Hawkmaiden

by Terry Mancour

  Dara stopped by the tanning shed long enough to explain to her cousin who was working that post what she wanted to do with her sister’s belt, and after she got permission she was given the run of the shed. She’d proven far more adept at leatherwork than needlecraft, much to Alina’s dismay. Her male cousins didn’t mind indulging the crafty girl in her interests, either.

  Finding a bit of leather among the piles and piles of the stuff was easy, and in a few moments she had turned a thick deerskin thong into a decorative knot that complemented the copper pattern. She tied another on the other side, threading it through the inadequate clasp and fastening it with a simple slip-knot that wouldn’t come undone . . . particularly past her sister’s hips.

  Fixing the belt was easy. Prying two of the tiny silver bells off of the piece was much harder. Dara had to use a sharp iron leather tool to pry apart the wires that held them in place to get them loose, but soon she had two of the precious things in her hand. Tiny silver bells, perfect for attracting the attention of a husky peasant lad . . . or that of a falconer, to locate her falcon in the wild.

  She replaced the two missing bells with two more knots of the same leather she’d used in the clasp. It tied the design together, she decided, and hid the fact that two of the bells were missing. She doubted her sister would ever notice their absence.

  While she was letting the copper sit in salt and vinegar for a few moments to shine it, Dara pilfered several other small scraps she thought would be useful in her pursuit of falconry: one to make a hood, another two for soft jesses, yet another for a lure.

  Then, while she was rummaging around for a knife, she spied the three thick spools of waxed thread.

  It was heavy woolen thread, coated with beeswax and spun to a fineness that made it useful in stitching together leather garments, places where using tougher (and uglier) sinew just wouldn’t do. Dara realized that each spool contained at least thirty or forty feet of thread . . . tough, strong thread that wouldn’t break under a load. She even unwound one of the rolls and pulled a single strand as hard as she could. She wasn’t able to break it.

  Strong enough to tie to an iron crossbow bolt, then, she decided. The spool ended up in her basket with the belt and leather.

  Lastly she stopped by the toolshed to borrow a spade – a narrow-bladed iron spade, not a blunt wooden one. The Westwoodmen had accumulated many such tools over the years. They were essential for keeping trails clear and such, and there were always three or four sitting around. Dara grabbed one and slung it over her shoulder, her basket dangling from it, before she headed back to the cottage.

  It seemed like she had been awake all day, but it was only a little past noon. Her body ached, her hands were scratched and bruised despite her thick leather gloves, and her feet were numb with use. As she approached the little cottage she felt like breaking into a sprint, but her feet would not let her. She settled for stumbling into the tiny house and collapsing on her bedroll on the floor, leaving her carefully-gathered supplies scattered. She fell into a quick, shallow sleep, not waking until late afternoon.

  The nap had done her well, she decided. She stretched and wiped the sleep from her eyes before dealing with the fire. It had gone out in her absence. She used the cold hearth as an excuse to clean it before she set and rekindled another. She put both meat pies on the stoveplate atop the fireplace and boiled more water for tea.

  Before the tea boiled she heard Kalen’s young voice approaching, a tidy sack of pecans at his side.

  “Spent all morning gathering nuts,” he said, sourly, “and listening to how hard things were when gran was a kid.”

  “They all talk like that,” Dara grinned. “They can’t help it. I’m sure we’ll talk about how horrible our childhoods were, too, when we get old.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Kalen shrugged. “I’m enjoying it, so far.”

  The fair-haired boy probably was enjoying it – the children of the Westwood did not have to start laboring in the fields when they were seven or eight, as the Vale folk did. They began to get chores around that time, but childhood was cherished in the wood in ways it was not in the rest of Sevendor. Children were especially valued in the light of the Flame, it was said, and children’s laughter was said to be a wholesome and healthful thing.

  All too soon, she realized, Kalen would turn from boy to man, and it would be him grabbing a bow and facing off with the Castle men. Perhaps when her brother Kyre became Master of the Wood in his father’s place. Perhaps before then, if the conflict with the castle men continued to grow.

  That thought sobered Dara. She didn’t like the idea of her playmates growing up just to die in some stupid battle. There were more important things to do.

  “Let’s start with the hole digging,” she suggested, handing him the shovel. “I need two dug, here and here,” she said, drawing out the spots in the dirt in front of the cot with a knife. “About a foot deep, maybe a foot and a half—“

  “How much is a foot?” the boy asked, curious. “My foot or your foot?”

  “Huh? Oh, just do it so that your foot can fit in it up to your knee,” she suggested. “That should be deep enough. I’m going to cut a few poles while you do that. It might take me awhile. I’m better at climbing trees than chopping them down,” she added, remembering the tough time she’d had with the hickory sapling.

  She grabbed her little hunting crossbow and quiver, along with the twine and the cot’s small hatchet before she went deeper into the nutwood, to where the nut trees gave way to hardwoods and evergreens. She found a secluded clearing between two big oak trees and sat down.

  She spent half an hour figuring out the best way to tie the waxed thread to the small iron dart, and then began practicing. Dara quickly learned that she had to pay-out the line in a loose coil before she shot the bolt, else the resistance on the string would slow and eventually stop the tiny arrow.

  But soon she discovered that paying out too much line was just as bad. As small as it was, the bow of the arbalest was powerful, a laminate of hickory and yew. She found a branch of one of the oaks about as high up as the shrub she was trying to reach, and she spent almost an hour figuring out how to allow just enough line to reach the branch, but not so much as to overshoot it.

  Then she was stuck with another problem: how to allow the dart enough slack to lower it back down to within her reach, after she had slung it over the tiny tree. She hit upon the idea of re-tying the dart so that an additional six feet of line easily fell from the dart’s lowest point. It shouldn’t be that difficult to make at least one shot clean enough to recapture the dart and the end of the string.

  When she was satisfied she could make the shot properly, she put the weapon way and got out the axe. It didn’t take her long to find a few cedar saplings that were fated to become doorposts. After chopping through the trunks and trimming the tops and branches off, she had two seven-foot lengths and several five-foot or shorter lengths.

  Dara chose cedar for its insect-repelling properties. She’d stayed in the cot overnight, now, and she could see there was a definite need for such measures. To that end she bundled up the cedar boughs she’d trimmed and hauled them back to the cottage with the poles. Their fresh scent would eliminate the stale smell the dank cottage still suffered.

  When she got back, Kalen was just finishing the second hole. Both were approximately where she had wanted them, and although one was bigger than the other by four inches the boy had done an admirable job.

  “We’ll put pebbles and water in them tonight,” she explained, when she stopped his work and praised it. “That will settle it to the bottom, after a day or so. Then we can put the poles up, back-fill it with clay and more rocks, and then once it settles properly we can lash header pole overhead, and then run the ridgepoles back to the cot. Then we’ll do the roof and maybe even walls. That would give the place a nice, cozy little place to hang a mantle and store the firewood, before you got into the house. That will save the floor and keep the inner ro
om warmer.”

  “You sure do know a lot about building,” Kalen said, shaking his head in admiration.

  “I just pay attention to stuff,” she shrugged. “It’s not that hard. Honestly, I don’t know why no one has done it sooner.”

  After a hard afternoon of hole-digging, Kalen was all too happy to devour one of the meat pies, pronouncing it much better than the ones his sister made. Dara sent him home after that, an hour or more before dusk, and cautioned him to wait a day or so before returning, so that the poles would settle. She wanted some peace to think about the next part of her plan, go back over her failed attempt, and figure out if she was forgetting anything.

  She packed her supplies that night after a meager dinner of sausage and potatoes, and even prepared the water for tea the next morning. Then she stared at the fire for an hour from her bedroll before finally drifting off to sleep . . . and dreamt of rocks and wings.

  Once again she roused herself before dawn the next day, though it was far more of a struggle to get herself out of her cozy bedroll than it had been the day before. Her muscles complained bitterly as she heated her tea and prepared herself. She began by trimming the hickory stave she’d cut with the hatchet, to make it more useful in climbing. Then she filled two water bottles and packed a lunch. She was off on the trail before the sky even began to get pale, and was already climbing up into the mountain path by the time she heard the first stirrings of life from the manor in the distance.

  She tarried at the first clearing on the eastern side to watch the sun rise again. Gone were the morbid thoughts that it might be her last; Dara was determined to be successful. She continued scrambling up the trail through the mists that clung to the treeline, and without pausing she began the steep ascent before the sun had cleared the distant ridge.

  It was like she was in a dream, as she approached the narrow ledge where she had left her ropes and other equipment. In a daze she got her cold fingers to cock the crossbow, and though her first shot went wide and had to be retrieved by pulling the thread back, the second arced perfectly over the sturdy little tree. The length of waxed string caught and then plummeted, weighted by the iron bolt, and the dangling length suspended from the dart was within inches of Dara’s fingers.

  Eagerly she gathered the end of the line, and then slowly pulled it taught. Then she tied the end of the much stronger – and heavier – rope she’d brought, and began to slowly, gently pull the rope up the side of the cliff.

  Her breath caught a few times, as the rope seemed to pull more and more heavily on the thread, and then again when the knot between the two struggled to go over the summit of the tree. But she started breathing more easily when the heavy rope began to descend again. Soon she had both ends of it in her hands.

  Tentatively, she pulled on it, then let her full weight lean on it, while she was safely over the ledge. The rope and the tree held stoutly. Grinning to herself, Dara made ready for the last climb to the summit.

  It was hard work, even with the assistance and security of the rope. When she reached the point that had stopped her before, she was able to walk up a few steps, her weight entirely on the line, until she found another handhold. But six feet beyond that she hit another smooth patch, and she had to trust the rope again.

  Then she was over a particularly difficult scramble, and ready to face the next one, but there weren’t any more. The grade leveled out somewhat, and Dara climbed the last few yards by herself.

  Then she was on top of the mountain, at the very peak of Rundeval, the entire valley of Sevendor spread out before her.

  To the left, the western enclave of the Westwood seemed so small, compared to the rest of the valley, though the Westwoodmen’s mandate extended as far into the interior of the mountains as a man could range. To the north she saw the distant and distinctive mound of Matten’s Helm; it was beautiful, with the autumnal foliage arrayed at its base.

  Directly below her, at the base of the north face of the mountain, was Sevendor Castle, a dark and hulking mass of stone that represented everything oppressive to Dara. She wondered if she could throw a rock from the summit and manage to hit Sir Erantal as he relieved himself for the morning.

  Of course she knew that was silly. She was here to get a bird, not take petty revenge. She began to fasten the end of the rope on the “knob of rock no bigger than a hogshead” that her father had spoken of, when she finally had a chance to look down – really look down – and appreciate just how high up she was.

  I’m above the falcon’s nest, she observed to herself. I am above the birds. And it’s a long, long way down. With a very dreary ending awaiting her at the bottom.

  For a few moments fear overtook her, and she almost started back down the way she came without her prize. But despite the fear of falling, the fear of failure was even greater. In the end Dara’s need for the falcon’s eyas won out over her fear of losing her own life.

  When she was certain that her ropes were secure, her equipment in place, and her basket tied firmly to her chest, Dara whispered one last prayer to the Flame, took a deep breath to calm herself, and took her first step over the ridge and down the sheer wall of black stone that was the north face of the mountain.

  Chapter Five

  Frightful

  Moments after Dara began her journey, she knew it was a terrible mistake.

  The first few moments weren’t too bad, as Rundeval’s summit arced gracefully down away from the ridge . . . but after that, every step she took pushed her farther and farther away from safety. The face of the cliff was smooth, with few handholds. Without a rope, Dara would never have had a chance.

  As it was, she slipped and found herself almost dangling several times on the way down. She had wrapped a long portion of her line around herself, and tied the end securely around her waist and shoulders so that if her hands let go she would not fall automatically, but one crazy step after another turned her adventure into a harsh lesson in gravity and friction. Her fingers were soon scraped and bleeding, as she paid out the hempen rope one painful hand at a time. The gloves she’d brought had smooth leather palms which made the rope slip too easily, and she had to abandon them to her belt before she’d descended twenty feet.

  But after the first scrambling descent, there was a gentle knob in the cliff that gave just enough support so that she could lean against it and catch her breath.

  Dara was exhausted after just a few scant yards. Her arms ached with effort, her legs – which were tender from all the climbing she’d done – were protesting painfully to her after the effort she’d put them to climbing down. But she’d made it this far, she recognized proudly. She’d made it too far to easily turn back now. The nest was only another few dozen feet down over the side, she reminded herself encouragingly.

  Then she looked down.

  Vertigo struck her as she saw with unobstructed clarity the long, long way down the face of Rundeval. The bottom of the cliff seemed so far away, yet she seemed to be able to see every little detail of the rocks that promised to punish her slightest misstep below. The distance was terrifying, and the reminder of the price of one mistake was just too potent; Dara made herself look elsewhere. Otherwise, she realized, she wouldn’t be able to make her hands and feet do anything, she was so frightened.

  Sevendor Castle’s hulking dark mass was the next easiest thing for her bewildered eyes to focus upon. It seemed laughably small from up here, a square stone keep the same color of the mountain’s dark stone with some additional towers, all of which were in a shabby state of repair. The shingled rooftop of the castle’s hall and round refuge tower had patches and holes she could see from here. She couldn’t imagine her people trying to defend themselves against enemies behind that wreck. Old Sir Erantal had a lot to answer for in the Duke’s service, Dara told herself in an effort to distract her mind from the terrible danger she’d brought on herself. She could almost imagine how the neglected old pile of stones must smell.

  When she’d calmed her fear and took
stock of her situation, she realized that she had to force herself to go on. Dara glanced over the side of the knob and saw the falcon’s nest below. Another twenty feet, perhaps thirty, and she’d be there. She could see the wide tangle of brush and twigs that made up the nest . . . and she could see three distinct bobbing shapes below.

  And no mother bird. She must be out hunting for breakfast, Dara decided. No better time to capture one of the fledglings, then.

  Taking a deep breath Dara grasped the rope tightly and took a step down, backwards, into nothingness. The knob overhung just enough to make finding a foothold maddeningly difficult. First with one foot, then the other, Dara probed the cliff below her until finally her left toe found purchase . . . if she stretched her legs out as far as she could. It wasn’t much, but it gave her just enough purchase to descend another few inches, where she repeated the process with her other foot.

  Her mind sang a frantic monolog the entire time.

  One more inch, just one more inch, please . . . oh, there! Almost at that pretty bird, I’m almost . . . almost there . . . Flame, this rope is hurting my hands! Maybe I should put the gloves back on? Certainly for the climb back up, if I can even get back up . . . there! Now just lower yourself carefully down and flex that knee carefully . . . Yikes! Slipped! Oh, ashes and cinders this hurts! What was I thinking? Flame, my elbow hurts now! Have to keep going, though, must keep going, every inch brings me closer, just . . . have to get my toe . . . right there . . . am I going to slip? No? Am I sure? No? Oh, Flame, what do I do now . . . maybe just . . . a little to the right . . . but ---AHHHHHHHH!

  Dara yelped as her foot slipped and she felt the mountain slap her in the face and chest. She fell rapidly, her hands madly scrambling for any kind of purchase. She fell six feet, scraping her chin badly and biting her tongue, when her left toe unexpectedly found a shallow concavity she was able to use to stop her descent. The rope above her was taught with the tension of her weight, still, but almost two inches of her left foot kept her from falling. That was enough.