Ware Hawk

by Andre Norton

  The forest stranger shrugged. “To you I owe no answer, Swordsman. You have chosen your own road. Ride it or leave it as you will. What you find on it is none of my affair.”

  “Still,” Alon's childish voice broke through the antagonism that Tirtha could almost see forming between the two of them as a darker and even more ominous shadow. For there was something in the Falconer that answered to this other as one drawn sword rises to meet another when the battle is enjoined. “Still, since you have told us some, do you deny us the rest?”

  He sat quietly on the mare, a child looking thoughtfully at the man. Tirtha watched the two of them. With every hour they rode together, she was surer that Alon was more than she could understand, that he was no son of the Old Race, but something different and perhaps far older and longer tied to the Power.

  The features of the forest dweller lost their imperviousness. He registered cold anger now. Still it was anger strictly curbed, one that might consume but could not be released.

  “Seek you also . . .” His voice had dropped, it held almost the hiss of the scaled ones in a slight slurring of the words. “You are not yet a commander of the Great Lords! Nor do you command me!” With that he turned and was gone, as if his will alone had wafted him from their sight. The haired ones scuttled back into the shadows, leaving the three alone.

  Tirtha made no comment, falling in with the Torgian behind the two ponies, which now paced abreast down the wider trail leading out of the clearing. She was disturbed more than she wanted to admit, still she made herself face the fact that those she rode with were certainly not what they outwardly seemed. Alon, she had accepted from the first as a mystery, for his introduction into their company had come through such a feat of the Power as she had never known. However, the Falconer, whom secretly she had dismissed as a dour fighter with perhaps pain of body and mind behind him, but one so narrow of belief that he would or could have no part in any life save that he had been bred to—what indeed was this Falconer who had named himself and still was a man divided? One who strove inside him (of this she was somehow sure) to unite two vastly different ways of thought. He carried his weapon of power, and he had used it this night as one trained in at least the lesser mysteries. Yet he clung to his role of fighting man, and he had fronted the man of the wood openly to demand an accounting as would any blank shield on escort duty.

  No, she was faced with many puzzles and perhaps two of them, which might yield difficulties in times to come, were the innermost natures of those who companioned her.

  Why should she now question them when she must also honestly question herself? She was no longer sure either of Tirtha or what Tirtha might do or become. All she was certain of was that she must reach Hawkholme. What would chance thereafter? Her dream had never led her any farther than that single room somewhere within the ruined pile in which had been hidden that casket. She did not even guess what it held and what she would do with it thereafter. She was sure that the forest man had been right in his mockery. They were riding on blindly into perils that could be far greater than any this wood held.

  It would seem that they had passed the worst the forest could offer. The withdrawal of the forest lord and his crew—the granting of an open road to them—ended her foreboding, the need for listening which held her since they entered on this forgotten road. He had released them—for what? Trials which he undoubtedly thought much worse and which would give him a perverse pleasure (even as he had admitted) to see them meet. She had no doubt that he firmly expected a sure and final defeat for them from such a meeting. Knowing that, her old stubbornness arose, and for all her realization that there was little in the way of preparation she could make against the unknown, Tirtha rode on with a straight back and high-held head, sword still in hand, threading among more thinly spaced trees and the shaggy brush that marked the other side of the wood—morning and Hawkholme lying before them.

  13

  SUN banners overspread the east when they left the wood. The Falconer halted behind a last screen of brush between them and open lands stretching to Hawkholme. The hold stood as Tirtha had visioned, stark amid desolate fields from which there had been no harvest for many years, though there was a straggle of blighted greenery rising raggedly now to greet the spring. No breaks showed in the walls of the hold, though the moat drawbridge had been destroyed.

  The Falconer dismounted at the same moment his feathered scout winged out into the morning, rising so high that its black body was but a dot against the heavens.

  “We are here, Lady. Is this not your Hawkholme?”

  “It is the place of my vision, of the dreams.” For the first time she mentioned them. Since he had chosen to ride the full way, then perhaps the time had come to be frank with him. She nodded toward the distant hold which had the appearance of a grim fortress. Those who had built it must have had good reason to believe that a time of trial would come.

  “Within that lies what I must claim. I do not know why, but it is set upon me to do this.”

  His eyes, through the slits of his mask helm, were full upon her, measuring. However, it was Alon who spoke.

  “There is that which waits.” The boy shivered as his face turned toward the fortress.

  Instantly, he gained the Falconer's attention.

  “Gerik?” the man demanded, as if he believed that Alon's sight was as keen as that of his questing bird, could even pierce those fire-stained walls.

  Again Alon shuddered. That horror and terror, which had before thrust him into deep inner hiding, might once more have reached out to touch him.

  “Him, and the other, the Dark One. They wait. Also, they have that . . .” He shook his head from side to side, raised one hand to his forehead. “I cannot see . . .” There was a touch of fear in his voice. “Do not ask me.”

  “Close your mind!” Tirtha ordered. Here was the same problem that had existed in the night-haunted wood. Any use of a talent might well draw upon them attention they did not want. She turned to the Falconer.

  “If there is an ambush within . . .” She need not carry that further; he nodded in turn.

  “Yes.” His head swung from right to left, as he surveyed the land before them for possible concealment. Then he gestured to the left and, remounting, led off, still within a fringe of wood, keeping it between them and the open. Tirtha had already sighted what must be his goal. The river, which watered the land before them and which, in part, had been diverted to fill the moat as one of the defenses of Hawkholme, had been bridged not too far from where they had emerged from the forest. A small ruined building stood on their side of that now-broken span. Tirtha was reminded that in Estcarp's far past shrines to unknown and long-forgotten powers had been so erected.

  Certainly the tumbled walls of the small building gave forth no warning of any evil. Its stones were not of that loathsome gray-white such as stood in the wood. She longed to test by thought-probe, but knew she dared not. The Falconer held the point of his sword-dagger toward that possible shelter, and his attention swung between the stone rubble and the hilt of his weapon. He must have come to depend upon its efficiency for ferreting out traces of evil. However, the pommel remained opaque and lifeless.

  They were favored in that the river here made a northern curve so that the ruined shrine stood not too far from their present screen. A river running from the east—Tirtha considered that. Where lay its source? There was the dim line of bluish heights across the eastern sky, the sun now above them. Beyond that barrier—Escore. A river born in those heights or even running through them from beyond—what might it carry out of that wild and Power-ridden land?

  Why had her kin settled so close in the early days? Had their ties with the east been stronger than those generally nursed by others come to settle in the west, those who deliberately willed out of memory all thought of Escore? She knew the formal history of Karsten well enough—that the Old Race had settled the land, living quietly and without incident until the coming from the south of the invaders,
those of a younger race with whom their predecessors had no ties, and from whose company they had withdrawn, farther back into the interior of the duchy. There had followed no intermingling of blood with the newcomers. And as their own numbers had never been many and they had kept aloof, they had gone without strife until Yvian and the Kolder had turned the country blood-mad against them. Was Hawkholme one of the very earliest holds in Karsten? Had its lords kept alive ties with Escore, the ancient homeland?

  Tirtha was startled out of her musing when Alon pushed the mare to a quicker trot, sidled past the Falconer, and reaching the edge of brush, slipped from the pony, to drop to hands and knees in last year's brittle weeds. Then he went belly-flat, crawling so into the open, heading for the pile of rocks that marked the end of the broken bridge. A moment later she understood.

  To ride into the open would certainly be to court notice from Hawkholme. They could not believe it was without sentries on watch. Wind Warrior was aloft, but who knew what eyes those inside might possess, just as keen and farsighted.

  They could tether their animals here; there was rough grazing to keep them satisfied. Tirtha dismounted, stripped the Torgian of his gear, looping the straps of her nearly flat saddle bags over one shoulder, seeing that the Falconer was doing the same.

  Once they had the three beasts on lines—the fastening of which the Falconer tested well—they, too, crawled to where Alon squatted behind a breastwork of fallen rocks, staring at the fortress. The protection was not much; the roof of the small building had vanished, but at least they had the best cover possible hereabouts.

  Though Tirtha studied the distant ruin of the holding with strict attention, she caught no sign of movement there. She had half expected to experience again the cold attack that had struck at her in vision. Perhaps it attacked only in vision, and the next assault would come in bodily form. She knew so little, could only guess at what might lie ahead.

  Alon did not move or look around as they joined him. He was as frozen in his place as he had been enwrapped in the catatonic state in which they had first found him. Except that he had not retreated into invisibility. Now Tirtha crept up cautiously, dared to put an arm about his thin shoulders. His utterly silent watchfulness she found disturbing.

  “What do you see?” she asked, determined to break through this abnormal absorption.

  “I see. . . .” He shook his head. “It is not see, Lady, it is feel—here!” He raised a small, grubby hand to plant its thumb between his eyes. “There is trouble, anger, someone is very angry. That is the one who, if he were not so angry, would be searching for us. But now he thinks only of this thing which feeds his rage. He . . .” That long set stare with which he regarded the fortress ahead broke as he turned his head a fraction to glance at Tirtha. “He causes pain to another, seeking to learn a secret, one that other does not know. Aieee—” Suddenly the boy clapped both hands to his ears as if shutting out dire sounds neither of his companions could hear. His face screwed into a mask of mingled fear and pain. “It is evil what he does—evil!”

  The Falconer reached out his single hand, and with a gesture Tirtha would not have believed his breed capable of showing, he touched Alon very gently at the nape of his small thin neck, rubbing the flesh almost caressingly, as one might soothe a small trembling animal. The boy turned, drew out of Tirtha's loose hold, to fling himself into the man's arms, hiding his face against the tattered cloak across the Falconer's mailed breast.

  “Little Brother”—the Falconer spoke in a voice that Tirtha had never thought to hear—“break that tie, do it swiftly! Yes, there is evil, but it does not touch you.”

  Alon raised his head. His eyes were closed; from under their lids, tears streaked down through the dust and grime on his thin cheeks. “It does, it does!” Now his hands became fists, and he no longer clung to the Falconer, rather pummeled him vigorously. “It is pain for all of us when evil strikes at the Light!”

  “Well enough,” the Falconer answered. “But we do not spend our own strength heedlessly. There is evil there, and without a doubt, we must face it sooner or later. Do not let it fore-weaken you, Little Brother. You have that within you which is ready for the battle when it comes, only it must not be wasted.”

  Alon stared up into the half-masked face, then smeared one hand across his own. “You are right,” he said slowly, once more that odd note of seeming maturity back in his voice. “What strength one has must be saved for a time when it is most needed. I . . . I will not . . .” He fell silent as if whatever promise he would make was to himself. Then he detached himself from the Falconer and looked again to Tirtha.

  “They have not thought of us. I think that they are sure we could never have won through the wood. They believe themselves—for now—safe!”

  “They are indeed singularly lax,” the Falconer observed slowly. “Why have we seen no sentry? And if they expected the forest to stop us, then why did we so easily win through?”

  “Perhaps because of what you carry.” Tirtha indicated the weapon once more within that inadequate sheath at his belt.

  “Or perhaps”—there was a lightly sharper note in his voice—“because you made pact with that forest runner.”

  Anger such as she had not felt for days flared in her. “I made no pact. I have not come here to reclaim any lordship. If he wishes that ill-omened wood to rule, then it is his. You heard me deny all fiefdom over it! Also, from what he said, he has no close ties with those ahead. I think it would suit him very well if we finished each other off without any meddling from him.”

  “A safe and trusty plan for him,” admitted the Falconer dryly. “It remains that, if we are not expected, this is the time when we should move.”

  “Across the open fields, crawling over the remains of the bridge, fording the moat.” Tirtha reckoned up the utter folly of such action. To her the problem facing them was a nearly insurmountable barrier.

  “In the open day, perhaps not,” the Falconer conceded. “We have the night; also we must not go into action without rest. Alon,” he addressed the boy now, “Wind Warrior can tell us only what he sees. Can you perhaps let us know if there is any hidden move toward seeking us out?”

  The boy did not reply at once, nor did he any longer look at the two of them, rather down at the dirty hands locked together about his knees. He appeared so small, so childish, that Tirtha wanted to protest. Talent—Power—he might possess that beyond many Wise Ones, but drive him too far, and he could once more escape into that other existence. And perhaps a second time they could not draw him back.

  He raised his head at last, and still not looking around, he answered in a low voice, “I dare not hold on them—on what they do there. I can—cannot! But if they seek us through any ensorcelment, yes, that I shall know—of a certainty I shall know!”

  “We ask no more than that. Also, we shall watch by turn. You, Little Brother, and you, Lady, must rest first. I await Wind Warrior, for to me only can he deliver his report.”

  Tirtha shared her cloak with the boy, and they curled up together, her head pillowed on the saddle bags, his on her shoulder. She carefully kept in mind that she would not dream, for it could be that even dreams might alert whoever ruled in Hawkholme now.

  She roused out of what turned out to be but a light doze often broken, though Alon seemed sunk far into the depths of a heavy sleep. Her shoulder was numb under the weight of his head. There came again the soft sound that had disturbed her. The Falconer and his bird, their heads close together, were exchanging twitters. Then the bird quieted down, to settle on one of the stones, apparently done with its tour of duty. The man took off his helm and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of stone dust there. He seemed to sense that he was being watched, for he turned his head quickly, and his eyes met hers.

  Cautiously Tirtha slid away from Alon. The boy sighed, turned on his side, and curled up. She left the cloak huddled over him and pulled herself up to join the man.

  “Well?”
>
  “Not so well. There are broken roofs yonder, so Wind Warrior was able to see more than we had hoped. The party—those we followed—are there. But they met with others who had a prisoner. The boy”—he glanced at Alon and then quickly away—“was right. They have been using their captive foully. Perhaps they believe him the one they have been seeking.”

  Tirtha's teeth closed on her lower lip. He need add no details. She had seen and heard much of how outlaws handled those they amused themselves with or would pry information from for their own purposes. What they had looked upon at the garth as this Gerik's doing had made very plain what tricks he thought worth the trying. But there was something else in the Falconer's words.

  “The one they have been seeking,” she repeated. “You believe then they have been waiting for me?”

  “For you or another with the Hawk blood. There was the dead man, and he whom Alon told me of, the one who wore the Lord's own ring and you said was half-blood. Why should you all be drawn here?”

  Why indeed? She considered that. In her pride she had believed herself to be the only one of the kin so summoned. There might well have been others; even a half-blood would answer if a geas call came strong enough. It might be that someone, or something, had indeed summoned any who had enough of Hawk blood to answer, and that these had all been burdened by the same command. If so, the one this Gerik amused himself with now was kin, and his blood debt would fall on her.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “Though it was my belief that I was the last of the true blood—the full blood—yet it could be so.”

  “What do you know of that pile over there?” A jerk of his head indicated the ruined holding.

  “I have seen part of it in dreams.” The time had come when she must be utterly frank with him. “The great hall and a secret place beyond it. Therein what I seek is hidden or was hidden. I do not know”—her frankness swept her on as days earlier she would never have believed possible—“what I so seek, only that it must be found. That is the geas laid upon me.”