by D. A. Metrov
He realized there were more than the usual birds and chipmunks in the branches above his head. And they were noisier than usual, too, watching him and making a ruckus. Brighton knew they were laughing at him. Every creature on the islet already knew he’d been thrown from his mount and stung by bees rescuing Flack. He rolled his eyes, and decided to ignore them.
Something stopped him in his tracks. He recognized the sound of Lizard Bill’s leather moccasins approaching through the fern trail. He’d heard it often.
Wait. Who’s that with Bill? Brighton stayed very still and listened. A pair of monkrats. He deplored monkrats. They were a nuisance. What are they doing here? And that squeaking and puffing? Wheels? A steam engine?
Pello and Biffee were still bickering with Bill over ownership of the robot, and squabbling over who would navigate the dinghy back to the mainland. What they should bring with them on their journey to Drakton. What kind of winter had been predicted by the thickness of the moss that grew on the Jack Pines. On and on. Lizard Bill looked ready to tell them to just shut up.
The foursome reached the clearing in time to see the door of Brighton’s cottage slam shut. Without missing a beat, Lizard Bill—followed by Mitor, Pello, and Biffee—marched to the door, pushed it open, and went inside.
Brighton tossed a log into the hearth to revive the embers still smoldering from earlier that morning. He turned to face his unwanted visitors. Normally, he would have scolded Bill for failing to knock. But the sight of Mitor was such a surprise, he became tongue-tied. He stared into the robot’s telescope eyes. He studied the little wisps of steam puffing from its backside.
“I need to borrow some penguin grease,” Bill said. He was already poking through the haphazard collection of items that littered Brighton’s workbench. Brighton remained spellbound by the robot, which followed Bill with the devotion of a puppy.
“Second Assistant Game Warden Aviamore, they have come—” Biffee began with authority.
“What do you mean barging in here like this?” Brighton said to Lizard Bill, never taking his eyes off Mitor. “And where did you get this machine?”
“I know it’s here somewhere.” Bill threw aside the primitive stone cutting wedges, scraps of leather, and sewing points that Brighton used to craft Handower’s riding gear. Mitor focused on every item that went through Bill’s reckless hands.
Brighton noticed Bill glance at a sheet of parchment, folded in quarters, stuck into a crack in the wall. Bill pulled it out, and opened it. He looked captivated by what he saw: a primitive drawing of a boy riding a giant falcon.
“Give me that.” Brighton snatched it away.
“What is it?”
“None of your business.”
“Is that you? A drawing of you? Did you make it?”
“I said, it’s none of your business.” Brighton folded the parchment and shoved it into his pocket.
“What happened to your face?” Bill grinned. “Bee stings? You were trying to steal honey.” He chuckled.
A girlish chuckle, Brighton noted, frowning at Bill.
“They have an important—” Biffee again attempted to announce the purpose for his and Pello’s arrival here on Meland. And again was cut short.
“I strongly advise you to return the machine to its rightful owners before they come looking for it. In which case, as Warden of Meland, I shall be forced to take action.”
“Second Assis—” Biffee started to say.
Bill rummaged for the grease again. “It’s not here!”
Mitor reached for a battered tin can which sat on the workbench. He ended up spilling its contents—mostly tacks and old buttons—onto the cottage’s dirt floor.
“Are you not listening?” Brighton was already in a sour mood from the morning’s events. And now this. As much as he yearned to be rid of these unexpected intruders, a secret part of him was enjoying the company.
Lizard Bill turned to him. “I couldn’t return the robot if I wanted to. I can’t get rid of it. You can see that, can’t you? It follows me everywhere. I have no idea why. And may we please borrow some grease?”
“Then I should incarcerate it. Besides, what does a girl know about machines?”
Lizard Bill froze with indignation.
Brighton began to re-organize his workbench. He felt nervous about what he’d just said, knowing he had just opened a large can of worms.
Pello and Biffee looked at each other. Girl?
Lizard Bill fumed, and suddenly lowered his voice. “Who you calling a girl?”
In a burst of impatience, Brighton swung around and flipped Bill’s sampan hat off his head. The sampan sailed across the room flinging its passengers in every direction. The young lizards scampered for shelter, mostly beneath the cot. At the same time, a haystack of long, sandy brown hair exploded from the top of Bill’s head. And down onto his shoulders.
Brighton leaned close to Bill’s face and growled. “Who do you think you’ve been fooling?”
Lizard Bill shivered with a mix of horror and embarrassment. His face turned beet red. Then his eyes narrowed in a fearsome scowl.
Pello and Biffee watched, slack-jawed, as “Bill” and Brighton glared into each other’s eyes.
Though he acted more disgruntled than he really was, Brighton couldn’t help but marvel at the elegance of Bill’s face. A soft and gentle beauty, he thought, belonging to another breed of human, if that’s possible. Her pale cheeks covered with fine fuzz that catch the light like hairs on a peach. Lashes like sabers, shiny black and impossibly long. Designed to protect her heavenly, blue eyes. Windows to a chamber in heaven where angels wait, laughing like handmaidens, upon their owner. And that smell. How can a smell be so inviting? So intoxicating? What is it about these things that somehow remind me of Mother? And yet are so very, very different?
Bill wrinkled her nose. “When’s the last time you bathed?”
“Can’t remember,” Brighton said without flinching.
“How did I know that?”
A loud screech announced Handower’s arrival out back, breaking the uncomfortable spell. Keeping his stern gaze on Bill, Brighton pulled a hunk of smoked venison from a sack on the wall. He grabbed the basket-sized hood from the hook next to it, then turned and headed out the door.
“Maybe the boy knows nothing about falcons!” Lizard Bill shouted in his wake. She turned to Pello and Biffee who were still staring at her in disbelief. “What are you looking at?” She marched out the door followed by her now loyal mascot, Mitor.
Pello and Biffee glanced at each other, then scurried out after them.
Handower was using his beak to tidy the long blades of grass on the floor of his corral. Brighton knew, despite their issues, the falcon was accustomed to living in the company of a human. The bird had been with Brighton his entire life. So even though Handower sometimes rebelled, he always returned home. The giant was about to settle into his shallow nest when Brighton saw him catch Pello’s and Biffee’s scents. The feathers stood up on Handower’s neck. He hissed before he even turned his head.
Brighton spun around and shouted at the two would-be emissaries. “Back inside before he turns you into mincemeat.”
Handower squawked. Bill and the robot stopped. The monkrat brothers crashed into her. Biffee scowled, and Pello wrung his paws. They retreated back into the cottage.
Holding the venison behind his back, Brighton turned to Handower. The scent of deer meat was stronger than the scent of monkrat. And more favorable. In fact, the only reason monkrats were not a staple of the Magradore’s diet was because the taste of the rodents’ flesh was repugnant to the birds. Not to say a monkrat wouldn’t serve as a meal in a pinch.
“Whoa, boy.” Brighton moved toward the giant still raising dust from the flutter of his massive wings. Handower could not resist the venison. He snatched it from Brighton’s fist allowing Brighton to secure the hood over his tyrannosauric skull. Handower enjoyed his tidbit while Brighton hooked a heavy rope to the bird’s harness
ring and lashed it to the great oak that stood just outside the corral.
“Monkrats love to steal Magradore eggs,” Brighton said to Bill who watched his every move. “Makes him nervous even though he hasn’t a mate.” Brighton busied himself removing the saddle and Teidalbaden from Handower’s shoulders. He felt uncomfortable now that he’d ended the charade, and there was no more denying Bill was, in fact, a girl. An attractive girl at that.
Maybe I was a fool to let on. Maybe it would have been easier to let her keep pretending she was a boy. But he’d lost his temper and now the skunk was out of the proverbial sack.
Bill paced, looking beleaguered, as if she’d forgotten the reason she’d come here to begin with.
Brighton kicked the dry grass into heaps in order to encourage Handower to settle down. He felt strange sensations in his lower belly. Weird and somehow magical at the same time. What is this? he thought, desperate to keep his feelings from Bill. He wrestled with a variety of explanations, plus the fact he was still annoyed. At the same time, he was trying to figure out how to make up for being unsociable. And how could a girl be a ‘Bill’? And maybe that isn’t her real name. If not, what is it?
“It seems rather silly,” Bill said provokingly, “that a Magradore would be concerned about a couple of monkrats.” The cynicism in her voice resurrected Brighton’s ire.
“Leave!” he barked.
“Nothing would make me happier. But first I need that grease. Actually, Mitor needs it. You heard how the poor thing squeaks.”
“Poor thing? Anyway, do I look like a grease vendor? Why don’t you move to Valkyrie? They have plenty of vendors there.”
Brighton saw she was clenching her jaw to keep her chin from trembling.
“I’m not an animal.” She kept her voice calm now. “You’re the only human I know.” She chased after one of her lizards then, cooing with her usual motherly eloquence.
Brighton felt bad. Why did he say such mean things?
“Second Assistant Warden Aviamore!” Biffee shouted from inside the cottage. “They have orders from the Chancellor. They demand audience at once.”
Brighton turned his head to the cottage and frowned. He’d received orders from Valkyrie before. And they were always instructions to perform some utterly idiotic task. Like count the number of sand crabs living on the west beach. Or take inventory of yellow-crested woodpecker eggs. Or document the height of the tallest Jack Pine. And he knew these demands were placed on him for no other reason than to be sure he “earned his keep.” Why couldn’t they just leave him be? His responsibilities were sufficient, considering the islet might be raided by brigands on any given day. And there he’d be, the precinct’s sole government officer, on his own, to drive them off.
“Duty calls, Warden,” mocked Bill.
Brighton shot her a glare, then marched back into the cottage.
Chapter Seven
DISTURBANCE
Biffee looked fit to be tied. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to sip a nice, warm cup of redberry tea?” he said to Pello, keeping Brighton in the corner of his eye. “After suffering the chill of a morning crossing to perform one’s duty for the benefit of the commonwealth.”
“Would be nice, a cup of nice, warm redberry,” said Pello.
Brighton knew their hint was a ploy, and he wasn’t in the mood for it. “I don’t have any tea, and I don’t have time for your nonsense.” He glanced at Bill and realized she was looking amused.
“Oh, really?” Biffee smirked. “Yes, surely he’s quite busy with the countless legal infractions taking place throughout his jurisdiction even as they speak.”
“What is it?” Brighton seared into Biffee’s eyes.
Mitor toppled a lantern, which fortunately wasn’t lit, or burning oil might have spread across the floor.
“Mitor!” Bill scolded before Brighton could protest. “Keep to yourself.”
He watched her take the robot by its mechanical hand, which was really only a sort of wooden clamping device. She picked up the lantern and set it back on Brighton’s nightstand. But no sooner did she set it down when Mitor wheeled across the room with the exuberance of a two-year-old, and knocked the cooking pot off the edge of the hearth.
Brighton steamed. He was about to open his mouth to reprimand Bill. But Biffee, apparently out of patience, roared at the top of his lungs, “Chancellor Wark has ordered the Second Assistant Game Warden to fly to Drakton in order to consult the Seer of Buer!” Biffee stood there trembling, his mouth pursed, his forehead in a fitful crease.
Brighton turned to him. “Come again?”
“More enemy fighters have appeared above Valkyrie Heights. Far more than ever before. And they’ve brought more robots.” Biffee scowled at Mitor who was busy examining an old shoe.
Again, Brighton was about to scold Bill about the robot.
“Chancellor Wark,” Pello added, “requires guidance on the matter of Valkyrie’s defense. The Seer will provide clairvoyant insights into the situation. And may well reveal secrets of the aggressors heretofore hidden.”
“The Second Assistant Warden is to leave at once,” Biffee finished with a snort.
“The task you describe is best suited for the regional Sky Sheriff. And, as you say, I am merely the Second Assistant Game Warden.”
“You know very well your father was the last—” Biffee started.
“I am not my father,” Brighton shouted. “And I’m not the bloody Sky Sheriff. Nor would I ever care to be.” He felt an angst in his chest. Like some old knife blade permanently stuck there. And he’d never be able to pull it out.
Bill looked like she felt bad for him despite his often rude behavior.
Pello and Biffee were oblivious to his discomfort. “Since there is no official Sky Sheriff,” said Pello, “and he’s the only Falcon Rider, the task falls to him.”
Brighton stared at the floor. He lowered his voice. “Impossible. Weather’s too unpredictable. The lightning gets so thick, flying would be suicide. Even the wild Magradores rarely venture far this time of year.”
Brighton saw that Biffee was about to begin a rebuff. But the monkrat was distracted by Mitor who was pulling the tablecloth, along with dishes and cups, off the table.
“Orders are orders.” Pello shrugged.
“You mainlanders have gone mad.” Brighton eyed the robot.
“The stresses of defending their homeland have,” said Pello, “without question, had their psychological effects on the populace.” The monkrat cringed as the items on the table crashed onto the floor.
Brighton sighed and closed his eyes.
“Mitor, shame on you,” said Lizard Bill. She turned to Brighton and blushed. “Sorry.”
Mitor clicked the gears in the back of his skull. He released a huff of steam. He spun his head around looking for more items worthy of his inspection. Bill tightened her grip on his arm.
“Second Assistant Game Warden of Meland,” Biffee said, trying to keep the conversation on track, “does he intend to ignore his orders?”
How am I going to get out of this? Brighton thought to himself, at the same time suspecting he wasn’t.
“The war on Perpetua is none of my concern.” He watched the monkrats from the corner of his eye to measure their reactions.
“None of his concern?” Biffee looked confused and indignant at the same time. “May they remind him, the war is about microal, which is used the world over to make wheal. And since Meland holds as much ore as Valkyrie Heights, your territory will eventually become target for the invaders as well.”
“For the last time—a journey to Drakton is out of the question.” Brighton was emphatic as he assessed the damage to his already sparse dinnerware.
Always the diplomat, Pello said, “The journey is admittedly not without risk, sire. But they should have added they are going as well. By the overland route.”
“Indeed.” Biffee adopted Pello’s strategy. “They will collaborate en route.”
“Collabor
ate? How do you propose to collaborate?”
“They shall maintain visual contact for the much of the trip. They can even determine rendezvous points ahead of time,” said Biffee.
“And share information about possible encounters or hindrances,” Pello went on. “He must admit the monkrat has unsurpassed ability when it comes to scouting, tracking, and collecting empirical evidence.”
“Not to mention an uncanny sense of direction.”
“Sense of smell.”
“Sense of impending danger.”
“Sense of sensibility.”
“Meaning good sense.”
“Keen eyesight.”
“Blazing speed.”
Pello and Biffee looked at each other and set their jaws.
Then Biffee grinned at Pello. “And don’t forget unflinching valor.”
“Enough jabbering!” Brighton knelt to pick up the pieces of his favorite ceramic dish. “Besides, Handower would never tolerate your proximity.”
Brighton saw Pello glance at the crossbow which everyone knew had belonged to Lord Aviamore. Pello nodded to Biffee who winked.
“Pello, does he remember the time Lord Aviamore and his mount... what was his name?”
“Fumor,” said Pello.
Again, Brighton bristled at the mention of his father. How dare these two meddle in my family business? I’ve really had just about enough.
“Ah, yes, of course, Fumor.” Biffee gazed off with as much nostalgia in his eyes as he could muster. “Seems like only yesterday Lord Aviamore and Fumor single-handedly saved Valkyrie by driving off an entire brood of Ambroglian Dragons.”
“Risked his life to do so.” Pello stared at the old crossbow. “In service to the community.”
“Should be a statue in his honor. In fact, he shall suggest it to Commander Wark upon their return.”
Brighton couldn’t help seeing his father’s smiling face, a picture that filled his heart with warmth. In a flash, the good feeling was stolen by the vision of Fumor feeding on Vada’s body. A vision so vivid it seemed like only yesterday. Brighton shot to his feet, broken pieces of plate in his hands.
