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

by Ellyn, Court

  A lonely feeling, riding alongside thousands of men and women and being the only one aware of the dangers lurking just out of sight. They had only one enemy in mind; Thorn had to look for many.

  The scout reined in and reported, “The Fierans are only two leagues away, sir. Banners of Machara, Brengarra, Haezeldale, and Arwythe. And shavers, sir, a horde of ‘em, them and their Dragons, marching front and center, and they’re coming fast.”

  “Little chance Goryth will want to talk this over, then,” Kelyn said.

  The scout grinned through a heavy beard and heavier layer of dust. “Well, there’s a white stallion at the warlord’s side.”

  Dryly, Rhorek said, “The Falcon kings meet again, eh? Well, hurrah for Shadryk, giving up his walls and luxuries to join us today.”

  “We’ll present him our little package, then,” said Kelyn, “and see if he’s still eager to bare blade.”

  “Dare I hope I’ll be signing peace papers by evening?”

  “Never hurts to hope, sire.”

  Kelyn chose a hill a mile farther on and brought his host to a slow, heaving stop, and there he waited, backed by Allaran, Davhin, Leshan, and Genna, the king and the Falcon Guard, and Thorn Kingshield. A low rumble grew under the horses’ hooves. Fieran scouts in gray hooded tabards appeared on the flanking hills, then fled. In the distance, banners rose into view, as colorful as party masks. But beneath them, line after line of bristling pikes, lances, and shining armor rolled over the crest of a hill, then vanished again. The clouds of dust that followed the approaching host was comparable to a dust storm in a drought.

  Thorn’s gut twisted uncomfortably. About to admit that the sight intimidated him, he glanced at his brother. Kelyn seemed almost bored, apparently taking more interest in the view to the left of the road, then to the right, where trees and fields vied for space on the surrounding hills. Was he so used to seeing blood-hungry hordes bearing down on him that it didn’t faze him? Was it an act? To reassure his commanders, perhaps? Then Thorn noticed Kelyn’s fingers drumming against his thigh and his mouth moving with silent calculation. His scrutiny of the roadside grasses wasn’t boredom but taking a measure of the wind. “Davhin,” he called, turning in the saddle. “Position half your archers on that hill to the west and half on that one to the east. Move out now. It’s farther than it looks.”

  Davhin asked no questions, and in moments he and his archers jogged up one hedgerow and another to take up position on the high ground.

  “Leshan,” added Kelyn, “I seem to remember a vow I made to you once. I want you at my side. You and your rough riders stick with the Ilswythe knights.”

  Leshan’s grin was not much more than a feral twist of the lips. “Aye, sir.”

  “You believe we’ll fight then?” asked Rhorek.

  “Better prepared than not, sire.”

  Prince Nathryk and his Leanian guard remained at the base of the hill, well out of sight of the Fieran army.

  “I don’t like this ground, Kelyn. Too many hills. We can’t see how Goryth will deploy his troops.”

  “Nor I, sire. But he can’t see ours either.”

  The rumble died away, the storm of dust wafted past on the south wind, and only the White Falcon’s green banner appeared over the next hill. Lord Brengarra had the honor of carrying it. The white stallion trotted alongside, as did a large red warhorse and a slender golden pony of the desert.

  Kelyn gave a forward gesture. “Sire, Thorn, Leshan, with me.”

  They met the Fieran party halfway across the valley, where a wide bridge crossed a chuckling streamlet. Picturesque, really. Shame to get it bloody.

  Kelyn bowed his head. “Lord Brengarra. I’m relieved to see you’re not gravely wounded.” How sincere and respectful he sounded.

  While Lord Jaeron’s right arm supported the White Falcon’s banner, the gray sleeve of his left barely squeezed over the heavy bandaging. The courtesy took him by surprise. He returned a cool, shallow nod.

  Prince Saj’nal sighed heavily at the tediousness of the proceedings. A massive diamond glittered upon the plumed red turban, and he used his left glove to slap the road dust from his clothes. The southern breeze wafted the dust straight onto Thorn’s blue robe.

  The warlord loomed atop that tall red horse, motionless, as if he were carved of stone. And what an expression of loathing was frozen on his brutish mouth and heavy brow. He aimed it not at Rhorek or Kelyn, but at Leshan.

  Leaning back a fraction, Thorn saw his foster brother returning a glare almost as frightening. Contention’s monstrous moonstone pommel reared over his shoulder. The gargoyle leered at its rightful owner, so close that Goryth’s fingers must be itching. Thorn wondered if Goryth had considered that his treasure was made to be wielded in two hands.

  Shadryk looked splendid in a white silk cloak and shining silver-plated armor. He had put away the smiles and pleasantries he’d brought to the peace conference. “You’re on my property, Rhorek!” The white stallion pranced and snorted and threw his head, just as angry as the king.

  “Seems you left me no choice,” Rhorek replied. “I recall a letter and a broken oath.”

  “You’re the one who broke faith.” Heated green eyes leveled on Thorn.

  Thorn, on the other hand, gulped and told himself, Look dangerous. Look formidable. He felt more like a skittish cat at the moment.

  Shadryk’s glance raked over Kelyn and jabbed at Thorn again. “You’re brothers!”

  Kelyn laughed easily. “Yes, twins. At least Mother says so.”

  The mockery only exacerbated Shadryk’s rage. “We demand he take no part in this!”

  Kelyn scratched his head, peered at Thorn. “In return, we demand your surrender.”

  Saj’nal howled with laughter. The red feather pinned to his turban wagged arrogantly.

  Shadryk was less amused. “You’re a fool if you think—”

  “Do it,” Kelyn added, “and we’ll throw in this tidbit as well.” He raised a hand, beckoned back toward the hill where his army crouched, and where, hopefully, they would stay.

  Uncle Allaran and the four Leanian guards surged over the crest of the hill, their charge secured between them. The closer Nathryk rode toward the bridge, the more still the White Falcon became, the faster and more ragged the breath in his throat.

  “Da!” Nathryk exclaimed as his guards brought him to a halt behind the bridge.

  “That is not my son! I don’t know how you found someone who looks—”

  “You think this an imposter?” Kelyn asked. “How could we? None of us knew what your heir looked like. He’s made quite the journey to join you here today. Haven’t you, Highness?”

  “You lie,” Shadryk hissed.

  “Ask his grandmother where he is before you cast insults, Your Majesty.”

  Docile all morning, Nathryk tugged against the stays to free his hands. Allaran took hold of the boy’s arm, in case those skinny wrists slid free. “Never surrender, Father! Slaughter them all. Let me go, cunt face!”

  Allaran growled. “And you were doing so well, too.”

  Nathryk’s outburst seemed to solidify the truth for Shadryk. He took a long, slow measure of his enemies while the rage in his eyes turned to ice. “Congratulations, Rhorek. Quite the leverage you’ve got. But you forget. I have two more sons. You’re the one who has no insurance. Protect your prince well, old man.” He whirled that white stallion around and galloped back across the valley. Jaeron and Goryth followed more leisurely, perhaps unwilling to turn their backs upon their foes.

  “We are going to burn you to ash!” Saj’nal exclaimed.

  Thorn threw out a palm, and blue fire swirled over his fingers. “Fire is my toy, outlander.”

  The Zhiani prince grit his teeth. “And you will be first!” His hasty retreat undermined the bold claim.

  As for Nathryk, he watched his father abandon him to his enemies, his mouth open, his black eyes welling. He drew a ragged breath and released it in a cry that echoed between th
e hills. “Daaaaaaaa!” As loathsome as the child was, Thorn’s blue flame shuddered and went out at the heart-wrenching sound of that forlorn cry.

  Kelyn looked on the boy with pity. “Don’t take it personally, Highness. It’s just war.” He turned his warhorse away from the bridge. Rhorek and the commanders followed.

  “Shadryk called our bluff,” Allaran said. “What do we do with the kid? Bano’en wants him for a ward.”

  “I dunno, Uncle,” said Kelyn. “We need to survive today first. Secure him somewhere in the middle of the line.” He and his party barely made it back to the crest of the hill when the bone-deep rumbling resumed. Bellowing a rhythmic war chant in their own language, the horde of Zhianese marched over the nearest hill. Gauntlets stolen from the bodies of Aralorris and Leanians beat a thunderous song upon stolen shields. The green snake had been painted over golden crosses, black falcons, white towers, orange suns, and silver arrows. Behind the foot soldiers came the Dragoneers, leather bags under their arms, hoses coiled behind their backs, torch-bearing slaves at their beck and call. Prince Saj’nal rode at their head, a naked scimitar poised before his face. As soon as he reached the valley, he swept the sword in a sun-bright arc. The chant became a wordless roar as countless Zhianese bared their swords and charged.

  Kelyn motioned to the heralds. “Archers.”

  Blue banners blazoned with silver bows ruffled high on long poles. From the hills to the east and west, arrows fell upon the Zhianese, as thick as rain. Three volleys hewed scores to the ground. Hundreds more ran on, shields held high and spiked now with arrows. The lines of Dragoneers, too, picked up the pace, ran over the bodies of their countrymen, and touched the dragon-headed nozzles to the torches. Streams of fire set the air over the highway to dancing. Thorn tried to put out the flames by negating the heat, but the bile burned too hot and melted the frost the instant he conjured it.

  “Kelyn, let us meet them,” Allaran pleaded.

  “Hold, Uncle. We have the high ground. Thorn. Don’t let them reach the top of our hill.”

  Thorn’s belly lurched. Was that a dare? So be it. With a great sigh, he dismounted and ordered Sarvana to stay. Then he started down the hill.

  “What are you doing?” Kelyn called, troubled. Surely he thought his brother would perform his magic from the dubious safety of the hilltop.

  Thorn shrugged. “I’m going to go play.”

  Kelyn started to call him back, but turned to Leshan instead. “Keep those swordsmen off my stupid brother. But stay out of his way. We’ll back you if need be.”

  The rough riders ranged out to Thorn’s left and right. The farther down the hill he walked, the more terrifying the charging Zhianese became. Masses of scarred, blooded men, far more than he’d faced at Ilswythe’s gate, roared toward him. And now, he had no stone wall to protect him. Saffron’s wards would guard him against arrow and flame, but what of a scimitar’s blow?

  The charge slowed, and the roar turned into something else. Were they laughing? Yes, Zhiani warriors pointed with their scimitars, while sneers and open-mouthed laughter erupted on hairless, brown faces. Thorn supposed he must look ludicrous, walking unarmed along the highway, flanked by fifty commoners and one knight.

  He paused amid the road, closed his eyes and breathed deeply. The fear in his belly waned, and soon all he felt were the wind on his face, the earth under his feet, the heat of the fires drawing near. Far away, on a hilltop, a man on a white horse shouted. “Run him down! Kill him!”

  The laughter ceased, feet trammeled out a thunderous assault, like the sea beating upon a single stone.

  Leshan reached for Contention. “Do something, damn it!”

  Thorn stomped a foot. At the same time he threw his hands forward. Waves rippled through the earth, the bridge buckled, and a blast of hot wind barreled into the lines of Zhianese. Men toppled, flung off their feet. Saj’nal’s golden pony reared, tossing the prince across the highway. He rolled like a rag doll, eating the dust, yet still managed to bound to his feet, screaming and cursing. A few of his men struggled to rise, some groaning over broken bones; some didn’t stir at all. Far to the rear, the Dragoneers picked themselves off the ground and surged forward, flames spewing ahead of them. The foot soldiers parted to let them take the lead.

  As soon as the Dragoneers crossed the streamlet, the jets of reeking fire took on lives of their own. Sweeping his arms around and around, Thorn swept the fires skyward. They spiraled as if caught in a cyclone, then plummeted. Downdrafts of flame washed down over the Zhianese. Bags of bile exploded, ripping arms from muscled chests. Men writhed inside balls of flame, shrieking, dancing. The stench of burning flesh and bone filled the valley.

  Those who escaped the inferno turned and ran.

  “Stop!” Saj’nal bellowed after them, kicking and slashing with his scimitar. “Girl-sons of thrice-cursed roaches! Cowards! Turn and fight.”

  Leshan summoned voice and ordered his people, “After them.”

  “No,” Thorn said. “Let them go. They will spread their panic among the rest. He is the one who has to die.”

  Seeing himself alone among ashes and corpses, Saj’nal spat Thorn’s direction, then started after his men. A ring of fire leapt from the roadway. No matter which way Saj’nal tried to run, the fire hemmed him in. At last, he stood his ground and shouted, “The Father curse you to everlasting—” the rest turned into a high-pitched squeal as the heat welled up inside him. He whirled maniacally, slapping at flames that weren’t there. His skin blackened from the inside out, bubbling and oozing. The squeal stopped on a sudden note as the fire inside him burst his lungs and cooked his heart. He collapsed among the other smoldering corpses, and the ring of fire died with him.

  Thorn ventured onto the scorched ground, knelt beside the prince, and picked the egg-sized diamond broach from the smoldering turban. “Aerdria, are you watching? This prize is for you. May you take no joy in it.”

  His voice, soft as it was, seemed to fill the valley. Archers from the east and west, Fierans to the south, Aralorris to the north, had all gone silent. Thorn alone seemed to move as he stood and tucked the diamond into his pocket. All those eyes upon him, watching to see what he would do next. Atop the far hill, the White Falcon and his warlord seemed uncertain about their course. No more troops came rolling over the hilltop, but they didn’t retreat either. Glancing back at Leshan, Thorn asked, “A nudge, then?”

  His foster brother stopped staring long enough to peek at Shadryk and replied with a shrug.

  Thorn’s hands filled with fire. Whirling, he flung a pair of spinning blue suns toward the hilltop. Shadryk and Goryth fled before they arrived and burst, cratering the ground where they had stood. The rumbling welled up from the earth again, as Fieran horns bellowed orders to fall back.

  The rumbling spread, surging from behind him now, too. Kelyn galloped at the head of his knights and pulled up long enough to toss Sarvana’s reins to Thorn. They had to scatter off the highway as the Aralorri host poured past, bound for Brengarra and the Thunderwater Ford. “I won’t congratulate you,” Kelyn said. “I know you’d hate that. But you have my thanks.”

  “Keep it. Be thankful, rather, I’m not Shadryk’s brother.”

  ~~~~

  73

  Bethyn plucked at the strings of her lute. The afternoon sun spilled into the parlor and across the sheets of music. It was an old love song, her nurse’s favorite. Bethyn had played it so often, she didn’t need to look at the notes anymore; regardless, she found her fingers falling on different strings. It wasn’t a love song they preferred today, but a dirge.

  “Aw, dear,” cooed Nurse from Bethyn’s dressing room, “that’s not how it goes.” Squat, fat Lady Brighthill waddled into the parlor with Bethyn’s dinner gown thrown over her arm. She paused and listened. “Pretty, though. Feeling a bit melancholy, are we?”

  Her fingers laid lightly across the strings, silencing them. “I’m worried about Father.”

  Nurse patted her on the back, as r
oughly as a man might. What the touch lacked in softness, it made up for in warmth. “Don’t you worry about him, love. Jaeron knows what he’s doing.”

  “I heard he was wounded.”

  Lady Brighthill paused at that, the lavender dinner gown stretched out between her hands. “Aye. But if it’s as bad as all that, he’d be in a hospital tent or back home already, in a physicians care. He’ll be all right, love.”

  Bethyn’s glance drifted to the mantelpiece and the enameled jewel box where she kept her brother’s ashes in the pouch she had embroidered with bluebirds.

  She didn’t want to play anymore. Setting down the lute beside her chair, she drifted to the window and let the sun fall warm on her face, but the light through her eyelids turned the color of blood, her blood. Opening them, she peered down into the courtyard where the laundry maids gathered to scrub the linens. Along the battlements that gradually turned green under beards of spreading ivy, a couple of old sentries strolled, pikes on their shoulders. The familiarity of these routines was more frustrating to Bethyn than comforting. “Don’t they realize the Aralorris are thirty, forty miles away?” she asked Lady Brighthill. “That Father stands between them and us?”

  Standing behind her, Lady Brighthill squeezed Bethyn’s shoulders. Her nurse was the only mother she had known. What would she do without those strong hands holding her up? “Be gentle with them, love. They do what they do because they must. Come, let’s get you dressed. You have supper to plan and one of the under-butlers was caught in the wine cellar again, drunk as the river. You’ll have to see to his reprimand until your father returns.”

  Lady of the house. Hadn’t she always been? “But, Nurse …”

  “You need the distraction, dear one.” Lady Brighthill shook the lavender gown so that it seemed eager to be worn.

  Turning reluctantly from the window, Bethyn saw the nurse’s face go blank. She’d seem something out the window. Looking again, Bethyn saw the sentries running toward the gatehouse towers. The maids straightened over the washtubs, their linens and soap forgotten. The occasional rumbles of thunder upon the summit of Tor Roth had become a constant drone, and the drone grew louder. A cloud of dust rolled along the highway, approaching the outlying houses of Brengarra Village.