"I hopes ya'll d'cide ta throw in with us, m' boy. Ya could learn a lot from me an' th' 'sperience c'n be invaluable t' a career in th' Guard. I likes ya. Ya got a lot o' gumption fer sech a young kid and thet's bolstered by a lot o' talent as well. We could do a bit ta hep each other."
"I'll think about it," the boy said as he mounted up. He reached his hand down to give his new friend a warm handshake. "Whether I join you or not, I thank you for a delicious meal."
During the next few days Kit made many inquiries about the two hunters. The reports concerning the older hunter, Helvon, were good enough. He had worked the area around Washington crater several times in the last twenty years and had favorably impressed the butchers and tavern owners who bought their meats off the likes of him. He had always been a dependable source and had never tried to foist off on the buyers meat which was old or beginning to spoil. One of the scouts for the Home Guard that Kit knew and talked to often had worked on a hunting team with Helvon some ten years earlier. This trooper remembered the tall hunter as a garrulous man whose sense of honesty was well developed. Helvon was also reputed to be one of the best crossbow artists on Randor.
The news about Goovon, however, was not nearly as encouraging. Little was generally known about the man except that he tended to drink a lot whenever he came to town and that even the local prostitutes would not give him a second look. It occurred to Kit that the two conditions might well be related.
The first specific information about the man's past had come from a wanderer who had known a person named Goovon at Sukov crater. The things that the informant had told Kit were none too encouraging. The man had moved shiftlessly from job to job and had done poorly on every one. More than once his leaving had coincided with the loss of some valuable piece of property by his former employer.
The clincher came from a nefarious character just in from McAllister crater. After being properly motivated by a gold coin from Kit's pouch, he confessed to having been a political spy in the employ of the traitor Headmaster, Durabon, just before the nomad invasion attempt. He had heard that Goovon had been seen around the Headmaster's Hall several times before that treacherous man had been voted from office. When he was told that Goovon had financed the outfitting of Helvon's hunting party, a sly grin flashed across his face.
"Goovon went from one bad job to the next," the man informed him with a chuckle. "His last job was with the Aerie and it was known that Durabon had a pair of eyes and ears on the Master Falconer's payroll. A man like Goovon is never able to save two copper pennies for very long. Don't you see? If he had the money to buy ponies and equipment for Helvon, there is only one place he could have gotten it. Durabon paid well for vital information. I should know if anyone does! Why, pray tell, would Goovon want to get away from McAllister so quickly after Durabon's demise? I can answer that. It's the same reason I left! The Headmaster, miser that he was, was known to keep careful records of how much and to whom he made any payment whatsoever."
Kit had pretty much decided to avoid any entanglement with the two hunters. It was too bad, really. He kind of liked the old man, Helvon.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Daron reined his pony in as he rode up to the West Pass of Washington Crater. The long journey from O'Malley had been uneventful and joyless after the very personal nature of the tragedy five days ago. Daron had, of course, stayed for the remainder of the games. He had other Riders in the competitions and his duty as Master Falconer had demanded his presence. His Senior Rider had managed to win first runner up for the Grand Championship. Top honors had, once again, gone to McAllister even though the courageous Ganton had been retired to become an apprentice Falconer.
Pip McAllister had been offered the Championship in the junior division when Heron had died but he refused it. He merely said that it was something that he would never presume to take from his good friend, Heron. That night, a meeting of the Council of Falconers was called. The next morning, the announcement was made that the victory dive and all variations of a long stoop were prohibited maneuvers. Any Riders caught doing them would henceforth be automatically disqualified from the competitions.
Heron had been buried at O'Malley in a special ceremony on the fifth day of the games. The summer heat had precluded the possibility of taking him back to his home crater. As part of the ceremony, Flash had been released and had flown off into the wilds outside of O'Malley crater. Using Fury's unique communication abilities, Pip had questioned Flash about his intentions. The great eagle was mourning the loss of his companion in his own way. It was the way most Riderless eagles took the blow. Flash had not eaten since the fateful day that Heron had fallen to his death. Daron had no doubt that the enormous bird would soon waste away in some lonely area out in the wilds. The double loss saddened the delegations from both McAllister and Washington craters especially. Heron and Flash had been well liked and respected by both of their home Aeries.
The somber train of weary travelers entered the pass and, shortly afterwards, split into two contingents. The Master Falconer and his wife broke off to climb to the Aerie while the rest of the party made its way down to the Guardsmen's barracks. When Daron rode into the Aerie, he noticed that a sturdy pony was tied up to the hitching rail in front of the Falconer's Residence. A stable hand came forward to care for their ponies and the travel weary Falconer and his wife entered their home.
As they walked into the living room, an old man stood up from his place before the empty fireplace. As the man stepped forward, Daron recognized the visitor as Jaron, father of Fala, and grandfather of Heron's friend, Kittron. The Falconer met the man with his hand outstretched in greeting. His wife turned and climbed the stairway to their sleeping chamber.
"Jaron," he said warmly, "for what purpose do we have the honor of your presence today?"
The farmer accepted his handshake gratefully. "It's about Kit, my grandson. I don't know what to do about him. He and I have never been too close but since his father died, I haven't been able to do anything about his independent attitude. I suppose some of it is my own fault. Ever since he was a toddler he has wanted to join the Aerie but I could not bear to lose him as I did his Uncle Kittron."
The man began to pace back and forth in front of Daron. "I don't know, perhaps I've lost him anyway. He has run away from home and is staying in town now. I ran across him once two days ago but when I tried to talk to him, he listened politely, said very little and just walked away from me. The only thing he suggested was that I talk to you when you got back from the games. He said that he wouldn't discuss our problems until I did so."
Daron frowned. Apparently, the farmer was concerned enough with his grandson's stubborn actions to listen to reason at last. This was something that Heron would have applauded and the Falconer decided to do all in his power to see that the outcome was successful for his son's friend.
"I think that you have been quite unfair with the boy," he said carefully. "His telepathic ability is one of the strongest that I have ever tested and his desire to fly is all consuming. He would make a fine Eagle Rider and you should consider allowing him to realize his dream."
The anguish in Jaron's eyes was very real. "Perhaps you are right, I just don't know. The things that can happen to an Eagle Rider are too numerous to count. If I were to lose him also, I would never forgive myself."
"It's true that the dangers are great but they are just as great for a Guardsman. If you will not nominate him into the Aerie, that is where he will wind up no matter what you do. Out of every class of fledglings that start, the vast majority of fledglings eventually retires to collect their acre of land. You ought to know, your entire orchard was bought, acre by acre, from retired Eagle Riders if my memory serves me right. Kit is a smart and prudent lad. He won't let himself fall to his death even if that is a remote possibility."
"It is true that most Riders retire in one piece," the farmer mused. "I still don't like it but perhaps you are right. I will consider nominating Kit for the next class."
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br /> "I am glad to hear you say that," the Falconer said without thinking, "I know that is what Heron wanted to happen." The sorrow in the man's face was suddenly so marked that Jaron could no longer mistake it for fatigue.
"You talk as if Heron were dead," he pointed out. "Has something happened to him?"
Too late, Daron realized his mistake. "He won his competition, beating out young Piperon McAllister by only three points. He attempted to perform a victory dive and wasn't able to hold his seat on the pullout. He had pressed it in too low and hit the outer wall of the Aerie before he could deploy his wing. Hadn't you heard?"
"No, not a word," The old farmer was shocked. "No wonder it seemed like a wake here when I arrived." Something suddenly occurred to the man. "You, too, have lost a son to a flying accident. I am so sorry for you but I am shocked as well. How can you stand there after what has happened and try to tell me that these accidents are rare and not to worry about Kit?"
"Because that is what I believe," the Falconer said with conviction. "Heron's death was senseless. He was a good Rider or he wouldn't have competed in the games but he was foolhardy as well. He attempted a maneuver that even Senior Riders find difficult. The Conference of Falconers has now prohibited the victory dive, by the way. It should have been outlawed a long time ago. What happened to Heron was very unusual. If I had known that he was contemplating such a stunt, I would have prevented it. Hopefully, it won't ever happen again. I still stand by what I said. We Falconers have worked for centuries to make flying safe and I think we have done pretty well at it. You and I both made it through pretty illustrious careers as Eagle Riders and you were a fourth generation Rider at that. You know in your heart that what I am saying is true. You have just become a stubborn, bitter old man. If you let that come between Kit and his dreams, he will never forgive you for it. Think about that, if you will."
Jaron stood there stunned. In his heart he knew the truth of what the man was saying but he just couldn't let himself admit it. "Still I cannot condone..."
"I hope you will excuse me," the Falconer broke in, "but I see no profit in continuing this debate. It only reminds me of my own very real loss and I need to keep my head clear in order to see to my grieving wife. Good day, sir." With that, Daron turned and hurried up the stairwell toward his sleeping chambers.
Jaron's face reddened as he realized the enormity of his own rudeness toward his host. Slowly, he walked out of the Residence and mounted his pony. As he rode off, he realized that he was no nearer making a decision than he had been the day before.
Today was the day, Kit thought. The games had ended the day before and it was time to take Heron up on his offer of assistance. Kit went to the tavern at which he had been lodging to change into a clean shirt. He would ride up to the Aerie tonight and talk to his best friend. It was about time they got this whole affair behind them. As he entered the tavern, he recognized an old friend of his from the barracks. The young man was sitting at a table with a tall bottle of strong wine. Judging by its contents he was already halfway to oblivion.
"Talon, weren't you at the games this year?" Kit slapped the man on the shoulder as he took the chair beside him. "How did my friend, Heron, do? For that matter, how did you do? I guess if you had done well, you wouldn't be drinking by yourself."
The man looked up for a second to orient himself to his surroundings. He was farther along into inebriation than Kit had at first figured.
"Kit, is that you, boy?" he asked. "The games? Oh, yes, the games. I was knocked out in the first rounds but your friend, Heron did pretty well, poor lad."
"If he did well, why do you call him poor lad?” Kit asked, puzzled.
"He did so well that he tried to perform something called a victory dive." the man explained. "He fell from his eagle and splattered himself all over the wall of the O'Malley Rider's barracks. They buried him three days ago and his eagle flew off into the wild lands. I'm sorry, so sorry I know you two were the best of friends." The man lowered his head to the table and spilled his drinking bowl in the process.
Kit suddenly stood up straight, a shocked look on his face. "Fates preserve me! And like a fool, I drove him away the last time I saw him almost at sword point. Talon, tell me, how can I live with that..?" The Guardsman's answer was a soft snore.
For two days, Kit hardly moved from his room except to go on long, hard rides on Satan. The feeling of speed was no real substitute for the thrill of flying but it was the closest he could come to it in the present circumstances, allowing him to feel closer to his lost friend.
It was at the end of one of these runs that he found himself walking his winded stallion back toward the town. Crossing the creek ahead of him, he saw the little stone bridge. Wood smoke was wafting up from under its near, right side. It suddenly occurred to Kit for the first time that his chances of becoming an Eagle Rider had been shattered on the O'Malley Aerie's wall along with the body of his young friend. Jaron would never agree to his nomination even if the Falconer was still willing to try to convince the old man to do so. Kit turned off the road as he approached the bridge.
"Hello, the camp," he shouted out, "is Helvon still camping here?"
A moment later, the head and shoulders of the tall hunter popped up above the creek bank. "Is thet you, Kit?" he asked with a grin. "We had jest about give up on ya. Did ya get a chance t' talk ta yer friend?"
"I lost that chance ten days ago," Kit said sadly. "He was the one who was killed at the games. Are you still looking for a new partner?"
A cloud of genuine concern crossed over the old man's face. "I were praying ta th' fates thet ya would jine us but I never figgered thet this were how they'd answer me. I'm truly sorry 'bout yer friend. I heard he were a true Champion."
The next morning, with Paint and two new pack ponies in tow, Kit rode Satan out West Pass in company with the two hunters. His face was guardedly expressionless.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Silar the Great was restless. He was getting bored with life in his grand pavilion. All ten of his wives were beginning to bore him and his tribe had become so powerful that none of the neighboring tribes had the ability to offer him any challenge. What he needed was a test worthy of his abilities. It had been over a hundred years since one of the crater farming communities had been successfully overrun and pillaged by a nomad tribe. Perhaps it was time for Silar the Great to show all Randor how it was done.
"We need some excitement," he commented to nobody in particular and everyone in general. "My warriors are getting fat and lazy from the scarcity of battle. Crill, come attend me at my table."
A large, well-muscled warrior with sandy blond hair and a handsome but cruel face stood up from a table halfway across the tent full of revelers. He said something in a low tone which managed to spark a round of raucous laughter among his table mates and then proceeded up to the dais where Silar, his favorite wives and councilors were seated.
"Your Magnificence, I am at your service," Crill said with a sweeping bow. "What do you have in mind? I assume it includes a little bloodletting or you could cook it up with the help of your simpering toadies." His disdainful glance indicated two or three bejeweled men who sat around the head table. The jibe elicited a hearty laugh from the Chieftain and no response other than embarrassed squirms from the other men at the table.
"I desire some amusement of the variety that you are so good at providing," Silar said between chuckles. "It has been too long since we have challenged the farmers. Your father and I had great fun at that sport when we were your age. Fighting other tribes is good training but the real test of a warrior is when he must perform with Eagle Riders overhead. I will not continue to harbor a generation of simpering, unblooded ne'er do wells. We need to make real men of them.
"We are within striking distance of three occupied craters, right now. I want scouting parties sent out to all three. The two I have the most interest in are O'Malley and Washington but we will attack the one which seems most ripe for conquest. I want you
to lead one of the parties yourself."
"I would have it no other way," the warrior said with a sly smile. "I fancy the cool of the mountains in this summer heat. I will lead thirty of my best men to Washington crater myself and see that two of our most dependable Subchiefs give the other craters the attention that they deserve. Is there any other thing that I may do for you, my Chieftain?"
At Silar's waive of dismissal, the tall warrior stalked from the tent. This was more to his liking. Lounging around a pavilion eating food and fondling willing women was not Crill's way. His favorite work was cleaving an enemy's scull, his preferred pastime was raping struggling young maidens. His anticipatory smile promised grief for anyone who got in his path. No man or woman had ever shown the temerity or poor judgment to accuse Crill of being a nice person. That was what made Silar trust him so much.
The next few days were a real education for Kit. Helvon was every bit as good at wildcraft as he claimed to be. While the tall hunter had found a sullen and inattentive pupil in Goovon, he discovered that Kittron was exactly the opposite. The boy was a sponge that soaked up all of the knowledge that was presented and was always thirsting for more. He rarely had to be shown an animal track twice to know what it was. He quickly learned all of the tricks of moving quietly in the wilds. Kit seemed to walk on clouds, so silent was the movement of his small body through the brush.
The second day out, they happened upon the trail of a herd of beefalos. One of the species introduced in Randor's long forgotten past, the beefalo was a hybrid between a cow and a North American buffalo. The large, horned, slightly shaggy quadruped was excellent eating. They located the herd and approached it from downwind. The site was a high, mountain meadow. Several ragged peaks surrounded the grassland site and a swiftly flowing stream ran along one side. Crouching behind a couple of large boulders, the tall hunter and his diminutive student watched the peaceful herd as it grazed in relative quiet. A pair of young bulls was butting heads in a playful imitation of the vicious battles that would occur during rutting season.
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