Cry of the Falcon (Falcons Saga Book 4)

by Court Ellyn

  Tarsyn pushed himself up straighter. “Did they see Lesha?” Dumb question, he realized. Even if they had seen her, the dwarves wouldn’t know her on sight.

  “No’ak’s brothers tracked the train to a mountain north of Gretzeng. They were able to determine that the ogres belong to a clan called Sky Rock, and … and that they may be using our people to mine iron.”

  The dizziness rushed back. Tarsyn pressed a palm to his forehead. “What? Mining? Lesha?” Sweet, tender Lesha, with her delicate hands? Without doubt, ogre taskmasters were anything but gentle.

  “When Laral found out, he was beside himself,” said Kalla. “I thought he’d tear down the mountain. Drys threatened to knock some sense into him.”

  “But why them?”

  “According to No’ak, even ogres are smart enough not rely on dwarves as slaves in a mine. Dwarves, he said, would rather collapse the tunnel atop themselves than serve the bogginai. That’s why the ogres went to the trouble of rounding up humans.”

  When Gyerda brought him a flask of cold spring water and a bowl of dumplings stewed in thick, dark broth, grief had snuffed his appetite. No one spoke of Andryn. Tarsyn had never met Lesha’s little brother, but she had told him plenty, and Laral’s fears had been plain enough. How was a sickly boy to survive the rigors and abuse of an iron mine?

  “With or without these elderen,” Tarsyn said, “we’ll find them.”

  Kalla humored him with a smile and a nod.

  Gyerda pulled the spoon out of the dumplings and pressed it into Tarsyn’s hand. “Until you get your strength back, young master, you’re not finding anyone. Eat.”

  Despite the sorrow curdling his belly, Tarsyn emptied the bowl and asked for more. He ate for Lesha. She was close now. Almost within reach. Hope made him giddy.

  He was halfway through his third helping of dumplings when the lamplight flickered in a breeze and a door deeper in the dwelling scraped open. Gyerda scuttled out to greet her guests. Stone-muffled voices grumbled.

  “It’s them,” Kalla said, disappointed. “Gyerda was right.”

  Drys poked his head around the doorpost and grinned when he saw Tarsyn sitting up and eating on his own power. “Well, well, the wolf-warrior awakens. Gyerda says you’re eating her out of house and home.”

  His sandy head had six inches or more before it scuffed the ceiling, but Laral had to bend over to enter. He turned the chair at the foot of the bed and sat down to relieve his spine, then conducted an intense inspection of the patient. Tarsyn pressed on an uncertain grin, to prove that he wasn’t interested in dying today. At last, Laral nodded and let out a breath that he seemed to have been holding for days. “Next time let me handle the wolf,” he said. The scolding was only half-genuine.

  “No use making such a promise, m’ lord. I won’t be able to keep it.”

  Drys clucked his tongue and said to Laral, “I told you he thinks too highly of you.”

  Laral laughed. That Lord Brengarra seemed to care for his wellbeing made happiness eddy around in Tarsyn’s skull.

  “The party’s in here, eh?” A dwarf with a beard flecked like gray granite stomped into the room on hobnailed boots. No’ak, Tarsyn assumed.

  Gyerda pursued him with her fists balled on broad hips. “Will the elderen help or not?”

  “No, they winna,” he said.

  “Boulder crush them, why not?”

  “You know why not, woman. They claimed to weigh every ounce and karat, but what it comes down to is they don’t want to risk the lives of our warriors rescuing dinnobi. It’s not our fight, they said.”

  Gyerda growled something in her own language.

  Drys scuffed a toe on the stone floor. “Maybe I coulda convinced the elderen if I had earned more clout with them over the years. If … if I were more like my da.”

  Tarsyn didn’t understand the reason for Drys’s regret. He resolved to ask his friend a few personal questions, first chance he got.

  Kalla offered thin consolation. “I can’t begin to enumerate the ways you’re like your father.”

  “Aye, I doubt even Degany could’ve chipped through the basalt skulls of that lot,” Gyerda grumbled.

  “News isn’t all slag,” No’ak added, clomping to the hearthside. From the mantle he claimed a long curled clay pipe and a wooden box set with peridot. “I have an idea. You winna like it. Sure as the Deeps, I don’t.” A fragrant perfume wafted from the box when he opened it. In a reverent ritual, he stuffed a pinch of dried leaves into the pipe and lit it with a twig from the fire. Blue smoke curled around the flickering ram’s head lamp. “We lost our bairns to the war. ‘Tisn’t right for you to lose your’n.”

  “You mean to go with Master Laral?” Gyerda asked. “Alone?”

  He puffed on the pipe and breathed out smoke like a furry wee dragon. “ ‘Course not. Bjorni will come with us, and his brothers, and I’ll tweak a few of our cousins’ ears till they come too.”

  Laral stirred on the small chair, restraining excitement.

  “That’s hardly an army,” Gyerda protested.

  “Aye. But it’s a decent escort. We’ll take our friends to Daryon.”

  Gyerda snorted elaborately. “ ‘Lord’ Daryon? Fat chance. He helps none but himself.”

  “He can be appealed to. I know his currency.”

  “Who is Lord Daryon?” asked Laral.

  No’ak huffed, glanced at his guest through a haze of smoke. “A madman.”

  Lesha’s fate in the hands of a madman? Tarsyn’s companions eyed each other, uneasy. What choice did they have? Slogging on by themselves?

  “Are you sure…?” Laral began, but he didn’t seem to know how to finish.

  “No, I’m not,” No’ak replied, “but if we can convince Daryon to help, we might not need an army.”

  ~~~~

  35

  “They are close now.” The dragon’s whisper was as effective as fingers prying up Lothiar’s eyelids. Sleep slipped away like water through a sieve. He groaned, rolled away in a cocoon of cool silk sheets, and pressed his hands over his ears. Leave me be. Goddess, please. The dragon woke him on the hour, every hour, so that Lothiar began waking on his own. Sometimes the dragon wasn’t even there. His ears pricked at every sound, sure that Rashén’s soft footstep drew near. Only, this time, his ears hadn’t deceived him. The hour candle in its shaded lamp showed the night dripping away.

  Lothiar had taken to sipping poppy wine to help him sleep. The drug evoked vivid nightmares of shadows hissing after his soul like dry autumn wind chasing after summer’s leaves, but it dampened the dragon’s voice, for a while. Lothiar fumbled for the bottle on the nightstand. Sleep-clumsy fingers pushed it over the side. It didn’t hit the floor. Lothiar cracked opened his eyes in time to see Rashén tucking the bottle into his sleeve.

  The youth grinned an insincere apology at him. He didn’t bother shielding his eyes with the opalescent light. The cold reptilian slits spread wide in the dim silver glow radiating from the dragon’s own skin. “They’re only days away.”

  Fear set Lothiar’s heart to hammering. For weeks the dragon had taunted him with the arrival of a some mystery army, and Lothiar envisioned a storm of a hundred dragons swooping down from the stars to surround Bramor in a maelstrom of flame.

  As if Lothiar had told the most exquisite joke, Rashén laughed. Inside the laughter, the soft silken voice deepened to a boulder’s rumble. It was unnatural and terrifying. “Such an imagination you have! You flatter me, Azhdyr. I should like to do just that, believe me, but it isn’t the Mother’s wish.” The youth drifted to the window, taking the poppy wine and the silver light with him. A cool night wind sighed through the open window and swirled Rashén’s silver robe and silver hair like the banners of the northern lights. He swept a hand toward the dead, silent city below. “And you waste your time with all those machines. Tsk, tsk. You cannot strike the sun from the sky nor the wind from its course.”

  Lothiar hauled himself from the receding comforts of the bed. Na
ked and not caring whom he offended, he pilfered through a cabinet where he had stored a second bottle of poppy wine. It too was missing. “Fucking prankster,” he muttered and turned to the window to glare at Rashén’s back. If not an army of dragons…? “Who then?” he demanded.

  With the wistfulness of a girl fawning over knights in gilded armor, Rashén said, “They are splendid and fierce. They shine like stars under the sun, and they have perfected the avë that your people merely dabble with. Know this: when they come, you will not see them.”

  “Still you speak of shadows!”

  “Yes. Isn’t it delightful?” With that, Rashén dived out the window. Vast wings slapped the night wind; a roar like thunder shook the tower. Lothiar smashed his hands over his ears and found himself pressed to his knees.

  He had to stay awake. He dressed in a hurry. To sleep again was to invite the dragon to return with more taunts. Instead, he went to the window and found Forath hanging low in the western sky. Seven times he drew the four-pronged star. Livid red moonlight gathered at his fingertip. “Lasharia,” he commanded. She was probably asleep, so he spoke her name again, forcefully, to break through her dreams.

  Lothiar paced between the window and the cold hearth. At last, a shimmering window broke the air. Inside the crackling rim, Lasharia blinked heavily, her pale gold hair mussed. “Captain? Something amiss?”

  “Give me a report.”

  For a moment she merely blinked at him, confused. “Sir? I gave you a report only six hours ago. Nothing has changed. We are encamped outside Brimlad. Helwende harries us from the rear, but our fortifications are strong. The ogres dig longer trenches every day. We control the western stretch of the King’s Highway, and we’ve seen no sign of the duke. We’ll have Brimlad starved out in no time.”

  “No reinforcements from the sea?”

  “As you well know, ogres don’t like water. The sea frightens them, but we’re monitoring the docks. No ships coming or going. We’ve burned most of the vessels anyway.”

  Lothiar hungrily sought any meaningful question. “Tugark is behaving?”

  Lasharia cleared her throat, restrained an impatient sigh. “I thought you wanted him to misbehave. He likes burning villages. He has a particular fascination with fire.” Yes, this was why the ogre chieftain had chosen a blazing spear for his clan’s symbol.

  “Have you sent a company to hold Windgate Pass?”

  “Yes, sir. As I told you. They departed two days ago. In another couple of days, no human will be able to cross the mountains.”

  “And the coastal roads?”

  “We’re working on it, sir.” As I told you, her tone implied.

  So she had, and left Lothiar no further excuse to pester her. He flicked his fingers in dismissal. “Go back to sleep.”

  “Right.” Small chance of that, said her glare. The distance between them gave her confidence enough to be cheeky. Her hand scattered the sigil she had drawn to open the window, and the crackling rim collapsed, leaving Lothiar with a view of the coffered wall.

  He wandered the halls of Bramor after that, despising the limited imagination found in human architecture and dreaming of the day when he had the time to tear down the castle and the town surrounding it. Bramor would be a proper Elaran city again, with tree towers crafted from fine stone, no two alike, and observatories boasting crystal domes and unimpeded views of the stars. Keepers of the Veil would not be necessary here, in any Elaran city, ever again.

  Only Bramor’s outer wall would remain, its frieze repaired and carved with renewed vigor. Dragons. The frieze featured dragons chasing one another around and around. Hmm, perhaps tear down the wall as well and start afresh. Anything but dragons. Atop the wall, Lothiar inspected the ballistae, the catapults, the crates of crude iron garrots and pyramids of shot stacked beside the engines. They crouched like hundreds of oversized insects. Each of the seventy-five ballistae were tilted high, with a garrot aimed toward the fading stars.

  Could the dragon be trusted? Maybe Rashén’s taunt was no more than a lie. He wanted Lothiar to doubt, to spend his resources in mindless panic. Maybe no one was coming at all.

  Lothiar found one of the engine-builders snoring between a pair of catapults. They never retired to the barracks, these builders; Lothiar hadn’t let them. They slept and ate where they worked. His boot prodded the ogre in the pants. “Wake up your mates. Recalibrate the ballistae. Every other one. You understand me?” His finger hopscotched to illustrate his meaning. The ogre yawned, baring a pink-and-gray spotted tongue and long yellow tusks, then nodded.

  “Yes, aim every other ballistae straight ahead. Leave the rest as they are.” He’d cover both the ground and the sky. Who could take him by surprise now?

  Far away at the western gate, a horn sounded. The tinny echo quivered against the graying dawn. Lothiar’s heartbeat surged into his throat. Dragons, he thought despite himself and looked to the sky. Only one blast. Not an attack, then. Visitors.

  Peering through the inner crenels, he saw a sortie gate open to admit a single Elari. Too blond to be Iryan, he wore the lithe-sliding suede of a scout. His walk was distinctive: driven, with the swagger of arrogance that covered for a great deal of insecurity. Ruvion.

  His presence could mean only one thing. For Ruvion’s sake, it had better. Lothiar wound down the nearest tower to intercept him. All across the Green, the ogres were beginning to stir. Pit-fires flared to life. A few ogres hailed him. He ignored them, as any passing god.

  Ruvion saw him approaching and diverted his course to meet him.

  “Who did you capture?”

  Ruvion’s salute fell flat. “What?”

  “Which avedra?”

  A pained wince told Lothiar the truth.

  “I ordered you not to return until you had captured Dathiel or Rhian or Carah.”

  “The Lady Carah, sir, I almost had her, but she—”

  Lothiar snorted. “Almost. Almost! What the hell are you doing here? Get out there and try again.”

  “But, sir! How can I, now that they’re ensconced inside Tírandon?”

  Lothiar stared, as if his lieutenant spoke in a foreign language. “Don’t tell me this, Ruvion. Don’t you dare.”

  “The siege is broken, sir. Broke Blade is routed.”

  The news struck Lothiar’s brain like lamplight strikes a mirror, tossing it back, empty and false. “When? Elyandir has not contacted me.”

  “He’s dead! It was a disaster, Capt—”

  Lothiar seized his lieutenant by the arm, startling him to abrupt silence. “Not here.”

  With the castle largely empty, it was easy to find a parlor where no one would overhear. Lothiar locked the door.

  “I watched the whole thing from afar,” Ruvion said. “The veil … it failed! Broke apart, unraveled. I can’t explain it.”

  “When did Dathiel and his brother leave Ilswythe?”

  “Several days ago. I assumed you were paying attention, especially after they routed Fogrim.”

  Lothiar’s fist clubbed his scout upside the head. His fingers, like claws, squeezed Ruvion’s throat. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Ruvion’s face turned an angry shade of purple, and Lothiar released him. The lieutenant collapsed, gasping and retching. Lothiar kicked a chair at him, and Ruvion kicked it back.

  “Pardon me, sir,” he rasped, clutching his swelling throat, “but fuck you. My job is to capture avedrin, not keep tabs on every accursed maneuver the enemy makes. That’s your job. What have you been doing?”

  Lothiar righted the chair and fell into it. Tírandon lost. Goddess’ curses, the greatest prize he could’ve won. Lost. How? “Tell me everything you saw, you half-human shit.”

  One room of the royal library was filled with nothing but maps. Maps on parchment, maps on leather, maps on silk. Maps of the Northwest, maps of Bramor, maps of the Dawn Lands, maps of the whole of Lethryn. They hung on racks, were splayed on tables, were bound in silver scrolls and catalogued on shelves. On one of them, Ruvion’s finge
r traced the path the human host had taken, just beyond sight of Bramor’s walls.

  “How did our sentries not see them?” Lothiar asked. He felt as if he had crafted a rare and priceless vase, one to hold his heart’s treasure, and someone had blithely knocked it off the shelf. How to begin sorting the pieces?

  “They used the veil,” Ruvion said. “And why not? They had plenty of dranithion and Regs with them, and two capable avedrin.”

  And then the humans managed to dispel the veil over Broke Blade. No, not the humans. One of the avedrin, or one of Lothiar’s own people. Losing control of the veil troubled Lothiar more than losing Tírandon, more than losing Elyandir and Solandyr, more than losing the chance to take young Carah. Who among the War Commander’s people owned the knowledge to dispel the veil?

  His head swam. He needed a drink. Ruvion was still spouting details when Lothiar about-faced for the corridor. “What are we going to do about it, Captain?” Ruvion asked, scrambling to keep up.

  I don’t bloody well know. Yet. He retreated to the gentlemen’s parlor. Of all the rooms in the Black Falcon’s keep, Lothiar had enjoyed the sullen, warm luxury of this room enough to spare it from being plundered for firewood. A stale, ashy odor seeped into the room. Down the corridor, the grand doors leading to the ruins of Valryk’s precious King’s Hall had been barricaded, but when the wind swirled, the stench of charred wood probed the keep with ghostly fingers.

  Dashka was already there, standing at the wine service, pouring a rich golden wine into a goblet. He offered it to Lothiar. “Bad news, Captain. I’m sorry.” Perhaps he had overheard Ruvion’s tale from outside the map room. Maybe he had uncanny foresight.

  Lothiar stared at the goblet, suspicious for half a heartbeat, then swiped it and gulped. Warmth spread along his shoulders and down his arms. The wine failed to provide solutions, however.

  Ruvion hunched in a wingchair with his forearms on his knees, his head drooping. The avedra offered him a goblet as well. “I don’t want a drink,” he snapped. “I want orders. I want the last couple of days to reverse course. I can’t swallow yet anyway, thanks to the Captain’s temper.”