by D. A. Metrov
“Malum falco terribile vostrato,” Gretch chanted, stopping a leapspan from the cage.
Bill watched, too. She appeared to be mystified by the bird’s sudden strange behavior. Handower’s eyes turned ruby red, and shone like embers in his skull. His feathers flattened against his sides. His body began to shiver. He opened his beak just a crack and made a slow, deep hissing noise.
Gretch went on. “Malum falco terribile vostrato. Malum falco terribile vostrato.” Just as he had all those years ago when he’d bewitched Fumor and caused the bird to turn on Lord Aviamore.
The leader of the guards was caught off guard when Handower shot out like a viper. He shoved his beak through the cage bars and grabbed the devil-man by the shoulder. The gorpe wasn’t even able to put up a fight. Handower broke his neck instantly and nearly severed his head from his body.
The other guards stood there, paralyzed. The giant falcon pulled the guard through the bars, mutilating his body in the process. Handower thrashed it around and shredded it before their eyes. The bird made such a hideous mess in such a short period of time, some of the gorpes gagged as though sick to their stomachs.
Bill watched, too, her eyes wide and incredulous.
Even Gretch was surprised to witness the power of the incantation. He’d forgotten the terrible affect it had on a Magradore. “Malum falco terribile vostrato.” The words trailed off and drifted out of the chamber. Everyone in attendance watched in silence. The only sounds were Handower’s growls. And the ripping of sinew as he threw mouthful after mouthful of bloody entrails back into his gullet.
The gorpes slowly came back to their senses. One of them turned to Gretch. “Might we feed it the wench as well, Commander?” said the fiend, his limbs trembling with excitement.
Gretch stared at Handower. He watched the bird feed, and felt perverse delight. After several moments, he spoke. “I have other plans for the wench. Bring her.” Gretch turned and lumbered out of the chamber.
The gorpes fixed their attention on Bill. Their eyes grew round with anticipation. They swept upon her like a school of piranhas. They untied her from the wall and dragged her, kicking and screaming, after Gretch.
Handower would have screeched and flapped his wings in protest. But he was still under Gretch’s spell. And still savoring his unexpected meal.
Brighton listened to Bill’s cries. His face was still pressed between the cell bars, his brow knotted with anguish. A voice in the back of his head kept suggesting he was at fault for her capture. For sending her to Valkyrie on her own. I had no choice! But the voice was relentless: She’d wanted to stay together. You should have gone back to Valkyrie with her and Handower. Now look, they’re both suffering something unimaginable. All because of you.
He was ready to sob. He could hear Pello and Biffee behind him in the dark. They were bickering about whose fault it was they’d been caught. He spun around. “Will you two stop!” he screamed at them.
The monkrats looked surprised by his outburst. So, too, Wark and Sharpeye who huddled in the corner. Brighton began to pace the cell, mumbling to himself as if badgered by demons.
“We’ve got to get along. Work together,” they heard him say to no one in particular. Peculiar words for the young man who chose to live on his own on the tiny islet of Meland. The one who’d shunned any attempts to recruit him into the community.
And so they occupied the dark and dirty cell together. They listened to Bill’s distant cries echo through the underworld. They felt not only the earth trembling beneath their feet, but the angst in their hearts for their failures and their hopeless situation.
Brighton gripped the bars again and shook them with all his might. He roared, so loudly the others thought he would roar out his innards.
Later that night, the rumbling of mining equipment had ceased as it did every night for a few hours of reprieve. The operation slowed down, and most of the workers were allowed a bit of sleep. Smaller night shifts oiled the machinery and swept the cart tracks.
The mountain rats took advantage of this time to scavenge for food. And perhaps even splash about in the tainted underground springs. Most of them were losing their filthy hair. They bore open sores on their skin caused by the smelting acids that polluted the water and air. Their scabby, little feet padded everywhere. The miners beat them with their shovels, and shouted to scare them away.
These were the things Brighton could hear wafting through the underworld as he sat on the cold dungeon floor staring into the dark. His feet were so cold, he feared they might crack into pieces. Bill’s cries had stopped, which was almost worst than hearing them. Pello, Biffee, Wark, and Sharpeye slept, passed out from sheer exhaustion.
Brighton was tormented by so many black thoughts he was ready to beat his face on the ground to try to stop them. He pulled the parchment drawing out from his shirt. He opened it, and gazed at the crude image of boy and falcon. He recalled the day he’d watched his father draw it. He began to pray. His voice was a whisper so soft he couldn’t tell if his words were exiting his mouth or just swimming inside his head.
“Father. I need your help. Can you hear me? Can you come to my aid?”
He listened for some response. He stared into the blackness, hoping to see the glow that would signal the arrival of Lord Aviamore’s spirit. He hung his head, feeling foolish for trying to communicate with the dead. He wondered if his father’s apparition had been nothing more than some bizarre hallucination. He wondered if, in truth, he’d never seen his father’s ghost. Nor heard his voice.
“Brighton!”
Brighton’s head snapped up. It was not his father who appeared before him outside the dungeon bars. It was Lady Aviamore. Her psychotic eyes glared in the dark. Her body was wrapped in heavy furs to protect her from the mountain’s bone-chilling cold. Brighton’s alarm transformed into rage.
“Get out of my sight,” he growled.
“I want you to listen to me.” Her gaze was fierce as ever.
“You’re an abomination!”
“Stop being a fool. Look at you. You and your friends. Do you think there’s any hope for you? You may as well be rotting in a dunghill.”
Brighton glared at her. She was taking little steps now. Back and forth in front of him. Those panther steps. The same way she’d always paced ever since he could remember.
“Dredgemont is a good man,” she said, her voice a tad softer now.
Brighton was amazed. Does she really expect me to believe such a thing?
“He’s cared for me. Like no one ever has. I’m here to beg you. Give him a chance!” She stopped and stared into Brighton’s eyes. He stared back and somehow felt part of himself in her. It revolted him.
“Why did you leave me?” he said, surprised by his own words. And he began to shake. He realized, at that moment, the question had been burning inside him. Yet he’d never before dared to ask it. Not even of himself.
She wrung her hands and raised her forehead in a look of regret. “Forgive me,” she said in a hush. Her face trembled.
Brighton could only stare at her. He wondered if deep down inside, beneath her madness, there remained some remnants of humanity.
“I was young,” she said. “I was weak. Terrified by the situation I was in. Let go of the past. Join us. Dredgemont is going rule all of Perpetua. And beyond. You’ll never have an opportunity like this again. Believe me!”
Still, Brighton could only glare. There was something about everything she was saying that caused in him a kind of alchemical reaction. A reaction that resulted in a tempering of his character. Something that could not have occurred had she not spoken. He felt more like a man in that moment than he ever had before.
“The day I join you is the day I should burn in Hades.”
Their eyes bore into each other. She knotted her face in frustration, and stormed away back into the darkness. He watched her go, shaking and afraid. He wondered if he should have been gentler. More understanding. Part of him wished he could love her.
>
“Who was that woman?” asked Pello.
Brighton glanced behind him. He saw that Pello and the others were awake. He looked away again and felt his blood simmering inside.
“Smells like a witch,” Pello said, then closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
Brighton stared into the dark, again so beleaguered by his own mental demons, he couldn’t even begin to sort them out.
Something caught his eye—the old Lizard King clinging to the wall of the cell, looking right at him. Then he saw the king’s entourage surrounding their liege. And when he heard the king’s thoughts enter his head, he wanted to swat them away. But they were persistent as pesky flies. Bill suffers because of you, Falcon Rider.
Brighton crumpled over into fetal position, unable to bear the accusation. The Lizard King spoke again. This time the old reptile was crouched next to his ear. She shares your failure because of her affection for you.
Brighton groaned in pain. But the old Lizard King was relentless. Stop groveling in your useless self-pity. Pull yourself together. The key to freedom is already within you.
And with that, Brighton looked up. The Lizard King and his kind were gone. The key to freedom is already within you.
What did he mean? What could he possibly mean?
“What is it, Brighton?” said Wark who was awake again.
Brighton straightened up. A whole new thought blossomed in his head. “Chancellor. Will you swear me in? As Sky Sheriff?”
Wark looked taken aback. “Well, I…” he hesitated. “Of course, I can.”
Brighton scrambled over to him. “How do we do it?”
“We’ll need a witness.” They both turned to Lady Sharpeye. She was awake, too. She nodded her head in agreement. Pello opened his eyes. He and Biffee sat up, curious about what was going on.
“Normally you would place your hand on the Book of Laws,” Wark said. “But since we don’t have a copy, we’ll improvise.”
Brighton stayed on his knees as Wark stood up.
“It’s been quite some time since I’ve sworn in a sheriff. Your father was the last. I think I can remember the words. Most of them anyway.” He cleared his throat. “Brighton Aviamore, do you swear to uphold the laws of the great isle of Perpetua?”
“Yes.”
“Wait. Let me finish.”
“Sorry.”
“Do you, Brighton Aviamore, Second Assistant Game Warden of Meland solemnly swear to uphold the laws of Perpetua Isle? To protect the people, without prejudice, as Sky Sheriff and Falcon Rider? And to stand up for those who are not strong enough to defend themselves against aggressors? Even to sacrifice your own life if need be to save this land and her children? And do you swear these things before all the gods?”
“I do solemnly swear these things by all the gods. Even to sacrifice my own life, if need be.”
“Very good. I hereby pronounce you Sky Sheriff of Perpetua. Congratulations.” Wark settled back to the ground again, and closed his eyes. “Although I don’t see what good it’s going to do us now.”
Lady Sharpeye gave Brighton a gentle smile. “Congratulations, Brighton. We’re very proud of you.”
“Indeed. Congratulations,” Pello and Biffee said in unison.
Brighton smiled back, then stared at the floor. He knew Wark was right. Nothing would matter unless they could escape. And they’d have to do it soon. Still, he felt good about himself. It was like a little fire had been rekindled deep inside him. It gave him warmth, and he could feel it was slowly growing. All this, even though his frozen feet were now completely without feeling.
PART THREE
SUMMONING OF HEROES
Chapter Twenty-Four
THE COBALT CUTLASS
Mitor was startled when he bobbed back to the surface of the sea. He felt the harsh glare of morning sun shooting through his telescope eyes. He’d lost consciousness at Cape Kragmaur due to the depth of the water and the pressure on his copper and wooden skull.
The southern currents had carried him a hundred terrameters underwater. And now, because the sea was calm and heated by sunlight, he’d become buoyant again. Though he could not feel, per se, he knew there was a stiffness in his joints. And that if he didn’t start moving soon, he’d become completely corroded. He began to focus his vision and realized he had water in his already-foggy lenses. He felt inside himself for those pockets of pressure that gave him life—steam built up in his little boilers. He managed to spin one of his wheels just a bit. He was relieved to feel it move along with a gasp of hot bubbles. He tried his right wing, and again, felt just a twinge of movement.
No sooner did he start to sense a re-birth surging through his being when he crashed against a rock. The blow nearly cracked his head open. At the same time it had an awakening effect. He saw he was close to shore. The little robot conjured every bit of energy he had, and putted landward.
Puffing and sputtering, he managed to emerge from the water. His wheels slipped and spun on the wet rocks. He fluttered his soggy wings. He made it to higher ground, and paused to assess his whereabouts. Steam oozed from his joints. He felt something like gratitude that he’d lost consciousness. If he hadn’t, he’d have spent himself completely trying to swim.
He began to roll over the rocky surface along the shoreline that would lead him to Valkyrie. The township was still a considerable distance to the west. He gained momentum and could already imagine himself back with Bill.
He was rejoicing when he felt the tension die from the springs in his loins. His network of gears ceased to turn. He could tell there was no more pressure inside his cylinders. His wheels creaked to a stop and he froze, still as a statue on the water’s edge. He realized his feeling of re-birth had been premature. He was now completely out of steam. Before he could wonder about who might turn his crank, ignite his fuel, and bring him back to life, his mind went blank. And little Mitor might as well have been just another stone sitting on Perpetua’s desolate coast.
Brighton sat in the dark listening to the sounds of the maintenance workers echoing out in the mines. The words of the Lizard King continued to haunt him. The key to freedom is already within you. They bubbled in his head and finally reached a boiling point. He had to take action. The others were asleep again. He crawled over to Pello.
“Wake up,” he said, shaking the monkrat.
“Eh?” Pello barked, sitting bolt upright.
Biffee did the same. “Eh?”
“Let me have it. The diary,” Brighton whispered.
“Diary?” Pello said. “He don’t have no diary.”
“I know very well you have it. We don’t have time.” And with that, Brighton reached into his belly pouch.
“Ah, ha hah, that tickles. Stop!”
Brighton felt around the potpourri of items that jangled inside Pello’s pouch. He pulled out the leather diary, which they’d found back at the Temple of the Mountain Gods. He flipped through its pages. Flakes from the brittle parchment flew through the air.
“Careful,” Biffee said. “It’ll fall to pieces.”
“What’s he want it for?” asked Pello.
Brighton scanned the pages as if they already possessed him. Wark and Sharpeye huddled together to keep each other warm. Wark snorted and grunted, but didn’t wake up. Sharpeye buried her beak deeper beneath her husband’s wing.
Brighton found what he was looking for. He strained to read in the darkness. He brought the book over to the cell bars where a little more light shone in from the lantern hanging down the corridor. He began to mumble the strange words, determined to decipher their meaning.
Pello and Biffee looked at each other and shrugged. Then fell back to sleep.
Brighton spent the next hour studying the book. Unbeknownst to Pello, it contained spells and incantations, which Dredgemont had documented over the years. The ancient words were carved into the stone of the temple walls. To most they resembled nothing more than decorative lines and shapes. But Dredgemont, who’d spent so many years
in solitude as the Seer of Buer, had eventually been able to decipher their meaning. He’d spent so much time memorizing them, they were emblazoned in his head. He’d forgotten they were even recorded in his diary so he’d left it behind in his determination to start life anew.
Brighton had heard his mother speak of the Seer’s power to bewitch. He’d even eavesdropped on her as a small boy when his father was away. He’d listened with fascination as she practiced her own form of witchery. Once, he’d spied on her, alone in her room, speaking to a candle flame. She burned a letter in its fire. A letter she’d found amongst the belongings of old Lord Cloudstepper, the second to last Falcon Rider who’d died of old age. The magic spell was supposed to read between the lines of written words. To reveal secrets that might be of value. Brighton had suspected she was desperate for information she could use to force her husband to bring her home to Baldore. It was something she’d talked about often. Watching from hiding, Brighton had grown amazed when he saw the candle flame glow bright. Images had appeared within its light. He’d watched his mother gaze at them, as though intent on interpreting their meaning. All the while she had continued to chant.
But he’d accidently made a sound, breaking the spell which left the flame in smoke. Lady Aviamore whipped her head to where he’d been hiding. But Brighton had already scurried away.
And so when Brighton had first seen the diary, days ago in the temple, he’d recognized the spells. He knew they were written in the Old Language. He had no idea what they meant, or exactly what purpose they served. But he suspected they were powerful.
Now, as he studied them in the smoky light, he was able to compile clues about them. One phrase caught his attention. It contained the word “sopia” which he knew meant “sleep,” and the word “engaleo,” which meant “to force.” He whispered the spell, and others, over and over until he had them memorized.
