Falcon Lord — Book One

by D. A. Metrov

  Finally, he stopped. He looked at his sleeping cell mates. He peered out through the bars. He heard the guards in their nearby quarters bickering with each other about how to divvy up the belongings from Brighton’s falcon pack.

  Brighton gathered his nerve. He was going to take a risk, even if it meant a quicker, more painful death.

  “You there!” he shouted through the bars. Pello, Biffee, Wark, and Sharpeye woke from their slumber. Brighton shouted again. “Get over here now!”

  Down the corridor, the two gorpe guards stopped arguing and looked at each other. They weren’t used to being addressed by their prisoners in such brash fashion.

  “Someone’s in need of a beating, I take it,” said the squattier of the two guards.

  “It’s the human, ain’t it?” said the taller one.

  They addled down the stony corridor, dragging their sword tips across the cell bars of the other prisoners.

  Brighton listened to them coming.

  “What in blazes is he doing?” Biffee demanded.

  “You trying to get us punished?” said Wark.

  “Or worse?” yelped Pello.

  “Please be quiet,” Brighton said. “I’m going to get us out of here.” I hope.

  Wark and Sharpeye glanced at each other. Wark looked skeptical. Sharpeye’s nod said, give the lad a chance.

  The gorpes came to the cell and stood there, hunched over, swords dangling from their fists, their pouty mouths gaping.

  Brighton studied them. He could see, despite their thick, muscular physiques, they had the intelligence of cretins. He began to chant, “Stupo engaleo sopia. Stupo engaleo sopia. Stupo engaleo sopia.”

  The thugs looked at each other with disbelieving grins. They looked back at Brighton.

  “Stupo engaleo sopia. Stupo engaleo sopia.”

  The gorpes burst into laughter. They began to poke at him with their swords. But Brighton kept on with steady resolve.

  “Shut yer yapper,” one of the gorpes snapped.

  “Or we’ll cut out your tongue!” said the other.

  “Stupo engaleo sopia. Stupo engaleo sopia.”

  The gorpes poked and lunged, all the while laughing. Wark, Sharpeye, and the monkrats watched, their mouths agape. Brighton’s brow grew tense. He refused to listen to that voice deep in his head that said his plan wasn’t working. He continued to drone with the hypnotic repitition of a street organ, “Stupo engaleo sopia. Stupo engaleo sopia. Stupo engaleo sopia.”

  The gorpes began to drool. Their eyes rolled back in their heads. They kept stabbing and lunging. Brighton could see their knees growing wobbly, their vision losing focus.

  “Stupo engaleo sopia. Stupo engaleo sopia. Stupo...” Brighton stopped. He watched in wonder as the guards spun in circles and toppled, unconscious, to the floor.

  It was hard to believe. Words and words alone caused the two savages to fall fast asleep. But there they were, spread out on the dirt, snoring and vulnerable as newborn babes.

  Brighton reached out through the bars. He was able to catch, with the tips of his fingers, the big ring of rusty keys that hung on the tall one’s belt. He pulled them inside and fumbled through them. He found the one that unlocked their cell.

  Brighton turned and looked at the others. They were still staring in shock. His gaze brought them to their senses. Wark nodded and the troupe slipped out of the prison cell. Brighton retrieved his rucksack from the guard shack. They hurried away down the dark corridor that led to an unknown fate.

  Brighton led them in the direction from which they’d heard Handower and Bill hours before. They had to dodge the occasional guard, and wait in the shadows ‘til the enemy passed.

  The escapees came to the chamber where they could hear Handower wheezing inside. Brighton peeked in. Handower was already staring right into his eyes. In an instant, they shared a silent knowing. Gretch’s spell had worn off. The falcon was back to normal except for the gorpe blood that stained his breast feathers.

  Brighton rushed into the room. Handower shrieked to stop him. Too late. He hadn’t seen the two gorpe guards in the shadows behind him. One of them whacked Brighton across the shoulder blades with his broadsword. The other held the tip of his blade against Brighton’s neck.

  The two fiends glared at him. Brighton began to chant, “Stupo engaleo sopia. Stupo engaleo sopia. Stupo engaleo sopia.” Like the other guards, these two were quickly asleep on the floor. Brighton found their keys.

  Handower cooed as Brighton removed the padlock from his cage. “Where’s Bill?” Brighton asked. Handower bounded out onto the floor. The great falcon looked into his master’s eyes. Brighton could see the bird didn’t know.

  Handower looked back inside the cage at the remnants of the slaughtered guard. He turned back to Brighton. Brighton sensed what was going through the bird’s mind—Handower felt a mix of horror and satisfaction about what he’d done. Pello and Biffee looked nervous.

  Lady Sharpeye examined the wound in Handower’s shoulder.

  “Not as bad as it looks,” she said. She carefully prodded the blood that was caked on the falcon’s shoulder. “The weapon went between the bones.” Handower shrieked in pain as she inadvertently poked the wound left by the gorpe harpoon. “Sorry.” He hissed in her face. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you,” she said as if speaking to a child.

  Brighton’s mind was racing. He looked out of the torture chamber, down the corridor. He saw two guards staring right at him. He ducked back quick as a blink. Did they see me? He peeked out again. The guards looked curious, as if they’d heard something. They looked at each other. “Disciplinary activities,” one of them said in a mocking aristocratic tone. They snorted, and resumed making their rounds. Brighton sighed with relief.

  Lady Sharpeye sniffed the air. She made a quick survey of the chamber and found a bag of tea leaves next to a kettle. “Dried Barkberry. These herbs will prevent infection.” She grabbed a beakful, and began to chew them into pulp.

  Brighton paced the floor, his bare feet padding over the dirt. He turned to the others. “Stay here with Handower. I’ll be back.” And he rushed out of the chamber.

  “Where are you going?” Wark whispered. But Brighton was already gone.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  SHATTERED!

  Bill was now bound with rope like a chrysalis in a cocoon. She could feel the intense heat surging in and out from the smelting oven. At times it came so close it singed her eyebrows. The gorpes watched her, their eyes filled with anticipation. They chortled like ravenous swine.

  Gretch took in a deep breath of toxic air. “Ah, I can smell it already,” he growled as if reciting poetry. “The sweet aroma of burning flesh.” The gorpes paced and grumbled with excitement. The troll raised his thick, gnarled hand to his ear. “What’s that I hear? Ah, the crackling of burnt skin.” He closed his eyes as if listening to a symphony. “Music to my ears.”

  The gorpes pushed Bill closer to the mouth of the roaring furnace. She shrieked. The heat forced her to wince. She could feel the sweat running down her face in streams now. She could even smell the repugnant odor of her own burnt hair. Still, she remained defiant.

  “Throw me in. My ghost will haunt you and your children for the rest of time. I swear it!”

  Gretch and his goons broke out in laughter. The gorpes pushed her even closer to the flames. They watched her face squinch up, and the ends of her hair curl from the awful heat.

  Out in the main excavation cavern, the mining equipment was coming back to life. The gorpe prison guards grunted to each other as they exchanged shifts. In short order, the operation was back in full swing. Flying robots swarmed the air dislodging walls of stone with their shatter horns. Gorpe dynamite teams blasted away tons of solid granite. The decapods and steam shovels moved in to scoop up the ore and transfer it to waiting cars. The conveyor belts whined and squealed as they carried the soil up to the cauldrons where it would be melted for refinement. Everywhere, miners shoveled and swung the
ir picks in frenzied labor. The air was thick with dust and smoke and toxic fumes. Hades was no mythical realm in some alternate universe. It was right here in the heart of Perpetua’s mountains.

  Without warning, a great cracking sound shot through the cavern. A wall of rock and debris dropped from the ceiling, covering everything beneath it with a solid blanket of earth. Equipment was damaged. Dirt-covered workers ran amok. Other miners lay groaning beneath fallen timbers and bone-crushing boulders. Cave-ins such as this had become more frequent of late. But this was the worst one yet.

  Gretch turned his head to listen to the cries of gorpes and the shouts of foremen trying to restore order. Despite his cruel and malicious nature, he was concerned by the howls coming from hurt and injured miners.

  “Wait ‘til I’m back,” he said to his goons as he thundered off.

  The gorpes frowned, annoyed their entertainment had been interrupted. They wondered why the stinking troll seemed so concerned.

  Gretch stormed out into the excavation chamber. Dust was still thick in the air. Phantom shapes ran everywhere, choking and stumbling. The supervisors beat the miners to get them back to work. The troll hurried toward a foreman who was whipping an injured laborer, screaming at him to get back on his feet.

  Infuriated, Gretch came up to the gorpe, grabbed the whip, and beat him instead. “Can’t you see this one is hurt?” The incredulous foreman backed away, cowering from Gretch’s blows. Gretch went to the injured worker who looked up with gratitude in his eyes.

  “No hope for you,” Gretch said, studying the miner’s mangled limbs. And with that, he picked up a giant boulder and raised it over his head. The foreman watched, horrified, as the monstrous troll hurled it downward as if he were squashing a bug. Splat. Gretch turned, scowled at the foreman, then hurried off again. The foreman, badly shaken, staggered off into the melee.

  How Brighton made it to Dredgemont’s palace he didn’t know. He’d simply run through the darkness, through long tunnels and corridors, guided by pure instinct. If he would have stopped to think about it, he might have realized he was following his father’s instructions to become one with the Dragon’s Breath. “You must align with it, son. Go with its flow. Once you do, nothing can hurt you. Nothing can stop you.”

  It was that very Breath that carried him now, like wind through the tunnels. In perfect harmony even in this hostile environment. Then again, if he’d stopped to think about the Breath, he never would have found it.

  Like a shadow shifting in sunlight, he slipped past the guards distracted by news of the cave-in. Before he knew it, he was standing before the Tabernacle of the Cobalt Cutlass. He stared at the mysterious weapon glowing within its golden confines.

  And it seemed to address him. I am power with no allegiance other than to he who doth possess me.

  Brighton stared with wonder. The key to power. He reached out, his hand trembling. He opened the door of the tabernacle. I hope it’s not booby trapped or any— The alarms that went off that instant were so loud and startling, Brighton fell over backward. He got to his hands and knees. He listened, for a moment, to the shouts of guards running in his direction. He crawled on the floor, nearly paralyzed by the siren’s deafening blare. He struggled to his feet.

  “Thief!” shouted Dredgemont, now approaching him from behind.

  Again, Brighton acted on instinct. He reached in and grabbed the Cobalt Cutlass from its stand. He spun around just in time to hold it to Dredgemont’s face. The old codger froze in his tracks, then began to back away.

  Brighton came after him.

  “Put it down before you hurt yourself, boy,” Dredgemont growled.

  Brighton felt crazed. He was committed now. There was no turning back.

  “I command you!” Dredgemont roared.

  Brighton trembled with his own emotions. He swung the cutlass at Dredgemont’s neck. They were both expecting the furious bolt of blue lightning. But the lightning did not come. The Cobalt Cutlass simply pulsed with weak light, as if it were nothing more than a limp horsetail in Brighton’s fist.

  Dredgemont scowled. “It won’t perform for you.” He stepped forward. “Give it to me!”

  Brighton back-pedaled. His eyes flicked back and forth between the old man and the magical sword. His mind raced to understand how it worked. Is there a trigger of some kind? Some hidden lever? How do I release its power?

  Furious and afraid, and not knowing what else to do, Brighton raised the weapon, and smashed it against its marble altar. He was astonished to see the cutlass shatter into pieces as easily as a Christmas ornament. Amazed, he studied the thin, busted shards. And the electro-magnetic coils that hung limp from its hilt. And the sparks and steam hissing from mysterious broken components.

  Brighton glanced up. Dredgemont had a look of utter horror on his face. Brighton’s mind exploded with revelation: The Cobalt Cutlass is a fake!

  “That’s it? Your power?” he said. “A glass toy?” He began to hyperventilate. He wanted to laugh and scream at the same time. This was such an astonishing turn of events, he had trouble collecting his thoughts. He knew it was no time to fall apart. He glared into Dredgemont’s eyes.

  Dredgemont backed away, his face tremulous. Again, Brighton came after him. “You’re nothing but a wrinkled up fraud.”

  “Get away from me.” Dredgemont nearly stumbled.

  “You’re pathetic.” Brighton moved closer. He scrunched his nose. “And you smell. All your wealth and you can’t even bathe?”

  Dredgemont began to chant an incantation in the Old Tongue. Brighton immediately recognized it as a spell designed to paralyze its victim. He had memorized nearly all the spells in Dredgemont’s own diary, including the counter-spells.

  “Strigo tu osseo. Male stricato. Strigo tu osseo. Male stricato.”

  Brighton responded without missing a beat. “Fato drozzo milingo.”

  Dredgemont chanted louder. “Strigo tu osseo. Male stricato. Strigo tu osseo! Male stricato!”

  “Fato drozzo milingo. Thruto fica!” Brighton answered, determined to hold his ground. Determined to conjure the magic.

  Dredgemont looked terrified. He backed away, tripping over his robe now, nearly falling again. He reached for his own throat.

  Brighton saw the spell was working. He went on. “Fato drozzo milingo. Thruto fica!”

  Dredgemont began to choke. His eyes began to bug. His face turned dark red.

  Brighton felt blood and Dragon’s Breath racing through his body. He felt ten times bigger than he was, like some titan who’d descended from the heavens. He leaned close to Dredgemont. “Where is Bill?”

  Dredgemont wheezed for air. Brighton felt no mercy. “Fato drozzo milingo. Thruto fica!”

  Dredgemont dropped to his knees.

  “Tell me where she is, and I’ll back off,” Brighton screamed in his face.

  “I’ll tell you... if you join me.” It took all Dredgemont’s effort to squeeze the words from his tightening throat.

  “Fato drozzo milingo. Thruto fica!”

  Dredgemont fell flat on his face. But it was not suffocation that killed him. It was the large, glimmering buck knife stuck squarely into his back.

  Brighton’s head shot up. He found himself staring into the maniacal eyes of his mother. She’d been hiding in back of the velvet curtains behind Dredgemont’s throne.

  “Do I prove my allegiance, young lord?” She shook with adrenaline. A crazed grin spread across her face.

  Brighton backed away.

  “He lied to you. Your father never agreed to be his partner. Your father was determined to stop him. To shut down the mines. That’s why seigneur hypnotized Gretch to bewitch your father’s falcon. The troll never acted of his own accord. He was a stooge. A puppet. There lies your father’s killer!” She kicked Dredgemont’s lifeless body, then spit on it.

  Brighton back-stepped, faster and faster. He turned and ran out of the chamber with all the speed he could summon. Even then, he could hear her panting and l
aughing.

  “Run, boy! But you’ll be back. You have no choice!” shouted Lady Aviamore. “You and I shall rule all of Perpetua!”

  Out in the ante-chamber, Brighton heard thunderous footsteps that could only belong to one creature. He ducked behind a pillar. Gretch stormed past him. Brighton watched him stomp into the palace room. And just as he did, Lady Aviamore slipped back behind the curtains. Brighton saw Gretch gaze at Dredgemont laying on the floor, the blade driven into his back. And the blood pooling around his contorted frame.

  The troll lumbered toward the corpse. He looked at the broken bits of the Cobalt Cutlass scattered across the stone. He wrinkled his scabby brow with confusion, then rage. His lungs heaved. Saliva spilled from his putrifacted fangs. He began to roar. It was low at first, like the sound of a distant avalanche. But his roar grew louder. So loud, the trinkets on the altar began to shake and the candle flames went out.

  “He was mine! Mine!”

  Brighton could have sworn the palace room shook, threatening to fall upon itself. He slipped away into the shadows.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A TSUNAMI RISES

  The dwarol air patrol that had come upon Mitor, frozen on Perpetua’s shoreline, had assumed he was a stranded enemy fighter. They had snatched him up and carried him back to Valkyrie Heights. They’d planned on letting the monkrat infantry use him for target practice. And once he was destroyed, they would dump his remains into the sea.

  The giant dwarol sparrow dropped the robot on the edge of the battlefield in the late afternoon. The jolt released enough kinetic energy stored inside the machine to allow him to regain consciousness. Mitor did not have emotions, not in the normal sense of the word. But he could tell by the faces of the Valkyrie fighters who were clearing the killing fields of their dead and wounded the situation here was grim.