by Ellyn, Court
The fat yellow rope had vanished in the surge, broken perhaps, or slipped from its knot. The loaded ferry rolled onto its side and shattered. Planks, men, and long poles tumbled in a helpless heap, and the thundering Bryna swallowed them all.
~~~~
Night sounds stretched out around the Warlord’s pavilion. Beyond the patter of rain on canvas and the skreek of furred crickets, men’s voices couriered rumors about what had happened at the river. Laughter and song floated among the campfires, too, however, and somewhere a band of camp-followers squealed and giggled. Spirits remained high. But within the pavilion, the commanders argued over better ways of securing the ferries, strengthening the ferries, loading the ferries. Goryth’s ears were beginning to ring with their incessant bickering. All the while, Prince Saj’nal was pleased to take his leisure upon a pile of silk pillows. His fingers delicately picked apart the breast of a roast duck.
“Ach, this is a bad beginning,” Lord Jast said, shaking his silver head.
“Crock of shit,” Wess retorted. “It’s like I said—my lord—if we angle the ferries, there will be less strain on—”
“No ferries!” Goryth shouted, starling the three men. They could not possibly miss the disgust distorting his face.
“If not the ferries, then what?” asked Jast.
Wess chortled, “Maybe the Black Falcon will let us use the bridge he built at Nathrachan.”
“Don’t be a complete fool, Wess,” said Jast.
The infantry captain puffed up and knotted his fingers. If he had a brain at all behind that sharp hawk’s face, he’d not raise a hand to his betters. Lord Jast appeared unperturbed by the insolent young man’s doubled fist. “The only other option, sir,” Jast said, “is the Galantryn.”
Wess crowed derisive laughter. “Now who sounds the fool, Jast? The Galantryn is off limits—”
“Is it?”
Goryth’s question dumbfounded Wess. He might be brutal and eager for blood, but Wess’s lack of imagination might yet prove a disappointment.
Saj’nal discarded the duck and leapt to his feet, agile as a toad. “What is this?”
Goryth obliged the prince. “The Galantryn. The Great Ford, at Stonebrydge.”
“A ford! Why do you not say this before? I have lost twenty men to your cruel river!”
“Because, Highness,” Jast explained, “the Great Ford crosses into Leania, a neutral realm.”
“Aye,” Wess added, “and King Bano’en has no love for us. My lords, think of the time we would lose. Both in getting to the Ford and in backtracking across Leania—not to mention the delay we’re sure to suffer in treating with Bano’en for passage.”
“Why, Wess,” mocked Jast. “I had you figured for the fearless, disrespectful type. Stepping on a king’s toes suddenly bothers you?”
“And who said anything about treating?” said Goryth. “We’ll not overstay our welcome on Leanian soil. Cross in and get out, that fast.”
“And we waste no more mighty warriors,” Saj’nal put in. “I, the fiercest son of Osaya, have no fear of this ford or its little king. My men and I will cross this ford. We will hunt down this golden crown for your White Falcon. We will do this, while you go into your cruel river and drown like witless dogs!”
What choice had Jast and Wess now to refuse? For the first time, Goryth felt a thin gratitude toward the arrogant prince.
“Get out, all of you,” he ordered. “We deploy for Stonebrydge in the morning.”
Resigned, Captain Wess struck a fist upon his chest and about-faced for the flaps. Prince Saj’nal left for his own pavilion; his guard went ahead to clear a path through the Fieran camp, and four slaves carried an awning on bronze poles to protect him from the rain. Lord Jast, however, lingered. “He won’t like it,” he said.
“Bano’en will get used to the idea,” Goryth said, “or I’ll plant Contention between his eyes.” The greatsword glittered darkly on its stand in the corner. A gift from King Daeryk the Fifth, Contention’s cross-hilts were a fantastical monster’s muscled arms and hooked claws. The fist-sized moonstone was carved into a snarling face. When it peered over Goryth’s shoulder, it gave the impression of a ghostly creature hunting for prey.
“Not Bano’en. I mean the White Falcon.”
Goryth grunted. He was well aware of Shadryk’s long and expensive efforts to ensure Leanian neutrality. On the other hand, Shadryk trusted Goryth’s judgment, and what choice had he but to go to Stonebrydge? “Leave His Majesty to me.”
Lord Jast bowed out, and Goryth’s three squires arrived to help him out of his armor. With thirty pounds of metal plate and mail removed, the Warlord stretched his muscles; they ached more than he’d anticipated. He wasn’t about to admit to himself that he, too, had grown old during the miserable long years of peacetime. Nor that he had been defeated by a river. His early training had forged him into a practical man: if he could not bash his way through an obstacle, he went around it. Simple, direct, effective. The king would understand.
Goryth dismissed the squires and sat at a trestle table to scratch out a dispatch for Shadryk. Upon the armor stand, the wide-mouthed gargoyle molded into his breastplate grinned mockingly. The monstrous face was shaped to unsettle a foe. At present, the ugly smile unsettled Goryth. The light from the oil lamp flickered over the subtle curves of the relief, making the imp’s face come alive. The mouth appeared to move, but made no sound.
Goryth turned up the lamp. The face was just a metal face, cold and still. Dottard! he chided, whipped out a sheet of parchment, and scribbled a detailed report explaining the state of the Bryna and the loss of twenty expensive mercenaries. By the time he reached his conclusion, outlining the change in plans, Goryth felt as if he’d been reduced to begging: “… please His Majesty to understand … risking Leanian hostility is worth crushing Aralorri morale….”
Goryth scowled at the obsequious dither, laid aside the quill and held the parchment over the lamp. The sheet blackened and curled. Tossing aside the ashes, Goryth took out another sheet. This time the dispatch read merely, Sire, Bryna flooded. Crossing will take more time than expected.
Never before had Goryth been less than brutally honest with Shadryk. He waited for a pang of regret, but felt none. Once Aralorr lay in ashes and Shadryk wore the Falcon Crown, the little half-lie would matter not at all.
~~~~
35
On the horizon, the towers of Tírandon reared up like gauntleted fists. Leshan had never been more eager for the sight and smell and touch of home. His spirits rose for the first time since fighting began in the spring. He longed to race for those sturdy gates, but his new uniform reminded him to remain in tight formation.
King Rhorek cantered amid the fifty men and women of his Falcon Guard, along with his War Commander, a dozen of Lord Keth’s favored knights, and two dozen squires. For three days they had ridden at a break-neck pace; they had another day of hard riding before they reached the Blythewater and the Leanian border. And how many days after that until they reached Graynor? Leshan wasn’t sure, but first they needed rest.
Though some of the knights had complained about being dragged away from the front lines, Leshan was glad of the journey. For weeks he would not have to bare his blade. For weeks he would not be looking over his shoulder. He hoped his nightmares would go away. He hoped he would stop seeing their faces. They never left him, waking or sleeping, the faces of the Fierans he’d slain, nor the sound of their voices, their battle cries stopped short on the edge of his blade. Their brave shouts turned to whimpering, pleas for water, pleas for the end of pain. A few days in quiet open country, then in the clean, peaceful halls of Graynor, would be a time for him to heal. He hoped.
The retinue reached the drum towers of Tírandon’s gatehouse. High in the battlements, sentries hailed Leshan by name. His heart swelled. Over the summer, it must’ve become a shriveled black thing that had learned to feel nothing but fear and sorrow. The wave of happiness almost hurt.
Over th
e pale sandstone keep, the silver and black chevrons upon Lord Lander’s banner snapped in the damp afternoon wind. Father was home? Leshan thought he was commanding the garrisons who manned the river forts, as well as the patrols that scouted the Bryna’s banks. Perhaps he had been wounded.
Lander looked hale enough when he emerged from the keep, however. Rather than chainmail and surcoat, he wore a soft velvet tunic, no sword. Above his dark beard, his broad face was rosy; he’d been warming himself with a bit of wine, if Leshan was any judge. That meant his tongue would be more brash and argumentative than usual.
“Welcome, Your Majesty. My Lord Keth,” he called.
The retinue dismounted in the courtyard; the squires sprang to their duties, assuming care of the weary warhorses.
“What are you doing home, Lander?” asked the king, climbing the steps. “My orders place you at Midguard. Battle season is not yet over.”
Mother’s mercy, thought Leshan, here we go.
“Perhaps that’s so, sire,” Lander replied, “in Fiera. But surely His Majesty saw the state of the Bryna. No Fieran is capable of crossing that. At least not in the next few weeks. And by then, the snows will have set in.”
Rhorek looked none too pleased. “And who is commanding the forts along the river?”
“Sire, the garrisons did well enough without me before the war, they’ll do well enough now during the winter lull. I do not mean to be away from them long, however, but neither can I afford to neglect my own lands. Many of my fields have flooded and during harvest, sire.”
Rhorek lifted a silencing hand. “Very well, I’m too tired to reprimand you.”
“For what?”
“For granting your own leave of absence.” Rhorek’s voice was rising, as inevitably it did when engaging Lander of Tírandon. “Next time, send me a written request or I must consider your actions abandonment of post.”
“I never one time—” Lander drew up sharply as Lady Andett emerged from the keep. Little Ruthan stared at the crowd of strangers from the safety of the threshold. She had turned six the week before the Assembly, and she was as shy as ever.
At once, Andett found Leshan among the gathering of black surcoats. She ran to him, would’ve embraced him but for all the eyes. She laughed instead, hardly able to contain herself, and admired the silver falcon spreading its wings across his chest, the shiny shoulder-guards and greaves. “Why didn’t you write and tell us?”
“There wasn’t time,” he began.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Lander muttered, gray eyes aglow. Leshan was standing not six feet away, but his father hadn’t thought to look for his eldest among the prestigious ranks of the Guard. “You’ve done well for yourself.”
“Well?” exclaimed Andett. “Just look at him!”
“Far beyond my expectations, son.”
Words of praise were a rare jewel from Father’s mouth. What would he say if he’d seen his heir paralyzed with fear when battle was called, if he’d seen Leshan retching after every fallback, if he could see inside Leshan’s head, the ghosts lurking there?
“Mum!” Laral ran from the stables and nearly knocked Andett off her feet in his haste to embrace her.
“Laral, my love, look how tall you’ve grown!” she cried. Indeed, Leshan realized that his brother, at fourteen, had finally outgrown their mother. Leshan supposed he couldn’t consider him a runt anymore.
“Lady Andett,” said Rhorek, “I will leave you with your sons. Lander, share your wine with us.”
The retinue followed Lander into the keep, and Andett’s arms at last went about her firstborn. For a short moment, Leshan decided it was all right to dissolve and be a child again. But he didn’t want her to know. He stood away with a painted smile on his face.
Andett asked softly, “Are you well, my son?”
“I have not been wounded. Much thanks to Kelyn and Morach and the rest.”
“They watch your back?”
“Yes.”
“And yet I see scars.” She brushed a finger across the bridge of his nose; a slim line of broken skin marked where a green shield painted with a briar rose had smashed him in the face. Andett’s smile withered as she met his eyes. He ducked them too late. She had seen it, the wound that Leshan feared would never scab over. He was so ashamed. Surely Laral had seen it, too, days ago, weeks ago. Yes, Leshan saw it in the way his little brother stood by, stiff and silent, the way he failed to look Leshan in the face. As younger brothers do, Laral had idolized him, but he appeared to have concluded, sorrowfully, that Leshan was not the hero he wanted.
Andett’s fingers tightened about his forearm. “It’s not your fault.”
“What?” How could he still be trying to fool them?
“I tried to tell your father, you weren’t for the blade. But he wouldn’t listen. Lord Lander would have knights for sons.”
Leshan’s throat tightened. “I tried to be the son he hoped for. I thought I was. But then …”
“But he has the king’s favor!” Laral declared, rebounding bravely, and tried to wrap Leshan in a headlock. He wasn’t quite tall enough to make it work, however, and Leshan elbowed him aside. He couldn’t help grinning at the irritating little shit, and Andett’s face brightened, as was undoubtedly Laral’s aim. Without another word on the matter, she swept her sons into the keep.
~~~~
When Leshan at last joined the retinue in the great hall, supper had been cleared away, and over brandy, Lord Lander had volunteered to accompany his king to Graynor. As Leshan might’ve guessed, this too had evolved into an argument. Around the hall’s perimeter, Captain Jareg had stationed ten Guardsmen; the others filled most of the lower tables, while Lord Keth and his knights occupied another. Though Kelyn had received the black surcoat when Leshan had, he’d been granted permission to dine with his father. Apparently, he was distancing himself from Lissah, though he’d carefully positioned himself so he could see her across the aisle.
So many of Kelyn’s instincts turned out to be right. Leshan felt like he was scrambling to keep up. He never guessed Lissah had any desire for Kelyn except to slash him to little bloody bits. How many ladies had cast an eye in Leshan’s direction and he missed the signs completely? He hadn’t yet given in to the wiles of the camp followers, no matter how adamantly Morach nudged him in their direction. “After a good fight, a man needs a good shag. Reminds him of the good things in life.” A good fight, a good shag. Hnh, so much for the expectations and ideals of youth. They had shattered somewhere between Nathrachan and Ulmarr and he couldn’t seem to find the pieces. Without those ideals, he felt he had been reduced to a beast, scrapping and clawing against bars he couldn’t see.
Not so, Kelyn. With their eyes, he and Lissah passed some message across the aisle. Kelyn shook his head subtly, as if he had read her thoughts. They were going to be caught, if half the Falcons and knights present didn’t know already.
Leshan accepted a glass of brandy from a squire and drank down the stuff before it was properly warm. Voices rang against the rafters and the brandy took its time in dulling them.
“That you elect to go with us, Lander, is not the problem,” the king was saying. “In fact, I readily accept your offer. But, I repeat, you may not cross the Blythewater. I go to Leania to woo Bano’en, and he mustn’t think I’ve brought an army with me for purposes of persuasion.”
“But the Gloamheath, sire,” Lander said, as he must’ve once before. Longsuffering wearing thin, Kelyn heaved a sigh and tossed back a goblet of Doreli red. Leshan rolled his eyes in silent commiseration.
“We’ll skirt it,” Rhorek insisted. “Cut south along the Blythewater.”
“But that will lead you too close to Fiera—”
“What else would you have us do, Lander? It’s the shortest route to Graynor, and we have no time to dally. Besides, you yourself claim that the Bryna is grown too broad and too wild for Fierans to approach our lands. Isn’t that so?”
Lander looked as if he might choke. “Yes
, sire.”
“Then I’ll hear no more on the matter.”
The moment the argument ceased, the tension eased from Leshan’s body. Kelyn too, apparently, for he leant close and asked, “How are your mother and sister?”
Leshan couldn’t oblige his friend. “Ruthan didn’t know me. And mother reminded me that I used to laugh quite often.” He beckoned a squire to refill his glass, and while he swirled the brandy, he found that he didn’t recognize the young knight seated directly across from him. Lean, with wildly cropped dark hair and a cocky grin, the knight was garbed in a cerulean surcoat crossed with Helwende’s gold X.
“Garrs, son of Galt,” said the knight, offering Leshan his hand. Leshan had expected Lord Helwende’s sons to be as fat, indolent, and offensive as he, but Garrs was clearly of another breed. “My elder brother, Geris,” he added, indicating the man on his right.
His gut straining over the buckle of his belt, Geris paid Leshan nothing more than a cursory glance before lowering his nose to his brandy.
“Tell me,” Garrs said, smile engaging, “this crowd must be like Assembly.” Scandalous, really, that this legitimate son of a powerful lord had never once attended the annual gathering. How did Galt think to prepare his sons for lordship, or didn’t he care?
Kelyn gave a snobbish sort of chuckle. “Only, without the dancing or the gambling or the racing, unfortunately.”
Leshan cast a frown toward the dais. “But the rest is accounted for.”
Garrs lowered his voice: “And … across the river … the fighting has been fierce?”
“Thus are we here,” replied Kelyn curtly.
Thoughtless as the question was, Garrs was unapologetic. “I have missed much, then.”
Was Leshan really hearing disappointment in the man’s words? “Yes, you’ve missed hell unleashed,” he retorted. “And if you regret that, you’re a fool.”
