Talon of the Silver Hawk. Raymond E. Feist

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