Victory of the Hawk

by Angela Highland

  Jekke couldn’t bring herself to pray for such mercy, though. She could see no other reason for the report of the Anreulag’s actions than the gods’ own displeasure at the heresy running rampant in the west, and she had begun to believe that her captain thought the same.

  When she roused him out of slumber in his quarters in the cathedral and saw the fervor kindling in his eyes at her report, she was sure.

  “Take Wulsten with you and do everything in your power to intercept these men,” he ordered her. “The rest of us will be a day behind you.”

  That surprised her. “Our entire company’s moving out, sir?”

  “We can’t hold Shalridan much longer, Lieutenant, not with as few knights as we have on hand. And if the gods want to hand us the means to accomplish what the Bhandreid sent us here to do in the first place, then far be it from me to refuse them. Follow those men. Leave us signs. We’ll find you.”

  In the woods south of Dolmerrath, Jeuchar 9, AC 1876

  Tracking the two sailors wasn’t difficult—they were trained to the sea, not to land, and showed little sign of knowing how to hide the traces of their journey. They might easily have lost themselves in the ongoing wave of people fleeing Shalridan in all directions, for neither man was distinctive of feature. But the horses—strong, well-trained stallions both—were far more striking of appearance than their riders.

  And there was only one remote section of Kilmerry Province where they might be bound.

  Every member of the Order of the Hawk, from the captains down to the youngest cadets, knew that the last surviving free elves in the realm had been chased into Kilmerry’s northern coastal woods. But only when she’d been ordained as a full Knight of the Hawk had Jekke learned why the Order hadn’t yet breached those woods in the Anreulag’s name. Elven magic was loose there, a magic strong enough to haunt the forest—and to fill the minds of even the most resolute of Hawks with blind, unreasoning fear. To admit that such power still existed unchecked by the Church would have shamed them all, and so every ordained Hawk had standing orders to enter that forest only in the direst of needs, and with the greatest of caution.

  Burgeoning rebellion was a dire enough need—and so Jekke hoped that, if they were still answering prayers, the gods would see fit to let her and Bron accomplish their mission.

  While they were still on well-traveled roads, it was easy enough to follow the sailors without being conspicuous. But once they veered into the woods, they had to strike a delicate balance between stealth and speed. Ride too slowly, and they’d lose their quarry. Too fast, and they’d alert them. Neither was an option, not when the captain had made it clear that Shalridan was slipping out of the Order’s control, and not when the very realm might be doing the same.

  She hadn’t dared to ask Bron Wulsten if he knew of the report they’d received over the telegraph, though she could scarcely imagine how it would have escaped his attention if the word was already spreading through Shalridan. The specter of it haunted her every action, crackling through her hands each time she reached for her horse’s reins, her weapons or her amulet. As she and Bron rode farther north, closer and closer to the sea, she caught herself starting at shadows. Was this how the elves felt, wondering whether the Anreulag might appear at any moment and smite them in Her holy wrath? How did they live each day with such an enervating fear?

  That was an unexpected, unwelcome sympathy—and one she could ill afford. Grimly, doggedly, she forced her thoughts instead to prayers of penitence.

  When she and Bron finally caught up with the sailors, they became prayers of exultation. “Ani a bhota Anreulag,” she cried at the sight of the other two horses in the distance.

  “Arach shae,” Bron called back.

  One of the sailors spotted them, and the chase was on.

  The men they chased weren’t expert horsemen—and so, for all that they rode horses that were the match of any raised by the Church, Jekke and Bron soon began to close in on them. There was no trail, but that didn’t matter. All around them were tall, aged trees untouched by the axes of lumbermen, with enough space between moss-covered trunks that the horses could leap and weave between them. Jekke scowled ahead as she rode, her attention locked on every move the other horses made. At her distance she couldn’t be sure—but those other mounts ran as if they knew the terrain better than their riders, as if they’d traversed it before. Which made it all the more imperative, as far as she was concerned, that they overtake them before they could reach whatever destination they had in mind.

  She didn’t want to think about the consequences of failure. Jekke could see it even now, the Anreulag Herself, turning on them in Her righteous rage, obliterating them where they stood. The vision had haunted her sleep for the past four days. It haunted her again now, turning her skin cold and clammy even as her horse raced along, setting her pulse racing far out of proportion to the urgency of their pursuit. In sharp contrast her amulet abruptly fired, with such a searing heat that it made her wonder for one brief, terrified moment whether it had burst into physical flame.

  Only then did she realize Bron was screaming.

  At first she couldn’t see why—then, as she twisted in her saddle, she spied new riders charging at them, from somewhere ahead of the men they were hunting. Her vision blurred. Beneath her, her horse faltered, sensing her indecision and instinctively shying out of the path of the onrushing intruders. The one in the lead—oh gods.

  Jekke screamed at the sight of her, a redheaded she-demon with uplifted hands, hurling fire ahead of her, toward Bron. The other Hawk had his pistol out, but his one shot went wild. One of the horses they’d been chasing let out a scream of its own, rearing and throwing its rider, sending his body hurtling with sickening force into the nearest tree.

  In rapid succession, the she-demon’s followers snapped bows up in Bron’s direction. Arrows sliced the air. Several struck Bron at once, and before Jekke could do more than howl her dismay, he tumbled limply out of his saddle.

  Fear surged up in Jekke, blinding her, choking her.

  Oh gods oh gods the elves have come, they’re going to kill us both—

  Magic, of course there’s magic, but it’s too strong oh gods it’s too strong I can’t Cleanse this—

  Holy Anreulag forgive me I only wanted to serve You! Don’t let me die please don’t let me die—

  Bron!

  But all she could see now was the Anreulag, towering over her, Her image merging and blurring with the she-elf who led the attackers. Any moment now, the holy fire would sweep over her—would join with the fire of her amulet, burning at her breast. She should have invoked that power. A proper Hawk, a true Knight of the Order, would have called upon that sacred strength and run down the elven heretics who dared to spill the blood of those who served the Voice of the Gods. But her patrol partner was dead, their quarry now out of her reach, and the Good Folk of the North were charging at her now through the trees, their horses’ hooves a rhythm of implacable vengeance.

  Somehow, even as she howled in terrified protest, Jekke found her horse’s reins and wheeled the beast around. She jammed her heels into its sides, and as it galloped for its life and her own, she clung in desperation to its neck. Pain bit into her a single time—an arrow from her pursuers striking her somewhere, but not somewhere vital enough to make her fall.

  How long it took her to escape, she had no notion. But she was still sobbing, begging the gods and their Voice for forgiveness, when the rest of the Hawks found her at last.

  Chapter Five

  Dolmerrath, Jeuchar 9, AC 1876

  If there was anything Faanshi had come to learn since she’d gained her freedom—aside, that is, from the truly disturbing breadth of her healing magic—it was that she had only the barest conception of how a life outside slavery might be led.

  To be sure, Julian had warned her that the elves wer
e fugitives, and she understood now what that meant. Even with the home they’d carved out for themselves in the caves by the northern ocean, they still lived each day in fear for their lives. The security of Dolmerrath depended entirely upon the strength of Kirinil’s Wards, and to step outside that protection was to risk the eyes and the swords of the Hawks. Faanshi had seen that firsthand. But not until they’d all escaped from the city of Shalridan, rescuing Kestar Vaarsen from a Cleansing at his own Order’s hands, had she had a chance to finally see how the people of Dolmerrath lived within the Wards.

  There was always work to do, for the elves and the humans who chose to live with them needed food and clothing as well as a safe haven. Several of the caves, with the aid of mirrors Tembriel had charmed to mimic sunlight, were dedicated to growing fruits and vegetables. Dolmerrath’s people also had boats, sent out under the cover of night to fish the surrounding waters—and to periodically trade with human smugglers. The caves sheltered weavers and artisans, winemakers and cobblers. Men and women worked together to teach the children, some elf, some human, and some with the blood of both. They made barrels. They mended wagons and nets. They fed, groomed and exercised the beasts of Dolmerrath, the dogs, cats, messenger birds and horses.

  Faanshi would gladly have volunteered for any task that could have used her hands, but Kirinil claimed the lion’s share of her time, proclaiming that mastery of her magic was the greatest service she could do them. She was grateful to follow his advice, for Kirinil was less intimidating than his brother Gerren. As Dolmerrath’s leader, polite though he was to her, Gerren held rank that made him automatically unnerving in Faanshi’s eyes. Those with rank, in her experience, had the power to constrain her.

  The Duke of Shalridan had taught her that when he’d been her master.

  Kirinil, though, had magic like her—and that made her think of him almost as kin, though he shared no blood with her as Alarrah did. It gave them something in common. The greatest blessing of Djashtet, though, was Kirinil’s willingness to teach her. With his help, she hoped she would be able to earn a place alongside Dolmerrath’s other mages, and help its people as skillfully as they did with their own gifts.

  “You’re a healer, valannè,” he told her. “But what you did in Arlitham Abbey makes you a shielder, like me. We need that as much as healing. My Wards won’t last forever.”

  He began to train her almost as soon as they returned from Shalridan, leaving her little time for anything else save meals, rest and prayer. And she was with Kirinil, diligently practicing shielding herself enough to keep him from touching her, when a young girl came running to find her.

  “Healer, come quickly! We need you in the stable caverns, they’ve brought in the Rook’s horse!”

  Julian, the assassin and thief who’d rescued her from slavery, worked under the name the Rook. By either moniker, he was the most important person to Faanshi in all of Dolmerrath; because of him, she had her freedom. One stricken look was all Kirinil needed to let her go—and in fact, he came swiftly on her heels as she bolted down to the stable caverns, the girl tugging at her hand all the way.

  Pain skittered across her awareness as she drew within range of the cavern’s main entrance, centered first on the pair who were almost blocking the way into the chamber. One of them was Alarrah, whose glowing hands were pressed against the shoulder of the other, a bedraggled, pale-faced man Faanshi recognized on sight. He was one of the two crewmembers of the ship that’d brought her, Kestar, Julian and the rest of their traveling companions safely to Dolmerrath. The vessel hadn’t been equipped to carry horses. Julian had paid two of the crew to bring the stallions that belonged to him and his partner Nine-fingered Rab overland.

  But she could see only Julian’s horse Morrigh in the cavern. He was sequestered off in one of the few stalls the elves had built along the cavern’s walls, with Julian’s tall figure at his head. Nine-fingered Rab was at his side, his young face stricken, and Faanshi’s heart sank. The stable hands, elf and human alike, were busily keeping every other horse in the cavern out of Morrigh’s way, and even to Faanshi’s inexperienced ears, the level of noise in the place seemed unusually subdued.

  She could see no sign of Rab’s Tornach anywhere.

  Still, though, there was a wounded man closer to her than the horses, and her magic roused at his proximity, even though her sister’s was already awake. “Akreshi, what happened?” she cried as she hurried up. Once she was in range, though, she realized that the sailor was shaking with as much fear as pain. His eyes were wide. Sweat gleamed along his brow, and his attention was locked on her sister as though she were his only anchor in a storm. He came through the Wards. By now, she could recognize the signs. “Alarrah, how can I help?”

  “I’ve got this man attended. There’s a horse over there that needs you.” Her sister didn’t turn her attention from the bloodied cloth and flesh beneath her palms. Alarrah’s voice was uncommonly short, and Faanshi paused uncertainly at the sound of it.

  “All my fault,” her charge groaned, writhing under Alarrah’s touch. All that seemed to keep him from collapsing to the floor was the support of the rock wall behind him. “Hawks came on us out of goddamn nowhere…we tried to outrun ‘em, I swear we tried. So many Hawks, so many…they were going to kill me, I had to run, I had to leave him behind, all my fault, all my fault!”

  “Sir, I must ask you again to hold still.”

  Gunshot. The feel of it was disturbingly familiar to Faanshi; even though the echo of healing Julian of a bullet wound had subsided from her senses many days hence, her memory hadn’t let it go. Her power roiled in reaction to an injury very like that now, and only when Kirinil grasped her shoulder did her awareness snap back to her teacher.

  “Shield,” he reminded her quietly. “And go. Alarrah knows how to tend Ward shock. You don’t, not yet. Morrigh needs your help more. I’ll need to question this man once he’s settled down, and report to Gerren.”

  That was all the encouragement Faanshi needed to hasten across the cavern, as swiftly as her feet could carry her. As she drew near to the stall that held Morrigh, she got a much clearer look at him. A woolen blanket was draped over his back, and his head drooped low, almost right into Julian’s chest. Nine-fingered Rab, meanwhile, was crouched at the horse’s front left leg, which he was rubbing down with slow, careful movements. The smell of liniment hit Faanshi, pungent yet soothing—but not quite strong enough to mask the metallic tang of blood.

  At her approach, the stallion started violently. Julian’s head swiveled in her direction, though he didn’t otherwise break his contact with Morrigh. “Carefully, girl,” he warned her, his voice low and controlled. “He’s hurt and he’s frightened. If you’re coming over here, make sure he can see you.”

  “Slowly,” added Rab, even as he scrambled backward out of Morrigh’s way.

  His tone was far sharper than Julian’s, for which Faanshi could hardly blame him if he’d just lost his own horse. She’d ridden Tornach with him sometimes, though not as often as Morrigh, and she was all too keenly aware that Rab had never particularly liked her. But she knew the two men well enough now to have a very strong idea of what lurked beneath their demeanors: grief. For the horse that was wounded, and the one that was lost.

  “I’ve come to help.” Faanshi drew in a silent, steadying breath and ventured cautiously forward. Morrigh snorted at her over Julian’s shoulder, a loud and anxious noise that prompted her to add softly to him, “Eshallavan, Morrigh. You know me. Let me come and see you, won’t you?”

  “It’s just Faanshi, lad, no cause for alarm,” Julian immediately agreed. His left hand scratched the stallion’s nose, while his right repeatedly stroked his mane. “Rab, have you got the wound clean?”

  “As clean as it’s going to get. Does she need to come around to this side?”

  She reached the horse, coming up on Julian’s left side, and out of
the corner of her eye she saw him start—not as overtly as his mount, but a start nonetheless. Still not used to having a left eye again. Nor was she entirely used to the idea that she’d restored that eye to him. Yet he remained otherwise entirely composed as he murmured to her, “Do you? Have you ever healed a horse before?”

  Faanshi had to shake her head, even as her power swirled into the forefront of her awareness. Usually the warning of the proximity of pain was a clarion trumpet through her senses, but this time it was muted, muddled somehow. “He’s neither human nor elf, but I can tell he’s hurting. That ought to be enough.”

  “Then give it a try. I’ve got faith in you.”

  Simple words, simply spoken—and yet, Faanshi had to remind herself not to gape in surprise. Heat rushed into her cheeks, and if she’d had any other task at hand, she might have looked away. But there was a wounded creature before her. Her magic’s call was growing louder. And so she contented herself with casting a swift little smile up at Julian before she lifted her hands to join his on the stallion’s black muzzle.

  Morrigh was indeed neither elf nor human. But as with every other healing she’d ever done, contact was all she needed to do her work.

  There was no deluge of memories such as she’d experienced before, or at least not one expressed in words and concepts her conscious brain could understand. Exhaustion and pain and thirst, though, were all too clear. With them came a dim recollection of running, already fading beneath the cooling comfort of a woolen blanket and the attentions of familiar hands. And she didn’t need to step around to Morrigh’s flank. She instantly sensed the wound Rab had been tending, a long, shallow graze along his left front shoulder.

  “Julian, he needs water,” she said.

  Then Faanshi closed her eyes, reached within herself, and found the inner hearth that Kirinil had taught her to build as a place to house her power. In her mind’s eye she reached in to stoke the fire in that hearth, without poker or kindling. When her fingers touched the flame, the magic flowed.