Cry of the Falcon (Falcons Saga Book 4)

by Court Ellyn

  Kelyn took a toddler from one of the Mantles and ordered, “Fetch His Majesty. He’s next.”

  Arryk descended the keep’s steps arguing with Moray and Rance, both of whom shared the War Commander’s decision. One of the Mantles held the three mastiffs on straining leashes. “I won’t accept ‘no’ for an answer, sire,” Kelyn said and swept a finger toward the guardhouse. Rhoslyn beckoned for him like a frantic mother hen. The White Falcon opened his mouth to protest, but something high over the wall caught his eye. Orange light flared across his face, then faded. He smiled, mystified. Kelyn turned to see for himself. Rhoslyn mimicked him, but she saw only a trail of white smoke marring the lavender of the evening sky. Then something shook the walls.

  Wild screams descended from the battlements. No, not screams. Cheers. The sound swelled on the roof of the keep as well. Arrows stopped flying. The archers waved their bows in the air. The clash of steel tapered off, and a star ignited in the sky. It plummeted, roaring, then vanished behind the battlements. The towers shivered. Catapults, Rhoslyn feared. She looked to Kelyn for answers. Calm stole across his face, and Rhoslyn understood. His brother was here.

  Kelyn waited until all signs of fighting on the battlements stopped, then ran up the wall-side steps. Arryk followed on his heels. Rhoslyn ascended at a more dignified pace. Commoners crowded at her back, wanting a view as well. She stepped over an ogre’s corpse and pressed against the crenels between Kelyn and Dagni.

  All the tales she’d heard of Thorn Kingshield’s tactics on the battlefield didn’t prepare her for the spectacle. He advanced along the highway, sopping wet from crossing the Avidan secretly, downstream from the ford. He was alone and utterly exposed, but his stride was determined, fearless. He raised his staff over his head. The crystal clutched in the dragon’s talon burned yellow, and a new star built in the sky.

  Scorched bodies lay inside the craters left by the first two fireballs. What of the ogres who still lived? Were they fleeing, charging? Rhoslyn listened for footfalls but couldn’t be sure. A smaller star grew over Thorn’s free hand. He whirled and flung it. With an explosion of sparks, it struck an invisible obstacle. An ogre appeared, less than ten feet from Thorn, writhing on the road and engulfed in flame. The staff swept downward. The great star in the sky dived, blasting a third crater on the hillside. Ogres flew into the air, trailing fire, veils shattered as they died.

  The waters of the Avidan lifted from their banks. Rhian rode Duíndor at a gallop on the far side of the river, hand outstretched, raising the river in a ten-foot-high wall. A white glaze followed in his wake as the water turned to ice.

  A sigh of wonder came from Arryk. Rhoslyn nodded in agreement, speechless.

  “Divided and trapped,” Kelyn muttered.

  If only Rhoslyn could see the ogres, she might be able to interpret Kelyn’s meaning. “Dagni, what do you see?” she asked.

  The gawking dwarf fumbled for words. “A-a-a company under the red axe, Your Grace. Those who were scaling the wall.” Rhoslyn leaned through the crenels and saw a dozen ladders leaning against the gatehouse towers; a handful more lay on the hillside, abandoned. Bodies of ogres and dwarves lay sprawled among them. “They were trying to flee, but Master Rhian stopped ‘em, sure enough. They’re regrouping over there.” Dagni’s finger pointed at a trampled space of grass near the archery range. “The ogres stationed across the ford tried to charge to their aid, but that ice wall won’t break in a hurry.”

  Duíndor ran free, and Rhian now stood atop the ice, facing Ilswythe Village. Crackling balls of energy hurtled from his palms. Like hailstones, they went bouncing through ranks of ogres. Bodies appeared as they collapsed in sizzling convulsions.

  The water from upriver surged around the ice, flooding the banks and one of Thorn’s craters. Bodies floated. Another star coalesced overhead, burning against the twilight. Rhoslyn was watching it fall when Dagni exclaimed, “Holy Mother! Commander! Look!” She pointed toward town, at a loss for words, which didn’t help anyone with blind human eyes.

  Rhoslyn squinted, trying to see anything at all. The air over the streets began to shimmer. Hundreds of ogres appeared as their veils unraveled. These ogres were alive and well, however. Why relinquish their advantage? They seemed to care nothing for Rhian’s crackling hailstones nor Thorn’s plummeting fireballs. They retreated through the streets, swinging their axes in desperation.

  “What’s pushing them?” Kelyn demanded.

  Dagni grinned ear to ear. “Looks like Lord Kingshield made some headway. Elarion, Commander. The veil does not shield bogginai from Elarion.”

  Rhoslyn found herself laughing hysterically. It was all too strange. She’d wake from the nightmare at any moment, laughing into her pillow.

  Dagni’s happiness was short-lived. In alarm, she swore elaborately. “Red Axe, sir! They’re charging your brother. Scores of them. Archers!” But there wasn’t enough time to collect the archers onto the wall. Unseen feet splashed through the floodwater. A roar escalated, bruising the ears.

  Amid the Highway, less than thirty yards from the castle gate, a small flame grew quickly into a column. It swirled higher and higher, faster and faster. The rising heat scorched Rhoslyn’s cheeks.

  Edging back, Kelyn muttered, “It’s Little Bridge all over again.”

  “What happened at Little Bridge?” Rhoslyn asked. Kelyn rarely talked of the battles he had fought in his youth, certainly not what he had seen there.

  Thorn’s staff circled over his head, then swept down to his feet.

  “Get down!” Kelyn cried. He seized Rhoslyn’s wrist and dived with her behind the cover of the crenels. The wall shook. Embers whooshed past the wall. When the heat dissipated, the watchers on the battlements slowly poked their heads up again.

  Scores of bodies littered the highway, some little more than ash. A handful still writhed. The stench of burning flesh turned Rhoslyn’s stomach. Thorn waded through the remnants of Red Axe, finishing off survivors with short blasts of white fire from his palm. At last, he planted himself in front of the castle gate, staunch as a guard dog, and observed the panic of his foe. “Rhian!” he shouted, “You gonna let those escape?”

  Plain as day, half a dozen ogres fled across the archery range and into open meadow.

  Rhian bellowed back. The roar of battle tore half his words away. “ … arse! … nearly burned me up … no eyelashes left … Duíndor!”

  The Elaran horse answered the summons. With a gesture, Rhian melted the ice wall and mounted up amid the ford. He galloped off in pursuit of the ogres. Lightning ripped from his palm. Thunder boomed.

  Shouts and the song of steel rang in the village. Strange, observing an army fighting something unseen. The ogres appeared to swing their axes at ghosts, at fear itself. A horn sounded, and almost as one, the ogres turned and fled. Watching their backs recede along the highway and disappear over the far hill made Rhoslyn break into sobs and laughter at once.

  The dwarves cheered wildly. Upraised fingers drew the sign of victory upon the sky. The archers abandoned the rooftops and ran back to the wall to see for themselves. Thorn ignored their praise.

  Leaning through the crenels, Kelyn cried, “Where is my daughter? You better have stowed her somewhere safe.”

  “In my pocket, perhaps?” Thorn retorted.

  Rhoslyn opened her mouth to demand a truthful answer, but Kelyn laid a hand to her shoulder. Until Thorn’s battle mood lifted, he was not to be trifled with.

  Rhian came riding back. Several dark lumps lay in the grass beyond the archery range. Duíndor carried him to the ford where he shouted words Rhoslyn couldn’t perceive. Shortly, a woman in an exquisite silver gown emerged from the twilight. Regal and splendid, she rode an Elaran black across the river and past Rhian with the disregard of a queen. It was only as she climbed the hill toward the gate that Rhoslyn realized this woman must be her own daughter. She and Kelyn hurried down the tower to intercept Carah as she dismounted in the courtyard.

  “My girl, my gi
rl, you’re safe,” Rhoslyn cried, opening her arms. “How enchanting you are!” She expected a gush of excited tales but received a quiet kiss on the cheek instead. Carah was as cool and distant as a marble statue on a plinth.

  “What are you wearing?” blurted Kelyn. “You can’t wear that.”

  True, the gown, or robe as Rhoslyn now saw, revealed more chest than was appropriate for a maiden at any occasion but a high ball. Carah squeezed his hand, paying the rebuke no mind. “I love you, Da. I’m glad we came in time.” Kelyn’s face fell as he realized his little girl had at last slipped through his fingers.

  What happened to you? Rhoslyn longed to ask. How can you have higher priorities than your father all of a sudden?

  Carah turned and pinned her with her unearthly blue eyes, as if she heard the questions all too clearly and had no intention of answering them. “Mum, Da, you must meet someone. Be polite.”

  Rhoslyn was taken aback. “Aren’t we always polite?”

  Thorn and Rhian approached from the gatehouse, one to each side of a stranger. Tall and lithe, the stranger entered the gate with a step as graceful as wind in the grass. Bright blood splashed soft suede garments and skin like moonlight. Understanding dawned, and Rhoslyn breathed out a soft, “Oh.”

  Thorn stood between his family and their guest in a protective stance. Which, Rhoslyn wondered, did he feel needed protecting? “Kelyn, Your Grace, may I present Laniel Falconeye, my friend and my oath-brother.”

  For a long time Kelyn stared, and the Elari stared back. A cool frown drew together three green stripes between his eyebrows. His gaze spoke of caution, suspicion. It was an ancient gaze that carried with it the knowledge of past enmity, betrayal, and distrust well-earned. Yet his weapons were sheathed, and he stood exposed to hundreds of armed humans, willing to let the past remain in the past.

  Kelyn found his voice. “Oath-brother? Then let him be mine as well.” He extended his hand and said, “Welcome to Ilswythe.”

  Gradually, a grin turned one corner of Falconeye’s mouth. He stepped forward and gripped Kelyn’s hand.

  Almost imperceptibly, Thorn let out a sigh.

  “Ana-Forah is pleased with this moment,” the Elari said.

  Kelyn looked skeptical. “If my father is watching, he’s having an apoplexy. Come.”

  ~~~~

  16

  To Her Majesty, Da’era, Queen of Leania,

  I regret to inform you that

  Kethlyn wadded up the linen paper and tossed it on the rug. His quill scratched on a new sheet.

  To Her Majesty, Da’era, Queen of Leania,

  Under the Black Falcon’s orders, I have secured Heatherton, a town near your northern border, within Endhal’s domain, and from the populace have taken hostages. These

  Kethlyn growled and flung the paper to the floor. Balls of paper clustered around his feet. The shafts of sunlight pouring through the parlor window had shifted drastically. His shoulders ached. His middle finger was black with wasted ink. Why was this task so hard? He had prisoners; they would die if Da’era made the wrong decision. Easy enough. The problem, he decided, was that he sought a tactful way of breaking the news to her. Until today he had thought himself tolerably eloquent, but words failed him. Or perhaps it was the message itself he didn’t like. Whatever his words, the lives of two hundred commoners hung in the balance. Innocent commoners, it appeared. He had found no sign that the people of Heatherton were raising an army to march on Aralorr, despite Captain Lothiar’s report. Kethlyn hoped for a chance to correct this misinformation, preferably before he sent the letter to Da’era.

  A fist knocked at the parlor door.

  Kethlyn slammed the quill into the inkpot. Splashes of ink bloomed on a clean sheet of paper. “Enter!” he bellowed.

  A guard wearing Brimlad’s crowned octopus sidled into the study. “Your Grace, the prisoners have had luncheon, and they request permission to walk in the gardens.”

  He wasn’t referring to the commoners who filled Brimlad’s dungeon. The girl’s name was Cait. Her brother was Carysio, named after his Aunt Carys, the Lady Endhal. Kethlyn had made the mistake of asking. Stupid of him. Knowing their names gave them an identity, personality, humanity. He ran the risk of caring whether they lived or died.

  “No. They must find something else to occupy them.”

  “May they open the windows? The room has grown stuffy.”

  “No.” The suite the brother and sister shared occupied a goodly portion of the top floor of the keep; he wouldn’t risk them escaping or jumping to their deaths.

  “As it please Your Grace.” The guard bowed out.

  Why couldn’t they just be content? His highborn prisoners had been afforded every possible luxury. Tubs to bathe in, a fresh change of clothes, five-course meals three times a day, books and chess and dice to entertain them, a maid and a valet to fetch for them. Such was hardly the case for the townsfolk in the dungeon. The cells were accustomed to seeing unruly sailors, captured pirates, and other criminal sorts who were released or hanged fairly quickly. The people of Heatherton were to be held until the Black Falcon had no more need for hostages. How many weeks, months, might they live in squalor? Lord Drem, ill all his life with one fever or another, employed half a dozen physicians to monitor his every twitch and sniffle. With him presumably dead, these doctors had nothing to do but twiddle their thumbs. Kethlyn had sent them to the gatehouse to keep an eye on the hostages, to ensure none died of neglect or dysentery.

  Queen Da’era’s response to his letter would determine how long they stayed, and in what manner they would leave.

  Kethlyn flung aside the stained paper and stared at the clean, blank sheet underneath. What if Da’era read a lack of conviction in his words and thought him bluffing? If she sent her host east, Kethlyn was obligated to hang all two hundred prisoners. Even the women and children.

  On the other hand, when it came to commoners, he had only to give the order and others would see to the task for him. He need not even observe the proceedings, only the results, to make sure they were done to the Black Falcon’s satisfaction.

  It’s not my decision, he reminded himself. It’s Da’era’s call. If she cared so little about her own people, why should Kethlyn care? Let them hang.

  To Her Majesty, Da’era, Queen of Leania,

  Be warned. Upon the Black Falcon’s order, I have taken hostages from the town of Heatherton. We are aware that you gather your knights and militias to Graynor, and we believe you mean to send them east into Aralorr or north across the Avidan. Wisdom or folly on your part will determine whether the citizens of Heatherton survive or go free. Keep your host inside Graynor’s wall, and none need die.

  Goddess, a thug writing a ransom note could do better. He surged from the desk and stomped from the parlor. Threats had never been his strong suit. Carah was the bully. The seething vows of revenge that could flow from his sister’s mouth had more than once cowed him into surrender. His excuse had always been that he was too dignified to play her childish games, but in truth he merely ran out of insults, threats, and meanness. He couldn’t keep up, much as he wanted to. Kethlyn resorted to carrying out his impulses, which usually amounted to tossing bugs in her stocking drawer. What did he know about bargaining with lives and bullying queens?

  His foul mood swept before him; people scampered from his path as he made his way down the stairs and into the courtyard. He called for his horse, then galloped through Brimlad’s gate and onto the bridge. Captain Leng was inspecting the wagons of goods still arriving from the Leanian countryside. Aides dogged his heels, recording the contents of every crate and barrel in a manifest. He had returned only this morning, after two days of foraging along the coast, leading a company of soldiers and half a hundred wains. The man looked ready to tear his beard out. “No, no, we can’t do a thing with live fish. Half of them are floating already. Empty these barrels before they stink up my bridge.” Live fish and dead fish were poured over the rail into the Avidan. A tragic waste,
given the unsettled tides. Dried fish, smoked fish, pickled fish were separated into wagons for the journey east, along with bags of grain and salt, casks of ale, mountains of potatoes, floods of meal, tubs of lard, crates of bottled wine, preserves in shiny glass jars sealed with wax, oil in three-foot-tall amphorae, and honey in crocks no taller than a man’s finger. The barns for livestock were full to bursting as well. Restless sheep and cattle vied for space inside the paddocks. The noise of discontent and the stink of manure oozed across the bridge in one intolerable miasma.

  Half a holding’s bounty. Kethlyn had no idea the gleanings would be this rich.

  Leng noted his duke’s arrival and saluted. Dismounting, Kethlyn asked, “Do you have enough men to process all this?”

  “Competent ones? Never. My aides can’t seem to count their own toes. But we’ll manage, Your Grace. We’ll hire local shepherds to help herd the flocks to Bramoran. It’s not a soldier’s job, and it was hell getting all these beasts here. We’ll need drivers, too. How many troops should we send as escort?”

  “However many you think best, Captain.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.”

  “Just make sure each wagon is flying Windhaven’s banner. King’s orders.”

  Kethlyn tried to help where he could; the work took his mind off the ugly task awaiting him in the keep, but mostly his men refused to let their duke get his hands dirty. He supervised and approved and praised instead. He also liberated a crate of fine Doreli wine to share with his officers for a job well done, and a barrel of Dovnyan mead to dole out among the soldiers come nightfall.