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

by Ellyn, Court

  Lady Brighthill joined her at the window, eyes narrowed against the glare of sunlight.

  A pony, as yellow as the Harenian sands, galloped ahead of the dust. Its saddle, ornate with red and gold tassels, was empty. Behind it ran men. Brave Zhiani warriors, running in disorder, running in terror.

  Nurse dropped the dinner gown in a shimmering lavender heap. “Best go below, love. Gather the household. Stay calm, for their sake.”

  No task had been more difficult than maintaining a note of calm in her voice as Bethyn hurried through the corridors, calling for her servants and staff while fighting the urge to break into sobs. Was her father dead? Would they bring him home as ash? Would they bring him home at all?

  By the time the household had gathered in the kitchens, among ovens that had been lit for supper, a sentry arrived with word of the king’s retreat. Zhianese didn’t bother stopping at the gate where safety awaited them but poured across the Thunderwater. “Looks like they mean to run all the way back to the sea. One stopped long enough to tell us something about their prince being turned to cinders. Burnt up by his own Dragons likely.”

  “His Majesty follows them?” Bethyn asked.

  “I won’t believe it till I see it,” said Lady Brighthill, pacing before the cutting table piled with leeks and kale. “The White Falcon running from those Aralorri curs, hnh.”

  “I dunno if the Zhiani cowards speak true, m’ lady, or if they up and abandoned him when their prince died.”

  “Did they mention my father?”

  The sentry looked at his toes, shook his head. “I’m also to tell you that the villagers want in the gate, but castellan won’t open up. Says if it comes to a siege, we’ll need all our supplies to feed the fighting men.”

  “They should flee downriver or into the Mounds,” said Nurse. Her hands wrung so fiercely that Bethyn feared she might pull off her own fingers. She whirled and flapped one hand at the sentry. “Be off, then! We’ll take care of things down here.”

  The sentry saluted and hurried from the kitchen, even though Bethyn still had questions for him. Nurse was probably right. The sentry wouldn’t have useful answers or hopeful ones. Better let him see to his duties while Bethyn saw to hers. First, lots of food and hot water and the medical supplies. She called to her steward, but Lady Brighthill seized her by the arm. “We’re getting out of here, love. Gather your lute, Jaedus’s ashes, and anything else you can’t do without. Hurry! You people, out!” Lady Brighthill clapped her hands at the staff, and the butlers herded them for the larder where the tunnel dived down into the dark.

  Bethyn’s feet refused to move. Nurse found her standing where she’d left her. “Love, if those Aralorris get in, they’ll destroy your lute and everything else. Run, child.”

  “I can’t abandon the place,” Bethyn argued. “Until Father comes home I’m lady of the house. Or is that a lie? Is it just a courtesy?”

  Nurse gripped Bethyn’s arms in desperate, bruising fingers. “Your father will rejoice to know you’re out of harm’s way.”

  “But it’s my responsibility to—”

  “No, your responsibility is to survive, little bird. I won’t leave you here for those Aralorris to take their vengeance on.”

  “Vengeance? For what? We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Not you, love. But that won’t matter to them who lost loved ones at Tírandon and everywhere else besides.”

  “Where? The stronghold of the sheep raiders?” Oh, the tales of daring and danger she’d heard from Lady Athmar and her brother on a winter’s night over mugs of hot mead. They made Lord Tírandon sound like a rabid hound from the Abyss, bent on stealing Fiera blind. Bethyn imagined paddocks and paddocks of stolen sheep guarded by beefy men in black leather, who kicked the poor beasts and prodded them to the slaughter with wicked-bladed pikes. To hear Lady Drona’s stories, Bethyn imaginings weren’t far from the truth. “Why should I care what happened to them? And what about us? Haven’t I lost my brother to their vengeance already?”

  “Listen, little bird. The warlord and that smelly fool Saj’nal broke into Tírandon and slaughtered every bloody soul. Women, children, the entire household.”

  “It’s a lie.”

  “Oh, child. Tell that to the Aralorris when they come marching down the highway. They’re going to want their revenge. They killed Lord Birél, her Highness’s own lord-husband, and took Lord Degan’s head, then tore Ulmarr to the ground. What’s to stop them from stringing up the lot of us?”

  Shaking enough to make her teeth chatter, Bethyn nodded.

  Lady Brighthill pinched her chin. “Good girl. Get your things. Once we’re through the tunnel, we’ll find a cart and head south along the river.”

  “Father will worry.”

  “That can’t be helped. Hurry now.”

  Bethyn ran from the kitchen and up the stairs, past parlors, dining halls, and the library, her father’s quarters and her brothers rooms. Rooms where they played chess while she played her lute for them. Rooms where they gathered their dreams and their memories. Suddenly everything seemed too precious to leave behind. Outside the windows, men were shouting.

  ~~~~

  Half a mile from Brengarra, a detachment of Lady Genna’s cavalry galloped back to the line, bloody and sweaty. Half a dozen dead Fierans lay sprawled in the roadside ditch. Ravens and crows circled overhead like an escort. They were being paid well for their faithfulness. Every step of the way between Little Bridge and the Thunderwater, Lord Jaeron and his militia had harried the Aralorri advance. Springing from behind hedges and barns and village shops, the Fierans took a surprising toll in casualties before the towers of Brengarra rose into view. Genna’s own armor leaked blood from the knee down as she rode to Kelyn with her report. “We lost two more men, damn them.”

  “No need to curse the Fierans, lady. We’d do the same.”

  Lunélion’s fierce daughter had no interest in grace or gentle philosophies. “Thought the militia might flee on to Brengarra once we routed them, but looks like they circled behind us. My guess is they mean to intercept our supplies.”

  Kelyn peered back along the metal-and-leather serpent grinding down the highway. Two hospital wagons had managed to keep up, though the siege engines and the rest of the supply train were nowhere in sight. Foraging for horse feed, blacksmiths, and weaponry was one thing, but finding medical supplies was quite another. A relief they had that, at least. The squires could forage for the rest. “Aye, nothing like being cut off from retreat to make a man fight like a demon.” On the other hand, his fighters were exhausted. A twenty-mile march was much to demand from men already weary from battle. “Make sure your people understand that the back door has been shut. We can only go forward.”

  Genna saluted and wheeled around to rejoin her cavalry.

  The tree-cloaked domes of the Shadow Mounds stretched north and south, as far as the eye could see. On their eastern edge, Tor Roth’s spire of black granite reared skyward, ringed with storm clouds. Thunder rolled into the valleys with the cadence of war drums. A bright ribbon of water cascaded down the tor’s southern slope, feeding the Thunderwater. The river meandered through vineyards and fields cleared for grain. On the eastern bank loomed Brengarra Castle; her gray granite towers managed an admirable imitation of the spiraling tor, though budding ivy softened the grim, intimidating look of them. The town clustered below the walls; frightened people hurried from building to building. Hammers echoed as villagers too stubborn or infirm to flee boarded up their windows and doors.

  Knifing between the village and the castle walls, the highway descended to the Thunderwater Ford. Fords meant heavy casualties; this one would be no exception. To each side of the stone-lined crossing, the river bottom appeared to be mostly sand. Shifting, miring sand. Goryth meant to take full advantage of it. In front of the ford, spanning the highway between the castle gates and the town, he’d positioned Jaeron’s cavalry and Haezeldale’s infantry. The black tor of Brengarra fluttered alongside white
spiked hazelnuts on a green field. Behind the ford in reserve, the warlord sat at the head of Machara’s cavalry under the black leering gargoyle. With them, Arwythe’s infantry stood at attention beneath a white banner blazoned with a purple grape leaf. More, Brengarra’s garrison lined the castle walls with bows on their backs.

  A fine situation. Kelyn had to order his people to bash a path across the river while arrows rained down on them from above and a wall of men awaited them on the other side. And who could say what forces Goryth had hidden among the shops and cottages of the village? Yes, the Fierans had nearly every advantage.

  Thorn rode at Kelyn’s side, staring up at the tor, completely enamored. Its shadow stretched long across the pastures and vineyards. Lightning rippled among the high clouds. Most of the thunder was more felt than heard.

  For his command position, Kelyn chose high ground where the highway branched north for Athmar. From there he could see over the roofs of the town, while keeping an eye on the castle gate and the ford both. A stand of ash trees provided cover from the arrows that began whistling from Brengarra’s highest towers. They fell just short of the outer branches. Rhorek, too, took refuge under the broadening leaves, surrounded by Falcons and squires.

  Gathering his commanders in the late afternoon shade, Kelyn ordered, “M’ lord Davhin, take your archers into the village. Secure a couple of houses near the highway and position your men at the windows and balconies. Better, find a way onto the rooftops.”

  Davhin separated his men from the line. As they marched past, Kelyn turned to his brother. “I need you to go with them.”

  Heeding the voice that called him down from the tor, Thorn blinked rapidly as if disoriented.

  “The archers,” Kelyn clarified, pointing at the Evaronnans who had begun spreading out through the town. “I keep telling everyone you’re the best. Now go prove me right and pick off the garrison on the walls.”

  “I’ll need a high roof for that,” he complained. “I’m not fond of heights, you know. Sarvana!” The black filly, ever snubbing the rest of the horses, raised her head from the grass she was munching and trotted into the shade of the ash trees. From a saddle sheath, he freed not the crystal-headed staff, but the most stunning bow Kelyn had ever seen: graceful lines in white thellnyth wood, images of stags and hounds in dark andyr inlay, and foreign words in glistening silver wire. Thorn caught him gawking and grinned. “An ogre-slayer, this. A gift from a fine lady.”

  “Hnh, I envy you the ladies you know.”

  Dryly, Thorn retorted, “I know.” Crooking his finger, he called, “Eliad.” The squire leapt off his racer and jogged into Thorn’s shadow. He handed Sarvana’s reins to the boy. “Keep her here.”

  The boy flushed with a smile at the responsibility.

  Thorn whipped off his robe and stuffed it unceremoniously into a saddlebag, slung an ornate quiver over his shoulder and started toward town, no more rushed than as if he were off to take in some target practice.

  In the meantime, Uncle Allaran tapped Kelyn’s shoulder and pointed. A scout galloped from the far southern edge of the village. He pressed a hand to his neck, and blood seeped through his fingers. Saluting hastily, he reported, “A bridge, sir. Other end of town. It’s guarded heavily though. Men wearing them stupid hazelnuts on their chests, and archers, too, don’t I know it.”

  “How wide and sturdy is it?”

  “Plenty wide for two lanes of wagon traffic. Wood and stone.”

  “Uncle, do you want it?”

  “You bet your arse, I do. If we can smash their line, we’ll slip around and ride down Goryth’s throat.”

  “Good. Go. Genna, the river has to be narrower and shallower upstream. Take a quarter of your cavalry and find a place to cross. The rest will stay here in reserve.

  Morach crossed his great muscled arms over his chest and harrumphed. “That leaves the bloody job.”

  “Aye, the center.”

  “We’ll take the lead.” Leshan leant against the smooth bark of a young ash. In the shade, the moonstone gargoyle glimmered like a ghost.

  Laral ducked under the neck of Kelyn’s warhorse and cried, “No! Leshan don’t. It doesn’t matter what Ruthan said. You don’t have to go looking for it.”

  Kelyn hadn’t the vaguest notion what Ruthan had to do with his battle plans but he’d never seen more peace on Leshan’s face as he smiled at his younger brother. To Kelyn he repeated, “We’ll take the center.”

  Laral brusquely turned away, jerked the bridle and startled the warhorse.

  Whatever the problem was, the brothers would have to sort it out themselves. Kelyn gave Leshan the nod. “Morach will be behind you.”

  After Leshan had gone to gather his rough riders and Morach mounted up at the head of the Ilswythe-Bramoran knights, Kelyn beckoned to his older squire. Laral looked sick, so great was his fear for Leshan. “Brush it off. Don’t think about what could happen, because it might not. You hear me?”

  Laral watched the rough riders trot past, his brother at their head. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Take half the squires into the village. Forage for anything we’ll need on our way to Brynduvh. Stay clear of the southern bridge and keep your eyes open and your dagger ready. Some of the streets are likely to be manned, and Goryth might send infantry to flank us from there. Avoid the fighting unless it can’t be helped.”

  A muscle twitched in Laral’s jaw as he swallowed his worry. Hammering his fist to his chest, he headed off for his racer.

  ~~~~

  Thorn found the shop that Davhin’s archers had ‘secured’ by following the shouts of angry Fierans. A pair of archers in dark red surcoats carried a youth through the door of a chandler’s shop and tossed him into the street with his broom. An older woman knelt beside him and cursed the Evaronnans for cowardly dogs, attacking civilians in such a manner. Neither the boy or his mother appeared to have been harmed, however. The archers cursed them back for king-murdering Fierans and slammed the door in their faces.

  Thorn had to knock thrice before an Evaronnan, red in the face, flung the door open, short sword raised. He blustered an apology when he recognized the War Commander’s twin and stepped aside. The shop smelled of hot wax and melting lard. Wracks of drying candles hung on the walls, and fires simmered under the dipping pots. Positioned so near the enemy line, the Evaronnans had every justification to be jumpy. They clustered at the windows, crouching low, waiting for orders. Unable to look the avedra in the eye, the door warden said, “Lord Vonmora’s upstairs.”

  Davhin and his sergeants occupied the living quarters that faced the highway and surveyed their options. “Not high enough,” one was saying. And another: “No way onto the roof either. I tol’ you we should’ve gone next door. It’s a civic building of some kind and taller than this tinkerer’s shop.” Davhin ushered his squire onto the balcony and instructed him, “Watch the command hill for our banner. Don’t so much as blink. We don’t want to miss the War Commander’s order to open up. Soon as you see it, give the shout.” The squire’s hand was halfway through a salute when he saw Thorn in the doorway and paused.

  “Mind if I join you?” he asked.

  Turning from the windows, one of the sergeants hallooed. “Master archer! I remember what you done at the tournament, m’ lord. Long time ago that was.”

  Yes, indeed. So was a warm greeting. Thorn was grateful for it.

  Davhin, however, didn’t seem to share the sergeant’s easy-going acceptance. He regarded Thorn coolly, arms snug across his chest. From stray thoughts alone, Thorn had learned that Rhoslyn’s people blamed him for her disgrace. And why not? Evaronna had been abuzz with tales of the wedding their duchess was planning and of who she had intended to place on the ducal throne. The same blame seeped from Lord Vonmora, this quiet-tempered man who had taken joy in introducing Kieryn to the caterpillar palaces and housed him and Rhoslyn while she mourned the loss of her handmaid to the avalanche. Betrayal, that was the word he longed to speak. How long had he been w
aiting for the opportunity to reproach him?

  Hoping to avoid the matter, Thorn busied himself unwinding the string from about his bow, but Davhin wouldn’t let it rest. Drawing near, he whispered, “This probably isn’t the best time—”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  Davhin’s fist slammed down on a tabletop. “How could you abandon her and in such a way?”

  Startled by his outburst, the sergeants dropped into wary silence.

  Trying to ignore the heat in his face, Thorn wrapped the bow about his leg, bent it deep, and popped the string into the groove. Standing straight again, he loomed over Davhin by two hand spans. “It wasn’t my get.”

  Grief gathered in Davhin’s eyes. “My question stands, sir.”

  The words felt like a fist to Thorn’s belly. He remembered a vow he’d spoken to Rhoslyn, in a garden by the sea, the tears on her cheeks like drops of moonlight. I will never abandon you … Never. What a fool he’d been. Perhaps he should’ve said, “Never, unless …” But how could he have guessed?

  Horns blew beyond the windows. Shouldering his bow, he edged around Davhin and strode onto the balcony.

  Three floors up and still Brengarra’s battlements were too high to assail. On the command hill, Leshan’s rough riders rode into formation. Knights in cerulean surcoats formed up behind them. No time to find a better position. “M’ lord, climb onto furniture, break through the ceiling, and get your men onto the roof now,” Thorn ordered. He made use of the curling wrought-iron rails and rough-hewn beams supporting the balcony as if they were tree limbs and hoisted himself over the eaves in true dranithi fashion. Laniel would surely laugh, celebrating his student’s good form.