Falcon Lord — Book One

by D. A. Metrov

  That morning at Drakton saw the battle morph into a nightmare of epic proportions. The fighters now included:

  a) Brighton, Handower, Wark, Pello, Sharpeye, and Biffee.

  b) The newly arrived army from Valkyrie: monkrats, dwarols, Wolfstalks.

  c) The flying robots commanded by Bill.

  Versus:

  d) Innumerable gorpe bat warriors.

  e) Countless gorpe tunnel dogs.

  f) Dozens of steam-driven machines that kept emerging from the shipping portals as the day progressed.

  The decapods seemed unstoppable. Their massive steel legs could pick their way up and down the rock faces with ease. They sprayed the remains of brave monkrats into the air and colored the slopes with crimson slop.

  The warfare was so heated and clamorous, not one of the fighters heard the hideous chant wafting through the air. It was coming from beneath the mound of rocks and boulders piled against the mountainside.

  “Malum falco terribile vostrato. Malum falco terribile vostrato.” Louder and more intense it grew as if it were steam building in a kettle. The mound began to tremble. In an explosion of dirt and rock, Malgor erupted from beneath the earth. The beast unfurled his leathery wings. He squealed at the top of his lungs. Gretch crouched on his hands and knees beneath him, staring at the ground. The whole time, he continued to chant. “Malum falco terribile vostrato. Malum falco terribile vostrato.”

  They were both covered with blood and dirt. Both shivering with resurrected rage. Malgor swung his body about in hyper fashion. As if his brief encounter with death had restored his will to live tenfold.

  Gretch raised his head. The foul chant spilled from his throat like smoke from a hadean chimney. “Malum falco terribile vostrato.” Infected saliva spewed from his rotting fangs and ran down his chest. His ember-red eyes searched the busy sky and found what they were looking for—Handower and Brighton. The pair was battling a swarm of gorpe bat warriors near the Temple of the Mountain Gods. The troll sprang to life. Moving his massive body with surreal speed, he flung himself onto Malgor’s back. The two of them took to the sky, Gretch chanting the whole time.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  RESURGENCE OF DARKNESS

  Brighton knew Handower hated bats. And the fact the falcon was surrounded by them was only fueling his determination to destroy them all. Of course, the Magradore’s valor inspired Brighton, too. Besides the art of falcon riding, his father had trained him in the ways of the sword, dagger, and cross bow. Brighton and Handower fought with unflinching valor. Brighton had never killed before the Battle of Drakton. But then killing a gorpe was more akin to squashing mosquito than taking the life of a man. It wasn’t something he needed to think about. It was instinctive. The hand moved. The monster splattered. And since Brighton was now fueled by Dragon’s Breath, his combat strokes were graceful and swift as lightning.

  But he was still a novice in flowing the Breath. His focus wasn’t consistent. Weariness, once again, washed over him. Since Handower was without saddle, Brighton’s thighs worked harder than usual to stay on the bird’s back. He felt the skin on his bare heels and knees growing raw. Handower seemed aware of his rider’s tenuous hold. The falcon took care in the way he carried him. Then, without warning, Brighton saw the Magradore’s eyes glaze over.

  Malum falco terribile vostrato. Malum falco terribile vostrato.

  Handower squealed and rolled in mid-flight. He beat his wings in a fluster. The gorpe bat warriors banked away. Brighton was caught off guard and nearly hurled into the sky. He lost his sword, leaving him with only the dagger shoved in his belt.

  “Handower! What is it, boy?”

  Brighton looked up. Gretch and Malgor screamed past his head. “Malum falco terribile vostrato!”

  The chant shot through Handower’s brain like a pit viper’s venom. He screeched and rolled again.

  “Easy, Handower!” Brighton screamed.

  But Handower bucked and flapped as if possessed by demons. He soared past the face of a cliff, attempting to knock Brighton off his back. Brighton’s felt the blood drain from his face, replaced by sheer terror. And that terror choked off the Breath of the Dragon.

  Brighton was so tired, he didn’t realize what was happening. But he could see into Handower’s mind. He witnessed a hurricane of black visions conjured by the wicked words. He saw himself near the poisoned bodies of Fumor and Fumor’s mate all those years ago atop Mount Pegosa. He saw their bloody corpses ravaged by scavengers. And the maggots crawling in and out of their hollow eyes.

  And he saw the young, defiant Handower screeching and lunging at him with his beak and talons. He recoiled as he watched himself clubbing the nestling and dragging his unconscious body on a sled all the way back to Drakton. He felt the fury the drove that boy. Fury over his father’s murder. The unquenchable thirst for revenge.

  Because he could see these things, Brighton knew why Handower was trying to throw him. What he didn’t know was where the visions had come from. That is, until Gretch and Malgor swept past again. He finally recognized the chant he’d first heard as a child. “Malum falco terribile vostrato!”

  And Gretch, with his sword, tried to take off Brighton’s head.

  Handower bucked and thrashed in the air. Brighton had to muster all his strength just to hold on. And even greater strength to calm his mind. He had to remember the counter-chant from Dredgemont’s diary. But he couldn’t recall a counter. Not for this spell. In fact, there was none.

  Handower continued to go mad, twisting his massive wings and tumbling through the sky.

  “Stupo engaleo sopia!” Brighton shouted in a desperate attempt to try something. Anything.

  Gretch and Malgor swooped down again. The troll’s tongue lashed out. “Malum falco terribile vostrato!”

  Brighton’s mind was still melded with his falcon’s. He shared the bird’s sensations. Handower felt like wasps were stinging his skin. And devils plucking out his feathers. As though boll weevils were burrowing through his brain. “Malum falco terribile vostrato!” The words seemed alive with their own black magic.

  “Stupo engaleo sopia!” Brighton shouted again and again. He may as well have been reciting a nursery rhyme. The words had no effect on the old troll or his mount. Handower’s mind only became more confused. He whipped his massive body through the air, inadvertently knocking Malgor off balance. Gretch needed both hands to hang on. Before Malgor could recover, Brighton swung his sword. Gretch pulled back on Malgor’s reins to avoid the blow. He caused his bat to flip over and slam into the cliff behind them.

  Malgor and Gretch tumbled across stone, both of them scrambling to recover. They rolled into a crack in the granite and disappeared. The evil chant dissipated. The collective roar of the aerial battle once again took the fore. A half dozen gorpe bat warriors had seen them fall, and swept down to their aid.

  Handower calmed down. Brighton guided the falcon to a nearby ledge. He slipped to the ground and whipped the rucksack off his back. For the first time, he noticed the gash in his shoulder. He felt the pain that shot all the way to his bone. Ignore it. No time to deal with that now. He pulled out Handower’s leather hood. He spoke to the bird in firm, but gentle tones.

  “It’s for your own good, Handower.” Handower’s head was still reeling, his vision blurry. But he regained enough presence to cease his unwilling rebellion. Brighton pulled the hood over the bird’s skull. “Use your scent and follow my lead.” Brighton then tore off his shirt, and ripped it in two. He balled up the cloth. He stuffed a wad up each side of the hood to muffle any sounds that might penetrate the bird’s ears. Handower’s head darted around blindly. Brighton tightened the straps that would hold the hood fast. It took the falcon a few moments to regain his bearings. And his confidence.

  Brighton was worried. He knew of riders who’d trained their birds to fly blind. It might be necessary to make it through rainstorms at night. Or to protect them from harsh sunlight on long flights over glaring water. But he’d ne
ver heard of a hooded falcon engaging in battle. He rubbed Handower’s neck again. Without thinking, he surrendered to the Breath of the Dragon once again, and leapt onto the falcon’s back. He felt the sharp pain in his shoulder.

  What he’d failed to see was the wound in Handower’s breast.

  The gash left by Gretch’s sword on the troll’s last pass was still fresh. It had yet to bleed through the bird’s feathers. But the blade had cut through his thick chest muscles and had gone all the way to his ribs. The pain was excruciating. But Handower didn’t let on. The falcon launched into the sky. Blinded by his hood. Trusting his master. And the two of them, both badly injured, flew back to re-join the awful battle.

  The Wolfstalks made their way up the mountainsides. They hurled boulders with unrelenting determination. They attacked the decapods, and blocked off the portals. They disrupted the outpour of enemy warriors. But the gorpes used dynamite to reopen the passages. They made way for fresh troops that were being recruited from all over the termite empire.

  The dwarols, though small, were fierce and persistent. They were unafraid of the bigger bat warriors. They used their sparrows’ speed and agility to outmaneuver the enemy in the air.

  The monkrat infantry had no trouble scampering up the steep slopes to engage the decapods and gorpe foot soldiers. Though the monkrats were better able to see in the bright sunlight, the machines and the gorpes had the high-ground. The monkrats learned to trip the decapods by lassoing their crab-like limbs, bringing many of the monsters to their knees. It allowed the Wolfstalks to finish them off with boulders. One by one, throughout the day, the iron behemoths crashed down the mountainside. To end up in piles of steaming rubble on Drakton beach.

  Wark and Pello led the Valkyrie army, sending countless gorpes to their deaths. Wark had instructed the robots to help the Wolfstalks in closing off the portals. The little machines hovered in droves, using their shocker horns to dislodge stone. The gorpes fought back using steam-powered crossbows and flintlocks to shoot the robots out of the sky.

  Mitor swept down on a bat warrior. The monster’s broadsword caught the robot’s canvas wing and nearly chopped it off. Mitor flapped his remaining good wing in his desperation to stay airborne. His effort was futile. He was only able to slow his descent as he spiraled, out of control, down to the flats.

  Lady Sharpeye had coordinated the monkrat nurses. They established a battlefield infirmary behind the moraine on the southern edge of the plateau. Her rider, Biffee, had dismounted to join Bill. Together with a platoon of monkrats, they defended the camp’s perimeter. The nurses were already busy carrying wounded males in from the main battlefield.

  “Master,” Mitor said in his clanking, mechanical voice. Bill, who had just dispatched a gorpe attacker, spun around. She saw the robot wheeling toward her, his broken wing hanging limp at his side.

  “Mitor!” she yelped.

  “Are you okay, Master?” He swung his sword at a charging gorpe.

  “Your wing!” She finished off the attacker as he tripped and stumbled into her waiting blade.

  “Not a problem, Master.” And the little robot stayed at her side for the rest of the battle. He fended off attackers with the sword held fast in his wooden fist. She couldn’t help but admire his loyalty and his courage. She wanted to tend to his damaged wing right then and there, but Handower’s scream caught her attention.

  Gretch and Malgor had recovered once again. This time they were accompanied by a dozen gorpe bat warriors as they went after Handower and Brighton.

  Brighton had been able to bring Handower to an altitude twice as high as any of the other flyers. He commanded the Magradore with his knees. They fell into a stoop and shot like a bullet right at Gretch.

  Handower’s scream trailed like a bullroar. Malgor was just quick enough to turn on his back and ward off the falcon’s attack with his claws. Gretch clung to the bat’s back. At the same time he lashed out with his sword. Brighton, possessed by Dragon’s Breath, dodged the blow. He fired an arrow from his crossbow into Gretch’s thigh. The troll bellowed with fury. The other gorpes were blasted aside by the encounter. Their bats squealed as they tumbled away like so many leaves in an autumn wind.

  Handower’s lightning strike happened so fast, and the exchange of weapons was so swift, neither side felt the wounds inflicted in that moment of contact. Malgor managed to catch one of the falcon’s wings in his teeth. The giant bat hung on without letting go. It caused Handower to spin out of control. This time Brighton was whipped off his bird’s back. It was his and Handower’s turn to collide with the mountain.

  Brighton and his Magradore smashed into solid rock. They spun into a bluster of dust and feathers. They slid and rolled several hundred leapspans before they reached level ground. Brighton nearly blacked out. He saw Handower struggling to right himself. The Magradore, still blinded by the hood, was now crippled. The falcon had lost so much blood, he couldn’t get to his feet let alone fly again. Brighton gasped to see the rich crimson color spreading across the bird’s breast feathers. Handower. No! He lunged to his feet to go to the bird’s aid. Malgor swept down from the sky and knocked him over again. Brighton felt the hard, granite ground slam into his face.

  Malgor skidded to a halt. Gretch leapt off his back. The troll thundered toward Brighton. Brighton got to knees just in time to catch Gretch’s foot in his chest. The kick launched him off the edge of the cliff.

  Brighton felt himself falling through the air. He flailed his limbs in slow motion, as if trying to catch on to something that wasn’t there. His primary sensations were frustration and regret that now he wouldn’t be able to help Handower. Instead, he was going to end up a pile of bloody muck on the edge of the sea. How can this possibly end any other way? What could I have done differently? Will I get another chance in the next life? Or will I simply spend the rest of eternity wandering the wastelands of Limbo? Handower… meet me. Willowmena. Willomena…

  Gretch watched him fall. The monster laughed. It was a sickening cackle mixed with pain. And anger. And delight in seeing Brighton’s demise.

  As Gretch laughed, Bill screamed. From down below, she’d seen Brighton fly backwards off the cliff. The sight had paralyzed everything but her voice.

  Malgor moved in on Handower who was still hooded and blind. The falcon was floundering to right himself. The bat lunged and buried his fangs into the Magradore’s neck. Handower lashed at the bat with his razor-sharp beak and tore out one of his eyes. Malgor squealed and raged. He rammed his head into the nearby wall of stone. Handower turned his attention to Gretch. If the falcon had a soul, he reached down into it right then and there. He found his own connection to Dragon’s Breath. And he sucked it up with the force of a tornado. He used it, as Brighton had, to power his wings and take flight again.

  The great Magradore launched himself in the air, heading toward the sound of Gretch’s laughter. Gretch turned in response to Malgor’s screeches. Handower snatched up the troll and flew out over the sea. Guided by scent and instinct, the falcon stooped. He fell even faster than his last dive. Brighton screamed. Handower could see him in his mind—plummeting, flailing. The bird swept under him and caught him in mid air.

  Brighton clung to Handower’s back in a state of shock. He felt like he’d just been plucked from the sky by a godly angel. Handower swooped up again. He soared over the Drakton shoreline with Brighton on his back and Gretch hanging from his talons.

  Brighton heard Gretch suffocating from Handower’s deathly grip. Still, the troll managed to chant: “Malum falco terribile vostrato! Malum falco terribile vostrato!”

  Brighton prayed Handower couldn’t hear the evil words. Gretch stabbed at the falcon’s underbelly. The troll struggled. And slashed. And mumbled the cursed words. But he was helpless as a field mouse.

  Brighton pulled himself together. He heard a screech and looked up to see Malgor diving toward them. Brighton put his dagger in his teeth. He slipped over Handower’s side. Holding one of falcon’s legs with o
ne arm, he attacked the monster Gretch using the other.

  Handower sensed Malgor’s approach. Even with his weighty load, he conjured enough strength to avoid the bat’s strike. The falcon powered his wings to higher altitude. Malgor, his one eye socket gushing with dark red gore, fell a good hundred leapspans. But he righted himself and pursued the Magradore.

  Brighton felt supercharged, as if he were a bundle of furious energy. He clung to Handower’s leg with one arm, and slashed at the incredulous troll with his other. His dagger moved like lightning. All Gretch could do was use his arm to deflect the blows. The troll was soon marred by bloody gashes. He became so crazed, he curled his body, and kicked at Brighton with his thick, clawed feet. The whole time he screeched at the top of his lungs.

  The overall battle slowed to a molasses-like hallucination. Warriors from both sides were distracted by Brighton and Gretch’s lofty encounter. Then something else distracted them. The mountain above the main mining shaft collapsed in a thunderous implosion that left the top of the peak open like the mouth of a volcano. The cave-in swallowed the shipping port, and spit out a cloud of dirt that rained onto everything in its vicinity.

  Even Gretch was distracted by the deafening roar. And the sight of his warriors disappearing in a wrath of dirt. Brighton saw his chance. He drove his dagger into the side of the troll’s head. Gretch’s eyes went wide. They bored right into Brighton’s. Handower kept fighting to gain altitude. Brighton pulled his blade from Gretch’s temple. He drove it again, this time into the creature’s knotty heart. Brighton wasn’t thinking. He wasn’t in his body. He’d become an instrument for a power far greater than himself.