Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga)

by Ellyn, Court

  “We’ll get them back. Yes, we’ll take back many things.” Somewhere along that glistening blade of water lay Ilswythe’s gates. Thorn meant to wait for the return of the falcons before setting out. “Is there anyone in particular you wish me to notify?”

  Arryk pushed himself to his feet as though his joints had turned to stone. “Birds, you said? But you don’t have birds from Brynduvh, I’ll warrant. You’ll have to send a rider.”

  “Contradicting kings is never a good idea, I’m told.”

  “Really? I’ll not send for the headsman if you’re honest with me.”

  Thorn chuckled. “It involves avedra mind work, sire. I’m using wild falcons, for fleetness, to carry messages all over the northwest. Takes all my concentration, and I’m not sure it will work, but if we’re to act quickly this is our only option.”

  Skepticism crept back into Arryk’s eyes. “This is how you sent for Laral? Can you attach a handwritten letter to one of these falcons?”

  “At risk to my face, perhaps.”

  “Have the Lady Carah on hand, then.” Arryk went to the writing desk against the far wall and dug out a sheet of thin courier paper. “Lord Éndaran needs to know that I’m alive and well. Rance, too. His wife and children will be sick with worry.” He wrote no more than the greeting before he paused. “It may be too late. I left Raed specific instructions. If he did not receive three letters written in my hand, he was to cross the Bryna in full force. I was able to write only one of those letters.”

  Thorn hurried to the desk. “Your host started marshaling before you left Fiera?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “This is wonderful! My brother will be relieved to hear it.” Thorn decided not to tell the White Falcon that Brynduvh was under attack, or that soldiers across Fiera were occupied defending lesser holdings as well. The boy had enough to think about.

  “If your troops try to cross the new bridge at Athmar, they’ll be massacred,” he said, pacing and thinking aloud. “Maybe they’ll steer clear when they see the town in ashes.”

  “Ashes, Athmar?”

  “Mmm. All ancient elven holdings were attacked on the same day. Athmar was one of them. I haven’t told Drona or her nephew. Point is, we’ll have to get word to your host to avoid the obvious byways and fords, just as I’ve ordered Laral. Ferries. They’ll have to use ferries to cross. Briar Tower, the river fort. We’ll have them camp at Briar.” Arryk dipped his quill, scratched a note on the thin paper. “I’ll send Briar’s commander a bird explaining that this is the War Commander’s wish. Hopefully that will deter any bloodshed between Fieran and Aralorri, and a regiment will be on hand the moment we’re ready.”

  “Ready for what?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I’m not sure even Kelyn knows. But we’ll think of something.” He felt giddy. Any resistance they gathered was bound to be crushed, but he felt drunk all the same.

  He found Arryk watching him from the corner of his eye. “You’re not what I expected, Thorn Kingshield. Not at all.”

  ~~~~

  30

  “Wait, Andy, wait!” Laral shouted, lowering the blunt end of the training sword. “What did I tell you?”

  Andryn wore a padded gambeson, gloves, and a helmet with a cage that protected his face. It was too big for his head. He had to tilt his head back to see under the visor. After a moment of confusion, he winced and recited, “To stay on my toes. Don’t stand like a stick.”

  “Aye, stay loose in the knees. A motionless knight is a dead knight. Dance, son. Never let them catch you. Again.”

  The bailey of Brengarra echoed with the clacks of the wooden swords. Andryn hopped and shuffled around the pivot of his father, a scowl of determination scrunching his flushed face. They occupied a small sandy arena in the shade of the wall. Sedrik leaned on the wooden fence, freckled face smirking at the youngster while waiting for his foster lord to send him for gear or reinforcements. Haldred, two years older and almost ready for knighthood, trained with the garrison in the yard. An atmosphere of purpose punctuated the drills this morning, and no wonder. Everyone was scared.

  People poured in from every direction. Terrified townsfolk carried strange and disturbing news. Those who traveled along the north road claimed the town of Athmar burned, that a new banner fluttered from the castle towers in place of Drona’s green boar. Those who fled from the Crossroads or even as far away as Arwythe said the same. Towns burned; banners hung with skulls flew in town squares. People arriving from the west said Brynduvh itself was surrounded by some mysterious evil. Everyone who approached the gates died. The king’s banner still flew, but townsfolk fled the surrounding villages in droves. Voices, gruff and ugly, spoke in unknown languages out of thin air. Drums and roars were enough to frighten the spirit right out of a man. When Haezeldale had taken in all the people it could accommodate, the castellan sent them on to Brengarra.

  Not a single man, woman, or child among the hundreds could say who attacked these cities. How could a fortress fall and the enemy never be seen?

  “Foul magics. They been set loose,” said an old cobbler from Brynduvh. Laral had toured the tent city springing up along the Thunderwater. Fear, uncertainty marked every face he saw. “People learned real quick not to approach them gates, lest they wanted to explode in great gouts of blood. I seen it myself. One my ‘prentices, stubborn dolt, had a sweetheart. Wouldn’t be parted from her, he said. Well, he’s parted from her now and from his head, too. It’s a curse, I tell you, m’ lord. What did the king do to turn these evils loose on us?”

  The rumor mill had rarely been so productive. Laral heard talk that the ghost of the king’s brother had returned from the Abyss, though the rumormongers couldn’t decide exactly which brother sought vengeance on them or for what great sin. He heard that the White Falcon had become paranoid and dabbled in black magic. Before he fled his own city, Arryk had enacted a guarding spell to keep out assassins and invaders, only he hadn’t considered his own people. And he heard that, no, it was the Lord Chancellor who had cast the spell in an attempt to usurp the throne. “And it’ll work, too,” said a broom-maker without a tooth left in her mouth. “His Majesty will return in all his pomp and glory, ride straight into that invisible scythe, and he’ll die like the rest of us. He’s got a wolf’s face, that Lord Éndaran. It’s his doing, I tell ya.”

  The enigma tainted Laral’s sleep and his waking hours, too. Night after night, he dreamed of a room full of people drowning in blood. He pounded at the doors, tugged with meager strength, but the doors refused to open and let the people escape. Arryk was locked in there, he knew, and Laral couldn’t save him. He woke gasping, as if he were the one drowning.

  He sent a courier to Brynduvh with a letter for Lord Raed, asking what was happening, but no answer returned. Laral had no choice but to assume these refugees told the truth and that he had sent a good rider to his death. He found himself watching the highway, hoping for a glimpse of Arryk’s party. Had the Convention failed or not? It was supposed to have taken place ten days ago. Plenty of time for the king to return.

  In accordance with Arryk’s wishes, Laral had sent word across Brengarra’s domain, rallying the militias from each town. They were to stand ready in case the Convention failed. Laral thought he knew what that would look like. He never expected tales of magic and foreign banners.

  Then, three days ago, he sent the militias an actual summons. Each town was to send half its men to the castle. He remembered Kelyn mentioning “a feeling” he would get before battle began, long before anyone knew there would be a fight on that particular day. Laral learned to trust Kelyn’s feelings, just as he trusted Ruthan’s premonitions. He didn’t know if this nervous knot in his gut was the same kind of thing, or if it was the result of his common sense reading the signs, but he had every suspicion that his militia was about to come in handy. Men and their sons arrived from across Brengarra’s lands wearing plain gray tabards and wielding long ash-wood pikes. He ordered them to position their
camps to each side of the ford. Just in case.

  All the distractions, all the uncertainty, caused him to be shorter with his son than he intended, nor could he focus properly. Andryn snuck around his father’s flank and landed a blow behind his knee. The boy celebrated by throwing his arms into the air. “Ha, hamstrung!”

  Laral’s sword thumped Andryn’s helm, knocking him sideways. “Hamstrung doesn’t mean dead.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Da.” His breathing had become a labored wheeze.

  Laral tossed his sword into the sand and said, “I need a rest, son. You’re wearing me out.” He sent Sedrik for a bucket of water.

  “Was that better … wheeze … weaving?” Andryn asked, tugging off his helmet. Hope made his eyes sparkle.

  Laral ruffled his sweaty hair. “So much better that you made me dizzy.”

  “This is a better kind of dancing than practicing minuets with Lesha in the parlor.”

  “You’ll be glad you learned that kind of dancing too, when a lady catches your eye.”

  Andryn made a gagging sound. “I doubt it.”

  They perched on the rails of the fence and when Sedrik returned, they shared the water from a ladle.

  “Should I take over, m’ lord?” Sed asked.

  Leave it to a kid to miss Laral’s real reason for quitting. “Not today.”

  “Yes,” Andryn said between heaving breaths.

  “No.”

  Andy slumped in disappointment, accepted the ladle for another drink. His right hand still clutched the training sword. Laral suspected he would sleep with the thing if his mum let him. Andy had gotten into trouble twice for carrying it to the supper table. He frowned at the blunt wooden edge. “When can I have a real sword, Da?”

  “You know well the answer to that. When you’re eighteen and knighted.”

  “That’s forever away.”

  “And you’ll spend all those years learning how to use it. Else you’ll go cutting off your own foot. Lord Andryn Limp-Along, that’s what they’d call you.”

  His son laughed at that.

  “Go with Sed and put away your gear.”

  Andryn hopped down from the rail, scooped up his helm and Laral’s practice sword and started for the armory with the older squire.

  Laral called after him, “What does a knight never neglect?”

  “Cleanliness of sword, armor, horse, self,” Andy called back, bobbing his head with each item on the list. “In that ord—” He shied from a sudden ruffle of feathers. A falcon swooped over his head and careened toward Laral, yellow talons wide open. The bird landed on the rail not two feet away from him.

  “Da!”

  He raised a hand for silence. Master Eurgen must have left the mews doors open again. Brengarra’s old falconer was growing noticeably senile. “Give me your glove.”

  Andryn crept closer, tongue stabbing the corner of his mouth and padded glove outstretched. Laral slid it on, while the falcon situated her wings over her back and shook the wind of flight from her breast feathers. She cocked her head, and one large black eye boldly regarded the man, the boy, and the youth gathering close.

  The glove was too snug for Laral’s hand and probably too thin to keep out the barbed talons. He reached out to coax the bird onto his fist and locked eyes with her. He couldn’t turn away. Deep inside his skull he heard the words: Laral, a message from Thorn Kingshield, your friend. Disaster has struck the Convention of Kings. Your father has been slain and many others besides. The Northwest is under attack. The War Commander needs you. Bring half your garrison and half your militia to Drenéleth. Avoid bridges and roads, villages and fortresses. Keep to open country and do not delay.

  The falcon broke her stare, screeched an ear-splitting note, and pumped her wings desperately to get away. Laral watched her sail over the ivy-bearded gatehouse, as dazed as if a great fist had landed a blow on his chin.

  Andryn shook his arm. “Da! Did you hear? What are we to do?”

  Even Sedrik appeared to have heard the message. He stood gaping at his foster lord.

  My father, dead… The haze gradually cleared from Laral’s head. “Andy, come help me with my armor. Sed, saddle my horse, then keep saddling them. Get Hal and men from the garrison to help you.” The older squire sped off for the stables. Laral bellowed across the yard, “Captain Nors!” Soldiers kept bashing their sparring partners, but their commander stopped his inspection to acknowledge Laral. “Have the men line up and count off, one-two, one-two. The ones ride with me, the twos stay here.”

  “Ride where, sir? Have you heard from the king?”

  “Send the twos into town to round up the militia, and have them count off the same way. They’re to be ready to march in two hours.” He started for the keep, but paused sharply on the steps. What was he doing? A mysterious message claimed Kelyn needed him, and he so easily tossed aside his vow to Arryk? Did this summons comply with Arryk’s wishes? Did Kelyn call him to take up arms against Fiera? Was Arryk dead, and by whose hand? Oh, Goddess spare him, this was it. The choice he had dreaded all his knighted life.

  “Da? You look sick again.” Andryn stood on the steps, watching him apprehensively. “Do you want me fetch your armor?”

  Laral wrapped an arm tight around his son’s shoulders and they entered the keep together. “Go find your mum.”

  Bethyn heard Andy’s version of things by the time she joined Laral in their chambers. She took one look at the gray surcoat and mail hauberk lying across the bed and demanded, “Is this absurd story true?”

  “Mum, I told you—” Andy said.

  Bethyn ignored him. Tears sprang into large, frightened eyes as she advanced on Laral. He stopped shoving wool socks into a satchel and stood to face her. “You’re leaving because a bird told you to?”

  “Thorn Kingshield told me to. I’ve not heard from him in twenty years, Wren. It is absurd. It’s too absurd not to be true.” He edged around her, tossed the satchel on the foot of the bed, and ordered, “Andy, undershirts, a wool blanket.” He felt Bethyn glaring at his back. Pretending to ignore it, he tugged off the sweat-stained jerkin he always wore in the training yard and retrieved an undershirt of soft black wool from his son.

  “What’s this, Da?” Andryn asked, lifting a small cloth doll from the satchel. It wore the blue surcoat of an Aralorri knight and flopped limply in his hand.

  “That’s a protection charm. Put it back.” Poor Ruthan. The falcon hadn’t mentioned her. Was she dead, too?

  Over the black undershirt he put on a quilted doublet and had Andryn lace it closed down each side.

  “Like this?” the boy asked.

  “That’s fine,” Laral said, all the while watching Bethyn from the corner of his eye. She wiped a tear angrily off her face and hugged her arms over her chest; the fingers of her left hand kneaded her right arm as if it were the neck of a lute. Never still, those fingers. He often wondered if she thought in music. If so, she was playing a call to arms in her head while she rallied choice words like staccato notes. Her eyes settled on the yellow lightning bolt blazing across the front of the surcoat, and her shoulders slumped in a sign of surrender.

  Her fingers traced the embroidery. “I remember my father and brother riding out in a hurry like this. I was so young and stupid that I was excited about it.”

  “It is exciting, Mum!” Andryn cried.

  She chose not to tell her son that both her father and her brother came back to her as ashes in tiny leather pouches. “I suppose, with everything else that’s happening, we’d be foolish to laugh off this bird. But, Laral … who are you riding off to fight for?”

  Tenderly he brushed a tangled lock of silk-soft brown hair off her neck. “I’m not sure. That bird was damned vague. I’m not turning my back on Arryk. I’ll find him first, whether he’s dead or alive, then I’ll know what to do. If Kelyn can’t understand that, well.... I have to be able to come home to you, Wren.”

  “See that you do, that’s all I ask.”

  Laral showed Andr
yn how to help him into the mail and surcoat. The boy had to stand on a chair to raise them over his da’s head. Once he’d buckled on his sword belt, Laral sent Andy down with the satchel of socks and bedding. “Have Sed tie them behind my saddle. My shield, too. Fetch it from the armory.”

  When they were alone, Bethyn asked, “Will you see your father?”

  He blinked at her. “He’s dead. Andryn didn’t tell you that part?”

  After a moment of astonished silence, Bethyn’s mouth pinched with scorn. “Why should he? The man was nothing to him.”

  Lander would have been proud of his grandchildren, if he had swallowed his pride long enough to cross a bridge. “All those things I wanted to tell him…”

  “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry.”

  Laral reached for his helm, but Bethyn laid her hands on it first. They walked arm-in-arm down the stairs, his helm tucked under her arm. “You have the pouch I embroidered for you?” She tried not to choke as she said it.

  He raised a hand to his chest, laid it over the little lump under his armor. Bethyn had stitched Brengarra’s yellow lightning bolt and black tor on one side of the gray leather and Tírandon’s black and silver chevrons on the other.

  “Da!” Lesha hitched her skirts and ran up the stairs into his arms. Her face was blotched pink with weeping. Andy must have told her what was afoot, and insensitively, too. “Can’t you say you’re still sick?”

  He kissed the crown of his daughter’s head. Her hair smelled like sunshine. “I would go even if I was.”

  She shuddered with sobs.

  “Lesh,” Bethyn said, tugging her gently free and raising her chin with stern fingers. “This is not the time or the place. You must wait until after a soldier rides away. Find your smile now.”

  The tears stopped, but the smile just wouldn’t come. Lesha’s heart was too tender to feign happiness.