Falcon Lord — Book One

by D. A. Metrov

  “My responsibility is here, on Meland. No more, no less.” He marched to the hearth, and threw the shards into the fire.

  “In that case, Valkyrie shall fall to the heathens,” said Biffee, his voice cold and matter-of-fact.

  Lizard Bill looked concerned.

  A terrible screech shattered the morning air. They all turned their heads toward Handower’s mews outside. All except Brighton who continued to stare into the fire. He let himself become mesmerized by the dancing flames.

  “If I’m not mistaken, something has alarmed the bird,” said Pello.

  “More than alarmed.” Biffee was already heading toward the window.

  Outside, Handower was on his feet. His feathers were raised from his neck all the way down to the end of his backbone. Though blinded by his hood, his head was turned in the direction of the dense forest behind the corral. To the normal senses there was nothing out there but the silent swords of sunlight penetrating the canopy and stabbing the ferns below. Handower whipped his head back toward the cottage at the sound of the opening door.

  Pello and Biffee dashed by the corral, making sure to keep their distance from Handower. The falcon might lunge for them even though he was leashed and unable to see.

  The Lizard King and his five loyal attendants watched the two monkrats scurry past the big boulder and disappear into the forest. Monkrats, thought his majesty. Their curiosity will overpower their sense of self-preservation every time. And the curve on one side of the old monarch’s mouth rose ever so subtly—the closest thing to a smile he would ever produce.

  Deep in the woods, Gretch stared at the ground, listening to Handower’s cries. Beneath him, the colossal Malgor crouched in the ferns eyeing the large butterfly that was flitting, unwittingly, toward his mouth. The monster was about to tongue it from the air. But his acute sense of hearing picked up the patter of Pello’s and Biffee’s approaching feet. He licked his thin, moldy lips.

  Gretch narrowed his eyes, all his senses focused on the distant cottage. He was calculating the possible interactions that might be occurring inside considering those in attendance: The young, self-absorbed game warden—son of the loathe Lord Aviamore, last Sky Sheriff. The girl who pretended to be a boy. The broken robot. And two monkrat soldiers dispatched by Wark on some still-mysterious mission. He listened to the disjointed words that swam through the forest like ghostly puzzle pieces: “... Aviamore... dragons... statue... microal... orders... Seer of Buer... Seer of Buer.” And was that consult? Consult the Seer of Buer?

  He could march in, and with complete justification, demand to know what the monkrats were doing on Meland. He was, after all, an officer. And Wark hadn’t informed him that he was sending two soldiers to the islet. Gretch could threaten them with court-martial for being absent without leave, and force them to reveal their assignment.

  But what bothered Gretch most was the nagging hunch that he had unfinished business with Brighton Aviamore. That there was a dormant bond between them because of Lord Aviamore’s killing. It was a specter that reeked of revenge. It would have to be exorcised before it woke and released its fury.

  The troll drooled like some droopy-eyed, old blood hound. He absent-mindedly dug at the tick that was burrowing into his ear. He felt Malgor tense his body, preparing to pounce on the monkrats.

  “No,” Gretch snarled. He jerked on Malgor’s reins and kicked him in the ribs. The creature took flight and turned in the direction of the mainland.

  Pello and Biffee scampered to the spot where Malgor had squatted in the ferns. They could see the impression of his claws and belly. They sniffed the air. Both of them knew the unmistakable odor. Only the old Komodo troll smelled like that. The troll and his disgusting bat. They gagged and gazed in Gretch’s wake, wondering what he’d been doing out here.

  Inside the cottage, Brighton was still hypnotized by the flames dancing around the broken pieces of his dish. He could hear Lizard Bill tapping her foot on the floor with the impatience of a woodpecker. She could contain herself no longer.

  “Valkyrie needs your help. Truly, you don’t intend to refuse.”

  Brighton squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. Is there some contentious alignment of planets today?

  Mitor was off in the corner making some kind of racket.

  “How else can I say it?” Brighton said, keeping his eyes on the fire, his voice low and restrained. “A trip to Drakton during the storm season would be an act of insanity.”

  He peeked at Bill. He saw her reach under the cot, allowing several of her pet lizards to scramble up her arm, back onto the brim of her sampan.

  “I wonder if your real concern is that you’d never be able to control Handower on such a long journey.” He saw her brace as if expecting a harsh response. She was right.

  “That is nonsense!”

  Brighton stared at the fire again. He felt its heat as if it were his own. He felt those “fight or flight” chemicals coursing through his limbs. Feelings he loathed since he couldn’t control them and they made him tremble.

  “You’re hiding from reality, Brighton Aviamore.” Bill went to Mitor, grabbed his arm, and led him, jangling, out the door.

  Brighton was distracted by the unusual noises coming from the robot. He turned his head just enough to see Lizard Bill come back in with the ill-mannered machine. She reached into a hidden cabinet in the side of its chest cavity. She pulled out a tarnished silver fork and spoon. A silver bridle piece. A handful of old, copper buttons.

  “Sorry. Again.” Then to Mitor as she led him back out the door, “That’s wrong. Do you hear? Tell me you understand.”

  “Wrong,” clacked Mitor.

  “Indeed.”

  Brighton watched them leave, grateful to have his solitude again. At the same time, he was disturbed by the cyclone of emotions now wreaking havoc inside him. What would Vada do? If he were alive, what would he do? What does it matter? He’s not alive, and I’m not him. Shut up. Shut up! A Falcon Rider must never put himself first. Serving the people—that’s what matters. Do you understand? The words were as crystal clear as the day his father had spoken them. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the squared parchment. He unfolded it, and gazed at the crude drawing—a boy riding a giant falcon.

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

  Brighton dropped the drawing. He grabbed his reeling head. He wasn’t really sure why he was resisting so much. Valkyrie has an entire army. They’re not weak. They don’t need protecting. They’ve asked for your help. Who owns these voices? Who’s the real me? There is no you. Not yet. You must make yourself.

  His thoughts stopped there. As if he’d hit on something so powerful, so true, his soul would haunt him until he understood—the concept of making himself.

  You’re on your own. You can make yourself into anything you choose.

  He picked up the drawing, folded it, and stuffed it back into the crack in the wall. He stared into the hearth. And couldn’t distinguish himself from the fire that leaped and swooned in delirium.

  Chapter Eight

  SHADOW’S LAIR

  Gretch and Malgor soared over the waters that separated Meland from Perpetua. It was a sunny afternoon. But the skies were already tinged with thin veils of mist that signaled the approaching winter. Malgor’s behemoth body, his bony wings taut and billowing like a frigate’s sails, left a great roar behind him. He glided straight for the island’s tallest peak. Heavy surf crashed on the rocks far below. The water retreated in boils that raised the kelp beds high enough to catch the sunlight. The huge albatross and heron that inhabited the cliffs took flight to grant the bat and his odiferous rider plenty of berth.

  Malgor pulled his wings closer to his sides and twisted his head causing his body to bank and soar with greater speed. He wore a slight smile, as if pleased with the skill he was about to demonstrate. Gretch closed his eyes and felt the wind on his face. He didn’t want to think abou
t Brighton Aviamore. Not now. Too much else on his mind. He chose to cherish the moment. He heaved in a great, slow breath to savor the sweet scent of ammonia. It was rippling upward from the bird dung that whitewashed the coastal ledges. Even the decrepit old Komodo had his pleasures. The two of them were about to collide into solid granite. Instead they vanished into a shadow that seemed to split apart at the last instant, forming a portal into the mountaintop.

  The pair soared through a gullet in the head of Mount Pegosa, an ever darkening crevasse that twisted down toward the very heart of the island. Malgor followed the curves and turns of the passageway with the elegance of a ballerina. He, too, closed his eyes. He didn’t need them. Not here in his native domain. His echolocation system allowed him to keep a buffer between himself and the cold, jagged stone. It would rip his hide clean off should he make contact at such high velocity.

  The narrow gap soon blossomed into a cavern. Suddenly Malgor and Gretch were dwarfed by the vast emptiness all around them. A dim glow from phosphorescent stone lit the chamber just enough to reveal its gorges. And tributary tunnels. And the glistening meltwater that trickled down its walls.

  Malgor descended in a wide spiral, roaring past the cavern walls in a blur. Gretch, smiling with delight, laid his head against the back of Malgor’s thick neck. The two of them were a dream in motion, circling down and down. Malgor saw their target in his mind. A wide ledge at the mouth of a cathedralesque corridor lit by torches somewhere down below. He spread his wings to slow their fall.

  A phalanx of heavily armed gorpe guards watched their approach. The sentries had been chosen for their exceptional height and strength. But even they turned away in anticipation of the fierce blast wind they knew was coming from Malgor’s arrival.

  The leviathan lit between them with incongruous grace. Still, his landing sent tremors through the stone. Gretch was on the ground and thundering past the sentries before they could even turn back to him. Malgor hissed for no particular reason. He fluttered his wings before allowing them to settle at his sides. The gorpe sentries, normally unfazed by stench, winced from the bat’s fetid breath. They brushed its fleas and ticks off their thick skin. Malgor snorted with satisfaction. And closed his eyes to nap until his master’s return.

  Gretch was big, even for a Komodo Troll. His massive body had the muscular bulk of a Velociraptor. But he’d learned to walk in a synchronistic motion so his torso swung one way, and his lower body the other. It gave him an unexpected adroitness. He was a warrior, after all. There would be times when he’d require stealth. Yet there were other times when the full weight of his approach could be exaggerated to send shockwaves through the earth. To fill the hearts of his enemies with dread.

  He made his way down the great, rocky corridor. Past more sentries who glowered at him as he passed. He approached a gateway without breaking stride. A pair of guards pulled back a gigantic lever, engaging a steam engine that opened the heavy iron doors. Rusty hinges, big as a man’s thigh, squealed and hissed like tortured trumpets. Great exhalations of steam fogged the air. Lion-hounds barked and whined. Canine guards leaned back on the chains that restrained the dogs—their manes thick and wild, teeth bared. The beasts snarled and lunged at Gretch only because he frightened them so. The old troll ignored them.

  Gretch entered a dark hallway buttressed with cut stone. It was covered with moss and eternal dampness. Deeper and deeper he went, past more heavily armed guards. Through thicker gates. He slipped beneath the series of steam-gasping portcullises that rose, one after another, to allow his passage. With the grace of a weightless phantom, he descended spiral stairwells hewn from solid granite.

  By the way he moved, it was obvious he’d spent much time here. He knew its labyrinthine passageways by rote. Finally, he came to a complex of rooms with plastered walls. Wooden doors. Even the occasional tapestry.

  He arrived in an ante-chamber, a large semi-rotunda carved from pure, black coal. It was sealed with lacquer and lit by oil lamps. A dozen gorpe sentries awaited him, their weapons—broadswords and halberds—at the ready. Their reptilian eyes were filled with hatred. Gretch dipped his body in what first seemed like a bow. But he rose again in one swooping move, his eyes leering into theirs. A threatening growl vibrated from his throat. The guards held their ground and growled back at him. It seemed to be a stand-off. The head guard sniffed the air. He glanced at his mates, then turned back to Gretch. He jerked his head toward the entry. The sentries stepped aside to let their guest pass.

  Gretch took another few steps. He stopped and stared at the floor as if preparing to enter a danger zone. He took a deep breath and banged on the thick, wooden door that led to the next room. He listened to the knocks that echoed away into silence.

  And while he listened, he sang beneath his breath. “Hear the cries of crowing rooks. Stuffed in pie that’s to be cooked. Hear the birdies pluck and kick. No more cuckoo clocky riffs.”

  He stopped, and listened again. He pushed the door open, cringing from its fingernails-on-blackboard screeching. At once he smelled the mysterious fumes. They were a combination of sulfur, burnt metal, molten minerals. And only the demons of Hades knew what else.

  He entered a dimly lit laboratory. It was filled with years of unspeakable experiments that involved inanimate as well as formerly animate things. It was hard to make out the freakish confabulation of bio-mechanical, steam-driven contraptions. There were prototype mining devices. Inoperative robots. Cauldrons of molten, alchemical goo that rose and popped in stinky bubbles. There were desiccated corpses of small animals. They were crucified in positions that left no question about the torture they’d endured before their deaths. All this in the name of some unscrupulous science.

  Though he’d become indifferent over the centuries by the acts of vicious creatures, even Gretch was captivated by these things.

  “Dear Gretch,” came the words in singsong manner from somewhere among the flasks and beakers that filled the room. “I could smell you coming even before you entered the room.”

  Equipment steamed. Hissed. Puffed in the darkness all around the hulking troll. His eyes darted about and found a man’s silhouette bent over among the shadows. With speed, he made his way to the aisle between the worktables. He dropped to one knee in subservient fashion.

  “Seigneur Dredgemont,” he droned in his deep, gravelly voice. “I beg your pardon for my unannounced arrival.” At the same time he snuck a smell of his armpit, revealing a jungle of greasy hair writhing with sewer worms and leeches. He was oblivious to his own odor, so was always curious when anyone made reference to it.

  “I’m listening, friend.” Dredgemont, who kept his back to his visitor, was barely visible in dark.

  “The citizens of Valkyrie grow desperate. They have ordered the last Falcon Rider to Drakton to consult the Seer of Buer.” Gretch kept his eyes downcast.

  Dredgemont cackled in the darkness. His laughter was rife with some mysterious irony. “Good, dear Gretch. G-o-o-d. You know I admire you. You spent your whole life living in darkness. Slathering around in your slimy caves. Yet you went out on behalf of our cause, and infiltrated the enemy. Fooled them so good, they made you an officer!”

  Gretch peeked up. He’d never seen Dredgemont’s face in the light even though he’d been in the man’s employ for some ten years now. He’d supervised the workers and earned the nickname “slave killer.” The troll had lied to the Valkyrians about his hatred of the mining operations. Gretch was a spy and traitor.

  Still, all he really knew about Dredgemont was that this human was some kind of genius. He’d invented new methods of extracting ore. Methods that had eluded the mining companies years before. And he’d organized the gorpes. Organized and, indeed, inspired them to work as they’d never worked before. He replicated the steam-driven robots. Somehow configured them to labor. And to speak!

  And Dredgemont, who insisted on being addressed as “Seigneur,” was old. That Gretch could tell by the creakiness in his voice. Old with a frail-l
ooking shape, but possessing magical powers that were simply inexplicable. Before Gretch could cringe, the silhouette spun around. Gretch saw the flash of the Cobalt Cutlass—an ungodly sword that spit a thick bolt of blue lightning right at him.

  Gretch ducked. The roaring tongue of fire seared his ear then struck the table behind him. Beakers exploded. Their liquids erupted into little fires. The table fell to pieces. And Gretch, the terrible troll, trembled in fear.

  “Yet you’re still an incompetent clown.” Dredgemont’s voice was closer. And to Gretch, it felt like a serpent of smoke winding ever tighter around his neck. “Here you are, second in command to me, your almighty Seigneur. Yet you fail to outwit the simpletons of Valkyrie.”

  Gretch prayed he would stop. The troll could not bear to be criticized by the man he’d come to worship. It caused such an aching in his heart he wanted to sob. He hadn’t sobbed since his mother had died of dementia one hundred and sixty-two years past.

  He could feel Dredgemont’s shadow circle around him. He knew it was best not to speak. Especially not to make excuses or try to defend himself. He knelt there, gritting his rotting teeth, and took his punishment.

  “Brighton Aviamore of Meland, last of the Falcon Riders. Of all people, he must never interfere with our work. Being of Man, he is the only one who might cause us genuine trouble. Do you understand?” Dredgemont whispered those last words directly into Gretch’s burned ear. They added to the pain that was already stinging the side of the brute’s head. Gretch watched his own spittle stretch to the floor, and goosh there in a languid puddle. He heard Dredgemont’s feet shuffle away.