Though it was difficult to gauge exact numbers through Frightful’s eyes, Dara could see hundreds of Sevendori – natives and Bovali immigrants alike – patrolling with bow and spear the great earthen wall that now guarded the pass. More peered out from the top of the three-story tower that overlooked the pass, their arrows ready to fire. Yet more waited behind the dike, ready to defend it.
Beyond the wall Frightful found most of Sevendor’s few mounted troops assembling for a sortie against the West Flerian enemy. Sir Forondo, the man who served the Magelord as Captain of the Guard, had formed up a line of thirty brave lancers to take the field. Frightful saw the long line of horses, felt their excitement and smelled their rider’s dread. It took Dara’s mind to see the men in glittering armor, their long lances tipped with sharp steel held high. From many of the points a small green-and-white banner fluttered.
The Snowflake of Sevendor. Dara had barely known of it, before she came to the castle, but the Magelord’s new device for the small domain was starting to appear in banners and tokens everywhere around the place. It was a wild-looking six-pointed star in white, on a green field, said to be what a snowflake looked like up close. It was the device adopted by the Magelord, in honor of the Snow That Never Melted.
It was pretty, if odd, especially through the eyes of a falcon. Dara had no idea how one would perceive such a thing, but the spider-web like device had been eagerly adopted by the fighting men in this little war. At least it was simpler to stitch, than, say, a holly leaf. That exercise had been what had convinced Dara that needlework was not her strong point. But the Snowflake would be easy to copy, she decided. A larger example hung defiantly from the top of the Diketower, she noted, when Frightful circled back once over the horsemen.
The road to Sevendor below the dike descended through a rocky wasteland that had recently been planted with trees – that was Master Olmeg’s new Enchanted Forest, Dara guessed, as Frightful winged over it. She saw men moving below, hiding behind boulders or saplings. She couldn’t guess which ones were fighting for Sevendor and which were against it from this height. She pushed her falcon to move on.
Less than a mile down the road she saw the first band of foes on the road. She had Frightful land in the top of a tall elm tree within sight of the road. Thankfully, the men ignored her. But she could easily see them from her vantage: a score of men bearing the device of the Warbird on their sashes and tabards. Only a quarter of them were mounted.
It didn’t take long for Frightful to become aware of other noises and smells from her vantage point, however. She cocked her head when she heard more horses in the distance. Dara urged her to take wing again and wheel in the direction of the noise.
Off the road, to the east, lay a much, much larger company. More than four times the number of Sir Forondo’s brave men had mustered in a barren pasture, ready to ride to the defense of their foes. While the distances meant little to the falcon, Dara realized that the larger army was ready to pounce on any defenders Sevendor might send forth, should they chase the lure of the smaller force in the road. That could be devastating to Sevendor.
Frightful flew on. Beyond the mounted men by another half-mile was a fallow field sprawling with tents, canopies, and wagons. Far, far more men than Dara had ever seen together at one time. It was dizzying for her to see from that high in the air, and even more dizzying to contemplate. There had to be over a thousand, she reasoned, as she tried to gauge exactly how many.
Periodically in her flying she would land Frightful somewhere, or give her some basic but firm direction, and then break her trance long enough to report back to Gareth or Banamor. When she reported the larger force lying in wait for Sir Forondo, he raced from the room with impressive speed.
“How will he get there in time?” she asked, her eyes wide. If he didn’t, she realized, thirty men and their horses would be dead or captured.
“He’s rushing to get Sir Cei,” Gareth explained. “He has a device – a magical device – called a Mirror. It uses magic to allow the castellan to speak with the commander of the Diketower, for just this sort of thing. As soon as he can get to Sir Cei, a messenger can be dispatched to reach Sir Forondo in time . . . I hope,” he added.
Dara immediately went back into contact with Frightful. It was difficult, at this great distance, but long practice and familiarity soon brought her back over the besieging army. She had Frightful circle the twenty men being used as a lure by the West Flerians, and saw as Sevendor’s small force advanced down the road, two by two.
The vanguard of the company spread out as much as the road allowed and advanced. The West Flerians feigned surprise and began a ragged retreat down the road, drawing the Sevendori into the trap. Just as the first of the lancers reached the point where their foes had awaited them, however, a swift horse came up from behind and found Sir Forondo before the company was committed . . . and ensnared.
With a sigh of relief Dara slipped back out of her trance and told the other magi the good news.
“That’s the second time you’ve saved the domain, you and Frightful,” Gareth pointed out, as Zagor and Olmeg went down to the Great Hall to relay the news to the rest of the castle. “That was about the only mounted force the domain has, and it would have been tragic if it had been taken . . . or slaughtered.”
“I was just trying to help,” Dara said, dazedly.
“That’s the kind of help we need more of,” Gareth assured her. “With the Magelord gone . . .”
“Has no one sent a messenger?” Dara asked in disbelief. That would seem like the first thing she would have done . . .
“We tried, “ nodded Gareth, as he stifled a yawn. “But they were intercepted by the West Flerians. Zagor tried to contact him through the Otherworld, last night, but—”
“The . . . Otherworld?” Dara asked in confusion.
Gareth shook his shaggy head in irritation. “Sorry. I’m used to having this sort of discussion with fellow magi. The Otherworld . . . well, you know that place you go when you dream? That’s the gateway to the Otherworld. It’s like . . . like our world, only it exists in the magosphere, not here in reality.”
“You know, as explanations go, that was a particularly poor one. It made no sense to me at all,” Dara decided.
“Of course not,” Gareth sighed. “You just don’t have the education. Maybe if your Talent really emerges someone will see to training you properly.”
“I’m a falconer,” Dara reminded him, a little defiantly.
“And I’m a thaumaturge,” Gareth replied, “only now I’m a warmage. When I’m not being a junior assistant bureaucrat. We do what the gods want us to do, Dara, not what we think we should do,” he said, sadly.
“Anyway, the Otherworld is a way that one mage can communicate with another, only it’s hard. Not everyone can do it. You have to be very familiar with the person you’re trying to contact, and I don’t think any of us really know Master Minalan well enough to be able to get his attention in the Otherworld. If we could even find him.”
“So what are you doing?” Dara asked, frustrated by her ignorance.
“Master Minalan has another magic Mirror that Master Banamor had made for him. We’ve been trying to speak to him through it, day and night. The problem is he has to actually be using it. And he has to remember he even has it – it’s likely still packed away in his luggage. But we have someone trying. We may have gotten a message to Minalan’s friend, Baron Arathaniel. But I don’t know if he wants to risk a war over a man he’s known for half a year.”
“So we’re . . . alone,” Dara said, frowning.
“Don’t worry,” Gareth urged, with concern. “I may not be a real warmage, but I did study a lot of it back at the War College. Private wars like this often sputter out for all sorts of reasons without much of anything really happening.”
“The two attacks on the pass certainly happened!” Dara pointed out. “My brothers were almost killed!”
“I didn’t say it would turn out th
at way, just that it might,” Gareth said, a little discouraged. “We aren’t defenseless, here. It’s not like it was, before the Spellmonger arrived. The Bovali are strong, and with war leaders like Sir Cei and Sir Forondo around we should be able to hold out for weeks, here. Maybe even drive them off, if we’re clever.”
“I’m clever,” Dara blurted. “At least . . . that’s what I’m told,” she added, blushing a bit.
“Yes, you’re clever,” Gareth agreed. “And you are a falconer. And you are Talented. So let’s bring all of that wealth to bear on our problems, and see just how clever you are.”
Dara returned to her work with new purpose. If she could help, she wanted to. For the rest of the morning she sent Frightful crisscrossing the enemy encampment, spying on where their sentries were stationed, where their supplies were kept, and where their forces were deployed. Gareth made notes on a sheaf of parchment and placed counters on the large map of the domain.
A little after midday Zagor returned to the tower and bade them join the company in the Great Hall for luncheon. Dara realized that she was famished – not only had she not eaten since dawn, her falcon had expended a lot of energy flying under her direction. She recalled the bird with a gentle command and skipped down the stairs after the other magi.
The magical corps was afforded high status in the castle, eating at the trestle table closest to the dais where Lady Alya ate with her new baby. Below them in order sat the garrison soldiers, some of whom had returned from duty at the Diketower. Dara enjoyed listening to their rough talk and frank discussion of the work being done there. They expected an attack to come at any time, but seemed almost enthusiastic about the idea.
Her attention was returned to the magi at her table when Gareth and Zagor began discussing how scrying worked, magically. She found it fascinating, the idea of a simple human mind commanding the very elements by magic. Dara did her best to absorb every word.
Most of the language was far above her, but it was helpful that Gareth was what he called “formally Imperially trained” and Zagor was a rustic mountain wild mage who had learned much of his craft from the mysterious Tree Folk – nonhumans who were acknowledged as the masters of magic. The two colleagues frequently had to stop each other and explain something or define a term, and Dara greedily absorbed as much as she could from the conversation.
She was tempted to ask questions . . . but she remembered how difficult it had been for Gareth to explain the Otherworld, without her understanding simpler concepts. Dara might have magical Talent, but she actually knew very little about what that meant. She kept quiet and focused on listening. By the end of the meal, she actually had a pretty good idea of what the Otherworld was, and how it functioned, just from the context of their conversation.
Frightful was waiting at the window for her, when she got back, and she spent some time feeding and praising the bird for her good service. Someone had left a bowl full of chicken innards for her, and she rewarded Frightful with the liver, which she ate greedily. The falcon was confused over Dara’s praise. From her perspective she had been flying all day long, and had not caught as much as a sparrow. Dara was reluctant to send her out again so soon, but she wanted to check on her brothers at Caolan’s pass, and the enemy they faced on the other side of the ridge.
There was a skirmish of sorts going on when she climbed back behind Frightful’s eyes as she circled over the pass. A half-dozen West Flerians were attempting to flank the Westwoodmen’s strong position by going off the trail – but that was of little value, Dara figured, based on the number of still bodies lying about with arrows in them. The last fifty feet of the road sloped up to the pass in a way that allowed the defenders an excellent opportunity to shoot at the attackers from behind the barricade at the top of the hill. And the folk of the Westwood were excellent shots.
At the bottom of the slope, safely around a bend to the south and out of bowshot, a larger group of fifty men waited impatiently for an opportunity to do something, while effectively keeping the Sevendori from escaping. As there was no simple way around the barricade at the pass, there was no simple way off of the trail that could avoid the besiegers.
The smaller of the attacking armies was still in the same place as a few days ago, Dara reported, and gave a more accurate picture of their disposition and arrangement to the magical corps, who in turn reported them to Sir Cei. While the Sevendori could do little about the armies that besieged them, at least they were aware of where and who they were.
“It looks like most of the troops facing the Diketower to the north are from West Flerian domains, by their heraldry,” Banamor observed, when he read their report that afternoon. “A thousand peasant militia, and three dozen knights and their households. With two small companies of mercenary archers and a company of mercenary lancers. The army in Sashtalia seems to be mostly mercenaries, from the look of it. Light infantry and cavalry, probably locals getting paid by the day. One large company of professional crossbowman – that red rose and spear device you described fits the description of a mercenary unit known as the Gardener’s Men, from Lanteel. Less than a quarter of the army is actually Sire Gimbal’s sworn men.”
“But that’s where I saw the checkered cloaks!” Dara pointed out.
“So you did,” agreed the Spellwarden, pursing his lips. “They’ve warded the bottom of the trail and kept us from scrying. It’s possible that they’ve laid other traps along the way, too. If the Censorate is who is paying for those mercenaries, you can bet that they’ll want to keep a pretty close eye on how they’re used.”
“So what help is that to us?” Dara demanded. She had worked so hard, gathering that information, she wanted someone to look at the map and yell “Aha!” and realize a way to win the war. But Master Banamor merely shrugged.
“We don’t know yet,” he admitted. “This is just one part of the puzzle, my dear. And one I’m not very good at, I’m afraid. But it’s always a good idea to know who you are facing in a conflict. And where they are. The Censorate has gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to conceal their armies’ movements, and with an afternoon’s worth of work you managed to ruin that for them. That, my dear, is a serious boon, even if we don’t know yet how it will prove useful.”
Dara had to be satisfied with that. She was exhausted, after so much mentally-challenging work guiding Frightful’s path and helping the magical corps. After Master Banamor thanked her for her assistance and dismissed her for the day, she had Frightful make one final circuit around the pass before heading back to the castle. Once she was certain her kin were faring well, she felt like she could go back to Westwood Hall and rest.
Thankfully the Westwoodmen still had control of the pass. The attackers had retreated their archers back down the mountain, and a column of Sevendori militia was marching up the other side of the ridge to relieve her tired brothers.
Dara’s relief was cut short, however, as Frightful passed overhead. Something caught the bird’s eye, if not its attention, and Dara had to exert herself to get her tired falcon to wing back around for another look. She mollified the falcon by letting her rest on a tall branch overlooking the trail . . . and the soldiers.
As the small line of men climbed up the shadowed hill like a troop of determined ants, Dara caught sight of the small banner they bore in addition to the snowflake emblem of Sevendor. A haystack: the symbol of the hamlet of Genly.
The Genlymen were relieving the Westwoodmen in defense of the pass. Just to be certain, Dara held Frightful still until she sighted the leader of the company. Sure enough, the tall form of Railan the Steady plodded into view. The man ignored the bird, as most valefolk ignored wildlife, but Dara did see him turn back and gaze at the castle and villages below him, a strange look on his face.
With a feeling of foreboding in her heart, Dara summoned Frightful back to the castle and broke contact.
“What’s the matter?” Gareth asked, tiredly. “Did something happen?”
“No, the attackers have wit
hdrawn,” she said, mimicking a term she had picked up from the military folk. It wasn’t that hard, once you knew what the words really meant. “The militia marches to relieve the pass now.”
“But that’s good news,” Gareth said, his mouth askew with concern.
“Well, yes . . . only the ones who got sent to relieve them are the Genlymen. The villein militia of Genly Hamlet, under Railan the Steady.”
“But . . . Railan is a sworn yeoman of Sevendor,” Gareth pointed out.
“Who doesn’t like magi, Bovali, or the Magelord,” reminded Dara, uneasily.
“To betray Sevendor would make him an oathbreaker,” Gareth said, shaking his head. “He could lose his head for that. Or worse. He wouldn’t risk that, Dara. It just wouldn’t be . . . sane.”
“You don’t know the valefolk like we do,” Dara said, shaking her head. “They’ve been kept down for so long that Railan has them convinced that that’s the only thing that they deserve. Look at them: most of them have never eaten so well or lived better in their lives, yet they’re always the ones complaining at the market. They call us woodfolk superstitious, because we hold the Flame in reverence, but the fact is they listen to Railan far more than they do their proper gods. For years he told them that he was their only shield against Sir Erantal. Now he’s telling them that he’s their only hope against the Magelord. Putting him in charge of that pass is a mistake,” Dara warned.
Gareth shook his head. “Sir Cei knows what he’s doing,” he insisted. “He’s been to war, before, and he’s a good judge of men. He wouldn’t send Railan and the Genlymen up there unless he was certain of their loyalty.”
“He wouldn’t send Railan and the Genlymen up there if he was better acquainted with them,” Dara sniffed. “I only hope that I’m wrong.”
“So do I,” agreed Gareth, seriously. “If we lose that pass, our enemies will be able to march right over it and to the gates of the castle.”
“And right past the Westwood,” Dara nodded, gravely.
That evening Dara joined a long line of folk risking leaving the castle before the great gates were shut and locked for the night. The guardsmen recognized her, apparently, from the falcon on her arm and let her pass without questioning. Dara was just as glad that they hadn’t – she was exhausted. She had considered lingering at the castle for supper, at Gareth’s shy invitation, but she wanted to see her brothers and ensure that they were really alive. Each of them, even Kobb.
Hawkmaiden Page 23
