Farfall
Page 1
Table of Contents
Cover
Table of Contents
Look for these titles from J. C. Owens
Title Page
Copyright Warning
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
About the Author
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Farfall
J. C. Owens
Etopia Press
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Published By
Etopia Press
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Farfall
Copyright © 2017 by J. C. Owens
ISBN: 978-1-947135-49-9
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Etopia Press electronic publication: December 2017
CHAPTER ONE
The day dawned fair, the winds light, so that the desert that bordered Farfall, the southernmost fortress of the country of Certanis, was for once not scouring the area with wind-blown sand. Farfall sat on the edge of the desert, green to the north, golden sand to the south. Its elderly stone walls and sand-scored towers loomed above the region as they had for hundreds of years, a monolith that kept back the dangers from the wild dunes.
Wyverns, attracted to the bounty of Certanis, were a constant threat, their swift flight and poisonous bite a danger out of proportion to their dog-sized bodies. A flock of them was deadly, and Farfall housed the men whose mission it was to see that they would not cross the border and attack Certanis’s population, farms, or livestock.
It was an honored job. A dangerous job.
Men alone could not have ever stood against the flying hordes. Their strength lay in their flying mounts. Griffon-salants—grifs as they were more commonly known. Massive creatures native to Certanis, they had long ago been domesticated and served as deadly natural enemies to the wyverns.
They were powerful, with a wide, four-legged, heavily muscled body, higher in the shoulders than the hips, with strong legs capable of speed on the ground if needed. Their heads were blocky and square-jawed, with long teeth that protruded past the upper and lower jaws. Their face was wide, with a flat, almost feline nose and wide-set golden eyes. Long, tapered ears picked up the slightest sound. Two black horns twisted back toward their shoulders, while a thick line of hair ran down the crest of their neck, hanging down in profusion. A long tail ended with a spade-like protrusion that made them incredibly maneuverable in the air.
Their wings… So beautiful, so complicated. Bat wings, similar to the ancient giant cave bats that had existed long, long ago and died out when humans overhunted them. Their wings allowed them to soar and dive, to make the skies their playground…and their hunting ground.
Men dreamed of bonding to such a creature, but they were slow breeders despite all efforts to the contrary. The chance of becoming a rider was slim, and an honor beyond words.
The bond was for life…
* * *
Captain Andon Grazon’s footsteps sounded in the passageway of the ancient barn, loud in the almost painful silence.
His own desolation was only part of the whole.
The whole fortress was in mourning and a state of disbelief that an entire wing of riders could be killed by a horde of wyverns. It was unprecedented, a terrible blow to a group of men who lived so closely together, knew each other so well.
Five men. Five grifs. Gone.
The footsteps stopped as Andon caught sight of people cleaning out Captain Vren’s quarters. Andon lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the massive door frame.
Before him, people were sweeping out the nest area, piling the twigs and grass, bits of bright cloth and paper into garbage bins on wheels. Beyond them, Habnin was packing Vren’s possessions carelessly, tossing them into satchels and bags, face tight with either distress or anger. It was always hard to tell with Habnin.
Andon twitched with the need to save some of the items, things that he identified with Vren, things that had been important to his best friend.
His only friend.
Habnin finished, loading the nearby cart with everything, piling it with swift, efficient movements. As he turned, he caught sight of Andon and stiffened, his head coming up, his lip curling.
“Come to see the results of your handiwork, guso?” The insult, an inference to Andon’s less-than-noble background, made little impact upon him. He had heard it for too long and by far more menacing characters than Habnin could hope to be.
He shrugged, eyes half-lidded. No one, especially this little bastard, was going to see his grief, the way his soul was left ragged and torn.
“I was not on the patrol, Habnin. I hardly see how you can possibly pin the blame on me for Vren’s death, much though you will try.” His icy tone made the cleaners hastily finish their work and push the bins from the empty room.
He let them pass, ignored their apprehensive stares. He knew his reputation was fearsome, and he liked it that way. Kept people far away.
Except for Vren.
His heart spasmed, and he almost put his hand to his chest in reaction. Instead, he folded his arms more tightly, made his stance more laconic.
“You were supposed to go with him! Supposed to have his back! Instead, you were screwing around with the commander.” Habnin was spitting with rage, his eyes wild and mad, his fists clenching.
He did not come closer.
Andon felt cold amusement tilt his lips, and the expression made Habnin go pale with fury.
“So quick to blame, when you do not know the facts. The commander and I were discussing new training he wants me to take on. I was being briefed before I decided if I wanted to be involved. However, I am sure if you went to him now, acc
used him of wanting my ass—or taking it, as you imply—that he would be very willing to clue you in.”
Habnin took a step back, his anger tempered by fear. No one crossed the commander of the base. Lasrem had a way of making people completely regret any discourtesy or defiance shown in his presence, something Andon greatly admired.
There was silence.
“I would not have been on that patrol regardless,” he continued. “I am—sorry—for your loss. Vren was…”
“Don’t fucking say his name, guso! I could never understand what he saw in you, and you changed him into something our family hardly recognized.” He pushed the cart forward, face contorted into hatred. “You are nothing and no one, and he never seemed to realize that. Damn you for your interference, your lies! If I have my way, I will find a way to bring you down, see you sent back to your slums like the dog you are.” He snarled, then spat at Andon’s foot before thrusting the cart past the doorway and into the towering hallway beyond.
Andon could hear the angry footsteps and the creak of the cart slowly diminish with distance until silence fell upon the old barn.
Now, Andon and Ceris were the only occupants of this old, rundown part of the barracks, and the loneliness of that almost brought him to his knees. Gathering strength, he stepped into the cavernous space of Vren’s room, his footsteps echoing in the emptiness where once there had been furniture, woven rugs, and the nest. Now, it was as though Vren and Unla had never existed at all, their presence banished in the space of a day.
The sound of his boots was loud in his ears, his heels clicking across the stone floor. So much had happened in this room, the happiest times of his misbegotten life. Good company, laughter, a sense of camaraderie that he had never before experienced. Vren had been everything to him, a friend who had seen behind the masks, looked beyond his past, and pursued him until he cracked, until they had forged a bond of brotherhood that had stood firm for over fifteen years.
Now, it was gone, and he could not comprehend the entirety of what he had lost. It seemed too great for his mind to begin to understand what this would mean, how long and lonely years stretched in front of him, a return to the past and its attendant misery.
He went to the middle of the room where the stone was sunken down several feet to hold the nest securely. A good twenty feet across, it now looked barren and horrific without the carefully built and lovingly tended nest within it.
The tightness in his chest grew, and he fought back the grief that threatened to overwhelm him. This—this was why he had avoided any link to others.
They always left. One way or the other, they left and he was alone.
He caught sight of a stray bit of cloth, red with gold threads interwoven. Crouching down, he teased it from between the stone flags with trembling fingers and held it upon his palm.
He remembered this cloth. Vren had purchased it several years ago from a vendor in the nearby town. He could remember his friend’s excitement at the find, and the laughter as they had speculated on how Unla would react to the gift.
The griffon-salant had shrieked with joy, carefully shredding the cloth into even strips before weaving them into her nest.
He could almost hear the sounds…
His fingers clenched around the precious fragment. Falling to his knees, safe from prying eyes, he wept.
It was hours later before he could make himself rise, make himself leave the grim silence of the room, so wrong and painful. With lagging steps, he forced his body onward to his own quarters.
A soft chirring sound greeted his arrival, made the silent tears rise once more.
A choked sound escaped him as a wing swept out to draw him close, and he was pressed up along his grif’s side.
Ceris, his grif, tucked her head alongside him, eyeing him closely, a long, soft sound of mourning coming from her throat.
Leaning down, he carefully wove the red and gold thread into Ceris’s nest before he threw his arms around her neck and let the grief overtake him utterly.
* * *
Gretnel let out a challenging shriek, and below, in the base, there were immediate answers from the Farfall grifs.
Captain Daren Phalnir rolled his eyes, then grinned as Gretnel gave a satisfied chuff at having created a kerfuffle.
“You little shit,” he clapped the griffon-salant on the shoulder, with no true discipline in the touch.
“Haso said this base is a hive of stuck-up, snotty grifs, and I have no intention of letting them get away with that.” Gretnel’s tone was smug. “You’ll have to deal with the riders.”
“Gee, thanks.” Daren was not looking forward to this assignment at all. He wanted to turn around and lead his riders back to their home base of Anisstor.
To come into a base grieving over a lost wing of riders was not going to be pleasant. There would be resentment over the perception that they were taking the place of the dead, and although Daren was confident they could overcome that with time, he was still not sure he wanted to make ties here.
His commander had assigned them to Farfall base for six months to shore up rider numbers until replacements could be found, after which a review would be done. It had been made quite clear that this was temporary, unless Daren wished it otherwise. From what he had heard, he doubted he would wish to settle here permanently.
Most riders came from an affluent background. It was expensive to get into the academy and few families could afford the tuition fees.
Daren thought the prevalence of rich, noble blood made Farfall, and indeed, all the fortresses, a place of bias and backstabbing, but he held his opinion close. No point in bringing trouble down upon himself. It was what it was.
He had Gretnel now, and his wing of riders that had meshed into a close-knit family. They had their own beliefs, their own way of doing things, and those had worked so well that Commander Thasin had taken note and brought in a few changes that Daren was proud of. It could change the way riders and their grifs bonded, how the massive creatures were treated. If Daren achieved only that in his lifetime, he would be content.
Now he had come into a base still rife with the old prejudices and methods. Not to mention that Farfall was on the edge of the outlands, where rebels sought to overthrow the current king and his tyranny. Between wyverns and rebels, it would be taxing on his nerves, not to mention those of his riders. And as to the way they treated grifs—they were used to something quite different now.
They circled down to the giant flight circle, obeying the landing crews’ signals, landing one by one on the painted numbers they were directed to.
Gretnel flapped his wings once, then folded them into the complicated pattern that characterized griffon-salants. Daren had always been fascinated with the history of grifs and their intertwined presence in human culture. The ancient beliefs that grifs had been avatars of the gods was particularly interesting…
He swung down to Gretnel’s offered foreleg before leaping to the ground, stretching his back after long hours in the saddle.
His team ambled over, their grifs following behind, the males Haso and Bavlin batting at each other with a wing tip in their typical arguing.
Gretnel rumbled, and the younger grifs stopped, their long, pointed ears lying back against their heads in response to the chastisement of their leader, the dominant alpha of the group.
Daren eyed Cansi and Xaxter, Haso and Bavlin’s riders, who gave shamefaced grins before chastising their grifs. Cansi was one of the few female riders in the Flight Corp. She had fought long and hard against stereotypes and prejudices to get where she was. Xaxter—well Xaxter was Xaxter, full of pranks and a list of misdemeanors as long as Daren’s arm.
Then there was Paulsa and Olnar with their female grifs, Trai and Novul. Paulsa was another female rider, and she and Cansi, though they had once fought like two cats in a bag, were now lovers, completely bonded, shoulder to shoulder against the world.
Olnar was wing second, and he was as large as he was steady. Daren relied
on him, trusted him, counted him as a good friend and confidant.
These people, good people, made up his wing, which was always five riders in total.
He was just glad he finally had these four behind him. In the past, he had been cursed with some who he would gladly have fed to the desert wyverns that constantly harassed their border to the south, or perhaps left to the rebels who periodically attacked their border towns.
Now, finally, he had good people at his back and a solid foundation to step forward on. He wanted them to be the best team bar none.
That dream had to be put aside for the moment. He doubted such a thing would come to pass here. His little band of misfit rebels would not find a welcome in this starched atmosphere.
The landing crew was pleasant enough, with curiosity in their expressions that pointed to the possibility that their arrival had not been announced to the base at large.
Hmm.
They were shown to a wing house, five rooms long, and he inspected the accommodations thoroughly. He would not let any of the wing’s grifs sleep in anything but the best, cleanest surroundings.
Fortunately for all involved, he could find nothing to complain of. The areas were spotless, the nest areas clean and with no cracks or crumbling in the rock walls that held the nests in place. The nests themselves were freshly created. The human area was spartan, but again, scrupulously clean.
The others drew straws for the rooms, more out of tradition than any actual complaints about the spaces. Daren let them sort themselves out.
A knock upon the entrance to his quarters made him look up from where he was removing the panniers from Gretnel’s harness, the grif patiently waiting for freedom.
A young messenger stood in the hall, his eyes roving over Gretnel with awe. “The commander welcomes you, sir, and wishes you and your wing to come dine with him at six o'clock.” As soon as he finished speaking, he turned his attention back to Gretnel once more.
Daren’s grif was well known, famous for his size, the largest male ever born within the birthing grounds.