Falcon Lord — Book One

by D. A. Metrov

  “Bill!” he shouted. All he heard was a single echo returned to him from the nearby gulley that ran uphill from the water’s edge. Then, almost as if mimicking him, Handower screeched out as well. But it was not a mimic. It was a cry of concern because the bird looked back over his shoulder at the same time. Brighton glanced back, too. He couldn’t see anything that was cause for alarm, only the sun dropping lower to the horizon. Still, he sensed something. He was acutely attuned to Handower despite the fact they often butted heads.

  The feeling of fun and ease which Brighton had enjoyed earlier in the day was quickly slipping away. He looked ahead into the darkening skies. He wished he’d had the sense to stay home on Meland. This time of day, he’d normally be enjoying left-over squirrel and redberry tea in front of a nice, warm hearth. I can’t believe we’re out here. Maybe Bill is already drowned, and we should head home. The thought caused his throat to seize up and nearly brought tears to his eyes. He was surprised by the sudden emotion. He shook it off. She must be close. We’ll just keep going.

  Gretch made sure Malgor followed Handower at a safe distance. Handower had sensed their presence by instinct only. Malgor powered his Jurassic wings with steady grace. Their leathery edges twisted like ailerons when necessary, but otherwise moved with absolute silence save for the rushing wind they left in their wake. Putrifacted spittle flew from the rodent’s bared fangs and drifted off in delicate splays to become one with the sea below. His nose twitched from the traces of Magradore scent left behind in Handower’s wake. Malgor growled, and pumped his wings harder. But Gretch pulled back on his bridle chains.

  “Patience,” Gretch grumbled. And the thought that went on in the troll’s mangled brain was: Neither Brighton Aviamore nor his bird will ever reach Drakton. This I swear.

  Like a pair of diseased ghosts, they soared ahead and became one with the dusk.

  Chapter Eleven

  ABDUCTION

  The Town Hall at Valkyrie was running out of space. Wounded and dying monkrat soldiers lay everywhere, often two or three to a bed. They were sprawled on desktops, benches, the elder’s table, even the floor. It was a scene as pathetic as any in the history of battlefield infirmaries.

  Lady Sharpeye had never in her life imagined she would be faced with such a calamity. Despite her normally indomitable spirit, she felt trapped in a nightmare. The torches inside the stuffy hall burned night and day. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept. She could see, too, her monkrat nurses were weary. So weary, they were moving around like zombies. Their eyes were blank and swollen, their arms limp by their sides. She noted their hind paws dragging on the floor, their white nursing gowns soiled and stained with blood.

  She had to keep up their morale, somehow inspire them to keep going. Keep tending. Keep changing those god-awful, pussy dressings. Keep cleaning those terrible wounds lest they fester and turn green. She knew she must keep them smiling even though their loved ones were dying before their eyes. She didn’t know how much longer she could keep up the ruse. She, too, was exhausted, but she mustn’t let them know.

  She glanced around the room and saw no one was looking her way. There were only downcast eyes and the sounds of shuffling paws. Groans of soldiers haunted the air like scratchy, old phonograph records. Her knees grew weak. The room blurred and spun around her. Had she eaten today? This week? She needed some air, that’s all. She lowered her head and hobbled toward the back door.

  “Ma’am?” said one of the nurses who saw her passing. The voice came from the back kitchen, a dreary room with a small, steaming stove being used to make soup and boil water.

  Sharpeye stopped, turned her tired eyes to the young monkrat, and forced herself to smile. “Yes, my dear?”

  “We’re out of dressing material. All of us have made sure to check our homes and cupboards to find more, anything—tablecloths, drapes, napkins. But there just isn’t...” The nurse now had tears in her big, round eyes.

  Lady Sharpeye forgot her own distress. She reached out and caressed the girl under her great, matronly wing. “There, there now, no sobbing, do you hear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The nurse did her best to stop crying.

  “What about Missus Paddybern? Have you asked her if she has any cotton cloth in her attic perhaps? Or remnants left over from all those years of dressmaking?”

  The young nurse looked up surprised. “Ma’am. Missus Paddybern passed away last week. They said she died of a broken heart because all three of her boys are missing in action. She left us her entire storehouse of cloth in her will, but, as I say, it’s been used up.”

  Sharpeye was stunned. Was there really so much chaos and confusion going on that she’d forgotten the passing of the town seamstress?

  “I see,” she said, a troubled look in her faraway eyes. “In that case, we’ll have to think of something else.” And with that she hobbled out the back door.

  As soon as she was alone out in the alley behind the hall, Sharpeye broke down in tears. They flowed as they never had before. They dripped off her great ebony beak and onto the cobblestones that hadn’t been swept in months. Yet while she was crying she took note of the trash barrels that were overflowing. And the rats that scurried away into the shadows. She made a mental note to have someone come out here and clean things up at first light. This is unacceptable, she thought. And realizing she was perhaps derelict in her duties, she wiped the tears off her face.

  “Really, Sharpeye,” she said out loud now. “I don’t know what’s come over you, behaving like a nestling squawking for your mother. Well, your mother is long gone and she isn’t going to help you now.”

  A soft clatter of something in the nearby shadows made her look up. “Someone there?” She peered into the darkness at the end of the alley. She heard another sound behind her—the padding of bare feet moving with speed. She spun around, and saw nothing. I’d better get something to eat. She ruffled her feathers to wake herself up, and took in a deep breath of night air. As she turned to go back inside, another noise stopped her in her tracks. On the roof? She looked up just in time to see something like a grid plummeting down from the sky. By the time it made contact with her, she realized it was no grid. It was a fishing net.

  Before she could react, seven gorpe thugs, moving in absolute silence, sprang from the shadows. They converged on her with brute strength. Ordinary prey would have surrendered in utter psychological defeat. But Sharpeye was no ordinary prey. She screeched a mighty screech that carried through the entire township. She flapped her powerful wings and plucked at her assailants. They pounced on her the way a pride of lions would pounce a wildebeest and tear it to shreds while still on its feet.

  They didn’t tear her to shreds. But they tied rope around her beak so she wasn’t able to make another sound. They held her giant wings with the weight of their muscular bodies, while others tightened the net around her. She kicked and clawed to no avail. The leader of the gorpes, taller and more powerful than the others, raised a club and swung it at her head, rendering her unconscious.

  The monsters dragged her, bound up in a ball of feathers, off into the night. It happened so quickly, had anyone noticed, they might have thought it nothing more than the shadow of clouds drifting past the moon.

  Chancellor Wark was on the front line, which was still holding at the edge of the cliffs overlooking the sea. The fighting was fierce. The enemy sensed they were close to driving the defenders all the way down to the water’s edge. If that happened, the citizens of Valkyrie would have no choice but to fight with the disadvantage of their enemy being overhead.

  In war, it’s always better to hold the high ground. Having that situation reversed was akin to fighting off an avalanche. Seeing a great rumble of tonnage heading at you with speed made a soldier want to run. Or simply cower on the ground with his arms over his head. Not the best psychological perspective for winning.

  “You there, get that man off the field,” Wark shouted to a group of monkrats. They were undecided
about flanking the enemy or retreating to the beach. The monkrats saw their wounded companion struggling to get back to his feet, tunnel dogs coming toward him. The monkrats charged out, held off the attackers, and dragged the injured man to their line.

  “Take your brigade to the north and come around that tunnel entrance from the cover of those rocks!” Wark shouted to another band of defenders. “Try to create a landslide and seal off that hole. They’re spilling out of there like beans from a gunny sack.” The monkrats scampered off.

  Wark was about to take flight again to assess his army’s next move. But before he could lift off, a monkrat nurse ran up to him. “Chancellor!”

  He turned to see the frightened monkrat looking up at him.

  “What is it? You look like you’ve seen a flock of spooks.”

  “Lady Sharpeye, sire. They’ve taken her.” The nurse fought back her tears and wiped her furry face on her stained, white apron.

  “What? Who’s taken her where?”

  “We think it was tunnel dogs, sire. Someone saw them disappear with her into the mountain.”

  Chancellor Wark trembled with adrenaline. His eyes grew fierce, his beak parted. He squatted on his haunches and launched himself like a rocket into the air. The sobbing nurse watched him fly directly over the enemy horde amassed on the ridge. Their sabers, cutlasses, and musket barrels gleamed in the moonlight.

  Wark was so filled with fury he became oblivious to the threats and curses from the enemy. They released a volley of arrows and musket balls. He squawked in defiance and barreled over them. His beating wings created such turbulence it was questionable whether any weapon of the time could penetrate the buffer that existed around him.

  He soared upward, parallel to the mountainside. He dove again, gaining momentum, then banked. He screamed directly at the gang of gorpes gathered at the main tunnel entrance. They fired their crossbows and rifles. Wark roared over them. He disappeared into the dark, smoky corridor that led into the heart of the mountains.

  “Sharpeye!” he cried out at the top of his lungs. His voice reverberated throughout the network of underground channels that branched out in numerous directions from the main cavern. He had no idea which tributary to take in order to find his beloved wife.

  No time for debate. Just go, Wark. Go, and get her back before it’s too late. His jet black form dissolved into the black light. And his cries became nothing more than vapors drifting in his wake.

  Chapter Twelve

  THE WRATH OF KRAGMAUR

  For Brighton, the night had passed without incident. It was as if he and Handower had traveled through some dreamy corridor that was beyond the boundaries of time and space. The dim blue light of dawn found them soaring along Perpetua’s remote coastline, not far from the legendary Cape Kragmaur.

  Brighton shivered. He crouched low to Handower’s back in order to keep warm from the falcon’s body. He was looking forward to feeling the heat of the sun once it rose above the ridgelines far to the east. He realized his hair was wet with moisture it had collected from the cold night air. He noticed that Handower was covered with dew as well, but only on the surface. When he reached down through the bird’s damp feathers, he could feel they were dry underneath. He drove his fingers all the way down to Handower’s skin, and scratched him there. Handower responded with a quick nod of his head and a quiet snarl. The bird was not happy to be approaching the cape.

  “Looks calm enough up there.” Brighton peered into the distance, looking for the massive outcrops of stone that would mark Kragmaur’s lair.

  Brighton wondered what Handower could see. He knew the falcon’s vision was a hundred times keener than his own. He knew the bird could see far beyond the layers of mist that obscured the vision of most other creatures. He can hear things, too. Things no other animals can—

  The bird cried out. His cry reverberated along the coastline, waking any creatures who might have still been asleep on the ledges or other places of shelter. His cry rippled across the faces of the cliffs, through the thick forests, and up to the mountains. The highlands had gathered blankets of clouds as if to keep warm from the cold of night. And every beast that heard the falcon knew the meaning of his cry. It was the sound of defiance. Though only a single shriek, it said, there is danger ahead. And the danger is growing. And I refuse to continue on.

  Brighton understood as well. At once he was filled with tension that added to the cold, making his body shiver harder. We must keep going. Lizard Bill is still down there.

  Thankfully, the moon glow had lit the ever-dancing sea during the night. So Brighton was satisfied they hadn’t flown over her. Satisfied for the most part anyway. There’d been those last few hours after the moon had dipped away that left the coastline dark. Too dark to see anything bobbing along in the water. Still, he sensed that Bill and her shabby dinghy were still ahead. He couldn’t abandon her just because Kragmaur threatened. On the other hand, he knew Handower was right. Only a fool would venture any closer to the legendary point of doom.

  “We’ve got to find Bill!” Brighton knew he would meet resistance. With a blood-chilling screech, the giant falcon bucked in mid flight. He twisted his body and flapped his wings, making it clear he could toss Brighton into the sea any time he chose. Brighton hung on with the strength and tenacity only a seasoned Falcon Rider possessed.

  “Damn you, Handower!” He pulled his crop from his belt. At the same time he gripped the saddle with his thighs, and drove his heels into the bird’s ribs.

  The light of dawn withdrew as if someone had thrown a switch. The sun was suddenly covered by thick black clouds.

  A lone finger of lighting shot down from the heavens, so dazzling it turned the darkness into midday. The flash of light was followed by thunder that throttled the whole world. Brighton nearly shot out of his skin.

  Kragmaur had known they were coming hours before. And he reveled in upholding his reputation. Many believed he was a demon or god-like spirit confined within the lethal promontories of tall, sharp stone. If the stony points that lined most of Perpetua’s coastline were hammer-wielding giants, the crags of Kragmaur were titans, ten times bigger. Their edges were sharper, like the teeth of sharks, able to slice galleons to ribbons. Creature or not, it wasn’t often the old cape had visitors—most knew to keep their distance.

  In an instant, Brighton and Handower found themselves engulfed in rain so thick they may as well have been standing beneath a waterfall. Brighton lowered his goggles. The pounding was so intense Handower could not afford to protest again. He needed every ounce of his strength to keep his wings moving or they’d both end up dashed on the surface of the sea.

  Brighton was so stunned by the sudden, unexpected force of the gale, he could only hang on in a state of shock. He knew he had to snap himself out of it if he and his falcon were to survive. And how on earth would Bill possibly avoid being obliterated on the rocks? Or becoming so deluged with water she and her vessel would simply be forced under water.

  The sound of the storm—the rain, the thunder, and the massive surf exploding on the cliffs—was deafening. The sheets of rain cascaded from above with the ardor of barbarian hordes. The winds roared as if from the throats of angry lions. The thunder, it seemed, was powerful enough to break apart the whole world and send its remnants off into space. The waters below churned like delirious dancers. Dancers weaving on their feet, colliding with each other. And with the stones and the cliffs. Drunk with Kragmaur’s own madness.

  Brighton found himself trembling with terror. Stop shaking, damn you! But he couldn’t stop shaking. The combination of terror and cold gripped his body. There were few things, even at his still young age, that made him afraid. But he hadn’t been prepared for this. He’d ridden out storms before, but never one of Kragmaur’s storms. This gave whole new meaning to the word.

  A landslide of stone rumbled toward the sea from halfway up the mountainside. The avalanche crushed the forest in its path. It picked up mud and tree trunks and more house
-sized boulders along the way. It hit the water with such force it even made Handower close his eyes.

  Brighton struggled to collect his thoughts. You were right, Handower. We’ll turn back. There’s no way— But before he could speak, something caught his eye. It was a sight that shocked him even more than Kragmaur’s storm. Could it be? He raised his goggles and peered down over Handower’s shoulder. To be sure, there it was—Lizard Bill’s steam dinghy shipwrecked on the rocks below.

  “Handower!” he shouted to turn the bird’s attention to the wreck. But Handower had already seen it. To Brighton’s surprise, the bird banked around of his own accord to swoop down for a closer look.

  Gretch and Malgor soared around the outer edge of the storm. Though they both possessed keen vision, they’d lost sight of Handower and his rider. Gretch had assumed that Brighton would have commanded his bird to land somewhere and wait out the storm. The old troll was flabbergasted to watch them fly directly into that electrified knot of clouds and lightning. It was like diving into the mouth of a canon at the instant it went off in order to commit the most glorious kind of suicide.

  They’ll never survive that, he thought, a sentiment Malgor shared without either of them having to speak it. A blinding bolt of lightning shot down in front of them. It was followed by an explosion of noise that nearly blew them out of the sky.

  “Nor we if we stay out here!” Gretch leaned landward and drove his heels into Malgor’s belly. The giant bat banked away from the rim of the storm that was whirling past like Saturn’s rings, filled with pebbles and rain, and driven by pure fury.

  And Kragmaur, that cruel demon-god, crouched in the heart of his stony domain, saw them in his mind. And he was relieved they’d had the sense to turn away because he liked them both—the old maggot-ridden troll and his foul-smelling bat. He felt they were kin, and wished he could befriend them. But he knew he could have no friends, not Kragmaur. He was condemned to solitude, locked within the stone, able only to ignite storms at will just outside the confines of his granite skull.