The Falconer and the Wolf by T. R. Neff

Author:T. R. Neff
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: forest, trees, betrayal, taboo, wolf, exile, falconer
Publisher: T. R. Neff

"Hold che bloody fist, hewer. I'm comin' but I told che I has me enough wood t'last a moonfall!" The scarred voice emerging from the cob cottage gave the falconer no clue as to whether it belonged to crone or curmudgeon. Muffled shuffling accompanied the voice and the scritching of wood on wood, like the plank on his own door. Slowly groaning on iron hinges stiffened by the cold, the door crept open a hand's breadth.

Glorious warmth radiated from the slender opening. The falconer luxuriated in the heat. Memories of the the dancing fire in the mews above the stables, near his birds, close to her flooded his mind... And the smell! Stew thick with meat simmered and lent its savor to the air. Or did he catch the old crone in the middle of broiling a brisket, dripping oils into the fire below --

Phlegmy snorting interrupted his basking, startled him from his trance. His eyes flew open and at first he noticed the interior of the cottage, appearing just as warm and cozy as he imagined.

"Che not be che nasty gossipin' hewer. What'che be wantin'?"

A wizened, wrinkled face punctuated with a twisted turnip of a nose poked through the slender crevice. The once-gay green scarf topped a head of broad, flat cheekbones and chin and the eye not glazed-over with a milky cataract struck him with an intensity blue-green, fixed on him from beneath an eyebrow overgrown wild with neglect. He guessed her to claim northern Leres, or Btumba blood (despite the extremely pale skin) if his education served him reliably and correctly. Some worth, my noble's education, he mused. At least she lived long enough here in the South that he could understand her, even with the accent.

"Che drawin' out all meh heat! State che bizness or begone!" A scowl pressed her face into a shape even more reminiscent of a shriveled vegetable left in the bin a fortnight.

Dumbfounded, the falconer only stared at the tiny crone ogling him. "Fine, getche out my door!" She pulled her face from the opening, but the falconer slapped his gloved palm against the door to hold it before she could slam it on him.

"Grandmother, hold! I'm sorry. I'm lost, you see. I've come a very long way."

She kept her nose and face out of the door's reach, but squeezed her one good eye to scrutinize him. "I ain che granna-na. An' che don' look like'a no pill-gim to Hyzantcha." The crone snorted and curdled up a gob of phlegm and spat it at his feet. He did not wish to look down to see where it landed. But a sick curiosity compelled him to drop his eyes.

And instead, saw the hare hanging from his belt.

He quickly produced the rigid beast with a flourish like a knight brandishing his blade. "I have this, madam, in trade. For a bit of warmth, and a taste of what sits cooking in your hearth."

Her eye fell to the creature, and she brought a palsied hand up to touch the fur, then snatched it from his grasp.

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