Hawkmaiden

by Terry Mancour

  Still further down the trail on the other side of the ridge, just a few dozen feet out of bowshot, gathered thirty or forty more soldiers bearing the Warbird’s livery, regrouping and scheming. No doubt they were considering other plans, now that their first had been so quickly upset. Dara was no soldier, but she saw little hope of the West Flerians taking the ridge. The path up the hill was well-exposed to the arrows of the Sevendori, and it was far too steep for a war horse to be used to any effect.

  Satisfied that the enemy was, indeed, at bay, Dara had Frightful wheel back around and return to circle the pass. She was almost startled when she saw the strangely small figure of her father notice the falcon and wave up to her, recognizing her for what she was.

  The thought of him waving up into the sky at his daughter amused her so much she almost lost he rapport with her bird. Instead, she commanded Frightful to glide to a landing on the barricade.

  It was odd – she could hear everything that Frightful could, but that did not mean she understood. Her father was speaking to the bird, she knew, but it took tremendous concentration for her to ferret out the actual words. To Frightful such human speech was largely unintelligible. But after some effort Dara was able to understand that her father was reporting that all was well, and that he would be returning to the Hall soon enough.

  Satisfied, Dara had Frightful return to Westwood Hall for a well-deserved treat. She spent the rest of the day rolling bandages and helping prepare more medicines, until her father returned alone at dusk.

  “We had a right fun day,” he told his half-empty hall. The place seemed abandoned, almost, without the usual noise from all of her male relations to fill it. “Three sorties they made up that slope, since dawn. Three times we drove them back with arrows before they came half-way. The last time they left a half-dozen men behind,” he boasted. “I left Kyre in charge of the men.”

  “Kyre?” asked Aunt Anira, a little alarmed. “Should not Keram be—?”

  “Kyre will be master of this Hall in his own right, some day,” Kamen observed to his sister-in-law. “He has the respect of our folk and the courage to lead. It is well and right that the boy should command his own men.”

  “That’s . . . but in time of war?” she asked, skeptically.

  “Particularly in a time of war,” Kamen said, darkly. “He is my oldest son. I cherish him above all else as the hope for our people. Yet I would not deny him the opportunity to take his position as a man, even though it is at risk of his life.”

  “He’s just . . . so young,” Anira said.

  Dara was astute enough to realize what she was really saying: Why did you not leave my husband, your brother, in charge of such an important assignment? Her aunt was as loyal as anyone in the Hall, but Anira had always harbored some resentment over her brother-in-law’s position. Keram the Crafty was adept at much, Dara knew, and the Hall wouldn’t work without his diligence . . . but he was not Master of the Hall, nor would he be.

  Unless her father and all of her brothers died.

  “I’ve a duty to report to the castellan and our lady at the castle,” Kamen continued, “let them know what forces we face at the ridge. I had to leave someone in charge while I did so. We heard that a raid was staged on the Diketower, too,” he added. That was the main entrance to the vale of Sevendor, at the far eastern end of the valley, where many of the Bovali immigrants had settled. “Sir Roncil rode by to inspect us and brought the news. We drove them back. The Diketower stands well-defended. If the Warbird wants Sevendor, he’ll pay dearly for it!” he declared, with more fervor than Dara had suspected he had.

  “Do you think they’ll just . . . go away, now that they see we’re defended?” Dara asked, knowing how silly the question was as soon as she asked it. The Warbird had a reputation across the vales as a man of great power and vengeance. He ran the neighboring domains with an iron fist. As poor as the people of Sevendor had been, as neglectful as Sir Erantal had been, the prospect of Sire Gimbal the Warbird as overlord of Sevendor sounded appalling. There was no way his honor would allow him to retreat, once battle had been engaged.

  “Nay, Little Bird,” her father sighed. “They’ve been preparing for weeks, awaiting the Magelord’s journey away from here with his apprentices. They won’t back down now, not when they have an advantage. They hoped to conquer us quickly, though. Thanks to your intelligence, we denied them that at Caolan’s Pass,” he said, gratefully. “I’ll be mentioning that to Sir Cei and Lady Alya, when I make my report.”

  Dara continued to fret as she prepared for bed. She didn’t know how she could possibly sleep while her brothers and cousins faced danger only a mile or so from her bed. She tossed and turned in her sheets, the heat of the night feeling oppressive to her. When sleep did finally come, it was a restless sleep full of dread and anxiety.

  She found herself being shaken awake in the middle of the night. Terrified, she bolted upright, her eyes wide with fear. Her father, still in his armor, was standing in front of her with a taper. Frightful started to wake up, her tiny eyes shining in the light at the foot of Dara’s bed.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” Dara demanded, fearing the worse.

  “Calm yourself, Little Bird,” Kamen said, soothingly. “There’s nothing amiss. Last word I got from the Pass said all was well, and there’s no beacon fire on the ridge. I just got back from the war council at the castle,” he explained. “I thought I would tell you what came of it, as you were so helpful yesterday.”

  “What happened?” Dara asked, as she composed herself. No one was hurt, she reminded herself. Her dreams had not been real.

  “I gave my report in turn, as all the Yeomen did,” her father said, taking a seat on her creaking old bed. “I told them how you suggested we deploy up the ridge early . . . and why. And how our being there kept the West Flerians at bay. Sir Cei was mightily impressed,” he smiled. “Both with our boys’ initiative and bravery, and with my daughter’s cleverness.”

  “I wasn’t being clever,” Dara dismissed.

  “You were clever enough to bring it to my attention, and spare us a bloody battle in our vale. You may never be Master of the Wood, Little Bird, but you’ve certainly the wit and wisdom for it.”

  The unexpected praise made Dara blush – and change the subject. “What happens now?”

  “We continue to guard the pass,” Kamen replied. “The domain is under siege, now. The folk of Gurisham, Genly, and Sevendor Village have already been moved into the outer bailey of the castle as a precaution. We will be safe enough behind our chasm. But if either the Diketower or the Pass falls, then we will see a different type of war,” he said, darkly.

  Dara suppressed a shudder. “We won’t let that happen,” she promised, encouragingly. “The Magelord will learn of this and return in time.”

  “Aye, that’s the hope,” sighed her father. “Though what one man, even a mage, can do against an entire army is beyond my ken. You needn’t worry yourself. Sir Cei and Lady Alya have things well in-hand. The castle is provisioned, defended, and manned – far more than Sir Erantal ever did. And there are plenty of brave men willing to fight for Sevendor. The Bovali seem to be spoiling for a fight. A stout castle and brave men can withstand a siege of hundreds of days, if need be.” Despite his assuredness, Dara could tell her father had some doubts. “The biggest problem, they say, is magical.”

  “Magical?” Dara asked, confused.

  “Aye. Many of the defenses the Magelord put into place before he left were magical. Without him or his fellow wizards around, they’re useless. Or something like that. I confess, I knew but half of what was said at council when they spoke of magic and spellcraft. Thing is,” he continued, “they want every mage in the domain to go to the castle and help.”

  “Well, they should!” Dara agreed. Gareth had pointed out several of the footwizards and other itinerate magi who had made their way to Sevendor, at market. They were generally odd-looking fellows, looking more like vagabonds than tradesmen, but the
re had been several. Surely they could be put to use. “We’re at war! Everyone should be willing to do their part! Are some of the other wizards not—”

  “Oh, the castle is full of wizards,” chuckled Kamen. “Master Banamor is there, fretting over his enterprises. That young man Gareth you spoke of is there. Master Olmeg the Greenward is there, though he is still hurt. And a few others from the village. None of them are warmagi. Fighting wizards,” he explained.

  “I know what warmagi are!” Dara said, rolling her eyes. Gareth had explained that to her weeks ago.

  “Then you know how valuable they are in war,” Kamen said. “And why the Magelord needs to return. But that’s not why I mentioned it, Dara. When I spoke of your help in the battle yesterday, Sir Cei and Lady Alya were very intrigued.”

  “I was glad to help,” she said, uncomfortably.

  “That is good to hear,” nodded Kamen. “Because an order has been issued that all wizard folk are to report to the castle for service. All wizard folk.” He paused, and looked at her meaningfully. “Including Talented, untrained beastmasters who figured out how to . . . bilocate,” he said, his mouth having difficulty with the strange word. “Sir Cei wants to see you and Frightful at the castle, first thing in the morning.”

  “Me? Why me?” Dara asked, her eyes wide.

  “Because they want you to use your powers to help the war effort,” he explained. “They want you to use Frightful to spy on the enemy. They want you, Dara, to join the other wizard folk at the castle in the Magical Corps . . . and try to defend and preserve our domain until the Magelord returns.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sevendor At War

  Sevendor Castle looked different since she had last been here six months before at Yule.

  The festive greenery was absent now, replaced with hastily-erected woodworks and platforms upon which archers patrolled. The outer bailey, the vast empty space behind the castle’s first wall, was no longer deserted and barren. Wagons and tents now filled the road on either side with more rumbling in behind her. Livestock was herded into a fenced enclosure near the wall, while makeshift shelters were built on the cliffward side. Dozens of campfires began cooking the breakfast of the displaced folk. Dara tried not to stare too hard at their worried faces.

  The castle was bustling inside the inner gate, even at this early hour. Soldiers drilled in the yard in front of the castle while Bovali archers practiced shooting their great Wilderland bows in volleys. Men shouted to each other across the yard, and horses were being saddled and readied to move. There was a sense of urgency in the air that took Dara’s breath away. She had wisely hooded Frightful, worried that she’d be startled by the noise. She was glad she had taken the precaution.

  The door of the castle’s great hall was guarded by a pair of burly-looking soldiers in mail coats, each bearing a spear and shield. They checked the face and story of everyone entering into the hall, and Dara had to explain twice why she and her falcon needed to be admitted. If it had been any other guards of any other castle, they might have sent her away as mad. But in Sevendor, now, the idea of a girl magically seeing through the eyes of a falcon was almost mundane. They let her pass with little question.

  The interior of the hall was busy, as the night shift of guards came off duty and the morning shift was leaving breakfast to take their place. The white walls and stonework were brightened even further by a few scattered magelights in important areas.

  One hung over the far end of the hall, near the great white stone table near the great fireplace. Dara could see that was where Sir Cei and Lady Alya were seated, overseeing the defense of the vale. There was a line of people who urgently needed to speak to one or both of them. Dara stood at the back of it, when she asked a guard what to do, then patiently waited to present herself.

  It didn’t take as long as she feared. Those ahead of her gave their reports or asked their questions quickly and were ushered away by a stubby-looking Tal Alon.

  It was the first time that Dara had seen one of the strange nonhumans up close and in the light. She had heard of them, of course, from tales and stories, but no one in Sevendor had seen a living Tal Alon – called River Folk in polite company, or “spuds” by those who disparaged them – until Master Olmeg the Green, the wizard the Magelord had appointed his Greenward, had brought a tribe of them to the vales. They had begun building a settlement in what was left of Farant’s Hold, with the Spellmonger’s permission.

  The Tal servant who worked with Lady Alya and Sir Cei looked nearly human, save for his low height and its thick coat of shaggy brown fur. It was portly, by human standards, but the way it moved made Dara think that this was a normal state of affairs for the Tal, not an exception. The River Folk’s reputation for both industrious cultivation and degenerate vice made many people wary of them, but the castle servant seemed quite level-headed, from Dara could tell. He wore a broad green vest and short pants, as well as a perky cap that seemed far too small for his head, all originally intended for human wear but adopted by the Tal.

  He spoke Narasi, Dara’s language, fairly enough to be understood – indeed, he seemed more polite and articulate than most of the vale folk, if she had to swear before the Flame. He knew his business, ushering people along out of the way of the leaders before they could slow down the line with the same efficiency she imagined a human servant might show.

  Dara found herself daydreaming when it was finally her turn in front of the table. She realized she didn’t have any idea what to say to the lady of the domain. Luckily she was spared the embarrassment she felt when Sir Cei recognized her.

  The castellan stood and smiled grimly when he saw her approach.

  “Ah! The Westwood girl! Kamen said he would send her along, last night. True to his word,” he said, approvingly. Dara didn’t know what to make of that – as if a Westwoodman would be untrue!

  Before she could get offended, the big knight motioned her to approach more closely, so that both he and Lady Alya could hear her. “This is the girl that Master Kamen spoke of,” he reminded their lady, who nodded in recognition. “The one who espied the enemy in the field and kept us from losing the pass prematurely.”

  “The hawk girl!” Lady Alya nodded. “Sir Cei was telling me about you. Good work, that. Do you think you can do it again?”

  “Yes, my lady,” Dara agreed, swallowing hard. “It’s easy enough to see from behind Frightful’s eyes,” she offered. “Although understanding what she’s seeing is hard, sometimes.”

  “I can imagine,” Lady Alya agreed. She looked tired, Dara decided, though she was a young a pretty woman. Just a few years older than Dara’s oldest sister. “But it would be invaluable if we could keep up to date on what our enemies are plotting. Your father suggests you can be trusted on to give reliable accounts – is that true? And what is your name, girl?”

  “Uh, yes, my lady,” Dara nodded, swallowing hard. “My name is Dara. Short for ‘Lenodara’. This is my falcon, Frightful.”

  “She’s utterly gorgeous!” Alya said, admirably. “I used to watch them for hours, back home in the Mindens. I grew up at a place called Hawk’s Reach. You look scared, Dara – why?” she suddenly asked in a very direct matter.

  “Me?” Dara squeaked. “Maybe because there’s an army coming against us? And I’m just thirteen? And I’m suddenly . . . involved?”

  “And you never pictured yourself a warrior,” nodded Lady Alya. “I understand. Six months ago, I’d never had pictured myself leading the defense of our home. Yet here I am sending men to go stand on the walls and defend us. I may do more before all is said and done. We all take up challenges in such a situation. Give us your best against the Warbird, and we’ll keep the valley defended.”

  “We will do our best,” she added, apologetically.

  “That’s all we’re accepting today,” Alya grinned at her. “Welcome to our little army.”

  “I’ll take her up to the rest of the Magical Corps in a moment,” Sir Cei suggested. “
I have some dispatches they need to see, anyway. Just pull up a stool for a moment, girl,” the big knight ordered in a kindly voice. “I’ll be ready for a break anon.”

  Dara found a small wooden stool against the wall next to the fireplace and pulled it up near to the castellan, who was already addressing the next person in line – a guardsman with a report from Southridge Hold.

  Dara ended up waiting for three more messengers while she soothed Frightful on her wrist. The fire on the hearth was small, a mere token in the summer heat, and the hypnotic crackle and pop was soon lulling her into lethargy . . .

  . . . until the great wooden doors banged open and a commotion began at the far end of the hall. Dara had to stand to see what was happening, and ended up standing on top of her stool to see, but what she saw was worth the effort. A somewhat familiar figure was being dragged before the Lady of Sevendor and her servants by soldiers – and not just any soldiers, but her brother Kyre and two of her cousins!

  Dara was speechless. She hadn’t expected to see many Westwoodmen at Sevendor Castle, much less her oldest brother. What struck her about him was how adult he appeared as he pushed his prisoner down the aisle between tables toward the dais. He didn’t move with the cocky self-assuredness of her adolescent brother, he moved like a very angry young man.

  With a sword.

  “My lady!” he called as he and his kin pushed their prisoner forward. “Caolan’s Pass was attacked again at dawn!”

  “Casualties?” inquired Sir Cei, coolly, as he stood and assessed the situation.

  “Four wounded,” Kyre reported promptly. He did not see Dara, from where she was standing, but she could see him well enough. His eyes were flashing hotly as he spoke the words. “Two of our cottagers were fetching water from the spring and were shot in the attack. Two others were wounded when they swarmed our position. They sent forty men up the slope this time. Only thirty-two returned when we drove them off. We took four prisoners, including this . . . gentleman.”