A lone hawk soared in the summer sky. A dark silhouette drifting on the sun-warmed currents, it was the sole blemish on the blue welkin, left dazzlingly clear after the morning fog had burned away. Now the plains over which the hawk flew were cast in a brilliant midday light, and the shadows, thrown on the plains by the occasional stand of trees or herd of gazelle, were just starting to lengthen.
One of these herds was below the hawk now, grazing by the tree line on the plain’s edge. Now and again a watchful beast would raise its head and cast about for any nearby threats, returning to its feeding after satisfying itself that there were none. The bird gliding above them was paid little heed.
The wind carried the hawk over the herd, and it banked lazily, circling around for another pass. Large even for a bird of prey, it was colored a dull, earthy brown, save for its red tail-feathers. A long gash of a scar marred the lighter feathers of the hawk’s breast, an ugly jagged line that stretched to just under the bird’s left wing. Its dark brown eyes, lit fiercely from within, were locked intently on the herd.
The tercel had been following the gazelles for a fair part of the morning. Floating high enough to avoid spooking the herd’s sentries, it had carefully watched their movements, picking out the sickly and weak and waiting for a good moment to strike.
As the herd eased itself into a hollow in the tree line, the hawk sensed the moment approaching and, gathering itself, drifted to just above the herd’s outer edge.
In the blink of an eye the hawk became a dark-haired man prostrate in the air. He whipped a simple bow off of his shoulder; no longer supported by the currents, the man fell swiftly to the earth. Snatching three arrows from the quiver at his back, he nocked them all and, sighting as he plummeted, he fired them into the herd’s trailing edge.
Two of the arrows buried themselves in the earth, the startled gazelles nearest them shying instantly. The lucky third struck one beast in the neck, and its scream threw the herd into a panic. As they began to race to the open plain, the falling man let out a shout, reverting to a hawk with barely a man’s height to spare, his wings beating furiously to regain the air. His cry and sudden appearance balked the nearest gazelles, and in their turmoil half of them tried to reverse themselves, stumbling over the others who had not seen the man.
A cougar, also much larger than normal, burst from the trees in full charge. Now the herd fled in earnest, scattering in terror to the grassland—but the hawk’s surprise had done its work, and the cougar had already tackled one unfortunate beast and taken off in pursuit of a second. The grounded gazelle fought for its footing, but had hardly gained its balance when another arrow sank into its heart, and it collapsed back to the earth.
The dark-haired man, who had landed some distance to left, began retrieving his arrows in silence, plucking the first and second from the plain, then standing and looking for the beast he had struck earlier. It too lay dead farther off, having clung to life long enough to see the cat break from the forest and to run for a second or two before succumbing to its wound. The man, bare-chested save for the leather strap of his quiver, saw that his shot had pierced through his prey’s neck; he’d have to cut it free, meaning the arrow was lost. He would salvage the head, of course, and attach it to another, but the shaft itself was worthless now.
The man scratched absently at the scar on his chest, an old wound from a fight he never should have had. Fitting that he should carry the reminder the rest of his life, he thought, tracing its path to his left armpit with an almost stroking motion. The injury had got infected and had taken over a week to heal—and had not healed completely. He was fortunate that it had not been his strong arm, though his speed-draw had been affected at first. It had taken a few months to relearn a few of his old skills.
He was a well-toned man, like most of the men of his aerie, and of modest stature. His face was long, but not gaunt—though his nose did hook over, curved almost like a beak. His eyes, too, were like those of the hawk he had been, each a large ring of deep brown set in black, and the peculiar absence of eye-white only intensified the fierceness of his gaze.
Even stranger was the man’s hair. At a distance it appeared dark, but on approach it was clearly mottled, a scattered mix of cinnamon and white everywhere except for the hair at the back of his neck. There it suddenly became a dusty red, and was allowed to grow a little longer than the rest. By contrast, the downy hair of his chest was so fair to be almost invisible. If it were not for his scar, only those of keen eye would have noticed the down at all; nothing grew around the unsightly blemish.
From the waist down the man appeared as any other hunter, wearing long, thick-spun pants and well-crafted but worn leather shoes. A thick-bladed wood knife hung from his belt, along with various other tools a man of his trade might want. He stooped by the second beast and tore his arrow free. Drawing a cloth from a pocket at his waist, he wiped the head clean, inspected it, and returned it to his quiver.
