Thankfully the Hall was glowing with light and merriment, though there were three men guarding the bridge. The fighting men had returned home to a generous dinner, and everyone wanted to hear stories of battle . . . particularly the capture of the hated Sir Erantal.
Usually it would be Kobb who dominated the conversation with bragging and boasting, but even he deferred to Kyre with respect Dara had never seen before. Her uncle and her father looked on proudly as her oldest brother quietly recounted the second dawn attack, and how he and two of his brothers had tackled the knight as he tried to turn and flee. They had wrestled his sword away from him, demanding his surrender in the name of the Magelord. The old knight had been frightened and had promised him a great reward if he let him go . . . but the Westwoodmen knew their duty, as Kyre said, quoting a popular proverb.
“Then the clumsy ox kept tripping over his feet all the way down the mountain,” Kyre shrugged with a rare grin. “As hard as I tried to keep him on his feet, he kept falling into briars, and brambles, and the occasional tree or shrub . . .”
That brought a roar of laughter from the Hall. Everyone hated Erantal for his years of neglect and abuse. Kamen’s unfortunate injury last winter had been only the last of the insults the knight had given the entire domain over the years. That laugh seemed to release the long-held tension everyone had always felt about Sir Erantal. Only now, with him sitting in a dank cell below his former castle, did everyone feel safe.
Kyre had little good to say about his relief at the pass, however.
“Don’t misunderstand me,” he said, glancing at the Flame, “we’re tired! Two solid days and nights was hard. We would have been happy to see a company of Tal Alon with wooden spoons, if they were there to relieve us. But to see that . . . that brigade of peasants standing there, holding their spears like hoes and their bows like snakes . . . by the Flame, I hope they don’t face anything tougher than a stiff breeze! Yeoman Railan was just as glad to see us go, the way he dismissed us. Like we had bungled the whole thing up . . .” he growled.
“He’s just jealous that he wasn’t the one who captured Erantal!” called one of her cousins, which inspired more laughter. Railan had long been Erantal’s chief opponent, in the valley. He had hated Sir Erantal longer and with better reason than most. Personally, Dara was glad that it had been her brother, and a Westwoodman, who had taken the prize. He might not be worth much in ransom, perhaps, but just having him under lock and key made everyone feel better.
Dara kept quiet about her own role in the war effort. She didn’t want the attention – she barely understood what she had done for Sevendor, and it didn’t seem nearly as important or glorious as Kyre’s contribution. He and their kin had risked their lives, after all. She had just flown her falcon a lot.
The older men had broken out a bottle of spirits to toast Kyre’s victory and everyone’s service, and perhaps because everyone was anxious and some of them just needed a snort before bed. But Dara found herself yawning in front of the Flame. Custom said that meant it was time for bed, and no arguments. While Dara was now old enough to decide such things as when to go to bed on her own, she could feel her body getting heavier an her eyelids drooping.
She quietly excused herself and went upstairs, checking on Frightful’s perch before stripping off her clothes and putting on her sleeping gown. She rarely bothered with the thing, usually, but suddenly sleeping in soft linen in a comfortable bed sounded extremely appealing. With thoughts of the Otherworld and armies spinning in her head, Dara fell asleep.
The next morning she awoke late, the sun already in the sky. She didn’t know why or how she knew, but something was wrong, she felt. The Hall didn’t sound different, from her room, but something was . . . off.
Not even bothering to dress she bounded down the creaky stairway barefooted, expecting to see the Hall packed for breakfast before everyone went to their duties for the day. Instead it was mostly empty, with only a few women bustling about the kitchen. But their voices weren’t their usual calm, chattering tones. There was a note of anxiety in them that disturbed Dara before she even heard their words.
When she entered the kitchen she was surprised to see her aunt – not working at kneading bread or stirring soup or directing the making of the porridge, but standing before a little-used cabinet door. The spice jars and preserves stored inside had been pushed aside, and her aunt was handing out short bows and quivers of arrows to her cousins and kinswomen. The looks on their faces were stark.
“What’s wrong?” Dara demanded. “What’s happened?”
“Little Bird!” her aunt scolded her. “Go put some clothes on! The sun is long up!”
Dara ignored her. “What is happening? Why . . .?”
Dara’s aunt looked troubled. “Word came before dawn this morning – a young knight from the castle and his men. They went up to inspect the pass. Only they were greeted with arrows, not passwords.”
“What?” Dara asked, her eyes wide in disbelief.
“That damn fool Railan has gone and turned his colors on us!” spat her aunt, furiously. “He and his idiots waited until all the responsible folk were gone, and then they sent word down to the enemy. Sometime after midnight they laid down their arms and surrendered. Without a fight. The West Flerians hold the pass now – I guess Sir Erantal will have the last laugh, Flame burn his bones!”
Dara didn’t know what to say – her worst fears had come to pass! The road from Caolan’s Pass led straight to the gates of Sevendor Castle, bypassing the strength the domain had gathered at the Diketower. This was a disaster!
“So where is everyone?” Dara finally managed.
“That young knight collected all the menfolk at the manor to hold the bottom of the trail – if we can’t hold the pass, at least we can deny them the use of the road. They’re up at the second landing, I expect, keeping them at bay.”
“So . . . why are you . . .?”
Dara’s aunt grunted. “The chasm protects us and the Westwood from ruffians, girl, but it also overlooks that road almost half way down. There are places that can be held, where invaders can be shot at across the chasm without worry of them coming after you.”
“So why aren’t the men out there?” Dara asked, confused. If that was a safer position, then . . .
“Because they’re needed on the road,” her aunt explained, with diminishing patience. “All of them! Your father, your uncles, your cousins, your brothers, all of them!” She sounded desperately worried.
But then she picked up the last bow from the secret cache and strung it with surprising familiarity. Then the dumpy middle-aged woman slipped a quiver over her back and drew an arrow in a smooth motion. “They’re needed on the road, but it doesn’t take a man’s arm to hold a bow. Every woman here has learned how to nock and fire, and if we can help snipe at the foe then that will discourage them from harming our kin!”
Dara looked around at her female cousins, and even saw her sister among them, a bow in her hand. None of them looked particularly enthusiastic, but they all looked determined. They knew what was at stake, and they knew their duty as well as any in the Westwood. Westwoodmen could shoot . . . that was true regardless if they wore skirts or leggings.
“No bow for you, Little Bird,” her cousin Linta said, shaking her head sadly. “But if you want to fetch us shafts while we wait . . .”
“No,” Dara said, quietly, almost to herself. Then she said it louder. “No, I don’t need a bow!” She turned to head back to her room.
“You can’t expect to use that toy crossbow of yours!” her aunt called to her back. “That won’t even shoot across the chasm!”
“I’m not getting my bow!” Dara promised. “I’m getting my bird! And when I’m done with them, every West Flerian in that pass is going to be sorry they ever heard the name Sevendor!”
Chapter Fifteen
The Lifting Of The Siege
The road down from the captured pass lay for much of its length along the eastern side o
f the great chasm that separated the Westwood from the rest of Sevendor. Along much of that length, concealed on the protected western side of the great gash in the earth, were places where archers could stand and shoot, harassing any attackers from behind the great natural defense. Hundreds of years before the strategic value of the chasm had been recognized by the Westwoodmen, and they had long established ideal positions on the western side to protect the road.
Chief among these were the Seven Steps: seven particular positions, all of them great stones or natural landings, from which the Westwoodmen could cover nearly the entire run of the road. While most of the armed men of the estate were now clustered at the bottom of the steep slope, the womenfolk of the Westwood quickly took up positions on the Seven Steps. At every position four or five women set up their quivers and prepared their bows, nervously awaiting the chance at a target.
They didn’t wait long.
Dara surveyed the defenses from Frightful’s eyes as she flew the length of the road. With the sun at her back in the early morning, the falcon’s eyes were particularly sharp – she could easily see the individual archers taking up their positions behind stones and embankments on the other side. While they were just “people” to Frightful’s mind, when Dara exerted herself and exercised her will, she could identify individuals, like her aunt and her sister.
The base of the slope was barricaded by the Sevendori against the West Flerians. Two large wagons had been pulled to block the way, while men with pikes and spears stood behind. Flanking the position on either side were pockets of four or five Westwoodmen or archers from the castle. More than seventy men stood to defend the road.
Their leader was not, she saw, her father, though Kamen was certainly there. It was a young knight from the castle, bearing a dirty white cloak and a shock of unruly hair, when he took off his helmet. He was no older than Kyre (who was paying rapt attention to the man as he discussed his plans with them), but he was directing the defense with the kind of confidence only a knight could command.
Dara didn’t spare much time watching her kin – she wanted to see what the enemy was up to.
Frightful glided up the slope, catching a small thermal over the chasm for lift. As she soared to a hemlock tree fifty feet from the pass, she saw the other side of the battle forming up. Nearly a hundred men now swarmed over the small frontier station of Caolan’s Pass, and a slow trickle of reinforcements was hiking up behind them.
These were not the lightly-armored archers who had harassed the pass the last few days. These men bore long swords, large shields, and well-crafted chain armor or coats of plates. Twenty crossbowmen were setting up defensive positions, using the same advantages in height and angle that had been used against them the day before.
Unfortunately, there was no sign of Railan the Steady or his treacherous Genlymen. Dara’s heart burned with hatred over the Yeoman’s betrayal. His fear and resentment had put every soul in Sevendor at risk – especially her family. As she watched the big, ugly-looking mercenary soldiers file in behind each other, preparing to descend the slope two-abreast, her fear for her father and brothers overtook her hatred of Railan. She had to do something to help. But what?
Convinced that she understood the nature of the forces about to come down, she directed Frightful back to her room and then went looking for her father. The guards at the bridge almost stopped her, citing the danger. A cousin and two second cousins tried to keep her safe in the hall, but when she threatened to make them bird food, they allowed her to pass. Dara didn’t usually joke about such things, they knew.
She ran for almost half a mile through the outer forest until she got to the fork in the road. She took the left-hand way, and within moments she was standing breathlessly at the blockade she had just seen from the air.
“Dara!” her father shouted across the field, his voice heavy with concern. “What are you doing here? What’s wrong?”
“I . . . I . . .” Dara panted, until someone handed her a waterskin. She gulped it gratefully before continuing. “I used Frightful to scout up ahead. They have almost a hundred men up there, now. Twenty with arbalests. Mostly sword-and-shieldmen. They’re preparing a sortie now!”
“What?” the young knight asked, as he came to see what the commotion was about. “How came you to know this, girl?”
“My sister is a beastmaster, Sir Festaran,” Kyre explained, helpfully. “She can ride inside her falcon’s head.”
Dara expected the young knight to be skeptical and dismiss her, but instead his eyebrows shot up.
“This is true?” he merely asked. The young man was tall and thin, and had a face full of freckles inside his steel helmet. Nor was he a Bovali – Dara had become used to their strange accent, since the Magelord had come, but this man spoke like a proper Riverlord.
“Yes, my lord,” Dara said, her eyes downcast. “I’m a . . . a falconer. But I’m also Talented. I, uh, I was flying the bird one day and saw a batfox raiding a chicken coop for eggs one morning,” she lied, thinking up a plausible story. For some reason she was reluctant to mention Gareth’s role in her discovery to the young knight. “Before I knew it, I was inside my bird’s head, seeing it as it attacked. It was scary,” she said, truthfully.
“Amazing!” the knight nodded, his eyes wide in wonder.
“Since then, I helped scout out the enemy positions for the Magical Corps all day yesterday,” she admitted. “When I heard what that . . . rat Railan did, I knew you’d want to know what you were fighting against as soon as possible.”
“Outstanding initiative!” praised the young knight. “That’s more help than I was looking for, but no less welcome. What is your name, girl?”
“Lenodara – Dara, that is,” Dara answered, self-consciously. “Of Westwood Hall.”
“Well, Dara of Westwood, I am Sir Festarlan of Hosly. Technically I’m a prisoner of Sevendor awaiting ransom – a long tale for another time – but as my loyalties seem to be more with my captors than my father’s liege at the moment, I have accepted a temporary position as assistant to Sir Cei. Who has tasked me to hold this road,” he added, glancing nervously at the end of the mountain trail. “That is what I aim to do. Further, I think it would be a lovely wedding gift to the man if we could re-capture the pass and secure it.”
“I can think of few finer, my lord,” agreed Dara, allowing the young knight’s enthusiasm to lift her spirits. He didn’t sound discouraged at all – this was simply a task he was assigned, and he would do it with full devotion to duty, she suspected. There was no gloom or fear, here. That made her feel better.
“Then, if you please, employ your falcon to spy on our foes. Let us know when they advance, for as you can see we cannot sight the top of the pass from here. In truth I cannot see up to the second landing. I have archers covering the entire eastern side of the road,” he said, pointing out to a few scattered knots of archers in the fields and scrublands around the trail.”
“You also have archers covering the western side,” Dara pointed out. “My aunt led all of the Westwood’s womenfolk up to the Seven Steps. They’re ready to fire.”
“The Seven Steps?” the freckled knight asked, confused. “The womenfolk?”
Kamen stepped forward to explain the nature of the defense, assuring that the women would not even be seen by the attackers, thanks to the concealing rocks of the Steps, and that they would be competent enough at their archery to be effective. Sir Festaran looked thoughtful, studying the winding path with his lips pursed.
“We will be best served if we can lure our foe into advancing, then, attacking him from an unexpected direction,” he decided. “Send a runner to these Steps, of yours,” he ordered Kamen, “have them hold their fire until they hear the signal: a loud pop.”
“A loud pop?” her father asked, skeptically.
“I am,” Sir Festaran informed them all, proudly, “not just a simple country knight; thanks to the Spellmonger’s magical snowstorm, and the capricious whims of the gods, I seem
to have possession of the smallest amount of rajira – magical Talent,” he explained.
“A knight . . . who is a wizard?” Kamen asked, amused.
“No worse than a lord who’s a wizard,” considered Kyre.
“I believe the accepted term is ‘knight mage’ – or at least it will be if Lord Minalan gets his way. Alas, the gods gave me only a small measure of rajira. Even with some schooling in the arcane arts by the Spellmonger, I’m unable to do most of the spellwork ordinary wizards do. Instead I have been given the ability to . . . well, estimate.”
“Estimate?” Dara asked.
“Ask me how much ale is left in a mug, how many sheep are in a field, how many pins in a cushion, and I can tell you the number almost instantly . . . or at least very, very close to the proper number. It’s what the magi call a ‘sport talent’.”
“So . . . how is that useful here?” asked Kamen, confused.
“It isn’t,” shrugged the knight. “At least, not as far as I can see. But I have been studying with the Spellmonger’s apprentices, a little, and when I haven’t been beating them soundly in swordplay they’ve been teaching me a few of their smaller spells. The few I have the Talent to manage. One of which is a cantrip that does nothing more than make a loud pop. And as pointless as it seems, that spell may, indeed, prove useful here.”
“So it may,” conceded Kamen. “Very well, Kyre, send Kibi back to the first of the Steps; tell them to hold fire until they hear a loud noise, then fire at will. Pass it on up until they all know,” he ordered. Kibi, a second cousin not much older than Dara, sprinted off to do so.
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