The Gold Falcon

by Katharine Kerr

  Through the slice in Honelg’s shirt guts bulged, blood-streaked gray membranes. Honelg dropped to his knees, and his sword slid from his hand as he clutched the pieces of his blood-soaked shirt to the wound. He threw his head back and gasped open-mouthed, in too much pain to even scream.

  “The first was for your servant,” Gerran said, “the second for Warryc. You’re a mad dog, Honelg, not a man at all.”

  Gerran set one foot against Honelg’s chest and shoved the dying lord so hard that Honelg buckled sideways, sprawling into the dirt with a twist that laid him on his back. Honelg moaned, and he seemed to be looking at the sky, his eyes flickering this way and that.

  “Where are you?” Honelg whispered. “My lady! Too dark.”

  He caught his breath with one last ghastly rattle and died.

  For a long moment no one moved or spoke. Prince Voran was the first to shudder; he cursed softly under his breath. As if at a signal the other men began to mutter among themselves, but not at the mere sight of death. Gerran turned to a white-faced Salamander and retrieved his helm and shield.

  “Tell me somewhat, gerthddyn,” Gerran said. “Was he calling for his lying whore of a demoness?”

  “He was,” Salamander said. “She’s supposed to come meet her faithful when they die. I wish he’d seen the truth before he died, but then, if he’d seen the truth, he wouldn’t have died.”

  “As if I give a pig’s fart!” Gerran said. “The Lord of Hell’s welcome to him.”

  Salamander looked inclined to argue. Rather than curse at the gerthddyn, Gerran turned away. Movement caught his gaze, and he glanced at the broch. Someone was standing on the roof, someone too short and slender to be a warrior from either side.

  “Is that Honelg’s son?” Gerran said, pointing with his sword.

  “It looks like it, truly,” Salamander said. “And it looks like others have seen the lad as well. Come on!” He took off running for the broch.

  A little clot of Westfolk and Deverry men, Tieryn Cadryc and Gwerbret Ridvar among them, stood in the ward and craned their necks to look up. By the time that Gerran and Salamander joined them, the skinny little lad had gone over the side in a futile attempt to escape. He was clinging to the outer wall of the broch, a few feet down from the roof and a good long way above the ward.

  “We’ve got him now,” Ridvar said.

  “Got him?” Prince Daralanteriel said. “It seems to me that he’s a fair bit higher than we can reach.”

  “I meant, Your Highness, that one of the archers can strike the lad down easily enough.”

  “What?” Calonderiel stepped forward and set his hands on his hips. “Do I have this right? You want one of my men to kill a frightened child for you, and in cold blood? How old is he? Eight summers? Seven?”

  “It’s not his age that matters,” Ridvar said. “He’s Honelg’s heir, the heir of a rebel against my rule. When he comes of age, he’ll swear vengeance for this, and that makes him a threat. It’s not like I want to kill him.” Ridvar’s voice carried little conviction on this last. “But I can’t tolerate rebels and keep the respect of my men.”

  “Indeed?” Calonderiel paused to let his lip curl in contempt. “Well, if that matters so much to you, fetch him down yourself.”

  Ridvar’s face flushed red, and he set his lips together hard. He turned his gaze to Daralanteriel and raised one eyebrow in a silent question.

  “The banadar’s men are his to command,” Dar said, “not mine.”

  “Now here!” Cadryc shoved himself between Calonderiel and Ridvar. “Your Grace, that lad is my grandson.”

  Ridvar began to speak, then hesitated. Cadryc crossed his arms over his chest and stared the young gwerbret full in the face. For a long moment the impasse held.

  “I can’t have heard you a-right, Gwerbret Ridvar,” Prince Voran came striding over. “Come now! If we can take the child alive, I can send him back to Dun Deverry as a hostage. He’ll be no threat there.”

  “Not until he grows up, anyway,” Ridvar said, “uh, Your Highness.”

  “I take it, Your Grace,” Cadryc was speaking only to Ridvar, and his voice had grown tight as a strung bow, “that my word of honor’s not enough for you. One of my men died in that fight, just by the by, and now you’re insulting—”

  “Naught of the sort!” Voran grabbed Cadryc’s arm before he could finish speaking and start a second rebellion on the spot. “Think, man! Having bloodkin at court will be of great advantage to the Red Wolf.”

  Gerran had heard enough. He left them wrangling and ran into the broch. On tables in the middle of the great hall the chirurgeons were working frantically. Over by the honor hearth the dead were laid out, and the wounded or dying lay across from them on the commoners’ side. The hall reeked of blood-soaked straw, vomit, and the excrement of the dying. At the foot of the staircase, Neb stood washing his red-stained hands in a bucket of water.

  “Gerro!” Neb hailed him. “Has anyone found Honelg’s son?”

  “He’s stuck partway down the outside of the broch,” Gerran said, “and our ever so noble gwerbret wants one of the archers to kill the lad in cold blood. I thought I’d have a try at saving him.”

  “Oh, ye gods!” Dallandra turned from her work to join the talk. “Gerro, the archers aren’t going to do it, are they?”

  “Not while the banadar’s there.”

  “Good. Please, do try to save the lad!”

  “I will, my lady. If I can get onto the roof, maybe I can reach him.”

  “He’s not going to trust you.” Neb shook red-stained water from his hands, then wiped them on his shirt. “You’re the man who killed his father.”

  “I—” Gerran paused in mid-sentence, struck by a thought as painful as an arrow wound. At least I didn’t have to watch when the Horsekin killed my Da.

  “Let me try,” Neb went on. “These stairs, do they go all the way up to the roof?”

  “It looks that way.” Gerran gladly turned away from his thoughts. “Here, I’ll go ahead of you, just in case there’s someone hiding up there, someone with a sword, I mean.”

  As he followed Gerran up to the top floor of the broch, Neb was hoping that any possible swordsmen were long gone, and his hope was realized. The trapdoor to the roof already stood open, with the ladder in readiness. As Neb climbed up and out, he heard the distant voices of the noble-born, loud and angry in two languages. Apparently the banadar was invoking Elvish gods as well as arguing with the gwerbret in Deverrian.

  Above the clouds were thickening in the gray sky. He’d have to work fast, Neb realized. Once the stones were rain-slick, the boy could slip and fall to his death whether he wanted to die or not.

  “There’s some rope.” Gerran was standing on the ladder with only his head and shoulders out of the trapdoor. “I figured there’d be a coil or two lying about up here, just in case the defenders had a chance to escape over the side. The lad probably didn’t think to use it.”

  “Most likely,” Neb said. “You’d best not be here when I get the lad to safety.”

  “True spoken. I’ll go down and leave the broch.”

  Neb picked up the longest rope and walked across to the edge, some ten feet above Matto, who was clinging spread-eagled and trembling against the rough stones of his dead father’s broch. Neb tied one end of the rope around a crenel and tested the strength of his knot with a good hard pull. It held, and he turned the other end into a noose.

  “Matto!” Neb called out. “There’s no use in dying. A royal prince is here, and he’s offering you mercy.”

  The arguing far below suddenly stopped. Apparently the noble-born had heard him. What counted, however, was the lad’s reaction, not theirs. When he leaned through the crenelation, Neb saw a dark-haired little boy looking back at him, his mouth half-open, his face streaked with tears.

  “You’re stuck, aren’t you?” Neb said, and he smiled.

  “Who are you?” Matto’s young voice was steady, but just barely so. “You don�
��t look like one of the prince’s men.”

  “I’m a scribe who’s been helping the chirurgeons. Look—I’m not armed.”

  Matto didn’t answer, but neither did he throw himself down.

  “Come to think of it,” Neb went on. “I’m one of your kinfolk. I just got betrothed to your mother’s cousin, Lady Branna.”

  For a moment Matto looked as if he’d speak, but he kept silent.

  “I’ve come to get you up safely,” Neb continued. “I’ll swear it on my honor, I mean you no harm.” With that he lowered the rope. “Slip that loop around you. Lift one arm at a time, then snug the rope up—under your shoulders, like. Then hang on for all you’re worth.”

  “Matto!” Cadryc’s shout drifted up to them. “Don’t be a fool, lad. Do what he asks.”

  For a moment the rope and young Matyc’s wyrd both dangled uselessly in front of the boy. Neb was just about to coax him further when Matyc reached out with one hand and caught the rope.

  “Good lad!” Neb called down to him. “Now, over your head and under your arms, one at a time. Good—get a hold on a stone with that hand now and use the other to—right! Snug up that noose a bit. Splendid! Now, hang on, and up we go!”

  Secured by the rope and Neb’s weight above him, Matyc could push off and use his legs to clamber up the rough stonework. When the boy reached the top, Neb hauled him between the crenels over the edge to safety. Down below the watching Westfolk broke out in cheers. Matyc freed himself from the noose and flung the rope to the slates.

  “Will I truly be safe?” he said.

  “Of course,” Neb said. “If anyone tries treachery, they’ll have your grandfather to argue with.”

  Matto managed a brief smile. “No one argues with my gran and wins.” He let the smile fade. “Is my mam safe?”

  “She is, and your sister with her. They’re at Cengarn with your grandmother.”

  “That’s splendid.” Matyc was staring down at the men in the ward so far below. “You have my thanks. I—” His voice broke suddenly, and he covered his face with both hands. He began sobbing so hard his shoulders heaved.

  Neb found a reasonably clean rag in his brigga pocket and handed it to Matto. “Here,” he said, “I know the world looks black and ugly now, but in a bit, it will brighten again.”

  “Never.” His voice choked on phlegm and tears. “My da—”

  “We all have to die sometime, Matto. Your father died fighting for the goddess he loved. He had an honorable death, far more honorable than most men.”

  “There’s somewhat you don’t know.” Matto’s tears continued to run as he stammered out the words. “Da wanted to kill me. He tried to kill me. He said it would be better than letting Vandar’s spawn get hold of me. He drew his sword, and he tried to grab me, but I got away. I ran upstairs, and the battle started, and he didn’t follow me. I didn’t know where else to go, so I just hid.”

  “And then you came out onto the roof?”

  “I did.” Matto paused to choke back tears. “That’s when I watched him die. I could see the fight.”

  “Did it sadden your heart when he died?”

  Matto nodded. His tears had stopped at last; he wiped his face on the rag and blew his nose.

  “I saw my father die, too,” Neb went on. “He was very ill, you see, from a flux in his bowels.”

  “Oh. Then you do know what it feels like.”

  “I do.”

  “But he didn’t try to kill you.”

  “He didn’t. That’s going to be a hard thing to think about. Tell your Gran and ask his help.”

  “I will, then. I’m so tired.” Matto handed the rag back. “None of us could sleep last night, knowing what was coming.”

  “Well, tonight you’ll sleep in your grandfather’s tent and be safe. Come along now. We’ll go down and speak with Prince Voran.”

  They found the prince still outside, talking with Tieryn Cadryc and Gwerbret Ridvar near the door to the broch. Neb hesitated, unwilling to disturb the noble-born, but Voran gave him a weary sort of smile and waved them over. Matyc ran to his grandfather, who laid a hand on his shoulder and pulled him close.

  “Splendid!” the prince said. “It gladdens my heart that you could talk the lad down. You’ve done a good thing this day.”

  “My thanks, Your Highness,” Neb said, “but it was Gerran who put me in mind to do it.”

  “Then he’s done a good thing, too.” Voran turned his attention to Matyc, who stood stiffly at Cadryc’s side. Apparently he had no intention of kneeling to his captor.

  “Very well, Lord Matyc,” the prince said. “Do you forswear your father’s rebellion against his rightful overlord?”

  Matyc hesitated, but a glance at Cadryc seemed to make up the lad’s mind. “I do, Your Highness,” Matyc said.

  “Do you give up all claim to this demesne, here before witnesses of your own rank and beyond?”

  “I do. I’d rather be a silver dagger than keep it.”

  Neb glanced at Ridvar, standing nearby with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, and found the gwerbret’s face utterly expressionless.

  “I think we can make you some provision better than the long road,” Voran said. “Very well, Lord Matyc. You’re now my hostage with my personal vow of safety. The scribe here can write out a formal quitclaim to the demesne for you to sign or seal later. Does that suit you?”

  “It does, Your Highness, but I don’t think anyone’s got the coin to ransom me out.”

  “We’ll worry about all that later,” Voran said. “For now, go with your grandfather. He’ll stand surety for you.”

  “Coryn’s here,” Cadryc said, “and you’ve got a new cousin by marriage, young Clae, so you’ll not lack for company. Here, do you realize it was your cousin’s betrothed who just saved you?”

  “I did, Gran.” Matyc turned to Neb. “My thanks.”

  “You’re quite welcome,” Neb said.

  Matyc bowed to Prince Voran; then with one last glance at the unspeaking Ridvar, he allowed Cadryc to lead him out of the dun.

  With Matyc safe, there remained the question of Lord Honelg’s mother, Lady Varigga. Salamander had expected her to take shelter in Alshandra’s shrine. Since she hadn’t, Salamander went into the broch to search for the lady. On an upper floor he found the chamber that must have been the women’s hall, because it sported one faded tapestry and a threadbare Bardek carpet as well as a pair of embroidery frames with half-finished work still in them. Varigga, however, wasn’t there.

  With a cold feeling around his heart Salamander began to search the bed chambers. Sure enough, he found her at last in her little dowager’s nest at the top of the tower. She was sprawled on the bed in a drying soak of blood, a red-streaked dagger lying beneath her flaccid right hand. She’d slit her wrists.

  “Bearing the last witness.” Salamander felt as if the words were choking him. “I think me we’ve discovered what that means.” He walked over to the corpse and closed its eyes. “May you find peace, my lady. I beg you, forgive me for turning traitor to your hospitality.”

  Since none of the Westfolk had been wounded, Dallandra had been helping the chirurgeons with the Deverry men. She forced her mind to concentrate on the work, to see only the work, to stay stubbornly on the physical plane and never open up the Sight. Yet despite her efforts, she was always aware of the dead. Their etheric doubles floated through the hall, or hovered over their bodies, or clung to those of their friends who still lived. They were desperate to be seen, to be recognized by the living in the vain hope that somehow or other, they would wake from a dream and find that they still lived themselves.

  There was nothing she could do for them. She’d tried to help Deverry men before, after other battles, but none of the dead would believe what she told them or follow her up to the river of life and death and the meadows of pale white flowers along its shores. Eventually they would cross it whether they followed her or not, but they would have spared themselves much grief and pani
c if only they could have brought themselves to listen to a voice speaking from the center of a silver flame. At times she considered trying to build a second body of light, one in human form, but it would have taken her a great deal of effort and just possibly have made her first, preferred form unstable.

  As well as Warryc, two of Ridvar’s men were dead, and six others had suffered wounds or, in one case, a broken arm from slipping and falling on blood-soaked ground. The massive casualties came from Honelg’s ranks. His sworn riders had all died as their vows demanded, but most of the servants and villagers had lived through the battle. Not all of the Westfolk archers had aimed to kill men who wore no armor and had barely a weapon to defend themselves. Dallandra knew how to cut an arrow out of a wound in a way that would minimize the damage rather than making it worse. She had an eager audience when she shared that knowledge.

  The chirurgeons had finished doing what they could when Gwerbret Ridvar walked in. He found his own riders and spoke to each one, kneeling down from time to time to clasp their hands and thank them. When he saw the two dead riders, he raised his hands in the air and prayed over their bodies, just a few brief words, but it made the wounded smile in thanks to see their friends honored. Ridvar also came over to the chirurgeons to thank them personally for aiding his men.

  “Tell me,” the gwerbret said. “Do any of you recognize Raldd? He was a groom, and he’s the traitor who rode ahead to warn this dun.”

  No one did—a groom was beneath the notice of learned men like chirurgeons and fighting men as well.

  “One of the pages might,” a chirurgeon said. “They were helping with the horses back at Dun Cengarn.”

  “Ask Clae,” Dallandra said. “He’s the one who spotted Raldd and gave us what warning we had.”

  “Indeed?” Ridvar said. “I never heard that. Well, I’ll have to thank the lad. Who’s his father?”