He opened his mouth to speak again. "Keeeek." From above, Gaelen and Keegan answered his cry with their own. From their places on the huntsmen's arms, the
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captive falcons screeched back in answer. Almost as one, they surged up from the wrists that held them, the powerful muscles of their wings straining against the leather ties that kept them prisoners. With a small snap, one bird burst free, shooting from the huntsman's arm like a stone from a catapult. Snap, snap, snap. All around the clearing, the birds broke free from the leather ties that held them down. They soared into the sky, up to where Gaelan and Keegan circled.
Hugh unstrapped the huge bow from his back and fumbled for an arrow from the quiver on his shoulder.
Wat looked up at Hugh, who seemed to have grown larger and loomed above him. He reached out, beseeching Hugh not to shoot. The sudden movement caused the wind to rustle through his wings and carry him forward.
The urge to stretch those wings was so overpowering he couldn't ignore it. He spread his arms wide, as wide as they could go, wanting--no, needing --to rise up into the air. Not even aware of how he did it, Wat raised his wings, pushed off, and launched himself into flight.
As he pumped his newly formed wings, the muscles of his back rippled at their movement. He thrilled at the powerful feel of them as they moved through the air. Air that felt like water as he worked his wings against its currents,
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The wind rushed in his face, and he could feel it moving through his feathers.
Higher and higher he rose, his first flight carrying him high above the oak grove. He climbed up into the sky, where Gaelen, Keegan, and the others seemed to be waiting for him.
Why? he wondered. Why would they be waiting for him?
Swiftly, the memories rushed at him. Intruders. A threat to their home. He circled the grove and all the falcons seemed to fall into place behind. As he looked down he could see the huntsmen, as small as beetles, in scrambling disarray. But that wasn't enough. They needed to be chased from this place. Driven from the forest. Convinced never to return.
Wat angled his wings and launched himself downward, plummeting to the ground like a falling stone and heading straight for Hugh. Behind him, the other falcons followed, streaming out of the sky like spears from the heavens. One of the men looked skyward and gave a shout. One by one the huntsmen froze as a fury of falcons descended upon them with their talons raised.
Faster than the men could blink, Wat and the falcons were on them. As Hugh looked up, he threw his arms up to
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cover his face, but he was no match for Wat's fury. He slashed at Hugh's head with his talons, flapping his wings, lunging and striking, ripping and slashing.
Hugh threw himself down on the ground, rolling onto his stomach, and covered his head with his hands. And still Wat attacked.
All throughout the clearing it was the same. Wings beating against their heads, talons raised to their faces, and sharp beaks lunging for their defenseless eyes, the huntsmen tried to fend the falcons off long enough to reach their horses.
A lucky few succeeded. The rest, realizing there was no escape, fell to their knees, calling for help.
Slowly, the falcons began to tire, their fury evaporating as the men were driven back. A few of the huntsmen managed to crawl to their horses, and as the falcons finally withdrew their attack, others tried to do the same.
Wat pulled back from Hugh's still form, and rose up higher in the sky to watch as the men struggled to find their way to safety. Calmer now, he caught a strong breeze and rode it, letting the wind cleanse him, soothe him. He circled the clearing and saw that nearly all the men had left; even Hugh was being helped onto his horse by one of the other huntsmen.
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Wat circled the clearing twice, enthralled with the gentle swoosh the air made in his feathers. He longed to rise up into the sky, even higher, and soar, but something called him downward. As he drew closer to the ground, he grew nervous, panicked almost. He wanted to soar back up into the sky, up into freedom and safety. But he couldn't. The nameless something called him downward.
Downward he went, faster and faster, the ground rushing up at him until, suddenly, there was nothing but blackness.
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***
Chapter 19
Like a trickle of water filling a pool, Wat felt himself begin to return to his body. It felt as if the very essence of himself had been scattered to the four winds and was only now journeying back.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. He was lying at the base of the oak tree. Disappointment flooded him when he realized he could only see out of his one good eye, the images no sharper or far-reaching than they had ever been.
"Oh, thank the gods," Griswold whispered from where he knelt beside Wat.
"Wh-what happened? Are they gone?" Wat asked.
"Yes. Yes, they are gone. And I've never seen such an undisciplined, chaotic, slapdash bit of magic in my life," Griswold said, scowling furiously at Wat.
"But it worked, didn't it?" Wat asked, trying to sit up.
Reluctantly, Griswold began to chuckle. "Yes, boy. It did. No villager or huntsman will come near this place. Not in their lifetime anyway."
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An indescribable feeling welled up in Wat. He could hardly believe it. It had worked. Somehow between his power and that of the forest, they had managed to drive the intruders away. Hopefully never to return. And if they did, Wat would chase them away again. He would spend his whole life chasing such men as these away, if need be. They might control all of Britain, but they would never control these woods. Or him.
A question hammered at the back of his skull, but he was afraid to ask. Afraid that perhaps he'd dreamed the whole thing. "Did I ...did I really..."
Griswold raised a shaggy eyebrow. "Hmmph. Indeed you did," he said, nodding his head toward Wat's arm.
Wat looked down and saw a dozen small pinfeathers, fluttering gently in the soft breeze, sticking out of his wrist. Awestruck, he reached out with his other hand and plucked one. It tugged at his skin, until, with a little jab of pain, it released. He glanced up at Griswold. "It is true," he whispered, filled with wonderment.
"Of course it is," muttered Griswold.
Still holding the pinfeather in his hand, Wat scrambled to his feet. "Are you able to do that? Is it something I'll be able to do it again? Was it the sigils? Or the falcon's grave I was standing on?"
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"Silence," Griswold said, holding up his hand. "You have managed a very great thing today, Wat, but make no mistake. Your training has only just begun. You will understand the true depth of your power and abilities with time."
Wat opened his mouth to ask another question, but the words died on his tongue as his gaze settled on the treetops. All the escaped falcons sat in the branches, as if waiting for him. Nearly a dozen assorted kestrels, merlins, goshawks, and peregrines roosted in the trees. But where were Gaelen and Keegan?
As if his very thoughts had called them, Gaelen and Keegan appeared overhead, circling once and then alighting on one of the branches in the oak tree.
"Well," Griswold said, "I have much work to do here in order to purify the grove. While I am busy, go ahead and tend to your birds."
As Griswold began the purification ceremony, Wat went over to the nearest tree and called the falcons to him. Much to his surprise, they came, meek as newborn kittens. One by one, they settled in front of him. Wat greeted each bird in turn, praising them for their bravery and stroking the glossy feathers along their backs. He patiently untied the little bells from each of their legs and tossed them aside.
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Then he removed the leather leashes that had gotten tangled around their talons, and released the falcons back into the sky.
And as he watched, his heart soared with them.
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R. L. LaFevers, The falconmaster
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