The Falcons of Arndoth

The gentle roll of shimmering azure waves could be heard echoing through the open halls of the temple of Muldresk the Lord of Falcons who raised the lands of Arndoth from the ocean floor. Tullinan Vascaritz turned his aged eyes from the timeworn tome he had been reading for the tenth time to the marble statue of Muldresk. The statue had been built to the true size of painted blue and white as the daytime sky to match the camouflage the falcon riders use when flying to war and the eyes were solid gold to reflect the eyes of every man, woman, and child of Arndoth.

There was sudden commotion and a rush of wind whipped Tullinan’s blue and red robes. The old man directed his gaze behind the statue to see a large falcon, four times the size of a grown man casting a predatory gaze across all in the temple. The falcon was joined by its rider a beautiful man whose short hair matched golden hue of his eyes.

Tullinan recognized the man as one of the captains of the falcon riders, Eteri Carronaz. Tullinan frowned as if he had just tasted something bitter. Insufferable brat. Stroking his thick, white beard, Tullinan turned his attention back to his reading.

Many in the temple had rushed to greet the pompous nobleman and to admire his mount, Vandresk, the only living descendant of Muldresk. Eteri shouted over the crowd, “Vascaritz!”

Everyone turned their attention to the old storyteller. Rolling his eyes, Tullinan called out, “what is it?”

“Come, hear of my exploits and then tell of them to others as befits your duties, historian.”

Tullinan wagged his fingers at the man, “You’ve got it wrong, young Eteri.” He rose from his seat and pushed through the small crowd until he stood before the Falcon Vandresk and pet the massive creature. As he ran his hand over the sleek, painted plumage Tullinan said, “I’m a storyteller.”

Eteri scoffed, “I fail to see your point old man.”

“It’s not surprising to see why you failed to become a historian and went into the military. Though I do applaud your ability to fly, I’m afraid your mind is quite slow if you still can’t grasp that historians are the ones who listen to the personal accounts and write the books and storytellers are the ones who study and teach it.”

There was a silence amongst the group. Arndothians loved an exchange of verbal barbs, it kept wits sharp and was often good entertainment for onlookers.

A light shade of red spread across Eteri’s face as he scowled, “it’s better to be the one making history than reading about the exploits of others. What have you done with your years? People will remember my name, but what of yours, storyteller?”

Despite the slight sting of Eteri’s words, Tullinan pulled his lips into a small smile, “please, my ego isn’t as fragile as you want to believe. Though I admit, having grown up listening to stories of glory and heroism, I have always wanted to witness such acts firsthand.”

Now it was Eteri Carronaz’s turn to smile, it was a hint of the grim satisfaction that the man felt, “well, I think you’ll have your chance, storyteller.”

Tullinan raised an eyebrow, “oh?”

“After our latest raid on the mainland there’s no doubt that Galinteir will attempt to retaliate.”

“You say that as if being attacked is something to be happy about.”

Crossing his arms, Eteri cocked his head, “it is better to goad one’s enemy into attacking you when your strong than to strike them when you’re at your weakest.”

It seems he is capable of learning something after all. As capable as the falcon riders are, there’s only so much they can do being so few. “When can I expect to witness Arndoth’s finest making history?”

Eteri Carronaz mounted the falcon Vandresk and turned the great animal around to face the sea, “Keep an eye on the water, you’ll see green and red sails on the horizon soon enough.”

Tullinan turned his gaze to the beach below the temple. “I certainly hope that no Galinteiri soldiers are able make landfall. I don't want the beaches of my home to become a battleground.”

A chorus of laughter came from the crowd, even Eteri laughed. Eteri regained his composure then proclaimed, “the only way outsiders to reach our shores will be the dead brought by the waves!” Eteri stirred Vandresk forward. With a powerful flap of it's wings the great bird took to the skies.

More than a week had passed without an attack from their rivals. Many had begun to believe there would be no attack. After two weeks of waiting a fleet of ships were spotted approaching Arndoth flying the green and red sails of Galinteir. Large crowds gathered in the temple of Muldresk and atop the city walls to watch the battle.

It’s to be a spectacle. Tullinan thought as he watched from the safety of the temple. He rested his hand on the waterskin he had prepared so he wouldn’t have to risk losing his spot. It would be a shame to have to miss this moment. Tullinan eyed the waters. No ships to meet the invaders head on. Where could they be hiding?

An ear-piercing screech filled the air. Everyone scanned the skies searching for the falcons. Between their speed, altitude, and camouflage, it was almost impossible to spot them.

Tullinan struggled to find their aerial protectors. The storyteller instead directed his focus on the ships. It was difficult to keep an accurate count. The longer time went on the more ships there were and not all of them flew Galinteiri colors. Mercenaries and allies most likely. How long will Eteri and the others wait before engaging them?

A tedious hour would pass as the invaders closed in. The Galinteiri ships sailed close enough that Tullinan could see the men sailing the vessels as well as the ballistas on their decks. There was a sudden rush in the air then fire erupted on the deck of one of the ships. Sailors consumed in fire fell from the deck into the water below, but the flames would not be quenched. Tullinan’s eyes widened as he watched men burn to death under water. More ships would burst into flames as the falcon riders dropped fire bottles from relative safety. Many of the vessels jerked and turned without warning causing some of them to smash into each other. It was then that the riders would strike. Great falcons swooped down at blinding speed, razor talons tearing armored soldiers to shreds and sending others to watery graves.

There was a violent pounding in Tullinan’s chest as he watched the slaughter unfold. One ship managed to loose a bolt at one of the assailing falcons. It clipped the beast’s wing sending it, and its rider crashing into another ship sending a storm of shattered wood, bodies, and feathers into the air. There was a ruckus of cries and shouts from the crowd around Tullinan. It was moments after this loss that the Arndoth fleet made their appearance catching their enemy in disarray.

The old man stepped away from his spot and forced his way from the crowd. His legs felt like jelly, but he fought to keep moving. Stumbling to the temple stables, Tullian found his horse and made the hour-long ride for the beach.

Tullinan stared in horror at the once blue waters of the Atalan Sea now darkened with the blood of countless Galinteiri invaders whose bodies littered the shores. Though he had no doubt that these men would have killed him in some horrific manner, the aged storyteller could not shake the weight grief had placed upon his heart. A violent shudder on the beach caught Tullinan’s eye, the motion belonged to a body fighting to deny death and failing in its struggle. Tulinan dismounted his horse and hurried on to the beach. There were countless bodies that had washed ashore, sand clinging to their armor in rough, dark yellow patches.

The sheer amount of death that surrounded him made Tullinan’s head spin. Being told of such events is one thing, but to truly witness such butchery. Where is the glory of victory? Where is the satisfaction of a world made safer? The elderly man fell to his knees and vomited. He took a moment to regain his composure, then struggled to his feet.

One of the many bodies groaned. There was no doubt that the weak whimper belonged to the wounded invader who had caught Tulinan’s eye. The waves threatened to drown out the pained noise.

Tullinan scanned the area. It did not take long to find the one living soldier amongst the dead, though by Tullinan’s reckoning the man was soon to join the rest of his comrades. Approaching at a slow pace Tullinan kept his guard up, there was no telling what a dying foe would do. Despite his doubts the Galinteiri man could understand his language, Tullinan called out, “hello?”

The dying man tensed, then, fighting with what little strength he had left, turned himself on his back so he could see who spoke to him.

Tullinan found himself staring at a man nearly half his age, waiting for what he would do next.

Long black hair soaked in salt water clung to the man’s sandy face. Holding a dagger in his hand he began to speak in the base tongue of the mainland of which Tullinan understood little, only able to pick up on small fragments, “picking over the dead?”

Tullinan thought a moment before finding the correct response in the mainlander tongue, “no.” Tullinan tried not to think about how he must have butchered the pronunciation.

Despite his poor ability to speak the language, Tullinan’s use eased the tension in the man who laid on the beach. The man began to speak, though Tullinan could not make out most of it.

Before the man could say more, Tullinan held up a hand to silence him, then, motioned to the waterskin at his side. Casting a suspicious eye, the man shook his head. Tullinan offered the man a soft smile and took a small drink from the pouch before offering again.

The man let out a ragged sigh before sheathing his blade. He took the waterskin and drank. A disappointed frown pulled at the lines of his face as he muttered, “No wine?”

Tullinan laughed and shook his head. The older man watched the invader who allowed himself a bitter chuckle before taking another swig. He found the wound that was killing the man - a chunk of flesh had been ripped from his torso, revealing rib and more that Tullinan could only guess what he was looking at. From the look of it, he had been just unlucky enough not to be killed instantly by one of the falcons. Still, that he was able to last so long with such a wound is astounding.

The man had moved to hand the waterskin back to Tullinan but the pouch fell to the blood soaked sand as his fingers gave out. The two men were silent, listening to the rolling crash of the waves. Tullinan retrieved his waterskin and brushed away the coarse material that clung to it.

As he rolled bits of sand between his fingers, an idea came to the old storyteller. He began fumbling with pronunciations until he had worked out what he thought was the question, “What is your name?”

The dying man stared at Tullinan as if he had just grown a second head.

Tullinan sighed, then thought for a moment. Placing a hand on his chest he said, “Tullinan Vascaritz,” he then motioned to the man.

“Kolent Entellar.”

“From?”

Kolent Entellar was silent as he considered what the old man was trying to ask, then said, “a village, Nalasta.”

“Nalasta,” Tullinan echoed. There were maps taken in previous engagements, both in our own raids and attacks and the raids of the Galinteiri, perhaps I will look them over in the next few days. Tullinan could tell by the look in Kolent’s eyes that the man was no longer thinking of enemies abroad or the horrors of war but of home.

battling with his own fingers, Kolent struggled with a small chain at his neck. After a moment, he pulled a dull iron amulet fashioned in the likeness of a compass rose from under his armor. Fighting back tears, Kolent pressed the piece of metal to his lips.

Tullinan gave the man a perplexed look. What a strange heirloom.

Kolent noticed Tullinan’s expression and, with a sad smile, revealed the back of the amulet where three words were etched into the metal. Kolent pointed the words and began to speak. Tullinan could only make out the words, “Family, wife, son,” and “daughter.”

Whilst he was unable to understand much of what Kolent was saying, Tullinan still gave the man the courtesy of listening.

The color had drained from Kolent’s face, there was an understanding behind his brown eyes that death was soon to claim him.

Tullinan took hold of Kolent’s free hand. Speaking in his own tongue, Tullinan said, “I’m sorry that it’s me comforting you as you lay dying in a foreign land. A man should pass in his own bed, surrounded by his loved ones. It is a shame that is so rarely the case in the world we live in.”

Kolent muttered something in his own language.

Tullinan felt the man’s hand grow cold and watched as life slipped from Kolent’s eyes. “Fair well, Kolent Entellar, may whatever gods you worship welcome you with open arms. I hope your family fairs better in life.” The light in Tullinan’s golden eyes flickered as he scanned his favorite beach. None of these men will be given a proper grave. In fact, they’ll likely be fed to the falcons after their bodies are stripped of potential trophies and anything useful. Tullinan knelt at the body of Kolent Entellar and took care as he removed the pendant from the dead man. The old man gazed at the three names etched on the back of the compass rose amulet. He thought about Eteri Carronaz picking through the dead like a common bandit. “This will not become a soldier’s trophy.”