Tales of the Fallen Beasts

by Brandon Mull

  “That’s so kind, thank you!” Cordalles reached out her hand, and the girl shook it. “I’m Cordalles.”

  “I’m Raisha. Beautiful hawk, by the way.” She looked longingly at Halawir. “I’ve always wanted a spirit animal. He is your spirit animal, I assume?”

  “Yes,” Cordalles answered. “But he’s a—” She caught herself and stopped just in time. Halawir wondered what Raisha’s reaction would be if she discovered he was a Great Beast. Cordalles laughed a little. “He’s an odd one. Stubborn. We’re still getting used to each other.”

  The girl laughed too, tossing her head back so that her hair rippled and shone in the sun. “Oh, they make it sound so easy, don’t they? Summon a spirit animal, have a companion for life, have your skills and your senses elevated. But it’s never that simple, of course.” She started walking around the edge of the square and beckoned Cordalles to come with her. “It’s just this way.”

  Cordalles followed Raisha a few steps behind and whispered into Halawir’s feathers. “She’s nice, isn’t she, Halawir? That’s why I always love docking. You get to talk to new people, not just the same boring mast-monkeys from the ship. And everyone’s friendly, too. I’ve seen it in port towns in Eura, Zhong, Nilo.… Wherever you go, people love to chat to traders. They love hearing news from around the world.” She sighed a little wistfully. “I don’t understand why Mother and Father are always so scared for me.” She took a few running steps forward to catch up with Raisha, so they wouldn’t lose her in the crowded plaza.

  For Raisha was small and quick. She seemed excited to have the chance to break out of her everyday routine and show a stranger around her city, and it put an added energy into her step.

  Cordalles was usually just as nimble on the boat. But here on land, she seemed to Halawir like a fish out of water. Her usual sure step was more hesitant, as though her confidence was replaced with nerves—or maybe she just hadn’t gotten her land legs yet.

  Halawir felt for the girl, kept by her parents from learning to be comfortable mingling with new people, in new places.

  He had never wanted to give in to the charged connection he felt between them, but just for a moment, he relented. He gave Cordalles a touch of his keen eyesight and quick reflexes, making it simple for her to dodge the crowds and easily follow in Raisha’s footsteps.

  After leaping over a stray bottle and sidestepping a man swinging a large barrel, Cordalles gave Halawir a sly smile. He could tell she realized what had happened, and was pleased.

  Raisha led them across the plaza, past the purple awning, and around a few twisty streets. They turned a corner into a narrow alley, and Halawir saw that they’d reached a dead end. The alley was lined by the backs of buildings, with no vendors in sight. It ended in a low wall with a closed door in it.

  “Is that his store?” Cordalles asked Raisha, slowing down as she approached the wooden door.

  “Not exactly,” answered a familiar voice.

  They spun around.

  Back at the other end of the street was a middle-aged man with light brown skin, a neatly sculpted beard, and a dark tunic. A man that Halawir recognized immediately.

  Zerif.

  Zerif should have felt like a friend, but everything in Halawir screamed at him to keep his distance. Because there was something strange about Zerif now, he realized. There was a spiral mark on his forehead. At first Halawir assumed it was a tattoo, but then the spiral pulsed under Zerif’s skin.

  Halawir shuddered, his skin prickling below his feathers.

  What was that thing squirming on Zerif’s brow?

  “Halawir the Eagle. Great Beast and old friend, it’s so good to see you again.”

  Cordalles turned to Halawir. “You know him?”

  Halawir twitched his wings. It was hard, without words, to communicate that this man had been his ally in the war. This was the man that Halawir, Kovo, and Gerathon had helped to create the Bile. The man that Halawir had conspired with to release Kovo from prison.

  “Oh, Halawir and I have known each other for quite some time,” said Zerif. “We’ve always been a terrific team. In fact, that’s why I was so pleased to find you two here today. I’m hoping to team up with him again. I know you won’t mind.”

  Zerif pulled a black glass vial out from the pocket of his tunic. It caught the slanted rays of sunlight and fractured them into glittering rainbows. Halawir’s sharp eyes allowed him to see clearly through the bottle’s tinted glass, though—and what he saw gave him chills.

  Inside the vial was a slithering dark shape, like the trail of a slug or a clot of grease suspended in dirty water. It twisted and writhed and shivered. It was just a shadow behind the dark glass, but enough to cause Halawir’s stomach to turn with an unaccustomed emotion: fear. The thing was a creature, a worm, a smudge of moldy evil. It made Halawir think of foul smoke in a clear sky.

  “Hold her,” Zerif commanded.

  Raisha darted over to Cordalles, grabbed her arms, and pinned them behind her back.

  “What are you doing?” Cordalles screamed.

  As Raisha had grabbed Cordalles’s arms, Halawir tumbled from his perch. With a few sweeps of his wings, he regained his balance and flew to the end of the leather tether, as far from Raisha as he could go.

  What was Zerif’s plan? Halawir hesitated, unsure if he should attack or wait. Was Zerif a friend or an enemy? Was he there to rescue Halawir from the girl and allow him to regain his freedom?

  But Halawir’s eye was caught again by the bulging spiral on Zerif’s forehead. There was something more going on. He had a vague memory of Kovo rambling during his years of imprisonment, talking about some sort of evil associated with this symbol, but he had never taken the ape seriously. What was it he had said … ?

  Zerif undid the clasp of his tunic, letting the cloth fall away from his torso. He was wearing nothing underneath, and his bare skin shone in the sun. He began to uncork the vial as he slowly approached Halawir.

  Friend or foe? Zerif was a former ally, but this spiral whispered of some unknown danger.

  Halawir’s nerves sung out, and with his whole body he suddenly knew that Zerif was no longer to be trusted. He tensed, prepared to peck Zerif’s eyes out the second he took another step.

  But at that moment Cordalles wrenched her torso out of Raisha’s grasp and threw her arm out and up with all her force.

  Halawir was catapulted into the sky. He was so accustomed to the leash at this point that he waited for the moment when he reached the end of the tether.

  He waited.

  And it never came.

  Cordalles had let go of the jess as she hurled him away from her. Freeing him.

  A moment passed before he realized that his body had understood this fact long before his mind did, and that his wings were beating hard. They were propelling him away from danger.

  He was high in the sky, on a sweet current of spring breeze. Below him he could see the whole city spread out like a child’s puzzle, and around it, a patchwork quilt of field and forest.

  Halawir the Great Beast was free at last.

  He cried out, exulting. Somewhere in that maze of buildings, he knew, were Zerif and Raisha—and Cordalles, caught in a tussle.

  But he had been the one they wanted, not Cordalles. Surely, he reasoned, they would let her go, now that she no longer had the thing they desired. He flew higher and higher. This was best. Sever the bond. Save himself, and render her useless. Zerif and Raisha would let her run back to her parents and the boat, and she’d return to her life like it was before.

  But something caught at him, somewhere between his tail and his beak.

  He craned his neck to see what it was. There was nothing there. It was an invisible stone in his belly, sinking him back down toward the earth.

  She had freed him.

  Cordalles had let him go.

  He was flying down now, back down away from the sun and the clouds and freedom. He circled in on the city, the market, until he spotted th
e three tiny figures making their way out of the alley.

  Zerif was walking ahead. Halawir could see by his stride that he was furious.

  Behind him, Raisha led a struggling Cordalles. Her wrists were bound behind her. She pulled and resisted, trying to break free. Raisha yanked her roughly, and Cordalles tripped and fell to her knees.

  That was it. He wouldn’t stand for this.

  Halawir dove. He plummeted from the sky like a falling star, heading straight at Raisha. He grabbed her long hair in his talons, startling her, and pulled with all his might.

  “Agh!” she shrieked, stumbling backward. “Let go! Let go!” She brought her free hand up to try to yank Halawir away, and he tore mercilessly into her hand with his beak, drawing blood.

  It worked. Raisha screamed and doubled over, her hand clutched to her chest, releasing Cordalles.

  Cordalles immediately took off at a sprint, and Halawir gave her every last ounce of agility and fleetness that he could.

  Zerif lunged at her. She darted out of his grasp and zigzagged down the alley, Zerif close on her heels, but Cordalles had a head start and the speed of an eagle driving her forward.

  Halawir stayed behind. He pulled on Raisha’s hair again, dragging her back. He could hear as strands ripped from her head, but mercy was not a thing that Halawir often found in his heart. He yanked again, only half his attention on the struggling girl. He was watching Cordalles run: As soon as Cordalles got far enough away, Halawir would release Raisha and make his own escape.

  But suddenly he realized Zerif was no longer chasing Cordalles.

  Where was he?

  Halawir saw the movement a moment too late.

  Zerif was next to them, and he sprang forward and wrapped his thick arm around Halawir’s wings, pinning them to his sides.

  With his free hand, he still held the vial.

  “Quit your crying,” he hissed at Raisha, who was screaming and grabbing at her hair. She quieted. Halawir tightened his feet in her hair even more, scratching her skull. She whimpered, but bit down on her lip to keep from crying out again.

  Halawir was trapped. But at least the two of them were occupied, giving Cordalles a chance to get away. He hoped she kept running as fast and as long as she could, straight to the boat, never looking back.

  “Hold still now,” Zerif muttered. “First you must submit, but soon you’ll have some of that power you love so very much.”

  He tipped the vial over, dropping the wriggling worm onto Halawir’s chest. The parasite squirmed underneath Halawir’s tawny feathers. He tried to crane his neck down to peck the thing out, but it moved too quickly. Once it reached his skin, it bit into him. Then it was under his skin. It wriggled and squirmed. He could feel it writhing its way up toward his head.

  Halawir let out a tremendous cry.

  Zerif dropped him at last. Freedom! Halawir let go of his grip on Raisha and spread his wings to take off.

  But then he felt the thing curl up inside his forehead. All of the fight seeped out of him. He no longer felt his fierce fighting spirit. He relaxed his wings.

  Footsteps pounded at the edges of his attention.

  “Halawir!”

  It was Cordalles. Running back for him once she heard his cry. He wanted to go to her, but a strange fog was drifting into his mind. He sank down and folded his wings onto his back as whispering voices drowned out his own instincts. He calmly sat and watched as Zerif grabbed Cordalles by the neck. He took another dark vial out from his tunic—only to have it knocked out of his hand.

  “Let her go, Zerif.”

  In a small, shadowed corner of his mind, Halawir noted that a figure in a crimson cloak and an odd white mask had appeared and was trying to get between Zerif and Cordalles.

  Or was he hallucinating? The red cloak and the black tunic swirled together like nightmare fireworks.

  Who was the masked figure? Was he going to save Cordalles?

  Halawir would never know. The last thing he saw before the fog overcame him was Raisha giving the masked man a shove, and the look of horror on Cordalles’s face as Zerif closed in.

  DEVIN TRUNSWICK WAS RUNNING OUT OF THINGS to sell.

  He’d sold his jacket to a traveling merchant outside Trynsfield. It had been a fine jacket once, with polished buttons and a neat velvet trim. After months on the road, however, it had become tattered and travel stained. When Devin finally sold it, he barely got enough coin for a week’s worth of food.

  He’d sold his belt buckle to a shopkeeper in Samis. A gleaming silver rectangle engraved with the image of a sleek panther, it had been a gift from his father and, briefly, his most prized possession. Eventually, it served only to remind him of his failures. He couldn’t bear to look at it, and so he sold it for a fraction of its worth.

  The coin from that sale hadn’t lasted him long. Devin had never been very good with money. He’d never had to worry about it before.

  Lately it was near the top of a long list of worries.

  “You’re charging how much?” he said now, fuming, as he stood in the common room of a roadside inn.

  “You heard me,” the innkeeper responded, not bothering to look up as he wiped a dirty counter with a dirty rag. “So then, do you want a room or not?”

  The man gazed meaningfully out the open doorway, where rain came down in heavy sheets. Devin had made it indoors just before the downpour started. He had hardly believed his luck, to have stumbled upon shelter just as the storm descended.

  Now his luck appeared to be returning to form.

  “Listen,” Devin said through a clenched jaw. “I’m not some simpleminded rube with a head full of rotten teeth. I know what a cot and a meal is worth.” He cast a scornful glance about the dimly lit room. A few scattered customers sat about, staring into their mugs or the fire and pretending not to notice the argument.

  “It’s my inn,” the innkeeper said sourly. “A bed here’s worth precisely what I charge and no less, boy.”

  Devin huffed. “I’m no boy.”

  The innkeeper’s eyes roamed down Devin and up again, taking in his threadbare traveling cloak, filthy hands, and worn-out boots. “I know exactly what you are,” the man snarled. “You’re just another worthless urchin bothering the decent and hardworking folk of Eura. Well, you’ll get no charity from me … boy.”

  Heat rushed to Devin’s cheeks and a sharp retort leaped to his tongue, but he swallowed it back. “I’m not asking for charity,” he said after a moment. He pulled a ring from his finger. It was only pewter—he’d long ago sold his more valuable jewelry—but it was fashionable and well made, shaped liked a circle of interlocking tree branches.

  He slapped it onto the bar. “Surely that’s worth a cot for the night and provisions for the road, too.”

  The innkeeper barely looked at it. “I don’t barter,” he said. “Coin only.” Then he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I might barter for the sword.”

  Devin stiffened. “My sword?”

  “Aye.”

  There was a moment of silence as Devin seemed to consider it. Then he said, “You have a fine eye, friend innkeeper.” He spoke the words smoothly, but his eyes had gone fierce. “This sword is the workmanship of the finest craftsman in Eura—the queen’s own blacksmith.” He caressed the sword’s hilt, the only part of the weapon visible while it was sheathed at his hip. “The hilt is grooved for comfort and ease of use. You could swing it three hundred times and never get a blister.” He pulled the sword partway out of the scabbard, and a high metal sound rang out. “The steel is flawless, forged from Trunswick iron with charcoal made from Trunswick timber. The blade is perfectly balanced and sharp enough to cut bone.” He slammed the weapon back into its scabbard and jabbed his finger in the innkeeper’s face. “You aren’t fit to touch this sword,” he snarled. “It is worth more than this entire filthy, damp, lice-ridden hovel.”

  The innkeeper didn’t flinch away from Devin’s finger or from the spittle that flew from Devin’s mouth.

&n
bsp; “Brutis,” he said calmly. “See the boy out, would you?”

  A chair scraped heavily against the wood floor, and Devin turned to see the man by the fire lumber to his feet. Brutis was huge, easily four hands taller than Devin, and his arms were thick with muscle.

  “Er,” Devin said to the innkeeper, dropping his finger. “Perhaps we could start over?”

  But the innkeeper had resumed running his dirty rag over the dirty countertop, and he didn’t even bother to look up as Devin was dragged away and hurled outside, landing on his back in the mud with an audible plop.

  Devin had always had a problem with his temper. He was trying to be better about it. He had a new trick: Every time he felt his cheeks grow hot, he would clamp his jaw shut and count slowly to ten before saying or doing anything.

  That was the idea, anyway. But his mouth tended to be just a little faster than his brain.

  The rain had stopped after only a quarter hour, but in that time he’d been thoroughly soaked. On the bright side, the water had been pleasantly warm. Devin couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a proper bath, and he took the opportunity to rub at his hands and face, rinsing the dirt away.

  In the aftermath of the rain, however, Devin knew true misery. His traveling cloak was sopping, and it hung heavily from his shoulders, a dead weight that kept his back from drying. His boots squelched with each step, and he could feel new blisters forming atop the old. His clothing clung to him, chafing in places he’d rather not chafe, and altogether his gear felt twenty pounds heavier than it had when dry.

  Still, he trudged on, walking through the storm and through the muck and gnats and mugginess that came in its wake. He walked through the headache brought on by the shrill cry of a bird of prey, circling high above; he walked until the sun set and night descended and he was too tired to continue. Then he set up camp among the trees, just off the road.