Flightless Falcon

Book 0: GOLLANCZ S.F.

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

Genres: Fantasy; Fantasy action & adventure; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

After serving his sentence for theft, a luckless ex-miner re-emerges into the world only to learn that his family has been kidnapped and must join forces with three unlikely allies--a guard, a thief, and a fortune-teller--to rescue them.

Release date: July 1, 2001

Publisher: DAW

Print pages: 320

Sample

COOL, dank air jelled the sweat on Tamison’s brawny arms, and the flickering light of the mining lanterns painted shifting checkers of shadow on stone. Clutching his pick in blistered hands, he raised it for a strike. Even as he balanced his weight onto the stubby legs that well-suited his miner’s lineage, a clang of metal against stone echoed through the caverns, followed by a thump and his father’s curse. Tamison froze. This was his first day down in the mines, and he could not yet read the urgency or normalcy of his father’s profanity.

Sutannis squeezed Tamison’s shoulder, calluses scratching damp flesh.

Reassured by his older brother’s touch, Tamison glanced into eyes as dark as their father’s, dark like those of nearly all of the citizens of Lathary. Sweat-plastered black hair flopped across Sutannis’ broad forehead, and he shook his head to indicate that nothing seemed seriously wrong. Like Tamison, he had inherited the distinctive miner’s physique of his father’s side: short-torsoed and -legged with a powerful upper body. In fact, Tamison found it difficult to see any of their willowy Carsean mother’s influence in his brother, aside from an unflappable and patient gentleness. In contrast, his own mouse-brown hair framed a face more softly contoured than his father’s and brother’s coarse-featured oval, and he had inherited his mother’s gray eyes.

The voice of Frandall, their uncle, boomed through the cavern. “Uland?”

Tamison’s father appeared from the darkness ahead. As Uland blocked, then stepped into, the lantern light, Tamison caught a glimpse of the two other men beyond him. Though not related by blood, they seemed nearly as familiar, coworkers of his father’s since before Tamison’s birth. “Broke my damned pick.” Uland flung the notched head to the stone, followed by the shattered remains of its haft. “Just tapped a new vein, too.”

“We’ll handle it,” one of the men called from behind, deepening Uland’s frown. Their team would get credit no matter who pieced out the silver, but Uland loved the thrill of defining a new vein. As the discoverer, he had first right to that reward.

“Hilarious,” Uland called back.

Knowing what would happen next, Tamison shrugged free of his brother’s hold and feigned engrossment in his own area of exploration. Since joining his father’s team, he had done little but chip at stone already inspected by the more experienced miners. Even Sutannis, only three and a half years older, had uncovered flecks of metal that had led to a substantial find.

“Tamison.”

Tamison froze. Screwing his face into the expression of defiance created and perfected by adolescents, he slowly turned to face his father.

Uland waited until his younger son met his gaze before speaking again. “Give me your pick. Then start back and get—”

Before Tamison could stop himself, he whined, “Why me? Why am I always the one—”

“Tamison!” Uland snapped, cheeks reddening in the torchlight. “You will not interrupt me. And you will do as I say.”

As Uland’s tone hardened and his volume increased, Tamison’s blood heated. “It’s not fair.” The words exploded from him, again without thought or intention. In the last year, everything his father said and did seemed to bother him. Dropping his own pick, he kicked it toward Uland. The implement skidded across the rocky floor, forcing the elder a step backward to spare his booted feet. Tamison whirled, his father’s dark stare like a dagger in his back.

Sutannis’ voice sounded little louder than a whisper in comparison. “It’s all right. You can use mine.” He tapped Tamison’s balled hand with the haft of his own pick. “I’ll go get a new one.”

Tamison’s rage fled as abruptly as it had risen, replaced by nearly fathomless guilt. His toes ached from slamming against the heavy pick. He appreciated his brother’s sacrifice, but it only made him feel worse: useless, unappreciative, and mean. He would trade all of his serenely exotic features for a temperament as gentle as his brother’s.

“Thank you, Sutannis.” His oldest son’s sacrifice softened Uland as well. “But I asked Tamison to do it.” He added forcefully, “And he will.”

Tamison fought down another flash of anger, successfully this time. Without a word, he snatched up a lantern and started down the cavern to where they had left their extra tools and food.

His father’s words chased him, “What’s wrong with that boy?”

One of Uland’s friends came to Tamison’s defense. “He’s fifteen.”

Sutannis spoke next, in a low tone clearly intended not to carry, but the strange acoustics of the tunnels funneled it plainly to Tamison’s ears. “Three years ago, I wasn’t easy to get along with either.”

Thanks, Sutannis. Tamison managed a smile as he continued past an indentation hacked out just that morning before the granite thwarted them.

Uland grunted. “You were never like him.”

Frandall loosed a loud guffaw. “Maybe not, Uland, but you were. When you were his age, you told Papa you weren’t going to mine. You wanted to be a minstrel, remember?”

Sutannis snorted, laughter badly suppressed.

“You’re a liar!” Uland shouted.

Frandall did not let up. “You don’t remember, do you?”

“Of course, I don’t. It never happened.”

“You could barely get those stubby fingers around a fret, and you’ve got a voice like a cow with quinsy. But you were going to be a minstrel, all right.” Frandall chuckled, and the others joined him.

Resentment fully abated, Tamison tried not to take too much pleasure in his father’s discomfort.

As usual, Frandall continued longer than he should have. “Papa stormed around for days, and you just kept on banging on that out-of-tune lute with the missing string. He was so red-faced and hot, I thought his hair would catch fire. Maybe it’s a second son thing …”

Tamison glided out of range of the men’s voices. Needing to hear, he backpedaled, just in time to miss most of his father’s reply.

Uland made a dismissive sound. “Get back to work.”

A moment later, steel rang irregularly against stone, and Tamison skittered toward the waiting packs. The exchange had fully calmed his irritation, making it seem childishly silly. He could not explain his outbursts any better than his father, but he found some solace in the realization that it probably bore some relation to his age. That meant it would pass, and he could gain control of emotions that sometimes seemed more suited to a five-year-old than a young man of fifteen. He only hoped the similarities between their adolescent years did not mean he would grow up with the disposition of his father.

An unfamiliar noise rumbled through the cavern, followed by a shrieked warning. The ground trembled. The air filled with a horrible tearing that drowned all other sound. What’s happening? Thrown suddenly to his knees, Tamison scrambled back toward his team as the tunnel bucked and rolled like a ship in a gale. Stone pounded around him. A chunk slammed his shin, shocking pain through his entire leg. Lamp oil splashed his face in boiling pinpoints. Screaming, he flung himself into the blind alcove, pawing at his cheeks. The pain died as terror flared. The darkness hid the barrage of stone that thundered through his hearing, and grit stung his eyes. He pressed his back to the wall, its jagged surface bruising his spine as tons of shifting rock filled the corridor in front of him.

Then, abruptly, silence fell. Pinned against the hollow that had rescued him from being crushed, Tamison stared into impenetrable darkness and heard nothing but an unsteady ringing in his ears. Soon, even that disappeared, leaving him in tomblike solitude.

“Papa!” Tamison shouted. His cry fell like lead, strangely solid after the seemingly limitless echo of the open mines. “Sutannis!” Again, his call went nowhere. Mindless panic gripped him. He screamed repeatedly, writhing and clawing against a press of stone that left little room for movement. He struggled and screeched until his voice went raw, his fingernails ragged, and every part of him felt bruised and abraded. Frantic tears followed, soothing the burning in his eyes, though it granted him no vision. Not a thread of light penetrated the depths of his prison.

“Papa.” He’ll come. Comforted by inexplicable certainty, Tamison calmed. Papa will find me.

Hours passed. Tamison hunched in his crypt, wishing he could see or hear something, anything, through the crush of stone. Attempts to dig his way free had only sent cascades of rock tumbling onto him. Once a hand became hopelessly pinned, he stopped. He shouted at intervals, hoping someone might hear, and slept when exhaustion overtook him.

Tamison jarred awake, uncertain what had startled him. He could not guess how long he had slept, but shards of grit filled the corners of his eyes. His mouth felt parched, and his stomach grumbled an angry protest. I’m going to die. The thought caught him off guard. Once it did, he wondered why he had not thought of it sooner. Regrets followed. He hated that his last words to his father had been resentful and harsh, rued that he hadn’t worked harder to become like his near-perfect older brother, and loathed himself for coveting Sutannis’ skills and virtues instead of cultivating his own. His thoughts turned to his mother and sister. At least he had left them with pleasant good-byes. He sighed, then cringed at the memory. He had also delivered the usual trite vow to remain careful and come home safely. Sorry, Mama. I wish more than anything I could keep that promise.

Abruptly, it occurred to Tamison that, in his world of numb darkness, the only thing that could have awakened him was a sound. “Hey!” His voice emerged as a strangled croak. He cleared his throat, gathering as much saliva as he could muster into his dry, sticky mouth. “Hey!”

A muffled yell came in glorious response, “Is someone there?”

Tamison trembled with excitement. Hope blazed anew. “I’m here! Help me! Please, help!”

Another voice joined the first, “Don’t move. We’ll get you out of there.”

Tamison bowed his head in appreciation to the gods.

The first voice: “Are you alone?”

“Yes.” Tamison barely made a sound. Again, he lubricated his tongue as much as possible. “Yes! I was with Uland’s team.” He added, to put his father at ease, “I’m his son.” Concern sparked then, “Is he all right?” Tamison assumed without need to question that the cave-in had buried only himself, but he now realized the others would have had to climb past the rubble.

A worrisome pause followed, then: “We’re going to get you out of there.”

The repetition made no sense. Assuming his rescuers had misheard him, Tamison asked louder, “My father. My brother. My uncle. Are they all right?”

Another agonizingly long hush occurred before a fresh voice replied, “They’re fine. They’re all fine. Worry about yourself.”

Tamison loosed a pent-up breath he did not even realize he’d held. His throat felt as dry as the grit that coated him completely, and a fire seemed to have sprung up in his eyes and mouth. His limbs felt detached, and cramps racked his lower back.

The sounds of chipping and rolling stone filled the ensuing hours, pierced by an occasional cry. Tamison slipped in and out of consciousness, trusting the men who had come to save him, his fate beyond his control.

A loud, close voice calling his name jerked Tamison awake. The movement sent pain howling through him, and he grunted in anguish. Every part seemed sore, every limb kinked, and his back throbbed sharply. He tried to reply, but his tongue stuck to the floor of his mouth. He managed only a wordless noise of acknowledgment.

“I can see him,” a man said.

Tamison opened his eyes to a dry blur of patchy grayness and light. He heard motion, then another man spoke, “There he is. Careful, now.”

Stone thumped and scratched against stone, raising a cloud of dust that triggered a weak fit of coughing. As the rubble dislodged, Tamison found room to shift one arm. The movement soothed its cramps but incited the more biting pain of restored blood flow. He screamed, but no sound emerged from his parched throat.

“Easy. Easy, now.” The unplaceably familiar voice was accompanied by a pair of enormous, work-hardened hands that eased Tamison from his prison. Though careful, the transition ignited a frenzied flurry of anguish. Blinded as much by discomfort as the brightness of the lanterns, Tamison closed his eyes and sagged into his savior’s arms. “It’s Uncle Lorran, Tamison. You’re going to be fine.”

Tamison forced a nod. Only a year younger than his brother Uland, Lorran had taken the week off to rest a bad cough. Otherwise, he would have accompanied his nephews and brothers.

“I’ll take him up,” Lorran said to someone else. “Keep looking for the others.”

Others. The word failed to register. Tamison lay still, eyes tightly shut, gritting his teeth against each jarring footfall. Every hacking cough of his uncle’s further fueled his suffering, but he did not have the strength or will to complain.

After what felt like an eternity, fresh air channeled into Tamison’s lungs, and he heard the steady rumble of voices. He opened his eyes. Sunlight glared in, forcing him to snap them closed again, but not before glimpsing the worried face of his mother above him.

“Tamison,” she said, voice breathy with tears. “Oh, Tamison.”

Lorran laid Tamison on grass warmed by spring sunshine, and his mother immediately wrapped her arms around him. Shadowed by her presence, he peeled apart his lids once more, his vision striped by gritty, gluelike strands. His ten-year-old sister, Sheldora, also knelt at his side.

“Water,” Tamison forced out.

Anticipating, Lorran propped his nephew against one knee and pressed a flask to Tamison’s lips. Pure, cold liquid filled his mouth, sweeter than fresh honey. He gulped greedily, with a sloppiness that sloshed water over feverish cheeks and burning eyes as well. He followed the flask with his head as it retreated.

“Not too much at once,” Lorran insisted.

Vitality returned with the water. Attention fixed longingly on the flash just out of reach, Tamison spoke. “Where’s Papa and Sutannis?”

Tamison’s mother lowered her head. Sheldora looked toward the caverns. Lorran replied. “They’re still looking.”

The answer made no sense. Tamison rubbed filth from his eyes. “Looking for what?”

“Frandall, Uland, and the others.”

Mind slowed by exhaustion and thirst, Tamison could not grasp the obvious. “I don’t understand.”

Lorran coughed, then looked nervously at Tamison’s mother. “They haven’t … found … your father and brother yet.”

“Haven’t found …?” Tamison reached for the flask, and Lorran surrendered it. He gulped down several more swallows before continuing. “Then how did the others know they were fine?”

“They didn’t,” Lorran admitted, still studying Tamison’s mother. “They told you that so you wouldn’t give up.”

Tamison choked on a mouthful of water, hacking louder than his uncle. “Papa and Sutannis are still down there?”

Sheldora clung to their mother, who burst into a fresh round of tears.

Tamison stumbled to his feet, awkward as a colt in its second hour of life. “I have to find them.”

Tamison’s mother moved with him. “Be still, Tamison.”

Lorran seized an arm. “You’re not well enough to go anywhere.”

Tamison tried to shake them off, without success. Dizziness crushed down on him in a savage dance of black-and-white spots, and he waited for the wave to pass before speaking. “I’m the only one who knows where they are.”

“The mine-fore knows their assignment.” Lorran pressed Tamison back to the ground. “There’s nothing you can do.”

A weak struggle gained Tamison nothing, and he sank back into his mother’s grip. Spotting the flask beside him, he snatched it up for another drink.

Lorran allowed a few more swallows before taking it away.

Water dribbling down his chin, Tamison turned his gaze to the mouth of the mine. Great piles of rock rimmed the opening. Men meandered in and out like ants reclaiming a nest, tossing more rubble onto the stacks. The wives of his father’s companions waited, one clenching her hands to bloodless fists, the other pacing rapidly. Frandall’s frail wife sat with her face buried in her hands, rocking silently. They had no children.

“How long was I down there?” Tamison asked softly, fearful of the answer. He had never heard of anyone surviving longer than three days without water. Even if his father, brother, and uncle could find dribbles on walls and ceiling, the rubble would likely pin them down … if the rocks hadn’t simply crushed them. Tamison felt lucky to have had an alcove to shield him from the bulk of the cave-in.

“Two days.” Lorran finally met Tamison’s gaze. He shook his head slightly, demonstrating a hopelessness he would not dare speak aloud.

“I need to help.” Tamison leaned toward the caverns, immediately stopped by uncle and mother. “I have to …” He did not know how to finish, so he repeated, “I have to.”

“You can’t.”

“I can’t.” Tamison found himself incapable of tears, though his uncle, mother, and sister shed enough for him as well. A question filled his mind and would not be banished. It seemed disrespectfully trivial to ask, but he could not escape the need to know. “Did … did Papa really want to be a minstrel?”

Lorran rallied a smile. “Where did you hear that?” Before Tamison could explain, his uncle continued. “He said so, but I think he was just trying to provoke our father.” The tight grin grew more genuine. “It worked, too. But Uland loved mining. Always did.”

Tamison nodded, reaching for the flask in his uncle’s hand. He had heard his father’s excited descriptions at the dinner table, had seen the light in his dark eyes whenever he discovered a vein. Like nearly all of his ancestors, Uland had lived to mine …

… and died for it as well.

Three years passed in an agonizing crawl as each of Tamison’s days became a battle for his sanity and his family’s subsistence. He still felt more like a lost child than a young man of eighteen, the default head of a household. During the first six months after the mining accident, the guild and Uncle Lorran had kept Tamison, Sheldora, and their mother in the simple comfort Uland had once provided. Then Lorran’s attention turned to drink and his own family’s struggles. The guild lapsed into the hardships left by the loss of its most valuable mine. Since then, Tamison’s family had slid gradually into poverty, selling their keepsakes for food, wearing their clothes until threadbare, delaying repairs to the cottage. Loyal to Uland, the guild had trusted Tamison’s promises that he would eventually return to the mines, allowing him to perform only the aboveground, ancillary duties reserved for apprenticed children. Every month, he attempted the caverns again. Every try, he was assailed by a savage anxiety that sent him racing for the light in a frantic skitter, his heart pounding, his thoughts in wild disarray, his breath a desperate panting.

The very thought sent panic exploding through Tamison. Now, safely seated on the bench in the center of his family’s cottage, he chased wits dizzied near to madness. Entombed again in memory, he moaned and sprang to his feet.

His mother’s voice wafted from the bedroom. “Tamison? Are you all right?”

Her voice shook Tamison free of his waking nightmare. His heart hammered, and he had to swallow several times to keep his answer honest. “I’m fine, Mama. Just thinking.”

“Think of something else. Something happy.”

Tamison wrestled up a smile. She could find the good in anything, a trait he did not share. Saddled with the burdens of a mother and sister, unable to perform his life’s work, he shouldered a commitment that grew heavier with each passing day. He carried bad news he had not yet delivered, worried she might grow weaker, concerned even her positive spirits might shatter under one more calamity. “Something happy,” he repeated. “I’ll try.”

“How about this,” his mother started, her voice stronger than Tamison had heard it in months. “Your sister’s getting married.”

“Sheldora?” The name was startled from him. He drifted to the doorway.

Tamison’s mother lay on her pallet, blankets drawn to her neck. Her willowy features seemed positively pale, and white streaked her hair. Her eyes lay deeply recessed, but her lips formed a gleeful smile that somehow managed to light her features. “Sheldora?” she mimicked. “Of course, Sheldora. Do you have another sister I don’t know about?”

“But …” Tamison stared. “But … she’s only thirteen.”

The smile never dimmed. “Young, but not an unheard-of age to marry. I was fourteen when your father and I—”

“Who?” Tamison interrupted, unable to imagine his sister as anything but a child. “Who is she marrying?”

The smile crept upward to touch his mother’s eyes. Little had kindled them in the past several months. “Rannoh, Charltun’s son.”

Tamison bullied past shock and eased himself against the doorframe. He processed the name until a mental picture rose: a large-boned, well-muscled man with rough hands and a gruff manner, the owner of an upstart tavern he named for himself. “Mama, he’s old.”

“He’s twenty-three, Tamison.”

“Shel’s thirteen,” he reminded.

“I’m well aware of your sister’s age.” The grin finally wilted. “Rannoh’s older because he put off marriage to get his business started. He’s dedicated and a good provider. I think that’s admirable, don’t you?”

Tamison cringed, swallowing hard. Though surely unintended, the guilt inspired by his mother’s words pained him. Dedicated. A good provider. Exactly what I’m not.

When Tamison did not answer the mostly rhetorical question, his mother continued, “Making a new business work while so many established ones languish shows a keen mind. Competence. A hard-working attitude. That kind of devotion is exactly what Sheldora needs. What she deserves.” His mother seemed almost to be pleading, her need for him to express approval, even joy, for Sheldora’s marriage oddly desperate.

Rattled by his mother’s clear need, Tamison forced himself to reconsider. He did not know Rannoh well, only stories that the barkeep pursued money ruthlessly and never shied from physical conflict. A friend had spoken of troublemakers whom Rannoh had personally ejected from his tavern. Still deeply concerned, Tamison asked softly, “What if he … hurts … her?”

The mother’s smile returned, more subtly; her eyes gained the serious glint her expression otherwise denied. “That’s what big brothers are for.”

Surely, she meant to be soothing, but her answer put the burden squarely back on Tamison. He pursed his lips. “I’m the man of the house, aren’t I?”

“Yes, dear. Of course you are.”

“Shouldn’t Rannoh have asked me? Don’t I get any say in this?”

Tamison’s mother closed her eyes. For a moment, she looked as peaceful as death, her features weathered and wax-like. Then, her lips parted again. “Tamison, the days of requesting a woman’s hand from her father were waning when I married. And you have to remember, Rannoh’s four and a half years older than you. It would have been … well, awkward.”

Sheldora’s only thirteen. The detail refused to budge, and Tamison remained as firmly entrenched. “So, I don’t get a say.”

“I’m listening. What do you want to say?”

Tamison studied his mother, jaw set. “Does it matter?”

“Of course.”

“If I forbid it, does that mean Sheldora won’t marry Rannoh?”

His mother’s gray eyes met Tamison’s, so much like his. For the first time, he noticed a deep, watery fatigue there. His own concerns for his family, the challenges he faced daily, had kept him from realizing the truth. His mother was gravely ill. Likely, she would not last the winter. Tears stung his eyes at the understanding he had so long denied. Grief, stress, and poverty had weakened her to illness, and his meager efforts had done little to lift the strain. Suddenly, he understood. She wanted Sheldora married and secure, before she died. Likely, she wished the same for him as well.

Tamison’s mother dodged his question with one of her own, “Are you forbidding their marriage?”

Truth continued to seep, unwelcome, into Tamison’s consciousness. Since the irreparable collapse of Lathary’s silver mine, all of its citizens had suffered. As the economy dwindled, many of the best artisans and merchants had abandoned the city for more affluent places. Sheldora did deserve a man who could create his own prosperity in the worst of times, a hard worker and a good provider, a husband who could support her when her brother could not.

Yet she also deserved a life of fondness and warmth. He doubted the tough barman could supply her that. “Does she … does Sheldora … love him?”

The color returned to Tamison’s mother’s cheeks. “She says she does.”

Tamison ran a hand across his scalp, tousling his mousy hair. “Is she happy about … this?”

“Yes.”

Tamison nodded, forcing a smile of his own. “Good. Then I won’t stand in their way.”

A knock on the door obscured his mother’s reply. Glad for the interruption, Tamison turned and trotted across the bare planks. Tripping the latch, he pulled the panel open.

Cool, night air funneled in, driving a shiver through Tamison. Linnry stood on the threshold, the oval of her face appearing even longer than usual, stretching her fine features. The black hair that fell to her shoulders lay in tangled disarray. Red lines spidered through her enormous eyes, and the lids appeared puffy and flushed. He had known her for as long as he could remember, a friend only a year younger than himself. Her father had discovered the silver mine that Uland, Sutannis, and Frandall had worked. Her mother had succumbed at her birth, and her father never remarried. His discovery of the mine had brought their small family from obscurity to wealth, but the family fortune had died with Ul. . .