That sobered the men. They were not particularly well-educated, but they understood the precious nature of breathing.
“Fine,” Festaran sighed, after a long, thoughtful pause. “If you think we can avoid them better at night . . .”
“I’ll cast Cat’s Eye spells on each of you,” she promised. “You’ll be able to see as well as if it were morning. If we can sneak through the forest a few hundred yards, there’s a clearing not too far from the side-road that leads to the main road. Who’s first?”
***
The forest at night seemed almost open and welcoming, after the closeness of the cave. Dara volunteered to go first and scout ahead, using her spells to survey the wood from the mouth of the cave before she pulled herself out and helped the first of the soldiers through the narrow opening.
They stayed as quiet as men wearing armor could, and Dara paid close attention to how the nocturnal animals were behaving, to warn her of any intrusion. But they emerged from the cave without incident, pausing only a few moments to breathe in the cool summer night air before they began to make their way through the trees.
Dara led the way. She inquired for directions from a variety of creatures, and got her bearings quickly enough. Making her way beyond the hill and toward the meadow gave Dara an increasing feeling of hope, and she became less fearful with every step. Sir Festaran caught up with her, when the path widened enough to do so.
“Why did you come after us, Dara?” he whispered quietly in her ear.
“Because you are men of Sevendor, and you needed help. That’s what wizards do,” she said, proudly.
“But Sevendor has other wizards,” he reminded her, patiently. “Surely they did not require you to search for us.”
“I . . . volunteered,” she said, a little irritated at his tone. Didn’t she just save him from danger? Shouldn’t he be thanking her, not chiding her? “And I didn’t really ask for permission,” she admitted.
“I thought as much,” he sighed. “Dara, you had no business coming out here after us,” he lectured. “I cannot think that the Magelord would—”
“Well the Magelord wasn’t here, so the Hawkmaiden had to suffice,” she snapped, her voice rising above a whisper. “Do you object?”
“I’m grateful for the effort, but fear you endangered yourself unnecessarily.”
“It was my duty,” she said, flatly. “I am ennobled, remember? I’m the famous Hawkmaiden, slayer of dragons. I’m sorry if you think I can’t handle a few bandits,” she said sourly. “But just as it was your duty to go off and hunt bandits, it was mine to find you when you did.”
“I just fear what the Magelord will say, when he hears.”
“Of what?” she challenged. “This is just a common exercise, is it not? Why would we bother Minalan with such a trivial matter?”
“Dara! Keep quiet!” Festaran said, alarmed.
“Don’t you try to hush me!” Dara replied, angrily. “I’m not the one who lost his horse and got himself overwhelmed by bandits. If anyone has some explaining to do to Master Minalan, it’s going to be—”
Before she could finish the sentence, a shape threw itself into their path from behind a tree, followed by two more. With the Cat’s Eye spell Dara didn’t have any trouble identifying them: bandits, and all three held crossbows.
“You are as loud as a festival parade!” sneered the man in the middle. His hood was thrown back, displaying a Mage’s Mark on his face in the shape of a star. “And if anyone has something to say to Minalan, it will be me . . . when I deliver the ransom demand to him.”
Sir Festaran raised his sword and stepped in front of Dara protectively, though Ganulan was too far away from him to be struck.
“Ganulan! Put down your weapons and raise your hands, if you have any honor left,” Festaran demanded, angrily.
“You have no authority in Sashtalia, Festaran,” Ganulan countered. “In this forest, I am lord. And don’t speak to me of honor,” he added, angrily. “You were supposed to be my sworn man,” he reminded Festaran. “Yet you gave your parole to the common mage who stole my birthright. And now you work for him!” he accused. “Who forgot their honor first?”
“Ganulan, I did not foreswear my oath to you until my oath to my father took precedence!” Festaran protested, hotly. “That was more than a year ago! Have you no better errantry to concern you than robbery and revenge?”
“Your master ensured that, when he put these marks on my face,” Ganulan replied, gesturing to his mage-marked cheek. “Trading you for their removal – and a bit of gold – will got a ways toward satisfying me. But only a ways.”
“You don’t have us in chains, yet!” the Bovali soldier said, moving up next to Festaran, his sword raised.
“Fes!” Dara called, irritated. How did she not spot the bandits getting this close? Because she was arguing with Festaran, she reminded herself. “When you and Ganulan were squires, did you ever run together?” she asked.
“And who is this lass?” the disgraced knight asked, with interest.
“Lady Lenodara of Westwood,” she pronounced, pushing her way through the two soldiers who were trying to protect her. “Apprentice to Minalan the Spellmonger.”
“Ah! My price just went up!” Ganulan said. “Not another step, my lady, or I’ll put a bolt in someplace unimportant, but terribly painful, before I ransom you back to your master.”
“You will do no such thing,” she snorted. “Fes? Did you ever see him run?”
“We often had to run in armor around the castle,” Festaran admitted, confused. “Is this really the time—?”
“Do you think he can make it to the other side of the meadow before Frightful catches him?” she asked, carefully. Sir Festaran caught on at once.
“Oh, he’s not that fast,” Festaran decided. “He’d never make it that far. Your friend is near?” he asked, as he prepared himself.
“What are you talking about?” demanded Ganulan, taking a step toward them.
“I think you’re about to get more marks on your face, my friend,” Festaran chuckled as he raised his sword higher. “Dara is known as the Hawkmaiden for a reason!”
“Put your blades down!” the disgraced knight demanded, taking another step. “I won’t tell you again!”
“You won’t have to!” Dara shouted, preparing a spell. . . just as Frightful darted down to land with a crash just behind the three bandits. Shocked, the men turned to see the dark shape of the giant falcon looming behind them. Dara gave her bird the mental image of the order she wanted obeyed. The bird was happy to comply. Before they could react, Frightful’s head darted down and plucked Ganulan up by his cloak. With a flick of her head, the bandit chieftain was flung far beyond the far edge of the meadow.
At the same time Dara pushed forward and threw her spells at the man to the left, who was still turned to face Frightful. The first spell was a flashing cantrip she launched in front of his eyes to blind him. The second was the Gutbuster spell, which took him to his knees in an instant.
Sir Festaran only hesitated a moment before he and the Bovali man rushed the man to the right. Between them they knocked him on his feet. The Wilderlands boy knelt across the bandit’s neck while Festaran and the others tore his crossbow from his hands and pulled his sword from his belt. With a powerful blow from his mailed fist, Sir Festaran sent the defeated bandit into unconsciousness.
“Dara,” he said, when he straightened again. “What . . . what did you do to Frightful?”
“I’ve been busy,” Dara said, defensively. “I don’t necessarily tell you about every little spell I cast.”
“But . . . but . . . Frightful . . .”
“Is even more frightful than ever,” Dara agreed, walking past the man she’d debilitated with her spell. He would recover, eventually, but he was going to suffer for a while, first. And his hose would have to be thoroughly laundered, when he recovered. No less than a bandit deserved. “Lady Ithalia and I have been working on a project to counter th
e danger of dragons. A secret project. One we will eventually extend to all of those birds Master Min bought in Vorone. This is why I need a mews so desperately,” she explained.
“And the Magelord knows of this?” he asked, warily.
“Not that it is any of your concern, but we were preparing to present our results when the Spellmonger returns,” she said, carefully. “This was my field test of the enchantment. How are you doing, girl?” she asked the falcon, reaching up and petting the feathers between her eyes.
“The Hawkmaiden has a giant hawk?” the Bovali lad laughed. “And a bandit-eating hawk, at that!”
“She’s a falcon,” Dara corrected. “And I’m not just a Hawkmaiden, now. I’m a Sky Rider. The first Sky Rider. But not the last.
“Now, let’s figure out which way the road is before the rest of the bandits figure out what happened. I’m tired, and Frightful is getting hungry.”
Chapter Seventeen
The Dragonslayer
There was only one more brief encounter with the bandits that night. Near dawn, as the party was nearing the road, one of the bandits’ sentries left behind to watch for their escape was startled when they stumbled across his roost.
Before he could blow his horn and summon his comrades, Dara cast a spell to silence the area around his head, the first time she had attempted the complex spell on a human. Try as he might, the horn he blew through produced no noise. And the man tried to blow right up until Sir Festaran and his men subdued him. Thoroughly.
The episode wasn’t otherwise noteworthy save for one thing: when searched, the ruffian had little in his pockets but some stolen silver and copper, some food, and a pouch full of rocks.
“What is it?” the Bovali lad – Dara finally learned his name was Marsil – asked, curious.
“Snowstone,” Dara said at once, when the pale light of the recently-risen sliver of moon touched the stones. The rock that made her home so unique had a distinctive look in the moonlight. “Why would he have a pocket full of snowstone?”
“It has value, outside of Sevendor,” Sir Festaran said, troubled. “Indeed, this much will fetch nearly three ounces of silver to the right wizard. Or more. The Magelord has put restrictions on how much can be sold, who it is sold to, and for how much. This is a disturbing development,” the knight said, shaking his head. “And it explains why these bandits have been dogging the road to Sevendor. They’re stealing it, one rock at a time. I must report this to Sire Cei at once.”
“The sooner we move on, the sooner you can do that, my lord,” Marsil said, impatiently. “We’re nearly to the road!”
“At last!” one of the soldiers moaned, a few moments later as their feet finally made it onto the hardened earth of the roadway. “How far up the road do you think it is to safety?”
“The last manor we passed was around four and seven twentieths of a mile that way,” Sir Festaran estimated, glancing one direction along the road. “We’re just west of the abbey we started at.”
“If you start down that road at a good pace, you can be there by dawn,” Dara suggested, as she pulled her cloak around her. “I’ll take Frightful aloft and scout both directions, to see where my brother and his men are . . . and where the bandits might be.”
“Are you sure it’s entirely safe for you to be . . . flying like that, Dara?” Sir Festaran asked, concerned.
“Are you sure it’s entirely safe to don armor and take a sword against bandits, Fes?” Dara shot back.
“You make a compelling argument,” Sir Festaran said, with a gracious chuckle. “Very well, my lady, we will trudge while you soar.”
As it turned out, Dara never quite got to soaring. Within moments of taking her big bird aloft, she spotted her brother’s party trotting their horses doggedly along the way in the pale light of the waning crescent moon. Grinning to herself, she landed fifty feet in front of them, startling the horses and the men in equal measure.
“It’s about time you caught up!” she chided Kyre, when she’d dismounted.
“Flame! What in six the bloody hells is that?” Kyre demanded, his mouth open.
“That’s Frightful,” Dara laughed.
“What have you been feeding her, Little Bird?” he asked, suspiciously.
“Nothing, tonight, Brother, and she’s getting hungry. This is my secret project with Lady Ithalia,” she said, proudly. “This is why I needed a mews so badly,” she explained, for the second time that night. “Badly enough to go against the wishes of the Master of the Wood.”
“And you ride her, now? Like a horse?”
“She’s far swifter than any horse,” Dara reproved, as Kyre nudged his reluctant horse closer to get a good look at the giant falcon. “We’re trying to fight dragons,” she reminded him. “We need big birds. Frightful is the first of our experiments. And she was very useful for finding Sir Festaran and his men, who are footbound but hale, and are heading in this direction,” she reported. “All but one, who fell to banditry.”
“We can press ahead and secure them,” Kyre nodded, never taking his eyes from Frightful’s bulk. “You certainly have been busy up at the castle, haven’t you? I’m assuming that this isn’t part of the average apprentice’s education?”
“Being the Spellmonger’s apprentice grants you unique opportunities,” Dara agreed, as she returned to mount Frightful again. “I’ll meet you with Fes and the others,” she promised.
By the time dawn colored the eastern sky bright orange and made their Cat’s Eye spells unnecessary, Kyre and his men had met Sir Festaran’s party. After a brief breakfast in the saddle, the Westwoodmen doubled up with the men-at-arms and rode slowly back toward Sevendor, while Dara flew lazy circles overhead.
She was exhausted, but exhilarated by the long night’s activities. She’d never used magic so liberally, or so dramatically before . . . and Kyre and Festaran’s reaction to seeing Frightful in her large form had been particularly satisfying.
Even more gratifying was how well that larger form had managed the tasks she’d been asked to perform. She was tired and hungry, Dara knew through their rapport, but she still had plenty of strength in her wings. She could fly Dara home in a few minutes, if she didn’t have to watch the horsemen below, the bird pointed out.
The night had proven that she could ride Frightful, too, for extended periods of time. While that was a long way from fighting dragons in the air, it did suggest that such a thing was possible. Dara couldn’t wait until she could tell Lady Ithalia about the evening, and how well Frightful performed.
Dara had realized a number of important things about flying along the way, as well. Like the importance of very, very warm clothing, she noted, as her teeth began to chatter in the chill of the air. How a Sky Rider needed a helmet to keep them from eating their own hair in battle. And how impractical a heavy crossbow was as a weapon, though a lighter version might suffice.
Flame, she realized. I don’t even know if weapons are practical, from the back of a bird.
There were plenty more tests ahead of her, she realized as she patrolled the skies. And once she and Frightful had worked out exactly how to do it, she would have to teach those skills and equip other Sky Riders similarly. Even that was a long way from confronting dragons, but it was hopeful. If nothing else, she noted as she scoured the ground ahead of the horsemen with her eyes, it gave a Sky Rider an excellent vantage point during combat. With a little applied magic, that could become a very important thing in the future.
The lads below her had decided to skip the nearest manor and press on to a small village a few more miles up the road. There, at a small inn, they awaited Sire Cei’s party while enjoying breakfast porridge, a nap, and the relative safety the village afforded. Dara joined the men around the hearth once she sent Frightful into the air to hunt.
After praising the gods for their rescue, and praying for the soul of their lost comrade, most of the talk concerned Frightful’s impressive appearance. Dara had to answer dozens of questions from the men, f
rom what it felt like to fly to what Frightful ate, now. She assured them that she could return the bird to normal size any time, and that they would be seeing many more of the giant birds in the Westwood mews in the future, if Master Minalan approved.
“Technically it’s transgenic magic, and therefore forbidden – or at least strongly discouraged – by the Alka Alon Council,” she explained. “At least until recently. And it’s still not very popular, among the Alka Alon. And Ithalia’s grandmother was involved, and she and the Council don’t get along. So we wanted to keep it quiet.”
“Facing a squadron of those things would be terrifying,” Kyre said, shaking his head. “She really flung a man with her beak?”
“By Duin’s Sacred Axe, at least a hundred and thirteen yards,” vowed Festaran. “I witnessed it, myself.”
“Give her a lance, and the Hawkmaiden will become a knight of the air,” predicted Marsil, respectfully.
“I think the Sky Riders will be more than that,” Dara considered, as she relaxed in the simple comfort of the inn’s warm hearth. “And a lance would be woefully impractical. Maybe a javelin . . . one with fletchings, like an arrow, to make it fly true. Or a very light crossbow with very heavy bolts. Or we could just drop rocks on their heads. I don’t know,” she confessed. “We’ll have to try any number of things, I suppose, before we figure out how the birds can best be deployed. And I’ll have to train other people to ride them. Once I really learn myself,” she added.
“You seemed to do fine in the air, Dara,” Sir Festaran praised. “Indeed, I watched you repeatedly from the ground, and you seemed to take to it naturally.”
“When I’m just hanging on and letting Frightful fly? Sure,” she conceded. “That’s easy. But that’s not the kind of flying I’d have to do to take on a dragon in the air. Just like being able to climb in the saddle doesn’t qualify you for jousting,” she said, drawing on an analogy they could appreciate. “And then teaching that, once I’ve figured it out? That’s going to be a lot of work.”
Sky Rider Page 25
