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

by Ellyn, Court

  From somewhere in the light, he felt a shove of refusal, no more aggressive or angry than a breath puffing away the feathered seeds of a dandelion. “You love him.”

  Him? Ah, yes. He nodded.

  “Return to him for a little while longer. He is going to need you. The days to come will not be easy for any of my children. For these days were my Third Children born, my avedrin, my Guardians of Avë. Keep them safe. And do not despair. I will bring you home when this dynasty of kings is at an end. Go now. Go to him.”

  Against his will, Thorn plummeted away from her embrace. The light receded, the gray world came into focus, and he woke blinking and gasping and shaking. Needles of pain coursed through his body as his lifelight took root again. Strong hands kept him from collapsing. He recognized Kelyn, smiling and astonished.

  “Might’ve known I’d wake to your ugly face,” Thorn muttered, though his mouth felt unequal to the task.

  “You magnificent bastard.” Kelyn laughed in relief.

  Thorn looked skyward, but she was gone, and he was stuck here for how long? He tried to climb to his feet, but his legs felt as brittle as twigs. Kelyn raised him up. “I think I’m finished for the day, Commander. Shields take a great deal of beating, you know.”

  Kelyn’s arm felt rock-solid about his ribs, hard and bruising. “The day is almost finished,” he said, glancing toward the river. Dusk blurred the rush of banners and armor, horses and swords. “You’ve earned your rest. As have they.”

  “Your uncle made it across the bridge,” Davhin said, pointing. “Shame to call them back now, even though night falls.”

  “We’ll help them,” Kelyn said. “Eliad! My horse.”

  “Set me under the trees,” Thorn requested.

  Slumping against the gray bark of a dying ash, all he wanted to think about was the Light. Kelyn said something about taking care and recovering his strength, they would talk later about what had happened. Then he stood and shouted orders at his commanders, “Davhin, move your archers forward, as close to the ford as you dare. Loose over the river and hammer the Fieran reserve. Let up if my uncle breaks through and return here to defend the king.” Calling to the knight in charge of the larger portion of Genna’s cavalry, Kelyn said, “With me!” He leapt into the saddle and reclaimed his helm. Davhin had grabbed the nearest Ilswythe knight who’d been limping back to the hospital wagons and shoved it onto his head. The red plume was as dark as blood in the dimming light. Baring the falcon blade, Kelyn swept his arm. Lunélion’s cavalry charged the ford.

  Thorn turned away. He couldn’t stand to see more.

  A caress warmed his cheek. “Do you need me to help you sleep, love?”

  Making a pillow of his arm, he told the fairy, “I could sleep through a stampede of dragons, thanks. But now that I’m safe, be my brother’s guardian, won’t you? No one should be allowed to die twice in one day.”

  Her soft, golden light sped after the lines of warhorses. Glancing up through the branches, past the withering leaves, Thorn watched the first star emerge. The sky was edging toward purple, but now he knew. The Light was there. Before the stars and behind them, the Mother-Father was there. He clung to the peace, the acceptance, he’d felt in her presence and recalled what Aerdria said about the gift the Mother-Father reserved for her First Children: when the Elarion grew weary of life, she took them, body and soul, into herself. He no longer envied them. Oh, the freedom he had felt, unencumbered by his skin. What greater gift…?

  Dreaming of the Mother’s voice, he closed his eyes.

  ~~~~

  “He’s safe, m’ lord!” cried Goryth’s squire. The boy pointed northward where a party of riders gathered atop one of the tree-strewn Mounds. The White Mantles, cloaks billowing, surrounded Shadryk and his stallion. In the dimming light, the white wings of the falcon glowed ghostly pale upon his banner, reminding Goryth of the extravagant mural painted on the palace walls. He’d feared that that damned sorcerer had slain the king with the lightning storm and put an end to the grand vision. A relief to see Shadryk emerging from the escape tunnels.

  When the men of Arwythe’s infantry, standing in reserve, saw the king’s reappearance, they let loose a wild cheer. Shadryk raised an arm. His presence would galvanize the troops for the day’s final stand. If that sorcerer kept his hand out of things.

  “We appear to have lost the bridge, sir,” reported one of his knights of Machara. The gargoyle snarled black and ugly upon the man’s surcoat and on the visor of his helm. Nearly one hundred Leanians in sunset orange and blue roared toward the ford in a wedge formation. If they had spent the afternoon fighting to take the southern bridge, they were tired and wounded. “Counter them,” Goryth ordered the knight, then called to his men in reserve. “We will not lose the ford this late in the day!” The black-and-white banner surged toward the Leanians, and the knights of Machara galloped into the fields after it.

  The light was almost too poor to tell who was who. Green banners looked blue; blue surcoats looked green. Only sigils distinguished which side a man belonged to. Almost time to order his people to secure themselves inside the castle walls. Come nighttime, Lord Jaeron could defend his own damn ford. Where was Jaeron? Last time Goryth saw him, the man was leading another counterattack against the knights under the black spread-winged falcon. It wasn’t the black mountain and yellow lightning bolt of Brengarra he saw splashing across the waters of the ford, however, but the double chevron of Tírandon. The accursed spawn of Lander made good use of Contention, shoveling his enemies aside in a bloody swath. Fierce men and women in studded leather fought alongside him. Many had lost their mounts and fought on foot, smashing through Haezeldale pikemen. Several times, Goryth had watched the double chevron drawing near only to withdraw again, but the Haezeldale line was tiring, and this time, the boy wearing the chevron pressed across the ford, nearly reaching the western bank.

  The end of his stump ached. Ghost fingers twitched. Though Goryth’s place was riding with his knights or sticking to his command position, this was his chance. His chance to be free of the nightmares, to be free of the rage that got his teeth to grinding when he took the time to count the burn scars crisscrossing his body. Paid in full? Not yet. He would send Lander’s son home in pieces. “Shield!”

  His squire strapped a shield to Goryth’s shortened forearm. He drew sword and put spurs to his spitfire warhorse. One of the rough riders saw his charge. “Leshan!” he shouted, just before Goryth’s shield crushed his face.

  Rough riders swarmed him. River water sprayed high, soaking them head to toe. The men and women were well trained, but they had been fighting all afternoon, while Goryth’s arms still had their stamina, and his rage welled fresh and unsated. They fell away from him, bloodied on his longsword, broken by his shield. A woman ran at his stallion straight on, perhaps expecting the horse’s flying mane and flailing head to hide her assault. “Hup!” Goryth ordered, squeezing his knees hard about the horse’s ribs. The stallion reared, hooves punching the air. They cracked the rough rider’s skull and crushed her as she collapsed into the river.

  When none remained between them, Goryth called to Lander’s son, “Boy! Give me my fucking sword!”

  Blood trickled from a gash on Leshan’s brow, mingled with sweat and river water, and ran pink into his fair hair. “I will slay you upon it, old man, and my mother will be avenged.”

  Goryth wasn’t interested in sitting in the middle of a river arguing over who had the earlier grievance. With a touch of the spurs, the red warhorse charged. Contention was meant to be wielded in a place where two arms had plenty of room to maneuver and not from the back of a horse. Leshan had no defense but the blade itself. Goryth’s shield intercepted a mighty downstroke, then flung away the hungry blade. Leshan caught a second assault on his shoulder guard, but a third tossed him from the saddle. He landed on his knees in the water, scrabbling with empty hands. The passing of many feet, the trodding of many hooves, had churned the river into a muddy mess. If Contention
was lost, small chance Leshan would reclaim it in time. Goryth laughed, running him down; the warhorse’s powerful legs sent up a great white froth.

  Leshan surged from the water, Contention poised out straight, and ducked his head. The warhorse impaled himself on four feet of steel, tossed Leshan halfway across the river, and collapsed in a somersault with hardly a scream as his great heart burst.

  With an irate roar, Goryth picked himself up out of the churning water. The son of his enemy searched for a sword, any sword, found one near the hand of a dead Aralorri knight and scooped it up with his left. Goryth grinned, seeing Leshan’s right arm drooping, dislocated and useless. “Even tying a shield to it won’t help you now, boy. Yield, if you know what’s good for you.”

  “And let you torture me as my father tortured you?” Leshan spat.

  “No,” said Goryth advancing slowly, feet finding a path between uprooted stones and submerged corpses, “what I’m going to do to you will torture your precious da till his dying day. Stand still.”

  Leshan lunged.

  ~~~~

  Kelyn knew what death looked like, felt like, and charging the ford, he’d never felt more alive. He was invulnerable, fearless.

  Over his horse’s head he saw Uncle Allaran leading his people south again toward the bridge, beaten back by Machara’s cavalry. But Evaronnan arrows fell heavily upon the purple grape leaf of Arwythe, forcing the Fieran reserve to shift farther away from the ford as well.

  Near exhaustion, Morach of Longmead shouted for his knights to fall behind Kelyn and his reinforcements. Like a hammer falling on cracked stone, Kelyn and Lunélion’s cavalry broke through Haezeldale’s line. A pair of licks with the falcon blade, a bash with his shield, and Kelyn found himself galloping up the far bank of the river. He hadn’t expected it be so easy. Reining around, he saw the Fieran strategy. Haezeldale’s infantry had broken deliberately, letting about half their foe through the sieve. Then Brengarra’s cavalry closed from left and right to engage Lunélion’s rear. Those who made it across the ford had pikemen to contend with. Pikemen who now fought mechanically, they were so tired. There was no honor here, Kelyn thought, batting away the points of pikes with shield and sword. He had made his point in Rhorek’s name, which was enough. He would make another one in the morning, once his men and his enemy had rested.

  Looking for a gap to charge back through the Haezeldale line, he found Leshan instead. And the warlord. Upstream from the ford, they fought one on one as if no one else mattered. Goryth’s shield pounded into Leshan’s wounded arm, felling him to his knees in the current. Lunging forward, Leshan wrapped his good arm around Goryth’s legs and they went down in a spray of water. The warlord drove a steel-toed boot into Leshan’s ribs, then lumbered to his feet, but Leshan could no longer get up in a hurry.

  Kelyn’s gray raced upstream, jumped the body of the red stallion, and Kelyn bailed from the saddle, throwing his arms around the startled warlord. Agile as a man twice as young, Goryth leapt from the water swinging. Kelyn met him shield to shield, brought down his pommel against Goryth’s shoulder blade while Goryth’s fist rang on Kelyn’s helm. Shoving free and staggering back, the warlord swept his sword in a haphazard arc, hoping perhaps to catch Kelyn across the throat. Leaping aside, Kelyn felt the tip of the blade slice deep across his shoulder and trail fire across his chest. Broken links of ringmail spun away, and a flow of blood fast darkened his sleeve and the front of his surcoat. His fingers went numb in the braces. He was tempted to see if his arm was still attached to his shoulder, but a voice screamed his name. A high-pitched squeak of a voice, and female. Heeding the warning, he whirled and intercepted a down-blow on his shield that would otherwise have cleaved his skull in two. The shock pushed him to a knee, and Goryth rammed his shield upside Kelyn’s head. Nothing he could do now but spit the river from his mouth and shake the dizziness from his eyes. “Keep moving!” squeaked the voice. Rolling aside, Kelyn swept the falcon blade in a blind arc, hoping to catch something vital. Nothing but air. Goryth’s shield struck water; a great wave splashed Kelyn in the face.

  When the water cleared from his eyes, he expected to see the warlord swinging a deathblow. Instead, Goryth was falling away from him, the blade of a greatsword lodged under his jaw.

  Swung with an exhausted left arm, the blade made it only halfway through Goryth’s thick, muscled neck. It was enough. His lifeblood spurted with each waning pulse of his heart, and the weight of the blow flung him into the mud of the western bank. Leshan hunched forward, good arm hugging broken ribs. “It wasn’t fighting back to back exactly, but it worked.” Sinking into the current, he added, “Finish it, Kelyn.”

  The stars were emerging as Kelyn lurched to his feet, jerked Contention free, and hefted it in a dark red arch across Goryth’s neck. Retrieving the head from the shallows, Kelyn looked for a horse, any horse, and riding from the river, he lifted the grisly trophy high, shouting, “Your warlord is dead!” He shouted it over and over again, cantering across the ford and along the riverbank, wielding the head like a banner. The metallic song of battle gradually ceased. Facing the Mounds, shrouded now in twilight, he cried, “Shadryk! It is over!”

  A murmuring started behind him and swelled to a vast cheer.

  The white stallion and his rider raced from the hilltop. Half a hundred White Mantles followed. When they appeared again, they were fleeing west on the highway, and the night covered their rout.

  ~~~~

  Part Seven:

  AFTERMATH

  75

  “It’s quiet out there,” Kalla whispered, as if afraid to shake the sudden stillness seeping into the barn. The squires had dared light only one lantern. Several huddled around the quivering flame, faces and hands aglow.

  “Can we go eat now?” whined a youngster in Lunélion’s blue-and-white livery. Why did he look at Laral when he asked? He was no sage who could tell what was happening outside the rough-hewn walls. The lightning storm that had driven them into hiding had ended just as suddenly as it began. Thorn, no doubt. Laral kept his suspicion to himself; he’d gotten into more than one scuffle with fellow squires defending the honor and reputation of Kelyn’s avedra brother. Then, only moments ago, a great shout of voices eased in through the cracks between the slats, sounding like a release of flood water.

  “Where’s our faithful lookout anyway?” Drys asked.

  “Asleep, most like,” said one of the older squires, glancing toward the ladder that led to the hayloft. “I’ll head up and kick him.”

  Laral eased off the barrel of chicken feed. “We need to start back before it gets any darker, set up camp and get cookfires going. Everybody, grab as much as you can carry and move out. Start with the things the surgeons may need.”

  The lookout scrambled down from the hayloft, followed by the older squire. “Can’t see a bloody thing from up there, you know,” groused the boy. “A bit of highway and that’s all.”

  The older squire cuffed the boy on the back of the head. “So you might as well sleep, eh?” To Laral he reported, “Movement on the highway though. Looks like ours heading for camp. Lots of wounded, too. We better be ready to help the orderlies.”

  While the rest gathered their foraged goods and led horses from the stalls, Laral turned to Bethyn. She hadn’t dared wander more than five feet from his side. Her would-be rapists stayed on the far side of the barn, avoiding both her and Laral. Drys and Kalla, too. Sitting on a pile of dry yellow hay with her hands folded primly in her lap, she hadn’t said a word since running into the barn. Her delicate face was as pale and mournful as a spectre in the gathering dark.

  “It’s probably safe to head back to your tunnel,” Laral said. “But if the castle has fallen …”

  She glanced up at him sharply. “No. I want to find my father first. Any news at all. And … some of these squires wear the badge of the Falcon Guard?”

  Laral nodded.

  “Your king is here somewhere?”

  “Yes.”

  “
I request an audience with him. He’s on my lands. I have the right.”

  “Whatever you wish.” Laral offered a hand and tugged her to her feet. She hardly weighed a thing, light as a bird on his finger.

  Drys brought Laral’s racer, and the forage party set out into the twilight, lugging their supplies. As they neared the highway, Sarvana veered into the field toward them, silver tassels flying. Looking small in the saddle, Eliad whooped and hollered. He reined in and announced, “The warlord, everybody! Kelyn cut off his head! He’s dead and the Fierans are fleeing!”

  The squires cheered.

  At Laral’s side, Bethyn voiced the smallest of gasps.

  “Does that mean we win?” asked a squire in Vonmora red.

  “Kelyn says not to get too excited. Nobody’s run up a white flag yet. But Shadryk high-tailed it outta here.”

  Over the laughter and cheers, Bethyn asked, “Has the castle fallen?” A powerful voice from one so slight.

  Eliad’s face squinched up. “Who are you?”

  “Just answer the lady’s question,” Laral snapped.

  “The gates are still closed, if that’s what you mean.”

  Bethyn craned her neck and peered toward the towers, black against the hunchbacked Mounds and the faintest trace of orange lingering on the horizon.

  Turning Sarvana back toward the highway, Eliad called, “Hurry up, Laral, we gotta get the pavilion raised.”

  The host of squires hurried after him, new enthusiasm in their step. Softly, Laral said, “Rhorek will be where the pavilions are.”

  Bethyn nodded, pursed her lips, and marched toward the Aralorri camp with the determination of a sergeant. Canvas tents sprang up on both sides of the highway, half a mile east of the castle. A farmstead there provided a water well and feed for the horses, but not much else. The barn was too small to make an adequate hospital. Though two surgeons’ wagons had escaped capture, the rest had not. The massive gray hospital pavilions must’ve fallen into enemy hands, so orderlies lined up the wounded outside the barn under the emerging stars, while surgeons treated the worst cases inside. Bethyn stopped to listen to cries of men and women in agony. “Where are the Fieran wounded?” she asked.