Falcon Lord — Book One

by D. A. Metrov

  Bill. What a nuisance. You’re lucky to be alive, so soft and weak. What person with a lick of sense would waste their time with lizards? And where did you come from? I don’t really care.

  Handower bucked and squealed. He spread his wings as if to take flight, nearly throwing Brighton off his back.

  Brighton grew frustrated. His bird was acting out. He pulled back on the reins, and readied his riding crop. Handower turned his head, and snapped at his unwanted rider.

  “Watch it,” Brighton said in a firm voice.

  Handower hissed, then ruffled his feathers.

  Brighton hated these spats. Deep down inside, he craved a more harmonious relationship with his bird. He wished they could be better friends.

  In truth, it was a miracle the falcon behaved as well as he did. The Magradores were not predisposed to being tamed, much less ridden. They were ruthless predators accustomed to flying free. The miracle was testament to Brighton’s skills as a Falcon Rider. After all, he’d never completed his formal training. He was essentially self-taught. He had a natural way with beasts that would have impressed the riders who’d lived before him. But there was no one to commend him. No one to pat him on the back. He’d been left on his own, which meant his approval had to come from within. That approval was hard, if not impossible, to come by.

  The tension between Brighton Aviamore and Handower had existed since the day Brighton had killed the bird’s parents atop Mount Pegosa. After the daring act, he’d dragged the protesting chick, lashed to a skid, all the way back to Drakton. They’d lived there alone for another nine months before Brighton relocated to Meland. Lady Aviamore had disappeared for good after the killing of Lord Aviamore. Brighton had assumed she’d somehow found passage back to the homeland she seemed to miss so much. He had convinced himself he didn’t mind. She was most unpleasant to be around. They didn’t care for each other anyway. What need did he have for a mother, he’d told himself on numerous occasions. Especially one who was crazy. I’m glad to be rid of her, went the mantra in his head, even to this day.

  So he felt alone. Alone and somewhat bitter. Just him and his ill-tempered Magradore. He tended to brood over these things and his maverick neighbor, Lizard Bill. Right then Handower took flight of his own accord.

  “Perch!” Brighton smacked the falcon’s shoulders with the crop. But Handower only drove his wings harder into the drafts that were coursing up the mountainside. The bird banked away toward the heart of the island. Brighton could only hang on for the ride.

  Not far away, the old Lizard King sat still as stone surrounded by his six, ever-present attendants. Descended from the Terrible Earth-Shakers, the lizards bore prickly, armored hides impervious to the sharp rock and drilling insects that would suck their blood. The King had been watching and waiting for millennia now. Waiting for a single being, a herald, one who would signal the arrival of a monumental event only he was privy to. And so he wasn’t much concerned about Brighton or Handower. He was far more interested in Lizard Bill. Who is this young person who harbors my kin, and provides them safe haven on the brim of a hat? The King had never seen such a thing. Something stirred deep inside him—a gnawing sensation he’d learned not to ignore. Could this possibly be The One we’ve been awaiting? He blinked his eyes which was about as much as he ever moved even though he and his courtiers could magically transport themselves anywhere in the realm.

  Down on the beach, Lizard Bill looked up just in time to see Handower disappear into the next valley. Bill was curious, then miffed, realizing Brighton had just been spying on him.

  “Ahoy!”

  He whipped his head around to see Pello and Biffee approaching in the steam dinghy. And the funny-looking thing bobbing in the air behind them.

  Pello was heaving for breath. Biffee had insisted his brother bail water from the leaking hull. Biffee (the self-proclaimed better sailor) navigated the craft across the channel. The little boat drove up onto the beach where its engine died with a noisy belch. Pello fell out of the boat, onto his hands and knees. Biffee marched with an admiral’s dignity onto shore, right up to Lizard Bill.

  “In case he’s not familiar with nautical terminology,” Biffee said under his breath lest Bill be offended, “‘Ahoy’ would be the proper response.”

  Pello noticed something lying in the wet sand beneath his nose—a corroded bit of metal. It was obviously the remnant of something manmade. Perhaps even a doubloon of some sort. He stuck it in his kangaroo-like belly pouch before Biffee or Bill saw him.

  But Lizard Bill ignored them both. He was captivated by the sad looking robot that crashed onto land. Picked itself up, then fell on its face again. Lizard Bill helped it upright and marveled at the intricacies of its design.

  “I’ve heard about them. But this is the first time I’ve actually seen one,” he said. He ran his fingertips lightly over the robot’s box-shaped head. He recoiled from the sudden little blasts of steam that blasted from its ventilators.

  Biffee looked perturbed to be discounted like that, Pello too tired to care.

  “According to legend… ” Lizard Bill peered into the robot’s wooden frame to examine the maze of springs, motors, and gears that formed its viscera, “there were hundreds of these machines abandoned by star travelers long ago. They became corroded in our humid environment. But this one seems fine. Other than its damaged wing, of course.”

  “Nonsense,” said Biffee, a scowl on his face. “Gorpes are building them. Inside the mountains.”

  “Really?” Bill was genuinely surprised.

  “That’s correct,” said Pello swatting at it with his bailing bucket. The robot dodged his blow with a deft quarter turn.

  “Leave it be,” snapped Bill. “I hereby claim this machine as my own.” He examined the robot’s broken wing. “Come with me. I will repair your wing and lubricate your joints. How does that sound?”

  The robot made a rapid clicking sound.

  “If you were a cat, I’d say you were purring.” Bill started off.

  “Now see here,” said Biffee. “If anyone is to claim ownership of this machine, it’s he and Pello. After all, it’s them that captured it.”

  Bill spun around. “What brings you to Meland?” He bored into the monkrats’ eyes with a threatening scowl.

  “None of his business,” snapped Biffee.

  “That’s rude, Biff,” Pello was quick to whisper to his impertinent brother.

  “I see,” answered Bill. He turned back to the robot. “And you, robot. What is your name?”

  The robot clicked again.

  Lizard Bill pursed his lips, then announced, “I hereby name you ‘Mitor.’ Follow me, Mitor.”

  Lizard Bill marched off across the sand. He continued onto the trail that meandered through the salt grass and into the nearby woods. Mitor turned his head toward Pello and Biffee, made a kind of snoofing sound, then rolled away. His pipes hissed, and his wheels squeaked as he followed his new owner.

  Pello and Biffee looked none too happy to see them go.

  Brighton held on for dear life as Handower took him for a wild ride over the treetops.

  “Heel, Handower. Heel!” He thought about using the crop again. Would Vada beat this bird? He always carried a crop, but I don’t remember him using it. I don’t know if it does any good anyway. The beast doesn’t even feel it.

  Without warning, Handower rolled and threw his rider off. Brighton’s fist clamped onto the bird’s saddle horn. His fingers slipped off. He grabbed for one of the meters on the Teidalbaden. He missed. He fell through the air, then tumbled through tree branches. He kept his eyes shut tight lest they be scratched out by the twigs and needle-sharp pine cones that were already cutting his face. He hadn’t had time to lower his flying goggles.

  He managed to grab a limb, breaking his fall. He couldn’t keep his grip. He continued to plummet, breaking branches with his body, then hit the ground with a sharp thunk. Before opening his eyes, he listened to Handower’s triumphant squeals circling ab
ove the canopy. Brighton cursed under his breath. He grimaced from the aching in his tailbone. He felt the cuts on his face and looked at the blood on his fingertips. Hellfire. I swore that would never happen again. It wasn’t the first time he’d suffered a mishap. Such incidents were among the many uncertain dangers of riding the big Magradores.

  He heard another cry. It wasn’t Handower. It belonged to a black bear. A particular black bear, the one he’d named Flack. Brighton could tell the creature was in distress. What on earth is he carrying on about? Concerned, he picked himself up and limped off.

  Flack roared and howled. He tugged on his front paw, but the fallen trunk held it fast. He’d been halfway up the old hollow tree thieving honey when it had gone over—cracked at the base from the bear’s weight. Flack’s paw was still in the cavity that housed the sweet nectar. The custodians of the treasure swarmed in fury. Lucky for Flack, their stings couldn’t penetrate his thick fur, only his bare nose. He did his best to swipe the attackers away. But his other paw was trapped. And hurting.

  Brighton hobbled up. “How many times have I told you? Stealing doesn’t pay.” Flack yowled. “Yes, you’re very ferocious, I know. You’re also stuck.”

  Brighton assessed the situation, especially the hundreds of angry bees. He knew they could inflict serious pain. Okay. I’ll run in. Lift the tree off. Then haul out of there. The bear cried out again. Brighton could tell he was in pain. Without another thought, the young assistant game warden charged in. He wrapped his arms under the tree trunk, and closed his eyes. The bees were already on him. He lifted with all his might. The tree wouldn’t budge. He turned red, straining every muscle in his body. A bee stung his cheek. “Ow!” He heard another howl. It wasn’t Flack’s. It belonged to Moustache, Flack’s brother. Brighton looked to the side. He saw Moustache charging toward him. He knew the formidable creature was coming to protect his sibling. Brighton lifted harder, groaning, straining. Flack howled. Moustache roared.

  Moustache thinks I’m hurting Flack. “I’m trying to help!” Moustache was closing in. Another sting. Brighton knew if he couldn’t solve this soon, the angry bear would cause him far more damage than the bees. Moustache was almost on him. Bees now covered the upper half of his body. He roared.

  With almost supernatural effort, Brighton lifted the tree just enough for Flack to free himself. Brighton tumbled away in the dirt, swiping at the bees. Flack limped away. Moustache lurched and roared at Brighton.

  “That’s the thanks I get?”

  Moustache muscled him across the ground, as if he were nothing more than a pine cone. Brighton struggled to his feet, ran a few steps, then turned to the furious bear. “I was helping, you idiot!”

  Maybe Moustache understood, because he roared again, then turned away. He galloped off with Flack. The two bundles of fur disappeared in the woods. Brighton ran the other way. The bees raced in a vortex somewhere in between.

  Deep in the woods, Brighton assessed his injuries. Not too bad. Just a few stings. Dumb bears. He heard his falcon cooing and quickly forgot the whole incident. He stumbled on. He found Handower feeding on the carcass of an old wolf. The bird looked up from his kill and screeched in defiance, daring his would-be-master to come closer.

  Never balk. Never back away, Brighton thought to himself, remembering his father’s words. He marched forward with purpose.

  Keeping his fierce eyes on Brighton, Handower dipped his head. He opened his threatening jaws, and spread his wings low to the ground. The Teidalbaden released rays of steam that formed an unheavenly halo around the beast’s skull.

  Brighton moved in cautiously. Handower squealed and leapt off the ground. He beat his wings with such fury, Brighton felt himself blown back off his feet, and the discomfort of earth meeting his rear end.

  The giant returned to his feed. Brighton strengthened his resolve. He stood up, and took the lasso from his back. He twirled it over his head and had the noose around Handower’s neck before the bird could look up.

  Hah, got you.

  In the same balletic motion, Brighton flung the lasso’s other end toward the nearest tree. Because he’d practiced since childhood, it coiled around its trunk and held secure. Handower reared and exploded with rage. He flew off, over and over, but snapped taut every time. He screeched and beat his huge wings, fraying his feathers in the dirt. Brighton loathed the obvious damage, but there was nothing to do at this point.

  “When will you learn to obey, Handower?” Brighton pulled his dagger. He went to the wolf carcass, carved a piece of flesh from its ribs, then returned to his struggling captive.

  “Calm down,” he said, his voice gentler now. “Won’t do you any good to struggle, and you know it.” He held out the meat in a peace offering, but Handower only flapped harder. Brighton squinted his eyes from the dust. “And I don’t want to spend all night mending your primaries.” He knew when the falcon’s long, narrow flight feathers became damaged, they had to be pinned and glued with bamboo rods. It was a tedious chore neither of them enjoyed. Handower lunged again. This time the lasso broke. The falcon flew over Brighton. He fell to fetal position to protect himself from those massive, saber-sharp talons. He was already cringing, half-expecting an attack. Instead, Handower snatched up the remains of the wolf carcass, and flew off into the woods.

  Now frightened and angry, Brighton sprang back to his feet. “Heel, Handower!” But Handower had already disappeared over the tree line.

  Brighton’s heart sank as he listened to the falcon’s fading cries. He looked down at the slab of wolf flesh, dripping blood from his hand. He dared to wonder if the bird could ever be completely trained.

  A huge granite boulder formed the corner of Handower’s mews. A traditional mews would have been far too small for a Magradore, of course. So the term was merely a formality. The housing was really just a bunch of dry salt grass surrounded by a rickety fence. An area Handower could consider his own space.

  The corral was constructed behind the small, thatched roof hut that Brighton Aviamore had called home for the last seven years. It was all very makeshift. He’d built everything with only the handful of tools inherited from his father. A small axe. A dull saw. A blacksmith’s hammer. And a hand drill with one rusty bit.

  Brighton had slowly improved things over time. Patched the leaks in the roof. Mudded the cracks in the walls in order to keep out the cold. He’d even added a hearth and a chimney when he was thirteen, built completely from mortarless stone.

  He had a few other belongings salvaged from his parents’ home at Drakton. His father’s steam press (used to forge parts for falconry equipment). His mother’s cooking pot (which she had despised). A big wooden spoon cracked down the middle. And a blanket (by now so thin and tattered, it was really nothing more than an over-sized rag). He’d built seven different versions of a cot. He was always surprised by how difficult it was to construct a stable platform to sleep on. As simple as it seemed, they always tended to wobble and collapse. And just when he was about to fade into peaceful slumber.

  Brighton had decided to abandon Drakton just before his ninth birthday. The memories that haunted that place had become too painful to endure. Lord Aviamore had built a sturdy enough home for his wife and son—a single-story timber lodge with four large rooms. But it had become mausoleum-like after his father’s death and his mother’s disappearance. As an orphan, living on his own, young Brighton would take turns inhabiting one room after another. He’d tried to determine which was most suitable for his main living quarters. Turned out none of them were. No matter where he laid his head, he always felt like a stranger in someone else’s abode.

  He’d never been to the Islet of Meland. But the little mound of earth was clearly visible off the southern coast of Valkyrie. So he’d known of its existence ever since he was a toddler when he’d visited the township with his parents. In fact, it had intrigued him so much, he’d spent hours of his childhood imagining all the variety of creatures who might inhabit the place. Evil dwarfs. Pirate
s. Savage harpies. Or perhaps a witch who was either the epitome of evil, or the essence of benevolence depending on his mood.

  Once the decision had been made to migrate to Meland, it took Brighton nearly another year to construct a seaworthy raft. After all his efforts, the thing barely stayed afloat. The family longboat was needed to transport Handower. The young Magradore was still not mountable. He had to be lashed, biting and flapping, into the boat, which Brighton was determined to tow behind the raft. And, of course, in order to navigate to Meland (which was nearly four hundred nautical terrameters from Drakton), Brighton realized the raft would need a sail. It took him another month to stitch one together from his mother’s abandoned wardrobe.

  He hadn’t been able to take much on that first trip across the channel. He’d returned only once to salvage additional belongings from the house at Drakton. But the place had already been looted, and he could never determine by whom. It frightened him. He was only too anxious to return to the solitude of the deep woods on the islet he now called home. For it turned out the forests of Meland were hardly inhabited at all save for an abundance of flying tree squirrels, several species of songbird, a small pack of wolves, a mid-sized herd of turnip-tailed deer. And, of course, the honey bears, Flack and Mustache. There were also a few Jurassic-sized dragonflies that confined their wanderings to the mangrove swamps. Then, of course, the mice that forever scurried back and forth between the beach and the salt grass meadows that bordered the woods.

  On this particular morning, Brighton was happy to return home. He was already thinking about a nice cup of hot tea, hoping it would wash away his dark mood.

  Chapter Six

  AN IMPOSSIBLE SUMMONS

  Brighton flung the busted lasso against the big boulder that formed the corner of the mews. He was hungry, his stomach growling. After tea, he’d fetch his crossbow. I’ll bag a squirrel for lunch. Bloody bird can feed himself. Obviously.