Hawkmaiden

by Terry Mancour

  “I need to go see to Master Olmeg,” he explained through gritted teeth. Apparently Sir Cei’s instruction to stay calm had little effect on Gareth. “And then I need to talk to some . . . people. I may not be a warmage, but I’m not going to let them hurt my friend like that and get away with it!” he said, adamantly, as he turned and pushed his way back through the crowd.

  Dara’s mind raced as she helped her family pack up their goods prematurely. No one was buying rabbit furs, now, or summer berries. They were buying bacon and sausage and cheese and wheat, all staples that could last a long time. Like if the valley was under siege for a long time.

  As Dara and the other Westwoodmen trudged wearily back to their hall, she could still hear the cries all around her in the distance: “To arms! For Sevendor, to arms!”

  Chapter Twelve

  Under Siege

  The news came sporadically, after that, but the announcement was ordered by Lady Alya to be made to each manor in Sevendor, in the Magelord’s absence: Sevendor would arm and defend itself against the aggression of the Warbird. From the highest tower in Sevendor Castle, the green banner with the white snowflake the Magelord had chosen as his device flapped in the breeze, a red ribbon flying from its tail. The war banner was flying. The men of the Vale were called to muster.

  The Westwood had been abuzz with activity ever since. The young men had been excused from their duties, the armory was opened, and they were issued spears, helmets, and arrows for their quivers. They drilled out in the yard, practicing marching and holding formations. Her father was busy, of course, mustering the menfolk of the manor together. He wore his armor constantly, even at meals. Dara was fascinated with watching them, at first, but then realized that all of the boys and men she saw marching so proudly may not return when the fighting was done.

  After that she lost interest in watching their practicing.

  The day after market day, news reached the Westwood about a successful raid the Sevendori had conducted – without orders – against a village in West Fleria. A lot of damage had been done, even if few enemy soldiers had been slain. That made her father look grim, but made her brothers grin.

  “About time Sevendor struck a blow against the Warbird!” Kobb cackled. “They even used magic against the poor sods! Some of our sparks had a grudge for Master Olmeg, it seems!”

  Dara was amused, until she remembered the look on Gareth’s face when they’d parted. She could guess that he’d been involved with the raid. She hoped he’d not been injured.

  Her concern for her friend was secondary after her concern for her family, however. Seeing her brothers and cousins and uncles drill and practice in the yard made her anxious, and she wasn’t the only one. Her aunt couldn’t concentrate, several of the girls in the kitchen were weepy, and the optimistic mood that Dara had gotten used to around Westwood Hall was gone, replaced with grim purpose.

  Dara didn’t know what to do with herself. So she went hunting.

  Alone with Frightful in the high meadows to the north of the Westwood usually would have given her some peace. It was so remote and quiet up on that ridge that it was easy to forget there were any other people at all in Sevendor. Yet Dara couldn’t concentrate on even basic drills while her brothers were marching. She felt helpless. But there was little she could do, despite her strong desire to do something.

  It was frustrating. At the same time she wanted to pick up a bow and join her brothers she also wanted to keep them in the Westwood, safe behind the chasm, and protect them. She could do neither, she knew – which only added to her frustration. It infuriated her to think of enemy soldiers – old Sir Erantal’s allies – skulking around outside of Sevendor’s frontiers.

  The valley had many natural defenses, particularly the strong ridges that bordered it on the north and south. No man could easily scale those. Sevendor could only be entered through the low pass at the mouth of the valley to the east – which the Magelord and his apprentices has strongly fortified since they had taken possession of the domain – or through the high pass to the north.

  Caolan’s Pass, it was called, a long, steep, narrow trail that wound up to the high pass into Sashtalia. At the top of it, at the ridgeline, was a single stone cottage and a simple wooden barricade. As the winding trail was difficult to climb, the pass was not impossible to defend. Traditionally Caolan’s Pass was where the Westwoodmen were stationed in a time of emergency. Dara had only seen it from afar, as it was little used except by messengers or tradesmen from Sashtalia.

  That pass was so close . . . particularly as the falcon flew.

  When it was clear that Frightful wasn’t particularly interested in hunting that day either, Dara allowed the bird to slip away over the ridge. She rationalized that she was just letting her bird get a little exercise, but there was no denying that she had higher purpose in what she did.

  Seeing through Frightful’s eyes, she guided the falcon over the ridge and down into the vale on the other side. It looked similar to Sevendor, but from Frightful’s perspective the landforms were strange and unfamiliar.

  Dara had her falcon glide slowly over the land, looking down as if she were hunting the far side of the ridge. Dara could see the long winding road up to Caolan’s Pass from the other side of the ridge, with the forest it traveled through stretching out for miles. There were isolated farmsteads and manors, and not a few tiny cottages, but like Sevendor the land here was marginal for farming at best. The folk here, as in Sevendor, barely managed to keep food on the table.

  Dara could see through Frightful’s eyes the towers and castles of the Sashtalian lords in the distance. They stood out, from this height, even miles away. The nearest was a squat square tower behind a wooden palisade, but it appeared to be unprepared for war. That was good, Dara reasoned.

  But less than a mile from the tower was a clearing, an old sheep’s meadow between hills. That was where Dara saw the threat to Sevendor. It was covered with people, soldiers mostly, armed warriors and horses. It was hard to count through Frightful’s perspective, but Dara estimated there were at least three or four hundred men-at-arms here. There were no other castles around that seemed to be the target of their ire.

  And the banner they flew bore a large, bellicose-looking bird. The Warbird’s standard.

  Dara knew that the path up to Caolan’s Pass wasn’t terribly difficult, but it was steep. If the pass was defended it would be difficult for any of the invaders to take it, without suffering mightily in return.

  Yet there seemed to be an awful lot of men down there, Dara realized worriedly. If they were, indeed, bound for Sevendor through Caolan’s Pass, they seemed determined about it. And that did not bode well for her people.

  She had to warn them, she realized. No one knew about the raiders prepared to take the pass. No one knew how close they were. There was an old man in charge of the pass, the one who took the infrequent tolls from travelers coming in Sevendor’s “back door,” but he was hardly able to stop an assault from a force that size. By custom it was the Westwoodmen and the Genlymen who guarded the pass in times of emergency.

  Just as Dara was about to steer her falcon home and break contact, Frightful got a glimpse of something else as she circled high overhead from the encampment. A flash, but a distinct image of someone coming out of an arming tent.

  Someone wearing a long black and white checkered cloak.

  She had to warn her people. They didn’t know about the Warbird’s soldiers. If they did not find out, the pass could be overcome before they even got there. They certainly didn’t know about the Censor who was with them. Dara knew little about magic, but from what Gareth had told her the Censors who hated Magelord Minalan were highly skilled warmagi. If they were helping the Warbird, that couldn’t be a good thing for Sevendor.

  Abandoning her gear in the meadow, Dara started down the rugged path. As soon as it evened out a bit, she started running. And she didn’t stop until her legs carried her all the way to Westwood Hall.

&nbs
p; The men and boys were still drilling, of course, although now they had progressed from simple marching to using spears and shields as defensive positions. Another squadron of Westwoodmen was practicing archery at the butts, dozens of arrows sailing down the range and into the thick wooden target. Dara brushed past them all and burst inside, where she found her father deep in conversation with her brother, who wore his new wolfshead sword proudly.

  “Father!” she interrupted. “I have news!”

  “Dara!” he reproved, as soon as he saw her sweaty, dusty face. “Look at you! You must—”

  “Not now, Father!” she groaned. “I’ve been training, up in the high meadows, and—”

  Her father heaved a sigh, making the broad plates of his armor swell. “Dara, I’ve been called to a war council by the castellan, and Sir Cei does not approve of being—”

  “Father! This is important!” she insisted, her voice nearly squeaking she spoke so loudly. Kamen glanced at her, and then focused his full attention on her. Dara was gratified – she knew how indulgent her father was, compared to others. But he had not raised her to be silent when she saw something that required his attention.

  “What is it, Dara?” he asked in a voice that told her that it had better, indeed, be important.

  “I . . . there is a small army nearby, just over the ridge, three miles west and a little south. They’re encamped in a pasture beyond the closest castle. About three hundred strong, well-armed. Knights, even.”

  “Dara, don’t be foolish,” her father said, shaking his head. “You’ve been gone for maybe three hours. You did not climb all the way to the ridge top and back in that time, and I know you cannot even see the next tower from there. Flame burn me, there’s no way you could—”

  “Father, I’m a beastmaster,” Dara explained, abandoning subtlety in her moment of desperation. Kamen’s eyes stared at her blankly, uncomprehending. Dara’s mind raced. “I . . . do you remember last winter, the night the Snow That Never Melted fell? The night I threw up? Remember how Master Banamor said I might have magic Talent?” she said, quickly, without taking a breath. “Well, I did, and I do, and I’m particularly Talented at being able to . . . to see out of Frightful’s eyes,” she said, looking for the simplest way to explain a complicated phenomenon she, herself, didn’t really understand.

  Her father looked at her with a mix of suspicion and doubt. “Dara, now is not the time—”

  “It’s called ‘bilocation’ by the magi, and it’s not uncommon, according to my sources,” she continued, even more quickly. Dara figured if she could say enough before her father really stopped her, she might say enough to convince him. “That’s why I sought out Gareth to begin with, after I started having strange things happen between me and Frightful during training. I wanted to know if it was magic or if I was going mad. He assures me it’s the former,” she added, when she earned a quick look. “That’s how I’ve been able to hunt so well with her, I get . . . I get ‘behind her eyes’ and direct her hunt. I can see through them, and I can tell her where to go. I got worried about . . . about things and had her take a quick trip over the ridge. It really isn’t that far, as the falcon flies,” she added.

  Dara watched her father’s face go from skeptical to thoughtful. “You haven’t been one to lie,” he admitted, “even when you aren’t in the presence of the Flame. And Master Banamor did say . . . but Dara, why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

  “You had enough to contend with,” she said with a shrug, “and I really didn’t think it was that important. And I . . . I may have been enjoying my success a bit much,” she added, guiltily thinking about her uncle Keram’s praise for her good falconry. And the silver. “But now it is important and I am telling you. More, I’m telling you that I think that army is going to come against Sevendor. Soon. Please listen to me, Father!” she pleaded.

  Kamen looked at her more thoughtfully and then nodded. “I will pass along this bit of intelligence to the castellan and our lady,” he agreed. “Though I will also tell them of the source. If any would believe your wild tale, it is they who have lived with magic. Gareth knows of this, you say? The deputy Spellwarden?”

  “Banamor’s assistant,” nodded Dara. “He was there the first time . . . the first time it happened,” she said, remembering how disconcerting the experience had been. “He’s been coaching me, a little. He’s not a beastmaster himself, he’s a thaumaturge, but . . . that’s not really important. He knows.”

  “Then you go get cleaned up and see what you can do to put the Hall in order,” her father said, quietly. “We weren’t supposed to be deployed until tomorrow morning, but if what you say is true . . .”

  “It is,” Dara reassured him. “I saw it, Father. Through Frightful’s eyes.”

  “Then that is what I will tell them.”

  Dara did go and get cleaned up, sneaking a venison pie from the kitchen on her way up to her room after calling Frightful back from the sky. Her bird wasn’t sure why they weren’t hunting on such a lovely day, but a few slivers of meat and she didn’t care anymore. Dara hooded the falcon and then went to help with the preparations.

  She was not happy with the work, as it implied gloomy things: cutting and rolling bandages, preparing space in the hall for wounded, taking inventory of stores and supplies, they all were harbingers of suffering ahead. The Westwood had never been taken in a battle, but there were tales of times when danger had kept the Westwoodmen behind their chasm, subsisting on the bounty of the forest for months at a time.

  Dara wondered if the bandages she rolled would ever be used, and if so, whether they would be used on any of her kin. The thought disturbed her greatly, but she worked with new purpose.

  Her father and his party returned from the castle just before dinner time, a grim expression on his face and a set to his jaw Dara had only seen a few times in her life. None of them had been pleasant.

  “We are to take control of the high pass,” Kamen announced to everyone at dinner. “We march after this meal. The Westwood is to hold and reinforce Caolan’s Pass until we’re relieved. That was expected. But we’re to go tonight and march in the darkness. Certain . . . intelligence has passed our way that leads us to believe that the pass will be assaulted. Perhaps soon. We want to be there first, and in strength. Otherwise we’ll be having a lot of fun shooting at the invaders who come down that hill.”

  There was some grim laughter at that – the Westwoodmen had concealed blinds for hunting and defense all along the ridgelines and the edge of their territory. Many could cover the long trail down from the pass, shooting from cover and inaccessible places.

  After dinner Kamen took her aside again, near the Flame, as her brothers and cousins donned their armor and the kitchen prepared food for them to take.

  “I told Sir Cei what you reported,” he said, quietly, so no one else could overhear. “He accepted it as good reporting. That’s why we’re leaving tonight, instead of at dawn. He suspects that the only reason that they would encamp so close to the pass is if they expected to press a surprise attack.”

  “And dawn would be the perfect time to attack an undefended pass,” agreed Dara. Her father nodded approvingly. Even though she didn’t have the rudimentary military training her brothers had been forced to endure, she understood basic tactics.

  “Which is why the Westwood will be there in force,” he nodded. “I’ll lead the lads up myself. If they try to come up that trail they’ll do it sprouting arrows like spring plumage!”

  Despite his brave words Dara could see that her father was afraid. Not of his own life, as much, she realized, as for what the potential of battle could do to his family. Those weren’t just soldiers he was leading up that ridge. Those were his sons and nephews. Dara developed a new appreciation for the supposed “power” of the Master of the Wood. If that was power, she wanted none of it.

  Still, she felt somewhat responsible herself, for what she had done: gotten her family deployed into danger earlier than they ha
d expected. As the boys marched across the rope bridge, singing a simple hymn to the Flame, Dara felt her heart sink. How many would return, she wondered.

  News came before the dawn the next morning. Dara had barely been able to sleep, worrying about her father, uncles, brothers and cousins atop the ridge. When the shouts from one of the younger boys raised the sentry at the chasm, most of the Hall woke up to hear the report.

  Dara’s intelligence had been correct, as had Sir Cei’s analysis of it. The West Flerians had tried to take the high pass in an early morning raid. Had old Carkan, the Yeoman of the pass, been alone the foe would be marching on Sevendor Castle past the very door of the Westwood. But with the Westwoodmen able to respond so quickly and by surprise, the West Flerian men had been driven halfway back down the ridge in disarray. Now the ridge was held under the Westwood’s small wolfshead banner.

  The messenger who brought the news was jubilant – there had been almost no injuries in the fighting, and the West Flerians had clearly not expected the pass to be held in such force. That was welcome news for the community.

  But Dara was still frightened of what might happen if the West Flerians continued to push. She was forbidden to go out ranging, even in the Westwood, now that the war banner flew from the castle’s highest tower, but as soon as it was light enough she took Frightful out to the yard and flung her into the air. Then she returned to her room, took to her bed, and fell into rapport with her falcon. She had to know what was happening at the ridge.

  Frightful’s perspective swam crazily for Dara in her mind’s eye until she settled in behind the bird’s eyes. Below the land was waking up, the fields and meadows were alive with creatures stirring for the day’s first meal. Ordinarily that was what Frightful herself would be doing, if Dara hadn’t had other plans for her.

  The gap in the ridge to the north that made up Caolan’s Pass was narrow, and the road up to it was twisty and steep, but it took the falcon almost no time to reach it. Dara noted how attentively the dark-clad figures of her folk manned the log barricade they had thrown up at the ridgeline. A few bodies lay still below the ridge on the other side, testament to the Westwood’s skill with archery.