Soul of an Eagle

by Edwin Skinner

  The man looked off into the distance, as though he could stare right through the wall of his room. "Nobody told you," he said after a pause and a heavy sigh, "because nobody but the rider and I know about it and I told him to get quietly drunk, with an emphasis on the quiet.

  "I suppose I can tell you. The fates know you are entitled to know what your father and his men are up against. I only ask that you keep it to yourself until I make a general announcement. The Eagle Rider cruising that sector reported a large concentration of nomads to the southwest of the pass. He estimated them to be some thirty horsemen strong. They were riding with some urgency away from the pass. That is bad enough but that is not all of the news, I am afraid.

  "Just after dark, one of the Eagle Riders came down to the barracks on horseback to report that over a hundred and fifty nomads seem to be holding a formation of rocks some eight miles to the south and slightly west of the pass under siege. We will be forming up a large troop to investigate before dawn. They should arrive within an hour after sunrise. The Eagle Rider who spotted them will lead us directly to them. If there is anyone left alive out there, we'll rescue them. I'm sending over fifty well-armed troopers and twenty crossbowmen as well. That many Guardsmen could fight their way through an army."

  "What do you think their chances of survival are, sir?" asked the boy. He tried not to let his voice quiver but could not keep his eyes from watering slightly.

  "I think I know which rock formation they are talking about," the Captain said. "If it is the one I am thinking about, it is a natural fortress. Twenty Guardsmen and a resourceful officer could easily hold off a small army there for many hours with luck and a lot of gumption. Your father is the best officer I have. If any man can hold those men together 'til morning, he can."

  At that moment, the orderly knocked and stuck his head through the door at almost the same instant. "Sir," he said, "they have returned. They just rode in from the pass two minutes ago. There has been an engagement." Something in the man's eyes spoke to his Captain who nodded silently at him.

  "Kittron," Farquon said, addressing the boy, "I want you to go directly to your room. Speak to no one and wait there until I send for you." He turned his attention back to the orderly. "Send the ranking survivor to me in five minutes. See that the wounded are tended to. Let the survivors talk to nobody until I say so." The orderly left the room quickly.

  Kit stood there, a look of shock on his face. "My father is dead, isn't he?" he asked in a small voice.

  "I don't know yet," the officer replied. "He may be wounded or have escaped intact also."

  "Then why can't I wait here to find out?" insisted the boy. "If he's all right, he'll be coming in about five minutes, if not, someone else will come and I'll know that something is wrong with him."

  "You cannot stay because the information that will be discussed here is secret in nature," Farquon replied, "and because I told you to leave and I am not used to repeating myself." He stared stonily at the frightened youngster. Kit turned silently and exited.

  Kit sat on the edge of his father's bunk and stared around at the bare furnishings in their room. Two bunks, a small chest for Kit's belongings and a larger one for Peron's things, a row of pegs on the wall where Peron hung his coat, armor and swords, a shelf strewn with a few mementos and a table with their limited toiletry items spread out on it. There was, Kit knew, in the bottom of his father's trunk, a hidden compartment that he had built himself. It contained a small store of gold coins, not a fortune but enough, with care, to last Kit for a year or two.

  As he sat there, he reasoned it out once again, looking for some excuse to maintain hope. He had been waiting for nearly two hours and had heard nothing from the Captain about his father's condition. For the first hour, he had entertained the notion that Peron, himself, would come in, exhausted from a long patrol and a hard fought battle followed by a detailed report to his Captain. As the second hour began to wear on, that hope had faded and been supplanted by a near certainty that his father was dead or dying. He just wished they would come to tell him and end this awful period of uncertainty. He threw himself down on the bed and covered his head with his arm. His body became wracked with the visible evidence of his silent tears. His world had not seemed this desolate since his mother had passed to the next one.

  The orderly patiently stood at attention in front of Captain Farquon. The officer had been silently considering the information gleaned from the last of the survivors of the engagement. Finally, the Captain broke his silence.

  "I guess you had better bring the lad to me," he said sadly. "I can see no rational excuse to delay the inevitable any further."

  The orderly threw a salute and silently left the room. Some five minutes later, he returned alone. "He has fallen asleep on his father's bunk," he reported. "Should I wake him, sir?"

  Farquon sighed and shook his head. "No," he replied, "it would be best for him to get some sleep. The fates know we all need some. Wake me at first light. Then you can bring him to me after my toilet. In the meantime, we must consider what is to be done with him. His mother died two or three years ago, didn't she?"

  "Yes, sir, just a few weeks before he came to live with Peron," the orderly volunteered. "Doesn't he have a surviving grandfather near here?"

  "Peron told me that the old man could hardly stand the sight of Kittron for some reason," Captain Farquon remarked. "That's why he was brought here to live. I'll have to send someone up to talk to the grandfather. Perhaps there has been a change of heart. It seems to me that they are the only ones left for each other." He gave a meaningful look at his faithful servant.

  "I'll go, sir, right after breakfast," the orderly said. "I believe he owns the pear orchard up the road about a mile and a half. It shouldn't take long to see to it."

  "Thank you," the Captain said with a sigh. "Now, I think it would be best if you would go get some sleep." He turned and stared into the darkness outside his single window.

  The orderly left the room without a word and headed for his own quarters. He knew that Captain Farquon would not sleep for some time yet. Being in command is not always a bed of roses, he reflected, the responsibilities involved can be a very heavy burden at times.

  Shortly after daybreak, Kit was awakened by the ever busy orderly. "I came to get you last night," the man told him, "but you were asleep. The Captain decided that it was better to let you sleep. He's ready to receive you now."

  Kit got up, combed his hair and smoothed out the clothes that he had slept in the night before. He asked no questions of the orderly because he knew of the man's dependable reticence to divulge unnecessary information.

  Five minutes later, he was standing at attention before his father's commander. The orderly said something about getting breakfast and running an errand, then left. Farquon led the way to a couch along one wall of his sparse quarters.

  "Have a seat, lad and I'll tell you all that you want to know," he said.

  "My father is dead, isn't he?" Kit asked in a deadpan voice. He felt he already knew the answer.

  "The nomads had prepared an ambush for them on their return journey," the officer explained, "but just before they rode into it, Chan, the ex-spy you spotted outside West Pass a few weeks ago, stopped them and warned them of the danger. They diverted their march and tried to race the enemy forces to the pass. They didn't make it right away but they managed to make it to an easily defended spot and put up a stiff resistance.

  "I have talked to nearly all of the survivors and they are unanimous in their praise of your father's conduct, courage and prowess during the entire course of the skirmish. Wherever extra help was needed, there was Peron, his two swords reaping a deadly toll among the enemy attackers. He probably dispatched two to three times the number of warriors as any other in the defense of the redoubt and these were veterans all.

  "Just before dark, Peron called together the two remaining corporals, and ordered preparations to leave one half hour after sundown. Careful plans were laid
and all of the ponies were saddled and ready to go. Then the nomads attacked one more time.

  "It was the fiercest fighting of the entire day. Two more defenders fell but the line held. Just as the sun went down, Peron defeated the commanding subchief of the attacking group. He knelt down to check the man out and, as he stood up, an arrow struck him in the throat. He choked to death on his own blood. A half hour later, the one remaining corporal led the other ten out of their positions and brought them at a run to safety. They brought his body with them, strapped to his black stallion, and all of the iron weapons of their fallen comrades.

  "Before he died, he must have had some premonition that he might not make it back. Perhaps he was just being practical, I don't know, but he left a bequest in case he should fall. He wanted you to have all of his belongings including his swords and his beloved stallion."

  The Captain rose to his feet and walked over to a peg on the wall. He lifted Peron's swords, complete with belt and scabbards, from the wall. He walked back and handed them to Kit.

  "These are some of the finest weapons I have laid eyes on," he continued. "They both bear the mark of Master Zolfon, himself. When you wear them in the future, remember the valor of their previous owner with pride. Kittron, your father was a man among men and I, myself, was proud to have him in my unit. He will be sorely missed."

  Kit took the swords and looked at them for a long moment. He already knew them intimately. He lifted his eyes and looked at the man.

  "I can wear the short sword now," he said, "using it with my sheath knife as he taught me to. When I'm older, I will start using the long sword and leave the knife in my boot." He looked down at his hands which grasped the swords in their sheaths. "Can you tell me what is to become of me now?"

  The officer looked at him compassionately. "I guess that would be the question that is uppermost on your mind," he remarked. "Right now, I do not know. You are too young to join the Home Guard even though you have the skills for the work. I am not sure if it would be good for you to stay here with all of the memories the place must hold for you. I am working on a solution. I'll let you know what our options are when I find out myself."

  Kit rose to his feet and held his chin up. Curiously, he seemed to have lost the ability to grieve further. He had been all cried out the night before and now there were only the practical aspects to be taken care of. He didn't feel especially hungry and yet he knew he hadn't eaten since noon the day before.

  "I'll be going for breakfast now," he told the man. "Thank you for your time and trouble, Captain."

  The commander watched him turn and leave. The pain would run deep and still in that one, he realized, for a long time, perhaps forever.

 

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Kit parried with his knife and drove against his opponent's shield with the short sword in his right hand. Drawing the blade back, he struck again, barely missing a fatal stroke but inflicting a stinging wound instead. The man jumped back and presented his sword in a classic defensive position. Kit did not allow him any respite, however, and pressed the attack more vigorously. The two moved about the field of battle with great bounds and sudden shifts that were typical of a sword fight in the low gravity of Randor. Kit was merciless in his attack and it was obvious that his opponent was getting desperate.

  "Kittron, front and center!" The orderly had to repeat the order twice before he penetrated the blood lust that was throbbing in the lad's ears. Kit lowered his wooden blade and stepped back, turning toward the orderly on the other side of the practice field.

  The luckless Guardsman who had been working out with Kit dropped his guard with a sigh. "Thank the fates that we were only using practice swords," he commented. "With real iron, I think he would have bled me half to death. My arms will be badly bruised after this fight. What's gotten into him anyway?"

  "I think he's working out his frustration and anger over Peron's death," an onlooker commented with a grim shake of his head. "I wouldn't have asked him onto the practice field for anything this morning. He was out for blood. Instead, all he did was to inflict a lot of splinters." Several other Guardsmen nearby chuckled at the quip. All eyes were following the boy as he walked with the orderly toward the commander's quarters.

  When Kit entered Captain Farquon's room, he saw that the officer was not alone. The other occupant turned to face him as he stepped through the door. He was of medium height, was slim and had greying hair with only a hint of the original black color of his youth. His carriage was straight and his expression was stern as he looked the boy in the face.

  "Hello, Grandfather," Kit addressed him, "what brings you to the barracks?"

  It was Farquon who answered the question. "He has come to take you home with him," he said in a kindly voice. "When he heard of your father's death, he contacted me immediately, offering his home to you until you have chosen a profession to enter."

  "I have already chosen my profession," the boy pointed out belligerently, "but this man convinced my father to keep me from it." The look that he shot at Jaron did not bode well for future good relations. "I cannot join the Home Guard for over three more years. Do you think you can put up with me for that long, Grandfather?"

  The older man's face flushed with embarrassment at the implications in the boy's remark. He swallowed once and answered. "I am willing to try to get along if you are."

  Kit turned a defiant gaze upon the commander. "I don't suppose I have much of a choice," he said. "Have you come up with any other options for us Captain Farquon?"

  "No others have presented themselves at this time," the Captain answered. "I doubt if any more will."

  "No," the boy mused, "I didn't think they would. Even if my Grandfather here were to agree, I doubt if I would be welcome at the Aerie after my fight with Heron the other day. Must I leave? Can't I stay here instead?"

  The officer looked into Kit's eyes with a large amount of compassion. "If you had no living relative to claim you," he said, "I am sure that at least twenty of my Guardsmen would step forward to adopt you. Even then, I would be reluctant to allow you to stay. The memories of Peron that would face you day by day here would not bode well for your emotional health. I'm afraid it is time for you to leave us."

  "What about the memories of my mother at the orchard?" the boy asked. "Wouldn't they be just as bad for me?"

  "That is a loss that has been two years healing," Jaron pointed out. "You have had time to accept Fala's death."

  "Have I, Grandfather?" Kit remarked, "And what about the memories that you gave me at that place? They hurt just as much but in a different way."

  Again, the Captain stepped verbally in between the two. "Perhaps, after all this time, the two of you can make a new start. I don't know what it is between you but it seems to me that you have more need of each other's support than you have reason to continue this conflict. You are all that is left to each other." His face took on the well-practiced expression of command.

  "Kit, the matter is closed," he said sternly. "Jaron has offered the hospitality of his home and you have little choice in the matter. He has brought a wagon to carry your belongings back to your new home. My orderly will assign two men to help you load them. You may pick up your pinto mare and your father's stallion and take them with you. I wish you good fortune in whatever you decide to do with your life. You are dismissed."

  Kit's jaw clamped firmly shut, stifling the reply that had been forming in his mind. He executed a military about face and left the room followed by the orderly and his baffled grandfather.

  Heron took one last look over West Pass and turned his glider wing for home. Flash was above him about a hundred feet or so. The two broke out of the thermal and began a long glide to the Aerie.

  They had been on patrol for the last four hours and Heron was tired. Twice already he had dispatched his sparrow hawk, Ree, to the Aerie to report nomad bands within a few miles of the pass.

  Five minutes later, he was gliding down to a landing at the Washington
Aerie, his eagle following some fifteen seconds behind him. He carried his glider wing down the stairwell and hung it on the wall in the roost next to the tack room which had been vacated for that purpose. Next, he walked over to Flash's roost and began to clean it out in preparation for the nightly feeding.

  In a roost nearby, a couple of other Riders were talking as they worked on similar tasks. Heron caught a few snatches of the conversation, enough to divine the subject. Apparently a cavalry troop of Guardsmen was caught outside Maryland Pass by a concentration of nomads and were forced to fight their way back. Heron consciously blocked any more of the conversation from penetrating his calm. Lately, any reference to the Guardsmen and their barracks had caused in him some discomfort. He usually walked away from any discussions of the goings on there.

  An hour later, Heron entered the Falconer's Residence, his chore completed. As he walked across the living room toward the stair that rose to their sleeping quarters, he was hailed by his father.

  "Heron," the man said, "could I have a word with you in the small conference room?" The Falconer had risen from a chair where he had obviously been waiting for his son's return. The two entered a small, comfortably furnished room to one side of the living room.

  "How was your patrol?" Daron began as they both dropped into overstuffed chairs. "They said you spotted nomads."

  "Twice," the boy replied. "Two different groups, too, I would guess about fifty warriors in all. A couple of them shot at me but their arrows fell way short. I think the size of the eagle on my wing confuses them when they try to guess my altitude."

  "Does it look like they are massing for an invasion?" his father asked.