Falcon Lord — Book One

by D. A. Metrov

  “They risked their lives to cross the island and go up there.”

  “They made their own choice.”

  He didn’t answer. He kept his stern gaze out on the sea. It was already showing little tips of whitewater from a restless morning breeze. He allowed himself to be distracted by the pelicans diving for breakfast. And the pair of seal heads bobbing out there, watching the unusual visitors sitting on their beach.

  “And how am I supposed to get back to Valkyrie?” Bill said.

  “Handower will take you. You and your robot.” Brighton’s voice was distant. His mind already scouting the difficult route up to the lonely temple.

  “You would trust Handower to take me?” Her tone was incredulous.

  He turned to her and saw the anger building in her temple.

  “He’s a monster,” she went on. “An unpredictable monster. He could throw me off anytime he chose. I don’t believe you would even consider such a thing.”

  Handower looked down at her. His feathers went flat against his body.

  “He got us here, didn’t he? He’ll be fine.” Brighton did his best to sound confident. He wouldn’t tell her his real concern was for her safety being here at Drakton under the very nose of the enemy. He knew she’d never accept that. It would only give her cause to release a tirade of instances in which she’d defended herself against far more terrible odds.

  Handower cried out, his voice alarming the nearby seabirds who soared away from his field of vision. Brighton and Bill looked up at him. He was not watching the seabirds. He was focused on the Temple of the Mountain Gods. The structure sat atop a steep prominence, half way between the rock-studded sand berms of the beach and the inland mountain peaks. They followed his gaze and saw two small shapes making their way up to the Seer’s abode. Pello and Biffee.

  Handower growled at the sight, his eyes fierce. Brighton got up, and grabbed his rucksack. He headed toward the bird. Handower lifted his wings and opened his mouth when he saw him coming.

  “Easy.” Brighton pulled the falcon’s hood out of the pack. As soon as Handower saw the hood, he beat his wings and squawked in defiance. Brighton reached for his crop. Not there. He remembered he’d tossed it away the day before.

  “Tuck,” he said, which was the command for the falcon to lower his head and allow himself to be hooded. Handower hissed at him, then launched himself off the rock. He flew over Brighton’s head, and out to sea. “Heel, Handower!”

  Handower had already circled back toward land and quickly disappeared over the woods. Brighton stood there, limp with embarrassment. There went his argument about the Magradore being reliable. He hid his shame with anger. He turned to Bill. “Now look what you’ve done!” He then marched off after his intractable bird.

  “What I’ve done?” She stood with her hands on her hips, her face in a scowl. She twisted her mouth and kicked the sand with her foot. She turned to look at Mitor who was watching her, awaiting some command. And the sight of his innocent face reminded her of the puppy she’d had to leave behind when she and her parents had embarked on that fateful sea voyage. The puppy she had adored, and caressed in her dreams even to this day. What was his name? She couldn’t remember. It was so many lifetimes ago.

  “Master?” said the little robot.

  “Let’s go find some food.” She walked off toward the beach in search of mussels, or clams. Or with any luck, a giant stone crab, which she could roast on an open fire.

  “Food.” Mitor followed after her, his squeaky wheels swerving in the sand.

  Pello and Biffee had to take great care climbing the last stretch of steep rock to the old temple. The trail was eroding. In places there was no trail left at all. But monkrats were skilled climbers. And furthermore, for these two, this was the last stretch of their race.

  Biffee was a few feet ahead of his brother. It looked like he’d be first to set paw on the base of the temple foundation when a rock shot out from beneath his hind foot. He slipped and slid on his belly, several feet below Pello. Pello now had the advantage. He could have easily claimed victory. But he stopped and looked at Biffee who dug his claws into the earth lest he plummet all the way back to the ground.

  Biffee managed to pull himself onto a small ledge. He leaned back against the rock to catch his breath. Pello leaned back, too. For no particular reason, they both sat there, high above the world, just beneath the Seer’s abode. They stared out at the glorious horizon.

  “Such a beautiful world they live in, Biff,” Pello said, his sparkling eyes filled with wonder.

  Biffee gazed out at the sea and the tufts of brilliant white nimbus drifting slowly across the sky. “They don’t take time to appreciate it,” he said.

  “Take it for granted, they do.” Pello’s soul became one with the clouds and nearly sailed off without him. He turned his gaze to the peaks standing like proud titans. Even the airships, docking and undocking from their ports higher in the mountains, seemed to blend into the scenery. It was as if they were nothing more than honey bees tending their hive.

  “The mountains,” Pello went on. “So tall and strong. They provide everything, don’t they? They gather the clouds and collect their snow in winter. In the spring, the snow melts into streams and rivers that nourish the lands below. The lands grow lush with forests and meadows which, in turn, grow food for all the creatures living there. Birds, beasts, and monkrats. Whoever comes in need.”

  “The flowers and butterflies, like spices on a salad,” Biffee said, his eyes dreamy. “Even the Great Leonardo could not conceive of anything more wonderful. Who designed it all, he wonders?”

  “They did.” Pello stared in wide-eyed, childish fashion, taking it all in.

  “They did?” Biffee looked at him.

  “He knows. It sounds very strange. And he can’t explain it, but knows it’s true. He knows that somehow it just can’t be without them.”

  “Can’t be without them.” Biffee scanned the magnificent panorama again. He somehow understood. “You mean like if a tree falls in the woods, and if there’s no one to hear it, its falling makes no sound.”

  “Yes, brother. Something like that.” And a smile came to Pello’s face.

  They both stared in wonder. Their hearts were bursting with that rare joy that comes from gratitude and love for all creation. Rare because, in the illusion of Life’s struggle, most forget to take the time to stop and appreciate the world. Most think if they stop struggling and worrying, they’ll lose some fight. And be swallowed by an ogre who doesn’t really exist.

  The monkrat brothers allowed themselves to be swept away in that timeless moment. To be blown by ambrosial winds to a realm of healing. And rebirth. And some ultimate truth.

  And it seemed as if perhaps they’d found something so precious there was no need to ever come back. And maybe they wouldn’t have if Pello hadn’t spoken.

  “Brother?”

  “Yes?” Biffee answered, still under a pleasant spell.

  “The moment has come.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  TEMPLE OF THE MOUNTAIN GODS

  Sitting on the rocky ledge beneath the old temple, Biffee’s face transformed from childish awe to a warrior’s resolve. And in the time it took for the transition to take place, Pello was already back on his feet. He went scampering like a possessed wolverine up to the base of the mysterious abode.

  “To claim his victory!” His impish voice careened wildly into the ethers.

  “He don’t think so!” Biffee powered his claws with determination.

  The two of them became lost in their own cloud of dirt and rocks. It was the last few moments of their long race across Perpetua, 383 terrameters from home.

  And when the dust settled, both of them lay on their bellies at the foot of the Temple of the Mountain Gods. Their lungs heaved for air. Neither of them wanted to speak what they knew to be true—their competition had ended in a tie. After they caught their breath, they righted themselves. They slapped the other’s paw. And
neither of them ever questioned who had won.

  Instead, they took in the old temple. It was ancient Greek in design, made from white granite that had been worn over the years by the wind and the rain and the salt air that forever swirled in and out of its open porticos. And though it was timeworn and broken in places, it stood with dignity. It had been erected by mysterious ancients to honor the gods who lived in the nearby mountains. That would be its duty and purpose for the rest of time, even after its last pillar crumbled to bits and fell into the sea.

  Pello and Biffee moved toward it—slowly, with a sense of reverence and caution. It was not a large structure. No bigger than any of the buildings back at Valkyrie. The strange thing was it appeared to be uninhabited. The calm breeze flowing up from the ocean whistled through its black hollows. Tall grass grew between the cracks in the stone that served as a deck all around it. Fragments of stone, broken off by the elements over time, lay about in need of sweeping. The lack of droppings indicated that not even the birds dared to gather here. They knew somehow the place was sacred.

  Pello and Biffee looked at each other. Possessing the keenest of senses, neither of them had to say the obvious. The Seer was not here.

  “Could he be on holiday?” Biffee said.

  “Not on holiday, Biff. He’s been away too long for that.” And Pello, who was normally the more reserved of the two, led the way inside.

  They moved with stealth into the main room. They allowed their eyes to adjust to the darkness. They sniffed the stale air, and peered into the shadows. There was not much here besides the old throne. It was carved from stone, standing against the wall on the opposite side of the room. It was in this very room the Seer had held court and listened to the pleas of pilgrims. They had come for his wisdom. But there was no wisdom to be had now. There were only the unseen ghosts who swam to and fro, wondering about their furry visitors.

  “Look,” Biffee whispered, his eyes fixed on a trunk sitting in a niche. They moved toward it, their paws hopping lightly over the cold, lichen-covered floor.

  Because they were monkrats and possessed insatiable curiosity about things (especially strange and unusual things), they began to breathe harder. Pello’s paws trembled ever so slightly as he reached for the trunk. He raised the cover. They were hardly able to contain their excitement. They looked in. It was empty.

  Together, they lowered their heads inside to examine every inch of its interior. They wanted to make sure there wasn’t even the tiniest remnant of something. Anything that might be of interest. They found nothing but the scent of mildew. Out of frustration, Biffee kicked the trunk back on an angle against the wall. They sat back and stared at its underside. Something caught Pello’s eye—a corner of parchment sticking out from a false bottom.

  “What’s this?” he said, immediately catching Biffee’s attention. Pello tugged at the hidden panel. He jerked it open. And carefully removed a roll of parchment.

  “Looks old,” Biffee said.

  They unrolled it with care, and studied what appeared to be a map. But it was a map of some unknown land. On it were written the names of locations in some obscure language.

  “A foreign country?” Biffee’s eyes moved over the map’s cryptic symbols and legends.

  “Hard to say. The language, foreign. Definitely.” Then Pello saw something else sitting inside the secret compartment. It was a small, leather-bound book covered with mold. He reached for it. Biffee watched as Pello opened its stiff cover. They saw only more of the same undecipherable words covering its pages. They studied page after page, straining to understand, but could not. It left them frustrated.

  “What does it mean?”

  “No idea,” Pello said, his muzzle in a miff.

  Biffee lost interest. He turned his gaze to the next room—a windowless place, cold and spooky.

  He and Pello left the map and the book. They moved with caution into the dank chamber.

  They smelled death. But it was old death that had occurred a long time ago.

  “Something happened here,” Biffee whispered.

  “Something unpleasant.” Pello’s soft voice echoed ever so slightly off the cold stones, bare save for the occasional tufts of moss. Then he gasped at what he saw against the back wall.

  They moved toward it, their faces filled with apprehension. A skeleton. Human! Something clutched in its hand.

  Pello and Biffee looked at each other. They were both petrified now. Pello reached out. With great care, he took the small, stained piece of parchment from its fingers. Again, they couldn’t read the words written upon it. But they could see they’d been written in blood.

  Brighton hiked through the woods that skirted the southeast corner of the Drakton Plateau. These were the woods he’d known as a boy. It was where he’d played with fairies and sprites, some real, some imagined. For the moment, his mind was distracted from the warring at Valkyrie and the theft of ore at Drakton. Instead, he was drawn back to his childhood. It was here, in this magical forest, he’d made friends with the small birds and the squirrels. Here he’d chastised the woodpeckers for their noisy destruction of the tree trunks way above his head. It was here, also, he’d taken the falconry manuals his father had entrusted to him for study. They were old, leather-bound books inherited by Lord Aviamore from the Falcon Riders before him.

  Brighton remembered devouring the lessons and etchings with boyish enthusiasm. He had delicately turned the brittle pages so they wouldn’t break or tear. He’d studied the ancient methods of training birds of prey for the purpose of hunting. He’d learned it was a sport reserved for nobility which made him feel special. He’d learned about the different classes of raptors, beginning with the broad-winged, red-tails that were good for taking hares. And the goshawks and Cooper’s hawks, faster and more nimble, that were able to catch grouse. And finally the noble falcons that were quick and bold enough to strike at all manner of fowl, even birds twice their size.

  He’d learned how to train an ordinary falcon to fly to his glove by whistling and holding out a small slab of meat. He learned to gradually extend the length of its leash until the bird was trained and the leash no longer necessary. He’d learned about hoods. And bells. And the jesses that were used to tether the birds’ ankles.

  But traditional falconry was designed for traditional falcons. There was considerable difference, of course, between a bird that stood fifteen inches and one that stood fifteen feet. The same principles applied, but the techniques had to be modified. The bridles and bits, similar to those used for horses, were employed to restrain the mighty Magradores instead of jesses around their legs. There was greater emphasis on trust and psychological obedience. The giants were simply too large and powerful to hold by force.

  And so, as a young boy, Brighton had learned all these things. He had indeed become master of the sport that had been refined by kings over the centuries. Or so he’d imagined. Now he was chasing his Magradore through the forest because the bird would not obey.

  Perhaps my father was killed before he’d been able to teach me everything I needed to know. Maybe there are secrets of falconry not written in the books—secrets I can never learn now, being on my own without a teacher. Maybe the disobedient Handower is proof I’ve failed miserably. Maybe I’m doomed to go down in history as the one who ended the occupation of Falcon Rider. Great. Shut up, will you? You’re driving yourself mad. There’s a stream. Why don’t you bathe while you have the chance?

  Though the morning was crisp, and the water biting cold, Brighton stripped down and submerged himself. He felt the temperature change shock his body. He quickly rubbed his skin, and dunked his head under the water to wash the dried salt out of his hair. He let out a whoop, and splashed his armpits. He stayed in as long as he could bear it, scrubbing and rubbing himself clean. Maybe Bill would think better of him now that she’d be able to tolerate his body odor. He laughed at the thought, then lunged out of the icy water. Shivering and covered with goose bumps, he dressed himself as fast
as he could. He felt like a new man.

  Little did Brighton know, Bill felt new as well. She’d also decided to bathe. But not in an icy stream. She’d managed to find a hot spring not far from the beach. She sat up to her neck in its soothing waters.

  “Isn’t life grand, Mitor?” Her eyes were closed, and she had a smile on her face. “It’s moments like these that make up for everything.”

  “I am happy you are enjoying your bath, master.” Mitor stood at the edge of the steaming pool.

  “If only I had a bar of soap.” She rinsed her long, auburn hair, then threw it back over her head.

  “I shall go find soap, master.”

  “No!” She giggled. “Silly. There’s no soap out here. It’s fine, Mitor. The hot water is good enough. But thank you anyway.” She leaned her head back against a rock. She allowed herself to forget everything and simply soak up the bliss. Who knew when she’d have another chance?

  Brighton made his way through the woods again. He felt rejuvenated from his bath, and optimistic about the future. Despite the discovery of the illegal shipping operation. And the

  questions about the best way to warn the citizens of Valkyrie. And how he would keep Bill safe. He now felt he’d figure it all out. First things first. He had to find his Magradore who’d decided to fly off on his own. He brought his fingers to his mouth and whistled. It was the shrill call he’d used to train Handower ever since the bird was a chick. The whistle meant the master was calling with an offering of food. The truth was, Handower was perfectly capable of hunting for himself.

  Brighton stopped and listened to see if he could get a fix on the falcon’s location. He could only hear the soft twittering of songbirds scattered throughout the trees. And the nervous chatter of a chipmunk who’d forgotten where he’d hidden his winter stash. Brighton peered through the shafts of light that were piercing the woods. Something washed over him, a feeling he wasn’t sure was good or bad. He suddenly felt a discomfort in his stomach. It wasn’t exactly painful, just unusual. He couldn’t tell why he was feeling this. Then, slowly, he realized it was about Bill. He realized it was his affection for her. Was this something called… love? Just like that. Out of the clear blue. He felt like his spirit was rocketing around the entire universe.