Master of Hawks (3 page)

Through the pain, he gradually became aware of the comforting avian thoughts. The songs continued to wash over him in soothing waves until he merged with the birds' thought patterns completely. Then the birds returned and covered him with fluttering wings and soft bodies.

By the time the late afternoon sun had become
a
haze of red in the west, Hawk felt strong enough to force his thoughts back through the layers of pain to determine what had happened. He gently sat up and sent the birds toward their resting places in the forest. Then he sorted through his memories.

He remembered clinging to dissolving shreds of identity as the enemy telepath overwhelmed his mind. Then, in the split second of agony before he became unconscious, Hawk had felt his enemy's elation at victory followed by his disappearance as his mind-link to the hawk finally broke.

Suddenly Hawk realized that only his greater than normal telepathic range had saved him—the enemy bird-path had been unable to reach over thirty miles to finish him off. As a rule, most telepathy could send no farther than three to five miles.

But he had been unable to save his hawk, and that knowledge left him with a deep sense of loss. Although he had other trained birds, he felt empty, as though a part of himself had disappeared forever.

Then he heard the plaintive call of a whippoorwill above him. Linking minds with it, he felt somehow comforted. His hawk was gone, but he was not alone.

At least the hawk's death had accomplished something. He had not only gained information about the Imperial troops massed in northern York, but he'd also learned of the enemy bird-path's presence. It seemed ironic finally to meet another bird-telepath, only to find that the man was his enemy.

Now he had to relay that information to Castle York. First he broke his bond with the whippoorwill. Then he picked up his notebook, brushed it off, and flipped it open. Finally he linked with the bird that he'd left at Castle York, about thirty-five miles south.

Lord Brian S'York jumped slightly when the brightly plumed parrot entered the window of his study and landed lightly on the mahogany stand of the globe in front of his desk. But as the parrot spoke in a raspy imitation of Hawk's voice, he couldn't help laughing.

He addressed the parrot: "I'm never going to get used to these damn birds of yours, Hawk."

"And I'm never going to get used to your castle, Lord S'York," replied the bird. "I had to scare two kitchenmaids and peer into half a dozen windows to find you. The accommodations you've provided for my birds atop the east gate are too isolated; no one there knew anything about your daily routine."

"You'd probably prefer that I keep this damn parrot with me at all times in case you have something to report."

"As you wish, sir. Perhaps I'd better get on with my news, controlling this bird's speech is rather difficult."

While Hawk reported on the soldiers he'd seen, the fortifications at Buchanan, and his clash with the falcon-telepath, Lord S'York couldn't help but smile at the sight of a parrot expounding on enemy strategy. Although bizarre, Hawk's method was expedient.

Then he interrupted Hawk's narrative. "Did our substitute messenger arrive?"

"Not while I was there, Lord S'York."

"Although we can't be sure that he'll be accepted, we have to work on that assumption. You'd better ride on to Threeforks and tell Derek S'Mayler what's happened, or send one of your birds," decided S'York.

"I'm sorry, I can't send a bird. I only have one trained parrot to communicate through. Since that first company of soldiers I saw will probably be there in the morning, intending to capture the town, I'd better ride in tonight."

"Very good." Brian S'York smiled grimly. "I hope they like our reception."

For a moment both were silent, each thinking of York's scheme to outwit the Empire's more numerous forces.

Hawk knew that York's allies from the Western League states, Lady Suzanne S'Elgyn and Lord Patrick S'Decatur, were maintaining a sorcery-formed storm over the Inland Sea. They hoped to delay the landing of S'Stratford's troops and their takeover of the Swego port. Hawk didn't know their overall strategy, but he was glad that such powerful sorcerers were on their side.

Derek S'Mayler, another League sorcerer who'd become a personal friend of his, commanded the York forces at the village of Threeforks. A messenger from Taral had been intercepted and replaced by a York man carrying forged dispatches. With any luck Ramsey's troops would walk into an ambush at Threeforks.

Lord S'York broke the silence. "By the way, give my regards to Derek S'Mayler when you see him. Thank N'Omb he's helping us. He's a more powerful magician than I, and almost as good a strategist."

"I will tell him," replied Hawk. As he thought of Derek S'Mayler, he wondered how it was possible for him to be friends with such a man. In many ways they were exact opposites: Derek was noble, the Lord of the Kingdom of Mayler, while Hawk was a commoner, an orphan; Derek was as extroverted as Hawk was shy; and Derek was a leader of men, Hawk only a follower. Yet they had been drawn together from their first meeting and had discovered a wealth of common interests and a mutual respect for each other's abilities that had forged an immediate bond between them.

Suddenly Hawk felt his control of the parrot begin to slip. He had spent a tremendous amount of energy controlling the hawk and had not really recovered from that ordeal.

"I'm sorry, Lord S'York, I'd better go now."

"All right."

Then, without any outward change, it became apparent that Hawk no longer dominated the parrot. "Want a cracker, awwwkkk," it mimicked, and suddenly flew to Brian S'York's shoulder.

Laughing, he called out to the guard, who entered the room immediately. "Take this damn bird back to its cage before it has an accident."

Hawk concentrated on his galloping horse and the dim trail, which was highlighted more with the contrasting shadows than the fading sun. He tried to ignore the numbing migraine that plunged from his forehead to the base of his neck like a shard of ice-cold steel, but the strain of the telepathic duel, coupled with the effort of controlling the birds, had left him in a state of near exhaustion. He hunched forward and shivered as a northern breeze whipped through the canopy of leaves and slashed his dark wool cloak.

"Halt!" commanded a voice suddenly from the long gray shadows ahead.

His horse reared, almost trampling the men who had emerged from the twilight to block its path. For an instant Hawk clung to the saddle precariously, then he regained control and halted the animal.

"Rusty," called one of the men. "Nail," replied Hawk.

His shoulders sagged in relief as he realized that the men were York sentries guarding the road into Three-forks. The sentries waved him on and faded back into the trees.

Then he rode into the village. Lights blazed from the windows of the black-and-white-timbered Three Sisters Inn, which dominated the intersection of the Buchanan, Tompkins, and Yorkdale roads. A few stores and homes clustered about fifty yards farther along the Yorkdale Road.

When Hawk rode into the inn's courtyard, a dog barked sharply from behind the building. Its yapping drowned out the lilting music and laughter that drifted from the tavern, bounced against the cobblestones, and reverberated over the empty street.

He clutched the perch-shaped horn of his saddle tightly and eased himself down from his horse. Still grasping the horn, he shivered as the inn's door swung out and a tall man stepped from the bright rectangle of light.

"Derek," Hawk murmured, his voice hardly above a whisper. Then he felt Derek S'Mayler's strong arm around his shoulders. As Derek pulled him into the warmth and light, he realized that most of S'Mayler's forces had crowded into the inn for what might well be their last night of revelry before battle.

He tried not to stumble as Derek led him through the crush. Smiling faces turned toward him and grew calm with concern; the way cleared ahead of them; and then they reached the great stone fireplace at the far end of the room. Derek pushed him into a huge, overstuffed chair by the fire. A moment later the sorcerer pressed a cup of steaming liquid with a pungent, yet not unpleasant, odor into his hands.

Then Hawk tried to report. Derek silenced him, ordering him to drink first. The liquid must have been one of Derek's special potions, for almost immediately Hawk felt a surge of well-being. His headache faded into a prickling sensation that spread downward until his whole body tingled.

When Hawk seemed to have regained his strength, Derek pulled over a small table and signaled to Stephen, the innkeeper, who quickly thrust some biscuits and stew in front of Hawk.

The delicious aroma penetrated the fog enveloping him, and automatically Hawk's fingers fumbled and grasped for his fork. Disoriented, he almost dropped it, but managed to get some of the food into his mouth. A drop of the gravy dribbled from his lips onto his curly brown beard.

As he ate, he felt more strength return, and his fingers slowly lost their clumsiness. Although he had breakfasted well, he felt as though he hadn't eaten for about three days. The watery stew and biscuits seemed a banquet.

After a third serving Hawk began to notice his surroundings and, between forkfuls, studied the crowded room. Normally he would have felt ill at ease among so many people, but whether through the effect of his fatigue or of Derek's potion, he felt quite relaxed.

He noted that S'Mayler's forces were a rather motley-looking group of soldiers, farmers, hunters, and woodsmen. Since York's regular army guarded Castle York to the south, the defense of northern York fell to locals protecting their homeland, supported by refugees from the defeated kingdoms who sought to regain theirs.

Now many of these crammed the village, and most jammed into the inn, filling it with laughter, voices, and music. In one corner, several regular York soldiers dressed in green and gray uniforms drank beer in huge quantities to the unending choruses of a drinking song.

Near the center of the room, a group of men and a few women talked earnestly of the war and illustrated their strategies with plates and salt shakers. Hawk recognized Coleman S'Wessex, leader of the refugees, watching them with an amused smile. Some local farmers tossed dice against the far wall with boisterous
good humor. In their denim overalls and dark shirts, they hardly looked like soldiers, but bright green armbands identified them as part of S'Mayler's troops.

A striking young woman caught Hawk's gaze and held it. She hummed soft golden notes to the accompaniment of her guitar as she perched on the registration desk next to the entryway. Although she was dressed in woodsman green like a hunter, her rough garb could not conceal her feminine form.

Her song floated above the inn's common room, mingled with the drinking song, and collided, with many voices, producing a mixture of happy noises.

At last Hawk waved his fork at Derek, who reclined nearby in an armchair. "Derek, I have to talk to you."

Although Derek S'Mayler seemed unperturbed by the note of urgency in the other's voice, he eased his chair closer to the table. As Derek leaned toward Hawk, his calm hazel eyes studied the bird-path's response until he was certain that Hawk hadn't suffered any permanent damage. He had seen both telepathy and sorcerers overextend themselves to the point of destroying their power and health. Since they needed enormous amounts of energy to utilize their powers, both groups could too easily burn themselves out.

"All right, but take it slowly," he replied.

Hawk decided to give Derek a brief rundown of what had happened and to wait until they were alone to present the details.

"A company of about two dozen of Ramsey's men is heading down the Buchanan Road and will probably be here by mid-morning. There's a sorcerer leading the group."

He speared another potato and held it suspended near his lips as he talked.

"When my bird reached the castle ruins, a pair of mind-controlled falcons attacked and destroyed it, and their master almost destroyed me."

Derek nodded. "I wondered what happened to you." He stared at his hands, which rested palms down on his lap, and then brought them upward, palm to palm with the middle fingers touching the tip of his nose and the thumbs resting against his chin in a gesture that Hawk had learned to interpret as a sign of worry. Derek's ruggedly handsome features remained as calm as usual.

"Fortunately, I had greater range than he did," Hawk continued, nibbling on the potato. "But the important thing is that without my hawk, I couldn't determine if our messenger arrived safely. When I reported to Lord S'York, he said that we should continue on the assumption that the messenger did arrive."

Derek tapped his fingertips together and pressed them against his face. "Modica's a good man, I'm sure he'll deceive them." He lowered his hands and gently rubbed his left thumb against the powerstones set into a massive ring on the fourth finger of his right hand. "So tomorrow we'll have to deal with their advance party. That should be easy enough. And in three or four days their main forces should arrive."

Hawk scraped the last of the stew from his dish. "I'll describe the fortifications I did see at Buchanan," he said, "but I think we should be somewhere more private."