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

by Ellyn, Court

  Allaran separated himself from the discussion and intercepted his nephew. “What in hell happened to you?”

  Kelyn tried turning his cheek away, but Allaran grabbed his jaw and turned it back. “Get into a knife fight?”

  “Yessir.” The gash throbbed under the pressure of his uncle’s grip. He was lucky Lissah’s aim had been off, due to tears or haste or both, or he might’ve ended up with a single eye or a severed artery. Still, the blade had cut to the bone as it whisked past his jaw. He’d have a scar for sure, and the stitches weren’t likely to minimize it. Eliad had gone sickly pale, so Laral had to do it. “Don’t squinch up your face,” he kept saying. “I can barely keep ‘em straight as it is.” Six crooked and unevenly sized blood black stitches were a painful lesson in the pointlessness of his vanity; they were a sign, too. Even if he managed to win Lissah back, things would never be the same.

  Examining, not the wound, but Kelyn’s long face, Allaran said, “Judging the look of things, you lost.”

  The king and the other commanders had turned his direction. Captain Jareg crossed his arms. There would be some explaining to do, but not here. “Look, Uncle, I don’t want to talk about it.” He took his father’s seat at the king’s right hand and closed up like a shell. No one pried further.

  Every idea tossed around that day were variations of tactics they had employed already, tactics that had seen the Aralorri host pounding uselessly against the wall of Fierans at the Crossroads. Only now, Allaran declared that Leania’s army, minus his own men, were poised to cross the Great Ford and attack Fiera in the west.

  “With Shadryk’s forces divided,” Lander said, a finger on each bridge spanning the Bryna, “we may be able to punch through to Brynduvh.”

  “If Commander Delo’eh doesn’t beat us there,” Allaran posed, praising King Bano’en’s choice for his new War Commander. In Leania, the office was opened and filled only when war broke out, and was not a position a man might hold for life. Delo’eh had served in both the navy and the land army, but had had the opportunity to distinguish himself only in the former. When hearing of Bano’en’s choice, Allaran had laughed, saying, “Delo’eh is like to maneuver his regiments as if they were batteries of warships.

  “Regardless,” Lander said, “given our new allies, I think the straightforward, frontal approach is best.”

  Straightforward, direct, and uninspired, nothing to give them an edge at the start of the season. Across the table, Garrs didn’t seem satisfied, but he didn’t have anything better to add. He’d learned to bite his tongue since Slaenhyll. Allaran didn’t care what approach was taken; he just wanted someone to point him in the right direction, then get out of his way.

  “Kelyn?” asked the king.

  Rousing from a half-stupor, Kelyn recognized a longing in Rhorek’s face. I’m not my father, he wanted to say. I don’t have the solution. Instead, he nodded and shrugged. “Sounds good. Garrs can lead our knights along with his men of Helwende.” Leading the combined strength of Ilswythe’s knights and Bramoran’s had been a privilege reserved for the War Commander alone. Garrs bowed, honored.

  Kelyn contributed nothing else. A flickering light of hope went out in Rhorek’s face.

  “Decided then,” Lander said. “Shall we deliver our orders?”

  Rhorek waved a hand, dismissing them. He didn’t retain Kelyn as usual, but let him go with the rest. Though Allaran hailed his nephew, Kelyn retreated along the corridor, heels beating a sharp tattoo. He looked for Lissah in the captain’s offices and all over the Falcons’ Hall. Maybe by now she had cooled off enough to listen to him, but apparently she didn’t want to be found. He played a hand of Skull ‘n Rose with Orista of Midguard, Sorlek of Westhead, and several other off-duty Falcons; he lost miserably. He kept picking up and rolling the wrong dice. The others thanked him for being a good swordsman and a bad judge of dice and swept up his money. He wanted to get drunk so badly it hurt, but he remembered where that had gotten him.

  After losing a month’s pay, he resigned his hand. Peaking down the corridor, he saw a light under Lissah’s door. Maybe they could talk this out. She had to understand that he hadn’t seduced the duchess or known what he was doing. He hadn’t even had the chance to mention the poppy wine. If she heard all that, maybe she could forgive him.

  Her door was locked. No surprise there. He started to knock when the sound of a sigh stopped him. Pressing his ear to the door, he heard a man’s voice, grunting and panting under the music of Lissah’s sighs. Hadn’t she done enough? Why try to hurt him like this? He pounded the door with his fist. The sounds stopped. “Lissah!” he called. “That won’t work. Please, we can—”

  The sighs and panting resumed, twice as emphatic. Kelyn threw his hands over his ears and returned to the common hall with rage pounding in his temples and his stomach turning. He sat on the chest at the foot of his bunk, head in his hands, until the supper hour. The host of Falcons began gathering at the tables for mutton and wine. Kelyn couldn’t bring himself to join them. “M’ lord?” asked Eliad. “Shall I save you the best portion?”

  He shook his head. “Make sure Lissah gets it.”

  Laral watched him from the doorway of the alcove for a moment, as if he had something to say, but he bit his tongue and followed Eliad out to serve. Another shadow filled the doorway. Loudmouth Lestyr stepped in and peeked into Kelyn’s mirror, smoothed his hair back and straightened his surcoat, dusted off a bit of lint. “Well, Swiftblade, I don’t know what you did to piss her off, but I appreciate it.” He had the gall to turn and grin. Of all the assholes in the Guard, Lissah had to pick the one whom Kelyn despised the most. It was Lestyr’s mistake to come close enough to boast about it.

  Kelyn surged from the trunk with a roar, flung his arms around the grinning fool, and hurled him from the alcove. A table broke Lestyr’s fall. Falcons scattered as plates flipped, flinging mutton and bread rounds. Lestyr scrambled to defend himself, drove a knee into Kelyn’s belly and managed to land a jab under his left eye, but Kelyn’s attack was too fast to fend off for long. Soon Lestyr was curled into a tight ball on the tabletop. He tried to roll away and put the table between them, but Kelyn grabbed him by the scruff and reached for a silver flask to crush his skull. A desperate hand seized his wrist, and a boy’s voice filled his ear: “No! Not you too. Please!” Laral held on with all his strength.

  Lestyr swung a cheap shot. Kelyn tasted blood and jabbed back with his elbow. Lestyr dropped, clutching his broken nose and wailing.

  A whisper sped through the gawking Falcons. Captain had arrived for supper. Instead, he yelled at Kelyn and Lestyr for the next hour. They sat on a bench next to each other in the captain’s headquarters, Lestyr with a rag pressed red and wet under his nose, Kelyn with a satisfied smirk on his face, which didn’t appease Jareg in the slightest. “I don’t know what in hell this was about, but if it happens again, you’re both stripped of your uniforms and sent home! I don’t give a squatting shit who favors you. If it was over a woman—,” he glared straight at Kelyn, “—you’re the most disgraceful and childish sons o’ bitches north of the Bryna. Elite knights among knights, my mother’s arse!” When he could think of no new invectives to call them, Jareg released them with promises that they would both serve extra guard duty, but war season was upon them and as soon as the king marched, every Falcon would serve continual duty, so the threat, at least this time, was empty.

  Lestyr staggered away to the infirmary to have his nose reset, but Kelyn didn’t know what to do with himself. He took a slow turn about the muddy garden, massaging sore knuckles, and watched the moons brighten with the descent of night. He couldn’t eat; he couldn’t sleep. Shortly after turning in, he had a nightmare of his brother’s blue, blue eyes staring at him and hating him, so he climbed out of bed, dressed in the dark, and wandered about the castle corridors on unscheduled sentry duty. Eventually he found himself outside the Audience Chamber. Inside, the maps of the borderlands were spread across Rhorek’s table. He lit th
e lamps and started moving the carved wooden pieces. The little horses and men were so old and worn that the black paint had nearly disappeared. So many possibilities. What he needed were the possibilities that had never been considered before….

  After dawn, he was still at it, charting notes and calculating numbers on the parchment stacked on the council table. What he failed to notice was the king lurking in the doorway. Jareg peeked over his shoulder. Rhorek waved the guards captain back, and they both went to breakfast.

  Near noon, Kelyn fell into his father’s chair and exhaled the sigh of a man who has accomplished vast things. Glancing up, he found he wasn’t alone. Rhorek rose from one of the squire’s chairs that flanked the entrance to the Audience Chamber. “You finished?” he asked.

  Kelyn scrambled to his feet and bowed clumsily. “Just begun,” he said, feeling smug. “I need to speak with the commanders.”

  “Yessir,” the king saluted and poked his head into the corridor to relay the order to one of the Guards on duty. “I apologize, sire. I didn’t mean for you—”

  “Never mind that,” Rhorek said, approaching the maps. “Just tell me what you’ve concocted.”

  The commanders trickled in, Davhin quiet, alone, and prompt; Allaran and Garrs wrapping up a boisterous discussion; Lander last of all, looking cross at having been interrupted during lunch. “War plans can’t wait, I suppose? I thought we were decided. Our orders have been dispatched.”

  “Some small amendments, Lander,” said Rhorek. “They won’t trouble you too much. Lord Ilswythe, you may proceed.”

  Lander cast a dubious eye in Kelyn’s direction. “Let’s hear it, then.”

  Being stuck between the two of them was about as comfortable as being caught between the jaws of a lion. “Right,” Kelyn said and dived in. “Shadryk and his warlord will be expecting our advance to come from Nathrachan, as they have all year. And now, from the Great Ford as well. They’ll concentrate their forces here and here.” He placed yellowed ivory soldiers south of Nathrachan and at Stonebrydge, then traced a finger along the sinuous path of the Bryna. “This is their blind side, as it is ours. The river forts are good at keeping watch, but to cross an army along most of the river’s length is impractical and they won’t be expecting it.”

  “Aye, for good reason,” Lander said. “We’d be caught against the Brambles and slaughtered as Athlem was. If it was possible to cross anywhere else we would have done so.”

  “Oh, it’s possible.”

  Lander guffawed. “The direct attack—”

  “Will see us deadlocked.”

  “Hear him out, Lander,” Rhorek urged.

  Kelyn resumed. “Your border patrols know the riverlands better than anyone.”

  Garrs chuckled. “His raiders, you mean.”

  “If you would point out the easiest places to cross …”

  Lander glanced suspiciously at the king. “You mean, the knowledge I’ve gained from illegally raiding my neighbors is about to come in handy?”

  Rhorek ignored his sarcasm and thrust an inviting hand at the map.

  Lander planted a finger on the river near Tower Last. “Water’s wide here, but the current is good. It’s also where the Warlord tried to cross before the floods hit.” He speared Midguard with his other finger. “She flows easy here, too, east of the tower, north of Athmar.”

  “Easy water or not,” Lord Davhin put in, “pushing an army through the Brambles is just too risky.”

  “We’re going to burn them,” Kelyn said.

  Lander’s laughter rang against the ceiling. “We’re not talking thorn bushes here. We’re talking about forests, miles long, in some places a mile deep.”

  “We’re going to set a lot of fires.”

  “The Fierans will come put them out.”

  “How? By bringing an army through? They’ll be stuck between thorn and flame. And if only a few men come, the fires will escape them—and our men will be there to kill them and toss their measly water buckets into the Bryna.”

  Garrs’ eyes lit up. “We have barrels of Dragon bile stockpiled in an outer tower.”

  “Precisely,” Kelyn said. “Now, we may have burned all the Dragons, but—”

  Allaran cleared his throat and glanced uneasily at the king, as if seeking permission. “We, er, didn’t destroy them all.”

  “Uncle?”

  “There’s one large one and two small ones beneath the gatehouse. Trophies, we thought.”

  Kelyn could hardly contain himself. “Then someone needs to learn how to use them.”

  Of course, Lander thought of an objection. “Burning the Brambles will expose both banks of the Bryna. If we can cross in mass, so can they.”

  “Aye, and since you’ll be stationed at Midguard, you and your men had better be vigilant. You don’t want another Tírandon on your hands.”

  “Now, hold on, boy—”

  Kelyn didn’t let him finish. “Besides, Davhin and our main force at Nathrachan will keep the river twins occupied.”

  “We’ll see, boy. We’ll see.”

  Kelyn moved on. “Point two.”

  Allaran chuckled “There’s more?”

  “Nithmar.” Kelyn indicated a dot on the map far to the south and east. It was the last settlement on the Galda River before one ran into the forbidding wall of the Drakhan Mountains or crossed into the lands of the Mahkah-pi. Nithmar, with its mills and storehouses, was also Fiera’s center for processing lumber.

  “Why that out-of-the-way hole?” Lander asked, finding a new arsenal of arguments.

  Kelyn glanced at Rhorek and released a frustrated sigh. The king lifted his eyebrows in a way that said, ‘See what I have to put up with?’ “If Nithmar is destroyed,” Kelyn said, “we hamper Shadryk’s ability to replenish his ships, rebuild his ports, and supply his troops with siege engines, supply wagons, and arrows, as well as chairs to seat his sorry Fieran arse.”

  “But you’ve already placed our armies at Nathrachan and the Shadow Mounds,” Lander pointed out, as to a half-wit child. “You’re suggesting we divide yet again and send a third army to Nithmar?”

  “No, no, no,” Kelyn said, drawing on extraordinary patience. “Twenty men. Fifteen archers, five soldiers. Lord Davhin, when you return to Nathrachan, choose your fifteen best and set them aside. Garrs and I will choose five soldiers and lead them south. We’ll go as peasants, burned out of house and home by ruthless Aralorri bastards. It’ll be a hard walk, but we can make it in a couple of weeks if—”

  “Wait,” Rhorek said. “You never threw that bit in, that you’d be going. Garrs will lead them, you stay.”

  “Sire, begging your pardon, but I’m not the War Commander. I’m a knight like any other.”

  “No.”

  Was this more coddling, like he’d endured under his father? Perhaps Rhorek’s desperate desire to protect his best friend’s son? Or was he trying to school Kelyn into new responsibilities? Whatever his purpose, Rhorek would not be moved. “Garrs will see it done.”

  Kelyn swallowed his disappointment. “Yes, sire.”

  “Good,” Rhorek said. “Now let’s discuss details.”

  ~~~~

  The next day, Briéllyn stood with Rhorek atop the gatehouse of the outer curtain wall. Between them and the new constructions of the rising town, the host of Aralorr filled the half-mile extent of the Green: Leanians under the orange setting sun; infantry from Helwend under the golden X; Aralorr’s knights with Lady Ulna at their head; Lander and Davhin, eager to return to their regiments on the border; Captain Jareg commanding fifty Falcons; and hundreds of squires and scores of supply wagons carrying smiths, armorers, surgeons, orderlies, and siege engineers. Bright helms, chain-mail, and pikes, flared with the light of the rising sun. The scents of campfire smoke, horses, leather, and sword oil lifted on the breeze.

  Part of Briéllyn wanted to accompany them. The other part had had more than enough of stitching up good men and closing their eyes. There was plenty to occupy her here, and th
e jolting of a wagon wouldn’t do the baby any good.

  She’d told Rhorek only this morning. Joining him in the pre-dawn dark while his chamberlains layered him in his armor, she’d said, “We’ve run out of time.”

  “We’ll have years of it once we settle this disagreement.”

  “Disagreement you call it?”

  He’d tugged her up against that hard, unloving plate armor, and the chamberlains stepped aside. “Of course. Shadryk can’t seem to agree that my crown belongs to me. This year we’ll show him.”

  “If you decide to get hotheaded and charge into battle, remember, you’ve got new incentive to come home.”

  “For your sake, I’ll be careful.”

  “Not just for mine.”

  It took her resting her hand on her belly for him to understand. He held her at arm’s length. “Mother above, you’re certain?”

  “I wanted to tell you sooner, but we’ve not been alone the past few days. When you return in the fall, your heir will be waiting for you.”

  Now, surveying his host from on high, Rhorek held onto her as if he dreaded letting her go. She turned her eyes into the wind. It wouldn’t do for him to see her crying. She never expected she would learn to love him so soon. He took her hands and pressed his brow to hers. “If Bramoran comes under attack again, go north to Ilswythe, or even to Thyrvael. I couldn’t bear it if what happened to Lady Andett happened to you, too.”

  Her composure was thinning as fast as the morning mist. She released him and said, “Take care, husband.”

  “Take care, wife.” He hurried down the gatehouse and mounted Brandrith, who pawed at the cobblestones eagerly. The Guard surrounded him, and with a sweep of his fist, he led his army over the drawbridge and south to war.