Falcon Lord — Book One

by D. A. Metrov

  “What would you have me do, my lord?”

  Dredgemont stopped. “Never play me for the fool, I warn you.” The old man stood there in the aisle. Bent over. Staring into the dark as he spoke. “Think I don’t know it was you who stole my black words so many years ago? Sacred spells designed to enrage the Magradore falcons? Think I’m ignorant of the fact it was you who caused the mighty Fumor to slaughter his master, Lord Aviamore?” Steam hissed from tiny valves above the hilt of the magical sword.

  Gretch squirmed. He knew better than to lie to Dredgemont. Yet the false words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, my lord.”

  Again the silhouette spun in the darkness, releasing the bolt of blue fire. The bristling cylinder of lightning rocketed past Gretch’s head. This time it scorched his other ear, and forced him into fetal position.

  “He was a threat to our plan!” Gretch moaned, his deep voice tremulous as a frightened toddler’s.

  “Indeed, he was. And you took action of your own accord. That’s why I promoted you. Didn’t you know?”

  Gretch dared to let his spirit rise. Just a bit.

  “No worries, dear Gretch.” Dredgemont’s voice was now lyrical and soothing. “Simply do it once more. It’s time.”

  Gretch heard those footsteps pad away again. By the time he raised his head, the silhouette was gone. Vanished in the shadows on the other side of the horrible laboratory.

  Gretch lumbered back to his feet. “The Falcon Rider is as good as dead, my lord. I swear it!” He listened, hoping for a response. But the only thing he heard was the flicker of little flames burning behind him.

  The sun was already low on the sea’s distant edge, glowing ember-like after burning an arc across the sky. Pello and Biffee stood on the shore of Meland, gazing over the dancing waters toward Perpetua. It seemed the two were in a peaceful spell despite the fact their steam dinghy was not where they’d left it.

  When Pello spoke, his voice had a soft, haunted quality. “It’s up to them, Biff. It’s them who must consult the Seer.”

  “He agrees, brother.” Biffee’s voice was equally void of emotion. “If only they could make their way back to the mainland.”

  Chapter Nine

  DEPARTURES

  Brighton hadn’t noticed that the light outside his window had faded to dusk. He hadn’t stepped out of his tiny shelter since his visitors had left that afternoon. He felt safe in there, safe and insulated from the challenges that might await him out in that uncaring world. Still, he couldn’t rest. He’d paced. And lain down. He couldn’t sleep. Had gotten up, paced some more. He’d tried to eat. But had no appetite. He’d run his fingers through his hair and fiddled idly with almost every item in his cabin.

  Why do I feel like this? I’m doing my duty, aren’t I? Earning my pay. What does the world expect of me? Meland’s creatures are safe—untouched by the warring and bloodshed of the mainland. Who else could take credit for that, but me, Second Assistant Warden Aviamore? Warden and Falcon Rider.

  A Falcon Rider must never put himself first. Serving the people—that’s what matters. Again, his father’s words. Words forever recorded in his heart and soul. Brighton felt the knot tighten in his stomach. Was he, in truth, shirking his duties?

  A volley of bangs shook him from his indulgences. He moved to the door. “Who is it?”

  “Lizard Bill has stolen their skiff!”

  Brighton scowled, mulling over this news. “What do you expect me to do?” He felt pathetic about himself. He was shirking. He knew it.

  “He’s the only law enforcement officer in this district,” Biffee shouted. “Is catching thieves not among his duties?”

  “Actually, it is not.” Brighton sensed he wasn’t going to get rid of these two without taking stricter measures. He swung open the door to do just that. But before he could get a word out they barraged him with additional information.

  “She’s in possession of their robot,” barked Biffee.

  “Against their direct orders,” said Pello.

  “Now’s she’s made off with their boat. Theft number two by his accounting.”

  “These infractions add up, he knows.”

  “And are punishable by law.”

  “By the Great Leonardo, they wish to file charges.”

  “And recommend the severest of penalties.”

  “Hanging they would suppose.” Pello looked smug.

  Brighton glared at them. He was annoyed by this disturbance. At the same time, he was concerned about Bill. He stared. They stared back. The next thing he knew, his feet were carrying him out the door.

  The three of them made their way in the twilight. They were heading to the rocky berm that stood between the north beach and the wooded foothills. It was here Lizard Bill lived in a stone hut she’d constructed entirely on her own. She’d built it soon after her mysterious arrival the morning following one of the fiercest storms Brighton could remember. Even now, he still felt ashamed he hadn’t done more to help her. He’d merely spied on her for the first several months. And it was months more before he realized his strange intruder was, in fact, a she.

  He’d watched her struggle to carry the boulders, one by one, that made up her shelter. And the driftwood that would bear a thick ceiling of pine branches weighted down by more stone. Brighton scoffed at the young builder’s attempt at engineering a home. He had smirked with meaningless satisfaction at the thought of rainwater flooding its interior in the very next squall.

  But it was Brighton who would end up soaked. On more than one occasion he’d spied from the tree line watching a tongue of warm smoke rising from the hut’s crude chimney. Besides the clattering of his own chilly bones, he’d felt resentment toward the cozy castaway inside. Resentment that added to the many layers of onion skin armor that protected the real Brighton Aviamore. That sad, frightened boy plagued with lack of self-worth. The boy who was, after all, the cause of his own abandonment by the only other humans he’d ever known. His parents. One deceased. One vanished.

  Ohhh, catching a glimpse of that young prisoner, cowering inside, always made him seek immediate distraction.

  “Lizard Bill!” he shouted as the trio approached the stone dwelling, which looked as though it might belong to a hermit or a lonely, old sand goblin.

  “They’re telling you, he—” said Biffee for the third time.

  “She,” Pello corrected him.

  “He, she ain’t here!”

  Brighton marched up to the primitive wooden door. It faced inland, of course, to deny entry to the fierce storms that would blow in off the sea. It was a hobbit-style portal—nothing more than driftwood lashed together with horsetails. Brighton raised his fist to knock, but found the door already ajar. Hesitant at first, he poked it open. And peeked inside.

  Having never seen the hut’s interior before, he’d always assumed it was stark and barren. Barely fit for a cave man. Instead, he was surprised by how comfortable it looked. Though it was only a single room, the cracks in the boulders were neatly plastered with mud. The floor carpeted with spongy tree moss. The sleeping berth, a simple bench of stone, was padded with evergreen needles sewn inside a coverlet of squirrel pelts. With a quilted pillow to match.

  An ancient, iron cooking pot sat upon the rock ledge that formed one side of the hearth. It even contained a ladle, hand-carved from pine wood. Perhaps most surprising was the faded-red life vest, battered and torn, that was fastened to the wall. It hung like a coat of arms, the illegible name of a ship stenciled on its face.

  Curious, Brighton thought. A personal belonging? Or just more flotsam washed up from the sea?

  Pello and Biffee looked just as intrigued.

  “Now does he believe them?” Biffee said, snapping Brighton out of his wonder.

  “She’s heading for Drakton. That’s what,” Pello said, tapping his thick hind paw on the ground.

  “Heading for Drakton?” Brighton was incredulous.

 
; “Where else?” said Biffee. “Clearly she understood the urgency of the matter.”

  “She’s not that reckless,” Brighton said. Is it possible? Bill? On her own? Steaming toward Drakton?

  “Reckless. Hmmm,” Biffee mumbled, scratching his chin. His eyes rolled back.

  Pello cringed. “Even if she managed to cross the channel, she’d never make it round Cape Kragmaur. Why, some of the greatest frigates in the world have been dashed to bits trying to sail past there.” He then looked up and mused to himself, “I wonder if the robot might help her navigate?”

  “Leaks like a sieve, he knows. That steam skiff,” Biffee said, now looking at Brighton to study his response.

  Brighton’s reaction was disbelief waltzing with worry round and round the dance floor teetering in his mind. Like a plate atop a juggler’s nose. He grew dizzy. His knees began to buckle. And that’s when he finally burst out. “She’ll get what she deserves for being a fool!” And he stormed off back to his cottage without another word.

  Pello and Biffee watched his shape blend into the other dark abstractions that were the forest trees and the now-black clouds haunting the sky above. And the first murky stars all melting into night. Their keen senses told them both, without having to say it, that the young man was lying about Bill getting her just deserts. How long would he continue the charade was now the question. Something overhead caught Pello’s eye.

  “Biff,” he said.

  Biffee followed his gaze and saw the squadron of dwarol warriors flying over the channel. The first air patrol of the evening. Soaring high enough to catch the last red light of the now sunken sun.

  “Yo-eeh!” Pello and Biffee shouted in unison. They scurried down the beach, waving their arms over their heads.

  The dwarols heard them and circled down toward the islet.

  “They’re on official assignment!” cried Biffee.

  “And request passage back to the mainland!” shrieked Pello.

  The boyish dwarols, who hated speaking, glanced at each other then swept down to the beach. Two of the gigantic sparrows extended their claws. They snatched Pello and Biffee by the scruffs of their unsuspecting necks. And carried them over the sea back toward Valkyrie.

  Brighton stormed through the darkening woods with the same intensity he’d begun back at Bill’s hut. He stared at the ground, grumbling to himself. “Insane, that’s what she is. Mad as a March hare.” You could also say she’s bold as hell. Shut up. Admirably bold. Mad, I tell you. She’ll never survive. He marched by Handower who had long heard him coming, of course. Still hooded, the bird merely ruffled himself back into slumber after Brighton passed.

  The moody, young Second Assistant Game Warden entered his cottage and slammed the door behind him. He stood there. Safe at last to reveal his true state of mind: absolute frustration and mental disarray. There were so many voices in his head. They all merged into nothing but noise. But he silenced them with a powerful decree.

  By the sea gods, I enjoy my solitude. Away from the madness of the town. I cherish my privacy. My autonomy. No one telling me what to do. Thank God those babbling intruders are gone. They didn’t even have papers. Orders usually come in written form, don’t they? What if they were deserters? Or worse? Enemy agents trying to lure me away from my post? Then I might be in trouble. Serious trouble. No. You made the right decision. Sending them off. Back where they came from. They had no business here anyway.

  He’d just about convinced himself that all was fine again when something caught his eye—one of Bill’s lizards down on the floor.

  The little creature turned an eye to him. More lizards appeared around the room. All staring at him. Brighton breathed faster. He looked up at the Lizard King himself. Sitting on the mantle over the hearth. Looking right at him.

  The storm of confusion inside Brighton’s head again reached a boiling point. He made a decision right then and there. Not an easy decision, but one that would change his life. And the destiny of Perpetua.

  “Curse you, Lizard Bill!”

  With that he snatched up his rucksack, and hurried around the room. He tossed in a bundle of smoked venison. A water bota. His crossbow, goggles, and mace. He grabbed the Teidalbaden. And all the falconer’s gear he could reasonably carry on his back. The rest—Handower’s halter, bridle, and saddle—went under his arms. Lastly, he grabbed the leather tooled saddlebags that all Falcon Riders carried on long voyages.

  I’ll be back home with Bill before moonset, he told himself. Arms laden, he barged toward the door. He stopped, hesitated a moment, then went to his workbench.

  He took the folded parchment from its crack—the drawing of boy and falcon. He gazed at it a moment. Then stuffed it into his shirt.

  Handower was on his feet by the time Brighton opened the gate to the bird’s mews. The falcon had heard the jingling of his riding tack. He was already agitated about why they might be flying at such an unusual hour.

  “Stoop, Handower.” Brighton readied himself for the resistance he knew was coming. He dropped the load from his arms and slipped the hood off Handower’s skull.

  “Come on now.” He looked up into the Magradore’s gigantic eyes. Then he stuffed the hood into one of the saddlebags. Handower watched him. Brighton sensed the bird was debating whether to obey or not. After several tense moments, Handower lowered his gargantuan frame to the ground, raised his shoulders, and drew back his wings to make way for his saddle.

  “There’s a fine boy.” Brighton felt relief as he fed the bird a yank of dried meat. Handower tossed it back into his gullet. Brighton threw the saddle onto the falcon’s back. Positioned its belts for tightening. He secured the carry bags behind it, and the Teidalbaden above its horn.

  “Ney.” He spoke with more confidence this time, using the command which meant to rise only part way. With a firm thrust, Handower rose into a squatting position. It was the height that would allow Brighton to cinch the saddle belts around the bird’s chest and under his belly. Brighton cooed the whole time, feeling grateful the normally unruly Handower was behaving. A pleasant turn in the day’s series of upsetting events.

  “Up now.” His boot was already in the stirrup when he uttered the command. He rose with his feathered behemoth, as if they were one. But before Handower was fully upright, the bird shook himself violently. He screeched and hissed, forcing Brighton to hang on with all his might.

  “Whoa, now. Whoah!” Brighton’s confidence shattered. Handower shook himself like a wild stallion, tossing his rider about like a helpless rag doll. And just when Brighton was braced for a painful collision with the ground, he felt himself lift skyward.

  By the time he found his center in the saddle, he was above the tree tops. He could feel the cool evening breeze in his face. He watched the stars moving close enough to touch. And the thought that rose foremost in his mind was that Lizard Bill had been correct. The terrible Handower could never be coaxed, rider in tow, all the way to Drakton. Yet they were on their way and Brighton had no idea how this would end.

  Meland was situated in such a way that the flight to Drakton meant flying directly over Valkyrie Heights. By now the full moon was at her height, illuminating the battlefield below. Brighton could see what he’d been unwilling to admit for three years now—the fighting on Perpetua was real. Real and far worse than he had imagined. He raised his goggles for a better view.

  Even from this height, circling just beneath the bellies of the clouds, he could make out the weary fighters. He grimaced to see small bands of monkrats holding off hordes of gorpes. The sparrow warriors were doing their best to harass the enemy from above, but they were hampered by sword-stinging robots. Wolfstalks, up to their knees in warriors, were wreaking havoc with clubs and boulders. The giants looked tired though. As if they might simply stop in their tracks at any moment.

  Brighton watched in shock as monkrat nurses braved their way into the heart of the battle to retrieve the dead and wounded. Many a monkrat had fallen victim to the toxic fumes which st
ill smoldered from the earth’s open wounds.

  Looks pretty bad down there. I had no idea. Brighton felt genuine concern. Even the mighty Handower was compelled to let out a god-forsaken screech, loud enough for all below to hear.

  Fighters from both sides looked up.

  Brighton was still trying to reconcile his thoughts when Chancellor Wark flew up and circled around him.

  “Good to see you son. Godspeed! And thank you!” Wark winked at Handower. Then, just as quickly, his phantom-black shape was gone again, missiling back down to the battlefield.

  Watching the falcon hovering before the moon, the monkrats, and dwarols, and the handful of Wolfstalks began to chant. Their voices rose into the sky. Low at first, then louder as they approached Brighton’s incredulous ears.

  “Falcon Rider... Falcon Rider... Falcon Rider of Meland... Meland... Meland...” For the first time in his life, Brighton heard the name of his home as two distinct words: “Me. Land.” He caught a first glimpse of his selfishness and his hidden fears. And it made him ashamed. At the same time, a tiny part of him bloomed, like a bud casting away the petals of youth. A bud that might one day blossom into a full-fledged servant of society. And he felt just a little bit good about himself in a way he never had before.

  “Thank you, Falcon Rider, we’re counting on you!” the voices continued to cry out, even as young man and his bird vanished into the ominous eastern skies.

  PART TWO

  THE TEMPERING OF A FALCON RIDER

  Chapter Ten

  DAWN OF THE JOURNEY

  Lizard Bill had sailed all night, following the moon until it sank. After that, she’d navigated by the occasional campfire or lantern that marked Perpetua’s towering cliff line. Her trip was cold and silent save for the gentle chugging of the dinghy’s engine.