Hawklady: A Spellmonger Cadet Novel

by Terry Mancour

  “That gown is ruined, now,” Dara nodded, sadly. “That is such a pity. It was such a pretty thing, don’t you think? What a waste!”

  It was another full week before Dara departed Barrowbell, first by horse, thence by barge, on the first long leg of the journey back to Sevendor.

  She’d loaded her pony, Doughty, with her new treasures and her old armor, and was forced to use a few pennies to purchase a second pony to carry the incredible purchases she’d made in Barrowbell. Yule was approaching, and she felt obligated to use some of her wealth to buy special presents for everyone she knew. And Barrowbell offered treats and trinkets that even Sendaria-on-Bontal, didn’t offer.

  There was one thing she was bringing back to Sevendor that she couldn’t wait to part with: Lady Alya’s borrowed dagger. It had proven useful, but Dara hoped it was a long time before she had to fight for her life again.

  In time she found herself on the deck of the river barge with her fellow apprentices, one afternoon, while Master Minalan and Sire Cei smoked and reflected on the high deck, above.

  “Only a few more days of loafing on the river, and then we’re back home,” Tyndal moped. “Then it’s off to Inarion Academy,” he said, sounding like he’d been sentenced to hard labor. “We’re to get some thaumaturgical polishing. As if we need that, after all we’ve been through!”

  “We do,” Rondal said, sharply. “You’re about as sloppy a mage as I’ve seen. All this warmagic might be broadening, but without a better grasp of the fundamentals—”

  “Well, that’ll be great by the time we actually get to War College,” Tyndal said, sarcastically.

  “War College?” Dara asked, confused.

  “Relan Cor,” Rondal answered. “It’s where the arts of warfare are taught. We’re scheduled to participate in the spring rites, there. As if we need more training on how to swing a sword . . .”

  “You look like you’re chopping wood, when you spar!” Tyndal accused. “In any case, we’re going to be gone, for a while. That means you’re going to be the only apprentice in Sevendor for Master Min to torment.”

  “It won’t be so bad,” Rondal pointed out. “It should be rather quiet, after two wars in quick succession. I think three in one year might be pushing it. Hopefully, that means you can focus on your own fundamentals for a while. Something beyond what Gareth and Pentandra has managed to show you.”

  “Just wait until he starts teaching you,” Tyndal said, shaking his head. “At first it seems like an awful lot of fun, and then it is work, and then it’s just bloody tedious,” he complained. “But once you start picking it up . . .”

  “Don’t let him scare you,” dismissed Rondal with a wave. “Master Min is a creampuff. You should have met my first master. He works for the Dead God now.”

  “The hard part will be learning to concentrate on everything at once,” Tyndal continued, ignoring Rondal, as usual. “Then remembering all of those bloody correspondences, the charts, the sigils – bah!” he said, throwing his hands up in the air.

  “The mysteries of the universe in his hands, and he’s frustrated,” Rondal said, shaking his head. “Idiot. So, what kind of magic are you most interested in, Dara?”

  Frightful chose that moment to fall out of the sky and snatch a large fish out of the river. Dara had been grateful for the chance to let her fly, after so many days cooped up in the tiny mews of Siviline House. She appeared on the rail of the deck a moment later, proudly dropping the fish on the deck and screeching her hunting victory.

  “I don’t know . . . I was thinking of something with animals,” she said, casually. “Am I going to have to learn warmagic?” she asked, hesitantly, as she retrieved the fish.

  “Some,” Tyndal said, making a face as she slit the belly and gave the entrails to Frightful as her reward. “If you can stand the blood and guts,” he added, looking pale at how casually she cleaned the fish.

  “Somehow I don’t think that will be a problem,” Rondal chuckled. “The real problem will be keeping an eye on Master Min.”

  Dara looked up, sharply. “Why?”

  “Because we aren’t around to do it,” answered Tyndal, suddenly interested in something on the horizon, in the opposite direction from where Frightful was wolfing down the fish liver. “He has a habit of doing all sorts of dangerous things, if we’re not around to keep him focused.”

  “It’s more that without our presence, he feels less restrained,” Rondal said, annoyed at Tyndal’s observation. “Don’t worry, with a new baby and Alya around, he’s unlikely to do anything truly mad until we return.”

  “A moment, Hawklady?” came a voice from above, a voice like bells. All three apprentices looked up at the distinctive voice, and Frightful took to the air for more fun after her snack.

  Lady Ithalia, the preternaturally beautiful Alka Alon warrior who’d been so helpful in the battle, descended the steps. Rondal and Tyndal, stumbling over themselves, excused themselves when the gorgeous woman asked to speak with the Hawklady alone.

  “What can I do for you, my lady?” Dara asked, hesitantly.

  “I was just admiring your pretty bird,” Ithalia said, as she watched Frightful glide over the barge. Ordinarily a falconer wouldn’t take that kind of risk with her bird in strange country, but if Frightful wandered too far from the river Dara could summon her through her Talent. Besides, she was having too much fun stretching her wings, finally, to keep her hooded or hacked, if she didn’t have to. “She seems an ideal predator.”

  It was an odd thing to say, but Dara couldn’t disagree. “She’s a great hunter,” she nodded. “When she gets her full size next year, she should be able to take nearly anything smaller than a dragon.”

  “What is her full size?” Ithalia inquired. “My people never took up the . . . sport,” she said. “I confess it is somewhat strange to me.”

  Dara was pleased to be able to share her knowledge of falconry, and for the next twenty minutes she explained how the process worked to the non-human Emissary. Ithalia stopped her a few times and asked questions, before returning to studying Frightful.

  “So she is an ideal predator, and easily trainable,” she nodded, finally.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say it was easy,” Dara demurred. “But if you can get them early enough, yes, you can train them. If you’re a decent falconer.”

  “You seem to be well-suited to the trade,” Ithalia observed.

  “It takes patience, persistence, and . . . and duty,” she realized. “When you start training a falcon, you have a duty to her. You have to tend her every day, no matter what. Even when I was going to parties and balls I checked on her and made sure that she was doing well. Lady Amara thought that her servants could manage, but once you’ve invested the time and energy in training a bird, you don’t entrust that to a stranger. Unless you have to.”

  “And love,” Ithalia pointed out. “You must love your work. And your bird.”

  “You don’t have to,” Dara considered, “but it certainly helps. Especially when she’s being a proddy old hen and you have fantasies of strangling her. But I wouldn’t trade her for anything,” she said, affectionately. “She’d fight a dragon for me,” Dara assured her.

  “Would she?” Ithalia asked, seriously.

  “What? Not a full-sized dragon,” giggled Dara, imagining such a thing. She remembered the mutual terror they shared when the great beast had crossed overhead while they were flying together. “But maybe a little one. A tiny one. She’s attacked snakes before, and she’ll catch a lizard if she’s feeling lazy. If she does it while there’s better prey around, it’s her way of telling me off.”

  “Interesting,” nodded Ithalia. “I suppose it would take an entire army of hawks to really take on a dragon,” she decided.

  “What? Are you serious?” Dara asked, confused. “I attacked one with the Thoughtful Knife, and I couldn’t pierce its hide! Even an army of hawks wouldn’t even annoy it! Ashes, it wouldn’t even notice them!”

  “What if
they had armored talons?” suggested Ithalia, contemplatively.

  “They’d better be enchanted to cut steel like butter, then,” snorted Dara. “Look, raptors are incredible predators, they really are. They’re fast, they’re nimble, they can see forever, and in their way, they’re smart – take it from me. But they aren’t vicious. And they aren’t suicidal.”

  “But they are nimble, they are fleet, and they have incredible vision,” Ithalia countered. “Those, and a hunter’s spirit, could go far.”

  Dara snorted again. She knew what hawks were capable of, at least more than this Alkan lady did. “Not to a dragon’s vitals, not in a century! Lizards, sure. Birds, rodents, coneys, snakes and bats, at a pinch, and no squirrel alive can dodge her. But dragons? My lady, you tease me.”

  Ithalia bit her lip – a human gesture that looked odd on her exotic near-Alkan face. “That is not my intention,” she assured. “Quite the contrary. In my conversations with Master Minalan and his colleagues, we often discus crafting new weaponry to meet the foe on the field. Of course, the conversation usually revolves around the weapons of Alka Alon legend, or tools from the Magocracy . . . but I often think that nature provides where the imagination of man and Alkan fail.”

  “What do you mean?” Dara asked, no less confused.

  “Dragons are borne by the winds,” she explained. “They are an army on wing, able to cross great distances and overfly most obstacles. Their defenses are formidable, but if they could be slain or stopped in the air, before they can use their terrible fury on us, that would be preferable than fighting them as we did, in the midst of our ruins.”

  “Well, yes,” Dara nodded. “Perhaps a really, really big bow . . .”

  Ithalia snorted. “Slay a dragon with just one arrow? Now who teases, Hawklady? Nay, I desire to meet the foe in the air. On land my people excel, but we have no skill at sea or sky. Your ancestors amazed us with your ingenuity in both, when they arrived. If anything can counter the fury of the worms, it will be something from your world, not mine.”

  “Well, Raptors are the biggest birds there are, and the largest of them can’t take anything larger than a fat hare,” Dara said, throwing up her hands.

  “Well,” Ithalia said, thoughtfully, after a long pause, “what if they were . . . bigger?”

  The End

  * * *

  [1]* As told in Hawkmaiden