Sky Rider

by Terry Mancour

  “If anyone can do it, it’s Lenodara the Sky Rider,” Fes declared, holding his wooden mug up in a toast.

  Despite herself, Dara enjoyed the attention and admiration of the men. She’d earned it fairly, she decided – they weren’t just fawning over her because she was a girl, they genuinely respected what she had accomplished. It was a rare moment of indulgence for Dara.

  Only her brother seemed reluctant to praise her, she noticed. That bothered her, for some reason – not because she felt she deserved his praise, but because of all people he had always encouraged her when everyone else was against her.

  “I’m just worried, Dara,” he explained, when she caught him outside, alone. “You . . . you aren’t the same girl who went to the castle. You’re not even the same girl who went with us to Cambrian to face the dragon. No wonder Papa is worried sick about you!”

  “Worried . . . about me?” she snorted. “He’s angry at me!”

  “Of course he is,” Kyre said with a sigh. “You challenged him as Master of the Wood. He’s supposed to get angry about that sort of thing. But he didn’t leave the Westwood because he’s mad, Dara. He left because he’s worried. About you.”

  “I’m fine!” she insisted. “Why would he be worried about me?”

  “You’re his daughter,” Kyre emphasized. “You should be hunting a husband, like Linta or your cousins. Instead you’re capturing hawks on mountainsides. Learning magic. Living at the castle and consorting with wizards. Going away to war. Fighting dragons!” he emphasized. “Associating with Karshak and Alka Alon, figures out of legend, like it was nothing. Going off to the other side of the world to unearthly councils with powerful lords . . . it’s all a bit much to take, for him. For us all,” he amended.

  “It’s . . . it’s just what I’ve got to do,” Dara said, shaking her head in confusion. “I didn’t ask to be Talented! I didn’t ask to be made Master Minalan’s apprentice! I didn’t ask to be drafted into war any more than you did!” she emphasized.

  “Yet you weren’t forced to tame Frightful,” Kyre pointed out. “Nor to use her to win the Spellmonger’s Trial. Nor doing other impetuous things . . . like riding an experimental giant hawk into the sky to find your lost suitor,” he pointed out.

  “I . . . you make a fair point,” Dara conceded, with a sigh. “I suppose I am responsible for that . . . but that other stuff just happened to me. And Sir Festaran is not a suitor,” she insisted. “He’s just a good friend.”

  “I thought wizards were supposed to be cannily observant?” snorted Kyre. “Sir Fes is smitten with you. He wouldn’t shut up about you the entire way here. It started to make me a little ill, and I’m your brother. The man likes you, Dara. By the Flame.”

  “You’re mad!” Dara denied. “Fes is just a friend! A girl can have friends, Kyre!”

  “Sure,” he agreed, enjoying her reaction as any brother would. “Even for all his praise of you, Fes wouldn’t admit that he holds affections in his heart beyond friendship and admiration. But don’t expect that to last. Nor is he the only one interested in you beyond their professional capacities. That wizard who hangs around all the time, Gareth,” he pointed out. “Perhaps others, too.”

  “I don’t have time for that!” she dismissed with a groan.

  “I don’t think the Flame is going to care,” Kyre chuckled. “It never does. But don’t be blind to reality, Dara. They both have feelings for you. I’m not going to tease you about it, like Linta or Kobb would, but you need to realize that.”

  “I . . . I’ll take that under advisement,” she sighed, quietly. If Kyre brought it to her attention, it was something she should at least take seriously.

  “Don’t worry, Little Bird, it will all sort itself out,” he promised, embracing her affectionately. “It always does. But even that nags at our father’s imagination, to compound his other worries about you.”

  “That really isn’t any of his business! Nor yours!” she said, irritated.

  “Isn’t it?” Kyre challenged. “Dara, the people we make a pact with our heart with in front of the Flame become our family,” he reminded her. “How is that not any of our concern? You saw how we fretted over the lout Leska married. And that odd boy your cousin Lillia brought back to the Westwood. Or that . . . irritating creature Kobb just introduced to Father as his intended—”

  “What? Kobb is getting married? Someone actually wants to marry Kobb?” she asked, incredulously.

  “See? You’re concerned about him, because he’s our brother. Believe me, Papa is concerned, too. She has a voice like a mule, a face like a turkey, and the most irritating laugh . . . but it’s who Kobb wants to wed. She’s likely going to be our sister-in-law. Their children will be our nephews and nieces. That’s worthy of some concern. To the Master of the Wood most of all, for to him falls the duty of preparing the next generation to bear our legacy.”

  “But why does he have to be so . . . so . . .”

  “Because that’s who he’s supposed to be, Dara, just like you’re supposed to be his wild daughter who does magic and – apparently – rides giant hawks, now. You know he’s going to have a fit, when he sees you on Frightful’s back. Any good father would.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” Dara stated, flatly.

  “So does he,” Kyre shrugged. “But you need to talk to him and work this out. It’s not good for either of you. Maybe you should show him Frightful,” he considered. “Perhaps if he knew how important the mews is to the Magelord’s plans, he would be more . . . cooperative.”

  It was a lot to think about, and more than enough to dash the warm feeling she’d had.

  It was further eroded when Sire Cei and his mounted knights rode into the village just before noon. Dara saw her friend Sir Ryff among them, the blue boar on his surcoat covered by a cloak of Sevendor Green. But it was the Dragonslayer all were concerned with. The Castellan of Sevendor Castle looked stern and concerned as he dismounted his warhorse to greet them in the road outside the inn.

  “I hear Ralk fell?” he asked, when he was assured of everyone’s health.

  “Sadly, yes,” Festaran reported. “He died bravely, fighting on his feet, as the Destroyer prefers,” Festaran said, referencing the cult of the war god that the chivalry commonly followed. “We laid him in state in a ruined abbey up the road.”

  “I’ll send for his body and ensure all due honors are made,” Sire Cei said, sadly. “I’m pleased to report that Corporal Baskar survived the removal of the dart from his shoulder, and is now resting in Sevendor Castle. It seems as if we owe these bandits some retribution.”

  “It’s a bit more complex than that, Sire,” Sir Festaran explained, taking out the pouch he’d confiscated from the bandit. “Firstly, their leader is an old enemy of Sevendor: Sir Ganulan, son of the Warbird. He yet bears the Mage’s Marks that the Magelord placed on him. I think he’s formed this bandit pack to make war on Sevendor in revenge. And for gain,” he added, opening the pouch.

  Sire Cei looked at the white rocks and understood at once. “I see. I will need to bring this to the Magelord’s attention, of course. Good work, Sir Festaran.

  “Now you . . . I’ll start with Kyre. What possessed you to go running off into the night on horseback, without orders or proper reinforcements?”

  “The urgency of the situation. Time seemed of the essence, Sire,” Kyre said, unapologetically. “I knew reinforcements were coming, and I had sufficient force with me to search the road and rendered aid.”

  “And if you had been set upon by bandits?” Sire Cei asked, sharply.

  “Then they would have gotten shot,” Kyre said, bluntly. “Every one of my lads has a bow, a full quiver, and a lifetime of practice at the butts. And they can ride. I wasn’t worried about the danger.”

  “Hmm. Certainly not sufficiently worried. I won’t punish boldness, Yeoman Kyre, but I will challenge foolishness. Next time, wait for orders and assistance. An hour would have doubled your party and made it much more resilient to atta
ck.

  “Now you, young lady,” he said, turning to Dara. “Just who ordered you to go after these men on your own? I expect impetuous behavior from my frontier guards – that’s their job. But not from Minalan’s youngest apprentice! I thought you would be the calm, stable one, yet you are behaving in ways Tyndal and Rondal would applaud. That gives me pause,” he said, his brow furrowed.

  “I am yet more than Master Minalan’s apprentice, Dragonslayer,” she reminded him. “I am the Lady of the Westwood, too. As a noble of Sevendor, do I not have a duty to do all I can to preserve her security?”

  “Technically, yes,” Sire Cei admitted. “But—”

  “As I had the technical skill needed in this instance,” Dara continued, quickly, before the castellan could finish, “and time was, as my brother pointed out, of the essence, it was my responsibility to respond to the crisis in an appropriate manner.”

  “You had technical skills that Master Olmeg, or any number of the other wizards at the castle, lacked?” Sire Cei asked, skeptically.

  “Actually, Sire, in this case she did,” Sir Festaran explained. “Dara can make Frightful . . . well, Dara, it might be best just to show him.”

  Dara nodded, closed her eyes, and summoned her bird. Frightful had been sunning herself on a large rock in the middle of a nearby wood where she wouldn’t terrify any of the local villagers, after hunting and eating a small deer. In a moment, a shadow flashed across them all and then Frightful was landing gently on the road, spooking the horses.

  “Unless Master Olmeg can transform a falcon thus, I believe Dara had the unique skills for this mission, my lord,” Sir Festaran suggested. “I might believe he could transform into a turnip, but not a falcon.”

  “I . . . I see that,” Sire Cei said, staring at the bird the size of a wagon. “I assume one of the Emissaries has been assisting you with this?” he asked. “Lady Ithalia, I would guess. I may not be a wizard, but I can recognize her hand in this. More of that transgenic enchantment,” he guessed.

  “It’s for fighting dragons,” Dara explained.

  “I can see the utility,” Sir Cei admitted. “Very well. Dara, it appears, was uniquely suited for undertaking this mission,” he agreed, finally dragging his eyes away from Frightful and back to Dara. “However, that still does not excuse you rushing off without a plan, without notification, and without permission. I grant that your assistance likely speeded this incident to a successful conclusion, but I will have to discuss this matter with the Magelord upon his return. Thoroughly,” he warned.

  Dara’s heart sank a bit, but not too much. She knew that she probably deserved a bit of chewing out, considering how many risks she took, but she was willing to endure a stern lecture and perhaps even punishment from her master over the episode.

  Once he recovered from seeing Frightful in her giant form.

  But the castellan was not finished yet, as he caught each of the young people by eye. “I am not blind to how well you three responded to adversity, in this instance. Such boldness is commendable, particularly in an emergency.

  “But likewise things could have gone horribly wrong. You may have been ambushed by bandits expecting a response, for instance,” he said, fixing Kyre sternly with his eye before moving on. “Your spells may have failed or you may have plummeted to your death due to inexperience and inattention,” he continued, staring down Dara until she was so uncomfortable she looked away. “Or advancing deeper into hostile territory without reinforcements, proper dispatches, or a real plan of how to escape – any of these errors could have gotten you all killed. You were very lucky.”

  No one liked to get a dressing-down from Sire Cei. The Dragonslayer was universally respected in Sevendor, perhaps even more than the Spellmonger, for his fair and even administration. He was lauded by his fellow knights as an exemplar of the chivalric ideal, and he took that compliment seriously.

  “But luck is not something we can depend upon, in Sevendor,” he continued. “We may have defeated the Warbird, but already others scheme to take his place as our primary opponent. No, not these bandits, as troubling as this is,” he acknowledged. “The Magelord has directed me to make Sevendor as strong as possible in the face of such threats. And I have done what I can . . . but having impetuous young people deciding that they know best how to contend with such challenges makes that task more difficult.”

  “But Sire, we prevailed!” Sir Festaran objected.

  “And lost a man doing so,” Sire Cei reminded, grimly. “And the bandits remain at large. I don’t blame you for that, Sir Festaran, but it must be noted.”

  “Of course, Sire,” Festaran agreed, quietly.

  “Sevendor will survive only if all of its parts work,” Sire Cei continued, pacing in front of them. “The Yeomen must supervise their estates and manors properly. The chivalry must defend and protect the domain diligently. And the magi,” he continued, looking again at Dara, “must provide wisdom and magic with equal facility, for us to thrive. You all made mistakes. But, as Sir Festaran pointed out, you prevailed. And victory, as you all should know, is often a mitigating factor.”

  Dara relaxed the smallest amount . . . she’d expected a lot worse than this from the taciturn castellan. In Master Minalan’s absence, Sire Cei was in charge of the entire domain. Worse, now, she realized, as he was also charged with oversight of all of the other domains Minalan now controlled after the war. Including Sir Festaran’s home domain, Hosly. That was a lot of responsibility to bear on its own, she realized. Having a few retainers who were prone to unexpected action had to be an additional headache. But if he was tempering his criticism so soon, she figured he couldn’t be too upset.

  But then he continued.

  “We will address this in more detail, later,” he sighed, still glancing occasionally at the giant bird on the road. “Right now we have more pressing duties. Sir Festaran, are you fit to ride?”

  “I am as refreshed now as if I’d slept a week, Sire,” the knight pledged, resolutely.

  “The blessings of youth,” snorted the older knight. “Of course you are. Sir Festaran, assess the condition of your men. Any who require the attention of a physician you will send back to Caolan’s Pass. Yeoman Kyre, you and a man of your selection will escort them.

  “The rest of us will re-group here,” he continued. “I will speak to the local manor lord and convince him to contribute additional men. Then we will ride north and flush these bandits out of the hills. Sir Ryff is eager for the hunt. Are you up for that, Sir Festaran?”

  “I am eager for the opportunity, Sire!” the knight confirmed.

  “That is all. But – Lady Lenodara, a word?” he asked. Dara’s heart fell. His request was laden with meaning.

  “Of course, my lord,” she agreed, falling in beside Sire Cei as he began walking toward Frightful, who was preening herself.

  “A magnificent achievement,” he said, with earnest praise as he examined the bird. “Not merely the transformation – I credit Lady Ithalia with that – but training her to ride? That was all the Hawkmaiden.”

  “Sky Rider,” she corrected, once again. “We shall be called Sky Riders.”

  “Appropriate,” Sire Cei approved. “I’ve broken six destriers to saddle in my career. All strong, spirited warhorses. Each of them threw me – some just once, some many times. If such a thing happens to a . . . Sky Rider, just once . . .”

  “Being a beastmaster helps,” Dara said, quickly. “When I’m riding behind Frightful’s eyes as well as on her back, she couldn’t throw me off any more than she could throw a wing. And it does take a little getting used to, for both of us. But I take your point. I’ve commissioned a special saddle from Master Andalnam. I only used the rope bridle because it was an emergency.”

  “I can see why Lady Ithalia thought this might be a worthy counter to a dragon,” the Dragonslayer said, rubbing his chin. “She is quite impressive on her own. An entire flock of these birds would be formidable, I would imagine.”

  �
��Especially if they are ridden by trained Sky Riders,” Dara emphasized.

  “No doubt,” Sire Cei agreed. “Let us hope the experiment is successful. I see now why Minalan procured those birds and the falconer from Vorone. And why you were so resolute about building your mews. Enough to argue with your father and bring the Westwood to the brink of collapse as a result. Why did you not just come to me, Dara?” the castellan asked. “I could have intervened and spared you much friction with your father.”

  Dara felt embarrassed at the castellan’s question, at first – because he was correct. Settling disputes among the various estates was exactly the sort of thing a castellan did. From the castle’s perspective, her struggle with the Master of the Wood was trivial, and could have been resolved quickly.

  But then Dara saw the conflict not from the perspective of the lords of Sevendor, but as a girl from the Westwood, named before the Flame. The Master of the Wood wasn’t merely the yeoman in charge of the Westwood manor, he was the leader of her people . . . and her father.

  “Things are more complicated than that,” she said to the knight, as diplomatically as possible. “Master Minalan instructed me to build the mews in the Westwood. He entrusted me with the keeping of all of the expensive birds he purchased in Vorone . . . and the upkeep of the two falconers,” she added. “If I cannot manage that on my own, what kind of noble am I?”

  “It’s not a matter of nobility or even rank, Lady Dara,” Sire Cei said with a sigh, after considering her words for a few moments. “I appreciate your difficult situation. From what Sir Festaran has told me, your father is against the construction of the mews, and has put several obstacles in your way. And forced you to go into debt to Banamor by withholding your funds.”

  “How did you know –?”

  “Very little goes on in Sevendor that I am not aware of,” Sire Cei chuckled, quietly. “Eventually. I commend you on finding alternatives, but I fear you risk a greater problem in doing so. Indeed, I’m concerned that your conflict will have long-term consequences for the domain . . . consequences that I cannot, for the sake of good governance, ignore.”