Falcon of the Night

Falcon of the Night

  Written by Trevor A. A. Evans

  Text Copyright © 2015 by Trevor A. A. Evans

  Published by Thirteen Crossroads Publishing

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotation in articles and reviews.

  www.thirteencrossroads.com

  Come morning, I am a dead man.

  Whatever hope I had for survival vanished the moment Karsa breathed his final breath. A guard came to me just before sunset to tell me that he had committed suicide. We were to be executed together sometime tomorrow after interrogation and torture. That will now be my fate alone to bear.

  It is difficult to accept that he is gone, having not witnessed his death myself. Karsa was my teacher and guide for much of my life, ever since he took me in when I was lost and had nothing. Although we were kept in separate cells, I felt at peace, sure that he’d have some way for us to escape captivity. Now all I feel is despair.

  His choice makes me wonder if I should not take the same exit, though I question whether I have it in me even in such dire circumstances. Then again, I doubt Karsa did it for fear of pain. As a trusted spy and confidant in many dark circles around Eretsfel, he guarded some of the most coveted secrets. Maybe he feared that he wouldn’t be able to withstand torture, not that he wasn’t tough as nails.

  As for me, I know very little, so if I do break, I’ll only have lies to tell. I am just an apprentice, though not a typical one. Karsa was my mentor, both in the craft of daggers and cloaks and also in the art of falconry. That was his cover for a long time, a reclusive old soul who in younger years protected barges along the River Oure.

  I asked him once what had drawn him into falconry, not that I expected an answer since he very rarely opened up about his past, but to my surprise he answered, explaining that he was raised one, something that turned out to be very useful in his life of tricks and deception. He trained Elsu, his falcon, to do many things, such as distracting enemies or even attacking them, all with distinct whistling commands and gestures.

  A twinge of sadness enters my heart as I imagine Elsu somewhere beyond the walls of this city and tower, perched up in a tree unaware that his longtime companion is no more, though perhaps I shouldn’t give it so much thought. Falcons aren’t emotional creatures, not like say dogs. He’ll eventually recognize that Karsa isn’t coming back and start learning to hunt and scrounge on his own again with hardly a second thought.

  But for a while, he will look for Karsa, and that thought makes it feel like there’s a part of him still alive. My father once told me that no one is truly dead who is remembered. That’s how he helped me to cope when my mother became ill and passed on.

  It’s been several days since I saw Elsu, the afternoon that Karsa and I were captured to be precise. We were hiding in the hills behind the city of Lyndwald, which sits on the southeast side of a lake beyond the eastern borders of Bayfell. Some agents of Teuvinna, a powerful city-state by the North Sea, had contacted Karsa and asked him to infiltrate Lyndwald and determine if its leaders were conspiring with Bayfell. He brought me along for help.

  The assignment didn’t seem out of the ordinary to me, but Karsa felt like there was more behind it.

  “Some people believe that the threat of war is gone, and that the next emperor won’t be foolish enough to return, assuming another emperor even emerges from the tribal wars in the East,” he said, pausing to sip from his canteen. “The truth is that it doesn’t matter whether or not there’s another invasion. The peace here isn’t going to last.”

  “Why do you say that?” I asked.

  “Things I know, things people have said,” was as specific as he would get.

  “There’s always been tension, ever since the days that the dukes overthrew the last king,” I reminded him. “You’ve been telling me for years that they lack the fortitude to engage in open conflict. What has changed?”

  He hesitated before answering, gazing out at the lake.

  “I once watched a man die from a simple cut, a nick really. He was already quite sick, but the infection that formed around the cut was ultimately what did him in. In the past few months, I’ve become convinced that the kingdom here is much the same. Yes, the dukes in Teuvinna and those out west in the Hansa League have been growing apart for centuries, but although the imperial invasion was brief, it left a festering wound in an already dying body. You understand?”

  “Yes,” I conceded.

  I wanted him to be wrong. When the war ended a few years ago, it left me an orphan, leading me down a path that eventually brought me under Karsa’s wing. As time passed, he became like a second father to me despite the barrier of secrets he kept between us as though to dilute the meaning of our relationship. I didn’t want to lose what we had even given the dangerous life he taught me to follow.

  Lying in this prison bed looking up at the ceiling, I realize that this outcome was almost inevitable given the risks we always took. Deep down, I’ve always sensed it, and that has somehow prepared me to be strong enough to handle this sorrowful moment without falling apart.

  The hours come and go, the morning looming closer and closer. I get up and walk over to the barred window to look outside and see if dawn is about to break. A cold wind gusts through it, alluding to the approaching winter, and the scene outside remains veiled in the lights of night.

  The moon hangs above the lake, its reflection glistening over the calm water. The stars, too, shine brightly, majestically. This serene view is amplified by the height of the tower I am imprisoned in, which stands tall above the walls of Lyndwald. I hear the rush of the river, which flows around the city on both sides, reuniting with itself before pouring into the lake. Canals also run through the city, carrying small streams of water here and there. What a beautiful place to be. Oh, that I could enjoy it from anywhere but this room.

  “Liam,” someone calls from behind me.

  I turn around to see the same guard who earlier brought the grim news of Karsa’s fate. He reaches something through the grate covering the top of the door, a book that looks familiar. I recall seeing Karsa write on its pages the day we were caught.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  “A journal, your late companion’s.”

  “And you’re giving it to me?”

  He hesitates, glancing at it and then into my eyes.

  “Not everyone who does the dirty work of this kingdom is callous. I know what you must endure tomorrow. The journal is addressed to you, a last sentiment of some sort. My captain read through it and thinks it will soften you, maybe get you to accept your end and give up what you know without the need of… persuasion… before you meet the executioner.”

  The thought makes me shutter, and I break eye contact and quickly take the journal from him. He doesn’t say anything more, nor do I acknowledge him leaving. Who knows what I can trust in this mess I’ve found myself in?

  Once I open the journal, however, I immediately recognize that its message must be authentic.

  “Wanderer,” its introduction reads, a nickname only Karsa called me by.

  “There is no record of my life other than the contents of this book, and I think that you will soon realize why. I hope you will forgive me for leaving you as I did, but there was no other way. This should help calm your nerves as your imprisonment draws to a close. You’ll need to collect your mind to get through tomorrow.”

  Despite the inescapable condemnation that hangs over me, I feel a rush of excitement. Karsa’s history has always been a great mystery to me. Although we were together for years, I have always felt very disconnected from the story of his life
and am left to wonder what part I really played in it. I appreciate this last gesture from him.

  As I return to the bed, journal in hand, I am reminded of how my mother used to tell me stories at night when I was a young child. She started doing it after I began having terrible nightmares, ones so bad that they made me afraid of going to sleep. Her stories would calm me down and help me ease into a peaceful rest.

  That is what this journal from Karsa will do for me. It will help me get through this night so that I can more calmly ease myself into the grasp of death tomorrow.

  An Orphan of the Plains

  When I was young, my father taught me that actions are the true power behind words. Eloquence, he said, does not change how the world is, only how we perceive it to be. He did not like a man who could speak well, and as I grew older, I came to understand why.

  The Plains of Munza, or the Open Plains, are filled with tribal elders who speak of tradition but ignore it as well. It is little wonder my father preferred the company of a falcon to that of his fellow tribesmen. He raised falcons, feeling a kinship with them that he never felt with people.

  I have always wondered why our tribal elder gave him charge over me. I was an orphan, a child found wandering among the fields. No one could figure out where I came from, so the elder had to decide who would raise me. Despite the outcry that came from the rest of the tribe, the task was given to