Soul of an Eagle

by Edwin Skinner

  Tears came to the younger boy's eyes. "I really didn't know that I was doing any harm by talking to Flash," he continued. "I only did it the one time and I promise I'll never do it again. I became your friend, not because of your eagle, but because we have so many common interests. I admit that I loved riding Flash when you were under your glider wing and he is the most magnificent bird I have ever seen but we can still be friends without involving your eagle if that's what you're worried about.

  "You can see that I rode Paint up here. I know that you like her as much as I do. I want to give her to you as a gift from me to you. You can use her to ride down to the barracks and see me. We can still practice with swords and crossbows, go riding on horseback and talk about things that we both like."

  "Like Flash, for instance?" asked the Rider angrily.

  "Like anything you want to talk about," Kit pleaded, spreading his arms out at waist level, palms open and up. He took a single, hesitant step in Heron's direction. "I don't care if I ever see or hear of Flash again. I just miss you as my friend. You have even stopped coming to Learning Hogan. How did you manage that?"

  "I was advanced enough so that the Loremaster allowed me to graduate early," Heron answered sullenly. "Besides, I told him if I saw you again soon, I would kill you with my bare hands."

  A worried look came over Kit's face. "I hope you don't feel that way now," he said. "I really would like to bury our differences and be friends again on any terms you would like."

  "The only thing I want to bury is you," the Rider spat out. He drew his iron short sword and knife. "I don't want your pony and I don't want your friendship. After what you did to me, all I want is your blood!" With that, he struck out with his sword.

  Kit just managed to draw his long, iron, sheath knife in time to parry the potentially lethal stroke. He then had to jump back away from an equally vicious knife slash. Only his natural quickness and the long months of training served to save him then. He had no sword other than the wooden ones that he practiced with constantly. He could parry a sword stroke with his knife fairly effectively, but it was hard to do so while avoiding the deadly thrusts of the knife in Heron's left hand. The clang of iron on iron rang out in the courtyard several times before the Master Falconer ran out of the Residence.

  "Heron stop that now!" he shouted. The young Rider froze, his sword lifted over his head menacingly, his knife hand drawn back in a perfect position from which to launch a strike to the stomach. Slowly, he lowered his weapons to the ready, his eyes burning into Kit's.

  "What has gotten into you?" the father asked, angrily. "This is no way to treat a person who has come to apologize to you."

  "I don't want his apology," Heron said in a cold voice. "I only want him to leave before his traitorous presence makes me sick."

  "Kit," the Falconer said, keeping his eyes on his son, "I think you had better go now."

  Kit gave his friend a plaintive look. The returning stare was full of venom. He backed slowly over to his pony, untied the reins and mounted up without taking his eyes off the Eagle Rider. A touch of the knees caused the pinto to wheel around and head out through the Aerie gate. It was good that the little mare was sure footed and the road so obvious for Kit's vision was suddenly, inexplicably blurry. Kit was angry at himself for it. Crying was for babies and girls.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Peron was scheduled to lead a cavalry patrol outside Maryland Pass. He buckled on his two swords and his iron breastplate, gathered up his feathered helmet and turned to his son. Kit stood there, eyes burning, looking the perfect picture of dejection.

  "I don't know what more to say to you," the man said. "If he won't listen to your apologies, there is nothing more you can do. There are other boys out there that you can befriend. I know that Heron was special to you, but others can become just as special in time. You are young. You will meet many new friends in your lifetime. In time, you may find it hard to remember Heron's name. Things change, people change. I myself had close friends when I was younger. We moved apart and now my new friends have taken their place. That is how life is. It's not like you have lost your father or something like that." He ruffled his son's hair. "Now I have to go."

  Outside, the troop was formed up and Peron's orderly was holding his saddled stallion. The young lieutenant mounted up and gave the signal to move out. Behind him, twenty Guardsmen followed in a column of twos as he led the way up the road toward Maryland Pass.

  Little was expected of this patrol, for it was just an exercise indulged in every week or so. Nomad activity had been almost nonexistent lately. The report which Heron had brought of seeing the notorious Chan had been the only news about nomads in several months. The patrol would move out from the pass for a distance of, perhaps, twenty miles and keep an eye out for tracks, campsites and other sign of enemy movement in their area. It was done more to keep in practice than in expectation of spotting anything.

  As the day wore on, the troop of cavalry moved farther out into the wilds. The first sign that they weren't alone out there came from one of their scouts. He came galloping in to report during one of their few rest breaks. The troop had dismounted and were scattered about in the shade of a stand of trees straddling a rapidly running brook. Peron stood as the man pulled up in front of him and dismounted in one fluid motion.

  "I spotted some fresh tracks, sir," the man reported. "Three horses, looks like only one of them mounted. They were traveling down a ravine some two miles from here probably about two, three hours ago."

  "One mounted man, leading two spare ponies?" The officer asked. "Are you sure of your facts?"

  "Pretty much so," answered the scout. "One of the other ponies was carrying a heavy burden. It could have been a small child on the third pony but I think it was probably a store of meat or something. The ponies followed as though they were being led not as though one of them were independently controlled."

  Peron thought for a few seconds. "That was probably our friend, Chan," he said. "My son said he was leading a pair of spare ponies and that they saw him shooting a fat zorbeast. That was weeks ago and that beast has probably been devoured but if he can get one, he can get another. Do you think you could recognize his tracks again?"

  "I'm pretty sure I could," the man replied. "His pony's hooves were recently trimmed and there is a distinctive nick on the left front hoof that won't go away for a while. I can spot the tracks of his spare ponies too, if necessary."

  "Good," the officer said, "then, if you see other tracks, you'll know if they are more of his or if we have a real nomad problem. Describe his tracks to the other scouts when you see them. We won't let him muddy up the waters around here for long."

  Peron heard a slight rustling in the bushes nearby. His nostrils distended, picking up the odor of sweaty horseflesh and little else. There was no breeze to speak of. After a few moments of listening, he decided that it must have been some small animal in search of food.

  "Do you want to hunt him down?" the scout asked, breaking him from his reverie.

  "No," Peron said thoughtfully, "and if you see him, don't try to attack. Either leave him alone or maybe even talk to him from a distance. Kit said he waved to him as he flew over. That doesn't sound like a man who will attack without provocation. Perhaps he'll even pass on some information to us if he has any."

  "But, he was a nomad spy and a dangerous warrior from what I heard," protested the Guardsman.

  "He was released by the McAllister Headmaster and even given back his iron sword," the officer replied. "That sounds like a bona fide pardon from those who had most reason to hate him. Remember, too, he is now without a tribe. Every other hand out here is against him. He doesn't need us on his back too. Spread the word. I don't want anyone turning a hand against him unless he attacks first."

  The man shrugged and then snapped a salute. "Yes, sir," he said formally. "What you say makes sense. I'll tell the other scouts and ask the sergeant to pass the word among the troops." The man turned and left.

/>   The next warning they got came from Chan, himself. They were on the way back, about twelve miles out from the pass when the lone nomad came out of the trees some fifty feet from them. His pony stopped and he held his right hand up in the universal peace symbol. Peron, himself, rode forward with only a single trooper beside him. Several crossbows were trained on the nomad but Chan sat his pony in the middle of the trail with seeming unconcern.

  The officer pulled up about ten feet in front of the tall nomad. "Lieutenant Peron Washington here," he called out formally.

  "I am Chan, formerly of Ajax's tribe," the nomad answered. "I am sure you recognized me." He lifted his left arm to show an iron hook where the hand should have been.

  "Yes, Chan," Peron averred, "and if you keep the peace, you will have nothing to fear from us. Life must be hard enough for you out here.”

  "Hard, no," Chan replied, "but it is very lonely. It is nice to talk to another man again. I have had no company for many weeks. You, however, may soon be having some company, some very unwelcome company, Peron Washington. I counted at least thirty warriors, perhaps more, lying in ambush for you in a valley some three miles ahead. Their sentries have been watching you from that mesa over there." He pointed off to the right. "That is why I approached you here. They cannot see me for the trees. I would suggest that you circle to the left. There is another valley there that you can travel down back to the pass. You must hurry, though, or they will cut you off."

  "I thank you for your help," Peron said warmly, "but why have you given it? We are no friends of yours."

  "They are my enemies too," the nomad replied as he urged his pony around to the left, "and you have treated me fairly. I heard you giving orders concerning me."

  An instant later, he disappeared into the brush to the left. Peron was left with his mouth open in wonder. A small animal in the bush, indeed! As Peron's scouts had been casting about for him, Chan had been scouting the troop...very closely.

  The officer turned to the sergeant beside him. "That man has done us a very good deed," he said. "I want you to bear witness, Caron that we are in his debt. Any Guardsman who treats him unfairly will have me to deal with." They turned back to join the rest of the troop.

  After a quick council with his scouts, Peron decided on a forced march down the valley suggested by Chan. They started on as before but, at a certain point they swerved quickly to the left and upped their pace to a ground eating canter. Turning down the safer valley to the left, Peron sent two scouts ahead at the gallop to check out their line of March.

  When they were two thirds of the way down the valley, they spotted one of their scouts at the far end. He was signaling frantically for them to hurry to his position. Peron ordered the troop to increase their pace to a full gallop. The valley was narrow, and they had to proceed, at times, in single file.

  Their haste was well advised, however, for when they caught up with their scouts, they found a natural fort in the rock formations at that location. Seeing about twenty to thirty nomads approaching from the valley to their right and other hostiles ahead of them, Peron ordered the troop to dismount and set up shop there.

  Little happened for the first half hour, the Guardsmen deployed themselves behind the natural barricade and went to work moving stones around to improve the cover. The nomads approached from three directions, proceeded to surround the position and began to enfilade their position with arrows. A third band had come up from their rear, cutting off escape in that direction. Nobody had any idea how many hostiles there were, but it was easily some number over one hundred.

  When they came, they came from all directions at once. Peron had stationed himself at one of the weakest points. He went to work with a will, his two swords weaving a net in front of him that no foe could penetrate. The wild eyed warriors began to pile up in front of him like cordwood and still they came on.

  Most of the enemy warriors were armed with bronze weapons. This gave the disciplined Guardsmen a distinct advantage but one that was nearly nullified by the sheer numbers and determination of their opponents. As the afternoon wore on, they fought off several waves of the howling savages, twenty men against over five times that number. A number of the Guardsmen fell to the enemy archers but most of the arrows bounced off the iron body armor that the defenders wore.

  Whenever the nomads attacked, Peron was there, defending his break in the wall with such fury that it was an inspiration to his men. Nobody wondered why he claimed to be the best swordsman in Washington. When the games rolled 'round that summer, they fully expected him to be crowned the Grand Champion of Randor.

  As the sun began to sink in the east, Peron took stock of his remaining troopers. Seven had fallen including the sergeant, Caron. Three of their ponies had been inadvertently killed by stray arrows. The men were tired, thirsty, hungry and ill equipped to spend the night. Peron knew that the nomads were superstitious about fighting in the nighttime. They thought that the gods turned their backs on spirits who came to them in darkness. He resolved to make his bid for escape when the sun went down.

  He called a council of his leadership. Only two corporals remained but they were capable enough. They spread the word to the troops to prepare their ponies for departure in three shifts so that the barricades would not be left undefended.

  When the sun was five minutes from dropping below the eastern horizon, the nomads made their last attack of the day. Peron had just finished saddling his black stallion when he had to jump back into his assigned defensive position. His swords leapt to his hands and began singing a song of death.

  From the top of a mesa far to the north, Chan watched the ongoing skirmish. He remembered several similar fights he had engaged in while with his tribe. His hand dropped to the hilt of his iron sword as he thought of the one outside O'Malley crater in which he had captured it. That troop had also had twenty men. All of them had died. Of course, they had been caught out in the open with little or no cover. Perhaps, without his help, this one would have ended in a similar manner. Now, he doubted it would. The Guardsman officer he had met was no fool.

  As he watched, he saw, again, the small, wiry, helmeted man who fought with two swords. That must be Lieutenant Peron Washington. His prowess in battle rivaled that of Chan when he was younger. He was a joy to watch even from a distance. He wore no shield and, yet, not a blade had touched him. His swords were his shield.

  Chan turned his head to the east just as the sun disappeared below the horizon there. When he looked again to the south where the fight had been raging, all was still. The nomads had retreated, hoping to finish the job in the morning. He could not see what the Guardsmen were doing within their little fortress.

  Chan squatted down to watch patiently in the dim moonlight. Maybe his attitude was inherited from his extraordinary mother or, perhaps, it came from his enforced association with crater dwellers in recent months but Chan didn't share his fellow nomads' uneasiness about night actions. Neither, he suspected, did the Guardsmen.

  He knew that the defenders could wait for reinforcements to arrive as they surely would the next morning but he doubted it. That officer looked like the practical type who wouldn't want to wait. His friends in the crater didn't know his exact location and wouldn't be able to come straight to their aid. No, it would be better to get out now, while the getting was good. No use losing more troops while waiting for relief in the morning.

  Chan's patience was rewarded some half hour later. He spotted a silent line of horsemen making their way out of the little fortress. He counted them as they exited. There were eleven of them and six led riderless ponies. When they had all cleared the rocks, they took off at a full run toward the pass. Chan could hear a few excited verbal challenges and a number of arrows being loosed.

  Chan grunted and rose to mount up on Fire. It was time to get more distance between himself and his enemies.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The atmosphere in the barracks was tense that evening. The patrol led by Lieutenant Peron was overd
ue by three hours. Due in by about an hour before dark at the latest, the patrol had not been reported to have entered the crater before the sun went down. A falcon had been dispatched from the Aerie to the barracks to report considerable nomad activity outside Maryland Pass. A rider was sent to the Aerie to get as many details as could be pressed from the Eagle Rider who had made the sighting.

  Kit, of course, was worried. Nobody would talk to him so he went to the Captain. He was waiting outside the Captain's quarters when the orderly stuck his head out and wagged a finger at him. Quickly, he rose to enter the room.

  Captain Farquon was a tall, thin man with grey hair which had started to bald in the typical pattern of the old campaigner. He was standing, examining a sword, a fine example of nomad bronze work, which he was holding in his hand. Captain Farquon was a collector of weapons, old and new. He turned and looked the young boy over from head to toe before talking. Kit stood at attention. He wore his best shirt and pants and his shoes had been brushed clean. The caustic odor of soap lingered in the air about him.

  "My orderly says that you wish to have an audience with me," Farquon said. "I assume that you have something specific in mind. You may have five minutes. I have urgent business to tend to."

  The Captain always made Kittron nervous. "Sir," he began, "my father is leading the patrol beyond Maryland Pass today. He hasn't returned yet and I'm worried. I saw a falcon come in from the Aerie four hours ago and managed to read its message when it reported. If I read it right, a large concentration of nomads has been sighted outside Maryland Pass."

  "You are pretty good at reading the birds," Farquon remarked. "That is almost verbatim what I was told."

  "Old Suron taught me well," the boy replied, "both with the birds and with his crossbow. But that isn't what I came to discuss. A rider was sent to the Aerie to get a more detailed report. I've asked several people who should know what that report was but they all say they know nothing. The rider isn't talking either. He just went into the barracks and started getting drunk. I thought that if anyone would know, you would. Will you tell me what is going on or are you going to try to shield me from the truth too?"