Blood of the Falcon, Volume 1 (The Falcons Saga)

by Ellyn, Court

  “Son of a bitch!” Leshan shouted. “You could’ve gotten us all killed!”

  The courtyard fell silent, except for the ringing in Kelyn’s ears. One eye or the other refused to hold still in his head and Leshan tilted right and left. Beside him, tilting just as precariously, Da clucked his tongue. “Precisely. You answered my question precisely, Leshan, well done.” He clapped his former squire on the back and left Kelyn to make amends. The courtyard breathed again as Keth issued orders to root out the household and expel them to the village beyond the walls.

  By the time Kelyn’s head stopped spinning and his mouth stopped bleeding, Leshan was ready to forgive. He lowered a hand to help Kelyn to his feet. “Two blows in a week,” Kelyn muttered. “Either I’m keeping the wrong company, or I’m the wrong company. Sorry, Leshan. You’ve my word, I’ll stay at your back next time.”

  “Good enough for me,” Leshan replied. “But Morach’s angry as hell at you, and Ulna was injured.”

  “Bad?”

  Leshan shrugged. “Bad enough. She’ll be out of engagements for a while.”

  Kelyn winced.

  “More pride to swallow, friend. But don’t worry, I’ll be with you all the way.” Whether to lessen Kelyn’s humiliation or to get full enjoyment from it, Leshan hid behind his brilliant smile.

  ~~~~

  18

  Along the shores of the Brenlach, pyres of the dead burned against the lurid light of dawn. Pale smoke shrouded the rising sun. Kelyn watched the billows of ash rise and take to the wind, a grim banner announcing the opening of war. Infantrymen of Aralorr and Fiera burned together. Individual biers of brush and cottonwood had been built for Aralorr’s slain knights and for Birél, Lord of Nathrachan. Seeing the flames overtake Lord Birél was too much for Kelyn; he hid himself behind a fisherman’s shack where he could finally be sick.

  Lord Rand had been found silent and cold in the underbrush where he’d been struck. Gathered around his bier, two dozen knights and his two squires saw him windward borne. The show of respect moved Kelyn—if he were soon cut to pieces, he could rest knowing his peers would honor him. That is, unless he made enemies of them one by one. He allowed himself to remember dumping a flask of wine into Rand’s lap, then went in search of Lady Ulna.

  The carpenters who had built the ferries now turned their hammers to repairing Nathrachan’s splintered gate. The last of the warhorses and supplies were being ferried across the Bryna, and Rhorek’s engineers busily surveyed the bank for the best place to begin work on a bridge. If a retreat became necessary, the king would escape with as many of his people as possible. Rhorek had made his triumphant entry into Nathrachan shortly before dawn, but upon dismounting he’d warned everyone to keep victory from going to their heads. All they had accomplished was stirring a hornet’s nest.

  Kelyn searched the dining hall, where the long lacquered table had been converted into the surgeon’s table. The clank of armor and the groans of the dying replaced the clink of silver and crystal. Rather than the savory aromas of roast duck, the hall stank of blood and vomit.

  Ulna sat upon a pallet, reclining against the wall. The ‘woman’s ward’ was screened off to allow the women a measure of privacy and took up only a small corner of the dining hall. Only three others, all archers, occupied the space with the Lady of Blue Mountain. Her face was pale and contorted as she watched a surgeon cauterize an infantryman’s handless wrist. To the good fortune of the casualties, crates of medical supplies had been among the first brought across the river. Drugged, the man on the table made hardly a sound.

  “M’ lady?” Kelyn said, feeling as timid as a lamb in a wolf’s den.

  Ulna tore her eyes from the surgeon’s table and raked red curls from her brow with a sluggish hand. “Well, well,” she slurred. Kelyn knelt beside her and extended his hand to show her an exquisite brooch. The squires had rounded up the valuables, and Eliad had swiped handfuls of jewels from the princess’s jewelry boxes and presented them to Kelyn. The brooch he offered was shaped like a falcon, studded with white Doreli diamonds. “I was going to give this to my mother. But I want you to have it. As a token of apology.”

  She glanced at the brooch and managed a shake of the head. “We’re knights, Kelyn, fully able to decide for ourselves. We chose to follow you. We could have let you go alone, but where would’ve been the fun in that?”

  “But I shouldn’t have—”

  She raised a hand. “I’m glad to know you know. Say nothing more about it.”

  He closed his fist on the brooch and asked, “Are you in pain?”

  Ulna chuckled and repositioned her injured leg. “Those physicians must’ve packed a whole silverthorn bush into this bloody hole. I can’t feel a blessed thing. Not to mention the bottle Kalla brought me from the cellars. Fieran white isn’t bad.”

  Kelyn rose to go, but Ulna grabbed his fist. He opened it, and she took the diamond falcon. “To the victors go the spoils, right?”

  Kelyn grinned. “I’ve heard it said.”

  In the courtyard, Kelyn learned that Morach was supervising the ordering of supplies in the armory, so he decided to wait for a convenient time instead of interrupting the man with apologies. He found a quieter corner, out of the way of horses, squires, and orderlies, and began cleaning the last traces of battle from his blade. His blood-soaked surcoat had been taken to the laundry where Fieran maids washed Aralorri garments. His squire found him and offered a whetting stone and oil. While Kelyn honed the blade, his squire searched the rings of his hauberk for splashes of dried blood.

  One of Rhorek’s many illegitimate sons, Eliad was only eight and more than eager to please. By law, he could never hold the title of prince or assume the throne, but because Eliad was the child of one of Rhorek’s favorite mistresses, his father had shown him favor by granting his request to become a squire, and one day, a knight. The boy seemed to understand that his position as Kelyn’s squire was the one path open to him that might allow him to earn a measure of honor and respect. He hadn’t yet neglected a task or complained, and he anticipated Kelyn’s needs before he could ask, a bit overwhelming at times, but Kelyn was patient with the boy.

  Eliad worked carefully around the motion of Kelyn’s sharpening arm, resembling a monkey searching an elder’s fur for fleas. Finally, he plopped down on the flagstones and announced, “Clean except for the front, m’ lord. I’ll get that when you’re done.”

  “My thanks, Eliad, but I’ll keep the mail on for a while. I have a feeling I’ll be needing it soon, and it’ll just get dirty again.”

  “You mean, you can feel a battle coming?” Eliad leaned forward on his knees, his hazel eyes—very much Rhorek’s—round with awe.

  Kelyn tried to keep a straight face and answered, “I hope the feeling serves me ill.”

  “What if you’re right?”

  “Then I fight,” he said, shrugging.

  “This time can I—?”

  “No. You’ll stay here till you’ve had more training. I can carry my own shield. And if we ride this time, you’re too big to fit in a saddlebag.”

  Instead of being disappointed, Eliad demonstrated absolute faith in Kelyn’s feeling: “Shall I ready Chaya, m’ lord?” He leapt up and ran for the stables.

  Before Kelyn could call the boy back, another approached him. “I heard what you did for Ulna.”

  Kelyn glanced at a pair of dustless black boots. Narrow feet. He resumed his task, eyes strictly on the sword edge, and replied, “Should’ve been more, Lieutenant.”

  “I also heard what you did to Lord Birél,” Lissah went on. “Quite the target for your first engagement.”

  “No honor in it,” he commented. “He didn’t know what he was doing with that sword. I think he expected to die. He saw a highborn come through the gate and chose me. Might’ve been Morach or Leshan or Gyfan, but it wasn’t.”

  Lissah stood silently, shifted feet a couple of times, and Kelyn hoped his show of humility undermined her opinion of him. Maybe she t
hought he was lying; he told himself he didn’t care what she thought and kept swiping with the whetstone. Finally, she said, “Look, I want to apologize for my … behavior … the other day at Whitewood. It was bad form and, well, there it is.”

  Kelyn still refused to look at her. “Apology accepted.”

  The narrow feet squared up, and the steel gauntlets on her forearms rattled together as they crossed over her chest. The toe of a boot started tapping.

  “Was that a conditional apology, Lieutenant?”

  “Pardon?”

  “If you really meant it, you wouldn’t be waiting for me to reply in kind.” He finally paid her the courtesy of looking up at her. “I wasn’t hurting you back there at Whitewood.” He turned over a slashed palm. “And I gave you the field.”

  Lissah huffed. “Gave me … ? What you did was make me look like a fool.”

  Kelyn laid aside the whetstone, climbed to his feet, used the gray sleeve of his undershirt to wipe the oil from the blade, then slid it away. “No, you did that for yourself. You’re the one who challenged me over nothing more than an exchange of breath.” As he had in the Whitewood, he leant in close. “Now, is this so terrible?”

  Her voice became soft: “I hope you get gangrene and die slow.” She turned and made for the nearest door to the keep. The long pale braid swinging at her backside looked much like a banner waving a retreat.

  “You’re a coward,” he said to the braid. She kept going. “Lieutenant!” he bellowed. Lissah halted abruptly. A pair of foot soldiers paused nearby, whispered, smirked.

  Lissah’s cheeks bloomed red. She lifted her chin and hurried up the steps.

  Should he let her go? Had he read the signals wrong? Never. They were subtle, but they were there. He ran up the steps two at a time. In a dark, narrow corridor, he heard the scuff of a boot and felt the touch of steel against his throat.

  “Goddess, Lieutenant,” he said, shoving away the dagger. “You’ve got a real problem.”

  “Who in hell do you think you are?” she snarled. “Never humiliate me like that.”

  “Humiliate—?”

  “You would do well to remember that I’m no swooning scullery maid who comes hither when you call—”

  “Really?” Had he ever mentioned the swooning women in his bed? He didn’t think so.

  “—but your superior.”

  “You, my superior? Ha! In no way at all.”

  “As the lieutenant of the Falcon Guard, I most certainly outrank you.”

  If she was childish enough to pull rank on him, he could play along. “Ah, but you forget, Lieutenant. My father is heir to the throne. And who do you suppose is his heir?” He clucked his tongue. “No, no, Lieutenant, I don’t think so. Now, if you’ll excuse me …” He started for the courtyard.

  “You’re no prince, boy,” Lissah declared, “just a conceited son of a bitch. And of all the sons of bitches I’ve known, you’re the most impossible.”

  Kelyn smiled as if she’d paid him a compliment. “Why, Lieutenant, I hardly know what to say. You must be practically in love with me.” He walked back out into the sunlight, listening for her footsteps. He heard the clatter of hooves instead.

  Lady Maeret and one of her scouts cantered through the gateway. The carpenters repairing the gate scattered to the wayside.

  “Sire!” Maeret shouted. “M’ lord Keth!”

  The king and his War Commander emerged on a second-story balcony.

  “Fieran armies, approaching from the south,” she announced.

  “Banners of Karnedyr, sire,” reported the scout, “and Nathrachan’s knights.”

  After a brief consultation with the king, Keth ordered, “Knights of Bramoran, knights of Ilswythe, mount up!”

  Squires ran for the stables, but Eliad emerged, leading Chaya, fully saddled. “You were right, m’ lord,” he cried and held the warhorse steady while Kelyn climbed into the saddle. Too slowly to suit Kelyn, knights and cavalry gathered into a pair of lines before the gate. Leshan joined him, looking pale in the cheeks. “I’ll stay with you, don’t worry,” Kelyn said. Leshan nodded, but seemed none the happier.

  At last, the War Commander rode to the head of the lines and swept his arm forward.

  ~~~~

  Kelyn heard the enemy’s approach before he saw it. A thunder inside the hills unsettled the warhorses, and Kelyn’s belly fluttered with the same unease. This time, however, he emulated his father, who maintained a calm façade. Inside a red-plumed helm, the War Commander’s eyes aimed forward. Kelyn supposed he was measuring the size of the dust cloud rising beyond the hills. A couple of rainless weeks had turned the road to Karnedyr into a dusty, white scratch. To Kelyn, the cloud wafting up on a south wind might well have been kicked up by ten thousand men.

  Two distinct banners materialized from the dust: Karnedyr’s orange checked with Fieran green, and the briar rose of Nathrachan on the green and white stripes of the Princess Ki’eva. Birél’s vassals were coming to take back what belonged to them. Reaching this realization, Kelyn felt out of place. What was he doing here? He was an invader of foreign soil. Fieran land had been violated, and every Fieran would fight to reclaim it. Keep your wits about you, Da had said. The Fierans wanted Rhorek dead; they had some greater scheme in the works, and they had to be stopped.

  A strange thing war was. Kelyn’s people considered themselves the offended party; the Fierans surely felt they had been wronged. The solution, then, came down to the strongest sword arm, the trickiest tactics, no?

  The Fierans seemed to be relying on the former, for they marched straight up the road for Nathrachan’s gate. Three phalanxes of Aralorri infantry obstructed their path. A quarter of a mile behind the infantry, Vonmora’s archers manned the walls, ready, should the Fierans push the Aralorris back to the fortress. Lady Maeret had hidden her cavalry behind a hillock to the west of the road, and Keth’s occupied the deep eaves of a stand of andyr to the east.

  The Fierans wasted no time with parleys. The knights of Nathrachan had been granted the first charge. Chestnut warhorses thundered up the road, and the green-and-white banner swept clear of the dust. Like a red wave, they smashed into the Aralorri infantry. How fast men and horses began to fall, screaming. Kelyn willed his father to order the charge and aid his people. But the War Commander waited. How could he stand by, calm and calculating, while the Fierans trampled his men into the sod?

  The knights in green won through, reformed, and charged again. A second wave thundered up the road; the knights of Karnedyr were charging to join their countrymen. Pinched now between two lines of cavalry, the Aralorri foot began to break apart. Keth bared the battered blade that for twenty years had hung over the mantel. A herald blasted a long note on a curved horn, and from across the hills, a long note answered. The knights of Ilswythe and Bramoran unsheathed their swords with a high-pitched hiss, and the War Commander led them at a gallop from the andyr thicket. From around the base of the far hillock fluttered the white tower of Lunélion and the white plume of Lady Maeret’s helm.

  Kelyn had never experienced such a dizzying maelstrom of fear and exhilaration. He gave Chaya his head, one fist about the falcon blade, the other secured in the brases of his shield, and he felt as fierce as a falcon diving upon its prey. One moment he was surrounded by his countrymen, flying over open meadow; the next, he was enveloped by enemies. He braced himself for impact as Chaya charged headlong into a red warhorse. The Fieran knight was catapulted from the saddle, and Aralorri foot engulfed him before he hit the ground.

  The falcon blade struck at one green surcoat and another; Chaya struck before and aft with tooth and hoof. Kelyn felt somehow outside himself—sword and shield were weightless in his grasp, men grunted and fell away from him, and this fury, this beautiful fury—with it he could tear out the heart of the world.

  Fewer and fewer Fieran knights countered him, and Kelyn felt the Fierans falling back. He heard no horn or cry to stay him, so he pursued. Glancing right and left, he found Morach
and Leshan, Gyfan and his father’s red-plumed helm. The great roar came from Aralorri infantry shouting and running along behind.

  Ahead, the Fieran knights attempted to draw up and reform a line before their infantry, but the might of the Black Falcon broke over them and they fell back yet again. Long pikes jabbed from below. Common soldiers were covering the retreat of their lords.

  Why didn’t the fools run away? Kelyn would make them wish they had. The falcon blade slashed low, and every give of flesh or mail or helm sent a spark of satisfaction through him.

  Something brought his glance around. A cry, perhaps, that differed from all the others. A familiar voice. He glimpsed a pike embedded in the chest of Leshan’s horse. The animal reared, throwing Leshan over the helmets of the pikemen. He landed with a roll that brought him back to his feet, but Fieran infantry closed around him.

  Kelyn vaulted from the saddle and slashed through the crush of jabbing iron, beat away a pair of pikemen with his shield, and pressed his back to Leshan’s. Pivoting one around the other, they held their position amid a tide of Fierans, as if they were rocks at the edge of the sea.

  Morach, high on his gray, shouted over the din, “Get out of there!” He held Chaya by the reins and beckoned with his sword arm.

  A Fieran knight, without horse or helm, ran for them. Leshan intercepted the broadsword’s onslaught upon his shield and staggered to his knees. Kelyn felt him go down, spun with sword at full extension, and drew a purple line across the Fieran’s throat. Leshan shouted a warning, but Kelyn never saw the infantryman charging with a leveled pike …

  … and on the narrow road of Windgate pass, Kieryn cried out and fell from the saddle. Pain ripped through his leg. Zellel called to him, “The ledge, boy!” Kieryn rolled over and stared down a thousand feet at the carriage broken at the bottom of the chasm. He scrambled backward, under the hooves of the brown mule. She bucked and bolted, and Zellel cursed her in Elaran and hauled back on the reins before she could run halfway down the mountain.