The Shining Falcon

So Finist called together as much will as he could find within himself, and set to work. It wasn't easy, and he wasn't helped by the forest's curiosity, all about him, peering around the edges of his concentration. But after a while, he'd managed to broaden and flatten high cheekbones, darken hair and eyes to a dull brown… Enough. He let himself fall back to the forest floor, staring blankly up at leaves.

Akh, but did his people think him dead? Finist knew he didn't have the strength to fly all that long way back, even assuming he could figure out where «back» might be. But as soon as he could find a quiet pool into which to gaze, he'd be able to contact someone. Semyon, probably, since the trustworthy old boyar had been taught by Finist's father to receive psychic royal messages—which simply meant that while Semyon didn't have any innate magic, he had enough inner sensitivity to let his mind, once properly trained, feel the particular psychic vibrations that meant royal scrying, and hear whatever his ruler sent to him.

Finist gave a long, weary sigh. Until he had the energy to locate that pool, Semyon and everyone else were just going to have to wait.

Suddenly the forest was stirring angrily all around him. Finist sat up abruptly, straining to hear what it heard, to sense what it sensed. There was a confused jumble of someone else's thoughts… Finist was no reader of minds, but surely he felt more than one someone, anxious, hostile—

Alarmed, the prince stole silently forward, and soon found himself overlooking a muddy, rutted road, and on that road, a shaggy brown horse pulling a small wagon and objecting with ears and switching tail to his driver's attempts to keep him at a trot. That driver was a bearded, middle-aged man in a work-worn blue caftan.

And surely his is the worry I sensed. But why should the presence of one innocent farmer so upset the forest?

After a moment, Finist realized the truth. There were still the other, hostile presences, and suddenly he knew they were:

«Robbers! Watch out!»

At his shout, the driver reined in his horse so sharply the animal almost reared. And the thief who'd launched himself at the wagon missed completely, sprawling across the horse's powerful haunches, scrambling frantically out from under massive hoofs. But now the other bandits were swarming out from hiding, grabbing at horse and driver, knives flashing. The driver held them off as best he could with his whip, but he was surrounded, as surely doomed as a stag cornered by wolves.

But these ragged wolves didn't expect an attack from a falcon. Filled with the sudden fierce energy of crisis, Finist—not about to watch a murder—shifted shape, launched himself wildly into the air, and dove at them, talons outstretched. The prince felt flesh tear and heard somebody shriek. He cried out in triumph, a falcon's scream, and turned to strike again. But one of the bandits flailed out blindly with his staff, and caught Finist a glancing blow that sent him tumbling back into the forest. He hit the ground with enough force to send him breathlessly back into human-shape, gasping for air.

Ai, the robbers had torn the whip from the driver's hand! Finist dove into his discarded caftan, and lunged at the robbers with a stout branch the forest-presence had graciously granted him. Magic or no, every prince was well trained in weaponry. Finist had even experimented with peasant weapons, and that branch was as good as any quarterstaff. It connected squarely with one man's head, and he crumpled. As Finist rapped another man sharply on the arm, the driver took advantage of the confusion to snatch a club from one of his attackers and copy the prince. And for a time there was chaos.

But chaos yielded quickly to order, because few thieves want to risk injury by standing and fighting. Soon those would-be robbers broke and ran, leaving behind only the man Finist had stunned.

There was silence. Finist and the driver grinned fiercely at each other, too winded to speak. Just as Finist decided he'd recovered enough to say something, the fallen robber stirred and groaned, and all humor fled the driver's face, leaving it bleak and cold. Grimly he leaped from the wagon and caught the robber by the throat.

«Who sent you?»

Finist had time to recognize a western dialect not dis-similar from his own tongue while their captive struggled to free himself.

«No one!» the thief gasped at last.

«Liar!»

«No, no, no one! Saw you, thought you'd be an easy mark— That's all, I swear it!»

«I think he's telling the truth," Finist said softly.

For a moment more the driver clutched his captive. Then he sighed and released his hold. «Yes. Of course he is. The woods are full of such trash.»

The robber took advantage of the moment to scramble off. The driver held up a hand to Finist. «No, let him go. And we'd best not linger! Hurry, my friend.»