Drift: River of Falcons Book 1

Vultures

A group of guards came out onto the beach where Drift's dress had burned. Their leader, his light step, dark clothing, and lack of weapons marking him as a tracker, held up a hand to keep the others back. After a moment, he bent over and retrieved a singed scrap of lacy cloth, which he slipped into his pocket. Then he examined the prints in the sand. Human footprints were overlaid by those of a large bird of prey. The river had washed out some of the prints. He turned to the other men. "It's almost nightfall," he said, "and we've lost her. She may have taken a boat, or swum. We'll go back and make our report now."

"He won't be happy you lost her trail," one of the men muttered.

"True, but he doesn't have enough trackers to take his anger out on us. Guards, though." The man's keen stare swept around the group. "He's got plenty of those, doesn't he?"

*

Far to the northeast, where the hillsides are windswept and trees fight for ground amongst rocky outcroppings, a pair of guards was posted in front of the rusted iron doors of the largest of the buildings at Vultan's Keep. They were leaning heavily on their spears when a big vulture soared overhead, but they came to attention abruptly at the sight of it.

The vulture circled around the dusk-filled terrace and swooped in for a landing. With a puff of sulfurous smoke, a tall, bone-thin, black-cloaked man appeared. His long white hair and beard dominated his gaunt figure and bony face. Except for the eyes, which were too fierce to be dominated by anything. It was Vultan.

Vultan ignored the guards and turned toward the valley to watch a large, dark falcon approach. It swept overhead, sliced a tight circle, and came in for a landing beside him, shifting to a tall man with dark hair and beard just beginning to be salted with white. His skin was a shade livelier than Vultan's, but he had the same sunken eyes and hollow cheeks. They stood side by side, gazing into the distance.

Vultan broke the silence with a voice like gravel. "You fly as a Peregrine this evening, Magus."

"I didn't want to be late for our meeting. Falcons are faster than vultures."

"Your falcon is also the stronger hunter," Vultan said.

"Ah. Who do you wish me to hunt?"

"Someone who poses the greatest threat I've faced since I defeated the royal family a dozen years ago."

"Sixteen years now, isn't it?" Magus corrected.

"I'm being approximate. Watch yourself!"

Magus bowed.

"If the girl comes of age, the prophecy could come to pass, and that is something I don't—"

"But we rounded up any number of babies back when we took the Palace," Magus interrupted. "Surely we got the Princess already, assuming there even was one. I've always doubted...argg—" Magus's eyes widened and he held his neck.

Vultan was fingering his staff "Breathing is a necessary concession to the frailty of the human body," he said. "Wouldn't you agree?" He relaxed his grip, and Magus took a rattling breath. "That is what happens when you interrupt me."

"It was careless of me," Magus gasped, rubbing his neck.

Vultan eyed him. "You are not indispensable. I can tolerate a little of insubordination, but not a lot. Do keep that in mind."

Magus nodded. "Yes, Father."

"And don't call me that!"

"Of course, Master. It won't happen again."

"No it won't," Vultan agreed, eyeing Magus with distaste. "Now, about the hunt. There is a girl out there." He pointed a bony finger toward the southeast. "Get her."