Master of Hawks (11 page)

Hawk also had to force himself to eat, but not because of any lack of hunger. Naturally, he had an aversion to eating fowl. However, the expenditure of so much energy in telepathy had left him as famished as the sorcerer, so he ate a little of the chicken.

When he finished, he turned to Coleman. "It looks like this has become a general bull session. I think I'll go back downstairs and see how Ro is doing."

"I'll come with you, I'm very worried about her."

Derek S'Mayler overheard them. "Was Roslyn hurt?" Although Derek's voice was cold and his face expressionless, Hawk noticed that he pressed his palms tightly together in a worried gesture as he spoke.

Coleman answered, "She was caught in the stable while trying to get the horses out during the fire. Thanks to the bravery of your friend Hawk here," he clapped the bird-path on the shoulder, "she suffered only a few minor burns, but she did inhale a lot of smoke."

"She will be all right?" Derek asked, his casual tone concealing the concern he did not want to feel.

"I think so."

"Did Chu cast a healing spell?"

"No, that doesn't seem necessary." Coleman knew that no sorcery could help Ro.

"Good." Derek looked at the floor.

Then Coleman and Hawk left, and the meeting soon ended.

Finally Derek was alone.

He walked over to the window and stared into the rain. The thunder had subsided, but he could see flashes of lightning still crowning the clouds. Below, the ruins of the town and stable still smoldered. Men worked in the downpour, piling bodies into wagons for burial in some soon-to-be-forgotten mass grave.

The gusting wind swirled rain, ashes, and leaves into a twirling pattern that became an unbidden and unwanted memory of spinning taffeta gowns and revolving dancers. Derek closed his eyes tightly against the maelstrom of memories and emotions.

But it was like trying to forget an insistent melody —the harder he tried to suppress the thoughts, the more they persisted.

He had noticed Roslyn immediately. She was like a piece of polished gold among flashing jewels—her simple blue silk gown contrasting with the ruffles and lace, the stiff hooped skirts, the furs and velvet; her streaming ash-blond hair so different from the coiffures of curls piled high and adorned with feathers, pearls, and gems.

It had been several months ago, at a ball at Castle Elgyn held in conjunction with a meeting of the lords of the Western League states. Coleman S'Wessex had come to try to convince the League to join with York against the Taral Empire. He'd brought Ro along as an aide.

Derek pressed his hands against the window frame; he tried to concentrate on the strategy he would have to use to defeat S'Stratford, and to forget about Roslyn.

His mind whispered:
I don't care if she is hurt. She's nothing to me—nothing.

However, underlying the denial was the reality of his memories.

He remembered when he'd asked her to dance—as their fingertips touched he'd felt a psychic shock, an electrifying clairvoyance that made him
know
that their destinies were linked—their lives somehow intertwined in an unbreakable pattern that would lead through dark and costly conflict to an ultimate victory—and that this unknown girl would be crucial for that victory and important to him.

Moreover, he'd felt unmistakably that the precognition had been hers, not his, and that he'd sensed only a small part of it. Then later, as he'd grown attracted to her in a way that made him think he could forget the pain of the past, he'd almost begun to wish that the clairvoyance were real.

No. I just imagined it. Or perhaps it was a trick.

He wondered why he'd lied to Hawk about her. He knew she was no man-hater. She'd even told him that she'd been married once. Perhaps he'd said it to protect his friend. Yes, that was it. Hawk shouldn't get involved with her. She was no better than any other woman. She was just like them. Women were not important.

I won't let one hurt me again.

Then he thought of the girl who'd been his wife. They had called it the perfect marriage, a great alliance between the neighboring kingdoms of Mayler and Roehm.

He'd only been seventeen, and Joyce S'Roehm even younger.

He remembered her sweet face, a mask of childlike innocence hiding a whore. She'd run off with another man only a few months after their wedding.

He'd been glad when he'd heard she'd died—until he'd learned that she had carried his stillborn child with her to the grave.

May N'Omb damn her!
But in his mind's eye he saw Ro's face, not Joyce's.
I don't care if she is hurt. . . .

Then he heard a sound behind him. Stephen had returned to clean up the dishes.

"Excuse me, Lord S'Mayler. I hope I'm not disturbing you . . . if I am I can . . . "

"No, I was just watching the storm," Derek replied. "I'm really quite tired now. I'll be in my room. Please inform me if anything important comes up." He knew he had to get a few hours of rest to renew the energy he had expended in the sorcery battle with Ramsey.

As he entered the bedroom, a corner of his mind murmured:
Perhaps it would be better if Ro does die . . .
while another part could not bear that thought.

8

Hawk awoke completely from a night of fitful half-sleep and stared upward at the predawn sky. With the town in ruins and the inn reserved for the wounded, most of the men had slept outside. The stars had faded, but he could still see the waning crescent moon and its starlike companion. He wondered if the old legends about the companion could be true; if in some ancient time, before N'Omb ruled the world, a sorcerer had made the companion of metal and sent it to the moon. However, he doubted it, for not even the greatest necromancer now known could cast a spell from the Eastern Kingdoms to the Western League, let alone to the moon.

He couldn't even telepath as far as Swego, even though he had far greater range than most telepathy. In fact, after the storm had subsided, he'd had to send the eagles toward the port city to act as intermediaries. When they traveled the sixty or so miles to the city, they would reconnoiter and then fly about twenty miles back toward Threeforks on their own to reenter Hawk's telepathic range.

Rolling quietly out of his sleeping bag, he tried not to disturb the men around him, but many had already begun to stir. Although they had not rested well, they were almost grateful to rise from blankets and bedrolls partly submerged in the sodden ground. The rain had stopped just after dark; then the chill wind had blown drops from rain-drenched trees onto the men.

While the sky lightened and became edged with pink, the troops washed, built up the campfires, and ate cold eggs and bread. Breaking camp, they reformed into companies and began to move out, until only the resistance fighters from Wessex and the handful of men under Derek S'Mayler's direct command were left. They were organized into small hunting parties, groups to round up stray horses, and groups to patch damaged wagons to carry the wounded.

Hawk sought out Derek S'Mayler. He found the sorcerer on the porch of the inn. It had become a makeshift hospital, but there were too many wounded to fit within its walls.

Derek was bent over a soldier, using his sorcery to heal a nasty sword cut. He'd been helping the wounded for most of the night and seemed exhausted. When he finished, he glanced up, saw Hawk, and smiled.

"Shouldn't you get some rest?" asked Hawk with concern.

"I'm fine." Derek replied. "I had a couple of hours of sleep after the battle. How are you feeling?"

"Good."

"And how . . . " Derek hesitated and then seemed to change what he was going to say " . . . are your birds doing?"

"They're fine." Sensing Derek's unasked question, Hawk answered it, "And the last I've heard is that Ro is all right too."

Derek nodded brusquely, but his eyes betrayed his relief.

"I've sent my eagles up the Tompkins Road toward Swego. I was just about to check on them."

"Let me know what you find out."

"Certainly."

Seeking a quiet place from which to contact his birds, Hawk headed toward the charred remains of
the stable. He walked slowly among the blackened beams and twisted debris, stopping to kick at shriveled leather traces that had once been reins. He ran his fingers over an untouched stall wall standing in the midst of the desolation.

Suddenly he felt a surge of anger and frustration at all that had happened—the horses, his hawk, Roslyn —the dead and the wounded. He smashed his fists against the scorched stall door.

Then he grabbed the wood and squeezed his eyes shut—reaching with his mind for the eagles. He needed to submerge himself in the serenity of their flight. But he found Stormrider and Windrifter perched on newly killed rabbits, thinking of hunger, blood, and the excitement of swooping down to break their preys' necks.

Hawk almost pulled his mind away, but beneath the blood lust he caught Stormrider's unhurried message—the birds had passed several men wandering without goal other than survival and, more importantly, a group of fleeing horsemen that Hawk thought might include Ramsey.

Slipping from the eagles' minds, Hawk skillfully began to probe random birds along the Tompkins Road. He moved methodically, touching each animal lightly to determine if it had been disturbed or alarmed by the movement of horsemen. When he found one who had, he skipped ahead until he reached the center of the agitation.

Although he did not expect to be attacked by the enemy telepath, he cautiously kept his mind tightly shielded. He thought that the man had died during the previous day's ambush, because the falcons had been uncontrolled when he'd sent his eagles against them to prevent the relaying of battle information to Ramsey. He hadn't liked killing them, but he'd felt that it was a necessary precaution. After the loss of his hawk when he'd scouted the ruins of Castle Buchanan, he had learned to take no chances.

A frightened sparrow flew raggedly above the forest, seeking refuge from large moving animals. Hawk caught the mind and melded into it. He kept the bird's surface thoughts filled with chaotic impressions of fear and flight; but behind the façade lay Hawk's shielded thoughts. Then the sparrow turned and darted over the heads of the weary horsemen.

Most of the survivors of the ambush had been wounded, one seriously enough to lie on a litter. Hawk recognized Ramsey's unconscious form—the man's dark hair and skin and the osmur cloak covering him were unmistakable.

A powerstone glittered on a medium-sized man riding beside the litter. Hawk directed the sparrow back over him until he could distinguish the shape of a large pendant. There was something curious about the pattern of gold around the amber spellstone, but
before he had a chance to think about it, Hawk realized that this was the falcon-telepath.

The man looked up, saw the sparrow, and sensed Hawk's presence. As Jaxton Sinclair touched Hawk's mind-shield, Hawk cut off all contact, as he had during previous encounters with the telepath, leaving Jaxton with only the tantalizing certainty that Hawk had been there.

Hawk opened his eyes and focused on the ruins of the stable. The abrupt transition from sky to ground left him somewhat disoriented, but relieved. He'd avoided confrontation with the enemy bird-path again; so far, he'd been lucky. Yet he felt certain that the luck could not last forever, that eventually he would meet the man at close range and be unable to escape. If his first clash with Sinclair had been any indication, he wouldn't be able to survive a close engagement.

It seemed strange finally to run across another bird-path, only to find that the man was an enemy, using his talents for evil. And Hawk had no doubts that the Taral Empire was evil. He'd spoken with refugees from the conquered kingdoms, he'd heard about the invader's brutality, he'd seen the marks of torture on more than one child.

He felt as though the falcon-telepath were his personal nemesis. Although they had similar talents, they were of different spirits. It was as though he fought his own shadow, for if he had been born in the Empire he might have been that man.

"I've been looking for you. . . . "

Hawk glanced up in surprise at the sudden intrusion into his thoughts.

"Lord S'Wessex . . . " He was suddenly tense as he watched the man's unshaven, haggard face. He wondered if Coleman had bad news about Roslyn—
no,
he mentally corrected himself.
She's Roger S'Cascar,
he thought. He struggled to adjust. Although she would continue to play the role of Roslyn, he would never be able to forget that she was a S'Cascar. "I'm sorry to bother you, but . . . " Coleman S'Wessex paused and then smiled. "Roger . . . Roslyn, well, she is much better this morning. I thought you would want to know."

Hawk felt as though someone had just stepped off his stomach.

"She seems to be herself, without any aftereffects except a sore throat and a few minor burns," Coleman continued. "She hardly remembers the fire, except as a nightmare. She said she'd like to talk to you—to thank you for saving her life."

"I'll try to see her after I talk to Derek. But she doesn't have to thank me, I was just returning the favor."