Cry of the Falcon (Falcons Saga Book 4)

by Court Ellyn

  ~~~~

  43

  Sky Rock was easily the tallest among giants. Vast bastions of wind-carved stone scraped the sky, snagging clouds on a jagged crown and tearing them to tatters. Snow shined in the crevices, a threadbare cloak. Falcons or ravens wheeled among the crags; they were too far away for Laral to tell which. Lower down, the slopes appeared to be stained with runoff, slick and black.

  “Ogre sign,” Lord Daryon whispered. He had thrown his frayed gray cloak over his golden armor, to conceal its luster. No need to draw the wrong kind of attention. He and Laral lay on their bellies in the alpine moss, high on a tree-lined slope, and peered across a wide stony valley at the intimidating face of Sky Rock. “The filthy brutes dump their refuse outside their caves, not caring that it pollutes their own air and water. But it makes their dens easy to spot.” He pointed a degree higher, at what appeared to be just a shadow on the rock-face. “The iron mine is that cave there.”

  For a moment Laral couldn’t breathe. If his family still lived, he would find them inside that dark hole. He had caught up to them at last. A white line of a trail cut a path from the valley floor. The number of switchbacks told him how steep the slope truly was. “Difficult approach.”

  Daryon nodded. “If we attack from below, the naenion will chop us to mincemeat.”

  “But how else…?”

  “That ridge.” Vaulting above the cave, to the right, a blade-thin ridge and tiered bluffs gave the mountainside a fluted look. Surely those slopes were impassable for all but the birds. Daryon read the disbelief on Laral’s face. “You could wait below and let us—”

  “No.”

  Daryon heaved an eloquent sigh. “I thought you’d say that. Come, you and your friends will need different shoes.” They backed through the moss until Sky Rock fell out of sight.

  Despite the time they had spent in one another’s company, Laral had yet to acquire a liking for the avedra. He suspected the feeling was mutual. The Lord of Gray Mountain tolerated his guests’ “excessive and elaborate” noise like a dog tolerates fleas. He scratched vengefully. The first night after leaving Tánysmar, Drys had serenaded everyone with his snoring, as usual. Only hours before, Daryon had made it perfectly clear that they were well within ogre territory and any sound above a whisper was to be avoided. “Is he going to do that all night?” he’d asked, watching Drys snort and scratch and half-strangle himself on his own tongue.

  “Always,” Kalla said.

  Daryon knelt beside the bedroll and pinched Drys’s nose shut. Drys woke spluttering and cursing. “You’re on watch, my friend,” Daryon announced. “Believe me, I’ll know if you sleep on the job.”

  Camp lay at the bottom of the pine-clad slope. Elarion scattered cooking ashes, gathered weapons, and raised hands in an odd gesture toward the rising sun. Each company had brought a half-dozen mules with large tufted hooves to carry supplies. From one of the packs Daryon scrounged up extra moccasins whose soles were cuts of leather, thick but flexible. “Your feet will be bruised, tenderfoot that you are, but you’ll be able to grip the rock. In those things you’d barely make it off the valley floor.”

  Laral’s cavalry boots were damn near worn through anyway. The march from Tánysmar had been arduous, along narrow paths that Daryon claimed were secret. Secret or not, they were fit only for goats. The slow knife of the Mist River acted as an ever-present guide. They had started out from the ruins with three companies of Elarion. But by the time they set up camp the first night, the three had doubled to six. Laral couldn’t say where or when the other companies had joined the march. He knew only that hope knotted delectably in his belly.

  Daryon had brought his contraptions as well. The iron dragon rarely left his side. Throughout the two days of marching it had clanked alongside him, purple eyes aglow. Two wolves, one of copper, one of tin, kept pace, their noses to the trail, their cupped ears swiveling, as if Daryon could smell what they smelled, hear what they heard. Half a dozen bobbing, bladed devices darted back and forth, high and low, one of them the finned lens that had purchased Daryon’s aid. These didn’t always know where they were going. One whizzed past Laral’s ear and struck Tarsyn between the shoulder blades. The contraption tumbled to the ground, rose again and shook itself, then darted off again.

  Tarsyn rubbed the soreness from his shoulder. Daryon snickered as if the thing, and not he, had been at fault. “Do you like my whirligigs?” he’d asked. “Marvelous, aren’t they. That little sentinel is always eager to prove himself. And Basi?” He gazed at the iron dragon with obvious affection. “That’s short for Basilisk. Not really a proper name. But she does a fair job, don’t you think?” The man attributed personalities to bits of metal and glass? Maybe No’ak was right. Had the avedra never learned to walk wholly in reality, or was his mind fractured?

  “It … er, she seemed to think I needed a shave,” Laral said. Humor the man, why not? Better to play along than give Daryon an excuse to sic Basi on him again.

  “How do they…?” Tarsyn began. “Er, how do you make them…?”

  “Function?” Daryon supplied. “Boy, I have more brain than I know what to do with. I began building these when I was, well, younger than you. Basi has been with me most of my life.” At night, Daryon alone was supplied with a tent. The dragon curled up outside the flaps, glass eyes dark, latent, reflecting the moons. None dared approach.

  Laral’s frustration mounted as he climbed. The sun slipped west and disappeared behind the far mountains, yet the cave remained out of reach. Like a long, gray serpent, Daryon’s host crept up the mountainside, avoiding sentries, careful not to dislodge stones. The slope to the mine was so precarious that even the nimble Elarion moved with extra caution. At times they used their hands as much as their feet. Laral was grateful for the moccasins. He could feel every stone, but he’d rather own a few black-and-blue toes than go tumbling to the valley floor.

  Tarsyn’s wounded arm mandated that he stay behind. He had argued and pleaded, but Daryon refused to risk him as a burden. A single company of Elarion, the mules, the donkeys, and most of Daryon’s constructs remained in the valley with him. Upon Daryon’s signal, the reserve was to charge up the switchback, though in Laral’s opinion the road was too steep for an effective charge. He suspected the company’s true purpose was to collect bodies, perhaps collapse the mine opening, or merely live to tell the tale, if the rescue failed.

  Near the top of the ridge, Daryon took shelter in the shadow of a boulder and sent his whirligig, the same spinning sentinel that had blundered into Tarsyn, ahead to investigate. Laral collapsed beside him. Even here the ground tilted precariously. Rest was hardly rest when he had to hold himself in place. His toes throbbed, his fingers bled, his lungs burned. He tried to speak, but found his throat too dry for it. Are we close? he wanted to ask.

  Daryon heard, of course. “Almost too close. We’ll have to backtrack to one of those promontories to form up.” He shut his eyes, as if listening, but that wasn’t it at all. “Four sentries,” he announced. Goddess above, he was seeing through his sentinel’s glass eye. “Several naenion milling about, keeping watch on the captives. More hauling carts down to the valley.” He opened his eyes and nodded confidently. “The naenion don’t live in the mine, so we should have an advantage in numbers. ”

  Laral croaked, “What about the captives?”

  “What about them?” Daryon snapped. “They’re unloved and badly used. What else? And worse … there appears to have been a rebellion. Naenion will eat the dead, but a dozen captives have been … put on display.”

  Dread drained the blood from Laral’s head.

  Daryon’s tone softened. “I didn’t see any children.”

  Laral couldn’t decide if that was a comfort or not. “Will we wait for nightfall? Risk the descent in the dark?” Better to get moving now, while light remained.

  “No, we’ll wait for dawn. The sun will be at our backs. The naenion won’t see us until we’re in their midst.”

  Lara
l groaned through his teeth. Goddess’ curses, more delay.

  Daryon’s sympathy was thin. “Just one more night.”

  A bitter night it was. The promontory was barely broad enough to encamp five hundred Elarion, ten dwarves, four humans, and one irascible avedra. The wind buffeted them mercilessly and turned cold enough to chill blood and freeze fingertips. Fires were out of the question. So was Daryon’s tent. Even if he had carried it up the cliffs with him, it would’ve made too much noise in the wind. Instead, he separated himself by climbing onto a high ledge where he perched like a vulture.

  “How does he not fall?” Drys asked, spreading out his blanket. “Unnatural, that’s what it is. Don’t you think so, Kalla?”

  The pain of the climb had left her in no mood to speculate. “Snore like you’re wont to, and you can join him up there. I’m sure he’ll be happy to pinch your nose all night.”

  “How would I breathe?”

  It must’ve been the altitude going to his head, but Laral found himself laughing. He felt drunk and sick to his stomach and nervous as a cat. I’m close. So close. Do you feel me, Wren? I’m just overhead. A few more hours. “Please don’t be among the dead,” he whispered at the stars.

  Bundled inside his blanket, he faced the east, watching for the first silver blush of dawn. He dozed fitfully. Each time he opened his eyes he looked for a paling along the horizon but found that the stars had barely budged. Don’t look for battle, Kelyn’s father used to say. Let battle come to you. Take up the gauntlet only when you’ve tried your best to avoid it. For the first time in his memory, Laral didn’t want to avoid a fight. His fingers twitched with the longing for it. Rest, he told himself. Tomorrow will come soon enough. But it didn’t. He grit his teeth; the space inside his skin was too small to contain so much longing.

  He woke to someone jostling his shoulder and lurched out of the blanket. “Hush there, lad,” No’ak said, a firm hand on Laral’s shoulder. The sky was turning pink; the last of the stars were fading. Yes, it was happening. No more waiting. Today he would hold them—or mourn them.

  From one edge of the promontory to the other, the Elarion were gathering into ranks, stringing their bows, belting on quivers, buckling helms. No one spoke. They seemed to know the drill. Daryon crouched on the rim of the bluff, gazing down toward the mineshaft. The whirligig bobbed at his shoulder.

  “He ain’t moved for an hour,” No’ak said. “Maybe longer. He were like that when I woke, anyhow.”

  Kalla gave Drys a sleepy shake, then staggered to her feet, groaning, “Ach, my knees, my ankles…”

  Drys rolled onto his back, snored like a rockslide and startled himself awake.

  “Do you ever have trouble sleeping?” Kalla asked.

  “Me?” Drys yawned and scratched and stretched, as comfortable as a dwarf on his bed of stone. “I got an easy conscience. And what we mean to do today will make me even easier.”

  “Well said,” Bjorni lauded. He and the rest of the dwarves gathered round. Vosti tested the blade of his axe on his furry cheek, nodded approval.

  “Keep it down,” warned one of the Elarion. “Dwarves can’t speak softer than an avalanche.” The five hundred warriors stood ready, as still and silent as pillars of stone. Only the wind in their hair attested to their being flesh and blood.

  Daryon raised a hand and made a small beckoning gesture.

  “Ah, damn him,” No’ak said, hands squeezing the sides of his head. “He could speak to me like a sane man, but will he? No.” He stomped off to answer the silent summons. When he returned, he whispered, “He says we’re to wait—”

  “Wait?” Laral wouldn’t hear of it. His blade was thirsty and his arms were empty.

  “Just until he springs the surprise. Because bogginai are accustomed to fighting Elarion, they might not bother with the veil. But if they do, my cousins and I are to get you out of here safe as we can.”

  “I don’t need Daryon coddling me,” Drys argued.

  Kalla smirked and nudged him with her elbow. “You owning up to something?”

  “Go jump off that cliff, will ya?”

  Daryon eased out of his crouch, like a cat stretching. The sun rose with him. Golden fingers shattered the gray dawn and lit the peaks with white-gold flame. Laral squeezed the pommel of his sword, anticipating the order. But Daryon waited. Time lengthened, grew taut, and Laral felt as if his own flesh and bones were being stretched on the rack.

  “What’s he waiting for?” Drys grumbled.

  When the sun rose high enough to break over the blade-thin ridge and cast light upon the mine, Daryon unsheathed a scimitar. The Elaran steel sang a deceptively delicate note as he raised it skyward and swept it forward. No horn, no mouth uttered a sound as the Elarion poured from the promontory, over the blade-thin ridge, and out of sight. A ram’s horn blared, but was quickly cut off. The song of steel echoed across the wind.

  The dwarves and the humans listened to the squeals of dying ogres for a good long while before No’ak said, “Right, then.” Without ceremony or flourish, he and his kin hopped down from the promontory, as surefooted as goats. Laral and his friends followed. By the time they reached the skinny ridge that overlooked the mine, the Elarion had pushed the ogres back into the mouth of the cavern, cornering them. Bared tusks, claws, and blades took a toll, however. The bodies of Elarion were piling up. Daryon stood near the rear of the melee with two companies in reserve. The blade of his scimitar was bright with ogre blood and a lightning storm crackled about his fingers, but he did not unleash it. “Tirion!” he shouted. The Elarion waiting behind him unslung their bows and loosed a cloud of arrows over the heads of their brethren and deep into the cavern.

  “Careful, damn you,” Laral muttered. His family was in there.

  A train of three mining carts climbed up the switchback. The ogres realized the source of the noise, dropped their harnesses and fled. Daryon’s lightning chased them.

  “Laral, the bodies,” Kalla said.

  He thought she pointed at the abandoned mining carts, but they were empty, ready to be filled with shipments of ore. No, she meant the corpses raised along the roadside. Easily two dozen had been impaled on iron stakes. Laral had overlooked them, having thought them ragged banners or some strange fence the ogres had erected; they were hardly recognizable as human.

  He descended the ridge, sliding on his heels, and landed on the flat ground behind the archers. The reek of decay turned his stomach. He pressed his sleeve to his nose and examined each corpse. The birds had been at them; clothes and flesh hung in tatters. How to be sure, when the faces were bloated, discolored, and torn? Daryon was right, however. None appeared to be children. But, then, Lesha stood half a hand taller than her mother.

  “I don’t think they’re here,” Kalla said, swallowing hard. The search had taken them past the abandoned mining carts, to the bottom of the switchback. The roars of battle tumbled down from the mine, bounced between mountain peaks.

  Laral nodded, unspeakably relieved. The ogres would have herded the surviving captives deep into the mine. Battling in those dark, confined spaces was dwarves’ work. “We can cut you a path,” No’ak said. “Or we can wait till the battle’s over. Daryon won’t stop till every boggin is dead.”

  “I say we wait,” Kalla said. “We can search every nook and cranny then, and not have to worry—”

  “And what if the ogres are putting their captives to the blade while we stand here jawing?” said Drys.

  They had no time to reach a decision. “Heads up,” Vosti said and pointed across the valley. Where Tarsyn and the Elarion Sixth Company waited, a storm of dust roiled. Shouts echoed up from the valley. The reserve was embroiled in battle. Where had those ogres come from? Maybe Daryon wasn’t as clever as he thought. Maybe his army had been spotted during its arduous climb yesterday and these ogres had come to aid their denmates. Or maybe they were slavers returning with new captives.

  “Tarsyn,” muttered Kalla, worry creasing her brow. The battle wa
s too far away to discern more than flashes of steel inside the billowing dust.

  “That wolf fighter can fend for himself,” Drys said, whether or not he believed it.

  A dozen ogres emerged from the dust. They were approaching along the road. “Form up,” No’ak shouted. His cousins gathered shoulder to shoulder. Laral, Drys, and Kalla upended the mining carts to build a barricade, then ranged out behind the dwarves. Laral felt naked. He had neither shield nor helm. Or a squire to bring him either. All that lay between the ogres and his skin was a rusting mail hauberk, an undershirt, and his surcoat.

  The detachment of ogres loosed a wild braying bellow and broke into a charge. In the lead ran an ogre with white face paint and a missing tusk. Another raced on all fours like a lizard hot in the sun, belly skimming the ground. The road trembled under their feet.

  “It’s Screamface, boys,” Bjorni called to his kin. “Time to settle scores.”

  “For Szhehault!” cried Vosti and the rest.

  “Aye, let’s make him scream!” No’ak hefted his axe and dived into a logroll. The ogre they called Screamface leapt over the astonishing maneuver, but the ogre behind him toppled as the dwarf crashed into his legs. No’ak came to his feet again and buried the axe between the ogre’s shoulders. Laral could only guess what Screamface had done to the dwarves of Jewel Mount; they fell upon him like ants crawling over a wasp. In their single-mindedness, they didn’t seem to care that other ogres swarmed them. Screamface swung an axe, trying to sting back, but in quick order the dwarves had dismantled him. A couple of dwarves tried to fend off the rest of the swarm. The lizard-like ogre tossed his head; tusks hooked Vosti under the armpit and launched him skyward. Drys leapt the barricade and charged in to help.

  Laral and Kalla eased into the melee with more caution. “Try to stay on higher ground,” Laral warned her. It might even things a bit if the ogres weren’t towering over them. They focused their attack on a single ogre, a brute with a toad’s flicking tongue and one red eye. A tusk, likely, had gouged out the other. Kalla dived toward his blind side, drove her blade under his ribs. Laral swung high and severed his head.