Cry of the Falcon (Falcons Saga Book 4)

by Court Ellyn

  A voice growled in his ear, “You move, you die.”

  ~~~~

  30

  The night pressed hard around the advancing army. Forath was a dull red blister on the western horizon, resentfully sinking out of sight; Thyrra’s silver sickle climbed the eastern sky, providing only a tease of the highway a few feet at a time. Horses and soldiers could barely be sure of their next step. Strips of cloth or wads of green grass muffled the jingle of harness. The objective was to advance in silence, but for two thousand soldiers, their horses and wagons, silence was impossible. The rumble of hooves and the rhythmic march of feet traveled far on the still air. Neither could one expect a flooded river to roar silently.

  Rhian was on high alert. Even when he dived for pearls in waters rife with predators and riptides, his senses had never felt more keen than on this night. The creak of Duíndor’s saddle, the call of an owl, a cough from a dust-filled throat were louder than they should’ve been. The scent of sweat and dew was sharper. Veil Sight shined clearer. Halos of men, thousands of them, followed the bone-pale roadway. No one bothered maintaining the veil this early morn. The veil no longer mattered.

  Ahead, the road plunged down the hills into a sea of blackness. Dim lights flickered, like the bow- and stern lights of ships, announcing the location of Tírandon’s towers anchored amid the plain. Hundreds of campfires ranged about the foot of the fortress and stretched far to the west, like a spray of orange stars reflected on water. It might have been beautiful. But around each of those campfires lurked how many ogres?

  What did the War Commander think of such a sight? Was he afraid? Riding behind the vanguard, Kelyn hadn’t uttered a word in miles. He carried his head high, his shoulders straight, so Rhian did the same. Beside him, Haldred held the black-and-red banner, though it was nothing more than a shadow in the dark.

  Kelyn’s plan called for his army to be in position before the sun rose. They were arriving on schedule, sure enough, but Rhian hated to tell him that he was thinking like a man accustomed to fighting humans. Darkness didn’t trouble ogres. Their sentries, if they were vigilant, would see Kelyn’s host approaching. More, they were used to communicating underground, and trembling earth under their feet would provide plenty of warning that a sizeable force was bearing down on them.

  Back at the inn in Upton Mill, Rhian had doubted his opinion would count for much, so he’d kept his mouth shut. What did he know about armies and battles of this magnitude? Not one blessed thing. He knew only how to fight dranithi-style. Small bands of warriors, quick strikes from cover, disappearing again into the trees. Even when he had helped track down ogre war bands in hopes of finding the missing avedrin, he had faced only a couple dozen naenion at a time.

  He had to admit it. Five thousand ogres gathered in one place, roaring and ready for blood, was enough to shake his courage. Just do as Kelyn says and stand your ground, he told himself. No one would play a small part today; such were the War Commander’s words. Rhian contemplated his role, and a wave of nerves soured his stomach.

  Duíndor felt his energy change and sidestepped. His bridle clinked; Rhian shushed him and stroked his neck.

  “Worried?” whispered Thorn. He rode on Rhian’s right.

  “What if I can’t maintain it?” he asked. “Over that distance, for as long as the War Commander needs me to? Sure I’ve never sustained a working like that. What if I give out?”

  “Use my staff. It will double your range. But I can’t help you with stamina. You have it or you don’t.” When Rhian had learned to manipulate the elements he had chosen to forego the honor of a staff. He’d learned his skills while on the run, chasing ogres from this camp to that cave, swamp to mountaintop, and a staff, he’d decided, was too awkward to carry.

  “Willpower. Confidence. Self-doubt is the first sign you’ll fail,” Thorn added, as if Rhian needed reminding of the basics. “You can’t afford to fail. How’s that for motivation?” He shrugged. “Tough talk, when I’m just as nervous. I practiced the Spell of Unraveling on a dozen Regs yesterday, but that’s a far cry from five thousand naenion. My willpower must be stronger than theirs, or they’ll weave new veils despite my efforts. Let’s hope your lightning sends them into panic.”

  If it didn’t? If the ogres maintained their composure?

  Ahead, the vanguard—comprised of Regulars—reached the edge of the high moor. The road led them down to the plain. Horns sounded from the darkness. Mule-like brays, wild croaks and roars, accompanied the thumping of drums. The ogres were awake.

  Half a mile from Tírandon’s wall, the Regs called out. Veil Sight revealed a handful of ogres breaking from their posts and racing toward the campfires. The sentries’ lifelights rippled around them like sunlight shining through fetid gray water. Kelyn shouted an order. Half the vanguard loped ahead. Elaran steel sang as they caught up to the fleeing sentries. Swords whirled, flashing with strands of silver moonlight. Ogres toppled, hamstrings severed, then the Regs leapt, dealing swift death blows.

  “Fan out,” Kelyn ordered the rest of the van. The company of Regs spread into a long line to the left and right of the column, to flush out lingering sentries.

  The column swept around Tírandon’s north wall. The castle’s black silhouette reared up against the blue-black sky and effaced the stars. People atop the towers swung lanterns in welcome. “Thorn,” Kelyn called over his shoulder. “Send Saffron now.” A golden trail of light whisked low across the dewy grass, then sped up the wall, over the battlements and out of sight. The fairy carried orders informing Tírandon’s garrison to hold their arrows until the enemy appeared before them. At the inn, Kelyn had voiced his concern: “I hope they have ammunition left.” After several weeks of enduring the siege, Tírandon was likely running low on supplies. The people might be melting down nails, rivets, horseshoes, spoons, anything to provide enough iron for arrows.

  The early morning air reeked of ogre. Even if the campfires hadn’t announced the camp’s location, Rhian would know they were getting close from the stink alone. It pooled like a miasma around the foot of the fortress.

  A quarter mile from the outskirts of the camp, Kelyn took position at his command post. He’d chosen the hill from memory. “There’s an apple orchard here,” he’d said, pointing at the map. “The hill is broad and low, but it’s the highest ground in the area.” The orchard had probably been beautiful once, but now the apple trees were nothing but stumps, likely hewn down to feed the campfires.

  Rhian reined in beside the War Commander. Thorn dismounted, tethered Záradel to a stump, and came to Rhian with his staff raised. Rhian took it and swallowed hard. The sky was beginning to pale. Thorn must have seen the fear on his face. “You’ll do fine. And remember, sometimes less is more.”

  Rhian snorted. “Less may have to do.”

  Thorn positioned himself some feet down the slope, between his brother and the plain. With his fists propped on his hips and a rising breeze stirring his robe, he looked as formidable as a wall. Only fools would try to cross him. But that wasn’t Thorn’s role today. Rhian had to be the wall, and he felt like a loose brick.

  A rumble of hooves announced the White Falcon and his guard catching up. “Can’t see a blessed thing,” groused Captain Moray. “Sire, this was a mistake. We should move you back to the wagons.” The wagons were to be stationed no closer than half a mile from the battleground. Carah with her healing hands and the queen with her needles and thread would be out of reach for a while, so each company marched with a contingent of orderlies who had the unenviable job of extricating the wounded.

  “It may be foolish,” the White Falcon replied, “but I’ll stay where the people can see me. You may go back if you like. Rance, with me.” The king and his lieutenant left Moray behind and joined the War Commander at the lip of the hill. Arryk had brought only one of his mastiffs; the other two had whined, penned in the back of a wagon, as he’d ridden away. Daisy sniffed the ogre-scented air and bared her teeth.

  “Vanguard
,” Kelyn called, “close ranks. Move forward fifty yards, front and center.” The Regulars marched down the hill. Elarion could walk silently when need called for it, but now the cadence of their feet sang an intimidating note.

  Laniel Falconeye and his ten dranithion had marched immediately behind the White Falcon. They ambled casually toward their place beside the Regs. Last night Kelyn told Falconeye, “Because your people have the most experience fighting ogres, you’re going to show us how it’s done. You’ll be positioned at the forefront. Once you’ve wakened the ogres with volleys of arrows, the Leanian cavalry will execute a central charge. Depending on how that goes, you’ll exchange bows for blades and lead in the infantry.”

  “Gladly,” Laniel had said, nodding slowly. “What’s five or five thousand? They die the same.”

  This morning, however, Laniel sounded less confident. In Elaran, he called over the heads of his troop, “More than we’re used to, nethai.”

  “Just keep your head!” Thorn bellowed in reply.

  Lord Mithlan rode past, leading Queen Da’era’s cavalry. They had polished their helms to a mirror shine. Thyrra’s crescent skittered across the steel. Rhogan lifted his eyebrows, a question. Kelyn responded with a gesture, bidding the two hundred horsemen to fill the ground between the Regs and the command hill. Five hundred Leanian foot soldiers maneuvered in behind them. Five hundred more remained behind the hill, in reserve.

  When the plan was charted at the inn, Rhian had tried to imagine what the formations would look like, but his imagination was too small and the formations had been only squares drawn on paper. In silent awe, he watched the mechanism shift and take shape. He feared, however, that there wasn’t enough oil in the cogs. And maybe a few of the cogs were missing entirely. How easily might this machine break down and leave a smoking ruin?

  Lady Ulna rode wide around the orchard. She and the infantries of Zeldanor and Blue Mountain took position on the far western flank. Lord Gyfan, Ulna’s consort, called, “Swiftblade!” and raised a hand as he rode past. Kelyn raised a hand in return. He seemed more concerned about Eliad and the highlanders, however. They filled the space between Ulna’s infantry and the command hill. Eliad rode back and forth among the loose knot of highlanders, promising each man a keg of ale if he fought well.

  “Hnh. He’ll pay them out of his own cellar, too,” Kelyn muttered.

  Alyster and the two dozen men from his kindred stood slightly apart, as Rhian had come to expect. Nor did they appear keen on following Drenéleth’s people. They eased to the front of the phalanx, ignoring a round of hisses and jeers. Alyster freed one of his hatchets, flipped it in his hand, stretched his shoulders, appearing all too well at ease. Rhian would lay a bet that he meant to charge ahead of the rest and prove a bastard’s worth. If he wasn’t careful, his cockiness would get him hewn in two.

  Lord Ulmarr brought up the rear, leading Brengarra’s two hundred pikemen. He looked no happier about it this morning than he had last night. Glowering at the map on the table, Daxon had confessed, “I always dreamed of dancing on Tírandon’s ashes, not freeing her from her enemies.”

  “You were her enemy,” Kelyn quipped.

  Daxon snorted, and Rhian had detected a vast amount of scorn. For Tírandon, Kelyn, or both, he couldn’t discern.

  “Well, think of it like this,” Kelyn said, “you finally get the chance to take her for your own.”

  “Don’t suppose I can have the center charge?”

  “You and your aunt are cut from the same cloth. That’s admirable. But you have no knights, so the honor goes to the Leanians.”

  As ordered, Daxon and Brengarra’s infantry drew up on the eastern flank between the dranithion and the moat.

  The deployment took no more than half an hour. In that time the sky had paled to a dull iron gray. The lanterns atop the towers dimmed, and Thyrra’s glow thinned. Rhian thought their army of two thousand looked vast and fearsome until he glanced toward the enemy camp. Fifty companies of ogres stretched out, like a scaled beast leisurely uncoiling. Thunder rumbled. The thunder of thousands of fists hammering shields, the thunder of thousands of guttural voices roaring taunts.

  Around the base of the command hill, the soldiers, the cavalry, the knights looked to one another, shifted uneasily, and peered back at the War Commander. Rhian had forgotten that they couldn’t see the source of the noise.

  “Brother, now is the time.” Kelyn’s face was taut, his voice rigid, his eyes a fraction too wide.

  Thorn took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and took a seat on the ground, his legs curled in front of him, his hands resting on his knees. He closed his eyes and began chanting. The string of words was a whisper breathed into the wind, a current rising and falling: “Kir dashiv fann nihen Leddeth. Avë thevriled, dashílanë.” Over and over again: “Shield gives way to eyes of Flesh. Energies of Veil, disperse.”

  In the air surrounding the ogres, slivers of colored light danced. Purple sparks of electricity snapped and squiggled.

  Thorn’s chant grew louder, more insistent, “Avë thevriled, dashílanë!”

  The veil cracked open in a thousand places. The shreds of colored light wafted away on the wind, and Rhian no longer needed Veil Sight to see his enemy.

  Cheers started low among the Leanians. Lord Rhogan cantered through the lines of cavalry, his arms waving them into a frenzy. The cheering rippled outward until every soldier, every knight celebrated a foe they could see. Highlanders banged the hafts of their hatchets together. Pikemen thumped their shields. Thunder replied to thunder.

  The White Falcon wasn’t fooled. “Goddess save us,” he said.

  Rhian looked to Kelyn for orders. Was he to begin?

  The War Commander wore a wicked grin. Seeing the ogres at last bolstered his mood. His mouth moved silently; thoughts tumbled from his brain, hitting Rhian like a wave. Kelyn was recalculating. He nudged his squire, took the black-and-red banner from him, and passed it absently to Lieutenant Rance. “Hal, deliver word to Lord Ulmarr. He’s to move his infantry around the east side of Tírandon’s wall, then head south a quarter mile and take up position at the ogres’ rear. Take the last line from the company of Regs with you. They’ll take care of any ogres scouting on the south side of castle. But Ulmarr is not—not—to make a move until Rhian launches two fireballs—at the same time—that don’t go anywhere but up. You can do that, right?”

  Rhian realized Kelyn was asking him, not Hal. “Whatever you need, sir.” That, he knew he could do. Fireballs were child’s play.

  “Am I to stay with Lord Ulmarr?” asked Hal. Eagerness brightened his eyes.

  “No, come straight back here.”

  The squire voiced a wordless sound of disappointment but turned his racer and trotted away.

  Kelyn beckoned to a herald. The soldier ran up the hill, a silver horn clanking against his sword belt. “Inform Laniel Falconeye, the Elarion are to shift east, closer to the moats. The rest of their orders remain the same.” The herald saluted and darted off.

  Rhian tried to puzzle out Kelyn’s reasoning. Only the king was bold enough to ask. “M’ lord Commander, why the change in plans?”

  Kelyn shrugged. “Things are suddenly clear, sire. I no longer have to guess or use generic strategies. If we succeed, the ogres will break and look for a way off the field. Daxon will discourage them from retreating south toward the Fierans who are marching from Briar Tower. And we don’t want them running east toward Lothiar.”

  Arryk nodded sagely. “They’ll flee toward the Barren Heights.”

  “And the Gloamheath, aye.” Kelyn said. “I’m betting ogres would rather charge through lines of humans than Elarion.”

  So it would be Lady Ulna and Eliad’s highlanders who would take the brunt of the panic. Kelyn’s own people, his friends. How could he make that call?

  “You’re going to provide extra incentive,” Kelyn said, looking at Rhian. “Daxon’s infantry won’t provide a very intimidating roadblock, so you’ll need to foc
us some heat on the enemy’s rear.” He gestured at the western end of the ogre camp. “Leave a convenient corridor on that side of the field.”

  Rhian estimated the distance. The shaft of Thorn’s staff felt feeble in his hand.

  “It’s a long way, I know,” Kelyn said. “Are you up to it?”

  “We can’t afford to fail,” he said and dismounted. He left Duíndor to choose his own path and stepped away from the king and the War Commander. He needed plenty of room.

  Don’t think about the distance, he told himself. The elements. There’s only the elements. He raise the staff and an empty hand, took a breath, and…

  …across the battlefield, lines of ogres parted. An Elari rode into the open, bold as you please. Two ogres accompanied him, one to each side.

  Kelyn clicked open a spyglass. “Elyandir, is it? He’s riding one of our blues, curse him.” The sun broke over the horizon, a burning slice of pink, and set the Elari’s armor to glistening like dark jewels.

  Rhian lowered his arms. “Think he wants to negotiate?”

  Kelyn snorted. “We’re not here to negotiate. Archers.”

  “Archers!” a herald echoed.

  The Regs nocked arrows to bows and waited. The dranithion slung longbows off their backs. Laniel stood to the side, gauging, gauging. When Elyandir and his bodyguards had crossed half the distance, they stopped, perhaps expecting the human commander to join them, but Kelyn gave the nod. Laniel shouted, “Draghilë!” A hundred and ten arrows arched into the fever-pink sky.

  Elyandir turned his horse into the angle of fire and raised a shield. Arrows bounced off the hutza. One of his bodyguards toppled without a sound. The other tried to duck behind the horse, but the animal took an arrow in the rump and kicked at the pain. One of the hooves struck the bodyguard in the head. The ogre fell, senseless.