Icefalcon's Quest (Darwath)

By Barbara Hambly
Published by Ballantine Books:

The Darwath Trilogy

THE TIME OF THE DARK

THE WALLS OF AIR

THE ARMIES OF DAYLIGHT

MOTHER OF WINTER

ICEFALCON’S QUEST

Sun Wolf and Starhawk

THE LADIES OF MANDRIGYN

THE WITCHES OF WENSHAR

THE DARK HAND OF MAGIC

The Windrose Chronicles

THE SILENT TOWER

THE SILICON MAGE

DOG WIZARD

STRANGER AT THE WEDDING

Sun-Cross

RAINBOW ABYSS

THE MAGICIANS OF NIGHT

THOSE WHO HUNT THE NIGHT

TRAVELING WITH THE DEAD

SEARCH THE SEVEN HILLS

BRIDE OF THE RAT GOD

DRAGONSBANE

DRAGONSHADOW
*

*
Forthcoming

Had the Icefalcon still been living among the Talking Stars People, the penalty for not recognizing the old man he encountered in the clearing by the four elm trees would have been the removal of his eyes, tongue, liver, heart, and brain, in that order. His head would have been cut off, and, the Talking Stars People being a thrifty folk, his hair taken for bowstrings, his skin for ritual leather, and his bones for tools and arrowheads. If it was a bad winter, they would have eaten his flesh, too, so it was just as well that his misdeed occurred in the middle of spring.

The Icefalcon considered all this logical and justified: the laws of his ancestors were not the reason that he no longer lived among the Talking Stars People.

All the horror that followed could have been avoided had he minded his own business, as was his wont. Sometimes he felt that he had spent entirely too much time living among civilized people.

It had been a bad year for bandits. The summer following the Summerless Year had seen more than the usual bloody strife in the rotting kingdoms that once made up the empire of the Alketch in the South, and bands of paid-off warriors, both black and white, drifted north to prey on the small communities along the Great Brown River. It was said they had penetrated far to the east, into the Felwoods, though few came so far north as the Vale of Renweth. Now it was spring again. When a woman’s screams and a man’s thin cries for help sliced the cold, sharp air of
the Vale, the Icefalcon guessed immediately what was going on.

In the round clearing in the woods about three miles up-slope from the Keep, he found pretty much what he expected to find. The scene was common in the river valleys these days: an old man lying with a great bleeding wound in his head by the remains of a small campfire, a donkey squealing and pulling its tether, and a burly, coal-black warrior of the Alketch in the process of dragging a buxom red-haired woman into the trees. In the filmy eggshell brightness of the spring afternoon the old man’s blood glared crimson, the warrior’s yellow coat in brilliant contrast to the emerald of the grass, the beryl of the close-crowding trees. The knife in the woman’s hand blinked like a mirror.

Seeing no point in making a target of himself by crossing the meadow openly, the Icefalcon ducked immediately back into the belt of hazel and chokecherry that ringed the clearing and kept to cover as he worked his way around. The woman was putting up a good fight. She was as tall as her attacker and of sturdy build, dressed as a man for travel in trousers and a padded wool jacket. Still, the man got the knife away from her, twisted her arm behind her, and seized her thick braids. The woman cried out in pain—she had not ceased to shriek throughout the encounter—and the Icefalcon simply stepped from behind an elm tree next to the struggling pair, flipped one of his several poignards into his hand, and slit the warrior’s throat.

The woman saw him a split second before he grabbed the man around the jaw to pull his head back for the kill. She screamed in what the Icefalcon considered unreasonable horror—what did she think he was going to do?—as the man’s blood soused over her breast and belly in a raw-smelling drench, and jumped away as her attacker collapsed between them. The Icefalcon had already turned, sword in hand, to scan the woods behind.

“Shut up,” he instructed. “I can’t hear anything.” A single bandit was even rarer than a single cockroach.

But there was no second attack. No sound in the woods, at least as far as he could tell over the woman’s hooting gasps.

He glanced back at her after the first quick check and pointed out, “Your companion is hurt.”

“Oh!” she cried. “Oh, Linok!” and rushed across the clearing to where the old man lay.

After looting the fallen body of weapons, the Icefalcon followed more slowly, listening, watching all around him, tallying sounds and half-guessed movements in the shadows of the trees. She’d made noise enough to have brought the armies clear from the Alketch, let alone from higher up the Vale.

He came up on her as she was dabbing clean the old man’s scalp. The cut looked ugly, blood smeared all over the round, brown, wrinkled face and matted dark in the salt-and-pepper hair. “Hethya?” moaned the old man, groping for her arm with a shaky hand.

“I’m here, Uncle. I’m all right.” Her jacket had been pulled nearly off her shoulders in the struggle, her tunic torn to the waist. She made nothing of her half-bared breasts, round and upstanding and white as suet puddings under the terra-cotta spill of her hair. The Icefalcon put her age at perhaps thirty, a few years older than himself. She had a red full mouth and the porcelain-fair skin of the Felwoods and an easterner’s way with vowels as well.

“We’re all right for now,” corrected the Icefalcon, still listening to the too silent woods. “Your visitor’s companions will be along at any time. How is it with you, old man? Can you back the donkey?”

“I—I believe so.” Old Linok had the well-bred speech of the capital at Gae, before the Dark Ones destroyed it along with most of the rest of the works of humankind. He sat up, clinging to his niece’s fleshy shoulder for support. “What happened? I don’t …”

“Your niece will explain on the way to the Keep.”
Impossible that the bandit’s companions weren’t only minutes away—the Talking Stars People would have already left the old man behind. The Icefalcon had with some difficulty been taught to follow the dictates of civilized people about those too infirm to look out for themselves, but he still didn’t understand them. “Get him on the beast and don’t be a fool, woman,” he added, when she turned to gather up bedrolls and packs. “The bandits will have those one way or the other.”

“But we carried those clear from …”

“No, no, Hethya, the boy is right.” Linok struggled with maddening slowness to get himself upright. “There will be others. Of course there will be others.”

The Icefalcon already had the donkey over to them. He reminded himself that among civilized people it was not done to grab old men by the backs of their clothing and heave them onto pack-beasts like killed meat, no matter how much more efficient such a procedure might be for a speedy getaway. His sword was in his right hand, his attention returning again and again to the place in the trees where the birds were silent—somewhere between the big elm with the lightning scar and the three smaller elms close together.