Roland Green: Knights of the Rose

In living memory, no other chief’s son-and indeed no other Gryphon warrior-had borne the name Hawkbrother, and with reason. There was a Hawk clan among the Free Riders, and their relations with the Gryphons stopped just short of blood feud. Hawkbrother himself had slain three of the other clan’s fighters in the four years since he had donned the warrior’s cloak and belt.

In the Gryphon clan, no warrior cared to bear a name that might weaken him in battle against the Hawks. Indeed, there were no Hawksisters remembered among the women, either; such a name might make a Gryphon woman feel more friendly toward a Hawk than she ought to.

But on the day Hawkbrother was born, a pair of blue-crested falcons hatched out their eggs in a clump of black-spike, not two hundred paces from the Gryphon camp. When the Gryphons had made camp so that Redthorn’s wife and several other women could bear their babes at rest, it was a wonder the falcons hadn’t fled, leaving their eggs. The hatching and the birth coming on the same day made tongues clatter like dry branches in the firewind.

They stopped clattering only after Skytoucher, the wise woman, came to Redthorn and commanded him to name the boy Hawkbrother.

“Why should I do such a thing?” he replied.

He received the answer he had expected. “Because I command it.”

He also knew that this was not the only answer he would receive. It was a game with Skytoucher, to string out a man (or woman; she could treat both with equal disdain) with a series of questions until she finally gave an answer that made sense to ordinary folk.

“Why do you command it?”

Skytoucher looked less amused than usual by the word game. “I command it because I have had a vision.”

That chilled Redthorn, though it was a hot day-even for high dunes country. Skytoucher had visions (or at least spoke of them) so seldom that young folk with quick tongues and slow wits had been heard to say she could hardly be called a wise woman at all.

The older folk knew better. They remembered how Skytoucher was the only woman in the history of the Gryphon clan to be warrior maid, mother to warriors, speaker for the council of women, and finally, pupil of the Gryphon’s seer until he died and she stepped into his place. All this she had done in less than sixty years, which was a ripe age for a Free Rider, but not a vast one. There were also the feats of climbing that had given her the name she now bore.

“May you speak of this vision, at least to me?”

“Perhaps.”

“I am the chief of the Gryphons, Skytoucher. In their eyes and the eyes of the gods, I bear a great burden. If my knowing of your vision can save as much as a single babe of our people, speaking is your duty before the people and the gods.”

As Redthorn told his son many years afterward, “I nearly stamped my foot as you did when you were little, for I did not see it as my duty to remind Skytoucher of things that she already knew as well as I.”

But Skytoucher had not refused. She nodded and said, “Very well. We need a chief’s son with such a name of power. In time, danger will come to all the Free Riders, and if the Hawk Spirit is pleased, we may well face it side by side with the Hawk Clan.”

“Do you know when this danger will come, and from where?”

“It has begun already, in the Mighty City. When it will come forth, I do not know. But we must be watchful.”

Again, Redthorn added later, speaking to a son whose chest and thighs wore still the soot and ashes of the manhood rites, “I was not sure then and I am not sure now of this matter of names of power. After all, did not mighty Quicksword take the name ‘Gryphons’ for his new clan to keep the beasts away from our horses? And have you ever seen a gryphon turn aside from one of our horses, any more than from another clan’s?”

Still, even if names of power could not blunt a gryphon’s instincts or appetite, they were not to be dismissed entirely. So the babe was given the name Hawkbrother, and in due time became child, youth, and finally man and warrior.

He was the youngest son, which quickened both his wits and his warrior’s skills, for his elders were sure the gods had sent him for them to bully. The years gave him strength so that in time the bullying ceased, but he still knew full well that he was both last and least.

He also knew that his father was too old and too fond of peace in his family and clan to disturb this pattern. Hence, when word came of strangers riding into the desert, Hawkbrother was sent with a band of warriors in the direction where he was least likely to encounter the strangers and win either the honor of their friendship or the glory of victory over them.

Redthorn had spoken firmly to all four sons about their not seeking battle with folk who meant no harm. The Free Riders had different words for stranger and enemy; those who did not, they called barbarians.

At the same time, these strangers were coming out of Istar. Perhaps not from the Mighty City itself, like the mercenaries camping along the fringes of the desert since the spring blooms showed their first colors, but Hawkbrother was the last man among the Gryphons who was likely to forget Skytoucher’s vision.

He was so deeply musing on how to tell friend from foe that when his mount pulled up suddenly, he nearly lost his seat. Either no one noticed, or all were being polite. He was able to smooth out his blanket, then follow where One-Ear’s muscle-corded arm was pointing.

Tiny and dark, discernible only to the keen eyes of a Free Rider, a caravan was creeping over the brow of a distant hill. Hawkbrother looked at the westering sun, and then at the white moon already creeping over the opposite horizon.

He pointed backward and down. Twenty Gryphon warriors dismounted, turned in their tracks, and led their horses down into a hollow.

One-Ear came up to his leader, for whom he had stood witness in the manhood oaths and ordeals, even though he had been preparing for his own when Hawkbrother was born.

“Water and feed the horses?”

“Yes. We will camp here for the night. The only watering place these folk can reach before dark is Dead Ogre Canyon, and any of us can walk there without working up a thirst.”

“What if they go on?”

“I have yet to hear of Istarians traveling by night in our lands.”

“Much may happen without young men hearing of it.”

Hawkbrother tried to glare and succeeded only in grinning. “Old men, too,” he said, then studied the distant figures.

“I admit they seem to know what they are about, better than those sell-swords Istar is sending to amuse the Silvanesti archers. But unless they ride desert-bred mounts, they cannot travel by night without losing folk to falls. They would also leave a trail a Free Rider babe could follow.

“Last of all, the next water is farther than they could travel even if they rode until dawn. If we followed their trail, we might reach them before the carrion birds did. Or we might not.”

“Unless they carry water as we do,” One-Ear interjected.

Hawkbrother frowned. He knew he was being tested, felt that this game should have ended years ago, and doubted that this was the time for it.

None of this would stop One-Ear. Nothing would, save death.

“Well, if these folk are riding desert-bred mounts and know our water ways, it would be good to meet them as soon as possible. They will be strong, either as friend or foe.

“Let us two keep watch, while others see to our mounts. If these folks pass by Dead Ogre Canyon, there will be time to overtake them in the dark. We have some of the best trackers among the Gryphons with us, to say nothing of those skilled at slipping into an enemy’s camp.”

Hawkbrother did not say he was among those skilled men. It was proper for warriors to sing pride songs after the victory, but this night might not even see battle, let alone victory.