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

by Ellyn, Court

  “What’s to stop her from hiding him or from him running off again?” Athna had asked.

  “A guard of six Leanians is never to leave his side,” Brugge replied with a grunt that conveyed his confidence in that measure. He went on to tell her how two tired armies departed the field. Kelyn had led his host back to Nathrachan until the papers were signed, whereupon he was to send the keys to Ki’eva in a grand gesture of returning the holdfast to her. Rhorek’s bridge, however, was to remain, as he had stipulated, with a guardhouse at each end.

  “And you yourself are pleased with the outcome?” Athna asked, filling his goblet.

  The dwarf replied with merely a grin. Rumor had it that the dwarven gold had departed Brynduvh in three shipments. Two traveled overland by secret roads. The third, Athna knew well enough, had been brought aboard her ship under Brugge’s watchful eye.

  With a south wind filling the sails, the journey to Windhaven had passed more quickly than the dwarves’ first trip by sea. Athna climbed to the main deck to bid her guests farewell. The air wafting over Windy Coves was balmy this evening. The jolly boats were lowered, and men climbed down the ladders to unship the oars and tow the Bane toward the pier. Fifty dwarves crowded the main deck, eager to set foot on solid ground again. She found Brugge among the officers. “My friend, I will miss your company.”

  “Aye, Cap’n. Were you two feet shorter, I’d grab you up for one o’ my sons. You’ve got class and you’ve got spunk, and I hope, after today, we will not be strangers.”

  Athna laughed, and the feeling of joy rising was as sweet as breath after surfacing from the deep. “You are welcome aboard my ship anytime.”

  “Ha!” he crowed, but he did not refuse.

  Once he and his men had disembarked upon the pier, Athna found Rygg eyeing her bashfully. As she approached, he whipped off his red stocking cap. “I can’t convince you to stay with us?” she asked.

  He twisted the hat into a tight bundle. “Nah, I sailed the Big Water long enough, lady. ‘Sides, I promised Her Grace I’d return to her ferry.”

  “What stories you have to tell your mates. I’m sorry they have less than a happy ending.”

  “Ah, no, lady. We have the victory, and Rehaan has his honor. No regrets. You?”

  She glanced over the rail at the bustling pier. The color red caught her eye. A woman’s hat, a horse’s harness, a shopfront’s awning. “No. No, none. I will miss bantering with him, though. Goddess, he was a pain in the arse.”

  Rygg’s laughter boomed across the docks. “Aye, he was that. And we loved him well.”

  Not intending to, she asked, “What do I do with this emptiness?”

  The ferrymaster pulled his stocking cap down snug over his black curls. “Live, lady. Live, sail, and laugh into the wind.” With that, he saluted and strode away down the gangplank.

  When the crowds of Windhaven had swallowed her friends, Athna supervised the supplying of her ship. She was not under orders to rush home and thought, perhaps, she might take the long way back, visit some of the Pearl Islands first. And who knows? She might capture a pirate or two along the way.

  Shortly after sunset, she rang the bell on the mainmast, sounding the change of the watch. Most of her crew had shore leave and had scattered into town to find Evaronnan fare, both for their plates and their beds. The rest shambled onto deck and up the lines. Wyllan joined her, bathed and pressed. “Will you accompany us to dinner, Cap’n? Something smells good on the quay.”

  She wanted to finish her logs and turn in early, but she remembered Rygg’s words. “Yes, I think I will.” Following her first mate onto the pier, she paused and pointed. “Look, Lieutenant.” Over the roofs of Windhaven, the moons rose in eclipse. Thyrra’s unblemished silver disk rested squarely inside Forath’s red embrace. It was a good omen. Athna was sure of it.

  ~~~~

  From the safety of his cave in the Gloamheath, Lothiar followed Paggon’s progress along the mountain ridge. The na’in had to go slowly. His wounds had not fully healed. Eight of his sons accompanied him, but only Ughan aided his sire when he grew tired. The others scoffed at Paggon’s weakness and at last continued along the trail without him.

  Day after day, Lothiar had nursed the ogre in the reeking den. He could no longer tell if he was smelling the ogres or himself. In truth, Paggon’s resilience surprised Lothiar; though he had hoped the ogre would survive, he hadn’t expected it. Being fashioned from toads and other slimy creatures of the Mahkahan swamps, ogres were not long-lived. They walked young, bred young, died young. A chieftain was considered ancient if he lived to be fifty. As scarred and worn as Paggon was, he was barely twenty with full-grown sons of his own.

  When he learned that the eclipse was upon them, Paggon refused to stay abed despite Lothiar’s urging. “Clans gadder,” he’d said, heaving himself from the matted furs. “No one else to speak for dis Lot’iar. Only Paggon.”

  Now, peering through the waters of the basin, Lothiar saw the mountainsides crawling with ogres. They assembled from across the Drakhans, droves of them, male and female, young and old, warriors and shamans. They leapt across chasms, climbed up from valleys, slid down rockslides, and finally joined the great march along the same broad ridge. Off to the west, a purple-misted gorge signaled the headwaters of the Ristbrooke. To the east, ravines led down into the rain-laden Valley of the Faithful, where the monasteries of the Shaddra’hin loomed atop impossible cliffs. Ahead, the trail snaked up the side of a three-pronged peak. Noradaren, Paggon had called it, Mountain of the Moons. Had the peak once held significance to Lothiar’s people that it still bore an Elaran name?

  Paggon’s climb up the switchback was laborious in the extreme, but Ughan and Lothiar’s window stayed with him until he reached the top. Hundreds of ogres had gathered inside a great bowl carved into a shelf of black granite. Shallow pits provided seating for the ogres’ sizable arses. Clans who were currently friendly squatted near one another while avoiding their enemies. Was the delving natural or ogre-made? Elaran-made, perhaps? Lothiar couldn’t divine the bowl’s purpose if it had once been other than a meeting place. Shamans wearing bones and wolf pelts took custody of weapons and laid them in a great pile outside the bowl. “Sacred, dis place,” Paggon told Lothiar. “No weapon here. No fighting. Only talk.”

  “You come to Moot Rock often?”

  “No. In time of dis naeni grandsire, mountain clans t’ink to choose one king over all, but all clans want der chief to be king. Dat moot end in war. Anodder moot to end fighting when dis naeni dis high.” He lowered a hand to his knee. “No moots more till you come, ‘Lari.”

  So Lothiar had better make the most of it. It wouldn’t do for him to speak from the safety of his basin-window when the ogres had traveled so far. He dipped his finger into the basin and drew the sigil to open the door. “Come along, Maliel.”

  His lieutenant peered through the door at the restless crowd of ogres and gulped. “If things go wrong, shouldn’t I stay here and dump the basin?”

  Lothiar glowered, and Maliel pulled up his hood and followed him through the door.

  The naenion scattered away from the Elarion in a great snarling wave.

  “ ‘Lari brings hunters!”

  “Kill dem!”

  “No!” Paggon bellowed, holding up his oversized hands. “Listen!”

  The assembly ignored him. A chant started: “Kill dem! Kill dem!”

  Maliel backed for the gaping door and the safety of the Gloamheath.

  Lothiar laughed, and the music of his laughter overshadowed their roars of outrage. The chant withered. Even Paggon looked at him as if he’d gone mad. “Look at you!” Lothiar shouted, arms spread wide. “Warring clans rising together with one voice against a common enemy. And I thought I would have a difficult time convincing you. You prove to me, here and now, that naenion can stand as one. Do you see it?” He started down the slope of the bowl. Though the ogres outweighed him by ten stone and towered over him by two feet, his boldness frightened
them and they scrambled to make way. “I am Lothiar the Exiled. I tell you that together, your kind and mine have the strength to take the whole of Dwinóvia for ourselves. Tall Man, Short Man, who can stand against us? Who are they? They are fodder for your bellies, slaves for your dens, yet you cower in hiding. Heed me! The time for hiding is over.”

  “ ‘Lari never fight beside naeni!” shouted an ogre from a safe distance across the bowl.

  “You are right. Many of my people haven’t the courage to fight for their freedom. They cower in their trees as you cower in your caves. But some have this courage. Maliel here. My lieutenant. He is willing to let go of thousands of years of hatred between your kind and mine. All for the sake of freedom. Can you do this? The wise among you will search their hearts and find that it is possible.”

  An ogre just grown into his ears shouldered through the crowd and stood face to face with Lothiar. He had the eyes of a crocodile. The teeth of one, too. Though he was young, his two tusks already boasted many scars. His clan’s new chieftain, perhaps? Or a young upstart? “Why ‘Lari care dat naeni hide in cave?”

  True, Lothiar’s reasons for rousing his enemies were selfish ones. If he had a choice, he’d see every last ogre bled dry before he would put swords in their hands. Did this ogre suspect that? There was cunning lurking in those predatory eyes, cunning unusual among ogre-kind. “What are you called?”

  “Dis naeni Fogrim, of Dragon Claw.”

  “Fogrim. Yes. We are both creatures of the Veil, Fogrim. Cousins, of a sort. Why should humans and dwarves be free to go where they wish, do as they wish? Let them be the ones hiding in the shadows, in fear of us!”

  A rustle of grumbles rippled through the naenion seated inside the bowl.

  “But we cannot win our freedom alone. You are disorganized. We need your numbers.”

  Fogrim nodded ponderously, but he was not yet satisfied. “If naeni join ‘Lari, what ‘Lari give to naeni?”

  Clever. Unnerving. “I promise you this: I will turn your clans into a fighting force unmatched anywhere in the world. To train you, we will wage war on Short Man. Dwarven caves become your palaces. Dwarven steel becomes your steel. Dwarven wealth your wealth. Dwarven women your slaves. All this will be yours for the taking.”

  Grumbles of approval swelled into a vast bull-like bellowing. Fogrim remained silent, suspicious, but he returned to his clansmen and sat among them, reptilian eyes lowered in thought.

  “When we are ready,” Lothiar shouted over the voices, “we will march to the flatlands and put an end to the race of men. And that is your gift to me. With Tall Man dead and enslaved, my people regain the stars.”

  The untouchable heavens were an odd, impractical desire to the ogres, but it also did not conflict with what appealed to them. For half the night, they argued over Lothiar’s proposal, bellowing and snarling. When the moons towered overhead, Thyrra gradually slipping free of Forath’s embrace, Paggon Ironfist approached the two Elarion where they waited beside the pulsing doorway. “Dese chiefs say dey will be one army. Dey will fight for Lot’iar. If …”

  “If? Haven’t I promised them enough?”

  “Many do not trust dis Lot’iar word. Dey demand blood seal.” Paggon didn’t sound happy about it, whatever it meant. “Say yes, and all mountain clans are yours. Say no, and all naeni know dis ‘Lari lies.”

  “Yes, then.”

  Paggon’s hand gestured. “Come, den.” He led the Elarion back to the granite bowl. Raising his hands to gather the attention of the rest, he said, “Lot’iar agree.”

  The ogres brayed approval.

  One of the shamans in a feathered, wolf-pelt headdress extended a dagger hilt-first to Lothiar. The blade was fashioned from razor-sharp obsidian.

  “Ughan!” called Paggon. The ogreling lumbered up the side of the bowl to stand beside his father.

  “Ughan did naeni best son. All naeni offer him for seal.” Was Lothiar to fight this muscle-bound youngling? Ughan was unarmed, however, and Paggon offered a hint by drawing a line across his throat.

  “I cannot take the only son who values you, Ironfist. Give me one of the others.”

  Paggon’s heavy brow pinched. “Lot’iar place little value on his word?”

  “No,” he said with a sigh. “Very well.”

  Of his own free will, Ughan knelt at the rim of the bowl, facing the crowd. Lothiar set a hand to the massive shoulder and said, “Ughan, you have my gratitude and my admiration.” The ogreling grunted and tilted his head back. Lothiar opened his throat with one swift stroke. Bright blood sprayed out over the upturned faces of the assembly; Ughan slumped forward and slipped down over the rim of the bowl.

  Paggon held out his great paw. Reluctant, Lothiar handed him the dagger and glanced back at Maliel.

  “Captain!” cried his lieutenant, then he bolted for the glowing doorway.

  Lothiar shouted, “Vil’och eleth,” enacting the Spell of Arrest. Maliel’s muscles stiffened mid-stride, and he toppled to the ground.

  “Lot’iar give us coward?”

  “He’s no coward. Maliel was the only one who suffered the cold, wet, and hunger with me. A valued friend.”

  Two of the shamans dragged Maliel to the lip of the bowl, set him on his feet facing the assembly. Lothiar felt he owed it to his faithful friend to watch him die, but he couldn’t. He looked to the night sky instead. Those cold, distant stars were worth the sacrifice, he told himself. He would make certain that every generation of free elves honored Maliel’s memory and spoke his name with reverence.

  When he dared look again, neither body was to be found. Dark blood and bright blood seeped down the slope and pooled together in the bottom of the granite bowl. At Lothiar’s side, Paggon Ironfist descended to a knee, an act never before recorded in the annals of Elarion, and bowing his head, he spoke words never before spoken by an ogre: “Dis naeni your servant, ‘Lari.”

  A slow grin built on Lothiar’s face. His head grew dizzy with triumph. The next generation of men would feel the blow of his mighty hammer. Gazing into the benighted west, over hundreds of kneeling ogres, he muttered, “May you live so long, Sons of Ilswythe.”

  ~~~~

  79

  Kelyn was just giving his body time to heal. That’s what he told himself. And why not? By the time the peace had been settled and he’d returned the keys of Nathrachan to the Princess Regent, he was sick with fever, and the surgeons feared he would lose his arm after all. He hadn’t made an impressive sight at the ceremony. Ki’eva had grinned smugly, expecting him to keel over any moment. Afterward, he’d made it as far as Lunélion before he collapsed. Lady Genna and her mother, Princess Mazél, let him convalesce there for two weeks. Genna, meanwhile, cursed Thorn’s absence. No one knew where he had taken himself, and Genna called it cruel that the avedra would abandon his twin brother to die now that the fighting was over.

  Near the end of those two weeks, Laral and Eliad ran to his room with a wondrous story. Thorn Kingshield had raced past Lunélion’s white walls, herding the king’s stolen horses. Two hundred blue roans, dark and shiny with sweat, had thundered northwest along the highway, bound for Bramoran. Then, late one night, Thorn appeared at Kelyn’s bedside and laid a hand to his infected arm for a couple of hours. He said hardly a word, merely confirmed the rumor of his journey to Zhian and wished Kelyn a safe ride home, then he was gone again before dawn.

  Once at Ilswythe, Kelyn let his mother fuss over him all she wanted. It gave him a good excuse to put off the inevitable. Watching Etivva hobble around the halls on a wooden foot, he wondered what good a War Commander would be with only one arm. The shaddra joked about it. “If you lose it, I will lend you one of mine, m’ lord. I have too many limbs as it is. They get in the way.”

  When the fever had been gone for a month and he could move his arm freely, with enough strength to control a warhorse, he decided he better get it over with. His mother found him in the stableyard one morning before the sun rose. “Where do you think you’re going
?” Alovi asked, tugging a shawl about her shoulders. Her eyes lingered on his arm.

  “I’m past well, Mother. The road will be hot by midday, so I better get an early start.”

  Her lips pursed. She didn’t feel inclined to repeat her question.

  “Windhaven, all right? I’m going to Windhaven.”

  “Oh,” she said, face softening. “Will there ever be peace between my sons?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t have to save me from the shadow. I took it for forgiveness, but I don’t know.”

  Her smile was sad enough to break his heart. “How close you two were.” A finger brushed the scar on his cheek. “Watch for bandits in the Pass.”

  Kelyn felt brave during the first half of the journey, but by the time he reached Helwende, he noticed he was keeping a tighter rein. Garrs had returned home; comparing war stories with his friend was excuse enough for him to stay an extra day in Lord Galt’s insufferable company. Over a course of mincemeat pies, Galt cried and groaned over his oldest son’s death, and with his gift for tact blamed everyone from the Goddess to King Rhorek to Kelyn’s father for his loss at Slaenhyll.

  “Don’t mind my father,” Garrs said, once Galt had heaved himself off to bed. “He makes a loud noise, but he doesn’t miss Geris. He never missed him when he was alive, for that matter. Geris would be weeks off debauching in the whorehouses, and father would never ask where he was. But on the hour, he would ask where dinner was.” He handed Kelyn a flask of chilled mountain wine. Despite the lateness of the hour, the great hall still sweltered from the midsummer heat.

  “You didn’t find your fingers on your march?”