Hawk had changed his dirty clothes, taken a quick shower, and trimmed his beard. He hoped that it now looked reasonably neat. When he finally returned to the living room, he found Roslyn quietly stroking Windrifter’s head.
“Hey, that can be dangerous!”
“You’re forgetting that I can control birds too,” Ro replied, continuing to stroke the brown feathers.
“That’s right. I’d like to see what sort of contact you do have with that bird. Do the best you can, and I’ll mind-link with you and Windrifter.”
“All right.”
Hawk meshed easily with the bird’s mind. He expected to sense a strong link from Ro but was surprised to feel her presence as a tenuous touch, totally different from his normal telepathic contact. He felt her command the bird to lift its wings, and the eagle did —its large, beautiful wings arching and then settling in a wave of motion that always seemed quite majestic to Hawk. He sent a thought at the girl: “Are you really concentrating?” But it was like sending an arrow through smoke, so he spoke aloud. “Did you get my message?”
“No, nothing. I sensed that something was different about the eagle, that there was a stronger mind there, but that is about all.”
“I asked you if you were really concentrating. I could hardly sense your presence, and I couldn’t seem to penetrate through to your mind.”
“That’s the strongest link I have with animals.”
Hawk concentrated on the bird again, but he couldn’t bring his thoughts into any closer contact with Ro.
“You seem to have only a weak telepathic bond or a very strong shield. I gather you’ve never had any training, but even without training you should do better than that. I’m surprised you were able to control the bird at all.”
Ro patted the bird’s head once more. “You are right about the training—I never had any. Also, I spent the first thirteen years of my life under the Triad, and that may have affected my paranormal Towers.”
Hawk nodded. “That’s possible.”
The Triad powerstones had not only protected most of the Eastern Kingdoms from sorcery attacks, but had also prevented the use of sorcery within their sphere of influence. After Taral destroyed the Triad, some of those inside the area developed their psychic talents, but probably not to the extent that they would have if they’d been born outside its influence.
“Fortunately I grew up on a farm near Threeforks, outside the Triad,” he continued. “The stones cast a field along the seacoast northward from Richmond; through Westvirn, Cumberland, and Cascar, each of which contained one of the boulder-sized spellstones; up to about the bottom third of York.”
Ro nodded, remembering lessons drilled into her long ago about the Triad—the positions of the stones, the strength and extent of the field, the supposedly impenetrable defense. She said nothing, afraid to reveal her knowledge of the subject. She wished that just once she could be herself, but for the moment it seemed best to follow Coleman S’Wessex’s advice and conceal her true identity, even from her friends.
“Of course, I might have been born under the Triad, I don’t know,” Hawk continued. He turned and stared out into the forest.
“I’m an orphan—some York farmers found me when I was just an infant. One of them adopted me. He told me that I was the only survivor of a party of N’Omb pilgrims who evidently had been attacked by highwaymen on the road to the Shrine of the Three Miracles in Kellerton.”
He gazed at the wall of green outside, tracing the patterns of leaves, while his mind pictured the delicate jade leaf pin that had been his mother’s. He touched his shirt to confirm that the pin lay beneath it, still chained around his neck. It was the sole clue to his origin, for only she had broken the pilgrim’s vow of anonymity to carry a personal possession, the pin, on that journey to death.
He wished that he could remember his mother, but he’d been only a baby when the farmers had found him. Still, sometimes he could almost imagine her.
She bent over to kiss him goodnight, and the jade leaf pin glittered at her throat. She was warm and beautiful, but he could not really remember her features.
The image of the pin spun through his thoughts—a wheel of seven leaves, tips outward—rolling on a road that led nowhere.
“You don’t know who your real parents were?” asked Roslyn.
“No. My foster parents were never able to track down their identities. So they could have come from the Triad area.” Hawk smiled. “I can remember how my foster mother always wanted us to move south when I was a child—into the area protected by the Triad. Like many of the folk around here, she distrusted sorcerers and their magic. She didn’t like living under their rule. My father felt pretty much the same, only he wasn’t willing to give up his land, not even if it meant living in an area free from sorcery. Of course, when the Empire destroyed the Triad stones they were certainly glad they had never moved, and they were suddenly grateful that York had its own sorcerers who could protect the land against invasion. I sometimes wonder if it’s wise for anyone to control such awesome power; although they have great potential for good, the stones have generally brought more war than peace.”
Roslyn nodded. “I know what you mean. And sometimes even my own abilities frighten me—like the hunches I get. They happen so randomly, I can’t control them, and I don’t know how or why they happen.” “It’s no wonder the common people are suspicious A magic,” said Hawk, “when not even sorcerers know how their spellstones work, and the rest of us with paranormal powers, such as telepathy or precognition, don’t have the vaguest idea how we do what we do.”
“What happened when your foster parents learned you were a telepath?” asked Ro.
“It took them a while to guess the truth—I suppose they didn’t want to believe I was a telepath. When I was only two or three I tamed a wild hawk and kept it for a pet. That’s how I got my name—it started as a nickname, but it stuck so firmly that I don’t even remember being called anything else. At first my parents thought my hawk was someone’s trained hunting falcon; when I started to attract other birds they thought it was a cute trick. By the time they realized that I was a bird-path, they’d come to love and accept me as much as their own natural son. So it didn’t matter too much to them. Of course I was an oddity to the rest of the people in the area. I guess that’s why I kept pretty much to myself as a child. I suppose I’m still a loner.”
“But you’re not lonely—you have your birds.” There was a trace of envy in Ro’s voice.
Her insight disturbed Hawk, and he suddenly felt embarrassed. He didn’t know why he had opened up to her. She was surprisingly easy to talk to. Perhaps there was something special about Roslyn. Or perhaps he had changed without even realizing it. His responsibilities as a scout for York, his friendship with Derek S’Mayler, and his contacts with so many new people, including Lord S’York, had subtly altered his awareness of the world and of himself. He sensed that he was maturing, becoming more confident in himself, and that realization was both pleasing and disconcerting.
Feeling self-conscious and ill at ease, he said, “I guess it’s time we were getting back.”
“I suppose so,” replied Ro.
Hawk turned to his birds, placed the two bluejays into a cage of woven willow osiers, and sent the eagles aloft.
“The mueagles will meet us by the bridge, since the skytrees are too thick for them to fly through easily, he explained.
Then Ro helped him close and shutter the windows, double check the injured birds, and prepare to leave. When they reached their horses, Hawk tied the cage and a small bag of clothes to his saddle. Then they rode back through the shadowed forest.
In the late afternoon quiet the huge trunks of the vaulting trees seemed to form walls that pressed in on them. The dark green foliage became black in the gloom, and the woods became a darkened cathedral. A prickling foreboding of danger, like a muted kettledrum, suddenly thudded almost imperceptibly in Roslyn’s mind. Even as she called a warning to Hawk, the prem
onition shifted into the tones of a strident, insistent snare drum.
Hawk halted his horse and instinctively contacted the eagles soaring above the skytrees. They reported nothing unusual.
“What is it?” he asked Ro.
“I told you I had hunches, a foreknowledge of danger. Well, I’ve got one of those hunches now.”
“Where? What?”
“I don’t know—I’m not sure. But it’s ahead … She paused and then said with a sudden air of command, “We go left.”
Hawk couldn’t pinpoint the change in her, but it surprised and startled him—perhaps it was the shift in her posture, the shading of her voice—she was suddenly a woman of authority, no longer a hesitant girl.
Before he had time to analyze the change, Roslyn’s horse galloped forward, heading into the thick woods to the left of the path. Hawk followed automatically.
He studied the forest intently, seeking the source of the danger Ro sensed. The forest seemed peaceful; only the softened thud of hooves on the velvet carpet of fallen leaves and moss broke the silence. The air trapped beneath the thick canopy was still, almost oppressive, and smelled of decay.
Then he heard the crash of branches somewhere behind them. Instantly he contacted Stormrider. As the eagle dived toward the source of the sound, Hawk spotted a flash of green fur moving across the trail they had just left. Before Hawk could be sure of what he’d seen, the animal vanished into the woods, but it left behind a strong, sour scent that was unmistakable.
It was an osmur.
Hawk steered Stormrider in the direction the osmur had gone and at the same time linked with Windrifter. A cold fear gripped him as he spotted several more osmurs beneath the female eagle. Although the gigantic, apelike beasts normally traveled alone, they had somehow stumbled across a whole pack of them.
Suddenly Ro called out, “This way,” veering back toward the right. She relied entirely on the clear certainty of her instinct—there was no picture of what would come, just knowledge of what to do—a certainty of the best course of action without any basis in fact or reason.
“Not that way,” shouted Hawk as he galloped after her. Stormrider had spotted an osmur there. But even as he spoke, the eagle warned him that their previous direction would have led toward several more of the beasts.
Then Hawk’s stomach tightened into a knot as the foul stench of the nearby osmur enveloped them.
Almost in unison Hawk and Ro pulled up their bows and nocked arrows.
As they rounded an immense tree trunk, Ro stopped abruptly. Her horse reared in fear, so she telepathically calmed it and Hawk’s mount.
Ahead stood the osmur.
Although the beast was seven feet tall and three hundred pounds of teeth, claws, and muscles, Ro’s sixth sense had not failed her. It was a baby and far less formidable than its parents.
Ro released her arrow. As it arched across the glade, the osmur turned toward her. Her shaft fell too far to the left, penetrating just below its shoulder.
Hawk reached Roslyn, sent his own arrow into the osmur’s torso, and pressed his terrified horse forward, grabbing up his short javelin. He was thankful that his mount did not balk or waver.
The osmur came toward him with terrifying speed; its sharp teeth bared, revealing two ivory tusks; its long hairy arms reaching out to slash at his horse. As it tossed its head back to sound a challenge that was part roar, part scream, Hawk caught a whiff of a breath so foul that it made its sour body odor seem mild by comparison.
Fighting back a wave of nausea and almost paralyzing fear, Hawk dug his heels into his horse so that it galloped forward and slightly to the left. Roslyn, seeing his move, pulled her sword from the scabbard tied to her saddle and rode to the right.
Hawk tightened his grip on the javelin and plunged ahead, forcing his gaze away from the beast’s huge mouth. He aimed for the osmur’s wide, golden eyes that shone like a cat’s in the half-light. However, the carnivore’s massive arm deflected his blow. The weapon only grazed its throat and chest before the osmur seized the javelin and tossed it to the ground.
Roslyn had circled behind it, and as the osmur reached for Hawk with its claws extended like small curved knives, she pressed her knees against her gelding and urged it ahead. At the same time she gripped the hilt of her sword with both hands and, with all her might, swung it at the beast, slicing through the thick muscles of its neck in a single stroke, decapitating it.
As the osmur’s head fell, its fingers raked across Hawk’s face and arm. Then the huge body staggered and toppled forward. Blood poured from the wound, staining shiny green fur.
Behind them, Hawk and Roslyn heard the roar of several other osmurs and the rustling and breaking of branches. They did not turn to look but urged their horses onward, twisting through the forest around the giant trunks, until at last they reached the riverbed and felt the warmth of the setting sun upon their faces.
As they galloped toward the bridge, Ro noticed the blood on Hawk’s face and shoulder. “Are you badly hurt?”
“No, these are just flesh wounds,” he replied. “We’d better not stop here, though the osmur pack will probably halt to eat the one we killed. We’re not very far from Threeforks.”
Roslyn wanted to protest, but she recognized the wisdom of Hawk’s words. The osmurs might want more of a meal and keep following them along the river, but they wouldn’t go much farther away from the skytree forest.
She slowed as they crossed the stream and leaned down to rinse the blood off the sword she still held. Born of melting mountain snow, the water numbed her fingers as the red fluid vanished in the crystal stream.
She hastily sheathed her sword and rubbed h hand against her leg. Then she shivered. Clearly they’d narrowly missed a confrontation with a pack of full-grown osmurs.
An ominous emptiness replaced the throbbing sense of foreboding that had warned her of the creatures. I was as though the osmurs had only been a prelude some greater danger.
Roslyn glanced up at Hawk, who waited for her on the other side of the stream. She sensed that whatever she faced would involve him as well.
Despite the pain of his wounds, he still sat erect with as proud a bearing as ever. He was a puzzle to her. She’d heard that he was one of York’s best scouts, she knew that he was a powerful bird-path, and the fight with the osmur had revealed his bravery; yet at times he seemed unsure of himself and unaware of his own capabilities. Although she hardly knew him, she already liked him, and perhaps his unpretentiousness was part of the reason.
Spurring her horse forward, she wondered what part Hawk would play in the coming ambush and if the trap at Threeforks would succeed. But as she searched for some foreknowledge of the future, as usual her precognitive ability remained outside her conscious control. She felt only the apprehension brought about by the knowledge that they were outnumbered rather than by any prescience.
Following Hawk as he galloped ahead, she shiver: again and pressed her hand harder against her leg. The chill remained.
6
Although the icy water stung Jaxton Sinclair’s face and hands, he knelt forward and lowered his face into the stream, rubbing his eyes and neck in a vain attempt to wash off the accumulated grime of his four-day ride.
He smiled as some of the infantrymen doffed their boots and ran barefoot into the snow-fed water, only to yell and run out again at the shock of the near-freezing liquid.
He moistened his face once more and tossed his head back into the sun. The bright blueness was marred by only a few wispy clouds blowing in from the west. The attraction of the sky was inexorable, so he contacted his birds.
For a few blissful moments he soared with his falcons down the Tompkins Road toward Swego, searching casually for signs of S’Stratford’s troops. The birds circled over the straight, wide road almost at the limit of his range. However, their sharp eyes detected none of the expected troops.
Then the quiet apprehension that had dogged Jaxton ever since they’d left Buchanan sudden
ly overwhelmed the exhilaration of flight. He turned the birds and urged them back towards Threeforks, determined to examine the quiet town once more before Ramsey’s men reached it.
As he filled his canteen, he tried to analyze his growing sense of unease. Although S’Stratford’s men should have traveled the relatively straight road from Swego on the inland seacoast to Threeforks more quickly than Ramsey’s forces traveled the winding Buchanan Road down from the mountains, many things could have hindered their progress. S’Stratford’s company would have been slowed by the weight of their equipment and by the logistics of moving a larger group of men. Perhaps the messenger had been sent before Douglas S’Stratford completely finished capturing Swego. Or perhaps they had met some resistance along the road, although, since most of York’s troops fought Taral’s main army in the south, they didn’t expect any real opposition until they reached Castle York itself.
Still, Jaxton found S’Stratford’s absence disturbing, almost as disturbing as the body of the bird-telepath that Ramsey’s men had been unable to find.
Then a horn blared and broke Jaxton’s train of thought. The anticipation of shelter and a square meal in Threeforks, only a few miles down the road, had evidently shortened the rest period.
As Jaxton mounted his horse, the bay shifted and shied, unhappy at the interruption of its meal. Taking advantage of the general confusion as the troops reformed their line, it managed a few more mouthfuls. Then Jaxton kicked the recalcitrant animal sharply, and the bay trotted quickly into position next to Ramsey’s black.
Seeking to impress the townspeople of Threeforks as well as Douglas S’Stratford, a rival in the shifting power struggle within the Council of Seven, Lord Ramsey had dressed for effect. He wore a long osmur cloak instead of a sorcerer’s traditional crimson cape over an all-silver uniform. The contrast of his blue eyes to his dark brown skin and thick black beard and hair heightened the impression of towering authority.
Master of Hawks Page 5
