The Complete Conclave of Shadows Trilogy: Talon of the Silver Hawk, King of Foxes, Exile’s Return

A small cousin to a dragon, a wyvern could hold off half a dozen or more skilled warriors, so a boy with only a ceremonial dagger and a gourd of water would make a very satisfying break of fast for such a beast.

Hunting packs might frighten the sow bear; wild dogs and wolves usually avoided bears, but a cub was a manageable meal if they could draw the sow away from one of her babies.

Or it could be men.

In the distance the circle of buzzards grew and the boy got to his feet to gain a better view and was suddenly gripped with a light-headedness, for he had stood up too quickly. Steadying himself with one hand upon the rocks, he gazed into the distance. The sun was now high enough that the haze of morning had burned off and he could clearly see the buzzards and kites wheeling in the distance. Kieli’s sight was legendary in his village, for few could see as far as he, and none in the memory of his clan could see better. His grandfather joked that whatever else he lacked, he had a hawk’s eyes.

For a long moment Kieli’s eyes saw without him comprehending, then suddenly he realized the birds were circling over Kapoma village! Alarm shot up through him like a spark and without hesitation he started down the trail. Kapoma was the village nearest to his own.

There was only one possible explanation for so many carrion-eaters above Kapoma: a battle. He felt the panic rise up in him. Moreover, no one was clearing away the dead. If marauders were ranging through the valleys, Kulaam would be the next village they raided!

His mind reeled at the thought of his family fighting without him. Twice as a boy he had stayed in the round house with the women while the men had defended their village from attack. Once it had been a clan fight with the men from the village of Kahanama, and another time a goblin raiding-party had sought children for their unholy sacrifices, but the stout stockade had proven sufficient to repulse the invaders. Who could it be, he wondered as he stumbled down the path toward the trees below.

The moredhel – those the lowlanders called the Brotherhood of the Dark Path – had not been seen in these regions since his grandfather’s boyhood, and the trolls usually gave the villages of the Orosini a wide berth. There were no clan feuds currently being fought. The people who lived in the High Reaches to the north-east were currently peaceful and Latagore and the Duchy of Farinda to the south had no issues with the Orosini.

Raiders, then. Slavers from the City of Inaska or Watcher’s Point down in Miskalon would sometimes venture into the mountains. The tall, strong, red and blond-haired Orosini fetched high value on the slavers’ blocks down in the Empire of Great Kesh. Fear overtook Kieli: he felt it start to freeze his mind.

He drank what little water and herbs he had left, secured the gourd around his waist with a cord, then took half a dozen wobbly steps down the trail and lost his footing. Attempting to catch himself with his outstretched right hand, the youth fell and twisted, falling hard into a large rock. Pain shot through him and his head swam as he realized he had injured his left arm. It didn’t feel broken, but there was already a massive red mark running from his shoulder down to the elbow which would turn to a deep bruise. It hurt when he moved it. He tried to stand and his stomach heaved from the pain, and he sat down and vomited.

Kieli’s vision swam and the landscape turned a vivid yellow, and he fell back upon the road. The sky above turned brilliant white and the heat seared his face as he gazed upwards, his eyes gradually losing focus. The ground beneath him spun until everything was swept away as he fell through a tunnel into darkness.

Pain woke him. He opened his eyes as it seared through his left arm. His field of vision narrowed, contracting and expanding for a moment as dizziness washed through him. Then he saw it.

On his arm, flexing slightly, rested what looked like a spread talon. Kieli didn’t move his head, just shifted his eyes. Barely inches from his nose stood a silver hawk, one leg bent as it rested its talon upon his arm, its claws digging into the skin but not piercing it. Almost as if seeking to awake the stunned youth, the hawk flexed its claws again, dug deeper.

Kieli found himself looking into the bird’s black eyes. The bird’s claws tightened again and pain shot through his arm again. Kieli’s eyes locked on the birds, and then the words came. Rise, little brother. Rise and be a talon for your people. As you feel my talon upon your arm, remember you can hold and protect, or you can rend and revenge. Kieli heard the words in his mind. Suddenly he pushed himself upright and stood bearing the hawk on his arm. The bird’s wings flared as it kept its balance.

Pain was forgotten for a moment as Kieli stood facing the bird. The hawk stared back; then bobbed its head, as if nodding agreement. Their eyes locked once more and then with a screech the bird leapt upwards, a single snap of its wings taking it right past the young man’s ear. Kieli felt another slight pain and reached up to touch his right shoulder. His eyes saw upon his arm the pinprick marks of the bird’s claws.

Was this my vision? he wondered silently. No hawk had ever behaved so in the history of his people. Then, with a dull shock, he remembered his reason for hurrying down the mountain.

The heat of the day still baked the rocks around him. He felt weak and his left arm throbbed, but his mind was clear and he knew he would reach the creek. He picked his way carefully among the rocks, seeking good footing lest he fall again and suffer further injury. If there was a fight coming to his people, injured arm or not, he was now a man and would stand with his father, uncles and grandfather to defend his home.

Kieli stumbled down the dusty trail, his left arm sending jolts of agony up into his shoulder with every movement. He summoned up a chant, a mind-numbing exercise that would reduce the pain, and softly intoned it in rhythm. Soon he felt less pain, though the chant didn’t work as well as his grandfather had told him it would; his arm still hurt, but at least wasn’t making him dizzy from pain.

He reached the creek and fell forwards into it, his arm suddenly exploding in hot agony at that foolish choice. He gasped and was rewarded with a choking mouthful of water. Then he rolled over on his back and spat out water, clearing his nose as he sat up, coughing for a moment. At last he rolled over onto his knees and drank. He filled his gourd quickly, tied it again around his waist then resumed his journey.

He was starving, but the water had settled down his thinking. It was a two-hour walk to his village. If he ran at a steady pace, he would be there in a third of that time. But with his injured arm and in his weakened condition, he couldn’t sustain any sort of steady run. Below the creek he entered the heavy woodlands where he felt the day’s heat lessen and then settled for a fast walk, jogging over open stretches of trail, moving as quietly as he could, his mind focused on the coming struggle.

As he neared his village, Kieli heard the sounds of fighting. He smelled smoke. A woman’s scream pierced his heart as sharply as if a blade had struck. Could that be his own mother? No matter, he knew that whoever it was, it was a woman he had known all his life.

He took the ceremonial dagger and held it tightly in his right hand. How he wished he had two good arms and a sword or spear. In the heat of the day he had not felt the need for his usual clothing, though he had missed his cloak and tunic at night, but now he felt particularly vulnerable. Even so, he hurried along, the anticipation of the combat to come dulling the pain in his arm and forcing his fatigue aside.

Choking clouds of smoke accompanied by the sound of flames warned him of the devastation that greeted him a moment later. He reached the point in the trail where it left the woodlands and passed between the village’s large vegetable gardens before reaching the stockade. The gate was open, as it was during peaceful times. No enemy had ever attacked on Midsummer’s Day, which was a day of almost universal truce, even during time of war. The condition of the wooden walls and the surrounding earthen foundations below told the boy that the enemy had rushed through the gate before the alarm had sounded. Most of the villagers would have been in the central square, preparing the feast.

Everywhere was flame and smoke. He could see figures in the smoke, many on horse, and the outlines of bodies on the ground. Kieli paused. To run down the trail would make him a target. Better to circle along the line of the wood until reaching the point closest to the village, behind Many Fine Horses’ home.

As he moved to his right, he found the smoke blowing away from him. Now he could see the carnage in the village. Many of his friends lay motionless upon the ground. It was hard to make sense of the tableau before him.

Men on horseback, wearing various styles of clothing and armour rode through the village, several who were bearing torches firing the houses. Mercenaries or slavers, Kieli knew. Then he saw footmen wearing the tabard of the Duke of Olasko, ruler of the powerful duchy to the south-east. But why would they be aiding raiders in the mountains of the Orosini?

Reaching the back of Many Fine Horses’ home, Kieli crept along. He saw an Olaskan soldier lying motionless just beyond the edge of the building. Casting aside his dagger, Kieli decided to make a run for the man’s sword. If no one noticed, he would attempt to remove the round shield on the man’s left arm as well. It would hurt to carry the shield on his injured arm, but it could also mean the difference between life and death.

The sound of fighting was coming from the other side of the village, so he thought it possible he might be able to fall upon the invaders from behind. Creeping forwards, he retrieved the shield and sword and paused for a moment.

In the smoke, he could faintly discern figures moving in the distance, cries of outrage and pain drifted towards him, as his people struggled to repel the invaders.

His eyes smarted from the acrid smoke and he blinked back tears as he reached the fallen soldier. He turned over the body to retrieve the sword and as his hand fell upon the hilt, the soldier’s eyes snapped open. Kieli froze, and as he yanked back the sword the soldier lashed out with his shield, bashing him in the face.

Kieli fell back, his vision swimming and the world seemingly tilting under his feet. Only his natural quickness saved him, for just as the soldier was on his feet, dagger drawn and slashed at him, Kieli dodged.

For a second he thought he had avoided the blade, then pain erupted across his chest and he felt blood flowing. It was a shallow wound, but a long one, running from just under his left collarbone down to his right nipple and there to the bottom of his ribs.

Kieli slashed with his own blade and felt shock run up his arm as the soldier deftly took the blow on his shield.

Another attack and the boy knew that he was overmatched, for he only narrowly avoided death from a dagger-slash to the stomach. Had the soldier attacked with his sword instead of with a short blade, Kieli knew he’d be lying gutted upon the ground.

Fear threatened to rise up and overwhelm him then, but the thought of his family fighting for their lives only yards beyond the masking smoke forced it aside.

Seeing the boy’s hesitation, the soldier grinned wickedly and closed in. Kieli knew that his only advantage was the length of his blade, so he offered his already-wounded chest as a target and clumsily raised the sword with both hands as if to bring it crashing down upon the soldier’s head. As Kieli had hoped, the soldier reflexively raised his shield to take the blow and drew back his dagger for the killing thrust.

Kieli, however, dropped to his knees with a spin, bringing his sword down and around in a powerful arc which sliced through the soldier’s leg, knocking him backwards screaming. Blood sprayed from the severed arteries just below his knee. Leaping to his feet, Kieli stepped upon the man’s dagger-hand, and struck straight down with the sword’s point into the man’s throat, ending his agony.

He tried to wipe his sword-hand dry, but discovered that blood was flowing freely from the long cut on his chest and knew he’d soon be weakening if he didn’t bind it, though he thought it probably looked a great deal worse than it was.

As he hurried toward the sounds of battle a gust of wind cleared his vision for a moment so that he had a clean line of sight and could see the village’s central square. The tables that had been heavily laden with food and ale were overturned, the ground around them littered with the feast for the day’s celebration. The flower garlands were crushed into mud made up of soil and blood. For a panic-stricken second, Kieli faltered, horror causing his gorge to rise. He blinked back tears – though whether they were caused by smoke or rage he didn’t know. A short distance away lay the bodies of three children, obviously cut down from behind as they raced for shelter. Beyond them, he could see the men of his village making a stand before the round house. Kieli knew the women and surviving children would be inside, the women armed with knives and daggers to defend the children should the men fall.

Men he had known all his life were being slaughtered, despite fighting with desperation to protect their families. The soldiers had set up a shield wall and were pressing in with spears levelled, while behind them sat mounted soldiers, calmly loading and firing crossbows into the villagers.

The Orosini bowmen responded, but the battle’s outcome was obvious, even to a boy like Kieli. He knew he would not survive this day but even so, he could not stand behind the invaders and not do whatever was in his power.

On wobbly legs he started forwards, his target a man upon a black horse, obviously the leader of these murderers. Next to him sat another horseman wearing a black tunic and trousers. His hair was as dark as his clothing, pulled back behind his ears and falling to his shoulders.

The man somehow sensed something was behind him, for he turned just as Kieli started to run. Kieli saw the man’s face clearly; a dark beard trimmed close to his jaw-line, a long nose which gave him a harsh appearance, and pursed lips as if he had been lost in thought before he heard Kieli’s charge. The rider’s eyes widened slightly at the sight of the armed and bloody boy then he calmly said something to the officer, who turned. The man in black carefully lifted his arm. There was a small crossbow in his hand. He calmly took aim.

Kieli knew he had to strike before the man’s finger tightened on the release. But two strides away from the horseman the boy’s knees weakened. Kieli’s newly acquired sword felt as if it had been fashioned of lead and stone and his arm refused to obey his command to deliver a killing blow to the invader.

The boy was one stride away when the black clad man fired the crossbow. Then his knees buckled. The bolt had taken him in the chest, high up in the muscle below his first wound.

The bolt spun him around completely and his blood splattered both men as it fountained from the wound. The sword flew backwards from fingers that could no longer grip. His knees struck the ground and he fell over backwards, his eyes losing focus as pain and shock swept over him.

Voices shouted, but the sound was muted and he could not understand what they were saying. For a brief instant, he saw something: high in the sky above him a silver hawk flew in a circle, and to Kieli it seemed to be looking directly down at him. In his mind he heard the voice once again. Linger, little brother, for your time is not yet. Be my talon and rend our enemies.

His last thought was of the bird.

• CHAPTER TWO •

Kendrick’s

KIELI’S PAIN pierced the darkness.

He couldn’t will his eyes open, yet he knew he was alive. He felt hands upon him and as if from a great distance heard a voice mutter, ‘This one’s still alive.’

Another voice said, ‘Let’s get him in the wagon. He’s lost a lot of blood.’

Part of Kieli’s mind registered he was hearing words in the traders’ language, what was called the Common Tongue, not the language of the Orosini.

He felt another pair of hands upon him. As they began to move him, he groaned and lapsed back into unconsciousness.

Pain coursed though Kieli’s body as he came awake. He forced his eyes open and tried to lift his head. The effort brought forth a wave of agony and his stomach churned, yet there was nothing in it for him to vomit up. The wracking pain that swept through him made him gasp aloud and moan.

His eyes couldn’t focus so he could not see the owner of the gentle hands that pushed him back and said, ‘Lie still, lad. Breathe slowly.’

Kieli saw shapes before him: heads in shadow, lightning in the sky above them. He blinked and tried to clear his eyes. ‘Here,’ said another voice from above him, and a gourd of water touched his lips.

‘Drink slowly,’ said the first voice. ‘You’ve lost a lot of blood. We didn’t think you’d make it.’

The first swallow of water caused the spasms to return, and he vomited up the tiny bit of water. ‘Sip, then,’ said the voice.

He did as he was instructed and the mouthful of water stayed down. Suddenly he was thirsty beyond memory. He tried to swallow, but the gourd was removed from his lips. He attempted to lift his hand to grasp it, but his arm would not obey his command.

‘Sip, I said,’ demanded the voice. The gourd was pressed against his lips again and he sipped, and the cool water trickled down his throat.

He focused his meagre strength on getting the water down and keeping it down. Then he lifted his eyes above the rim of the gourd and attempted to discern the features of his benefactor. All he could see was a vague lump of features topped by a thatch of grey. Then he fell back into darkness.

At some point they stopped for a few days. He recognized a structure around him, a barn or shed, he couldn’t be sure which. And he knew it was raining for a time, because the air was heavy with the scent of wet soil and the mustiness of mould on wood.

After that images came and fled. He was in a wagon, and for a brief time one afternoon he sensed he was in the woodlands, but not those near his home. He didn’t know how he knew – some glimpse of trees that didn’t match the lofty balsams, cedars and aspens of his own forest. There were oaks, and elms and trees he didn’t recognize. He lapsed back into his troubled slumber.

He remembered bits of food being pressed to his mouth and how he swallowed them, his throat constricting and his chest burning. He remembered feverish dreams and awoke several times drenched in sweat, his heart pounding. He remembered calling out his father’s name.

One night he dreamed he was warm, at home, in the round house with his mother and the other women. He felt awash with their love. Then he awoke on the hard ground with the smell of wet soil in his nostrils, the smoke from a recently-banked campfire cutting through the air, and two men asleep on either side of him and he fell back, wondering how he had come to this place. Then memory returned to him and he recalled the attack on his village. Tears came unbidden to his eyes and he wept as he felt all the hope and joy die in his chest.

He could not count the days he travelled. He knew there were two men caring for him, but he could not recall if they had given him their names. He knew they had asked him questions and that he had answered, but he could not recall the subject of those discussions.

Then one morning, clarity returned to him.

Kieli opened his eyes and although he was weak, he found he could understand his surroundings. He was in a large barn, with doors at either end. In a close-by stall, he could hear horses eating. He was lying upon a pallet of straw covered by a double blanket, and had two more blankets over him. The air was hazy with smoke from a small camp stove, a rectangle of beaten iron sheeting within which coals were allowed to burn. Safer in a barn full of hay than an open fire. Kieli elbowed himself up and gazed around. The smoke stung his eyes a little, but much of it escaped through an open door in the hayloft. It was quiet, so Kieli judged it was not raining.

His body ached and he felt stiff, but his slight movement didn’t bring on waves of pain as it had before.

There was a man sitting upon a wooden stool, regarding him with dark eyes. The man’s hair was mostly grey, though bits of black still remained. His droopy moustache hung down on either side of a mouth that was tightly pursed as if he were concentrating. A heavy fringe hid most of his forehead, and his hair hung to his shoulders.

Blinking an accumulation of gunk from the corners of his eyes, Kieli asked, ‘Where am I?’

The man looked at him inquisitively. ‘So, you’re back with us?’ he asked rhetorically. He paused for a moment. ‘Robert!’ he shouted over his shoulder towards the barn doors.

A moment later the doors swung open and another man entered the barn and came to kneel beside Kieli.

This man was older still, his hair grey without colour, but his eyes were powerful and his gaze held the boy’s. ‘Well, Talon, how do you feel?’ he asked softly.

‘Talon?’

‘You said your name was Talon of the Silver Hawk,’ supplied the older man.

The lad blinked and tried to gather his thoughts, struggling to understand why he might have said such a thing. Then he recalled the vision, and he realized that it had, indeed, been his naming vision. A distant voice echoed in his mind, rise and be a talon for your people.

‘What do you remember?’

‘I remember the battle …’ A dark pit opened inside his stomach and he felt tears begin to gather. Forcing the sadness aside, he said, ‘They’re all dead, aren’t they?’

‘Yes,’ answered the man named Robert. ‘What do you recall after the battle?’

‘A wagon …’ Kieli, who now had to think of himself as ‘Talon’, closed his eyes for a while, then said, ‘You carried me away.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Robert. ‘We couldn’t very well leave you to die from your wounds.’ Softly he added, ‘Besides, there are some things we would know of you and the battle.’

‘What?’ asked Talon.

‘That can wait until later.’

‘Where am I?’ Talon repeated.

‘You are in the barn at Kendrick’s Steading.’

Talon tried to remember. He had heard of this place, but could not recall any details. ‘Why am I here?’

The man with the droopy moustache laughed. ‘Because we rescued your sorry carcass and this is where we were bound.’

‘And,’ continued Robert, ‘this is a very good place to rest and heal.’ He stood and moved away, stooping to avoid the low ceiling. ‘This is a forester’s hut, not used for years. Kendrick is allowing us to use his barn without charge. His inn has warmer rooms, cleaner bedding, and better food –’

‘But it also has too many eyes and ears,’ offered the first man.

Robert threw him a glance and shook his head slightly.

The first man said, ‘You bear a man’s name, yet I see no tattoos upon your face.’

‘The battle was on my naming day,’ Talon answered weakly.

The second man, the one called Robert, looked back at his companion, then returned his attention to the boy. ‘That was over two weeks ago, lad. You’ve been travelling with us since Pasko found you in your village.’

‘Did anyone else survive?’ Talon asked, his voice choking with emotion.

Robert returned to the boy’s side, knelt and put his hand gently on his shoulders and said, ‘Gone. All of them.’

Pasko said, ‘The bastards were thorough, I’ll give them that.’

‘Who?’ asked Talon.

Robert’s hand gently pushed the boy back onto the pallet. ‘Rest. Pasko will have some hot soup for you soon. You’ve been at death’s door. We didn’t think you’d survive for a long while. We’ve seen you through with sips of water and cold broth. It’s time to put some strength back in you.’ He paused. ‘There are many things to talk about, but we have time. We have a great deal of time, Talon of the Silver Hawk.’