Falcon Lord — Book One

by D. A. Metrov

  Her face was intense now. The tone of her voice was merciless. “Because of your father’s death, you’re afraid of growing close to people. You’ve hidden ever since it happened. You’ve shut out everyone. Even your benefactors, the good citizens of Valkyrie who made you Second Assistant Game Warden out of sheer sympathy and respect to your father. Is it because you’re afraid of being hurt again? Or because you don’t feel deserving of love and companionship? Do you blame yourself for the death of Lord Aviamore?”

  There was a large portion of Brighton’s mind that simply listened to her. He wondered how on earth this young girl could be so savvy. How could she understand behaviors and emotions that were mysterious even to him? Part of him was like some professor, assessing this fascinating new development with utter scientific detachment. But that was not the part of Brighton that answered her. The part that answered was filled with fear and outrage.

  “You should talk of hiding!” He shot to his feet, and stomped back and forth in the sand. “You! Pretending you’re a boy! What’s your real name? William the Imposter?”

  She watched him, her eyes growing wider. Her body trembled. She hung her head and fought back her tears.

  He stopped pacing. He stood there, staring at her. He debated on whether he should belittle her for acting like an infant. Or if he could bring himself to show just a hint of compassion. He settled somewhere in between. “You’re not crying, are you?” His voice trod a fine line between rebuke and sympathy.

  She wiped her tears and continued to look down. “Of course not.” Several moments went by before she spoke again. “My real name is Willowmena.”

  Brighton’s heart warmed at once. He felt the hardness in his face melt away. Willowmena, he repeated to himself. He savored the poetry inherent in the word. He saw a vision of long, weepy tree limbs swaying in a gentle wind.

  She went on. “I was barely thirteen, traveling with my parents on a large tramp steamer en route from Glasgow to Icelanden across the North Sea. We were caught in a gale. The ship rolled and began to flounder. There was no time to prepare. Most of the lifeboats were washed off the decks. The passengers were flushed from their cabins. My parents managed to secure one life vest between the three of us. They strapped me into it despite my protests. The last thing they said was that I should disguise myself as a boy. They said there were pirates in this part of the world. Wretched men who would steal a girl and sell her into slavery. They threw me overboard just as the ship was swallowed by the sea. It was the last time I ever saw them. I washed up on Meland two days later. I still have no idea how I survived.”

  Brighton stood there, spellbound and speechless. He had never bothered to ask how she’d ended up on Meland. He’d only known she was some intruder on his privacy. He’d certainly never considered that she had parents. And that she’d lost them, as he’d lost his own.

  She raised her eyes to his. They looked at each other in a way they’d never looked at anyone else before. In that instant, Brighton felt a stirring deep inside himself. And a voice soared through his mind: Life is good. Life is full of love and excitement. Life is what you make of it. Seize this moment, Brighton.

  They were startled by a thunk. It came from behind the rocks outside the cave. They heard footsteps scampering in the darkness. Bill rolled to her knees. Brighton put his hand on his dagger and moved with stealth out onto the beach. His keen eyes scanned the shadows.

  “Who’s there?” he shouted, making his voice sound as authoritarian as possible. The footsteps scampered away. He glanced back at Bill. She rose to her feet with the confidence of a seasoned warrior and hurried to his side. Together they moved out toward the giant rocks that sat half buried in the beach.

  They crept through the night, listening, watching, ready to fight. Little Mitor followed them, his wheels squeaking. Bill turned to him, and motioned for him to stop. She turned back and picked up a stick.

  The scuffle of footsteps came and went. It sounded as if their owners were nervous, not sure whether to attack or flee.

  Brighton found a series of toe holds in one of the boulders that towered over them. He climbed. Bill followed. They scaled to the top and looked down over the edge on the other side. As the scampering footsteps approached, Brighton and Bill glanced at each other. They crouched on their haunches, and raised their weapons. They leapt with a single scream. They fell onto the pair of shadows that passed beneath them.

  The scuffle went on for several moments.

  “They give up!” Biffee shouted, seeing Brighton’s dagger aimed at his eye.

  “Him, too,” whimpered Pello.

  Brighton and Bill sat atop the two furry creatures who were now surrendering without resistance. Brighton shot to his feet. “What’s the matter with you, sneaking up on us like that? Speak!” He shoved the dagger back in its sheath

  Biffee stood up, regaining his composure and his usual indignation. “He knows very well. They were ordered to Drakton, just as he was.”

  “Why did he attack us is the better question,” Pello said.

  Brighton regarded Pello with a threatening scowl.

  Mitor’s squeaky wheels emerged from the dark.

  “At least they haven’t lost our prisoner,” Biffee said.

  Bill rolled her eyes back. Mitor came to her side, his telescopic lenses focused on the monkrats.

  Brighton turned away. “I’m going to sleep.”

  “Has he seen yet?” Pello asked him.

  “Seen what?” Brighton grumbled.

  “Drakton...” said Pello.

  “... is quite abustle,” finished Biffee.

  Brighton stopped and turned around again. They all looked at each other, suddenly surrounded by a flurry of question marks.

  Chapter Fifteen

  DRAKTON

  Drakton had always been a lonely and desolate place, especially after Brighton Aviamore had abandoned the settlement of the Falcon Riders. So as he came around the easternmost point of the island, he was astonished to see a multitude of lights hovering near the mountain peaks above the old temple.

  “What are they?” asked Bill.

  “Airships,” said Brighton.

  “Freighters, they’re guessing,” added Biffee.

  “Carrying wheal,” said Pello. “He can smell it.”

  They all knew that wheal was extracted from microal ore. It was then processed and sold as a common fuel source. Fuel for steam engines—small, nearly microscopic steam engines to gigantic steam engines, big as metropolitan blocks. Engines to power everything from hand watches to entire cities.

  The discovery of a shipping port at Drakton added one more piece to an ugly puzzle. Whoever was responsible for the mining operation was disgorging their booty out the other side of the island. And they were probably making a fortune doing so.

  Brighton and his small group stood there, staring in disbelief at the lights moving above. There were lights from the dirigibles. Lights from the big spotlights illuminating the docking areas. Lights spilling from the tunnel mouths that opened onto the docks. Lights from lanterns in the hands of sentries. And hardly visible at all, there were the tiny, twinkling stars in the heavens above.

  “Before we were forced to fight in the war, we mined ore for Dredgemont.” Mitor’s odd mechanical voice seemed somehow tinged with sadness. The others looked at him, surprised to hear him speak. “There are many more of us. Hundreds. My mates. Toiling inside the mountains. They are still in there. I feel bad for them.”

  Brighton could have sworn he saw fog form in the little robot’s telescopic lenses, as if he were on the verge of tears.

  “Why didn’t it say something before?” Biffee snapped.

  Moments went by. Just when the group thought he was not going to respond, he said, “I have no record of such a request.”

  “Who is Dredgemont?” Brighton asked.

  “Owner of the mines and commander of the army laying siege to Valkyrie. He plans to drive every last citizen into the sea and give the
township to his gorpes and their bats.”

  “Valkyrie to the bats?” Bill gasped.

  None of the others could speak.

  Brighton turned his now fierce gaze back up toward the loading docks. His mind churned with questions. Someone has to do something. Who? Me? Who else is there, Brighton?

  “I need to consult the Seer,” he said. He was a bit surprised by the words that seemed to spill from his mouth of their own accord. “I can’t fly Handower up to the Temple, we’ll be spotted.”

  “They’ll go,” Pello said, referring to himself and his brother. And before Brighton could stop them, the two monkrats raced off into the night.

  “They’re such a nuisance,” said Brighton.

  “Can’t accuse them of procrastination, that’s for sure.” Bill watched the monkrats scamper toward the trail that led up into the foothills.

  “Let’s get back to Handower. He might wake and wonder where we’ve gone.” Brighton walked off. Bill took Mitor by the hand and led him after Brighton. The sound of the robot’s squeaky wheels mixed with the steady drone of surf lapping at ocean’s edge.

  They never saw the Lizard King and his troupe perched high on the rocks above them. The old regent’s eyes shone with a keen and benevolent wisdom. It was a kind of light possessed only by those souls brave enough to venture into the unknown. Souls who’d suffered the scars that were the inevitable result of such wanderings. He felt confident, for the moment, that Bill was out of harm’s way.

  The old reptile recalled how his great granduncle, the adventuresome Lord Mortimor Chordata, had once stowed away aboard an airship that had ventured upon Perpetua. Lord Mortimor became a family legend when a corked bottle containing his diary pages washed up on a beach years later. The words he wrote described exotic ports around the world. And the habits of sky sailors who drank too much. And fought. And chased women. And even traded kidnapped children for coins of gold that were quickly lost at the gambling tables. He went on to tell how he missed his family, but doubted he’d ever make his way back again. And so bid them all farewell.

  And thinking of his great granduncle brought a sparkle to the old lizard’s eyes. He stared into the sky that hung like a diamond-studded carpet across the endless sea.

  Chancellor Wark was in a very different state of mind. He’d traveled for terrameters on the river skiff he’d stolen in the western underworld hours earlier. He’d lain there, drifting in and out of delirium brought about by the smelting fumes. He’d revisited his entire life. He’d recalled his youth, growing up in Valkyrie during a time of peace and prosperity. It was a time spent frolicking and teasing and playing games. It had all seemed so trivial. Even commanding the army. Trivial compared to the threat he now faced—the possibility of being apart from his soul mate, Sharpeye. Had he always given her the love and respect she deserved? Were there ways he could treat her better? Should he give her more gifts—flowers and acorns? Serve her breakfast in bed more often? Take her to more plays at the town theater, even if he found them silly and boring? Yes, he would do all these things. But first, he had to stay strong and alert until he saw her safely back home.

  The chancellor had left the river, and was now hunched over inside an ore cart. It was rumbling along rickety iron tracks far deeper in the heart of the mountains. The toxic fumes had grown so thick he was afraid to raise his head lest he pass out. But he came to a stop. The silencing of the cart’s rusty wheels allowed a cacophony of other sounds to reach his ears. He peeked out and was startled to see himself surrounded by throngs of miners. He was in a cavern so vast and smoky he couldn’t see where its boundaries ended.

  Tributary tunnels, ore cart tracks, and massive, steam-driven earth scoopers were everywhere. Gigantic decapods—ten limbed, steam-propelled, mining machines—tore into the earth like mechanical crabs. Wark was astonished to see one pick up a mass of ore that must have weighed as much as a whale. The machine fed it into its crushing jaws. He could hear it grinding and pulverizing the stone inside its belly while sending out great blasts of steam. He then saw it shoot the stinking black dust out in a great rooster tail from its rear.

  Pick axes and hand shovels flew this way and that. They tossed the black microal dirt from piles to conveyor belts. The belts brought it to carts that carried it off to the nearby smelting chambers. There furnaces belched fire and fumes like angry dragons. Wark was accustomed by now to the explosions that shook the ground to unearth fresh veins of ore. And the other head-splitting sounds from the flying robots. The little machines aimed their shocker beams at walls of solid rock, blowing them apart and sending rockslides to the cavern floor.

  Wark watched these activities in a state of shock and awe. He felt as though he were surrounded by an army of viruses, ruthlessly devouring its host. But he also noticed how weary and empty-eyed the workers looked, gorpes and robots alike. They seemed like nothing more than zombies programmed to do the bidding of a greedy master.

  Must find Sharpeye. It became his mantra. Over and over, he said it to himself. He tried to plan his escape from the cart, but his mind felt like doughy mache. He was dizzy and exhausted. Find Sharpeye. Find Sharpeye. His knees barely had the strength to lift his body over the side. As soon as he did, he fell to the ground. He rolled onto his back, gasping for air. He struggled to right himself, but before he could, they pounced.

  With a great cackle of screeches and yowls, a dozen gorpe workers bound him in a heavy net. They dragged him off, kicking his claws and stabbing with his beak. They beat him with their shovels and pick handles. They cursed him in their own, cursed dialect. They were highly motivated, these fiends. By capturing a trespasser, and turning him in, they had a good chance of being promoted. It was the only way they might escape the drudgery of working the mines.

  They hauled Wark to their supervisor. The struggling raven soon exhausted himself. He was so incapacitated, he could barely mutter a caw. He could only watch the faces of the miners who stopped their work to leer at him as he passed. And then he saw Gretch, standing on a catwalk high above a smelting pot. The red molten ore lit him like a devil looking straight down at him. And he realized in an instant that his distrust of the foul-smelling troll had been justified all along. Traitor!

  Chapter Sixteen

  SCHEMES OF MONKRATS AND MEN

  As tired as he was from the journey to Drakton, Brighton slept little that night. He tossed in discomfort in the shallow beach cave. His troubled thoughts ran amok like a wayward mongrel looking for food. Even though he’d already announced he was going to consult the Seer, he could say he changed his mind. He could give up this craziness and simply fly back to Meland to resume his life of quiet isolation. Or he could fly to Valkyrie and tell Wark to send another party to consult the Seer. This time the emissaries would be armed with the new information about the airships that were flying off with Perpetua’s ore. He could seek audience with the Seer himself, but it would be a long, difficult climb up to the old Temple. He would risk being caught by the port guardians. He’d never been to the temple, and had never met the Seer. In fact, there was no assurance the Seer was even there. In Brighton’s mind there were only countless rumors of the man’s existence from a variety of unreliable sources.

  And what to do with Bill? Surely, she wouldn’t be able to make the climb. If she tried, she’d slow me down. Besides, it would be too dangerous. And the more he thought about her, the more he wished to get her out of harm’s way. What would he do with her? Whatever he decided, he realized he’d have to entice her by some clever means. She clearly had a will of her own.

  Then, besides wrestling with all these thoughts, he suddenly realized how badly he reeked. My god, I have to bathe. She must find me repulsive.

  Bill awoke in the cave at sunrise. She saw Mitor looking down at her with his sad, but attentive lenses. “Good morning, Mitor.” She sat up and rubbed the sand from her eyes. She saw Brighton sitting on a rock outside, staring out at the ocean. She got to her feet and shuffled out to him.

>   “Did you sleep,” she said.

  “A bit.” He forced a smile.

  She sat next to him and hugged her knees against her chest. She breathed in the morning air and watched the gulls circling out over the water. She saw that Handower was awake, sitting above them on a rock. The falcon was preening his feathers, which were still ruffled to stave off the morning chill.

  “I’ve made a decision. You’ll go back to Valkyrie,” Brighton said, still looking straight ahead.

  She looked at him, already preparing to protest.

  “Someone has to warn them,” Brighton went on. “Clearly there are parties from abroad who have an interest in the outcome of the war.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Those airships are foreign.” He turned to her. “They’re coming from who knows where. From all over. You could tell by the insignia on their bows. They’re buying wheal to be sold as fuel. They’re making profit off the same warlord who attacked Valkyrie. They’ll support him to insure the flow of wealth. They might already be planning to escalate the war even more.”

  Bill seemed impressed by these insights.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Like I said last night. I’m going to demand audience with the Seer. Surely, he must know exactly what’s going on here.” Brighton stared out to sea again, still uncertain about the Seer’s existence.

  “Pello and Biffee have already gone to the Seer. We should go back to Valkyrie together. Let Wark decide what to do.”

  “I can’t abandon those two.”

  “Abandon?” she said with surprise. “Since when are you concerned about a pair of monkrats? I’ve never heard you express anything but disdain for them.”