Alpheo Avelon-isha, the soldier of fortune who had carved his way to a crown, victor of the Ford, feller of Herculia and Oizen, skulked back in the dry grass, desperately searching for the words to say next.
Beside him, Jarza remained beautifully silent, patiently waiting for his friend to find his composure. The Legate shifted his weight, his heavy iron armor rattling and clinking as he straightened his back against the chill.
Somewhere in the vast, gray distance, a falcon screeched. It was piercing and loud, perhaps a roar of triumph for a fresh kill, or perhaps merely the territorial instinct of a beast declaring its dominion over the valley. It carried all the raw, solitary vigor of the king of the sky. In Yarzat, there were no eagles; the undisputed lords of the air were the falcons.
Now wasn't that ironic? Alpheo mused bitterly. Almost divinely ordained, some might say. The land of the falcon ruled by a scavenger who had climbed too high.
