Falconfar 03-Falconfar Read online

  As if it had heard him, the unseen greatfangs let out a deep, bubbling, angry sound between a roar and a snarl—and did something that caused a bouncing, ground-shaking roar, almost flung Rod off his feet, made the upper hinges of the door he was clutching part from the door frame with a splintering crash, and flooded the world around him with swirling, choking dust.

  Despite himself, Rod exploded in helpless coughing, dimly aware in the midst of its wrackings that he'd found the floor in a hunched-over ball. He tried to be quiet about it, so as not to draw talons stabbing right down at where he was, and tried, too, to roll blindly forward through the door so those fearsome dark daggers would miss him, but—talons loomed suddenly out of the swirling haze, raking the air so closely that one caught the very edge of his boot and spun him around like a child's toy.

  And into the room beyond, banging bruisingly off the door frame and into a room that seemed to be all cupboards and pillars and dangling, swaying ceiling-tiles.

  Cupboards that leaned and toppled, crashing into pillars or other falling cupboards right above Rod, wedging themselves against each other to form ungainly, improvised roofs above him.

  Still coughing helplessly, his eyes beginning to stream, Rod barely saw what was spilling out of one cupboard, to rain down on his face. He did notice—couldn't help but notice—that it included something that was glowing like a lamp, warm and yellow and flickering—in the brief and painful moments before something hard and heavy greeted his head with stunning force, banging his chin on the floor and leaving him seeing all sorts of things. Galloping horses, nude and shapely Aumrarr with two pairs of wings each, like dragonflies, who as he watched grew horrible skull-like lorn faces to grin at him... and wizards, Lorontar and Malraun and Arlaghaun alive again, all of their floating faces grinning sneeringly at him...

  Then the ceiling fell, and all Falconfar went away in a hurry.

  YOU ARE KEEPING watch. Remember?" The look Dauntra gave Garfist was every bit as sharp as her words.

  The burly onetime panderer threw up his hands in a mutinous shrug, but turned obediently on his heel to glare around into the darkness of the Raurklor.

  "Not a tree has moved—and I can't see aught else but trees," he growled, a long breath or two later. "Strikes me I'm a better target, standing here gawking at nothing, than a watcher."

  "I'll not dispute that," the beautiful Aumrarr replied in a bitingly dry voice. "Yet humor me a little longer. I need to finish with Jusk."

  She and Iskarra were on their knees beside the unconscious Juskra, turning the battlescarred Aumrarr slowly and carefully so as to run their hands over her thoroughly, seeking wounds, the roughnesses that might be broken bones, any sticky wetness that might be seeping blood, and—

  "How far are we from Galath?" Garfist demanded abruptly, peering off into the endless trees in the direction of that realm.

  Dauntra shrugged. "A long way, yet. Its border mountains look nearer than in truth they are."

  "And if she can't fly?" he asked, stabbing a finger down at Juskra's limp form.

  Dauntra shrugged again. "Then we walk. I'll fly when it'll help us—to cross chasms, and the like—and we'll get to Galath. In time. Mayhap a long time, what with hunting for food and all, but we'll get you there; Aumrarr keep their promises."

  "Aye," Garfist nodded—then swung to face her, leaned forward, and growled, "But tell me now... why did ye make this promise? I'm not so lovely as all that!"

  "True," came her reply, more gentle than dry, "yet you—both of you—still have parts to play, in time soon to come."

  "So ye say." Garfist was turning again, peering slowly and carefully in one direction and then another. "Yet how do Aumrarr know that? Do ye dream? Pray to some hidden god for guidance? Or is it just grand an' empty words about all folk having some part, great or small, in what befalls Falconfar?"

  "Some Aumrarr see things. Most of us feel things, from time to time. We know, just as surely as Stormar sailors in port know when the tide will next turn. Now belt up, watchguard; sentinels who flap their jaws make too much noise to hear what they should be listening for, outside their camps."

  "Huh," Garfist rumbled. "This forest never stops handing us suspicious noises." As if his words had been a cue, something hooted in the distance, there was a sudden and abruptly-ended shriek even farther off... and something started rustling in leaves and underbrush, very near where they were standing. Something that sounded small, but began to circle them.

  Garfist cursed and hefted his sword, turning to face the unseen source of the sound as it moved. It proceeded in a series of short, scuttling runs, separated by pauses. Small, yet near. Very near.

  He strained and strained to catch some glimpse of eyes staring back at him, or a flicker of movement, but he might as well have been staring into the innards of a sack, in utter darkness. Nothing. Nothing at all. Except other rustlings, a little farther away... but heading closer.

  Seemingly unconcerned, Dauntra bent her head again to Juskra. After a moment, Isk stopped listening intently to the rustling as she watched Garfist, and did the same.

  As suddenly as it had begun circling them, the rustling sounds turned away, heading off into the forest, growing fainter.

  Then there came a very short, strangled eep, a furious thrashing of leaves and splintering twigs, and... nothing at all.

  Garfist Gulkoun took two swift, darting steps toward the source of the brief sound, jaw thrust forward, sword held low behind him. Then he froze, listening hard and peering even harder.

  The darkness did not surrender.

  The silence held, though there came faint and distant stirrings from several other directions in the deep, endless forest.

  "If I stare much longer, my glorking eyes'll start to bleed," Garfist muttered at last. "Enough of this. If something comes charging out of the night, I'll worry about it then. And feed it this—" He hefted his sword. "—or this!" He flung up the hand that bore the ring Juskra had given him.

  Dauntra and Iskarra ignored him. Under their hands, Juskra was starting to stir, murmuring something faint and wordless.

  Gar gave them all a glare, then growled at Dauntra, "Mind telling us now, before Ironhips wakes, just what ye intend to use us for?"

  Dauntra didn't look up, and said nothing beyond sighing loudly.

  "Revenge, is it? Revenge on someone formidable, that ye want old Gar to wade in an' get all bloody doing? And die, mayhap, whilst ye stay safely far away?"

  Dauntra shook her head.

  "Well? What, then?"

  Dauntra kept her eyes on Juskra's face, cradling it in one hand and gently stroking it with the other, and said quietly, "The best revenge is one you simply wait for, and let your foes bring upon themselves. Manipulate them a little, perhaps, but otherwise do nothing but watch and wait—and get on with living your life. Letting them sway you not at all with whatever they did to you. That's the best revenge."

  "Hunh," Garfist grunted. "I'm not as clever as you, lass. I'll settle for just sticking my knife into the ones I hate and twisting it, so they die in pain. That's more the sort of revenge I can really enjoy."

  "I... feel the same," Juskra whispered, turning her face toward him. Her eyes were still shut, and she shuddered a little, under Dauntra's hands, then groaned aloud, arched her back, and beat her wings against the ground like a man beating his fist in frustration.

  Then she went limp again, and opened her eyes. "Nothing too badly broken," she told her fellow Aumrarr, letting Dauntra gently boost her into a sitting position. Leaning back against Dauntra's knee, she gave Garfist a sour look. "I think."

  "Tell truth," Dauntra replied quietly. "Your left wing..."

  "Yes, my left wing," Juskra snarled. "Falcon spit, it hurts."

  Garfist trudged over to her. "What about yer left wing?"

  Juskra sighed, rolled her eyes, and turned to Iskarra. "Must I really lug yon tub of lard through the skies, all the way to the Stag's Head?" She gave Garfist a glower. "Trim little
lass that I am."

  His reply was a grinning snarl—that broke, by way of a cough, into a helpless chuckle.

  After a moment, Dauntra giggled, and then all four of them were laughing.

  Juskra sank back down onto the forest floor, closed her eyes, and announced, "So those of us with wings are utterly exhausted. And in my case, a little worse. Where are we?"

  "Lost in the Raurklor," Iskarra said promptly. "Well east of Ironthorn but not yet in Galath. Which lies beyond the mountains yonder, that night now hides from us."

  "Well, that's reassuring," Juskra replied. "Just where I'd thought we were. You took care of the lorn, I presume?"

  "Of course," Gar told her proudly.

  She slid open one scornful eye. '"Of course,' my left teat."

  She'd meant her words to be crushing, but Gar gave her an eager smile, winked at her, and leaned forward, flexing his fingers.

  "Don't," Dauntra told him warningly. "Even as she is now, I'd not bet on you, against her, in a fray."

  "Huh. Even bareskinned wrestling?" Garfist asked hopefully, grinning into Juskra's flat stare.

  "I have maimed several men," she announced flatly, apparently addressing the sword Garfist was now using like a walking-stick, "with my right knee."

  "Oh, aye?" His reply was casual, unimpressed.

  "My left knee," she added, "is even sharper."

  "Ah, but do yer knees stretch wide apart, now?"

  Juskra rolled her eyes again, then looked at Iskarra and asked sourly, "Am I going to have to strike him senseless just to get a little quiet, so we can all get to sleep?"

  "No," Garfist's longtime companion replied sweetly. "Just order him to stand first watch, so his snores don't keep us all from slumber. He's all flirtatious roar, this one, and no true menace."

  "Hoy!" the former panderer protested. "I'm—"

  "About to belt up," Iskarra said sweetly. "Now."

  Garfist started to reply, then thought better of it and just nodded.

  Somewhere close by in the darkness, something small started rustling again.

  At least, Garfist hoped it was small. Not something large and sleek and dangerous, that padded so deftly it only sounded small.

  He tensed, dropping into a crouch with his sword out in front of him, listening intently.

  "Ahhh," Juskra said contentedly, stretching and then relaxing. "You'll take care of it, stout—very stout—man, whatever it is. Of course."

  ROD EVERLAR CAME awake shaking. No, strike that; he was being shaken. Along with timbers and crumbled plaster—at least, it looked like plaster, though it had crumbled away into mostly dust, gray-white and chalky—and stones with mortar still clinging to them, and smaller splintered spars of wood, and... stuff.

  All of this wrack was under him and around him and strewn over him, both shielding him and weighing him down, shifting and bouncing noisily as the floor beneath him trembled again.

  Trembled and heaved, cracking and crumbling with a muffled groaning of timbers somewhere under it.

  Ah, Rod thought, that'd be the joists of the floor, or the beams of another ceiling below...

  Which reminded him; there'd been something glowing that had fallen on him, hadn't there? Something smallish and hard, spilling out of a cupboard with a lot of other stuff—bottles? Little boxes?—straight at his face...

  He hadn't been off in Dreamland very long, Rod decided, as he struggled to prop himself up on one elbow, turning painfully amid all the chunks of stone and grit. At least there were no nails to stab him, in all of this; hereabouts, builders used wooden pegs of massive size. He tried to keep his head low, well aware from the rumblings and sharp splintering sounds that the greatfangs— two of them, at least—were still busily tearing apart the wizard's tower. Not all that far away from him.

  Not that there was much left of Malragard just here, right above his head.

  He'd have to be cautious, disarranging all this debris as little as possible. If a greatfangs spotted him, there was nothing left to stop its jaws reaching down out of the sky and ending his life in one swift, painful bite.

  Rod shivered, hurriedly banishing an all-too-vivid image of that from his mind. Bumping his knee on something jagged and painful, he wobbled to his feet, almost falling, caught hold of a leaning beam just long enough to get his balance, then won free of the tangle of wreckage that had been hampering him.

  Whereupon he promptly slipped, rushed ahead for a few helpless, staggering steps, and dropped to one knee—his other one, thank whatever gods or angels there might be—to regain his breath and calm, and have a good look around his new location.

  There! That glow, yonder; it must be from whatever it was that had fallen on him, earlier. It was small, and metallic, but from what he could see of it, looked more like some sort of ornamental turned spindle of the sort that adorned cheap imported brass bedsteads, rather than a tool or a weapon.

  And a glow almost had to mean magic.

  Which would have been great, if he'd known the first damned thing about using any Falconaar magic. Oh, he'd dreamed and seen wizards point wands and suchlike, and unleash leaping lightnings and roaring flames and worse, but it seldom seemed to work when he, Lord Archwizard of Falconfar, tried it.

  That meant it was only a matter of time before a greatfangs talon, or another wizard, or some six-year-old holding a sharp knife, killed him. Painfully.

  A death that wouldn't please him at all, even if he had found that magnificent Falconfar, the land of his dreams, was real—all too real—and walked its ways. Nor would it help poor Taeauna any, and he'd promised her he'd rescue her. Before that, he'd promised her he'd deliver Falconfar from the Dooms, and their Dark Helms.

  She knew better, now, what a powerless idiot he was, but he was tired of disappointing her, too.

  So he was going to get up, fetch that glowing thing and anything else that looked useful—all the stuff that had fallen out of that cupboard looked to be there, strewn around amongst what was left of the cupboard and the wall it had been fastened to—and go play the storybook hero.

  It was time, damn it. It was way past time.

  His stomach rumbled suddenly, so loudly that he stiffened, afraid a greatfangs would come diving at him.

  Thinking of 'time,' when was the last time he'd eaten?

  It was past time for a lot of things. He rose cautiously and picked his way forward, keeping low. He probably wouldn't like a meal of raw, dripping greatfangs flesh any more than he'd like a greatfangs enjoying a meal of raw, dripping Rod Everlar.

  He reached the glowing thing, bent down to take it—it did look like some sort of spindle, which probably meant it was either utterly useless or could destroy kingdoms if he waved it the wrong way—and then paused, fingers only inches from its gentle, steady glow.

  What if Lorontar—if any wizard—could trace him in an instant, if he was carrying it?

  Hell, what if all the greatfangs could trace him, sensing just where he was trying to hide?

  "Hang it," he muttered. Reaching down, he took firm hold of the spindle-thing, and found it to be warm and somehow alive. Or containing slow pulses or waves of energy, or... something.

  It flared into sudden brightness, and he hastily curled his body around it and wished fervently that it would go dark.

  And it did.

  "Son of a bitch," he hissed under his breath, and willed it to glow again.

  Silently, obediently, it did, but he was already firmly ordering it to go dim again, in his mind.

  It did that, too, instantly and silently, without the least fuss.

  "Well, now," he whispered jubilantly, crouched in the wreckage. "I've got me a flashlight!"

  Now why, with dragon-like beasts that could bite him in a half in an instant tearing apart his hiding-place around him, did that make him feel so suddenly, wildly happy?

  "Huh," he told the solid, heavy spindle-thing in his hands, idly noticing that it didn't look like any metal he recognized, being somewhat like the old c
hrome trim on the first car he'd driven, gleaming something like silver... but silver that was the bronze color of vintage champagne. "Guess I am a Lord Archwizard after all. Or a mad idiot. All happy over a frikkin' flashlight."

  He cast wary glances up and around, to see if any greatfangs were gliding nearer. He hadn't heard anything nearby, but...

  No. No huge dark bulk with wings or jaws. Good. He reached for the nearest of the small, unrecognizable items the spindle had been lying among, wondering what it would turn out to be. A dishmop, perhaps?

  "I have no particular liking for wizard's gates that whisk you far away at a single step to somewhere unknown, either," Talyss Tesmer snapped at her brother, "but the alternative is walking across the entire damned Raurklor. With all its bears, and snakes, and—and worse. Day after day, fighting our way through dagger- sharp thornbushes and under leaning trees that could fall on us and through swamps full of lurking things and dung-reeking mud. Don't be a fool, Belard!"

  "I HAVE NO particular liking for wizard's gates that whisk you far away at a single step to somewhere unknown, either," Talyss Tesmer snapped at her brother, "but the alternative is walking across the entire damned Raurklor. With all its bears, and snakes, and—and worse. Day after day, fighting our way through dagger- sharp thornbushes and under leaning trees that could fall on us and through swamps full of lurking things and dung-reeking mud. Don't be a fool, Belard!"

  "Sister," came his cold reply, "I've spent more than enough years acquiring a hearty distaste for being called that. 'Fool' is a name I got tired of ten-and-six summers ago. Care to choose another word?"

  "Stonehead?"

  "That will serve, yes," Belard replied evenly—and grew a sudden grin. "So where's this gate, then?"

  AROUND HIM, EVERYTHING shuddered again, and a wall crashed down in a thunderous roar of falling stone. At least one greatfangs was still tearing Malragard apart.