Cry of the Falcon (Falcons Saga Book 4)

by Court Ellyn

  Red, swollen fingers seized Laniel’s shirtfront. “We must … free our people. Help us free them.”

  Laniel pried his fingers loose, dropped his hand like a dirty rag. “Yes, freedom comes at great cost. Only, you’ve paid it with counterfeit currency. Lothiar’s way isn’t the way. He’ll learn that soon enough. Neither you nor he will see the kind of freedom you desire. Tell me, was it worth this?” He glanced at the shard of wood rising and falling with each strangled breath.

  Elyandir offered no answer. The light ebbed from his eyes, and Laniel spoke the Blessing of Parting over him, not out of habit, but because he hoped it was true. “May the Light shine on your face. May the Mother-Father heal you and hold you, now and forever.”

  ~~~~

  32

  The roar of celebration rained down from the walls of Tírandon. “Swiftblade! Kingshield!” the people cried. Hats and banners and hands waved in the air. Thorn rode over the moats beside his brother. A proud, beaming Haldred held the black-and-red banner aloft. Lieutenant Rance accompanied them, all too conspicuous in his pale armor and white cloak.

  At Elyandir’s direction, the ogres had undertaken a massive earth-moving project. Large sections of the grassy green dike that separated the moats had been excavated and the soil used to fill in the outer moat on each side of the permanent bridge. When he rode across the dike, Thorn saw they had filled in a section of the inner moat as well, allowing their rams to reach the gatehouse. Battered but not broken, Andett’s Bastion—the massive drum towers of the gatehouse—loomed against the sky. The noon-time sun rose over her battlements, casting the crowds of cheering people into silhouette.

  If he’d had any energy left, Thorn would’ve woven a veil and entered Tírandon unseen. But his reserves were spent; it was all he could do to fend off waves of exhaustion and stay in the saddle, so he endured the praise with a groan and a wince. They rode through the deep cool shadow beneath the gatehouse and emerged in the West Bailey where the sun beat against the stones. In truth, the expanse of fields, markets, and drilling grounds was too grand to fit the definition of bailey. Thorn suspected that Leshan’s vision had started small but grew over time, and the name stuck.

  Signs of a grueling siege were everywhere. Boulders lay planted in the soil or in the cobbles of the main thoroughfare. Trebuchets were notoriously inaccurate; the ones built by the ogres were no exception. Still, they had accomplished plenty of havoc. Part of the town appeared to have burned and roofs were staved in. The defenders were building their own engines. Piles of timber lay stacked at the base of the wall; cranes lifted the beams to the battlements. Thorn assumed a fair number of catapults or ballistae neared completion, though the sounds of hammers were silenced by celebration. Wounded soldiers wearing Tírandon’s black-and-silver chevrons hobbled around the north tower of the Bastion, where presumably the infirmary was located. Smoke rose from the burning yards. Ashes of dead men drifted like snow and alighted upon Thorn’s shoulders. He brushed them away wearily. There would be no shortage of ashes in the days ahead.

  Kelyn seemed bent on pressing through the crowd of happy residents and making his way to the inner gatehouse, but someone called his name. How her voice projected so clearly over the cheering of the crowd, Thorn didn’t know. A fair-haired woman in a man’s breastplate ran from the Bastion and waved for Kelyn to stop. Her dark eyes were familiar, the family resemblance strong; she could only be Leshan’s younger sister.

  “Ruthan!” Kelyn called and dismounted.

  She caught up to him, panting from her dash down the tower. “The Light told me you would come. I expected you days ago.”

  Everything Thorn had heard about this woman indicated she was as mad and as strange as the sea, but her eyes were alert, steady. Blond freckles sprayed across flushed cheeks and a sunburned nose. Her front teeth were a little prominent from sucking her thumb as a child. And with only a little exertion, Thorn saw that her azeth stretched skyward and filled the space around them with glistering light of rose, gold, and silver.

  “It was my own fear that delayed us,” Kelyn confessed. “You’ve done well. My brother says you showed tremendous foresight and closed your gates in time. If it weren’t for you—”

  “If it weren’t for Leshan. He told me of the danger.”

  “Ah,” Thorn muttered to himself. Was she truly mad? Or had she been granted glimpses into the Realm of Divine? Either possibility was unnerving.

  Shielding her eyes from the sunlight, she glanced up at him. “We’ve never met, have we, Thorn Kingshield?”

  He bowed in the saddle. “A true shame. Forgive me for my rudeness. If I climb down, I won’t be able to climb up again.” She offered a gracious smile, but her eyes lingered too long on his, penetrating like a pickaxe beneath his thin defenses. He dreaded to know what she saw.

  Abruptly she turned away. “Is Laral with you?”

  Kelyn shook his head, regretful. “He received bad news. He should be home by now.”

  “Bethyn and the children, yes. I should’ve known he’d go after them.” How could she possibly have heard about Laral’s missing family? Now Thorn understood where the accusations of madness came from. “Come, I shall have a feast prepared in your honor.”

  “The feast must wait, I fear,” Kelyn said. “There is much to do before Lothiar hears of our victory.” His glance flicked toward Lieutenant Rance and his voice lowered, “My lady, I must speak to you about a delicate matter. The White Falcon, King Arryk, is with us. He seeks your permission to enter Tírandon. As a guest, a refugee.”

  Fair eyebrows pleated. “My permission?”

  “He fears the people will receive him poorly if he enters your gate without it.”

  Ruthan’s penetrating gaze fell on Lieutenant Rance. He raised his chin, but Thorn would bet a gold piece that Ruthan saw fear through that proud stance. “These are the famous White Mantles then. I saw them from the battlement and thought most of them fine. Some, however, are not. The White Falcon was the man dressed plainly?” Rance replied with a single nod. “My father did not deal with things delicately. He would have refused this king entry. Did you see him die?”

  Her about-face in subject matter was jarring. “Lander?” asked Kelyn.

  Ruthan nodded.

  “I did. He died trying to protect many. He died a hero.”

  The smile on her mouth was soft with sadness. “That’s what Leshan told me. Yes, you may be glad I’m not my father. The White Falcon may enter. My horse!” Several steeds were picketed near the gatehouse. A squire untethered a sorrel mare and helped Ruthan into the saddle. She gestured to Rance, and the two of them rode across the drawbridge to escort the king. Her gesture was a wise one. Her people would see her open invitation and spread word about the nature of the White Falcon’s visit.

  Thorn measured the progress of their return by the change in tone of the roaring crowd. The cool reception added a blunted rhythm to the celebration, punctuated with flat notes of booing and the occasional insult. The White Falcon glanced neither left nor right. His Mantles did that for him. The Fieran officers followed, faces taut with distrust. The entourage proceeded toward the inner gate at a trot. None flew a war banner. Prudent.

  Kelyn and Thorn fell in beside Ruthan. In his childhood, Thorn hadn’t had much opportunity to visit Tírandon, and never once after Leshan rebuilt it. He’d seen glimpses through his messenger falcons, but the view was different from the ground. Much of the original town, Thorn knew, had been razed by Warlord Goryth’s troops twenty years before. The new town had an orderly, parklike quality to it, bright with thatched roofs, markets flying vendors’ flags, groomed trees, and wells rooved with copper. The main thoroughfare divided the houses and shops, inns and slums into North Town and South Town. The former appeared to be more prosperous than the latter, with fresh paint, large gardens, and fine fences, whereas South Town appeared to be a jumbled maze of tight streets and twisting back alleys.

  As the entourage neared the inner gate, rose petal
s rained down. Women and girls cheered their saviors. “Praise us today, curse us tomorrow,” Kelyn muttered. The celebration was premature; Thorn heard it in his brother’s voice. The portcullis rose slowly, forcing the escort to wait.

  “You’ve seen the Light, haven’t you?” Ruthan asked.

  It took Thorn a moment to realize she was speaking to him. “The Light?” Ah, her Light. “Yes. Long ago.” Before he learned to forgive, before his hands put an end to own mother’s life, before he’d relinquished his dreams of Azhdyria. How young he’d been. Full of ideals and shattered hope.

  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she,” Ruthan said.

  “Dangerously so.” He hadn’t wanted to leave the Light’s presence, hadn’t wanted to face the darkness her words predicted, but she had left him no choice.

  Ruthan’s head tilted. “Do you speak of the Goddess … or of someone else?”

  She might as well have slapped him. With tremendous effort Thorn tore his gaze from hers, but it was too late. His mind went straight to Rhoslyn, and he couldn’t stop it. Raw and untrained, Ruthan was like the first generation of avedrin who had tapped into their gifts through instinct alone. He wondered if she had managed to cultivate—purposefully or not—skills of true spellbinding. Lady Aerdria possessed the skill. Her lavender eyes could pin a soul and read its secrets like ink on parchment. Hearing wayward thoughts was secret-stealing enough for Thorn; he had no desire to delve into that perilous art more deeply.

  The final clatter of the portcullis saved him from replying. The escort trotted through the smaller inner gatehouse and into the courtyard. Tírandon’s keep was a soaring hexagonal tower of soot-stained stone surrounded by tiers of smaller round towers. Built amid the flat pastureland of the plain, the keep provided a landmark for many miles in every direction. All in all, Leshan’s Tírandon made Bramoran look feeble. It was no mystery why Lothiar was determined to win it.

  Dismounting before the steps, Ruthan said, “Your Majesty, the best rooms I can offer are reserved for the Black Falcon. Will you accept them for your own?”

  “It would be the second time I have accepted the Black Falcon’s quarters,” Arryk said. “I do so with humility and gratitude.”

  Ruthan called to the plump man who opened the bronze doors; the steward escorted the White Falcon and his Mantles into the keep. “I shall have a feast prepared regardless, Lord Commander. Etiquette demands it. Will you take your rest in the keep or do you prefer to bunk with your soldiers?”

  “I cannot think about sleep yet,” Kelyn said.

  Thorn snorted. “I can’t speak for the uglier of we two, but I’m no soldier. I’ll sleep in whatever luxury you can afford me, Lady Ruthan. Matter of fact, I will need a room with a lock and a fair bit of isolation. I have work that mustn’t be disturbed.”

  Ruthan smiled a toothy smile. “My tutor used to say the same thing. I’ll put you in his old suite near the library.”

  “That would be ideal.” His fingertips tingled at the thought of weaving endless darkness.

  ~~~~

  Ruthan gave Kelyn her father’s quarters so he could hold private council with his commanders. Lander had enjoyed comfort, no doubt about it, but he had never been given to softness. His rooms lacked frills, sheen, excess. Solid stone, sturdy andyr wood, durable leather had suited him. The suite still smelled of spicy cologne and shoe polish.

  The sun-bright suite felt empty without the avedrin, who were recovering; Rhogan lay in the infirmary, and Daxon was unaccounted for. Kelyn invited Lord Haezeldale and Reynal, Captain of Tírandon’s garrison, to join him for the debriefing.

  “A Fieran? In Lord Lander’s own parlor?” Reynal argued, jowls quivering, forehead flushing red.

  Haezeldale regarded the castellan coolly, an eyebrow raised.

  Weariness weighed on Kelyn. He had little patience for the same old bigotry. He grit his teeth and replied in his most measured voice, “I understand your astonishment, Captain, but if you hadn’t noticed, Fiera has joined us in fighting a common enemy. You’ll just have to get your head around it. As I did, when I invited an elf into my father’s hall.”

  Laniel arrived late. His eyes were distant, haunted. When he drifted past the garrison captain, Reynal ogled and edged away, but Laniel paid no attention. He went to the nearest window and stared out at the courtyard.

  Kelyn hazarded, “How is your cousin?”

  In a voice almost too soft to hear, Laniel said, “Carah will help him.”

  Lord Gyfan tried to ease the tensions. Near a fireplace that boasted sandstone wolfhounds for pillars, he selected a bottle from a liquor cabinet. He poured a round and passed out goblets. His hands trembled. Honey-colored cordial sloshed onto his surcoat. “It’s been too long. I’m not as quick—or as graceful—as I used to be.” The scars from old Dragon burns stretched his face out of shape as he tried to laugh away his edginess. He quaffed the wine in a single breath. “Do I shake because I’m excited or scared to death?”

  Ulna smiled affectionately and patted his chest. “Battle’s over. Let it go.”

  Eliad carried his goblet to a stuffed leather chair and slumped into it. “Ach, Kelyn, can’t this wait?” He still had mud on his boots. He was leaving heel-shaped smudges on Lander’s Ixakan rug. There were other kinds of splashes on his armor.

  Kelyn ignored his one-time squire. As tired as the commanders were, they still had work to do. “Casualties. Give me your tallies.” At a broad andyr desk, Kelyn scratched the numbers of dead and wounded on his list. If half the wounded soon returned to the field, his army had lost only five percent of its strength. Rhian’s fires had saved them.

  “Captain Reynal, how many in the garrison? How have you organized them?”

  Proudly sticking out his fleshy jaw, the castellan laid out the numbers, watches, and progress with the siege engines, then started to regale his listeners with tales of his favorite episodes of the siege. Now that he’d been rescued, terror turned to excitement and a hefty dose of vanity. “…bastards started flinging rotten meat over the walls. The people would’ve died of plague if I hadn’t…”

  Kelyn raised a hand. “The watch, Captain. Two hundred men, you say? For a fortress this size? With a town this large? In peacetime, yes, but now? How many extra men have you recruited? How many gates are you guarding?”

  The man blinked rapidly, as if trying to see through a fog. “Tírandon has three outer gates, m’ lord, three inner.”

  Kelyn was well aware of that fact, and that’s not what he’d asked. “How many men have you stationed on the inner wall, in case of a breach?”

  “We have focused our strength on the outer wall. If there’s need, which there isn’t, we can use the skybridges to reach the inner.”

  Aye, after a long, tiring run. By then it might be too late.

  “You’ve supplied the inner wall with munitions? You’re building ballistae there as well?”

  Reynal dug in his heels. “There hasn’t been a need.”

  His determination to hold onto his command gave his shoulders a certain posture, his head a certain wag, that made Kelyn wonder if this man weren’t Lander’s bastard brother. Kelyn thanked the stars and the Mother who’d set them alight that Reynal had neither Lander’s title nor his authority. He cleared his throat in a way that announced his desire to shout and his restraint from doing so. “Captain, your next task is to recruit every able-bodied man—and any willing women—between sixteen and sixty able to stand on his own two legs and hold a crossbow straight. From a town of three thousand, that ought to amount to about twelve hundred men. I expect to see them on the drilling field tomorrow morning. You may go.”

  Reynal stood amid the rug sputtering in wordless argument. It was only when Kelyn turned to address the others that the castellan realized the War Commander meant what he said. He conducted an about-face and let himself out.

  “Ulna, Gyfan, you’re in charge of organizing our camps. Despite the camaraderie that results after bleeding on the same field, I sti
ll think it wise to separate Fieran from Aralorri.”

  “Our numbers will fill the West Bailey in a hurry,” Ulna said. “But I have a few ideas. We’ll see it done.”

  “Lord Haezeldale, how many in your cavalry?”

  “Ten troops.”

  “A full thousand? Mother bless you. Ulna’s right, our infantry alone will take up most of the bailey. I want your cavalry encamped outside the Bastion, across the moats.” Kelyn nodded toward Laniel brooding at the window. “The Regulars will camp to your west, a first line of defense.” Mention of his people brought Laniel around. He turned from the window, forcing himself to care about the briefing. “Your dranithion,” Kelyn said, “will be our eyes atop the outer wall. At all times.” The torment in the Elari’s face was too painful to bear. With a flick of his finger, Kelyn dismissed him.

  “My highlanders won’t want to be trapped inside these walls either, Kelyn,” said Eliad. “They’ll prefer to stay close to their herds. And, um, Lady Ruthan may appreciate them better if they’re not overrunning her town.”

  “You’d expose them to attack?”

  Eliad leveled a glare that said ‘Are you kidding?’ “They’d expose themselves, thank you very much. Enclosed spaces bring out the worst in them. They’ll have more room to drink and brawl outside the walls.”

  “Fine. Our main concern isn’t where our people rest their heads. It’s finding out when Lothiar will send his counterattack, and what we mean to do about it. Tírandon is too great a prize for him to lose. He’ll send another assault soon. Eliad, organize your scouts—”

  The door shuddered under a fist. Ulna moved to open it, but the door swung open. Daxon stood on the threshold grinding his teeth. He smelled of blood and smoke. The hem of his once-white surcoat was charred. The sleeve of his shield arm was seared through, and the flesh underneath was red and swollen, as if he’d tried to block a dragon’s breath and failed.

  He glared at Kelyn and bellowed, “You sent us out there to die!”