Recognizing the osmur cloak half-covering Lord Ramsey’s still form, Jaxton galloped forward.
7
While massing clouds above Threeforks transformed bright azure into dull gray, the dark town had become a study in crimson. Scarlet flames leaped from building to building along a narrow street that had turned blood red.
From his vantage point atop the wall-walk surrounding the inn’s courtyard, Hawk felt as though the battle below had lasted forever.
He had spent the first part of the interminable day as he had the past several—contacting hundreds of birds to trace Ramsey’s progress without attracting the attention of the falcon-telepath. Even though he had fleetingly contacted the man several times during the reconnaissance, his shield evidently had been strong enough to hide his presence, for the telepath hadn’t been able to attack him and had not suspected their trap.
Then he had rechecked the layout of the town with his eagles, making sure that no one from a bird’s view could detect the fortifications and the hiding men, or determine that the soldiers masquerading in black and silver were not the men who had originally worn those uniforms.
The jaws of their trap had closed even more cleanly than they’d hoped-Hawk had never expected the troops to take the bait so enthusiastically, but they had—and he could see that the far end of town had become a charnel house for most of the soldiers. Some of the troops at the tail of the column had managed to escape back up the Buchanan Road, but most had been trapped along the street or in the courtyard.
Hawk leaned forward, aiming an arrow through the slitted parapet of the wall-walk. A black-uniformed soldier was trying to batter his way through a shuttered window into the tavern-Hawk released the arrow. The soldier crumpled when the shaft entered his back.
Before Hawk could fire another arrow, men in the courtyard below began to surrender-Imperial soldiers threw down their swords-Those who were not wounded raised their arms above their heads in submission. The inn’s door opened and some Yorkmen took them prisoner.
Turning to the other side of the walkway, Hawk saw Derek S’Mayler lean against the wall and look toward the burning town. Multicolored lights burst around him in a deadly pyrotechnic display. S’Mayler swayed slightly, as though his large frame were buffeted by a windstorm, yet Hawk felt nothing other than slight vibrations as one of the lightning-like flashes of red and black occasionally penetrated S’Mayler’s defense and hit the tavern wall.
The wind shifted direction, covering Hawk with an acrid smoke that stank of burning wood and flesh. It clung to his face and clothing and stung his eyes; when he wet his lips, the taste of ashes and death made him gag.
Then a sound like the screech of a bluejay made him look up, and he saw the cupola at the top of the inn burst into flames. He ran past Derek S’Mayler to the end of the wall and scrambled up the tiled roof toward the top. Several other men followed him. Reaching the structure, he took off his jacket and used it to beat at the flames.
“I’ll get some water,” shouted one of the men as he ran down the gentle slope behind the tower toward a window.
“Just get a couple of blankets,” said another, following.
In a moment they returned to subdue the fire. Fortunately the blaze appeared to have started in only one area, and they quickly smothered it. Hawk leaned back against the half-charred timber with a sigh of relief.
Then one of the men yelled, “The stable is on fire!”
Hawk blinked and rubbed his stinging eyes. Through the rising smoke he could see the building. The roof was ablaze, and he knew that the wood and hay would go up like tinder.
While he followed the other men to the nearest window and down through the inn, he thought of Roslyn. He knew she’d been stationed near the stables because of her ability to control animals. With growing alarm he remembered that she’d said she was terrified of fires.
They sprinted through the back of the tavern into the searing smoke outside. Horses screamed, men fought, and York soldiers struggled to form a bucket brigade. The smoke erased the sky and obscured the buildings.
Hawk moved blindly toward the stable, cognizant of the direction only because of the shrieking of panicked animals ahead.
Suddenly two horses appeared through the billowing smoke. Although their skin dripped with sweat, they moved with surprising calm until they were well away from the burning stable. Then their nostrils flared, terror replaced the vacant glaze of their eyes, and their careful trot became a wild gallop. They veered back in Hawk’s direction.
Jumping to avoid a collision, Hawk stumbled into one of the fire fighters. He recognized the white hair and soft blue eyes, if not Coleman S’Wessex’s soot-streaked face.
“Where’s Roslyn?” Hawk asked. He was certain that the horses’ strange behavior was caused by her telepathic control.
The older man shook his head. “I don’t know—she went inside the stable to get the horses out.”
“She’s still inside?” Hawk shouted over the din.
“She must have gotten out the back way with the rest of the men,” S’Wessex replied. As they moved closer to the barnlike structure, the whole building seemed to glow as the flames spread.
Coleman S’Wessex seized one of his men by the sleeve. “Siclari—did Ro get out with you?”
The man shook his head and tossed a bucket of water ineffectively against the wall. Then an Empire soldier appeared in the red-tinged haze, and the Yorkman instinctively swung his pail, knocking the other down.
Coleman caught the next bucket of water from the line as several more horses burst through the flaming doorway. It didn’t seem possible that the terrified animals could have escaped without Roslyn’s control.
“I’ve got to get her out of there,” Hawk yelled.
Before Coleman could move, Hawk twisted the bucket from his hands. Then the telepath plunged his scorched jacket into the cold liquid, poured the rest of the water over his head, and ran through the blazing doorway into the stable.
Sheets of flame moved down the walls like living things. Sparking and crawling from one piece of straw to the next, the fire moved quickly down the empty stalls.
A few beams fell in the back of the barn, and the roof shuddered.
Staring into the shadows and smoke, Hawk felt the intense heat blast against his skin. He coughed, choked, and pulled the jacket over his head. Breathing through the coolness of the water, he stepped forward.
A figure moved haltingly among the flames, running and stopping in a dance of delirium to the music of past terror.
“No … no … Matthew, it’s me,” whispered the figure. Hawk recognized Ro’s voice and moved toward her.
“Father? Father?” the girl’s voice shrieked-Then smoke flowed around her again, concealing her form.
“What’s happened to you? Don’t you recognize me?” cried the girl.
Hawk stumbled as another beam fell, nearly hitting him.
Reality suddenly caught up with him, and he realized his own danger. A wave of fear and panic smashed against him, but he stood his ground.
Then he saw Ro. She sat on the floor now, her eyes closed, her hair spread around her streaked face in a fan of singed gold. When he touched her, her eyes snapped open, revealing emeralds that flashed flames of reflected light.
Her face contorted into a wild mask. She shouted hysterically at him. Hawk pulled her to her feet and tried to lead her back toward the doorway. But her fists pounded against his chest. She struggled to pull away as her mind relived the past.
“Put down your sword Matt … ” she cried. “Matthew, it’s me. It’s Ro, Ro S’Cascar… . ” The words tumbled from her lips in confusion.
“Let me go… . ” Her fingers dug into his arm like talons as she twisted and squirmed, almost breaking his hold. “Matthew … ” She shrieked the name in terror. Her head arched back and her arms shoved against his chest as she frantically tried to get away. “Don’t make me hurt you… . “
Abruptly her mood quieted,
and she went limp in his arms.
“Father?” This time her voice was almost a sob.
Hawk pulled her under the protecting fold of his tattered jacket, and holding her tightly against him, headed toward the doorway.
“Father? Father?” her voice whispered hoarsely. “No, no … everyone’s gone crazy … killing each other … fire … everything’s burning, everyone’s gone crazy … I’ve got to get out … ,” she mumbled incoherently. “Matthew, what’s happening? … Matthew.… ” She screamed the last syllable of the name, and the sound echoed through the thunder of falling ceiling.
Then they were outside. Hands reached for Hawk, someone beat at the flames that had begun to crawl up his sleeve, and Coleman S’Wessex pulled the half-conscious girl from his arms and carried her toward the inn.
Hawk began to cough uncontrollably, so S’Wessex’s aide, Hank Siclari, let him drink from a bucket. His hands shook as he gulped the liquid. His whole body trembled from the sudden release of tension.
Still half-blinded and half-suffocated by the smoke, he was hardly aware of what was happening as the thin, white-haired Siclari led him back into the tavern-Following Coleman S’Wessex, they passed through the common room, which had been arranged for the wounded, up the stairs, and into S’Wessex’s room.
While Coleman S’Wessex lowered Roslyn to the bed, his aide showed Hawk to an overstuffed armchair. Then Coleman took one of a number of small identical brown bottles from the top of his dresser and made Ro drink the liquid. When he finished he handed one to Hawk.
“Drink this, it’s tomaad.”
Hawk gratefully accepted the stimulant, wondering how S’Wessex had obtained the Sylvan tonic-It was a sticky, saplike substance with a pleasant nut flavor-It immediately soothed his burning throat and lungs and eased his labored breathing.
Siclari began to treat Hawk’s burns, while Coleman S’Wessex tended Roslyn. With almost parental concern, S’Wessex bathed Ro’s face as she continued to murmur in delirium.
“The tapestries are burning … I’ve got to get out.” She coughed and then rasped, “Matthew, don’t you recognize me? … I’m Ro, Roger … Roger S’Cascar… . ” She screamed incoherent words and then whispered, “They’re crazy … crazy… . “
“What does she mean?” asked Hawk. S’Cascar would be the name of the ruling family of the Kingdom of Cascar.
Coleman S’Wessex didn’t answer.
The woman’s face grew quieter. “Don’t come any closer,” she whispered. “I’m Roger… ” Then she lapsed into silence, slowly moving her lips in fevered sleep.
“What is she saying?” Hawk repeated, trying to understand the crazy sense of the words- “Her name is Roslyn, yet she’s saying Roger S’Cascar. Aren’t all the S’Cascars dead?” His voice drifted off as he remembered the stories he’d heard about the holocaust that had turned Castle Cascar into a pile of rubble.
Almost twelve years before, Lord Taral had attacked the kingdoms of Cascar, Cumberland, and Westvirn in a single night of terror. He’d destroyed the three protecting Triad spellstones and then sent devastating spells at the undefended castles-First had come madness, causing the people inside the castles to fight one another. Friend killed friend, brother fought against brother. Then in rapid succession Taral sent fires and earthquakes to totally obliterate the Triad and the families who had erected it. It was said that the only ones to escape had been a few lucky guards who’d fought each other so enthusiastically that their battle carried them outside the castle gates, where the spells were too weak to hold them.
“Siclari, you’d better get back outside and see if we are still needed,” Coleman S’Wessex said to his aide.
As Hank Siclari closed the door, S’Wessex studied Hawk’s face intently, as though measuring his trustworthiness. Then he said, “No, they’re not all dead. Ro escaped. She’s the daughter of Lord William S’Cascar and is the last of her family.”
Coleman sank down upon the edge of the bed and stared at Ro. Suddenly he felt much older than sixty. His son had been killed last year, and when Ro returned from Greton she’d quickly become like a daughter to him. She was probably one of his closest relatives now—so many had died. The ruling families of neighboring Wessex and Cascar had often intermarried, so they were cousins many times over. His father’s sister was her grandmother; his grandfather, her great-grandfather- Coleman’s thoughts drifted and mused on the genealogy; it had been one of his hobbies in the days before the war.
Hawk interrupted his thoughts. “But Roger is a man’s name.”
“When Lord William learned that his wife was pregnant, he took her to the N’Omb Shrine at Elmera to have the N’Omb priests bless the unborn child, as in the old custom. It used to be the common practice, but the Church isn’t as influential as it once was. For a long time after N’Omb’s destruction the Church was all powerful, controlling everyone’s life and destiny.”
Coleman sighed. “But I guess it has been thousands of years since N’Omb’s punishment, and the people have forgotten. Some no longer even believe in N’Omb. But William S’Cascar was a devout man. So he had his unborn child blessed, and he also asked the oracle at Elmera for a prophecy. The N’Omb oracle predicted that the child would become a great warrior and kill an enemy threatening Cascar. William assumed that the baby would be a boy. So he and his wife decided to name their child Roger. They had the N’Omb priest baptize the unborn child then and there for luck—another old custom. When the child turned out to be a girl, they were stuck with the name. Of course, everyone soon called her Rog or Ro.”
“I still don’t understand. How did she escape the destruction of the Triad and Cascar? I thought all the S’Cascars were killed. She must have been just a child then.”
Coleman rubbed his chin thoughtfully, thinking about what Ro had told him about Hawk and adding his impressions of the man to hers. He decided to tell him the whole story.
“I believe you know that Ro has some telepathic abilities?”
Hawk nodded.
“She’s got other abilities as well. Her mother was Genevieve Rowen, Lord William S’Cascar’s second wife; she was one of the last direct descendants of that once-great family, most of whom were killed during the Great War with S’Shegan a century ago. The Rowens were known as great sorcerers, but actually they had very little ability to control magic. Their main power lay in their immunity to the magic of others. Roger inherited that immunity.”
“Then she wouldn’t have been affected by Taral’s spells the night he broke the Triad?” Hawk asked.
“That’s right. She must have awakened just as Taral destroyed the Triad spellstones. According to the story she told me, she ran out of her room, and her bodyguard, probably that Matthew she keeps mumbling about, attacked her under the force of the spell. She was only thirteen then, but she had been trained like her half-brothers, and she was forced to defend herself.” Coleman watched as Ro tossed in a troubled sleep, still reliving the nightmare.
“She ran through the castle while her friends and family fought each other, through the flaming hallways to the outside, protected from the spells and led to safety by the strange instinctive ability she possesses. It must have been the most terrifying experience of her life. I’m not sure exactly what happened, but she got a horse from somewhere, and, riding bareback, headed to Wessex. Of course, we hadn’t been attacked yet.
“She was icy calm when she reached me a few days later, in deep shock I suppose, and managed to tell a fairly coherent account of the attack. I knew that Wessex would certainly be Taral’s next target, so while I made preparations for defense, I sent the child to a distant cousin in Greton, where I knew she would be safe.”
He pounded his fist into his hand. “Of course, I thought then that it would be for only a year or so.”
Hawk struggled to understand. “But now that she’s back, why is she using the name Roslyn? If people knew that a S’Cascar were alive it would be good for their morale, especially in Cascar itself.”
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“You must have heard of the purges in the conquered kingdoms. Everyone of royal blood was killed. Certainly if Taral realized that a S’Cascar were still alive he’d want her killed, for the very reasons you mentioned. My own son was killed by an assassin’s knife, and there have been several attempts on my life. That’s why it’s important that you don’t tell anyone of Ro’s true identity.”
Hawk nodded. “Of course not, sir.”
Then Hank Siclari returned.
“The fight’s over,” he said. “Everything but the mopping up. Almost all of Ramsey’s men were killed; a few were captured, a few escaped—including Ramsey, I heard.”
“Since Ramsey wasn’t at the head of the column as we expected, he wasn’t surprised by the initial attack. Without catching him off guard, we didn’t have too much chance to kill him—he’s too powerful a sorcerer,” Hawk noted.
“Lord S’Mayler has called a meeting in his rooms for all his captains,” continued Siclari. He touched Coleman’s shoulder gently. “I’ll take care of her, Lord S’Wessex; you’d better go.”
“I should come too,” Hawk said reluctantly. “Derek will probably want me to send my eagles out tracking Ramsey’s men. I hope their telepath was killed during the fighting… . “
Coleman S’Wessex leaned forward to brush a lock of ash-stained hair from Ro’s troubled face-Then he stood. “If she wakes, give her some more of the tomaad.”
“I know what to do,” Siclari replied.
“Come on, sir,” said Hawk.
The exiled lord of Wessex moved slowly, feeling the full weight of age and battle fatigue. They stopped at the bathroom down the hall to wash the worst of the soot and blood from their faces and hands. Then they went to Derek’s suite.
The room was empty except for Stephen. The portly innkeeper’s head was bandaged with blood-soaked linen, but he seemed to have lost none of his cheerfulness.
“Come on in, gentlemen, I’m just setting out a few bottles of wine and whiskey for you. Everything’s still so confused around here, but I thought you could all use a drink. I had one or two myself … it sure helped this bump on my head. Yes it did! I don’t feel the pain much now.”
Master of Hawks Page 7