Cry of the Falcon (Falcons Saga Book 4)

by Court Ellyn

“I let you slaughter my people.”

  “Let us? Don’t let your anger twist the truth. You gave the order.”

  A sob burst from his mouth. “Lasharia, kill me, please. Don’t make me suffer this …” He wasn’t sure which hurt worse, the pain in his body or the anguish in his soul.

  She leant over him, kissed his forehead, then gazed at him with eyes large and tender and the color of lilacs. “I can’t.”

  The lock on the door rattled. Lasharia scurried from the chair and met the ogre shouldering through the door. Valryk scooted across the straw mattress and pressed himself against the wall, whimpering. He tucked his feet in the crack between the bedframe and the wall. Don’t burn me! Leave me alone!

  “Not now, Paggon,” Lasharia said. “He’s barely lucid. Lothiar wants him whole.”

  The ogre’s heavy brow knitted in confusion. “Loose?”

  “Lucid! Aware!”

  “Yes, I do want him whole.” Lothiar filled the doorway. The glance he cast toward Valryk was rife with contempt. “I’ve had the night to reconsider, and you’re right, Lasharia, I’m not finished with him. Paggon, bring him.”

  Lasharia tried to intercept the ogre. He bulled past her. She had to dance aside or be crushed.

  There was no hiding from those tiny red eyes. No escaping those long, strong arms. Paggon lifted Valryk as though he were a babe in a cradle. Being folded like a twig sent shards of pain through his middle.

  “Lothiar, he’s in no condition,” Lasharia protested. “You’ve hurt him enough. Torture will kill him. Give him a few days to recover.”

  “Such concern, Lasharia. It’s touching. Never fear, we have no further need for torture. His cousin grew a brain, rendering the duke and this sack of slime useless. On the Evaronnan front, at least.”

  “Then what else can you possibly need him for?”

  Lothiar inspected her head to heel, as if realizing she wore a gown instead of armor. “Were you hoping I’d give him into your care?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Lothiar pinched her chin. There was something tender but cautionary in the gesture. “I’m not. I know you like him. That’s why you’re headed to Evaronna. You will lead a regiment of naenion from Fire Spear to ensure the duke regrets defying me.”

  “No!” Valryk exclaimed, trying to kick free, but Paggon’s arms tightened their hold, nearly crushing him breathless. His cracked ribs knocked together, tearing a scream from him.

  Paggon grunted an apologetic, “Ooo,” and held him more lightly.

  Lothiar nudged Lasharia for the door. “Go suit up.”

  She strode out, skirts swirling.

  Don’t go! Hold me, sing for me, don’t let them hurt me! But he might’ve been no more than an insect underfoot. Lasharia didn’t look back.

  “As for you,” Lothiar said to him, “I am sick of the sight of you. I hope to see you only once more, and that on the day you die.”

  “Get it over with!” Valryk demanded. “Save us both the annoyance.”

  Lothiar had a talent for ignoring outbursts. He turned for the door. “Bring him, Paggon.”

  The ogre clomped after the Elari, ducking under doorframes and ceiling beams. He turned slowly through narrow spaces, to ensure walls and doors didn’t bruise the human, but every graceless step rattled Valryk’s battered bones. He caught whiffs of sour smells that didn’t come from the ogre and counted the days since he’d had a bath. Lothiar granted him a change of clothes only when he needed Valryk to speak with Kethlyn. That was twice now. Twice in how many weeks? Blood stained the front of the burgundy doublet he’d been given last night. Blood coated the inside of his mouth. He’d soon smell as fine as an ogre.

  Strange how little vanity mattered. It was more important to be as invisible as a cockroach and as obliging as a maiden. Why had he shouted? Where had that moment of mad courage come from? The beating was worth suffering if Kethlyn had realized the truth. He would soon bring his host east. Maybe he was already mobilizing them. Rescue might be mere days away.

  Winding flights of steps, trod by hundreds of wretched prisoners over the centuries, led them down the tower. It was the same path they had taken too many times in recent days. Valryk suspected that Lothiar had lied to Lasharia, to convince her to leave. As they passed the warden’s headquarters and neared the dark room with the chains, the table, and the brazier, Valryk began to panic. He pressed his face against the ogre’s breastplate. His heels and toes burned at the memory of those hot coals.

  But instead of ducking through the door to the interrogation chamber, Paggon kept walking. Farther along the corridor, Lothiar stopped before an iron door that looked too narrow for the ogre’s broad shoulders. Rusted hinges squealed. Darkness spilled down a stairwell that curved out of sight. Valryk imagined it leading down, down to the Abyss. “What purpose have we down there?” Dread squeezed at his throat like fingers.

  “Sha,” Lothiar whispered. Specks of light gathered over his upturned palm, swirled and intensified. The hovering yellow orb, like a will-o-wisp, illuminated the top half-dozen steps. A rat scurried from the quivering circle of light. The air reeked of rodent urine and stagnant cold. With a gesture, Lothiar sent the orb drifting down the steps. He followed it almost leisurely. Paggon had to descend sideways, scraping his buttocks against one wall and shielding Valryk from the other, while hunching his shoulders over his captive to keep from striking his head on the ceiling. Valryk clenched his jaw against mounting claustrophobia and the pain of being squeezed.

  “These cells are carved from the bedrock,” Lothiar said, as amiable as a tour guide. “They must be as old as the original city, meaning my people built them. Likely to hold human prisoners of war. Fitting.”

  Valryk squirmed. “No, don’t put me down here, please!” The dense stone swallowed his voice. “I’ll happily stay in my cell upstairs. You’ll never hear a sound from me again. Please!”

  “You’re right. No one will hear you down here. I warned you once before, remember, that I could take away your comforts, and so I have. You should’ve kept your mouth shut.”

  Valryk knotted a fist and drove it into Paggon’s throat. Arching his back he twisted free of the ogre’s arms. The pain in his body didn’t matter. He clutched his side and ran up the steps two at a time. The narrow passageway forbade Paggon to open up his stride, and if Valryk was lucky, the ogre’s bulk would block Lothiar from pursuing until he was free of this dark gullet to hell. Hope rose from his belly like laughter. The light from the orb faded. The ogre’s bellow pursued him, followed by irate orders from Lothiar. Darkness engulfed him. Where was the door? They had descended farther than Valryk realized. Blind, he ran round and round, a hand clinging to the central column. His foot misjudged the next step. He crashed to his hands and knees, scrambled like a rat on all fours. Where was the bloody door?

  A hand seized him by the ankle. The sudden stop sent him careening sideways. His cheekbone struck the edge of a step. A large foot came down between his shoulder blades, crushing him to the stone.

  “Don’t break him!” Lothiar cried, breathless as he caught up.

  The foot let up a fraction. Valryk sucked down a gulp of air.

  “Keep him at arm’s length this time.”

  Paggon grabbed the back of Valryk’s doublet and dragged him backward down the stairs. He twisted and screamed and scraped his fingertips bloody on the walls as they descended. The floor flattened out; Paggon gave him a toss. Valryk rolled across a cold bare floor and collided into a wall slick with damp.

  Hinges shrieked.

  Fighting the shards of agony in his ribs, Valryk scrabbled toward the yellow light filling a doorway. The door slammed shut just as he reached it. A small barred window at eye level let him peek out. With one hand Paggon held the door shut while Lothiar bent close to ply the key. The bars were set too close together to let Valryk reach through and seize the Elari by the throat.

  “Kill me instead!” he cried. “Don’t leave me down here. I beg you!�
�

  The lock clicked. Lothiar backed away. “At the right time, you’ll have your wish. Your execution in a public square before a subdued people will clench my victory. You are the final statement, Your Majesty. And you will make it with a shout that will echo for generations.”

  How smug he looked. Valryk roared through his teeth, wishing only for the chance to scrape that arrogance from Lothiar’s face with a dull blade. “You’d better kill me soon, you son of a bitch. My cousin is on his way. Kethlyn will bring every soldier in Evaronna and turn these walls to pebbles. It will be you we execute in a public square!”

  Lothiar sniffed, hardly daunted. “Every soldier in Evaronna will be defending Evaronna. Thanks to your lover. Don’t count on the Sons of Ilswythe either. You tried to have them murdered, remember? No one is coming for you. Who would bother?” He turned for the stair, taking the light with him. The ogre gave a parting snort and followed.

  Valryk screamed for them to come back. He preferred the company of enemies to no company at all.

  The light dwindled. His eyes clung to every scrap. And then it was gone. Darkness settled in, so thick he could bite it. It tasted cold and eternal, like death. The silence pounded from the stone over his head and the stone beneath his feet. His fingers squeezed the bars of the window because he was afraid to let go. His cell was small, only a few feet across; the echo of his breath told him that. But if he let go of the door, would he be able to find it again?

  ~~~~

  From the top of Bramor’s outer wall, Lothiar watched Lasharia ride west. Her pleas on Valryk’s behalf shook his trust in her. “Will she obey my orders?” Lothiar peered over his shoulder where Dashka hovered spectre-like. “Don’t stand behind me, avedra. Don’t ever stand behind me.” The gaunt Valroi crossed the wall to stand at Lothiar’s side. He seemed to shrink day by day, face paler, dark eyes more distant, attention more aloof. Not the best qualities in a bodyguard.

  “She is loyal, Captain. More than most.”

  That didn’t exactly answer his question. In the coming days, Lothiar would keep a close eye on Lasharia’s every move. An escort of ten Storm Mount ogres jogged alongside her. Easy enough to order one of them to give her head a sharp twist. But he hoped that once half a kingdom drew out between her and her pet, she would remember that their cause far outweighed one human’s comfort.

  The Fire Spear clan, hidden deep in the Gloamheath, knew to expect her. Their chieftain, Tugark, had roared ecstatically when Lothiar gave him his orders through the basin this morning. The rodent bones he wore knotted in his hair rattled as his mighty frame shook. Given his enthusiasm, Lothiar wondered if Lasharia would need to raise much of a finger. Under her supervision, Fire Spear was to raze a swath of Evaronnan countryside and blockade the roads. The last thing Lothiar wanted was the duke bringing his host east to join the Sons of Ilswythe.

  The highway that descended from the moors finally led Lasharia and her escort out of sight. For the nonce, Lothiar had no choice but to trust her. He had more pressing concerns right here on the walls of Bramor. Ogres might be skilled diggers of stone and earth, but when it came to delicate machinery, their fingers were as clumsy as dogs up a tree. He toured the battlements, inspecting their progress. Of the dozen catapults the ogres had completed, only half worked properly. Twenty more unfinished frames lined the outer wall. Worse, only one of the ballistae had loosed its garrot with any viable force. And in the Green, one of the trebuchets, unpredictable when constructed by expert engineers, flung a hunk of stone straight into the gatehouse tower, carving out a sizeable divot in the masonry. After the test firing, Lothiar had bellowed, “You’re the strongest creatures alive! More tension in the ropes! That damn thing ought to fire halfway to Tírandon.” So he’d exaggerated. But the ogres didn’t know that. At least now the trebuchet’s ammunition managed to land outside the wall.

  The dragon had promised to raise an army against him, but what kind of army? From where? Not among the humans, surely. They were a nuisance but not a threat. And nearly every avedra languished now in the pit. What more could the dragon send against him?

  Strolling along the north wall, he gazed toward the hazy horizon. Ilswythe lay out of sight, a mere thirty miles away. He had hoped for a report from Fogrim this morning. Had the ogre broken through the gates yet or not?

  Movement on the highway gave him pause. “What is that?” He leant through the crenels.

  Dashka stopped a few paces away. “Scouts?”

  Why would Fogrim send scouts when he could use a sigil to speak to Lothiar directly? More vitally, why wasn’t an alarm being raised? He should be hearing a ram’s horn by now. He whirled toward the nearest sentry, grabbed the ogre by the wisps of hair on his head and gave his skull a shake.

  “Do you see?” he bellowed, pointing.

  The sentry snarled, tusks bared, and raised a hand to rip away Lothiar’s hand.

  Dashka’s dagger at his throat convinced him to think first. “Your bones will feed your denmates if you touch him.”

  The avedra’s burst of speed startled even Lothiar. Best remember it and be wary. Come to think of it, where had the avedra gotten a dagger? Lothiar had confiscated his weapons. He’d deal with that later. “Tell me what you see!” he shouted at the sentry.

  The ogre lowered his hand, bore the pain in his scalp with a silent wince, and examined the moor stretching away below. His glance arrested on the highway. “Naenis, Cap, running dis way.”

  “Why did I see them first? Can your puny eyes see that far?”

  “Yes, Cap. I see Chieftain Fogrim lost his dwarf hat.”

  Lothiar squinted toward the horizon. Puny eyes, nothing. The ogre saw far better than any Elari was capable. Which tiny figure was Fogrim? And what the hell was he doing here? The band of two dozen ogres jogged toward Bramor as if nightmares nipped at their heels. A black dragon claw painted on undyed linen flapped desultorily over their heads. Lothiar tried to convince himself that Fogrim had crushed Ilswythe’s forces and left the rest of his company behind to hold it. His gut told him otherwise.

  He released the sentry’s hair and shoved him against the wall. “Keep your eyes on your job! It could’ve been our enemy running along that road instead.”

  “But the clouds, Cap.”

  Was this feeble excuse the best a brainless ogre could invent? “Do our enemies fly? I should pluck out your eyes.”

  “Shadows, Cap. Shadows in dem clouds,” the sentry insisted. His eyes grew so large with fear that Lothiar saw the whites around the red irises. He spread his arms wide. “Big shadows. Dey go round and round.”

  Unable to help it, Lothiar glanced skyward. He hadn’t anticipated attack from above. How many dragons were there? Low ragged clouds, scudding fast, gave him glimpses of naked sky. He detected neither bird, nor dragon, nor shadow. Still, he hurried along the lines of builders, kicked a few in the pants. “Complete these catapults by tonight!” They would fail; nonetheless, hammers picked up the tempo.

  Satisfied, he started down the nearest tower. Dashka trailed him. Lothiar paused, annoyed, and waved him ahead. “Did you see anything?”

  The avedra cast a wary glance back at his captain. “No, sir. That ogre suffers from delusions.”

  Lothiar wasn’t so certain. “Have you ever … seen a dragon?”

  Silence drew out. Reaching the bottom of the tower, the avedra said, “Only in my nightmares.”

  “What nightmares?”

  “They shame me, sir. They make me afraid, like a child in the dark.”

  “Tell me.”

  Reluctant, Dashka let out a sigh. “A great beast chases me. Its wings spread so far I cannot see their end. I feel its breath on my neck. It’s not hot, but heavy. I don’t dare turn around. I keep running. It calls me … names.”

  “What names?”

  “Traitor.”

  Yes, that sounded like Rashén’s tactics, all right. Damn that dragon. Lothiar shoved a finger at the avedra’s face. “You will be a traitor if you def
y me. I have spared your life.”

  “And it belongs to you, Captain.”

  Lothiar let him lead the way across the abandoned city to the north gate. Bedraggled and disordered, the Dragon Claw ogres trickled in. They dragged their feet. Nor did they look their captain in the eye. Sure signs of defeat. Inwardly, Lothiar swore and tallied his losses. Not one ogre carried a Red Axe banner. And where was Fogrim? A delusional sentry, indeed. A liar, rather. Lothiar would need to reassign—

  “There,” Dashka said, pointing. Bringing up the rear, a knot of four ogres carried a fifth.

  Lothiar recognized the gray spotted dome of Fogrim’s hairless head dangling a few feet above the ground. His denmates laid him at Lothiar’s feet. A forest of arrows grew from his body, rising and falling with each determined breath. Scales of dwarven hutza protected his chest, but some of the arrows had found their way between the scales. They punctured his belly, an exposed arm, a thigh. And, just as the sentry said, he had lost his prized dwarf’s-head helm.

  “Cap?” grunted the ogre, surprised to see Lothiar looming over him. Blood stained conical ivory teeth.

  “What happened, Fogrim?”

  “A’most,” he muttered. The customary cunning light in his reptilian eyes had grown dim.

  “The dwarves? Did they push you back? Are they coming?”

  Fogrim shook his head. “Dem ‘Lari. All goes well, till dem ‘Lari show up.”

  Lothiar reexamined the arrows, plucked one from Fogrim’s arm without warning. The ogre howled. The iron head was narrow and barbed like an oak leaf. Several of the shafts had gray fletching. Dranithion.

  One of Fogrim’s bearers spoke up. “Dat’iel trap Red Axe. T’row fire all over dem. He come alone, we t’ink. We charge him and take him, make Cap happy. But dat pup show up, make de river stand on its feet. Den ‘Lari take us from de flank.”

  Rage burned in Lothiar’s belly. His hands shook with it. “Take Fogrim to the shamans,” he said through his teeth. “I’ll tend to him shortly.” The four ogres hefted their chieftain and followed the others through the gate.