Falcon Lord — Book One

by D. A. Metrov

  Brighton was stunned once again. Am I hearing correctly?

  “Don’t look so shocked, Brighton Aviamore.” Dredgemont made his way back to him. “This is not as spontaneous as it seems. I knew your father, you know. Knew him well.”

  Brighton furrowed his brow. This he could not believe. His father had never even hinted at knowing the Seer of Buer.

  “Believe it!” Dredgemont now stood next to him, glaring into his eyes. “He was going to be my partner until his untimely death. I never ordered Gretch to bewitch your father’s falcon. The miserable clod did it of his own accord.”

  Brighton felt like someone had just clubbed him on the skull. Gretch bewitched Fumor? Killed my father? His mind was reeling. He recalled what Handower had told him: The real killer is still at large.

  “No. None of this is possible.” His voice was hollow. Like a ghost’s.

  “True,” said a woman’s voice.

  Brighton whipped his head toward the curtains behind the throne. Toward the voice he hadn’t heard in nearly ten years. The voice he thought he’d never hear again as long as he lived. She stepped out into the candlelight. The sight of her nearly dropped him to his knees.

  “Mother?”

  And there she was, looking just as deranged as the last time he’d seen her. Despite his shock, he was reminded she possessed a strange, dark beauty. He saw that her long black hair fell in tangles around her neck much the way it always had. That her gown was crimson and sequined. And if it were soiled, Brighton could not tell, not in this light. He took note of her embroidered golden slippers padding toward him. And the exceptional length of her thick, sharp fingernails. All in all, it was understandable, Brighton supposed, that a hideous old man would find her attractive. Why else would she be here?

  Keeping her eyes on her long, lost son, she came up to Dredgemont. The old man seemed to curl over with perverse excitement when she stood by his side. Brighton could see the heavy gemstones on her rings and bracelets. Obviously gifts from Dredgemont. The old man reached for her hand. She pushed him away, an act which seemed to excite him even more, as Brighton watched him shiver ever so slightly.

  If Brighton was experiencing twisted emotions by this unexpected reunion, he refused to feel them. He kept those feelings locked up so deep inside him they could never come up at all. Never.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said, her voice sizzling like meat on a grill. “I left because your father had promised me the world. He swore to me we were going to live in a paradise, like royalty, in our very own kingdom. Obviously, he was a liar.”

  “We had our own kingdom,” Brighton finally managed to say.

  He saw she was beginning to tremble now.

  “Wilderness! Fit for bugs and apes,” she snarled. “Your father lied. But as you can see…” She made a subtle gesture with her arm. “Seigneur Dredgemont has made up for everything.” And she rolled her eyes back in her head as if suddenly filled with some wicked ecstasy. Dredgemont giggled and wrung his thin, wrinkled hands with boyish delight.

  “My father provided for us,” Brighton said. “Better than you after his death.”

  She began to circle him. Brighton could see she now had tears in her eyes. “When you were born, I had solace for a time. I nursed you. Cared for you. And you brought me comfort—until you were old enough to walk. From that day on, you ran to Vada whenever you saw him. Imagine how I felt.”

  Brighton felt a subtle pang of guilt rise in his chest. Was it true? Had he turned away from her and favored his father?

  He stared into her eyes. For the first time, he saw in them a frightened girl. A girl who’d been pampered her whole life. Who’d been swept away by Lord Aviamore, a rugged, grown man who loved wild places that most would consider harsh.

  Brighton had to look away. In an act of sheer willpower, he pulled himself together. Dragon’s Breath be with me.

  He felt something well inside him. Something subtle, yet otherworldly. Something indefinable. An invisible force. He changed his state of mind from self-doubt to self-confidence. He put his hands behind his back and began to stroll. He moved about the palace chamber, examining the lush details carved everywhere in wood and stone.

  “I must admit. You shed new light on events I may have misunderstood. Tell me more,” he said, speaking now with the air of a nobleman, “about the power and wealth I would possess should I accept your offer.”

  “You tell me, young lord,” said Dredgemont. “Your power and wealth would be limited only by your imagination. Perhaps you’d like your own castle. And servants to wait on your every whim?”

  “He may be thinking of women,” said Lady Aviamore. “He’s that age.” She circled near her son again. Her body shivered, her eyes filled with excitement. “Imagine having any woman in the entire world. Or a whole bevy of them.”

  She and Dredgemont looked at each other and laughed. Decadent, shameless laughs.

  Brighton strode up to the tabernacle of the Cobalt Cutlass. He admired it sitting there in its own light, encased in crystal and tarnished gold. “Such a life would be very different than what I’m accustomed to.” He stared at the mystical weapon. He tried to keep his mind blank so as not to give away his thoughts.

  “You’ll adjust quickly, I assure you,” Dredgemont said.

  “Yes, I’m sure I would.” Brighton acted like he was pondering all the possibilities that lay ahead. “It’s been hard for me, you know. Living alone, off the land, all these years.”

  He glanced at Lady Aviamore. Her eye twitched. Brighton was certain it was a hint of guilt.

  “But I hear you’ve done well for yourself,” she said. He felt she was trying to sound proud of him, and dismissive of any hardships he may have suffered. “Overseer of your very own island,” she finished.

  “Does this mean he accepts?” Dredgemont said. The old man clutched his fingers together in anticipation.

  Brighton spun around to face them. “I agree!”

  Dredgemont and Lady Aviamore lit up.

  Then just as quickly they grew dark.

  “To destroy you both.” Brighton stood there, glaring, furrowing his brow. Trying to look as fierce as his falcon, Handower.

  Lady Aviamore looked up to the ceiling and groaned in disgust. Dredgemont simmered with anger. In an instant, he returned to his true ruthless nature.

  He glided up to Brighton. “You’ll suffer for your foolishness.” Then, without taking his eyes off Brighton’s, he snapped his fingers. The palace guards hurried into the room. They grabbed Brighton by his arms, and hauled him away.

  “Your father was a failure!” he heard Lady Aviamore shout. He glanced back and caught her face quivering with rage and frustration. He saw her turn away, and glare at Dredgemont with an evil that matched his own. She stormed away then. And vanished in the shadows behind Dredgemont’s silly throne.

  “I am king here. Whether you like it or not,” Dredgemont shouted at her. Brighton wondered why he’d said such a thing. And then he could see the old man no more.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  THE DUNGEON

  The gorpes who made up the so-called Palace Guard were personally chosen by Dredgemont. Chosen not only for their exceptional height and strength, but also for their cruel and sadistic natures. Six of them muscled Brighton down a dark, rocky tunnel to an ore train that had been converted to their specific needs—namely the transportation of condemned prisoners. They threw him into one of the cars. They jumped in with him, then released the brake, allowing gravity to carry them deep into the mountain. It was a cold and wild ride.

  Brighton couldn’t see where they were going. He was too busy trying to shield himself from the blows landing on his face and body. He only knew he was flying through the darkness while lumps and bruises from gorpe fists grew in number. You’re going to pay for this. He imagined slaying them and burning their bodies. Too tired now. Need to get my strength back. For some reason, they tore his boots off. Brighton opened his eyes. He saw a
gorpe toss them over the side.

  By the time the car stopped, Brighton could smell the air was again filled with the familiar stench of the smelting chambers.

  The goons hauled him out of the car. He was too weak to stay on his feet at this point. They dragged him down a long, dreary tunnel lined with dungeon cells. His eyes were swollen shut from the beatings. He heard voices, gorpes probably, shouting and groaning miserably. “Let me out, brother.” “I’ve done no wrong.” “I’m innocent,” pleaded another.

  He could hear the clanging of keys and the squeaking hinges of a heavy door. “Rot in there,” grumbled one of the gorpes. Brighton felt himself flying through the air.

  He hit the ground about the same time the door slammed shut with sharp bang. Then the jangling keys again. And the haughty cackling of departing guards.

  “Brighton?”

  He knew that voice. It was matronly and kind. It belonged to someone he had always felt a secret fondness for. He opened his eyes, just a crack. He saw blurry shapes standing around him in the almost pitch black cell.

  “Brighton Aviamore, Second Assistant Game Warden from the Islet of Meland,” said Lady Sharpeye. “Just as you said.”

  “Just as they said,” answered Pello.

  “Can he hear us?” asked Biffee.

  Brighton could start to make out the shapes that were speaking to him. Then another, larger and blacker than the others, came up behind them. “Dear me, it is indeed,” said Wark.

  Pello and Biffee helped Brighton sit up. He yelped with unexpected pain, wondering if he had broken bones. He leaned against the rear of the cell. He felt icy rock on his back. His bare feet were already stinging with cold.

  Lady Sharpeye examined him with her gentle beak. Being a skilled healer, she possessed a keen ability to assess his injuries.

  “Nothing broken,” she said. “He’ll mend.”

  “I’m sorry to see you here, Lady Sharpeye,” Brighton managed to say in a raspy whisper. His mouth was puffy. He could feel the blood forming a crust on his lips. “You and Commander Wark.”

  Wark and Sharpeye could only gaze at him with sympathy. Brighton peered at Pello and Biffee. “I was wondering what had become of you.” He strained to focus on his monkrat companions. “Are you hurt?”

  “Nothing a good, hot bath wouldn’t cure,” Pello said.

  “Or a firm massage from a buxom lass,” Biffee quipped. He then stomped and kicked at the thing that was nibbling on his heel. Whatever it was scurried away in the dark. Biffee sniffed the air. “Something died in here.”

  “Has Valkyrie fallen?” Brighton said with alarm. He’d suddenly realized that might be the only reason to find the two Raven leaders sharing a cell with him.

  “I don’t believe so,” Wark said. “Then again, we’d have no way of knowing.” Wark stared out through the bars. Distant sounds of the mining equipment rumbled through the mountain. “But we’ve learned the reason for the invasion,” he went on, turning his gaze back to Brighton.

  Brighton tried to focus his eyes on the raven.

  Wark looked grim, grim indeed. “A certain Seigneur Dredgemont is the power behind the mining operation. He’s promised Perpetua’s entire West Coast to his workers. And Valkyrie as their very own township. Can you imagine?” And with that Wark grimaced and shook his head. Brighton knew it wasn’t like him to worry. The powerful raven was normally brash and proud, unwilling to kowtow to anyone or any challenge.

  Chancellor Wark, Lady Sharpeye, Pello, and Biffee huddled in the cold, dark cell. They seemed like a band of phantoms doomed to eternity in a living tomb. Seeing their despairing faces, Brighton’s own spirit began to falter. He felt the aches in his body growing sharper and more painful. He wondered if Lady Sharpeye’s assessment had been correct—that he wasn’t broken and that he’d mend. Then his worry came to an abyss. In his mind, he stood there, on the edge of a great precipice. He looked out over an endless gray miasma. And before he knew it, he was falling.

  And as he plummeted through that emptiness, he asked himself the same questions he’d asked at Drakton days earlier: Why did I ever leave Meland? It was quiet there. And safe. I had nothing to worry about but me and Handower. “Handower!” At that moment, he heard the bird cry out.

  Brighton jolted back to the present. He was no longer falling, but back on solid ground. The ground of cold, hard reality. Stunned, he looked at the others.

  “Captured,” Wark said, his brow in a grim knot. “Handower and Bill both.”

  “No!” Brighton felt like some brute, a brute like Gretch, had just kicked him in the gut. He groaned from the pang that shot through his body. Without thinking, he rolled onto his hands and knees, and crawled to the bars of the dungeon. The others could only watch him, as he made his way, like some wounded ape, across the cell.

  He pulled himself upright, onto trembling knees. He pressed his face between the thick bars. He felt the cold iron bite his cheeks and hands. He listened to Handower’s cries reverberate through the chambers of the underworld. Karawk! Karawk! And he could tell the bird was crying out directly to him. He could tell Handower knew that Brighton, his rider, was near. Brighton listened and felt his heart being torn in two. He felt that as bad as this situation was, it was somehow going to get worse.

  “Handower,” Brighton gasped. Willowmena, whispered his soul.

  A special detachment of gorpe engineers had been assigned to construct a cage strong enough to hold a Magradore. The devil-men took delight in doing so. It brought them a distraction from the day-to-day drudgery of mining.

  The fiends who’d stolen Handower and Bill from the clutches of Cape Kragmaur had hauled their prisoners all the way into the heart of Mount Pegosa. The cage, built from massive timbers and specially cast iron fittings, was finished and waiting for the hunting party when they’d returned. Suspended from the ceiling by heavy chains, it was more than strong enough to hold the fifteen foot raptor. Handower screeched and flapped his wings in a futile rage.

  The gorpes surrounded the bird. They tormented him with the tips of their lances and sabers. They cackled and made bets with one another on how much torment the bird could endure before he broke down and became submissive. Or died. But Handower was defiant. And little did they know, he would remain so. Even until his last breath should death be his fate.

  Gretch watched them. He crouched against the back wall of the dark chamber, his bloodshot eyes filled with psychosis. He wasn’t sure if Malgor, his mutant bat, would be jealous of the falcon. Or if the flying rodent would be just as happy to hang upside down in the peace and quiet of some lightless chasm. Mattered not. Gretch would do as he pleased. He imagined himself gliding through the heavens on Handower’s back, higher and faster than Malgor was able to fly.

  “No mercy,” Gretch growled from the shadows. “I want him to heed my commands like a well-trained hound.”

  The leader of the gorpes looked at him. The devil-man was already perturbed that Gretch had interfered with their hunt and was taking half the kettle of gold. What was the mongrel suggesting now?

  “Dredgemont wants the bird for himself,” the gorpe growled back at Gretch.

  “You question me?” Gretch barked back.

  The gorpe scowled at him, then turned his attention back to Handower.

  Gretch knew very well that Dredgemont fancied Handower for himself. But the troll was already planning to receive the falcon as his reward for delivering an even greater prize. He scratched at the roaches crawling in and out of his fur, then turned his gaze to the side. He studied Bill, bound and gagged in the corner.

  She glared at him, and struggled against her bonds. She kicked at the long-haired rats that kept coming for her ankles. Gretch had ordered she be dressed in an old gown that had been discarded by Lady Aviamore. The troll wanted the girl to look appealing to the old buzzard, Dredgemont. Gretch had also ordered one of the gorpes to coif her. The eunuch crouched like a frog at Bill’s feet. He snatched at her tangled hair with a brush used for
grooming Malgor, the bat. The instrument’s steely bristles snagged her scalp causing her to squeal and yelp as much as she tried not to.

  “Why do you fight?” Gretch snarled. “This servant only desires to improve your appearance. Alas, it may prove difficult considering your natural ugliness.” Gretch was sincere about her appearance. Despite her youthful beauty, to him, she was a wretched looking thing—quite different to what a troll would consider attractive.

  He studied her face, and found it so revolting, he began to have second thoughts about offering her to Dredgemont. What if the old man found her repulsive as well? The plan might backfire and succeed only in aggravating the Dark Lord.

  Better to simply do away with her, Gretch thought. And have a bit of fun doing so. Yes, that’s it. We’ll toss her in a furnace. Watch her burst into flames, then bloat like a balloon until she explodes. Sending her bits of flesh flying into the walls. Leaving only her bones to glow bright red before they crumble into ashes. Gretch knew well what happened to a body thrown into a smelting furnace. He’d ordered it as punishment on more occasions than he could remember. He knew it was great entertainment indeed.

  Handower screeched and beat his wings with greater fury.

  Gretch turned his gaze to the falcon. He could see the bird’s proud, defiant nature. Maybe they should both go into the furnace. Then he had a better idea. The gorpes were so engaged in torturing the Magradore, they didn’t notice when Gretch rose to his clompy feet, and began to sidle toward the cage.

  A smolder of words began to rise from his throat. “Malum falco terribile vostrato.”

  Handower froze, as if gripped by some invisible force. He focused on Gretch with such intensity the gorpes looked startled. They glanced back and forth between the Magradore and the foul Komodo Troll who was growling some strange, barely audible spell.