in colored finery, a lyre on his knee. He was playing the popular bawdy tales that everyone knew, one after another. Men sat with cards or dice, putting down copper and silver, hoping to win enough to be able to take the next week off from fishing the harbor or from hard labor in the nearby quarry. Easy men to separate from their coin, Martin often found, and an easy enough way to earn enough to pay for that night’s debauchery.

  Sybelle Smythe was there, he saw. She smiled at him from across the room when he entered. Sybelle was Ciaran’s younger sister. She often talked to him when they encountered one another, and he found her pretty, but never wanted to take things further. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the connection to Ciaran, but then no, that didn’t seem right. At any rate, he waved curtly to her, and promptly moved in the opposite direction.

  “Not your type?” Roald asked, as he sat down. Martin eyed Ciaran to his right. “A certain lady from the west was more to your liking?”

  Martin grinned, showing teeth. “I bedded our maid of Lyle more times than is decent.” An image flashed through his head. A small alcove of dark stone lit by flickering candlelight, and a pale face framed in waves of auburn hair, so close to his own. There was a flutter in his chest despite his best efforts to suppress it.

  “Aye. Sure,” said Roald, crossing his arms. Ciaran attempted a smile but then looked away, so Martin stood and moved off into the room again.

  “See your future, my son?” a hoarse voice called out to him. Martin turned to see an old woman, gray of hair, sitting in a corner on a low stool. Her face was lined with wrinkles and she sat at a small table, upon which was a stack of wooden cards, rectangular in shape, and painted and varnished. They were old, the paint cracking and the edges worn, not unlike the woman herself. On one side of the cards was the image of a dark, stone tower, and on the other, Martin knew there would be all manner of depictions.

  “Not my type of game,” he replied. “You can’t bet on Bastion.”

  “Nay,” said the woman, looking up at him with dull eyes. “The stakes are far greater in this game. And for you, the cards whisper much.”

  “Oh? Do tell then.”

  “A price must always be paid,” said the woman, holding out a wrinkled hand.

  Martin snorted. “Of course, what’s a foretelling without a little coin passed around?”

  “The gods must have their due.”

  “And how much do you get to keep, I wonder?”

  “They are speaking, Martin Krye, the voices grow louder.”

  Martin stiffened at the mention of his name. Who was this old crone that knew him? Who had sent her? Reluctantly, he took four copper birdpennies from his pocket and dropped them in her hand. She quickly put them in folds of her robe and brought her hand back out empty. “Sit,” she instructed.

  Martin brought over a chair and sat in front of the table.

  The old woman drew four cards and placed them down in front of him. Then she flipped the first one. The Diviner was revealed, a robed figure rising on high, a sunburst behind her. Martin saw that the illuminations were of good quality, but were faded, cracked. “She sees the future,” the old woman said, her voice trailing off as she did.

  “How appropriate.”

  The old woman flipped the second card. The Trickster, this time. An ageless boy in red and black, with a white face, and a long cap upon his head. “Someone seeks to fool you. Betrayal, mayhap.”

  Martin nodded and laughed. “Daily it seems.”

  The third card was turned over, revealing The Eagle, spread-winged, as if soaring off of the card. “A great power comes, from far away.”

  Martin gulped despite himself. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  The old woman turned the fourth and final card. It was an image of a dozen black daggers on a field of red. “The House of Daggers.” She looked up, shaking her head, her wrinkles sagging in worry. “A painful death awaits.”

  Martin pulled his dagger from his belt and rammed it down into the last card, nailing it to the table. The old woman jumped back, and then eyed him in anger. Martin jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair and the old woman’s table, in the process. The room went quiet at the disturbance. “Fool,” he said, biting off his words. “Cheat. You’re lucky I don’t call the guards to come haul you away.”

  The old woman stood and pointed a crooked finger at him. “Weep not for the teller’s fortune, but for the teller’s tale. Strange things I see, beyond the pale.”

  He laughed, putting a hand to his chest. “Must prophesies always rhyme? Do the gods favor such things?”

  The old woman sat back down and looked away from him. She picked up her table and started to stack her cards again. The room returned to the din of clattering mugs and rowdy conversation.

  Martin found his way back to the table were Ciaran and Roald were sitting, drinking and conversing quietly. “What was that all about?” asked Ciaran.

  “Nothing. An old fool.”

  He began to down ale as fast as the serving girl could bring it. Sometime later, the room grew quiet again without warning, and Martin followed the gaze of many in attendance to the doorway.

  A dark figure stepped through the open aperture and into the tavern. He was striking, his hair cropped close to his scalp, and a single diamond earring dangling from his left ear. He was dressed from head to toe in black – coat, pants, boots, gloves. Silver scrollwork of stylized flames adorned his sleeves and wound their way across his chest. A steel rapier sat on one hip, while on the other was the sword that marked him as a master of his craft.

  It was an Imperial blade. A shortsword of nearly three feet, with a straight blade, a short haft, and no crossguard to speak of. There was nothing particularly special about an Imperial blade, except that they were expertly crafted and very old. The Mandren Empire may have fallen, if the stories could be believed, but only seven of these swords were known to be in all of Hyrel.

  During the height of the Empire they were granted to those who had proven themselves to be the most skilled of swordsmen. Now, anyone who wore one was making a boast he had better be able to back up. Even those of the noble Houses, who had passed down the swords for centuries, took great care to ensure their heirs were well trained before they received them. Many a man would take the opportunity to open the guts of an unsure fighter, nobility or not, to claim such a prize for themselves.

  You had better be very powerful, or very skilled, if you wanted to carry one around, and as far as Martin knew, this man was not the member of any noble house. No, from t
he sword and the dress, and the rumors that anyone who was worth their salt knew, his name was Viserin. A man good with a sword, there was no doubt, but so was Martin. He had been trained by some of the best bladesmen in the realm, since he was able to lift a wooden practice sword. This Viserin did not scare him, especially not in Durett.

  The room had fallen to silence, so Martin stood up and took a step toward the newcomer, who still stood near the door. Someone grabbed his sleeve and he turned around to see Ciaran wide-eyed and shaking his head. “Martin, what are you doing?”

  “I’m going to get myself an Imperial blade.”

  “Like hell you are!”

  Martin pulled away from Ciaran and started toward the dark figure ahead. Before he made it however, four men rose from their seats at a nearby table, crude weapons in hand. They looked to have had a similar idea but were clearly nervous.

  “I am Viserin,” the newcomer said. “I mean you no harm.”

  A drunkard, from the sound of his voice, somewhere in the room, clearly had grown tired of the silence and likely to intoxicated to be aware off the happenings around him, yelled, “Vagabond of Virtue!” Taking up the signal, the troubadour began to strum and sing the fast melody, stomping his feet in time on the floor.

  He was the vagabond of virtue

  And no heart could be more true

  Though crooked his path

  A grand calling he had

  The four men hesitated for many moments, until one, bald with a moustache and bearing a longsword, worked up the courage to charge ahead. In a flash Viserin had his Imperial blade out and sent it spinning across the room, end over end. The shortsword slammed into the chest of the charging man, sending him flying back into a wall. A few moments of stilled shock passed and then the room erupted in chaos.

  He robbed and he stole, and he drunk more than his fill

  He left many a debt, never settled a bill

  But when smallfolk did suffer, and bread couldn’t be found

  The vagabond showed up, golden coins by the pound

  He’d carouse and he’d stagger, he’d swindle and swipe

  By the light of the dawn, he’d grumble and gripe

  But then a fair maid would scream bloody for aid

  And his dagger’d come forth, to ensure her attacker was paid

  The three remaining men ran forward, lunging with daggers, and swiping with clubs. Viserin side-stepped the attacks with ease and drew his rapier. He parried a dagger thrust and then ran the wielder through. He kicked at the chest of the man with the club, as he raised his weapon for an overhand attack, and then raked him across the chest with the tip of his sword.

  The third man, also wielding a dagger, was easily dispatched, but by that time the whole tavern was on its feet and charging after him. Ciaran and Roald were in the fray as well, swords drawn, thrusting and slashing at swinging arms and kicking legs.

  For he was the vagabond of virtue

  And no heart could be more true

  Though crooked his path

  A grand calling he had

  Stools were swung and easily ducked under; mugs were thrown but parried aside. Swords were brought to the fore, but though steel rang off of steel for a few moments, Viserin always found an opening and then his opponent was on the ground grasping at a wound with bloodied fingers.

  Then one eve in the autumn, the king’s guardsmen did hear

  The vagabond was soused, in a tavern quite near

  His sword he was missing, and his dagger was gone

  So upon him they fell, till the deed they had done

  The vagabond lay bleeding, in the dirt of the street

  And the maidens did wail, as his fate he did meet

  For though heavy the toll, were his villainous ways

  He helped those no one else would, to the end of his days

  Viserin recovered his Imperial blade at some point, and cleaved a man’s head nearly in half, as the man charged in with nothing but a broom handle. Then Viserin went to parrying sword thrusts with the blade, making openings for his rapier to dart in and deal mortal blows.

  For he was the vagabond of virtue

  And no heart could be more true

  Though crooked his path

  A grand calling he had

  The fight was over by the time the song was sung, though to Martin it felt like it had been hours. His mouth hung open in awe. All around him men were sprawled out, moaning and clutching at wounds. The only other men beside himself that were still on their feet were Ciaran and Roald, who came up behind him, blades in hand. He didn’t need to look to know shock was plain on their features as well.

  Martin grinned from ear to ear. The Acolytes of Marunda, Viserin – the town was going to erupt, and there was nothing Gregor Hake could do about it. The man called Viserin turned from the carnage he had wrought and left the tavern. Martin made his way to follow.

  “Martin,” he heard a harsh whisper from behind. It was Ciaran again. “Are you mad?”

  “I’ll be alright,” said Martin.

  “Let him go,” Roald said. “And let’s get out of here. This place will be lousy with guards soon.”

  Martin left them behind as he stepped out into the cold night air. Outside, Viserin stood, untethering his dark mount from a hitching post.

  Martin drew his own this sword and stepped forward. Fast as lightning Viserin’s Imperial blade was out again, and he swung it before Martin, taking the tip of Martin’s own blade clean off. Martin grinned and lowered his sword. He was truly in awe.

  It was apparent that Viserin realized Martin was no longer intent on fighting him, not truly anyway. “What do you want?” he asked.

  “For you to join our cause. Here in Durett. We could use a man with your… skillset. We fight a grave battle for the protection of Kyres. Join us. We pay well.”

  “Do you know what this is?” Viserin asked, opening the collar of his shirt. Inside a carved medallion hung on a short length of dark leather. It looked to be made of silver and depicted two parallel lines, on either side of which were two dots.

  “Isn’t that the symbol of that odd guild?” Martin asked, not able to believe that the man before him would be a member.

  “What is so peculiar about the Order of Asheion?”

  “I can’t remember the last time they demanded better wages.”

  “Asheion does not seek coin. Asheion seeks balance.”

  Martin scoffed and shifted on his feet. “Do you call putting the blade to half the men in that tavern, balance? Don’t get me wrong, the whelps deserved it, but balance?”

  “If culling the wicked from this land, at their own insistence, is what I am called to do, so be it. Let the immolation of their minds’ fire be extinguished.”

  Martin couldn’t believe the ease at which Viserin acknowledged his fate, seemed to accept whatever was placed before him. Martin had always yearned for the next thing, quick to do away with what was in front of him for a shot at what was to come. Always moving, always seeking something, something better. There had to be something better out there, the pursuit of it was all that kept him going. “I don’t understand,” he managed, finally.

  “Likely, you don’t,” said Viserin. Then he mounted his horse, and started off at a trot, no doubt intent himself to be gone before the town guard arrived.

  Martin didn’t know why, but he went back into the tavern then, his head swimming with thought, intent on finding someone. By some miracle, she was still there stepping amongst the bodies, heading for the door. Her dark hair shone and she smiled when she saw him.

  When morning dawned in the white plaster room at the inn the next day, he woke again beside a young woman. Curly black hair this time, though she was thinner and pale. The warm body of Sybelle Smythe was close beside him. He looked at her face, slight nose, closed eyes, and felt something then. He couldn’t describe it, except to say that he, again, only thought that she looked pretty.

  Martin crept out of bed and made his way to
the washbowl on the dresser. He scrubbed his face and cleared his eyes. It was then that he noticed something set next to the bowl. When he saw it, his heart went into his throat, all pleasant thoughts of the night before vanishing as he stumbled backward.

  On the dresser was the card from the game of Bastion the prior night; the House of Daggers, with his own dagger still stuck through it. How it had gotten there, he couldn’t possibly say, but for some reason, it terrified him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  WILLIAM

  It was with mixed feelings that Will led his brown horse, Mari, down the dirt road and over the hill, toward the land of Erris. It was a sprawling place of waving green grass, plentiful orchards, and scattered farms, two days’ ride southwest of Lyle. Fields of corn, thatch-roofed barns, and hog pens dotted the landscape. He had visited once when he was young, with his father. They’d come to see cousins who still worked a farm in the area, and Will had to endure his father regaling him with tales of how great their ancestors once were. Now he came as the fifth Earl of Erris, elevated to the position by Byron a week prior, with a sword point on each shoulder, in the stone, vaulted ceiling of the Hall of the Order Aves.

  The eastern lords and ladies were once again largely absent, though for so minor an appointment, and on such short notice, this was not entirely surprising. Those nobles that did attend looked down on him with suspicion, he was certain. As he knelt in the ancient hall, the ceiling disappearing into dark obscurity, he felt dizzy. If he had eaten anything yet that day, he was certain he would have lost the contents of his stomach on Byron’s boots. After the ceremony, land and title had been signed over to him. Erris had remained a small village and manor in the countryside under the rule of the king, and so when Will had said he now needed to visit the place, to view the lands, and ensure things were in order, Byron had only waived his hand. “Leave it to the local magistrate,” his friend had said. “I need your aid here.”