Blood of the Falcon, Volume 2 (The Falcons Saga)

by Ellyn, Court

  Taken aback, Garrs said, “We in reserve have heard only good tidings.”

  “Well, yes, you would,” Leshan replied, leaning forward to drive the point home, despite Kelyn’s restraining grip on his shoulder. “We’ve met our objectives, that’s all you hear. But to accomplish the feat, Son of Galt, men and women have to die. Lives across the Northwest are torn apart.”

  “Well,” Garrs said through a tight smile, “that’s no longer your concern, is it, Falcon? You’ve only assassins to watch for.” Not granting Leshan the chance to comment, Garrs glanced down the table and asked, “My Lord War Commander, I pray your pardon, but a word?”

  Lord Keth appeared to have heard every word of the exchange. Had he also heard that Leshan initially refused the honor of the black surcoat? Did Keth think his foster-son a coward, at last?

  Keth acknowledged Garrs by setting aside his glass.

  “You wouldn’t need another rider in His Majesty’s escort, would you?” Garrs asked.

  Beside him, Geris choked on a mouthful of brandy. “I should think not!” he spluttered. “Don’t impose yourself. It’s unseemly.”

  “It’s just a ride to the border, brother. And I wasn’t addressing you. Please, my lord, my men and I have been languishing at Tírandon for months. Imagine our disappointment when Lord Kassen and his dwarves were summoned to serve before us. And now, if Leania joins our cause, Helwende’s men may never be called into action. Am I right?”

  Geris had gone a shade whiter about the mouth. “You’re not going anywhere, Garrs, I need you here.”

  “Why is that, Ger? Because our men actually listen to me?”

  Leshan recognized something all too familiar in Geris’s face. All at once, he was furious with himself for having fallen prey to that same blatant, blood-draining terror. Leshan, at least, could pride himself on the fact that his fear had grown inside him after he’d blooded his blade. He doubted Geris had ever unsheathed his own. Even now, at a dining table surrounded by his own countrymen, Geris was desperately trying to hide behind his shield.

  That shield turned a hopeful eye on the War Commander. Keth measured Galt’s sons carefully. He needed a competent man commanding his reserves, but it was just a ride to the border, after all. He granted Garrs’s wish with a nod.

  Leshan groaned inwardly. Ideals and ignorance seeped from Garrs like honey. At least, riding with the Falcon Guard, Leshan had an excuse to steer clear of him.

  ~~~~

  36

  Rain pelted Kelyn’s face, but King Rhorek urged his retinue on at a steady canter. Riding in the vanguard, Kelyn wouldn’t mind the rain if it let up once in a while, but for miles across Tírandon’s lands, it fell in a rhythm as steady as the horses’ hooves. Through the gray veils emerged glimpses of fields of yellow grain, much of it lost to floodwater, as well as pastures abounding in fat sheep that huddled in the lee of the hedgerows. Eaves of ghostly villages slid past, and the solitary herder’s cottage. Then, late in the afternoon, these signs of humanity ceased. The retinue thundered beyond Tírandon’s domain, and the gray folds of the Barren Heights rose from blankets of mist.

  Forming the eastern edge of the Gloamheath, these tall, forlorn hills defined the border between Aralorr and Leania. The Blythewater flowed from their southern slopes, and the Leathyr from the northern. The people of western Aralorr avoided grazing their sheep among the heather and thorny gorse, claiming that, long ago, foul magics had cursed the Heights.

  The old fear may have found its origin in the brooding circle of stones that stood in defiance of time and weather atop the tallest of the Heights, ominously called Slaenhyll. Kelyn dimly recalled a geography lesson in which Etivva had tried to teach him about Aralorr’s famous landmarks. Or course, Kieryn had asked a dozen questions, and their tutor explained that no one remembered why the stones had been erected. The hill’s name spoke clearly enough to Kelyn. A terrible battle had occurred on that wind-swept summit, and the stones were a memorial to the dead.

  They were like a jagged crown upon a mournful brow, those stones, and Kelyn decided he liked the place not at all. Each stone slid out of the low clouds, only to vanish again, as if keeping watch over their dreary domain.

  “They’ve dark secrets to tell, eh?” said Lissah, riding past. She cast him a wink, and Kelyn’s glum mood lifted.

  At dusk, the king’s party stopped to make camp near the headspring of the Blythewater. The squires set up the royal pavilion, then fought over the driest patches of ground for their lords’ and ladies’ small canvas tents. Kelyn’s squire was among the youngest of those who’d been permitted to ride along, so Eliad was easily routed from the choicest sites. Kelyn found him holding a length of canvas and a bundle of pegs while glaring vengefully at a pair of older squires who were pegging down another tent. “They push me around ‘cause I’m the king’s bastard,” he said.

  “No,” Kelyn said, “they push you around because they’re sixteen and you’re eight.”

  “It’s no fair. I was there first. You’ll end up sleeping in a mud hole.”

  Kelyn glanced about the campsite, at the horses sunk in past their hooves, and said, “We’ll all be sleeping in mud holes, regardless, so you know what? Forget the tent. While those miscreants are busy fighting over real estate, go gather kindling for a fire. It’ll be wet as hell, so get to drying it out.”

  “How? With what?”

  “That canvas is dry, isn’t it? Burn it. We’ll be warm and dry and, you watch, those thieves will come begging to share your fire.”

  About the time Kelyn’s boots and socks had dried out over the small smoky blaze, Captain Jareg summoned the youngest Falcons, the knights, and Garrs of Helwende, and had them draw straws for sentry duty. “Six on watch,” Jareg said. “Two hours a stint. You’re caught sleeping, I’ll flog you myself.”

  Jareg assigned Kelyn to second watch. Nearby a woman chuckled. Lady Ulna clapped Kelyn on the back. “That’s too bad.” Her square, freckled face wasn’t pretty, but her grin was infectious.

  “What’s wrong with second watch?”

  She held up her longer straw. “We on first are the lucky ones. We’ll get the best sleep tonight.”

  “Woman, I hope your tent floods.”

  Ulna moved out to choose her spot, and Kelyn heard her laughing all the way.

  Rolled up inside his bedroll, Kelyn decided he was no drier than if he’d thrown a tent over his head. The rain had stopped, but the ground was comparable to a squishy sponge. His fire, however, was bigger and hotter than anyone else’s, and drifting off he congratulated himself on his choice of priorities. He’d slipped into a delectable dream about Lissah’s pale compliant thighs when a steel-toed boot prodded him in the ribs. Lady Ulna leered down at him. “Rise and shine, Swiftblade.”

  Rather than wake Eliad, Ulna helped Kelyn buckle on his shoulder-guards. “I’m jealous, you know,” she said. “I’d like all this shiny armor to glisten beautifully in the moonlight and make me a better target for Fieran spies, too.” She snickered wickedly.

  “Goddess,” he groaned, sleep still tugging at his eyelids, “I love women with a merciless sense of humor.”

  “I’ll bet Lieutenant Lissah is a little more merciful when she’s alone with you, eh?”

  Kelyn was suddenly wide awake. He stammered wordlessly.

  Ulna patted his cheek roughly. “Boy, you must think your friends are blind. But don’t worry, I’ll keep your secret, such as it is.”

  Kelyn took up position under a stand of birch. Here, one could cross the Blythewater in a single leap. He crouched down against one of the trunks and ordered his eyes to stay open. The soft lull of the waters proved too much, however; he’d almost surrendered to the gentle song when an approaching footstep jarred him to his feet. Neither moons nor star shone this night, but Kelyn had little trouble making out the golden X struggling through the tangled brush.

  “Dark night,” Garrs said. “Thought I better find some company or I’d earn a flogging.”


  “This as exciting as you’d hoped?” asked Kelyn, not about to admit that he’d almost fallen asleep himself.

  “I’m just glad to get out from behind those walls,” Garrs replied. “Speaking of walls, I met your brother when he rode through Helwende.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’d never met a set of twins before,” he rattled on, as if he had nothing better to do. Was the man simply starved for friendship? Or did he not understand the meaning of night watch? “Uncanny. I couldn’t help but wonder why your brother was traveling to Windhaven instead of south with the troops.”

  If Kieryn hadn’t seen fit to tell this stranger his true reason for going to Windhaven, Kelyn wasn’t about to fill him in. “Kieryn’s no fighter.”

  “He was quite friendly with the Lady Rhoslyn, too.” Kelyn couldn’t distinguish the man’s expression, but his voice implied he was thirsting for a juicy rumor.

  This was precisely the kind of thing Kelyn had warned his brother about when he turned his eye in Rhoslyn’s direction. Deciding he would be pleased when Garrs returned to Tírandon with Lord Lander in the morning, Kelyn said, “Was he? House Ilswythe has always been a friend of the duke and his family. If House Liraness extended Kieryn an invitation to visit, who are you to speculate?”

  Garrs raised his hands between them. “Look, I meant no offense, Swiftblade. Is it all right if I call you that?”

  “No.”

  “I heard Lady Ulna call you that in camp. Are you really—?”

  A shadow across the water snagged Kelyn’s eye. He dropped into a crouch, grabbed Garr’s surcoat and dragged him to the ground. “What the bloody—”

  “Shut up,” Kelyn hissed. “Over there …” He’d seen it just over Garr’s right shoulder. A shifting darkness that had nothing to do with trees or wind.

  “I see it!” Garrs said. His hand flew to his sword haft, but Kelyn’s followed and stopped him before he could draw. Not thirty feet away, the figure darted from one stand of trees to the next, advancing toward the dull red lights of the campfires.

  “It could be one of the other sentries,” Garrs suggested.

  “I don’t believe that and neither do you.” Kelyn gestured upriver. “Go wide that way. I’ll go the other, and we’ll have him surrounded. Be ready for anything. Only, be careful where you stick your blade. I’ve not survived the summer to be cut down in the dark by a friend.”

  The knights parted. Kelyn tried to avoid crushing leaves and snapping twigs underfoot. Luckily the wet ground softened his step, and the spy seemed deaf to his approach. Stooping, Kelyn swiped a dagger from his shin-guard and crept around the trees in a fishhook, arriving behind the figure. He recognized a heavy cloak enveloping the spy head to foot. And the spy—assassin, perhaps—watched the camp intently, counting or waiting for the opportune moment to slip in closer.

  From Kelyn’s left, Garrs called out, “You there! State your business.”

  The spy leapt for the moons, whirled, and ran straight into Kelyn’s arms. Even as they tumbled to the ground Kelyn noted how slight the spy’s frame was. He gained his feet first, wrapped an arm around the intruder’s neck, and poised the dagger for the kill. But the cloak’s hood had fallen back and a torrent of hair tumbled into the leaf litter. The strangled sounds rising from the captive’s throat caused Kelyn to wonder whether he’d tackled Lady Ulna.

  “Bugger me,” said Garrs. “It’s a woman.”

  Confounded, Kelyn lowered his dagger. A fist hammered him in the jaw. He stumbled back into a tree, ears ringing.

  “Barbarians,” the woman cried, climbing to her feet. “I am Lady Briéllyn of Rhyverdane, fully within my rights unless I cross the Blythewater. And you’d be wise to keep your hands to yourself.” A slender dagger glinted in her fist.

  Kelyn lunged, seized the woman’s arm and gave it a nasty twist. The dagger plunked into the water. “And I am Kelyn of Ilswythe, son of Aralorr’s War Commander, Falcon of the king’s Guard, and you will state your business, or I’ll forget you’re a lady.”

  Undaunted, she said blandly, “Oh, good, you are Aralorri then. I must insist you take me immediately to Tírandon. Or the nearest village where I can get a message to King Rhorek.”

  “What do you have for the Black Falcon?” Kelyn demanded.

  “Aye,” Garrs put in, “why hide if you’re looking for him?”

  “Listen,” the woman snarled, “I’ve been creeping across my own lands for two days. I saw the campfires, but couldn’t be sure if you were Aralorris or Fieran outriders.”

  “Fierans in Leania?”

  The woman hesitated. Kelyn wished he could see her eyes clearly. She said, “That’s for your king to know. How far must I travel to send him word?”

  Garrs chuckled. “About a hundred yards, m’ lady.” Kelyn elbowed him in the ribs.

  In camp, the firelight and the hanging lanterns revealed the woman to be in her late twenties with a storm of dark auburn curls and furious green eyes. “Don’t push me, boy,” she shouted, rousing the knights, Falcons, and squires from their tents. “And get that dagger away from me! Let go!”

  Kelyn did no such thing, but frog-marched her toward the king’s pavilion. Captain Jareg waited under an outer awning, meaty fists on his hips. “What in the Abyss is all this?” he demanded, then called to the gathering crowd, “You people, return to your tents immediately.”

  The curious knights backed away but continued craning their necks.

  “Found her sneaking around in the trees, Captain,” Kelyn reported.

  “Sneaking, indeed! I demand to see King Rhorek at once. Please, you must understand, he’s in danger. You all are.”

  Jareg deliberated, glaring suspiciously at the woman.

  From within the pavilion, Rhorek called, “I’m awake, Captain. What’s the trouble?” He emerged from the silken flaps, took one look at the captive, and looked as if she’d struck him, too. Though Rhorek had several mistresses, a new one every few months, Kelyn had never seen the king look at any of them the way he looked at the mud-spattered and irate Lady Rhyverdane. “Release her, Kelyn,” he said. “Lady, what danger?”

  “The Fierans, Your Majesty,” the woman said, dipping her knee in a hasty curtsy. “They have crossed into Leania.

  The camp erupted. “We’re too late!” cried Lord Gyfan.

  “Bano’en’s a liar!”

  “Hold!” shouted the War Commander. He stood outside his own tent. “We know nothing for certain. Return to your tents and stay there until I give you further orders.” This time no one disobeyed. Lord Keth approached the pavilion. “Sire, we should hear what the lady has to say, inside.”

  Kelyn, Leshan, and a handful of other Falcons were positioned about the pavilion’s interior. Half-asleep, Laral squirted stout Ixakan cane liquor from a leather skin into wooden cups. Lord Lander drained his in a single mouthful. The Lady Rhyverdane sipped, grateful, and shivered inside her damp cloak.

  “Bano’en has allied with Fiera?” Rhorek asked, masking his worry.

  “Not to my knowledge, no,” said the lady. “But my holding is isolated, on the eastern edge of the Heath. I didn’t even learn there was a war on until halfway through the summer. And yet … when the Fierans arrived, they seemed rushed, uneasy. They took over my house, wouldn’t let any of us leave. Are those the actions of allies?”

  “Who leads them?” Keth asked.

  “The Warlord himself. And he brought with him the most uncouth, barbarous people. Mercenaries out of Zhian.”

  “How many?”

  “Oh, at least a thousand, m’ lord. Infantry and horse. They cleaned out my stables. And with winter coming, I don’t know what I’ll do.” She gulped the liquor. “They planned to leave Rhyverdane this morning. My manor is only a couple of days’ ride from your camp. I fear I didn’t find you soon enough.”

  “No, lady, you did well,” Rhorek said. “You risked a perilous journey for our sake, and we’re indebted to you. Is there anything else?”

  “You
should know about the devices. The Zhianese carted devices on wheels. They weren’t catapults, or any other siege engine I’ve ever seen. They were pumps and hoses and dragons. They called them Dragons, in fact. I can only imagine what the Zhianese mean to do with them. Oh, they’re the most horrible beasts. They eat everything and reek to the stars. And they brutalized my maidservants, as if they’re slaves weren’t entertainment enough. They would’ve taken me too, but the Fieran commanders said the lady wasn’t to be touched. Oh, Goddess, I saw things I never want to see again.” Her composure crumbled, and she covered her face with a hand.

  Rhorek requested softly, “Jareg, bring Lieutenant Lissah. She’s to make Lady Briéllyn comfortable.”

  Once Lissah had escorted their guest from the pavilion, Rhorek sighed. “Thank the Mother for small favors. We nearly ran into a wasp’s nest. How are we to counter them?”

  “Counter them?” Keth repeated, incredulous. “Sire, we are fifty Guards and twelve knights, with a green lord along for the ride. To counter them is to beg for massacre. It’s not even debatable.”

  “Keth, I refuse to allow them to invade my lands without a fight. Think of something.”

  “What about the reserves?” Lander asked. “Helwende’s men and my garrison are only a couple days away.”

  Keth ignored the suggestion. Of all the times for Lander to agree with the king. “See reason, gentlemen. Tírandon’s garrison is needed to defend Tírandon.”

  “And that’s precisely what they’ll be doing if we manage to rout the Fierans back into the Gloamheath.”

  The War Commander looked ready to knock Lander and the king both senseless. Kelyn knew his father was right, but he wanted to fight so badly that the yearning danced painfully in his belly. C’mon, Da, he prayed. Just a little skirmish.

  Keth pinched the bridge of his nose while he weighed options. “Well, we can’t stay here. We’ll have to go to drier ground, where we have some sort of advantage—if that term can even jokingly be applied here. Laral, the map.” His squire ran to his tent and returned with the worn leather map under his arm. Keth unrolled it upon a small trestle table, and his finger drew out the plan. “We’ll go north into the Heights, position ourselves on high ground. If we form a circle, we may be able to hold them off till Helwende’s men arrive. Still, you might want to write to your cousin, Rhorek, tell Rhoslyn she may be queen in a couple of days.”