Cry of the Falcon (Falcons Saga Book 4)

by Court Ellyn

  “Again,” Kelyn growled.

  Arrows flew.

  Elyandir lowered his shield, as if daring the arrows to strike their target, and bellowed, “Availan mathon shath’al!” Then he wheeled the wounded horse and galloped out of range before the arrows struck the ground.

  “Do I want to know what he said?” Kelyn asked.

  Rhian shrugged. “He said we’re all going to die today.”

  Across the field, a horn shrieked, a drum thumped, and the ogres charged. A cloud of ravens swirled up from the beams of the trebuchets, a widening black cyclone.

  All too softly Kelyn said, “Rhian, stop them.”

  Energies rippled through his skin as he raised his arms. No longer was he the loose brick. He was the sea. A sea of fire. Immovable, untouchable, immortal. A wall of fire sprang up from the earth. It stretched from the moats to the western edge of camp. The ogres leading the charge tried to reverse course. But the momentum of their comrades forced them into the flames. Some leapt, hoping to clear the wall, but when they emerged again they whirled, slapping at flames engulfing their flesh. Shrieks thrust against the sky like daggers.

  Rhian pointed the staff and grit his teeth. Pain crackled through his skull. A second wall of fire leapt up behind the ogres, beyond the last of the campfires. A sweep of the staff stretched the wall west and west a little farther. Farther! His arms shook with the effort. The crystal orb in the dragon’s claw glowed with fiery light.

  Corralled, the ogres’ charge crumbled. They fell back and reformed.

  Kelyn shouted orders. Arrows arched across the dawn. Arrows descended from Tírandon’s towers, too. “Hammer them, Rhian.”

  Doubt like nausea roiled through him. He was already maintaining a massive working. How could he do more? To divide his concentration into so many fragments might break him in two.

  Son of the Sea, you know the storm, you knew when the lightning would strike, you felt it in your blood. With his empty hand he held onto the firewalls; raising the staff, he called to the sky. “Vrinach!” Wisps of cloud gathered over the enemy camp and grew fast, bubbling upward into great billowing massifs. The rising sun painted their faces gold and unblemished white. Control, or I’ll kill us all. He chose his target, the center of the phalanx closest to the castle, and swept the staff toward the ground. Purple lightning crashed down. The thunder was close enough to deafen him. Horses reared. Men dropped to their knees, wrapping their heads in their arms. Commanders shouted them to their feet again.

  When the glare cleared from Rhian’s vision, he saw that the bolt had slain dozens of ogres. A knot of confusion formed among the survivors; they were shoving each other, trampling bodies, to escape the shadow of the storm. Horns blasted, ordering them to stand their ground.

  “It’s working,” Kelyn said, peering through the spyglass. “Again!”

  Rhian chose another target and another. Lightning speared through the ogres; fancy armor and irate bellows did not save them.

  All the while, the Elarion continued their rain of arrows. “Draghilë!” Laniel shouted. And halfway down the hill, Thorn rocked with the rhythm of his chant. Between his shoulder blades, his robe was dark with sweat.

  “Cavalry,” Kelyn said. A herald’s horn blared a new note.

  The Elarion loosed one last volley, then Lord Mithlan swept his sword, and the plain rumbled with hooves as the cavalry charged toward the wall of fire. Rhian breathed a calming breath, and his left hand made a small flicking gesture. The flames scrolled back like a parting curtain. The cavalry charged over the scorched ground, and the song of steel rippled over the plain. Rhogan had chosen to center his charge on one of the companies decimated by lightning; his attack was lightning fast. The ogres didn’t have time to mob them before the cavalry was racing back across open ground again. The Leanians reined in, reformed their line and charged back through the breach in the firewall.

  “Rhian, keep it up,” Kelyn ordered. “Lightning, damn it.”

  He’d become mesmerized, watching the maneuvers. Ashamed that Kelyn would see how green he really was, he winced in embarrassment and raised the staff. A bolt flashed white-blue. He focused on the phalanxes in the rear now, close to the fortress, to press the ogres, press them west. If his attention strayed, he might strike the archers in Tírandon’s towers.

  Between cracks of thunder, he heard a bone-deep whoom! Someone shouted, “Trebuchet!”

  Stones the size of wagon wheels launched toward the bellies of the storm clouds. Alyster had reported the siege engines inoperable, covered with the bodies of humans. One, at least, was clearly in working order. The trebuchet was too far away to strike the command hill, but the stones might land among the cavalry or even the Regulars. Turn them to dust, Rhian thought, but he had no more talent with the energies of earth than Thorn did. The boulders rolled down the sky. Rhian spun and arced the staff high. Son of the Sea, you are a wave bashing pebbles. A wedge of wind barreled over the heads of the Leanian foot soldiers, knocking men flat. The wind struck the stones and shunted them off course. They landed amid the plain.

  “Stop showing off, avedra, and do your job,” Kelyn snapped.

  Isn’t that what he’d done? Showing off? Rhian saw the lines of Elarion closing. All the Regs had to do to avoid being crushed was form an aisle and stand aside. They weren’t exactly as immobile as a castle wall. Eejit, Rhian berated himself. Sure you’re as brainless as the ogres who fired the trebuchet in the first place. He was more upset that Carah’s father might think poorly of him than he was over wasting energy on an unnecessary working.

  Right, I’ll do my job. He slapped the next lightning bolt atop the trebuchet. Wooden beams as broad as horses exploded into splinters. The rest caught fire and turned the storm cloud livid red. He followed with two more bolts, planting them in the rear of the enemy lines. The dark mass of ogres shifted manically, away from the fires, away from lightning-ravaged corpses.

  And something was happening to the ogres in the rear. They appeared to be fleeing. South. Kelyn didn’t want them fleeing south.

  The firewall on the far side of the camp had diminished to the height of an ogre’s knee. Shit. Too much. Too much to maintain at once. Sweat dripped into Rhian’s eyes as he raised the staff once more. The firewall leapt up with the gesture, and lightning struck the lurching mass of ogres.

  “Rhian, wait!” Kelyn cried, the spyglass pressed to his eye. “What the hell is he doing? Damn you, Daxon.”

  Lord Ulmarr was attacking? But the signal … he hadn’t waited! Those ogres weren’t fleeing, they were fighting. Had Rhian’s lightning struck the human soldiers? Had the invigorated firewall trapped them?

  “What should I do?” he asked. His voice rose with an unintentional note of panic.

  “Continue,” Kelyn growled. “Daxon will pull his men out of there or he won’t. Make that wall high and hot. Infantry!”

  Rhian raised the staff. The firewalls grew brighter, taller, thicker.

  Lord Rhogan and the cavalry galloped toward the command hill. Some of the horses carried no men. Some of the men rode two to a horse.

  The Regulars dropped their bows. Steel sang. They marched along the curve of the moats, dual swords poised. The dranithion advanced at a more casual stride, loosing arrows through the firewall as they went. Half the Leanian infantry fell in beside them. Heralds echoed Kelyn’s orders for Eliad to lead in the highlanders. Lady Ulna and the militia from Blue Mountain were only half a step behind.

  “Lightning,” Kelyn called. “Front companies only. Keep shaking them up. Stop when the infantry nears the firewall.”

  Rhian used the order as an excuse to let the southern firewall subside. Maybe Lord Ulmarr would have a chance to escape with his men. Static prickled along his arms. Three bolts struck the ogre lines.

  Bellowing war cries, the advancing humans and Elarion broke into a charge. Rhian opened a wide gap in the flames, and the infantry raced into the enemy camp. The four long scars across Rhian’s back tingled. He couldn�
��t watch. He had shared campfires with those men, shielded them with his veil, guarded them as a sentry in the tower. His attachment to the dranithion ran even deeper. He’d lived among them for four years. They’d taught him their language and their ways. They were his friends. Fire. Focus on the fire.

  “Press them,” Kelyn ordered.

  As they’d planned at the inn, Rhian’s outstretched arms came slowly together, and the firewalls inched closer and closer together. As the flames shifted, they left a broad swath of blackened grass and blackened corpses, ogre and human and horse. The ogres had no choice but to fight each other for space, and if they couldn’t maneuver, they couldn’t counter with fresh warriors.

  Like squeezing milk from an udder, the fiery arms forced a company of ogres through the western opening. They poured onto the plain and formed ranks. The human infantry charged past, but the ogres ignored them. Yes, they faced the command hill. They meant to charge the command hill!

  Rhian groaned through his teeth, tried to stretch the firewall to encompass them, but the flames wafted away on the wind.

  “Haldred!” called Kelyn. “Tell Lord Mithlan he’s to break them up. Go with him.”

  Rhian would’ve given the silver lining his pocket for the chance to see Hal’s face, but the foundering firewall needed all his attention.

  “In … into battle?” the squire asked.

  “Do as Rhogan does. No unnecessary heroics.”

  The squire raced down the hill, whooping and howling, his massive mace unsheathed in his big fist.

  “Zeldanor!” Kelyn cried.

  A herald relayed the order. The infantry under the purple banner wheeled right and followed the Leanian cavalry from the shelter of the hill.

  Did they push back the ogres or not? Rhian couldn’t afford to look. His endurance was slipping like sand through his fingers. The firewalls demanded every ounce of him. Sweat rained down his face, down his chest inside the leather jerkin. He grit his teeth. Hold onto it! The din of steel, the shouts of humans, the bugle of horses, the bray of ogres dimmed in his ears, until all he heard was the roar of fire. The energies surged up from the earth under his feet, out along his arms, and laced through his fingers. If he let them have their way, they would tear him apart.

  A face leaned close, filled his frame of vision. A hand squeezed his shoulder. A voice said something about the south wall. “Rhian! Lower it. Look!” Kelyn pointed across the plain. The clash and scream of battle bombarded his ears. On the far side of the southern firewall, where the moats curved out of sight, a battle raged. Green banners. White banners. Horses everywhere. This wasn’t Lord Ulmarr and his doomed infantry. A horn trilled a note he hadn’t heard that day. Who the hell were they?

  “Open a way for Haezeldale,” Kelyn said, loud and measured, as if Rhian had gone deaf.

  Ah, yes, the Fierans who had been gathering at Briar Tower. Kelyn hadn’t counted on them arriving in time. There were thousands of them. The cavalry alone blanketed the plain south of the fortress. On the command hill, Lieutenant Rance had removed his white cloak and waved it high over his head. Farther back in the orchard, the rest of the Mantles followed suit. Pride filled the White Falcon’s face.

  “Do not delay,” Kelyn urged, jostling Rhian’s shoulder.

  He looked to the flames. So closely were they bonded, he and the fire, that he merely moved his eyes toward the ground and the southern firewall diminished to a flickering line no taller than his pinky finger.

  The ogres who had been caught with their backs to the burning wall took the opportunity to flee over the embers and into camp. Maybe they expected to join their denmates and reform. The Fieran charge didn’t let them. The cavalry heaved through the retreating ogres, smashing their lines to pieces. When the Fierans met up with Aralorr’s infantry on the north side, they turned and charged through the ogres again. The infantry followed them, galvanized, their war cry fierce.

  No horn sounded. No drum, either. The ogres didn’t wait for orders. The dark mass staggered away from the Fieran onslaught, past the burning trebuchet. The push-and-shove turned into a headlong flight. Ogre trampled ogre. Some were shoved through the northern firewall, still blazing high, and they ran burning into the lines of Zeldanor infantry, then fell, making smoldering lumps on the plain.

  Within moments, the ogre camp was empty, occupied by cheering humans. The force of the rout carried the ogres west, west, west, and the Fieran cavalry pursued them.

  “You can let it go,” Kelyn said. How weary he sounded, like a wind settling after a storm.

  Rhian was too exhausted to sever his connection with the fire slowly. He cut it like a taut cord and crumpled to his knees. The energies left him, and sensation returned. The pain ripping through his skull was little compared to the agony in his fingers. It felt as if he’d doused his hands in hot grease. White blisters rose from swollen red flesh. Rhian tucked them to his chest, rocked, rocked, and roared through clenched teeth.

  Thorn scuttled up the slope. The chant had left his lips. His face was as sallow as spindrift caught in an eddy. Dark rings bruised his eyes, and he looked as if was hanging on to consciousness by his fingertips. Still, he took Rhian’s wrists and examined his hands. “Now I know why avedrin fought in teams.” Thorn’s hand hovered over the blisters. They began to cool. “A battle this size is too much for the two of us. Maybe with Carah—”

  “No, not Carah. I don’t want her to…” Rhian stopped himself, glanced over at Kelyn’s boots. The War Commander had stepped out of earshot to watch the ogres flee.

  “You’re right,” Thorn admitted with a sigh. “She’s too inexperienced. Still, she must learn. Later.”

  Kelyn returned to them, dealt them both slaps on the back, jostled them wildly. “You did it! Those bastards don’t dare come back, not for many days. The field is ours.”

  Rhian tried to feel happy about it, but all he wanted was sleep. Years and years of sleep.

  ~~~~

  31

  The morning sun glared over the blood-stained Plain of Tírandon. Smoke, cloud, and ogre stink wafted away on a brisk south wind. Kelyn stood amid the ruined orchard, watching the ogres dwindle into the western haze. A brass horn blared, and Fiera’s cavalry abandoned the chase. Banners and surcoats marked with foreign colors raced back toward the fortress. Jubilant voices cried out in victory, both from the field and from the towers.

  “War Commander,” said the White Falcon, “I would greet my kinsman. Will you accompany me?”

  Gladly, Kelyn thought and untethered his warhorse. Though he bore the weight of the hutza armor, he mounted up feeling as light as summer clouds. A burden had lifted from his shoulders. Against all hope, Tírandon was his.

  Now to hold it.

  He rode down the hill at the king’s side. The White Mantles followed them.

  On the outskirts of the ogre camp fluttered a green banner blazoned with three white hazelnuts. The man riding beneath it appeared to have but one purpose. His horse carried him at a trot over scorched ground on a straight path toward the White Falcon. His squire, carrying the banner, and half a dozen knights rode alongside him. Kelyn recognized their coats-of-arms: the double bridges of Stonebrydge, silver on green; Quelstorn’s silver sword crossing a golden lightning bolt; Éndaran’s cluster of green grapes on white. For a heartbeat, fear struck a sharp chord in Kelyn’s gut. All the White Falcon had to do was give the order, and these Fieran warriors would gleefully cut him down. I’m surrounded, he thought, and I’m a fool to be happy about it. He knew his war history. Victimized kingdoms eagerly hired mercenaries to save their backsides, but after the war was over, those mercenaries too often decided to stick around and run the place.

  The riders met near the fallen boulders. Lord Haezeldale leapt from the saddle, pauldrons clanking against his breastplate, and went to a knee amid the divots churned up by the cavalry. “Your Majesty. What joy to see you alive and well. Ever since that day at Bramoran, my mind has been tortured. I couldn’t reach you. I couldn�
��t help you. And then you were gone and I couldn’t find you. We had only a falcon to tell us you were well. Forgive me for not believing it.” He tugged off a crested helm and bowed his head.

  Though he had seen Lord Haezeldale only from a distance, at that final banquet, Kelyn remembered him being a fair man who had grown soft and round with lordship. Soft and fair did not describe the man kneeling before the king. Haezeldale was one of the few who had escaped Bramoran. Thorn and Rhian had helped him out of the city by a different route than Kelyn had taken. Afterward, Thorn reported that Haezeldale was following the Blythewater home, though how he made it across the Bryna and into a besieged Brynduvh was anyone’s guess. The journey had been difficult, as his lean frame and brown, weathered face attested.

  The White Falcon dismounted, so Kelyn and the Mantles did, too. “Uncle Johf, there’s nothing to forgive.” Arryk raised the man by his hand. “That day was pandemonium. When I learned you survived, hope rekindled in my heart. And that you have joined us today, of all days…” Arryk finished his statement with laughter. “Come, greet our War Commander. You know one another?”

  “Of one another,” Haezeldale said.

  “We were not formally introduced,” Kelyn added and offered a sharp bow of the head. “I am indebted to you, Lord Haezeldale. We did not expect you to arrive today, or indeed ever. Brilliant timing. You were the final hammer-stroke upon the anvil.” He extended his hand.

  Johf took it because his king was watching. Still, he raised his nose and inspected Kelyn coolly. “Lord Brengarra has always spoken highly of you, Lord Ilswythe. I’m prepared to believe him.” As far as holdings went, Laral and Johf were neighbors. And Johf’s caution was in line with Laral’s report of his guarded character.