Cry of the Falcon (Falcons Saga Book 4)

by Court Ellyn

  “Seems Ruvion missed a chance or two,” Dashka remarked. Was that a hint of glee Lothiar detected?

  They started back toward the gate. If Ruvion could not find an opportunity to snatch one of the avedrin, perhaps Lothiar could find a way to make an opportunity. He needed his own trap.

  Dashka scrubbed a hand over his chin, uneasy. “When I fought Dathiel in the banquet hall, he was strong, I thought, because he was desperate. Yet what kind of man makes himself a distraction before three hundred ogres? Would he were on our side, Captain.”

  “Hnh! Kieryn Dathiel is the whole reason we’re fighting this war. Had he never come to Linndun, I would still be asleep.”

  “Then there’s no chance you might recruit him?”

  Lothiar’s laughter was full of scorn. Dathiel would never cave to fear like you. He squeezed the shaft of the arrow, wishing it were Dashka’s throat, or Dathiel’s, or Laniel’s. “Go crawl into a hole somewhere.”

  Baffled, the avedra saluted and retreated.

  With a twist of his fists, Lothiar snapped the arrow in half. His people had sided against him. His people. His own people. Only a few days ago, Iryan Wingfleet contacted him through a basin to report that he had successfully delivered the ultimatum to Aerdria. She and her council had a fortnight to decide their course. They never decided anything quickly. Lothiar knew them too well to expect even a fortnight to be enough time for them to settle the matter. Yet they had. How could they side against their own? It had to be Aerdria’s doing. Soft, she was soft like any little girl rescuing puppies that deserved to be drowned.

  He had wanted to believe that some hint of fire or ambition still slumbered inside his people. He had hoped to awaken something inside them, but that something had died centuries ago.

  He stormed back to his rooms in the castle, slammed the door behind him, and dragged the water skin from its hook near the door. The marsh water squirted gray and smelly into the basin that sat amid the king’s breakfast table. With his finger he drew the toad-shaped sigil for na’in upon the surface of the water. His hand was so familiar with the motions that he drew it without thinking. “Korax Elfbane,” he growled. The water shifted, color formed and shaped the strong-jawed, scar-faced chieftain of Black Marsh. His head bobbed heavily on his muscled shoulders, as if his skull were fixed too loosely to his neck. He was on the move. Ranks of ogres filed along behind him.

  Lothiar gave the window a nudge. The ‘nudge’ was like pushing the ocean current with his mind. When would the accursed moons stop feuding and come together again? Manipulating the water-window was deucedly more difficult when the moons warred over the tides. A headache built in his temples. He’d have a nosebleed later. The view in the basin swung laboriously around. Iryan was nowhere in evidence. Not surprising; Korax rarely abided the company of Elarion. “Damn it, where is he?”

  Korax saved him the trouble of turning the window again when he peered around the crackling rim and sniffed at the window with flaring bovine nostrils. “Cap, dat you?”

  Who else would it be? “Where is Wingfleet? You didn’t eat him, did you?”

  A thunder of laughter rumbled up from the ogre’s chest. “Not yet. Wingfleet start back dis dawn.”

  “Where did he leave you?”

  Korax pointed back along the road. “Lanwyk Crossroad.”

  “You’re headed home?”

  The ogre nodded.

  “Stay where you are. Your orders have changed. Iryan will come back to you. He’ll hand you new orders. Do as he says. Do not eat him. Understand?”

  “Is better to taste sweetmeats dan listen to dem watery voices.”

  “Perhaps. But if you listen to Iryan, he will lead you into battle. Listen not, and I will send the other clans to decimate Black Marsh.”

  “Dessa-what? Speak plain, Cap, or speak not at all.”

  “Kill. Slay. Massacre. Feast. And there will be no more Korax, and no more Black Marsh. Remember, when we work together …”

  “… every naeni profit.”

  “Right. Stay put.”

  He didn’t wait for signs of Korax’s compliance but gave the window a mighty push. Pain ripped through his head. The view crawled over rich farmland laid waste by Korax’s marauders. Their path was easy to follow. When the window came to the fork in the highway, Lothiar turned it east, back toward Bramor. He caught up to Iryan strolling leisurely in a light rain. “Stop,” he said, giving his lieutenant a jolt. Iryan’s hand flew to his sword. As soon as he recognized the window and his captain’s face inside it, his alarm ebbed.

  “I have nothing new to report, sir,” he said, words clipped, showing his resentment at being startled. “I’ll arrive at Bramor before tomorrow night.”

  “The situation has changed. You’re going back.”

  “Back?”

  “To Linndun. They’ve refused us, my friend. Your words failed.”

  “Failed, how? Captain, I did everything … I said everything …!”

  “Blaming you is not my intent. I was wrong about them. Our people have joined the humans at Ilswythe. You’re going to make them sorry.”

  Iryan gulped. Lothiar couldn’t tell if he was hesitant or eager. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Lay siege to the gates. Bombard the city walls. Keep Tíryus too busy to send reinforcements to the Sons of Ilswythe. Later, if necessary, we’ll take other measures.”

  “Like what?”

  Lothiar peered long through the centuries, memory so clear he could hold it in his hand. “One day the humans will turn on them. They always do. When that happens, our people will retreat to the cover of the Wood and hide behind the veil. They always do. But what if they had neither trees nor veil?”

  ~~~~

  18

  On the morning after the battle, Kelyn summoned his commanders to the Great Hall. The maps he’d inherited from his father lay unfurled on the high table. The leather was creased with wear earned during two wars. Would they hold up under a third? To Thorn, the maps were a chessboard of a different type, and he pondered the glut of carnage planned upon them. He stood at the foot of the table, wishing he’d awoken early enough to squeeze in breakfast. But a hard, hasty ride from Avidanyth and hurtling headlong into a siege had exhausted him. He had to settle for tea that had grown lukewarm and bitter. The penalties of arriving late.

  Laral leaned over the map of Aralorr’s hill country. “How much territory do they really control?”

  Kelyn shrugged. “I’d like to think their advantage comes from illusion, and our fear. What does Lothiar want us to think?”

  “Them Red Axe ogres, who was their commander? Do we know?” asked Dagni. “I didn’t see an Elari.”

  “There wasn’t one,” Laniel said softly. He leaned against the wall at the back of the dais, arms crossed, peering at the maps from afar.

  “Is there such a thing as a clever ogre?” asked the dwarf.

  Laniel shrugged. “They’ve never needed Elarion to organize war bands to attack our Wood. They must have something that passes for intelligence.”

  Lady Drona listened to the exchange with a disgusted grimace crinkling her mouth. She stood as far from the Elari as she could get yet still see the maps.

  “Falconeye,” Kelyn asked, “what do you know about Lothiar?”

  Thorn nearly dropped his teacup. At the same moment, Laniel cast him a glance as sharp as a curse. Recovering, Thorn asked, “May we discuss that in private?”

  Their reaction to a casual question raised everyone’s suspicion. Kelyn scrutinized the two of them, then plastered on a smile. “Certainly. Sirs, ladies, I’ll recall you in a moment.”

  The commanders filed out. Taking up the rear, Laral shut the doors. When the echo of footsteps faded, Laniel raised his chin and said, “I know quite a bit about him. Lothiar is my older brother.”

  Kelyn sputtered wordlessly and aimed an accusatory glare at Thorn.

  “I’d prefer that to remain between us,” Laniel said.

  “Of cour
se you would! When were you going to tell me?”

  Thorn set the teacup on the table with a sharp click. “We didn’t see the need to tell you at all.”

  Incredulous, Kelyn cried, “Our ‘ally’ has a bias that may put us all in jeopardy. Didn’t you think—?”

  “No bias,” Laniel said. “Lothiar and I have nothing in common. We’ve never gotten along. We certainly don’t share the same opinion about duinóvion or naenion. Matter of fact, I doubt Lothiar likes ogres much either. They’re a tool, like anything else. Should he achieve his goal, I don’t see him suffering their presence. He’ll get rid of them somehow.”

  If Laniel was trying to divert Kelyn’s anger, it didn’t work. “I expect you to tell me everything you know, understood? Has Lothiar led armies before? In what capacity? What were his tactics? Everything, Falconeye, or you can leave now.”

  Thorn hurried around the corner of the table. “Brother—”

  “I mean it!”

  “There’s no need to threaten me, aurien.” Laniel’s tone remained calm. “You have my full cooperation. And more importantly, Lothiar does not. That he has done this thing grieves me beyond words. Well, imagine it were Dathiel’s doing.”

  “That’s precisely my problem with you, Falconeye. If it were Thorn I was fighting, I don’t know that I could do what needs doing.”

  That struck Laniel like a kick from a mule. Thorn expected some facetious remark from his oath-brother, but Laniel seemed to consider for the first time the possibility of facing his brother across a battlefield. Would his hand hesitate?

  In a low, measured voice Kelyn said, “I need your word that you will follow my orders to the letter with every ounce of objectivity you can muster.”

  Laniel drew back his shoulders, steeling himself. “You have it, Sheannach.”

  “When we have a chance for a lengthy talk, I’ll pick your brain. For now, if you have any contributions that may help us counter your … our enemy, speak up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kelyn nodded and turned to Thorn. “Call them back in.”

  The highborns slunk back into the Great Hall looking for signs of bloodshed, but Kelyn dived in as if nothing had interrupted them. “I’m not leaving this room until we have a plan. No matter how many days that takes. This enemy has paralyzed me, I’m ashamed to admit. I feel as if I’ve been clubbed on the head and have yet to blink away the stars.”

  “You’re not the only one,” Drona groused. “What did this elf tell you?”

  With a sigh, Kelyn said, “You may take comfort, Lady Athmar, in the fact that our ally has intimate knowledge of our enemy, and let it rest at that.”

  “And he’s gaining intimate knowledge of us the longer we endure him.”

  Laniel cast her a roguish wink. Drona all but growled back.

  Kelyn forged ahead. “What’s more, Thorn gave me an interesting piece of news last night, promising that our foe will be visible to us the next time we engage.”

  “How can you guarantee that?” asked Laral.

  “Let me worry about ‘how’,” Thorn said.

  “Magic, hnh,” Drona scoffed and turned her back on the lot of them. The view through the splintered window seemed to provide her a diversion, even if it was just a handful of highland women bathing their babes at the well.

  “ ‘How’ isn’t important,” Kelyn was saying. “This levels the field, well, more or less, so now is the time to take action. We will not sit here and wait for the ogres to come again. They’ll wear us down to a nub if we let them, and our morale can’t hold for long. Brother, who else have you summoned?”

  None, but how to tell Kelyn that? On the other hand, Thorn hadn’t expected Briéllyn to arrive with a third of Leania’s standing army. She’d brought that bard with her as well, the one Thorn had discovered singing of his mother in a louse-ridden tavern outside Mithlan. Blue-something. Byrn the Blue, that’s the name he went by in the alehouses, and now at court, too. Every once in a while, notes from a lute floated past the doors. “Well, remember the Fieran host.” Thorn pointed at a tiny square on the map. “They’re encamped at Briar Tower, and more cross the Bryna every day. The White Falcon’s chancellor is not a man to trifle with, I think.”

  “Lord Éndaran, isn’t he? A hard man, I hear.”

  “And loyal. Given Saffron’s reports, he seems willing to empty Fiera of its troops to bring his king home again.”

  “A host that size won’t go unnoticed. And their backs are against the river. Have they seen action?”

  “I’m unaware. Shall I send for them?”

  Kelyn calculated. So many uncertainties to consider. Thorn didn’t envy him the gamble. “No, not yet. Until we decide our course, I won’t know where I want them. How well fortified is Bramoran?”

  Thorn winced. “Unaccountably well.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I saw with my own eyes.” He glanced at Laniel, the only one present who would understand him. “In the pool.” Thorn busied himself pouring another cup of tea, even though he didn’t want it. Better cold tea than see the discouragement on his brother’s face. “Lothiar has ordered his ogres to build engines, all around the outer wall. Ballistae, catapults, dozens of them. It’s like he’s expecting a massive force to come raining down on him, but from where?”

  “Not from us, surely.” Kelyn didn’t sound as disappointed as Thorn expected. When he set down the sugar dish, he found a gleam of hope in his brother’s eye. “Who should we be expecting?”

  “It’s possible,” Laniel said, “that Lothiar thinks his ultimatum to my people will win him enemies.”

  “What ultimatum?”

  While Laniel explained the heart of Iryan’s message to Aerdria, Thorn reexamined his glimpse of Lothiar through the scrying pool. If the Regulars dared march from the cover of their trees, they would be a force to reckon with. But that possibility didn’t account for the irrational number of defensive weapons on Bramoran’s battlements, or for the fear he’d seen in Lothiar’s eyes. It was manic fear that had driven him to whip that ogre to unconsciousness and hang him. Fear of whom?

  “… but it would be folly to strategize with the Regs in mind,” Laniel was saying. “It’s unlikely more will join us.”

  “Which only seems to confirm that it isn’t your Regulars Lothiar is anticipating,” Kelyn said.

  Laniel shrugged, at a loss.

  “Regardless, this means attacking Bramoran is out of the question. Damn.” Kelyn leaned over the maps, studying them intently. “We must do the unexpected. And make a statement that tells Lothiar we are far from defeated. Has Tírandon fallen?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Thorn replied. “But it’s not impregnable, I don’t care what Leshan claimed. The ogres will break through sooner or later. Why?”

  “You’re not the only one who has dreams.”

  Thorn was about to ask him what he meant, but Kelyn frowned at a distraction over Thorn’s shoulder. “What are you doing here? This is a private conference, young lady.”

  Carah must’ve come from the kitchens. “Sorry, Da. Er, my Lord Commander.” She wore the gray dranithi suedes instead of her robe this morning. A prudent choice. Propping her fists on her hips, she looked expectantly at her uncle.

  “Ah, yes,” Thorn said. “You’ll have to excuse me, brother. I have a promise to keep. If you need me, I’ll be outside with my pupil. Listen for explosions, and avoid standing near windows.”

  Carah pursed her lips.

  “It happens to the best of us,” Thorn said, snickering. He took her hand on his arm and escorted her from the keep, letting the warriors decide what to do about the war.

  His mother’s garden was an ideal place to begin. The high walls would keep them safe while they concentrated, and Carah could hardly inflict more damage upon the ruin. As Thorn led her past the burbling fountain, she untwined her arm and stopped. “Maybe … maybe I’m not ready.” She chewed a corner of her lower lip and wrung her fingers.

  Thorn
squeezed her shoulders to impart his confidence. “Of course you are. Look, I don’t expect you to be able to make a bonfire in the next five minutes.” He shrugged. “But you never know.”

  Carah huffed.

  “The important thing is this: forget your past failures. You must reassess what you believe about yourself. You cannot have the will if you do not believe. You are equipped to do this. Meditate on that when doubts try to creep in. You are avedra. You are equipped. You can do this.”

  She gave a sharp nod. “I am avedra. I am equipped. I can do this.” Her glance darted toward the burned andyr. Leaves had begun to sprout from all its lower branches. She took a deep breath. “I am equipped. I am!”

  “Good. For now, let’s just start at the beginning.” He stooped to pilfer through one of the firepits dug amid the flowerbeds. “As you know,” he said, rising, “the elements are four in number.”

  Carah raised an eyebrow that warned him not to insult her intelligence.

  He opened his palm and showed her a piece of charcoal as long as his finger. “Lethryn.”

  “Earth, yes.”

  He gestured and a small tongue of blue flame settled into the charcoal. “Eshel.” A quiver of his hand sent droplets of water shivering down over the flame like rain. “Lea.” The fire sizzled out, and his hands came together, crushing the charcoal into tiny bits. With a breath he blew them away. “Lytha.”

  Carah giggled. “You’re a charming show-off, Uncle Thorn.”

  His grin was more feral than charming. “Pick one.”

  “Any one of them?”

  “You must learn them all, love. You choose where to start.”

  A smile told him she appreciated being allowed to determine the direction of her training. She shrugged, closed her eyes, and like pulling a name from a hat, blurted, “Earth.”

  Thorn replied with a groan. His least favorite. “Fine. Sit on the bench there.”

  Carah settled herself and breathed deeply to steady her nerves. It was as if she was preparing for earthquakes and landslides.

  “Give me your hand,” Thorn requested. Carah’s eyes were filled with trust tinged with a small measure of fear as she raised her hand. Thorn dropped a fistful of moist loam into her palm and closed her fingers around it. Carah gasped as if he’d given her a toad and tried to throw it away, but Thorn’s grip around her fist forced her to hold it. “Meditate on that handful of earth until I get back.”