Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga)

by Ellyn, Court

  “Yes, ma’am. No one saw nothing. Only thing reported was a dog that wouldn’t stop barking one night.”

  Kelyn grinned, wondering if Thorn could read a dog’s mind as well as a man’s.

  The cart lane brought them to the east-west road that stretched between the watchtower and the village and meandered on to Drenéleth. At the intersection the sentry dismounted. “Just this way, m’ lord.”

  Ravens clustered on the stone rail of a bridge. Beneath their irritated cackling rumbled a man’s voice. Creative profanities wafted up from the streambed. Kelyn waved his arms to scatter the birds and peered over the rail. A two-wheeled cart laid on its side in the middle of the stream. A red-faced dwarf hopped down from it and scrambled over the river stones, kicking debris, flinging canvas tarp, and stacking empty crates while cursing the sun and everything it shone upon.

  A nauseating reek came from two dead mules laying head down on the bank. Dark splashes of dried blood stained both animals, muzzle to chest.

  On the opposite bank, three more dwarves spoke with a man in a cerulean surcoat and polished helm. Captain Haest tossed up his hands and called, “Master Brugge, you’re trampling evidence.”

  “Evidence?” snapped the irate dwarf. “You wouldn’t know evidence if it reared up and bit your balls off.” Taking the opportunity to glance up from his rampage, he noticed the new arrivals. “Commander, lad, is that you? Damn it, you shouldn’t be here neither. This is none of your concern.”

  “When did he get here?” Kelyn asked the young sentry. He received only a shrug in reply, then started down the embankment to try and calm his friend. “You knew them well?”

  “Knew them?” Brugge snarled. “Helsi and Hammer were cousins on my wife’s side. O’ course, I bloody well knew them. I sent them off with the ore in the first place.”

  Captain Haest cast Kelyn a sidelong glance as if wondering if he’d stand for such tactless treatment, but Kelyn knew the temperamental dwarf too well to take offense. “No bodies?” he asked the watch captain.

  “No, sir.”

  “And the ore?”

  “Gone.”

  “Highwaymen don’t steal iron ore, Captain.”

  “I’m aware of that, sir. Maybe the highwaymen thought they’d happened upon a gold wagon instead. Attacked before they realized and took it anyway.”

  “Then where are the bodies?”

  Haest stared at the ground between them, shifted feet, cleared his throat. “Honestly, m’ lord, there’s all kinds of things that don’t add up here.”

  “Such as?”

  “Tracks for one. Before this idiot dwarf come along, they were plain enough on the road and here along the stream.”

  “What about them?”

  “There wasn’t a single dwarf print to be found, sir. Dwarves wear those small, wide hob-nailed boots.” True, Master Brugge, who had finally sunk down on his haunches to mourn in quiet, and the three dwarves who accompanied him, wore the very kind of shoe the captain described. “Most of the tracks we did see were human-sized. Soft soles.”

  “Most?”

  “Right. Then there’s the bear tracks. Over here.” He hopped the stream, and Kelyn followed. Haest pointed at the ground near the two dead mules. Their throats had been opened in strong, clean strokes. The ravens had been at their eyes and bellies.

  Kelyn set his foot alongside a print that engulfed his own. Though the shape of the foot resembled that of a human, it was turned inward at the arch, much like a bear’s, and past each toe the earth was pricked and scored, as if by hooked claws.

  “Worse,” Haest added, “we can’t track where the bears or the men came from or where they went. The tracks … well, they just vanish, sir.”

  Brugge raised his face from his hands, bellowed, and splashed downstream toward them. He elbowed Kelyn aside and stomped out the bear print.

  “Damn it, dwarf!” cried Haest. Glaring at Kelyn, he added, “Lastly, this hotheaded little shit seems to know what happened but won’t spill it.”

  “It’s none of your concern!” Brugge retorted.

  Kelyn sighed at the dwarf’s stubbornness and made his way back up the embankment. Deep gouges and slide marks marred the muddy surface of the road and slicked the winter-brown reeds flat to the ground. “The mules were dragged? That would take a team of men.”

  “Or just a couple of bears,” said Haest dryly. Why not lead the mules off the road and then slit their throats? Why bother tossing the cart into the stream?

  Brugge stomped after Kelyn and pleaded, “Commander, lad, this is baerdwin business. Go home. We’ll take care of it.”

  “These are my lands, Brugge. I have every right to be here and look into the matter.”

  The dwarf gritted his teeth. His face was cherry red behind his salt-and-pepper beard. “You don’t want to find the answer. Let it be.”

  Kelyn leaned close and whispered, “Bears, Brugge? Down in the farm country? Bears are supposedly what killed Lord Zeldanor years ago.”

  “It coulda been bears, damn it!”

  “Invisible bears, Brugge? I asked you about the matter then, and you were just as vague and hostile. Listen, I know you dwarves have been at war for years. And I know what ‘bogginai’ means. Is that what we’re dealing with here? Are my people in danger?”

  Brugge’s jasper brown eyes widened a fraction, but he said nothing.

  “Fine. The official report will state ‘unidentified highwaymen.’ Good enough?”

  The dwarf replied with a brusque nod.

  Kelyn’s skin prickled with unease as he made his way back onto the bridge. Maegeth and her soldiers had surveyed the whole picture from above. They poked around the brown grass for more tracks, but looked just as puzzled as Haest. “There’s nothing we can do here,” Kelyn told his garrison captain.

  Maegeth had trained hundreds of men and women in the way of the pike, sword, and crossbow, had apprehended her share of highwaymen and felt little qualm in applying pain to win information from a criminal’s mouth, but what she saw here left her more than a little disturbed. She swallowed hard and said, “I don’t understand it, m’ lord. It’s like they crawled out of the Abyss and left the same way.”

  “Aye.” Kelyn couldn’t help thinking of the green stripes on his brother’s forearms. “Mount up. We need to get back to the watchtower before dark.”

  ~~~~

  When Thorn returned to Ilswythe at midsummer for Carah’s fourteenth birthday, Kelyn told him about the missing dwarves. Not dwarves, too, he thought, keeping the matter of the missing Elarion to himself. He’d taken an oath, after all, and refrained from discussing Elaran affairs even with his brother. Kelyn’s news only added another enigma to the puzzle. If it weren’t for the detail of footprints leading nowhere, Thorn would have thought the abduction of the dwarves was unrelated to the Elaran problem. What troubled him most was mention of the “bear” prints. Ogres could have smelled the rotting mules from miles away and arrived at any time to feast. Perhaps that’s why the prints had been found around the mules. Perhaps not.

  In the end, what could he do but wait and watch and enjoy his time at home? He presented a carefree smile to his niece, along with a bolt of exquisite silver silk and another of lush silver velvet.

  Carah caressed the fabric. With a sigh she said, “Not Vonmora silk, I’d guess.”

  “Straight from Elaran looms,” Thorn told her, marveling at how she had grown up over the last year. She stood three inches taller than her mother, and her gestures and poise weren’t those of a little girl anymore.

  Rhoslyn had to feel the fabric for herself. “Like water,” she sighed, then frowned up at Thorn. “I was under the impression that Vonmora silk was the best. How dare you come here and tell me I’m wrong.”

  “Oh, Mum. You’re a sour flirt.” Edging the duchess aside, she sidled up to Thorn. Her Elaran blue eyes played coy while those dark lashes went to work, as if she would show her mother how to really lay on the charm. “You know, Uncle, you co
uld begin my training next year instead. Or even this year.”

  He was hardly taken in. “Haven’t you learned to count yet? I said sixteen. I meant sixteen.”

  Snatching up the bolts of fabric, one under each arm, she stalked off.

  By evening she had forgiven him. After a sumptuous birthday dinner, the family retired to a parlor cooled by the night wind. Carah perched on the arm of Thorn’s chair and kissed his cheek in apology. “I guess sixteen will do—if you come back this winter and see my new silver gown.”

  “Ha! Your parents both spoiled you and taught you how to negotiate. A dangerous combination.”

  She shrugged, unruffled. “Knowing how to negotiate being a necessary skill when one is going to be the Duke of Ilswythe someday.”

  Kelyn, sitting across the chess table from a moody Kethlyn, rolled his eyes.

  Carah paid her father no mind, but leapt up, spun, and belled out her arms as if shaping wide skirts. “I’ll wear my new gown at Assembly next year. It will be the most beautiful gown at the dances. Stuffy little Maeret of Lunélion will be so jealous. Why don’t you ever come to Assembly, Uncle Thorn? You could dance with me. It would be a glorious time.”

  “The Assembly? Glorious?” Leave it to Kelyn’s daughter to think so. “You don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

  Carah threw a fist to her hip. “Well, that’s your fault. You don’t visit nearly enough.”

  “I’ll come for the Turning Festival. How does that suit the Duke of Ilswythe?”

  He kept his word and rode back to Ilswythe despite the fresh-fallen snow, just so he could approve the damn dress. The thatched cottages and shops of the town were festooned in bright ribbons, and a bonfire burned in the square, symbolic of the return of lengthening days. The snow had been shoveled from the streets so the townsfolk could dance and imbibe large quantities of ale in the sunshine. Thorn rode through the throngs unseen and up the hill to the fortress where he greeted his family before a blazing hearth. Kelyn handed him a goblet of hot mead, and Carah ran upstairs to change while he thawed out.

  “King Bano’en died, did you know?” Kelyn said. He looked astonished at the news, as if he had expected the man to live forever. “Forty years on the throne. And twice held off the Fierans. Not bad.”

  Thorn’s teeth finally stopped chattering. “Cousin Ha’el is king at last. Remarkable. Is it good fortune to have family on the throne, or worrisome?”

  “I can’t decide myself.”

  Carah returned half an hour later, shining like a star in the heavens. The layers of silver silk and silver velvet made the ivory skin of her shoulders luminous. For an instant, Thorn recognized hints of Aerdria in her features. His belly twisted uncomfortably.

  She made a slow turn; the silk shimmered in the firelight. “My first real ball gown, Uncle Thorn. Did it come out all right?”

  “Stunning,” he said, taking her hand. “And you are stunning in it.” So stunning he found her difficult to look upon. Was this the little girl who begged him for bedtime tales? No longer, he suspected.

  A similar kind of consternation wrinkled Kelyn’s brow.

  “Watch over this one, brother,” Thorn told him. “She’ll turn more heads than will make either of us comfortable.”

  Carah huffed, though her eyes sparkled at the idea. “Don’t be silly, Uncle Thorn. You’re my only love.”

  He laughed. “I won’t hold you to that.”

  “Let’s not talk about it,” Kelyn snapped and flicked a thumb at the door. “Go change out of that thing.”

  Carah sashayed from the parlor giggling, all too happy to prove to her elders that she wasn’t a child anymore, and completely ignorant of the bittersweet ache it instilled in her uncle.

  ~~~~

  If Aerdria didn’t know what to do about the dark tidings, Thorn would look into the matter himself. Just as the snows began to melt and flood the Avidan River, he set out from Linndun. The newest rumors didn’t involve dwarves or Elarion, but humans. Wearing a travel-stained hood to hide his green-rimmed eyes, he hiked from the budding trees to a Leanian village west of Mithlan. The tavern was sure to be a fount of information. He ordered a mug of cold beer and chose a greasy table at the back of the room. The corner’s deep shadow allowed him to observe the premises without drawing unwanted attention.

  A central fire pit spilled ashes onto scuffed planks, and a potbellied stove near the entrance warded off drafts, drying boots and cloaks soaked by chill spring rain. Both the pit and the stove smoked excessively, blackening the ceiling and creating a low-hanging, pungent haze. Wobbly tables and chairs crowded the floor, and a polished bar stretched half the length of the east wall. Patrons filled every chair, mostly farmers waiting for the fields to dry. The stench of sweat and spilled beer permeated the air. In a loft over the bar, a young minstrel in blue velvet strummed his lute and sang loudly over the din, his voice striking the high notes like a well-tuned instrument.

  Voices struck Thorn’s ears, too many to unravel. He listened with his mind instead. Thoughts and emotions tumbled his way. Sorting through them took concentration. Massaging his temples, he focused on one conversation at a time:

  “Aye, she fairly kicked me out, she did. Tol’ me to sleep in the sheep shed and you know what else …”

  “… not as good a crop as last year … nah, just a feelin’.”

  “Plaster yer elbow to this table, mate. I’ll beat ya this time …”

  “Tip ‘er up, take ‘er down, round about, no more frown … ,” sang the minstrel with a growing chorus.

  “Hey, mister, need more beer?” said a voice in Thorn’s ear. He hauled in his awareness, and pain shrieked behind his eyes. A girl stood over his table, dressed far too provocatively for her age. She couldn’t have been older than Carah.

  “Wha—beer? No,” he stammered, glancing into his half-emptied mug.

  “You sure?” the girl persisted, sloshing a pitcher. “A gold piece’ll get you one o’ these, a room, and a bath. An extra silver will get you an hour wi’ me sister.”

  Her blabbing had given Thorn time to gather his wits. He smiled politely inside his hood. “No, thank you, lady.”

  “Lady, is it?” The girl grinned and turned scarlet from her bosom to her ears. “You a gentleman then? Sound like one enough. Wouldn’t know by the look o’ ya. No offense, mind. Half a silver will get ya an hour with me, and I fill yer mug for free.”

  Thorn fished inside his cloak and pushed a silver coin across the table. “For yourself, to hide away. In exchange for no more talk.”

  She clamped crooked teeth over her bottom lip and her hand over the coin, filled Thorn’s mug in thanks, and scurried away.

  The drinking song had ended with a shout and another round of beer. The bard strummed a slow, melancholy chord on his lute, and in aching strains, he sang:

  From gray mists ran the eldritch mare,

  Seaspray white and eyes aglow

  With fairy light and fire aflare

  That told of Magics long ago.

  On her back rode Lady Fair

  O’er Gloamheath’s baleful bog

  Where spirits groan in fetid air

  Seeking her knight in starless fog.

  I shall find thee, love, near or far

  Though I search beyond sun and star.

  Her knight she found on river’s side;

  His embrace set her fears aflight.

  The mare of mist returned to tides

  Of Bryna’s flow and waters white.

  I shall find thee, love, near or far

  Though I search beyond sun and star.

  Thorn’s mother, the heroine of a ballad? Surely the bard in blue didn’t know of whom he sang. No, Thorn decided, searching the young man’s mind. He had heard the story many years ago at bedtime; his father was a soldier under Locmar’s banner and he had seen with his own eyes the wondrous horses crossing the Bryna. The story was a fantasy to the bard, one that enchanted him above all others. He’d composed the song him
self.

  Thorn’s throat tightened, and he swigged the last of his beer. Setting the mug aside, he waved to the bar wench and lifted another silver coin. She eyed it greedily. “Change yer mind then?”

  “Give this coin to the minstrel, and tell him to sing that song again.”

  Disappointed, she fisted the coin and started to stomp off, but Thorn caught her by the sleeve. In his palm lay another half-dozen coins. The girl’s eyes bulged. “Give this to him as well. Tell him to take his lute and his song to Ilswythe in Aralorr and sing his ballad for the lord of the house. If he performs well, his career is made. But don’t tell him who offered the advice. Do that for me and I’ll pay you the same.”

  The girl snatched the coins and hurried up the staircase over the bar. The bard searched the room frantically, but the girl shook her head when he demanded to know the identity of his new benefactor. He gave up and strummed his lute according to the request and sang Alovi’s Ballad with renewed fervor.

  Thorn resumed his task, noting that most of the patrons had grown more passive and attentive during the first performance of the melancholy tune. They seemed pleased to hear it again. Their brawling and arm-wrestling had lowered to subdued rumbles, and the verses of the song seemed to awaken a new thread of discussion:

  “… no, his granddaughter, His Lordship’s granddaughter. Just up and disappeared, she did. Lovely thing, too. I saw her once at the fair. Blackest hair you ever seen. Just like a raven’s wing. Lord Rhogan raised a party to find her, but we didn’t catch hide nor hair of her. Blackest hair, too. Wasn’t likely no fay horses is what carried her off though.”

  Ah, this was more like it. Word of the strange abduction had reached Avidanyth’s southern borders, and because of the missing dwarves and vanishing Elarion, Thorn had been drawn by more than petty curiosity.

  He recalled the only time he had met Rhogan of Mithlan. The Leanian lord had come to Nathrachan as part of Kelyn’s plan for the last grand sweep against the Fierans. Rhogan’s uncannily black hair and brilliant azeth had taken Thorn by surprise. Without doubt, the Old Blood flowed in the highborn’s veins. Rhogan knew it, and he had seen that Thorn knew it; he’d ducked his eyes in shame. If Rhogan was avedra, he had never openly admitted it.