Sky Rider

by Terry Mancour

  “But then, when I started overcoming their objections, it got . . . ugly,” she admitted. “It became more about me than the mews. Now . . . Father has gone to Caolan’s Pass to avoid me, and Uncle Kamal is being as unhelpful as he can. They’re trying to teach me a lesson,” she concluded, wrinkling her nose.

  “And what lesson would that be, my lady?” Rumel asked, cheerfully.

  “That I’m just a girl, a daughter who isn’t planning on marriage, and I need to let the adults control everything.”

  “Is it, now?” Rumel asked, cocking his great shaggy head to the side. “Are you certain of that, or is that your guess?”

  The question startled Dara. “What else could it be?”

  The Karshak shrugged his wide shoulders as he flipped the two big coils of rope up onto the cart. “Like most folk, I have a father,” the Karshak informed her. “Contrary old cuss, too. Proud. A master carver, deep in the forests at the foot of the Kulines. Old Dad, he hates the Karshak—”

  “What?” Dara asked, confused. “But aren’t you Karshak?”

  Rumel sighed. “Only by courtesy,” he grumbled. “To you folk, we’re all just ‘dwarves’. But me and my crews, we’re mostly from the Malkas Alon clans. ‘Wood Dwarves,’ we’re called by your folk,” he said, with a mixture of humor and disgust. “The Karshak clans, proper, hire us out for odd jobs, and with that great whopping castle your master is building, there’s plenty of work.

  “But to return to my story,” he said, with exaggerated patience, “Old Dad is a wood carver, as was his dad. My brothers grew up and they, too, became wood carvers. Me, I wanted to build,” he said, with a grin. “Carving gets right boring, after the first few thousand hours. I wanted to build . . . things like your mews,” he said, nodding toward the knob. “And other things. But the only ‘dwarves’ who build are the proper Karshak lodges. If I wanted to build more than a shack in the woods, I had to hire on with Master Guri.

  “So, I did . . . and Old Dad hasn’t spoken to me since,” he sighed, heavily.

  “Ashes and cinders, why?” Dara demanded.

  “Because though the coin is good, I’m still working with the Stoneheads,” he grunted. “And he hates them. There’s a lot of history between them and the Malkas clans,” he explained. “They treat us like poor country cousins, half-idiots who are only good for simple work. Master Guri is better than most Lodge masters, but . . .” he sighed.

  “I think I understand,” Dara nodded. “That’s how the Vale folk usually see the Westwoodmen.”

  “In any case, it’s what I have to do to learn and practice my trade. Old Dad, he’s a traditionalist. He still hasn’t forgiven the Karshak for some unpleasantness between the clans that happened before he was born. He’d rather see me work for humani, no offense meant. He sees me working for Guri as some kind of betrayal of my kind,” he concluded bitterly.

  “Was there a point to this story?” she asked, as the dwarf became distracted in his own troubles.

  “What? Oh, aye. What I was whittling toward was the fact that your dad is your dad, and you’re going to have disagreements with him. Just like I do with Old Dad,” he explained. “You have to. It’s part of growing up. You do things, sometimes, that your parents won’t approve of, even though there’s nothing wrong with it. Sometimes the row might be fierce, like me and Old Dad. It might last until this job is over,” he suggested. “But it will pass, and things will be right between you two again. It might just take a little time, and a lot of talking.”

  “Hard to talk to him when he’s way up at Caolan’s Pass,” Dara pointed out, bitterly, as the rest of the crew joined them, finally.

  “Aye,” agreed Rumel. “But that’s a problem you can remedy, isn’t it?” he pointed out. “Once we get cracking on this framework, your mews will be half-done,” he boasted. “There’s not much else for you to oversee, my lady, assuming we don’t have any more unforeseen issues. Give your dad a few days to calm down, then go talk to him,” he proposed. “I’m thinking he isn’t ready to acknowledge his pretty little maid is growing up faster than he’d like. But then,” he pointed out as he and his fellows started hauling the cart up the new roadway by hand, “I’m just guessing, too.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Thrill of Flight

  Rumel was wrong about one thing – even after the Karshak – the Malkas Alon, she corrected herself – crew fastened the great timbers into place with thick oaken pegs, there was plenty for her to oversee at the mews. Gareth had to return to his duties with Banamor, after a few days, and the Malkas were waiting on wood for the second story to be delivered. But she needed to see the lower story was finished off. Dara had to hire a family from Gurisham to use hazel twigs to wattle the spaces between the great timbers.

  Thankfully, after she had so adeptly brought her timbers across the gorge her uncle had cancelled the “bridge maintenance” and started being a little more reasonable about her supplies coming over.

  But not much more. He would not allow Dara to cut branches from the estate’s forests, though there was ample hazel trees nearby. She had to pay for them to be cut and shipped all the way from Gurisham, almost a mile and a half away, which depleted her purse more than she had planned.

  The news was even worse a few days later, when she hired two daubers from Sevendor Town to come up and start filling in the framework with a mixture of clay, straw and sand. Though there was a perfectly decent clay pit at the bottom of the ridge, her uncle would not allow her to draw from it. When she confronted him about it, he produced a written order that her father had left behind before his inspection tour. A written order couldn’t be argued with, not from the Master of the Wood.

  Dara was frustrated, the day the daubers informed her of the lack of cooperation from the estate. Without clay and sand, there was no work. She had to pay for a half-day just to get them to come back the next day, assuming she could figure out how to get something as heavy as a wagon load of clay over the rope bridge. It was sturdy, but that much clay would tax its strength, she knew.

  She was about to go confront her uncle about the situation when Lady Ithalia appeared, as if from nowhere, and distracted her with the next iteration of the enlarging enchantment. As Dara wasn’t eager to have yet-another fruitless conversation with the Kamal, she was eager to get away from the entire matter for a few hours.

  With Ithalia’s permission, Dara included Nattia in the trial, citing her knowledge of falconry and the fact that she’d already seen the trials as good reasons. Thankfully, Ithalia agreed, too excited with the experiment to care overmuch about security for the project.

  The Kasari falconer was just as impressed as Dara when Ithalia sang the spell and transformed Frightful, once again. But neither of them were nearly as impressed as Frightful herself was.

  When the spellwork faded and revealed the bird, her wings now measured more than thirty-five feet, feather-to-feather. Her body was as large as a destrier and her beak was big enough to eat a small cow, now, Dara realized. Frightful took a few moments to adjust to her new size, but soon she was preening with pride at her larger stature.

  “Flame! She’s big!” Dara gasped, as she walked around her gigantic bird in a daze.

  “She’s big enough to ride, and strong enough, too,” Ithalia said, proudly. “My grandmother adjusted the musculature and construction of her breast and improved the efficiency of her energy transfer,” Lady Ithalia said. “She should be able to carry nearly five hundred pounds. More, if the distance is short.”

  “That should be plenty to bear me,” Dara nodded – and then was suddenly fearful. The ultimate goal of the experiment had been an abstraction, since she began it. But now that it was nearly complete she realized that it was almost time for her to mount on her bird and flay on her back, instead of merely behind her eyes with bilocation.

  In fact, that was exactly what Lady Ithalia proposed to do next. After Dara guided the massive falcon on a test flight to a nearby peak of the Uwarris, she bade
Dara to climb up the bird’s back and see if she could bear her weight.

  Dara was acutely aware of the price of failure. Not only could she hurt Frightful, but she could also plummet from her back in the air. That thought terrified her. Bilocation with a bird or with the Thoughtful Knife was one thing; once her personal safety was also on the line, her fears grew.

  But that didn’t stop her from climbing on Frightful’s back, when the time came. Yes, she could die, she reasoned. But that almost seemed preferable to failure, at this point.

  After Nattia quickly fashioned a makeshift halter from some rope (the Kasari were adept with knots) and settled it over Frightful’s great head, Dara managed to steel herself for the attempt. She grasped the massive feathers with both hands as she scrambled up on Frightful’s back and settled her legs around her neck, then grasped the crude rope rein that attached to the makeshift halter.

  It took a little adjustment to find a spot that was comfortable to both mount and rider, and a few missteps earned her some baleful looks from her bird, but Frightful was, Dara discovered, almost as excited about the trial as Dara was. Once it became clear Frightful could suffer Dara’s weight and bulk on her back, there was little other excuse to keep her from trying it out in the air.

  “Shall we fly?” she asked, eagerly, as Frightful’s great talons raked the ground impatiently.

  “Just a little glide down to the valley,” Ithalia suggested. “Not too far – I don’t know how tired she’ll become bearing your weight, yet,” she admitted.

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Dara said, though she didn’t sound confident even to herself. “Let’s just try this,” she said, with a deep sigh, “before one of us changes our mind.”

  Ithalia nodded, and stepped back with Nattia. Both looked on anxiously as Dara told Frightful through their connection to try a short flight. Before Dara was quite ready, the falcon took two steps, crouched, spread her wings, and leaped into the air.

  Dara thought she’d be ready, when the time came. But those first few seconds the massive falcon spent getting aloft proved to be a chaotic episode of Dara madly clinging to the halter ropes as she was tossed from side to side. She was nearly unseated as Frightful took flight.

  The worst thing about the experience was Frightful teasing her through their link, comparing her flopping around on her back unfavorably to a dead chipmunk. But after a few powerful beats of her magnificent wings, Frightful was soaring smoothly, allowing Dara to return to her spot on her back and actually see what was going on around her.

  Then Dara was able to see and appreciate their height, and after a thankfully brief round of vertigo, she saw all the Westwood unfold below her with her own eyes, for once.

  They were only a few hundred feet in the air, not even above the level of Rundeval’s peak, but it was still majestic to see the treetops in person. Frightful slipped through the air like some avian spirit, her mighty shadow darkening entire houses below. Unwilling to end the experiment so quickly, Frightful suggested that they fly over the castle. Master Minalan wasn’t there, she knew, and most folk were too busy at their work to stare at the sky.

  In fact, Dara just couldn’t resist. Neither could Frightful.

  The giant falcon suddenly banked to the right and flapped her wings, gaining altitude on a thermal as Dara clung on desperately, excitedly. Then the great bird banked steeply, cutting around Westwood Hall and over the chasm, and followed the road up to the castle flying just a few hundred feet above the treetops. Only a few of the people on the road below looked up at the sudden and unexpected shadow, but those who did dropped their burdens and stared, jaws agape, at the sight of the mighty falcon overhead.

  A thrill filled Dara that she’d never had before, that she’d only had hints of when bilocating with Frightful. The dizzying sensation of speed, the whip of the wind across her face, the whirl in the pit of her stomach as Frightful banked and the trees zoomed by, below – flying on Frightful’s back was the most fun she’d had in her life!

  Dara coaxed the delighted bird to content herself with one circuit around Rundeval, once she flew over the castle. That’s where Frightful was hatched, where she and Dara had made their fateful acquaintance. She felt she owed her falcon the opportunity to present her robust new body to whatever wild spirits inhabited the peak. But then she compelled her to return to the high mountain meadow where Ithalia and Nattia were anxiously waiting.

  Landing was another new experience, and Dara could not help but feel the icy stab of fear as Frightful dove, then extended her massive wings to catch the air and break their fall just before hitting the ground. Though her talons lighted gently enough on the soft ground, the sudden stop jarred Dara. Her jaw clanked together as her head snapped back, and she nearly fell off Frightful’s back. When she’d recovered her senses, she let out an exuberant shout and punched the air with her fists. They ached, they’d clung to the ropes so hard, and her palms were moist with sweat, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “We did it!” she shouted, as Ithalia and Nattia ran to the falcon’s side. She ignored the pain in her teeth – and how blasted cold she was, after her quick flight – and slid to the ground. “We actually did it!”

  “Is she hurt?” Nattia asked, concerned, as she inspected the bird with an expert eye.

  “Let me check her metabolism!” Ithalia said, excitedly, as she sang a quick spell.

  “I’m fine,” Dara said, sarcastically. “It didn’t hurt me at all. Perfectly all right.”

  “We’ll have to get a saddle for her,” Nattia said, as she studied the giant bird. “I take it you have a saddle maker in Sevendor?”

  “Better,” Dara sighed, rubbing her arms to warm them. “Master Andalnam is an enchanter who specializes in saddlery. He can cast spells to make the harness lighter and less binding than normal.”

  “She’s barely winded,” Ithalia said, with satisfaction. “She could fly for an hour, I think, maybe more. We’ll have to conduct further trials to see just how far. But this was an important test,” she assured the girls. “A falcon, alone, would be formidable enough against a dragon. A falcon and a rider can challenge them in the air!”

  “In theory,” Dara said, remembering the gargantuan beast that had destroyed the pretty castle at Cambrian. “One thing at a time, though. This was a victory,” she conceded.

  “Let me show you the enchantment that transforms her,” Ithalia said, smiling with satisfaction. She took a small twig of weirwood from her . . . honestly, Dara realized she had no idea where on her close-fitting outfit the breathtaking Alkan maid carried her gear. “I made it into a wand. I know how much you magi like your wands.”

  “They excel at pointing,” Dara said, repeating a favorite saying she’d picked up from her master.

  “In this case, that won’t be necessary,” Ithalia explained. “You need merely speak the command word to bring about the transformation, while you are in proximity to Frightful. Say it again, with appropriate intent, and you may change her back. But be warned,” she said, her flawless brow furrowed, “though easy to activate, the process takes a toll on the subject. Do it too often and you will likely affect her health.”

  “We’ll try to avoid that, then,” Dara nodded, taking the wand. It was unshaped weirwood, a fine piece, too, she realized. Better than the chewed-up stick she had in her pouch. Ithalia taught her the transformation word, something in Alkan, and then – after Nattia removed the rope bridle – the sorceress supervised as she practiced the spell by returning Frightful to her smaller size.

  The falcon gave a disappointed scree when the spell finished working – she wasn’t done being the most powerful bird in existence, yet. But Dara also felt Frightful’s sudden pangs of hunger after the transformation. The magical process had drained her of energy and made her nearly crazed with hunger.

  “Feed her!” Dara directed Nattia, as the falconer ran to take charge of the normal-sized bird. “Thank you, my lady,” she said to the Alka Alon sorceress. “And plea
se thank your grandmother for her help.”

  “Oh, she was delighted to assist. She loves the humani and their pets. I will retire to Laesgathel, now, to relay the results to the other Emissaries. They will be eager to hear of our success.”

  Dara returned to the makeshift mews with Nattia feeling jubilant after her incredible ride through the sky. She and Nattia discussed a whole array of new accessories to assist with regular flight – a proper leather bridle, a saddle with stirrups and straps to keep a rider in place, even metal spurs fitted on the massive talons to assist in warfare. Dara was pleased at how far ahead the Kasari girl thought, and by the time they’d returned – and fed – the ravenous Frightful and took a meal at the hall themselves, they had pages of parchment worth of notes to write.

  Nattia proved literate, which surprised Dara. It was rare that a mere child, even an apprentice, would pick up the complicated skill, usually the province of clerics and scribes. It could take years to learn to do properly, and a man who could read and write could always make coin doing so for those who couldn’t.

  Then Nattia revealed something to Dara that staggered her imagination. Nattia not only knew how to read and write, but she’d practice the art to the extent that she had written most of a book.

  “It’s not that impressive,” Nattia said, when she saw Dara’s amazed face. “All Kasari learn to read. And we’re required to make a copy of the Book of the Hand. It’s part of our rites,” she shrugged. “Everyone in my homeland does it.”

  “Everyone in Kasar is a scribe?” she asked, incredulous.

  “Kasar, Bransei, Muir, Po’el, all the major Kasari settlements,” she admitted. “Everyone can read. It’s a little different than here. Or Vorone. Almost no one here reads and fewer write. It’s frustrating,” she said. “Though I hear the castle lord has an impressive library,” she added, slyly. “I hope to get a chance to see it, someday.”

  “Unless you’re intrigued by thaumaturgy and the obtuse lore of spellmongers, you wouldn’t be so eager,” Dara warned. “But Master Minalan does have a few non-magical texts in his collection,” she conceded. “I’m sure I could arrange a loan, after I introduce you.”