Cry of the Falcon (Falcons Saga Book 4)

by Court Ellyn

  Carah propped her fists on her hips. “Tell me, Eliad, why did my father inflict you on me?”

  As soon as the column curled up inside the hayfield, Eliad had emerged from the crowd, “under the War Commander’s orders.” What good would Eliad do if that avedra hunter attacked again? He’d end up with his throat slashed open, too. “Where is my uncle? Where is Laniel?

  Eliad gestured helplessly. “I’m here to help you! Cheeky. Behave like that and you can raise the tent by yourself.”

  Carah held up a hand to silence his whining. “Right, I apologize.” When she peered back, Rhian was nowhere to be seen. Her search for him must have looked like a bad case of anxiety.

  “Relax, will you,” Eliad said, kneeling beside her. “There’s plenty here who would give their right arms to keep you safe.”

  I can protect myself, she wanted to say. Didn’t I prove that amply last night?

  He rambled on, “And not just me and Thorn and your da.” He picked up the mallet, an excuse to lean close, and whispered, “I’ve seen how he looks at you. When he learned what happened to you, he was livid.”

  Carah’s face heated. She and Rhian had been so careful. Well, at least Eliad had no room to judge her, him with his two mistresses. In truth, he’d always been more a brother to her than Kethlyn ever was. It appeared he still delighted in looking after her. She couldn’t begrudge him for that. He was the safest confessor she had. “Oh, Eliad, I do everything in my power not to think about him or feel anything, and it’s left this hollow, aching place in my chest. I don’t know how long I can stand it, yet I know it’s impossible, and I don’t want any lectures from you.”

  “Why impossible? Who else is he to wed but a fine lady like yourself? I think you’re conniving and cunning enough to make an ideal queen.”

  He might as well have struck her cheek. “What queen? Who?”

  Eliad blinked, befuddled, and held the mallet dumbly in his hand. “The White Falcon, of course.”

  Carah’s mouth moved in fits and starts.

  “Who did you think I was talking about? Wait, who were you talking about?”

  “Eliad, you’re as blind as I am.”

  His grin turned conspiratorial. “You haven’t noticed his regard for you? When you enter a room, he gives you every scrap of his attention. He hangs on your every word.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She smoothed her shirtfront, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden.

  “And I thought, surely, as often as you tended to him that he … that you and he—”

  “What? Are people saying we’re … that the White Falcon and I are…?” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “If you spread that rumor, if your women speak of it, I’ll … I’ll burn you in your beds.” She cleared her throat. “Bed. Well, not really. But still. Not one word, Eliad. It isn’t true. Arryk always conducted himself with perfect discretion.”

  His broad, furry face pinched with a puzzled glower. “Who are you pining for?”

  Carah sat squarely on her heels again and raised her nose. “I do not pine. Besides, that’s my secret.” She picked up a stake and slapped it into Eliad’s palm.

  ~~~~

  Kelyn toured the streets of Upton Mill, looking for his brother. The town was small. A dozen cottages and shops surrounded a tidy green square and a well, so there wasn’t much to tour. Most of the windows and doors were boarded shut, and ogres had plundered the granary, but a few people still dared to dwell here. Where else could they go? Tírandon lay a mere eight miles away, but the people must have learned by now that their refuge was no longer safe. When Kelyn rode into the square an hour ago, he’d seen only a rangy dog, a chicken, and one thin wisp of chimney smoke rising from a belatedly doused hearth fire. He’d called and called, announcing his name and his intentions, and after several minutes, one curious face, then a dozen, peered from doors. Now, the village had a festive atmosphere. Beside the well, where the cavalry watered their horses in turns, a baker and his little daughter traded pastries for a copper. A smith bellowed and clanked his hammer, trying to draw business, and in no time his forge was surrounded by men and horses. There wasn’t a shop on the square that hadn’t opened its doors in hopes of a decent deal. Young men approached anyone who looked like an officer and begged to sign on. Byrn the Blue took the opportunity to stretch his fingers, and incited a circle of children and maidens to dance about him while he played.

  These poor souls must think we’ve come to save them. If we fail… No, don’t look past tomorrow. Lay out your plans. Let the battle decide for you… But he couldn’t make his final plans. Not yet. The sun was setting, and the lower it sank beyond the rooftops, the tighter the knot of anxiety in his belly.

  He found his brother standing on the edge of the hayfield, watching the camp bloom. Thorn was still sober, which meant he was still maintaining his portion of the veil. “Any sign of them?” Kelyn asked.

  “Of whom?”

  “Azhien.”

  “And Alyster?”

  Kelyn gave a terse nod.

  “No.”

  “Damn it. They’re too inexperienced. I should’ve sent someone else.”

  Thorn exhaled a sigh of longsuffering. “I told you, Saffron could’ve scouted Tírandon for you.”

  “She had enough to do.” At dawn, as Kelyn’s host was pulling up stakes for the last leg of the march, Saffron returned from Briar Tower with word that the Fieran host was preparing to march north. They would not have the cover of the veil, however, so Kelyn did not expect them to reach Tírandon at the appointed time, if at all. “Besides, I want human perspective on this, brother.”

  “Azhien isn’t human.”

  “Oh, Goddess, stop quibbling. You know what I mean.”

  Thorn pressed his fingers into a throbbing temple. “Shall I send her to find out where they are?”

  The fairy herself chimed in, “No need.” At Thorn’s shoulder, golden light gathered from the rays of sunset. Her thimble-sized hand pointed toward the bustling camp. Amid the highlander tents, a crowd had assembled. It was shifting toward the village. Why should a couple of scouts merit all that attention? Kelyn ventured through camp to meet them. The excited chatter quieted as he drew near, and the scouts stepped free of the press. They were smeared, caked, soaked in blood, head to heel. Kelyn doubted who he was looking at until Azhien bared white teeth in a boastful grin and saluted.

  Heart in his throat, Kelyn conducted a quick inspection. “Are you wounded?” He asked them both, but his inspection lingered on Alyster.

  “I tol’ Azhien they wouldna catch us.”

  The Elari laughed.

  “But you caught them. Clearly.” The heat in Kelyn’s tone cut short their mirth. “I ordered you not to engage.”

  Amid the dark smears, Alyster’s eyes were indignant blue fire.

  Azhien leapt to their defense. “The naenion creeped up on us, Sheannach. Three of them! We was between them and the na’in camp. It is them or us.”

  Alyster shrugged with forced nonchalance. “I s’pose we coulda just run, but they woulda told their denmates two scouts were sniffing around. And if we’d run straight back, they’d know where to find us, now, wouldn’t they?”

  “Aye,” Azhien chimed in, “we run in a big circle and they chase, because naenion have no brain. We find an empty barn, and that’s where we fight and cut them to bits.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Alyster, smug, “no one will find their bodies until Tírandon is well in hand—if ever.”

  Kelyn longed to strike the cockiness off the highlander’s face, but then remembered he’d been just as unbearable once. Yes, he was sure of that. Worse, he had to admit the scouts had been quite clever. He swallowed the flood of unwelcome paternal feelings. “What’s done is done. You’re alive, that’s what counts. We’ll discuss your findings in the inn. This way.”

  He ordered a round of ale for them, then shooed the innkeeper from his own inn. Only the scouts and Thorn were permitted to stay. Once the shutters
were closed and the door barred, Kelyn unrolled his maps on the common room table.

  The scouts gave him the news, good and bad. Then he asked them to tell him again, so he could get his head around it all. Five thousand? He had suspected the ogres would have the advantage in numbers, but five thousand? Such a number would wreak havoc on morale. “What you saw, what we’ve discussed, does not leave these walls, understood?”

  The scouts made a vow of silence. Once Kelyn was satisfied, he sent them out for a hot bath and the largest meal the innkeep’s wife could cook up for them. They’d earned it. As soon as they were gone, Kelyn said to his brother, “Round up the commanders. Have Haldred and Bryden help you. I’ll see everyone here in one hour.”

  Thorn hesitated. “Are you sure we should go through with—”

  “Go. Please. I need quiet to think.” More, he didn’t want Thorn’s fears muddling things. Kelyn had enough of his own.

  The commanders trickled into the inn. Still, they all arrived well before the appointed time: Thorn, Rhian, and Laniel, whispering conspiratorially in Elaran; Rhogan, grave and silent; Eliad and Ulna, chatting and laughing as if they were visiting the inn for drinks; Daxon, stone-faced, and if Kelyn was any judge, scared as hell. They gathered round the battered common table, but none sat down.

  The two squires hovered near the bar. Bryden slumped on the stool, bored and sleepy. But Haldred watched the commanders intently.

  Beyond the shutters, night darkened the glass. The village had grown quiet. Lamps flickered from the ceiling beams and a fire in the hearth, though the night was too warm for it. The chatter gradually trailed off into shadowy corners, and Kelyn said, “Tomorrow decides all. Tomorrow is not the end, but it will decide if we keep fighting, or if we flee into the hills. No one here will play a small part. Each of you is critical. We do not have the numbers or the advantages that allow for error.” He turned to Laniel. “Azhien said an Elari named … Elyandir? … leads them. What do you know about him?”

  “Hnh! Elyandir is a kiss-arse and a bastard. Thought us ‘treewalkers’ little higher than dirt. Always followed Lothiar’s orders to the letter. If he has a tactical mind beyond that, I don’t know.”

  “Lack of initiative?”

  “Could be.” Laniel frowned, uncertain. “But, then, if Lothiar knows where we’re headed, Elyandir will be prepared with something resembling a plan.”

  Kelyn would give his left eye to know how Lothiar was delivering his orders so quickly. No runner was that fast. “We must assume that our enemy knows we’re coming. We won’t count on the advantage of surprise, though we’ll muffle harness and gear and arrive before dawn, in the hopes that we still own that advantage.” He scooped a parchment off the table. “Hal, pass this around. I’ve written down the order you’ll march in, to make deployment easier in the dark…”

  ~~~~

  Carah held tight to Azhien’s arm as they ventured through rows of tents, past campfires and lines of tethered horses. A camp full of soldiers, she had decided, was not the place for her. After setting up the queen’s tent, she’d headed to the well for water, and right there in front of a dozen other men, one of the highlanders wearing blue and gray in his hair had taken her for a camp follower and proposed an hour in his tent. Insulted, she’d made a counteroffer: “You should ask my father, the War Commander, if he’d agree to that. Or my Uncle Thorn.” Then she’d hurried back to her tent with an empty water bucket and put on her silver robe. From now on, she’d look too fine for anyone else to mistake her for a farm girl in need of quick coin.

  Whatever the needs of men before battle, they were hardly the greatest threat. Twice on their way across camp, Azhien spotted Elaran lifelights headed their direction and stopped abruptly. He called words Carah didn’t understand, and the Elarion replied with their names or ranks or something that put Azhien at ease again. As they walked on, Carah recognized they wore the red facial stripes of the Regulars. The Elari who attacked her had worn no stripes at all.

  At last they arrived in the village square. Dozens of people had gathered outside the inn. They conversed or rolled dice on the cobbles; one man played a flute as softly as a humming night bird. Anything to pass the time. Much good would it do them. Carah doubted her father would announce his battle plan in the open. If anything, he’d order them off to bed. Still, she shared their curiosity and had come hoping for some hint of what tomorrow would bring.

  “There’s Alyster.” Azhien led her past the crowded inn yard and into the deep darkness beneath an andyr tree. The leaves shushed and shifted in a balmy night breeze. Alyster leaned against the trunk, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the windows of the inn. In the dim light filtering through half a dozen windows about the square, his brooding face resembled Da’s more than ever.

  “Still at it, are they?” Carah’s greeting startled him from his thoughts.

  “Didn’t expect you here.”

  Did he mean to sound scornful? Carah brushed it off and asked, “Why? Aren’t girls allowed out at night where you come from?”

  “If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be here at all.”

  “Aw. Is that because you care, or because you despise me?”

  Was it her blunt tongue or her mischievous grin that caught him off guard? He barked an uncomfortable laugh, and she didn’t wait for an answer. “I should be helping the queen, you’re right. She’s filling more medicine bottles, Goddess help me. She’ll keep me up all night with the task, I’m sure. But I excused myself for a bit of fresh air.” She glanced at the windows. “Do you have any idea what they’re saying?”

  He resumed his slovenly posture against the andyr. “No, and I don’t want to know. Too many lives are depending on the accuracy of my word. Our word,” he amended, extending a nod toward Azhien.

  The dranithi nodded in agreement.

  “Hmm,” Carah said, “I suppose that’s how Da feels.”

  Alyster glanced at her, as startled as if she’d dealt him a shove. How delightful. Carah didn’t make him stew too long before she changed the subject. “I heard you met with trouble.”

  Azhien chuckled; he’d eagerly regaled her with the tale of their adventure.

  Freeing himself from the tree, Alyster reached for the clasp of her necklace. “Aye, your amulet worked. Here.”

  Carah patted the pendant against his chest and shook her head. “Keep it a while longer. Big day tomorrow. Unless it’s a burden, of course.”

  The tenderness in his voice surprised her. “ ‘Tis light enough.”

  ~~~~

  29

  The lumberjack balanced on a log that floated near the bank of the Ristbrooke. Hundreds of tree trunks clogged the current, turning the surface of the river into a road for those who knew how to traverse it. Downstream, a wheel churned and a great saw buzzed. “Aye, I seen ‘em,” the man said.

  A flicker of hope flared in Laral’s chest.

  Tarsyn dropped his pony’s reins, trod ankle-deep into the water, and fired questions, “How long ago? How many? What state were they in?”

  “Well, now. It were a while back,” the man admitted. He used a long, spiked pole to drag another log close to the one he stood on. Laral suspected his task was an excuse to avoid the eyes of four desperate strangers. The two logs collided with a soft thump, but the lumberjack barely wobbled. His feet shifted, and he stood steady again.

  “When?” Tarsyn pressed.

  The lumberjack scratched his ear. “Half a month ago? On this very road. Headed for the pass, I assume. Some of the boys talked about chasing ‘em down, cutting those poor people loose, but …” His brawny shoulders shrugged. “We got our own troubles, haven’t we?”

  Across the wide mouth of the Ristbrooke, Locmar Town smoldered. Only a few buildings appeared to have burned. Bordered on two sides by broad rivers and on the third by the Brenlach, Locmar was easily defended. And the townsfolk proved themselves resilient; already they raised new frames to replace cottages on the outskirts. The lord’s banner, a red tree on ce
rulean, still flew atop the castle.

  “Lord Locmar hasn’t taken his militia north?” Laral asked.

  The lumberjack looked puzzled. “North to where? We’re needed here, as you can see.”

  Laral glared resentfully at the castle on its hill overlooking the shining waters of the lake. “Right. Can you send over the ferry, please? We need to resupply.”

  The raft slowly navigated a path through the flow of andyr logs. On the far side, the town teemed. Children laughed, women hung laundry, men plied hammers to planks in an effort to replace what the ogres had destroyed.

  As soon as they were safe on the dock, Drys said, “That tavern looks crowded. I’m starved for hot food.”

  Laral grabbed his arm. “Food can wait. You’re the Aralorri here, Lord Zeldanor. Head up to the castle for an audience with your peer, see if you can convince Locmar to do his duty. The rest of us have shopping to do. We’ll meet you—”

  Drys groaned, like a child asked to eat his vegetables. “Look at me, Laral, I’m in no state for an audience with a lord.”

  Tarsyn chuckled. Drys was a sight, it was true. The swellings on his cheekbones and chin distorted his broad face; his left eye was reopening nicely, even if it was a compelling shade of violet. He had complained about the ache in his ribs for last two days, but after an examination, Kalla announced that none were broken. Tarsyn was prettier by a hair, but only because he’d started out that way. The animosity between them had dried up and disappeared. For two days, Drys hadn’t made one joke about Tarsyn’s garments, his bastardy, or his fear of spiders. The journey had become remarkably peaceful.

  But Laral was in no mood for whining. “Good Goddess, Drys, you are a lord. You’ve been in battle. Locmar doesn’t have to know it was a kid who beat the shit out of you.”

  Drys bristled. Tarsyn turned away fast, before his grin earned him some broken teeth.

  “Matter of fact,” Laral added, “tell Locmar that you’re an emissary for the War Commander, and Lord Ilswythe is not pleased with his absence. If he complains, show him your fists.”