MIDNIGHT FALCON by David Gemmell
MIDNIGHT FALCON by David Gemmell
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
Parax the Hunter had always despised vanity in others. But he knew now just how stealthily it could creep up on a man. The thought was as cold and bitter as the wind blowing over the snowcapped peaks of the Druagh mountains. From his saddlebag Parax drew a woollen cap, which he pulled over his thinning white hair. His old eyes gazed up at the majesty of Caer Druagh, oldest mountain, but he could no longer make out the sharp, jagged ridges, nor the distant stands of pine. All he could see now was the misty whiteness of the peaks against the harsh, grainy blue of the sky.
His weary pony stumbled, and the old man grabbed at the pommel of his saddle. He patted the pony’s neck and gently drew rein. The beast was eighteen years old. She had always been strong and steadfast – a mount to be trusted. Not any more. Like Parax she was finding this one hunt too many.
The old man sighed. At thirty he had been at the peak of his powers, one of the foremost trackers in all the lands of the Keltoi. It did not make him boastful, for he knew he had been gifted with keen eyes and an intuitive mind. His own father, himself a great hunter and tracker, had taught him well. At five the young Parax could identify over thirty different animals by track alone: the leaping otter, the ambling badger, the cunning fox, and many more. His talent had been almost mystical. Men said he could read a man’s life in the blade of grass crushed beneath a boot heel. This was nonsense, of course, but Parax had smiled upon hearing it, not recognizing the birth of vanity in that smile. What was true, however, was his ability to read a man from the trail he left; where he made his camp and placed his fire showed how well or little he understood the wilderness, how often he rested his mount, how swiftly he moved, how patient he was in the hunt. All these things spoke of a man’s character, and once Parax understood his prey’s character he would find him, no matter how cleverly he hid his trail.
By the time he was thirty-five Parax’s fame had spread to the lands of the Perdii, whose king, Alea, recruited him to the royal household. Even then he did not allow undue pride to colour his personality. At fifty, in the service of Connavar the King, he allowed himself what he considered to be a quiet satisfaction in his achievements. Though his eyes were marginally less keen, his reading of trails still seemed almost magical to those who watched him. Even at sixty he could still follow a trail as well as any man, for by then he had a lifetime of acquired skills to give him an edge over younger men. Or so he believed, and in that belief vanity like a hidden weed grew unnoticed in his heart. Now past seventy, he had known for some years he was no longer pre-eminent. No longer even competent. The knowledge hurt the old man. But not as badly as the conceit which made him deny its truth to the man he loved most – the king.
Parax had served Connavar for almost twenty years – from the day the young warrior had rescued him from the slave lines of Stone, and brought him back to the towering mountains of Druagh. He had ridden beside him when the youngster became Laird, and then War Chief, and finally the first High King in hundreds of years. He had been beside him on that bloody day at Cogden Field, when the invincible army of Stone had been crushed by the might of Connavar’s Iron Wolves. He shivered again. Connavar the King had trusted Parax – and now age and increasing infirmity had made the old man betray that trust.