Falcon Lord — Book One

by D. A. Metrov

  Falcon Lord

  D. A. Metrov

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2012

  Lightmasters Publications

  www.lightmasters.net

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781301612581

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Endorsements

  "FALCON LORD is wonderful—the most enticing fantasy world I've come across in years, with characters we truly care about —and I have no doubt it'll hit the world with a bang." Robert Zemeckis, Academy Award winning writer-director-producer BACK TO THE FUTURE, FORREST GUMP, CAST AWAY, POLAR EXPRESS, BEOWULF

  “I found the world of FALCON LORD to be majestic, visually stunning, and endearing. I have no doubt this franchise has the capacity to grow and grow for a long time to come.” Bruce Joel Rubin, Academy Award winning writer GHOST, JACOB’S LADDER, DEEP IMPACT, STUART LITTLE 2

  “I was stuck by the magical nature of FALCON LORD, and sincerely hope to see it join the ranks of fantasy classics.” Mark Johnson, Academy Award Winning producer RAIN MAN, CHRONICLES OF NARNIA, A LITTLE PRINCESS, GALAXY QUEST, THE NOTEBOOK

  “Thank god someone like D.A. Metrov has produced a brilliant “green” series of books with characters, that are fun, smart, captivating, and most importantly, that teach a different way of thinking about our responsibility to the planet.” Robert Glenn Ketchum, Leading landscape photographer, author, & environmental activist; winner United Nations Outstanding Environmental Achievement Award

  Thank you for supporting the Arts!

  If you enjoy this book, you can learn more about the

  author and his other books at http://www.lightmasters.net.

  Your review on Amazon.com would be most welcome.

  Artwork by D. A. Metrov

  PART ONE

  SEEDS OF DESTRUCTION

  Chapter One

  THE KILLING AT DRAKTON

  Brighton listened. While feeling the sun warming his face, and taking in the salt air mixed with the falcon’s musky odors, he heard only the distant waves. But he was waiting for something else. Then he heard it—the click of his father’s tongue—Fumor's cue. He quickly adjusted his goggles, wrapped his arms around his father's waist, and furrowed his brow. The falcon, legs thick as tree trunks, launched into the air with a single thrust of his wings. Before the boy could get his bearings, the three of them were airborne. Off the high Drakton cliffs. Over the open sea.

  Brighton had flown only a few times before, so it was several moments before he remembered to breathe. Nothing was more amazing than this. Flying with Vada—his father, Lord Aviamore, Sky Sheriff of Perpetua Isle—whose warmth he could feel against him in the cold, October sky.

  Vada’s not afraid. I’ll be just like him even if I am only seven. Brighton Aviamore felt special as could be.

  He looked out and saw the ocean glimmering to the edge of the world. He wondered if it were true those sparkling jewels, dancing on the water’s surface, were flecks of light fallen from the sun as his father had once told him.

  He saw Vada lower his goggles over his eyes, and it made his blood race. Brighton knew what was coming. He was proud he knew.

  “Hold on, Brighton.” He felt his father’s heels push into the bird’s ribs as the slap of reins was lost to the rushing air. Fumor rose, like a geyser blasting from the earth, until the clouds above were closer than the land below. Vada’s legs moved again, knees squeezing the bird’s shoulders. Fumor banked, then tucked into a dive. They gained speed.

  Brighton closed his eyes. He felt the wind stinging his face, pulling at his hair. He remembered his father once telling him, “A Magradore falcon can reach speeds of two hundred terrameters per hour. Faster than any animal alive.”

  He peeked and saw the ground coming up fast. He also saw the bird turn his head, ever so slightly, as if hearing something in the nearby mountains. Something a human couldn't hear in the roaring wind. The boy could see the bird’s dark eye. For a moment he felt something stir in that darkness—something sinister and alien. It made no sense. As if something were challenging the giant’s allegiance. But Fumor was their falcon. They loved him and cared for him like family.

  Brighton was caught off guard when he felt Fumor’s massive form gyrate in a full turn-about, wings extended to brake the fall.

  They touched down on a rocky ridge above Drakton beach. Fumor ruffled his feathers, blasted hot air through his porthole-sized nostrils, then glanced up again toward the mountains. Vada didn’t seem to notice. Brighton wondered why.

  Lord Aviamore lowered Brighton off the saddle, then dismounted. Vada’s grin said he was as proud of his son as his son was of him.

  Brighton raised his goggles, and looked at Fumor. But the bird was looking down at them now, and his eyes were bright again.

  “That was fantastic, Vada. Thank you.” Brighton admired his father’s leather skullcap. He dreamed of having his own one day, along with a Falcon Rider’s scabbard and tall leather riding boots.

  “Thank you, boy, for being my son.” Vada gave him a smile then, turning to the falcon, said in a calm, confident voice, “Stoop, Fumor.”

  The bird was big for his young age. Big and sometimes moody. He hissed with such force, even Vada couldn’t help but wince from the beast’s pungent breath.

  “Stoop, I say.” Vada hauled back on the reins that controlled Fumor’s colossal head and beak. Brighton’s pulse surged. He knew the bird was rebelling. It made him feel alive and terrified at the same time. He never understood the sensation. He only knew it came when he watched his father work with the falcon that towered over them both.

  The raptor screeched. The shrill cry hurt Brighton’s ears. Vada dug his heels into the ground, and leaned all his weight back against the reins. Fumor reared. He beat his glorious wings which, outstretched, spanned wider than a Viking longship. His talons arced and dug into the ground like pick axes. The dirt and the mites flew with such fury Brighton was forced to reel. He turned back as quickly as he could, for the sight of Fumor’s wingspan was incredulous to him.

  Vada threw aside his crop. “Whoa. Easy.” He spoke more softly now. “His stomach is empty. It makes him temperamental. Plus he’s nervous with you there watching.”

  “Should I move away, Vada?”

  “Hold your ground, boy. Never give in, or the bird will lose respect for you.”

  Brighton swallowed hard. It was his first day of official training. He was anxious not to make any mistakes. He stepped forward again, despite the knot he felt growing in his stomach. Fumor shook his feathers, and flapped his wings again. Finally, the bird dropped to his belly, raising dust all around his gigantic body—dust that Brighton was proud to wear from head to toe. He turned his head, spat and grinned.

  “First make sure his harness is properly adjusted.” Vada kept his eyes on the falcon. “Too tight, and you’ll agitate him unnecessarily. Too loose, and he’ll become of mind to disobey.” He buckled the harness, and measured the tautness of the leather by the width of his hand.

  “He’s got spirit, this one. That’s why I respect him so. Isn’t that so, my friend?” Vada stroked Fumor’s neck. He reached his fingers deep into the bird’s feathers, and scratched the spot he knew the creature could not resist. Fumor raised his head, and rolled his eyes back like a cat in ec
stasy. Brighton grinned, amazed at his father’s ability to control the bird’s tempestuous moods.

  Lord Aviamore continued to adjust Fumor’s elaborate leather gear—harness, bridle, saddle, stirrups. And the Teidalbaden, a steam-powered flight unit that contained an altitude and air pressure meter, a three-dimensional compass, and a long-distance, wireless telegraph device. The Teidalbaden sat above the saddle horn, on the bird’s neck, within easy viewing of the rider. The peculiar device had been a source of fascination for the boy ever since he was a toddler. He’d spent hours playing with it before he had any idea what it could do. And had been scolded by his father for doing so.

  “It’s not a toy,” Vada would say, then go on to promise that some day, he would teach Brighton all about its powers and magic. Would today be that long awaited day?

  Brighton watched and learned his father’s every move, memorizing Vada’s routines, and even his calm, confident mannerisms. Brighton Aviamore was intent on becoming a great rider. He needed to see only once, and he’d never forget even the smallest technique for preparing a bird for flight.

  Vada made a final cinch, and patted Fumor on the back. Fumor rose.

  “Whoa, hold on, Fumor.”

  Fumor snorted, blowing steam-like breath from his nostrils, then settled back to his belly. Holding the bird’s reins, Lord Aviamore leaned closer to his son.

  “You know, boy, you’re from noble ancestry. Our forefathers came from far away. They tamed this land. And they tamed these great birds—something no one else had ever been able to do.”

  “Yes, Vada.” Brighton felt himself glow with pride.

  “And with that heritage comes great responsibility. A Falcon Rider must never put himself first. Serving the people—that’s what matters. Do you understand?”

  “Of course, Vada. A Falcon Rider is in charge of keeping the peace, and protecting those who aren’t as strong.”

  Vada’s face lit up. He smiled and mussed the boy’s hair. Brighton loved feeling his father’s rough, leather glove moving over his skull, tossing his locks of long thick hair this way and that.

  With a single leap, Lord Aviamore mounted the bird again. “I’m going to demonstrate a few classic maneuvers that can only be performed at high altitude. Too high for you yet. Watch carefully and try to listen for my commands.”

  “Vada. The Teidalbaden. Will you teach me today?”

  Vada grinned. “We’ll see.”

  Something caught Brighton’s ear, that same murmuring that had caught Fumor’s attention just before landing on the ridge. The vision of a demon flashed in Brighton’s mind. In an instant, he saw a coal-black monster crouched before a bonfire deep inside a cave. Its eyes glowed with hateful light. Its mouth mumbled atrocities. Brighton cocked his head. The sound was gone.

  Just the breeze, he thought. At the same time, goose bumps rose on his arms.

  Fumor bucked and squealed, catching Vada by surprise and nearly throwing him off. “Whoa, now!”

  That undecipherable whispering again. A chant? From the mountain behind him. Brighton turned his head. It wasn’t the wind. It was a voice, deep and gravely. Not human. Some kind of incantation wafting from the rocks. Rising into the sky as if it had a life of its own.

  The wind shifted. He could hear it clearly now: Malum falco terribile vostrato. Malum falco terribile vostrato...

  Was it Latin, the same language he’d heard his mother speak when reading out loud from her leather-bound books? No, not Latin. A lost language. Lost and dangerous.

  Fumor screeched again.

  What is this?

  Brighton’s heart pounded so hard it was surely going to kick through his chest.

  Malum falco terribile vostrato. Malum falco terribile vostrato.

  “Hush, Fumor, hush.” Vada looked worried.

  Fumor launched into the air. The falcon hovered straight above Brighton, beating his wings and raising a squall of dust. He bucked again, this time with incredible violence. Vada was thrown from the saddle. He struck the ground ten leapspans from where Brighton stood.

  “Vada!”

  Fumor took flight. Vada, stunned and broken, pushed himself up on his arms. Before Brighton knew what was happening, the behemoth bird swooped down and knocked his father flat again, leaving a deep, bloody gash on Vada’s neck and back. Fumor squealed. Brighton, frozen with disbelief, heard his father groan.

  Malum falco terribile vostrato. Malum falco terribile vostrato.

  The Magradore circled over them and prepared for another strike. This time, Brighton ran to shield his father’s body. The falcon’s deadly talons came at them both, like spears flying from enemy fists. One of the hooks caught Brighton’s shoulder. He went flying, like a tumbleweed in the wind, over the rocks and dirt. Another claw hooked into Vada’s ribs and carried him a dozen leapspans along the ridge before dropping his now-dying body.

  Brighton opened his eyes. His vision was blurry. It wasn’t until he tried to pick himself up that he felt the incredible pain searing through his upper body. He saw the blood running down his arm, and realized he had a deep wound just above his right shoulder blade.

  Where’s Vada? He looked up.

  Fumor was now crouched atop his father, the way Brighton had seen the bird crouch upon a freshly killed stag. The falcon clutched Vada’s body with his talons while he tore out the man’s flesh and threw it back into his gullet.

  “Vada!” Brighton could not hear his own voice, only the gagging sounds fighting their way up his throat. Fumor turned to him. Brighton saw the fire that burned in the giant’s eyes—an evil red glow he’d never seen before. The bird was bewitched. But how? By whom?

  Fumor screeched and spread his wings to protect his kill. Blood dripped from his crushing, razor beak. He tore through his master’s ribs, digging for the heart Brighton now felt was his own.

  Instinctively, the boy stood, but his knees collapsed. He could not stop the darkness from coming. The light faded, and he was both grateful and defiant at the same time.

  No, no, stay awake, he told himself. Stay awake you fool. The voice was not his. It was an angry voice—desperate, crazed, and forlorn all at the same time. It was a voice he’d never heard before. It was, in fact, the voice of the person he would become. He surrendered to the darkness, praying for his own death, even before he once again hit the ground.

  Brighton Aviamore never saw the monster who’d uttered those wretched incantations from atop a nearby peak. Gretch, a 137-year-old, Komodo troll sat on his mount, Malgor, a mutant Vampire bat nearly as large as Fumor. Gretch was as foul as a living creature could be without being a fully rotting carcass. His stench carried for terrameters. Lice and flea larvae crawled in and out of the disgusting, matted hair that covered his eight foot tall, hump-backed body. His beady gray eyes seemed dead, as they had no light within them. Not even a reflection of the glaring sun. Phlegm dripped from his decaying fangs as he continued to growl, “Malum falco terribile vostrato. Malum falco terribile vostrato... ”

  Clouds gathered over the sun, darkening the skies. Malgor’s squeal joined the odiferous air that would haunt Drakton for the next decade.

  And young Brighton Aviamore lay lifeless on the knoll below.

  Chapter Two

  A CRUEL AWAKENING

  Brighton didn’t remember waking. He didn’t regain full consciousness until he’d staggered halfway home. He couldn’t feel the pain in his shoulder. His father’s death was only a vague horror following him like a shadow. But the more he awoke, the more the horror returned to life.

  How can it be? It can’t. It’s not. Not real.

  But he’d experienced the brutal killing firsthand, and it became ever more real with every step he took. His whole body felt poisoned. He dropped to his knees, and retched. Over and over, he vomited until every drop of fluid, and then some, had been wrung from his guts.

  What do I do? Have to get home. Have to find Mother.

  He picked himself up again, and made for the timber lodge the
Aviamores called home on the southern skirt of the plateau.

  What time is it? Panting, he glanced up at the sun, and saw it was still midday. What about Fumor? Where did the bird go? You’ll find him later. Get home. Tell Mother.

  He stumbled over the rocky ground, tripping over the stubborn tufts of mouse grass that grew between the coast and the timberlands. He and Vada had begun Brighton’s training on the far side of the moraine that split Drakton’s high ground so his disapproving mother wouldn’t see them. She was an unhappy woman, forever finding reasons to complain and scold. He recalled her words that very morning when she’d found them preparing to go off together:

  “And where do you think you’re going?”

  Brighton had been filled with excitement that day, knowing he was about to take his first step toward becoming a Falcon Rider. If anything gave him the exact opposite feeling, it was the voice of his mother.

  Lady Aviamore had stood near Fumor’s barn, hands on her hips, forehead tangled with tension that suggested not just anger, but some deeper psychological disorder. She had dark eyes, though her angular face possessed a kind of exotic beauty. The boy had seen her fury before, but earlier that morning, she’d bristled with such ferocity the feathers had risen on Fumor’s neck.

  “I said—where do you think you’re going, my lord?” Brighton remembered how she’d circled him and his father.

  Fumor had made a sound, low and slow, like a dog’s threatening growl.

  “My dear lady,” Vada had announced in a jocular tone to compensate for his wife’s sour mood. “Today is the most special of days. Our son is to commence his training as a Falcon Rider.”