Disclaimer: Velgrath, Valdemar, and the general world in which this story takes place are not mine, nor am I making any money off of it. The characters are mine, however, and since someday I may make money off them, but am not at the moment, I ask that they are not used without my consent 

Blackbird

Chapter One: Hand of Fate

By: Irish

Falcon's Pass was a small village, situated uncomfortably between the Forest of Sorrows and the boarder of Iftel. It was a very small community, boasting a hundred residents at most, including children. The Forest on one side, and the Iftel boarder on the other protected it from the worst of raiders, but stranger things came out of both the Forest and Iftel. Things the townspeople tried to pretend they didn't hear in the dead of night. The soaring shadows of creatures with wingspans larger then three men laid head to foot.

If the strangeness wasn't danger enough, it was a very hard and unforgiving land. Winter lasted for months, the growing season desperately short. The winters were brutally hard, so cold that leaving any skin bared to the frigid air would freeze and kill it in minutes. Wolves had been known to raid the village in hard winters, when they were too starving to fear men or fire. The livestock is what they usually took. But children, and even full adults had been taken down and torn apart to fill their rabidly empty bellies.

The folks who lived here were not as strange as the Holderkin, in the far south, in their ways. But they were still strange to most of Valdemar. Conservative of dress and speech, the most unique thing to be said for them was their rather extreme dietary restrictions. Only the most detailed of accounts mentioned what these customs may be. They spoke a Creole language, a mix of Valdemaran and some other bits of unknown origin. In the few books in which these people were mentioned they were named as 'Falekin'.

They had, in past times, been welcoming and grateful of the Heralds that road their circuit, but there had not been a Herald to ride their circuit in many years. Supposedly protected by the Forest and the boarder of Iftel, and with Heralds spread thin, their village had not had Herald nor Healer in a score of years.

Young Mika'el, like all the others of Falcon's Pass, struggled through life with a grim determination and a staunch refusal to bow to the unkind hand of Fate that seemed the hallmark of his people. His birth had been the last time a Herald had ridden this sector, and the only time he had ever seen one was in the first twenty-four hours of his young life. He had turned fourteen less then a fortnight ago.

Fourteen, Mika'el reflected as he gazed for a moment at the crackling fire in the large hearth besides him, was no different then thirteen, which had hardly been different then twelve. He scooted the hard stool he sat on close to the fire, and then dragged the equally small table after him, stretching his legs out closer to the radiating warmth of the fire.

A winter storm was coming in. He didn't need any special Gift to tell that. His legs ached fiercely, hips to knees, the pain radiating all the way to his booted feet, a sure sign that the weather was about to take a turn to the worse.

Around him, though he was almost totally unaware of it, was the din of the busy inn his mother owned and ran. It was winter fishing season, and the inn did brisk business this time of year. Men coming in off the ice wishing to warm themselves with fire, with food, with spirits. The noise didn't phase him though, before him sat a neat and well-made piece of paper. At his right hand was an ink well and finely honed quill pen. He had started work on this particular document twenty minutes ago, but it was slow going. This was no simple letter, or copying of a document. He was writing up a land deed.

Carefully, he dipped the quill in the ink, making sure there was no excess lest it drip and mess the paper. Finally he put it to the page, and continued his work, ignoring all else, the noise, and the pain in his legs. It was only a few more lines and he'd be done. This was tricky work, he had to come up with his own wording, and it would be the only documentation that this land had changed hands.

When it was finished, he took his length of sealing wax from the small wooden box it came in, holding it over the candle that sat near his right hand, turning it until it melted evenly. With deft fingers, he placed the wax to the paper, leaving behind a small amount, which he then impressed with his own personal seal. That done, he made his mark beneath it, and raised his dark head.

"M'lord," Mika'el's voice, still soft and a bit high, not having fully changed yet, cut through the din easily, though he had not raised it at all. "Your deed is finished. Sign it and bring it to the clerk on the morrow," he said when he had found the two men who had commissioned him. Of course, neither was a 'm'lord', but they were both landed, and well landed at that.

"Thankee, and here is your pay." The man clinked the coins onto his table, before leaving with the man who he'd entered with, not seeming at all bothered that a serious legal document had just been written up and certified by a boy only just old enough to be allowed to read out loud from The Book and speak at meeting.

Mika'el tucked the coins away carefully, screwing the lid back on his bottle of precious ink, and cleaning off his quill. There was rarely, if ever, any back log for him to work on. He took work as it came. His gaze drifted over the main room of the inn, the noisy room that had been his nursery, his classroom, and now his office as well.

"How much did you make?"

Mika'el turned sharply, surprised to see that his brother had managed to sidle up beside him with out him noticing. Mika'el and Tobin looked enough alike that they were nearly twins, and with only two years between them, it was easy to believe. They both had the same inky black hair, with warm chocolate undertones; both had the same dark brown eyes, the same high cheekbones and slightly large nose. The only differences was a scant two inches in height and that at sixteen, Tobin was starting to fill out already in the chest, and was broader at the shoulders, and Mika'el wore a set of lenses on his face. Those were the only physical differences anyway.

"From that, or for the day?" Mika'el asked, his attention seeming to return to his work, shuffling the objects of his trade around on the small writing table, letting his brother loom over him as though he didn't notice he was there at all.

"Both," Tobin said after a moment of pause, as though it hadn't occurred to him that there might be more then one answer to his question.

"Enough," was all Mika'el would answer. He would turn all the coin he had earned over to his mother at the end of the day. Tobin often got angry if he felt Mika'el hadn't made enough, if he had done well Tobin often got jealous, and the result was usually the same either way; a sharp cuff to the back of his head then two sharp jabs to his shoulder 'for flinching'.

"What, is it some kind of secret? Mother'll tell me anyway, if I ask her," Tobin crossed his arms over his chest, he didn't like the independence Mika'el had been building over the last year or two. He much preferred his younger brother to be dependent on him.

"That's mother's business than," Mika'el said dispassionately. He wasn't surprised when the back of his head was cuffed hard enough that his lenses jumped from his face and skittered across the table. A moment later it was followed by two sharp punches to his shoulder. Tobin always punched him with a knuckle out, leaving small but painful bruises.

"Two for flinching!" He crowed. Mika'el didn't respond, there was no point. He had learned that long ago. He didn't like it, but there was little he could do. If he ever tried to return the 'favor' Tobin would punch him far harder or even beat on him. Mika'el was strong in the arms but Tobin could still give him a thrashing.

Mika'el watched with narrowed eyes as Tobin took his leave. He used to get quite angry at his inability to defend himself against Tobin, but that was precisely what Tobin wanted, so Mika'el controlled his anger. If someone could be deathwilled by a look, though, Mika'el's brother would have been dead several times over.

Once Tobin was gone from his line of sight the young boy returned the lenses to his face, after cleaning them on the corner of his tunic, and begin to put his things away. He doubted anyone else would want his services today, and if they did, it wasn't like it took more then a moment for him to set up shop. The tools of his trade were far too precious and expensive to leave lying about. Good opaque ink, a metal tipped quill, and heavy bleached paper were all rare things. Not to mention the havoc that could be caused if someone stole his seal.

With meticulous hands he tucked away each of his tools in their own special boxes, which were then all tucked into a larger box which he locked with the small iron clasp, then stood, putting it in its place on the mantle. Standing was no easy task for him, though. It took both hands braced on the wooden table to push himself upright; the power coming from his arms, pushing with his legs was painful at best. At worst, if he wasn't careful, he could pop a knee out of join, just from standing.

Once on his feet Mika'el looked over to the door to the kitchen with a sigh, seeing all the men and tables and stools that needed to be woven between, and the precious few empty placed he could lean on along the way. He had a set of wooden canes but he didn't use them inside; they were too awkward in the close quarters of the inn.

Carefully, holding on to his table, he moved around to one side of it before gimping his way slowly across the room. He kept as much of his weight as he could on his arms, bracing his hands against tables and chairs along the way. Each step was like walking on glass, but it was a sensation Mika'el hardly noticed.

He staggered his way across the inn. The patrons moved out of his way a bit, but no one moved to help him, not even his mother who saw him coming. He slipped into the kitchen and behind the counter with her and eased up onto one of the stools. Jordain smiled at her youngest son, her precious, precocious son, and took his face in her hands kissing his forehead affectionately.

"You're growing so fast," she told him. Jordain was proud of her boy. He was brilliant and helpful, and although Tobin was far more able of body, to her, Mika'el was less of a burden then his brother.

"Hardly," Mika'el scoffed, but he blushed a bit with pleasure. He adored his mother. She was a strong, hardworking woman who had made a life for herself and her children as a single mother in a conservative community. She had taught Mika'el everything he knew. "I made some coin," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out the small leather pouch of his earnings. He was about to drop it into his mother's hand when the door banged open, the hard winter wind whipping in, blowing out several candles and lanterns, causing the fire to flare in the hearth. Mika'el whipped his head around. No one in these parts ever made such a dramatic entrance.

Jordain gasped softly. Immediately, she got to her feet and put her arms around her youngest son protectively. It was Galen, father of Mika'el and Tobin, who stood in the doorway. A huddled press of barbaric looking men stood behind him as he analyzed the room. His eyes were as hard and cold as the wind he was letting into the inn. When he found his eldest son, he broke into a wide grin.

"Tobin, come greet your old man!" Galen crowed, striding in. His herd of smelly sycophants trailing after him like a pack of dogs. Tobin, for his part, grinned just as brightly as his father, crossing the room in a hurry to embrace the man.

Mika'el watched stiffly from the shelter of his mother's arms. He wished she wouldn't do that; he was nearly a man, after all. Besides, his father treated her far worse then he treated Mika'el. Mika'el he mostly ignored. The problem was that Galen only mostly ignored his youngest son. He'd struck Mika'el at least once every time he'd resurfaced to wreak havoc on their lives. Mika'el accepted it as a fact of life, and would much rather take a slap or two then see his mother beaten. Jordain, though, seemed to feel that it was much better that she be beaten bloody then to see her boy slapped even once.

Mika'el swallowed, gently prying his mother's arms off of him. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he murmured, and Jordain slowly eased her grip on him, though she kept an arm around his shoulders, watching as Tobin and his father greeted each other. Galen loved his eldest son, as much as the man could love anyone, anyway. Tobin was everything Galen had wanted in a son, and took very much after his father. Neither man was stupid, but they both had a certain short-sightenedness that made them seem rather stupid at times. Tobin was already showing the same signs of cruelty that his father did. Jordain had done her best to teach Tobin to be a kind man. None of it had seemed to take, though.

"Woman," Galen barked, his attention having turned to Jordain and Mika'el behind the corner. "Food." It was a command, not a request, and Mika'el bristled. The men who had been paying customers moments ago, were quickly departing, darting for the door like scared fish. Cowards! Mika'el thought furiously. Violence, generally speaking, went against Falekin faith, and it was a rare woman who was treated like his mother was. Instead of standing up to Galen, though, for his behavior, the village men who had the power to stop what was apt to be days of terror for the small family were fleeing. Cowards! Hypocrites! Gutless, godless sheep! Mika'el seethed.

Jordain had hesitated a moment, but when she too saw the exodus towards the door and knew that she would be left on her own, she moved to obey.

O O O O O

Mika'el had been shooed upstairs by his mother shortly after Galen's arrival. He knew she hoped to keep him out of sight, and therefore out of mind. Mika'el couldn't bear to sit in his room though, and listen and guess, left with no recourse but prayer. Instead of going to his room, he sat down at the top stair, only his boots visible to those below, but he could lean forward and peer between the railings and see all of the common room below. He had moved from his post once to get a pillow to cushion his hips against the hard floor a bit, but it had done little good, and his legs were screaming in pain. Mika'el was very good at ignoring pain though.

Below him, Tobin sat with their father and his men. Galen claimed he was a mercenary, captain of dozen or so stinking men that were doing their best to drink dry the drums of ale in the kitchen that were supposed to last a fortnight. Mika'el wasn't fooled by the load boasts that Galen was making to his eldest son. Good mercenaries had armor that fit and a string of mounts to ride. Good mercenaries dressed in loud colors and wore all their wealth to advertise their skills. Good mercenaries didn't work in Valdemar, because there was no work for mercenaries in Valdemar. Mika'el knew this because he had read it. He had read every book in the entire village at least three times, and was very proud of his own small collection of five books. What he hadn't read, he had learned from listening to the men (and the very rare woman) who passed through the inn talk. Soldiers, mostly, who had seen more of the world than Falcon's pass.

As far as Mika'el could tell, his father was the exact opposite of what a good mercenary should look like. His clothes were drab and dark, his armor fit better then the rest of his men, but not well. Although he did wear several heavy pieces of jewelry, Mika'el could tell even from the stairs, that they were fake. No, they were not mercenaries, they were bandits. They probably did fight barbarian raiders, but not because they had been hired to do so, but to steel from the easier target of the barbarians what the barbarians had stolen from the more difficult targets of villages and travelers. It was pathetic. Tobin, though, hung on every single word.

O O O O O

"I'm taking the boys with me,"

Mika'el woke with a start. He had fallen asleep against the wall, still sitting on the top stairs. Below, it was dark and quiet; accept for the snores of his father's men. The boy didn't care lean forward to see where Galen and his mother were, because it sounded like Galen's voice had come from right besides the stairs.

"Take him, he wants to go, he hates it here anyway," Jordain replied, her voice both nervous and disdainful. "He'd follow you on foot, after all that nonsense you put in his head tonight, if you didn't take him with you."

"The runt too,"

Mika'el blinked. He was 'the runt'. Galen never referred to him by name. What the hell did his father want with him? His heart started to pound in his chest. He was sure that below him his mother's heart was doing the very same.

"Mika? No! No you're not taking Mika with you!" Jordain hissed. There was the crack of flesh on flesh and Mika cringed. His mother had been hit.

"He's my son too, pathetic thing that he is. Maybe away from your apron strings I can make a man out of him. Just try and stop me."

Mika'el clamped a hand over his mouth as a protest tried to explode from him. His father would kill him. Intentionally or unintentionally, if he left here with his father, it would be a sentence of death. Though he was young, Mika'el knew his body very well. That he was able to walk at all, that he had survived infancy, was a miracle. He pushed himself every day to be a little bit stronger then the day before. He knew how his father "made" things happen, and it would kill him. He wondered for a moment if Galen knew that and thought that maybe he did.

That thought stuck with Mika'el as he dragged himself backwards down the hall, scooting on his butt along the smooth wooden floor, into his room. He scooted all the way over to his little window, and gripped the sill to pull himself part way to his feet, peering out into the dooryard. It was snowing. He probably could escape, slip out his window and drop into the deep snow below. It wouldn't matter though. He might, might, be able to make it to the stable. He'd be frozen and soaked by the time he did though, and if he didn't die from the cold, he'd catch the wet lung and die from that. More then likely, he'd dislocate his leg slipping out the window and would just freeze to death right under his window. There was no escape. Not for him.

Stop that! If you can't outsmart that man down there, then you deserve to die! Mika'el growled at himself. So stop feeling sorry, and start using what god gave you instead of a strong body. He took a few deep breaths and sat down slowly on his bed. His guts were still all knotted up though, and although his mind was working, it was spinning round and round and going nowhere, like wagon wheels in mud.

The room was dim, lit only by the moon and its reflection off the snow. Mika sighed and watched the shadows of clouds dance across the white snow, forcing his mind to slow down. He spent a long time simply in prayer before he was able to really start working at the problem at hand.

If he slept at all, he didn't know it. His mother slipped into his room at the gray light of dawn, sitting on the edge of his bed. He had lain down at some point to ease the pain in his legs, but she could tell he was awake. She stroked his hair, whispering to him softly about what his father had said. She didn't need to say how she felt about it, he knew. She also didn't need to tell him why it was that she wasn't fighting to keep him here. They both knew it would do no good. Galen alone could over power her, with all his men behind him, resistance would only get them killed. Mika did what he could to reassure her. He understood. He loved his mother more than anyone in the world.

O O O O O

Mika found himself bundled in all his winter gear and set astride a horse behind his brother before the sun had even properly risen. His mother was trying not to cry. She prized her strength. Mika wished she would cry though, watching her struggle with herself brought hot, shameful, tears to his own eyes. He leaned down and hugged her last time.

"I love you mother," he whispered, saying no more. She nodded, her lips tight and white with suppressed emotion. Tobin, for his part, seemed to struggle between elation at finally being recognized as a man, and a confused worry for his little brother. He too embraced his mother briefly. Galen ignored the mother of his sons, calling for his little band to move out. Mika clung to his brother's waist, closing his eyes tight. He had come up with no plan of salvation last night. All he had done was pack for himself, which had allowed him to ferret away some things that might be of use, like his little knife, and some things of comfort, like his books. He had no choice but to wait and see how things unfolded, and prayed that his mind worked faster then the cold worked on his frail body.

Author's Note: Woot the next chapter. I hope those of you who liked the first liked this one as well. It isn't my strongest writing, but hopefully this next chapter things will pick up. There's a lot of background I wanted to wedge in before I really got down to it. If this had been original work, I suppose I'd have been more careful, but that's the beauty of fanfic, I'm allowed to be half-assed now and again! Wink