The Gold Falcon

  “Now what?” Arzosah said. “I don’t suppose you’ll take these wretched ropes off me.”

  “If I did, I’d never get them back on. I thought you’d like a rest and a chance for a drink. I’ve got to scry for our prey.”

  “Some water would be very nice, indeed.”

  Arzosah waddled over to the nearest stream and hunkered down to drink, lapping water like a dog with her long black tongue. Salamander was amazed at how clumsy she seemed on the ground. Her short legs bent outward at the knees, and while they supported her full weight, long graceful strides were beyond her. In flight, however, she moved like a dancer. A true creature of air, he thought to himself, but still fiery withal.

  Salamander sat down and watched the bluish twilight play on the long grass. As the sunset wind picked up, the grass bowed and sighed as it moved. Against it, he formulated an image of Valandario, and she answered him immediately. He could see her standing out in the grass and looking up at the sky to the east, where a few stars were already shining like carelessly dropped gems.

  “Where are you?” Salamander thought to her. “The dragon and I have reached Twenty Streams.”

  “We’re not far, about half a day’s ride to the west. Have you spotted those messengers yet? In the flesh, I mean.”

  “No, but we’ll be flying again as soon as Arzosah’s rested. I’m expecting them to light a campfire. After all, they don’t know we know and all that. Once I spot them, I’ll contact you again.”

  “Very good. I’ve got eight archers and two swordsmen with me. Do you think that will be enough? I don’t understand matters of war, I’m afraid.”

  “More than enough, really.”

  “What about the prince and the others? Where are they?”

  “Still crawling along north with the Roundear army. It will take them a while to reach Honelg’s dun.” Salamander paused to glance behind him. Beside the stream Arzosah was wiping her chin dry on a patch of grass. “Ah, the dragon’s finished her drink, I see. We’d best get on our way.”

  Sure enough, a trace of twilight still gleamed in the west when Salamander spotted a pinprick of fire glowing among a tumble of boulders about five miles north of Twenty Streams. Rather than announce their presence to the messengers by flying directly over them, they made a wide circle around. As a gibbous moon rose in the east, Salamander’s half-elven eyes could spot various landmarks, a stream with a tangle of hazel wands along it, and the boulders themselves.

  “That’s enough for tonight.” Salamander had to yell at the top of his well-trained voice for the dragon to hear him. “Head straight south from here.”

  “Are we joining up with the other dweomermaster?” Arzosah’s rumble carried quite well.

  “Yes, we are.”

  “I’ll look for another campfire, then. Hang on tight!” Salamander wrapped his arms around the nearest spike of her crest. The dragon dropped one wing, banked into a steep turn, then righted herself and headed south.

  They found Valandario’s small encampment easily. A small herd of horses, watched over by a mounted guard, grazed at tether near a single large tent. A campfire burned in front of the tent, and Salamander could see the men of the squad, figures as small as dolls from the air, walking back and forth on various errands. Arzosah landed some distance away to avoid spooking the Westfolk horses. Salamander slid down from her back with a small silent prayer of gratitude to the solid earth. All that circling had left him more than a little queasy.

  “I want to go hunt,” Arzosah said. “I spotted some deer not far away.”

  “You certainly may,” Salamander said, “but if you make a kill, bring it back here before you eat it. I don’t want you falling asleep while you’re off somewhere.”

  “How very clever of you to think of that! Oh, very well. I’ll nest here after I eat. When do we leave again?”

  “After the dawn.”

  “At least it should be warm and sunny tomorrow. I should be thankful for small boons, I suppose.”

  With a long rustle of her wings, the dragon dashed forward and took to the air. Salamander watched her fly for a moment. He was remembering scrying out his brother and seeing him in dragon form, stooping to kill a deer. The huge silvery mouth had closed around the fleeing doe’s neck with a spurt of red, an omen of the raw feast to come. With a shake of his head Salamander banished the memory. He strode off, heading for the Westfolk camp, where Valandario stood waiting for him.

  “All’s well so far,” Salamander called out.

  “Splendid!” Valandario said. “Come have dinner. You’re just in time.”

  “Good, good.” Salamander realized that his stomach had a very different opinion than his mind about eating right away. “I’ll just contact Dallandra first, I think. She might be worried.”

  “She probably is. So are we all, worried that is. Ebañy, I had an awful thought. You told me about that raven mazrak. Why can’t he just fly off to Zakh Gral and warn them?”

  “What would he tell them? That he found out we were attacking by using forbidden dweomer? And then flew all the way there in mazrak form? They’d kill him on the spot.”

  “Oh.” Valandario allowed herself a soft, warm smile. “It’s lovely when your enemy throws his best weapon away, isn’t it? Well, you contact Dalla, and I’ll finish getting dinner ready.”

  In the middle of the noise and bustle of a camping army, Dallandra was kneeling by a small fire, feeding it twigs to keep it burning. Even as she reached for a larger stick of wood, she kept her gaze firmly on the flames, her body as taut and poised as a strung bow. Now and then her lips would move as if they were forming words. Neb watched, awestruck. She was speaking to someone through the fire. He was so certain that he knew what she was doing that when she finally broke her concentration, he knelt beside her.

  “Did Salamander find the messengers?” Neb said.

  “He did, and they’ve joined up with Valandario as well,” Dallandra said, then sat back on her heels with a laugh. “You took me by surprise there. When did you remember?”

  “Just now, watching you.”

  “That’s truly interesting.” Dalla cocked her head to one side and considered him for a moment. “You may remember a great deal more than we thought at first. You don’t have the words for your memories, but you recognize dweomer when you actually see it worked.”

  “So I do!”

  “That pleases you, doesn’t it?”

  “It does.” Neb gave her a sheepish grin. “I’ve been so jealous of Branna, you see, with her wonderful dreams, and I felt lower than a snake for envying her, too.”

  “Well, it’s perfectly understandable, the jealousy, I mean. Don’t berate yourself for it.”

  “My thanks, I shan’t, then. Do you think I could try scrying in the fire? I’ve been wondering how Branna is—”

  “Nah nah nah! Slowly, now! I know it must be horribly tempting, the idea of just plunging ahead, seeing what you remember and what you can do with those skills, but it could also be very dangerous.”

  “Dangerous? How?”

  “In a number of ways. First, it comes down to the old adage about learning how to mount a horse before you can ride. Or, wait, here’s a better example. When you learned to write, did your father just show you a page from a book and tell you to copy it?”

  “He didn’t. First he made me analyze each letter, how many strokes made it up and what kind of strokes they were. Then I filled lots of wax tablets with just the strokes, up and down, round and round, and the like. It was tedious, as you can well imagine, but I was glad I’d done it when it came time to form the letters themselves.”

  “Well, dweomer is much the same. You’ve got to learn all its tricks of the mind first, to say naught of the lore, details like the names of spirits and the various levels of existence. You have to know everything as well and instinctively as you know how to walk, so that you can do certain actions without having to concentrate upon them.”

  “I see. It’s going to ta
ke years, isn’t it?”

  “It is, but you’ve got to be patient. Now, as for trying to scry right now, what if some enemy is watching us? What if they overheard you, as it were, instead of Branna? Do you know the seals and commands to banish their efforts?”

  “I don’t, truly.” Neb felt a cold wave of disappointment. “Very well, I can see what you mean by dangers.”

  “Good, but here’s another one. If you rush ahead without knowing what you’re doing, you could go mad.”

  “What? How?”

  “By opening yourself up to unseen things without knowing how to seal them off again. When Salamander returns, I want you to ask him about this. He’s in position to know how badly things can go wrong if you’re not careful.”

  “Well and good then, I will. He should be back soon, shouldn’t he?”

  “I hope so, and if everything goes well on the morrow.” Dallandra hesitated, glancing into the fire again. “Salamander always has to do things in the most elaborate way possible. It’s enough to drive one daft!”

  Despite Dallandra’s fears, Salamander’s plan was for him, at least, remarkably direct. With the first light of dawn he woke and dressed, then trotted out to the nearby meadow to join Arzosah. She was crouching by the stream, lapping up water. When she was done drinking, she dipped her entire head under the water for a brief moment, then raised it to shake herself dry.

  “There!” Arzosah said. “All nice and clean. I do hate having dried blood on my face.”

  “It must be an unpleasant sensation,” Salamander said. “I take it you found prey last night.”

  “I did, thank you, and I feel much restored. I suppose you want to set off immediately. I was hoping to warm my poor aching wings by lying in the sun for a little while.”

  “Go right ahead. There’s no use in making our strike until the messengers have taken the hobbles off their horses.” Salamander glanced at the pale sky, brightening as the sun inched itself above the horizon. “They’ll be desperate to make all possible speed to Zakh Gral, but they’ve got to let their mounts graze nonetheless.”

  “Let’s hope they get nice and fat.” Arzosah paused for a yawn, displaying teeth the length of sword blades. “The horses, I mean, not the men. I remember Dalla’s orders.”

  “Good. I’m going back to camp to get some breakfast and consult with Valandario.”

  Over a scant meal of flatbread and spiced honey-water, Salamander went over the details with Valandario one last time. She and her squad would ride slowly north, waiting for his signal to dismount and continue on foot. Two of the men would stay back to control the horses in case they got a good whiff of Arzosah’s sour scent.

  “I just hope we all end up in the right place at the right time,” Valandario remarked.

  “I’ll make sure you do,” Salamander said. “Don’t forget that I’ll be able to see you from the air, too. It’s surprising and a little wonderful, really, how far you can see from dragonback.”

  “I suppose it must be. I can’t say that I have a burning desire to try it myself.”

  “It does take some getting used to. So. I’d better scry and see just what our quarry is up to.”

  Just as he’d expected, Salamander found the messengers still at their camp. Out in the sunny grass their horses still grazed with their forelegs hobbled. Now and then they’d take a few rabbity steps to reach fresh grass. The men were rolling up blankets and gathering their gear. Soon, no doubt, they’d saddle up and ride. He broke the vision.

  “They’re just where I left them last night,” Salamander said.

  “Good,” Valandario said. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, what about the silver wyrm? Is he going to join the siege?”

  “I don’t know. He hadn’t appeared by the time I left, and Arzosah refuses to discuss him.”

  “That bodes ill. It really is ghastly, you know, thinking of Rhodry’s transformation.”

  “Yes, but never ever let Arzosah hear you say it.” Salamander tried to smile and failed. He got to his feet and turned away, looking out to the north. He could see Arzosah’s shiny black bulk lounging in the grass a fair many yards away. “Rori’s nearby, I think. I’ve scried for him at odd moments over the past month or so, ever since I saw him in the flesh. He’s always been in the wilderness, but now I’ve gotten a good look from on high at the countryside around here. I recognized a couple of the places I’d seen him in.”

  “If he does turn up, you’ll try to help him, won’t you?”

  “Of course!” If anyone can, Salamander thought. If it’s possible to help him. “Well, we’d best get on our way.”

  Salamander waited until Valandario and her armed squad had left the camp before he rejoined the dragon. Once he and Arzosah had taken flight, Salamander scried again, using her patterned scales as a focus. This time he found the messengers saddling their horses, freed from tethers and hobbles. He broke the vision, then leaned forward to yell to Arzosah.

  “It’s time to make our strike.”

  She dipped her head to show she’d heard him, then began climbing higher into the sky. Salamander grabbed her crest spike with both arms and held on as tightly as he could. He could feel his legs sliding under the restraining rope behind him. If he should lose his grip on the spike, he’d flop onto his belly and doubtless slide all the way free to fall helplessly to earth. At last she leveled out, flapped twice, then let herself glide on the wind.

  Below, the land seemed to have shrunk to a tapestry in green, with the occasional stream or rock only an embellished detail. Yet among the threads of grass, tiny figures moved, men and horses.

  “There they are!” Arzosah called out. “Shall I swoop?”

  “Yes!” Salamander wrapped his arms around the spike again. “Now!”

  Downward she shot straight for the little band of messengers. Salamander could see nothing but the back of her neck and head, but he could hear the sudden neighing of panicked horses and the yells and curses of the men. When he risked a glance to one side, he saw grass rushing upward to meet him. With a muttered oath he concentrated on looking at the back of Arzosah’s head and nothing else. Just as suddenly as she’d dropped she banked into a turn, then began flapping her wings to gain height.

  “Two of the riders are off,” Arzosah called out. “And the packhorses have pulled free, too. They’re galloping south.”

  “Good!” Salamander called back. “Let’s make another pass.”

  For a moment, however, she steadied her flight. From that height he could see Valandario’s squad far off to the south. When he focused his mind on his old master in the craft he felt her mind respond almost instantly.

  “Now, Val!” he thought to her. “We’re—oh, by the Black Sun—dropping again!”

  He wondered if she could hear the scream that followed, torn out of him, it seemed, as Arzosah plunged down and down. Once again, he heard men yelling and horses neighing. Once again the grass rushed at him. Suddenly Arzosah laughed in a huge rumble and leveled her flight.

  “The last two are on the ground,” she called out. “Shall I drive them south?”

  “Yes!” Salamander could barely find the breath to yell. “Toward the other Westfolk.”

  This time Arzosah descended more slowly. Salamander could sit up and look over her neck. Some fifty or sixty feet below—he was in no mood to worry about precise measurements—the four men were running south or trying to, shoving their way through the tall grass that hindered them. Once one of them tripped. The other three kept running, but the fallen man managed to get up and take off after them, following their path through the trampled grass. Arzosah soon overshot them; she rose straight up, then banked into a turn to circle round and come at them again.

  “There’s Val and the squad,” Salamander called out. “I think we can leave the messengers to her.”

  “Very well,” Arzosah yelled back. “But this has been great fun.”

  “What was? Scaring the messengers or me?”

  “Both, of cou
rse.”

  “You promised to keep me safe.”

  “If I’d felt you slipping through the ropes, I’d have leveled off and caught you. Don’t you trust me?”

  When Salamander didn’t answer, she rumbled with laughter, then went into a long smooth glide with outstretched wings. Salamander could see the four messengers throwing themselves down at the feet of Valandario and her archers in abject surrender.

  “Head back east to the army,” he yelled. “Val seems to have everything under control here.”

  Since her morning’s amusement had left her tired, Arzosah flew more slowly on their return journey. They reached the army late in the afternoon, just as it was making the night’s camp near Mawrvelin. From their height, the dun of Bel’s priests looked like a handful of pebbles. The dragon flew over it, giving Salamander a glimpse of the round temple inside the walls, then circled back over a pasture dotted with white cattle. With one last flap of wing to pull free of the turn, she began a long smooth glide down on silent wings.

  “There’s the army by that stream,” Arzosah called out. “Just below the temple hill.”

  “Good!” Salamander called back. “It looks like they’ve made splendid progress.”

  “Splendid? They can’t have gone more than twelve miles!”

  “For a spur-of-the-moment army like this, with those wretched supply carts and their wooden wheels, on a road that runs uphill—that’s splendid progress.”

  Arzosah snorted in disgust, then concentrated on landing a decent distance from the army’s nervous horses. She curled her wings and hovered for a brief moment, then gently lowered herself to the earth in a nearby fallow field. Salamander let out his breath in a long sigh. When she lowered her head, he slid off her neck to the beautifully solid ground.

  “A thousand thanks, O wyrm of great splendor,” Salamander said.

  “What lovely manners you have when you’re not exploiting poor pitiful dragons!” Arzosah looked heavenward. “The gods know how I suffer, thanks to that wretched Evandar.”

  With a shout and a wave of greeting, Dallandra came running across the field. Salamander hurried over to meet her.