Hawk and Hound by Irene Davis

Author:Irene Davis [Davis, Irene]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Skookum Creek Publishing

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“A HAWK?” THERE is surprise in Carville’s voice.

“I brought her from the forest,” Lang says. “She was stunned.” He draws me out and unwraps my head from whatever has been covering me. I see the light glinting off the lamps, the dispatches on the desk, the general watching me. Everything about his appearance is clear to me, from the scratch across the left lens of his spectacles to the day’s graying stubble on his chin and sagging cheeks.

I don’t like his face. I don’t like him. Now that I have talons, I want to sink them into that arrogant face that gave the orders to keep me from Lang, and Lang from me. I open my mouth to tell him exactly what I think of him. Instead of words, what comes out is a sharp cry—kek-kek-kek—that makes Carville blink and draw back, though he’s still behind his desk and beyond my reach.

“A haggard,” Carville says. “She will be hard to train.”

“If I can’t teach her, I’ll set her free again,” says Lang. He strokes his fingers over my head. I’m tempted to bite him in my frustration at not being able to reach the general.

“I won’t say no,” Carville says. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Fresh game is always welcome. Let her bring me a rabbit for supper.”

I want to fly at him, but my wings are still pinned in whatever Lang has wrapped around my body. All I can do is screech my frustrated anger.

Lang covers my head. Darkness returns, and my logical mind reasserts itself. I don’t like Carville, I don’t like what he’s done, but it’s nothing personal for him. He has thousands of men to command and worry over—what does he care for me? He doesn’t see the hawk as an animal, but as a tool to hunt with. In the same way, I was not a woman to him, but merely something he thought would blunt the edge of a weapon when he needs it to be sharp.

The force of my anger toward Carville unsettles me almost as much as my body’s transformation. Lang didn’t warn me that my thoughts and emotions would change too.

Lang carries me away. When he next removes my makeshift hood, we’re behind the tent partition. A lamp is burning low, and I am briefly fascinated with the dancing movement of the flame. Lang frees my wings and sets me on the table by the washbasin. To my surprise, I don’t fall over, though I find myself half-opening my wings to gain my balance.

“I must sleep,” Lang says softly. “And you must too. Tomorrow will be its own challenge.”

I blink at him and bob my head. The movement doesn’t hurt or overbalance me, which is encouraging.

Lang sits on one of the cots. He sets his shako aside and pulls off his own boots, then looks up at me again. He lifts his right hand, where three of his seven rings glitter. With his thumb, he taps the one on his fourth finger.

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