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

by Ellyn, Court

  “No. No, I guess not.”

  She added the pitcher of ice cold water to the tub. Yes, that was better. Sinking up to his chin, Nathryk decided there wasn’t much difference between a squire and a servant. Fetch a knight’s supper. Ready a knight’s bath water. See to a knight’s horse. Polish a knight’s armor. Why would he want to ride north as a knight’s glorified servant? Suddenly, that idea didn’t appeal to him at all. Better to tag along as the prince he was. Yes, he liked that idea. If he wasn’t accompanying the army as a squire, no one could tell him to go home. No one could order him around at all.

  As soon as the maid tucked him into bed and departed, Nathryk squirmed out of the covers and threw some things together. His riding clothes, his stout winter gloves and cloak. He hardly slept for the excitement dancing in his belly, but when he woke, dawn’s light grayed the sky. He bolted out of bed, shrugged into his clothes, threw his hood over his head and snuck down to the kitchens. The oven fire was already lit, but the sleepy-eyed cooks didn’t see him slip past and out the servants’ door. Stealthy as a rat, he slunk through the gardens and on to the stables. The courtyard was empty! There were only a few braziers standing alone along the cobbles, and a servant sweeping out the refuse left by feasting lords and shitting animals. Late! He’d slept too late. He would have to gallop to catch up.

  He’d never saddled his racer himself, but he’d seen it done plenty of times. The trick, he’d heard, was to get the cinch right. Not too loose, not too tight. Better too tight, or he’d be riding the racer’s belly and get kicked in the head. The pony grunted and shook his mane in protest. “Do as I say, Flight! Or I’ll turn you into dog’s meat.”

  Luckily, the gate still stood open. The sentries atop the towers didn’t have time to stop him and question him before he galloped through. Ha! Dolts. A misty rain pelted him in the face as he sped along, but he didn’t care. He was free. The highway stretched out along the cliff tops, descending all the way to Leania. Flight galloped merely half a mile before Nathryk glimpsed the supply wagons laboring up a hill. He wasn’t too far behind after all. In no time he caught up to the wagons and raced past them until he came to the tail end of the infantry. Grandmother’s banner, a green cluster of grapes on a white field, snapped like whips over shiny helms in the damp morning wind. The white tabards of the foot soldiers were already splattered with mud from the road. Their pikes bristled skyward. Their feet tamped the highway flat, while the wagons behind churned it up again.

  Reining Flight to a walk, Nathryk rode alongside the commoners, chin high, as he’d seen his father ride through the people of Brynduvh Town. Nathryk couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this happy. If only he had a sword. He’d not thought to swipe a knife from the kitchen or a dagger from the armory. No matter. Battle was battle, and he’d find an available sword soon enough.

  “Boy?” called a man leading a company of infantry. Nathryk tried to ignore him, keeping his eyes straight ahead, but the sergeant persisted. “Boy!”

  From the back of the pony, Nathryk looked down on the man. “What do you want?” Couldn’t the man see that Nathryk was at least noble-born and not to be bothered?

  “Where’s your place? You don’t belong back here.”

  Ah, the sergeant wasn’t so daft, after all. “I’m the squire of … Lord Stormgate,” he said, hoping that this sergeant and his troops were from a different manor.

  “Shouldn’t you be up there with him?”

  “Are you bored so soon that you would trouble me with stupid questions? Stormgate sent me back here to keep an eye on the men in the rear, and to report back if anyone deserted.”

  The sergeant puffed up like the three-legged dog Nathryk had poked too many times with a stick. “Oh, he did, did he? Well, you run up there to Lord Stormgate and tell him that the men of Wastrell don’t desert! If he has a problem with that, tell him to take it up with me. In person!” With that, he dealt Flight a slap on the rear. The pony bolted, the saddle slipped sideways, and Nathryk landed in the ditch. He heard a crack like twigs snapping and pain ripped along his arm.

  ~~~~

  Grandmother stood at the foot of the bed, her jaw askew and eyebrows high in a manner that said, ‘Saw this one coming.’ Nathryk hated her for it. He hated her for not caring that he was in the worst pain of his life. The physician tugged and poked the swollen forearm, and when the bones were reset, he wrapped it snuggly in what seemed like a thousand layers of linen. Nathryk tried not to cry, but he couldn’t help it.

  “Now, now, Highness,” cooed the physician. “What’s boyhood without a tumble now and then? Drink down this silverthorn. It will ease the pain.”

  Nathryk choked down the bitter tonic. The physician tucked his implements back into the apothecary box and said to Grandmother, “He’ll be laid up for the rest of the winter, I’m afraid.”

  That made Nathryk cry harder. He would miss the war for sure now.

  Grandmother nodded and escorted the physician to the door. When he’d gone, she returned to her post at the foot of the bed. “Foolish child. Do you think we try to instruct you for the pleasure of nagging you? We know what’s best for you, which you clearly do not. It might’ve been your neck that snapped.”

  “It was that sergeant’s fault! I want him hanged.”

  “Hnh, I want to give the man a meddle. Of all the stupid notions. Believe me, if it were my choice, I’d give you exactly what you deserve and send you to the front with a sword in your hand. But I’ve got my orders, and I’ll follow them like a good soldier, not for love of my king or of you, Highness, but because it will be my hide out in the cold if you come to harm. From now on, you’ll be chaperoned night and day, and a guard will stand at your door. When I write to your father and tell him why, I’m sure he’ll agree.”

  “Curses on my father!” Nathryk cried, though shouting sent needles of pain through his arm. “I hope he dies.”

  Grandmother sighed and made for the door. “One day, he will. Goddess help us then.”

  ~~~~

  57

  The devastation at Bramoran was worse than Uncle Allaran had described in his letter. Kelyn rode up to the moat and stared aghast at the blackened towers and half-melted, twisted gate. Outside the moat, ditches had been dug for the dead, and teams of infantrymen turned the bones until only ashes were left. Smoke rose in ghostly wisps. Inside the wall, the town was a charred ruin. The houses and shops nearest the inner gate—those that were largest and richest—fared the worst. The residue of their fires rose black up the inner wall. Residents milled about the ruins, rescuing anything salvageable, while others built shacks and lean-tos out of the charred beams to replace their perfumed manses. The wheels and bellows of the Dragons smoldered where they had been collected and burned. Nearby, enemy helms on poles stared bleakly from under a thin layer of snow.

  Tents filled the half-mile expanse of the Green. Kelyn took heart at the sight of the blue-and-orange uniforms of the Leanians. Farther along lay the few tents of his own countrymen. Kelyn urged Chaya to a trot, hoping to hurry past them unnoted, but Lord Gyfan stepped into the road ahead of him. “Well, well. The Swiftblade.”

  Kelyn reined in, trying to school his expression from reflecting his horror. Zhiani fire had swept over half of Gyfan’s face. In some places, the swelling and scabbing had passed, leaving bright pink skin, wrinkled and tight. But some scabs still oozed, and his right eye was almost sealed shut.

  “Glad to see you on your feet, sir,” Kelyn said. Glancing aside, he saw Lady Ulna sitting next to their campfire, warming her hands. A deep red line on her cheek marked the path of the Zhiani blade. She didn’t bother getting up to greet him, but gazed sullenly into the flames.

  “I shouldn’t be,” Gyfan was saying. “But I respectfully told Lady Rhyverdane and the orderlies to go to hell.”

  “You missed the engagement here?”

  “Aye, though I don’t have your excuse. Boy, are you in trouble. Anytime your name is mentioned around Captain Jareg, th
e man balls his fists. Just a word of warning.”

  Whether or not word of his arrival preceded him, Master Dinél appeared to have been expecting him. “M’ lord,” he greeted, as terse and bland as ever. “Follow me, please. The Captain of the Guard has been awaiting you.”

  Cringing, Kelyn followed the steward with the enthusiasm of a man headed to his execution. Outside Jareg’s headquarters, Dinél bid Kelyn wait, then slipped through the door to make the appointment.

  Jareg didn’t keep Kelyn waiting. “That blighted son of a—. Get him in here!”

  Swallowing a groan, Kelyn admitted himself. Dinél bowed out.

  Jareg’s face flared as bright a red as his hair, and he leant over a desk, chest heaving as if he’d just come from a fight and was about to pick another. “You’ve got gall, man,” he exclaimed. “If it were up to me you’d be out of that uniform yesterday. But higher powers still favor you, Goddess knows why, when you demonstrated not the least measure of loyalty, duty, or honor.”

  Kelyn clenched his jaw, letting the accusations pummel him like stones from a catapult. Though his face heated, he wasn’t foolish enough to incite Jareg further by defending himself.

  “I was this close—this close—to having you arrested for desertion,” Jareg went on, coming around the desk to glare up into Kelyn’s face. “You swore on your life to protect His Majesty. You abandon him, you make a hole in the line just big enough for an enemy with a sword. You follow me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Kelyn replied, sharp and proper.

  “You mind explaining to me why you took your own leave of absence?”

  I had a fever, I wasn’t in my right mind. I had to tell Kieryn about Da and ruin his life, he wanted to say. “No reason good enough, sir.”

  “What, no smart excuses? No arguments?”

  “No, sir. I was wrong to have left. It won’t happen again.”

  “Damned right,” Jareg reassured. “You’ll do so much guard duty you won’t have time to think about leaving. You’ll make up for every hour the other Falcons stood in your place. Now get out of my sight.” More subdued, he added, “And go next door. His Majesty wanted to see you as soon as you decided to grace us with your presence.” Kelyn saluted with a fist to his chest and backed out of the captain’s office with a sigh of relief. The worst was over. Then again, maybe not. Before the silver doors of the Audience Chamber stood two of those Falcons who’d taken up his slack. Greggin of Ristbrooke and Orista of Midguard, both of whom had been with the Guard as long as Kelyn could remember. They regarded his approach none too fondly. Feeling as if he ran a gauntlet, he said to them, “I’ll make up for it. Jareg promised me that much.”

  Raising an eyebrow, Orista said, “I’ll announce you.” She disappeared inside the Audience Chamber, and shortly after, opened one of the silver doors to admit him.

  Rhorek sat behind the wide table below the throne, and a Leanian knight in blue velvet and large shoulder guards leant in closely. They discussed some matter pertaining to the map spread before them. Kelyn approached, saluted, and bowed, but Rhorek didn’t acknowledge him but continued talking of the matter at hand. For a long while, Kelyn felt as if he’d become invisible. “… and with Rhogan and Va’eth patrolling the Bryna, and Genna and Davhin rooted in Nathrachan, the Zhianese still wandering loose can’t possibly escape us.”

  “Suppose they rally to form a solid defense,” posed the knight.

  “No, you’ve turned the tables for us there,” Rhorek said. “The bands with Dragons may still threaten our villages, but we slew enough of them at Slaenhyll and here at Bramoran, that even if they joined into a single unit, their numbers couldn’t stand up to ours.”

  Never underestimate your enemy, Kelyn thought to himself.

  “But,” Rhorek added, sighing, “we mustn’t underestimate them. We were badly outnumbered atop that hill, after all, yet we routed them. They may yet surprise us.”

  Kelyn smiled, in spite of himself. The War Commander had imparted that lesson well.

  “As long as a single one of those flaming shavers is wandering free in my lands, I’ll not rest easy. As soon as their bands are spotted, I want them apprehended and brought here to me.”

  “Yes, sire,” said the knight.

  Rhorek pushed the map aside and finally acknowledged Kelyn. “You spared us no worries, young man.”

  He stood from his bow, and was about to offer his apologies when he recognized the knight, who was grinning ridiculously at him. “Uncle?”

  Rhorek waved a hand to allow for a quick exchange of pleasantries, and Allaran embraced his nephew. “Of course, I forgive you for not recognizing me. You couldn’t have been thirteen the last time I came to Ilswythe. You should see my girls. Oh, but then, Aralorris are not permitted to marry cousins, are they? Shame.” He cast a quick eye toward the king. “We’ll talk of our families later, when you’re less occupied.” He bowed to Rhorek, and while he backed from the room, he added, “Find me. I’ll be in the Green watching for Zhianese. Forgive me, sire, if I wish my nephew good luck.”

  Kelyn couldn’t help smiling at everything his uncle’s presence represented, but when Allaran had gone, he sobered and stood at attention.

  Rhorek’s hazel eyes filled with heavy clouds of disappointment. The sight of it was a hundred times more painful to endure than Jareg’s red-faced rage. Kelyn’s stolid façade shrank like snow in the sun, but before he could drop to a knee and beg for forgiveness, Rhorek stood and said, “Take a walk with me.” The king led him into the garden, where melting snow dripped from the sculptures and draped the rose bushes in bright lace. “We’ve taken this walk before, haven’t we? When you were disappointed that I’d placed you under your father’s command.”

  How childish that complaint seemed now. Looking back, Kelyn wouldn’t have chosen any other appointment. So many errors in judgment. So much to pay for. Rhorek saw Kelyn’s regret etched all over his face. “Say what you need to say,” he invited softly.

  Kelyn stopped amid the gravel path and exclaimed, “Sire, I’m sorry. I abandoned you, the Guard, my duty. If I hadn’t …” The rest choked him, too painful to spell out while the sun shone.

  Rhorek laid a hand on Kelyn’s shoulder and said, “And … I’m sorry for … killing your father.”

  Kelyn blinked. “I don’t understand.”

  “You are good to pretend not to. We are both chastened by our choices, Kelyn, and we face consequences that will affect us the rest of our lives.”

  Kelyn felt sick to his stomach.

  “It’s not good policy to reward failure,” Rhorek went on. “So consider my next decision a punishment, if you will.” He paused, turning over his words, while his fingers brushed over the frosted cheek of a stone maiden. He gave Kelyn plenty of time to consider a dismissal from the Guard and reassignment to a cramped fort in some obscure pass in the Drakhan Mountains. “Your father was more than my War Commander, you know that. He was my friend, my adviser, my confidante. You will not accept the appointment of War Commander, and rightly so. It is premature. But whether you like it or not, you have inherited his other position.”

  That was it? Staggered, Kelyn tried to speak a dozen times before managing, “Sire, I can hardly provide you with the wisdom, foresight, or understanding my father was able to give.”

  “Ah, but you have an ear, and a healthy-minded opinion, even if you may lack the experience that lies in years. And an ear and a fresh opinion are exactly what I fear to lack for another day.” He took a step closer and said lowly, “I’ll be honest, I needed your father. He was, as people say, the influence behind the throne, and I see his manner in you, Kelyn.”

  “But I’m not my father,” he declared, shame flooding him. “I haven’t his unimpeachable virtue or—”

  “Unimpeachable?” Rhorek said with a sarcastic chuckle. “My dear Kelyn, your father was hardly perfect. He was a man, not a god. I could tell you…. But why tarnish his memory with things that don’t matter now?”

  Kelyn
looked to his toes. “What if I’m guilty of more than trivialities?”

  Rhorek leveled a hard, measuring eye on him. “Should you be, I say you are human. That you admit it, I say you are a man. But that does not excuse the guilt, does it? No. We live with consequences, as I said. But we must not allow those consequences to weaken us, rather to strengthen us. In resolve, in virtue.”

  “By the look of things, sire, you’ll be giving me advice.”

  Rhorek clapped him on the back. “Perhaps, son, perhaps.”

  Master Dinél hurried between the rose bushes and bowed, his livery unruffled, his expression blank, despite his urgency. “Beg pardon, Your Majesty, but Zhianese have been captured. They are being brought into the courtyard.”

  ~~~~

  Leshan swept up the dice and his winnings. “Another round?” he asked.

  Sorlek of Westhead glared silent revenge and rolled his dice onto the tabletop. Several other Falcons had gathered around to observe the wonders of Leshan’s winning streak. He seemed to know precisely when to abstain and when to stay in and roll. Ruthan sat on his left, prim and proper with her hands folded on the skirts of her starched pinafore, fair hair in tight ringlets upon her shoulders. Her dark eyes followed the tumbling dice.

  The Falcons’ barracks were hardly the place for a young lady, but she hadn’t fared well in the nursery with Rhorek’s younger daughters. The nannies had complained that Ruthan’s nightmares had wakened them and frightened them, and during the day, her odd silence offended the other children. So Leshan fetched her. The captain rolled his eyes but no longer insisted that Leshan find other accommodations for her. She slept peacefully enough in a bunk next to his, but every morning at muster he would find her curled up under his bed with her thumb in her mouth.

  Forty-eight small sleeping rooms branched off the opulent common hall, where the Falcons lounged before a deep hearth and dined at several worn tables. While sharing his breakfast with Ruthan that morning, Leshan had asked, “Shall we play?” She’d nodded and fetched the small bag of dice. Grinning, he challenged the Falcons who were off duty to a game of Skull ‘n Rose. Eight players had dwindled to two by lunchtime.