by Ellyn, Court
Leshan pretended not to notice and said, “I’m sorry about your brother, Garrs. He was following my orders, so I feel responsible.”
Garrs lifted a placating hand. “If you hadn’t made him accompany you, he would never have known a brave death.”
“A brave death is better than living a long life?” Leshan asked.
Garrs pondered, then replied, “My brother was a soldier. But he was a coward, too. He won’t be remembered for dying a coward, thanks to you.”
Without missing a beat, Leshan asked, “Now tell me what’s disturbing you.”
Garrs’s glance slid to the cobblestones.
“Mother—,” Laral began, but Lander’s hand clenched harder.
Leshan lunged, swiping Laral from their father’s grasp. “Damn you, tell me,” he snarled in his father’s face.
As far as Lander was concerned, his oldest was still someone who laughed easily and often, someone mild and docile. He glared at Leshan, trying to recognize him behind the savage demand, then said, “You never saw the whole invasion force, son. We fought only half of it.”
“No, Lady Briéllyn’s information was mistaken, Da.”
“It wasn’t. The other half continued into Aralorr, straight onto our lands. Tírandon will be the first fortress they encounter. It may even be their primary objective.”
“But I left only half a garrison and three hundred Helwende foot for her defense!”
“Son,” Lander said, stepping forward to console, “you did what was best with the knowledge you had. No commander can do better.”
Leshan pushed his father’s hands from his shoulders. “No! We’ll send our able-bodied men to counter the Fierans before they get there.”
“Son, our men are too few, and they’re exhausted. Make that ride to engage fresh troops and they would be slaughtered.”
“Aren’t you going to do anything? Mother’s there, and Ruthan. They’re—”
“I sent a rider to warn them. Those Dragons the mercenaries carry may scorch the walls, even the gates, but they won’t get through.”
“No, they’ve got to be evacuated with the rest of the household. I’m going. Tell Lord Acwyl I’ve taken a fresh horse.”
“Leshan, you’re as exhausted as the rest of us. You’ve made that run twice in three days. You’ll kill yourself.”
“To save Mother and Ruthan, yes.” He started for the stables.
Lander’s voice followed him, mournful, “Even starting now, you can’t beat the Fierans home.”
Leshan found King Rhorek standing in his path. “Take Brandrith.”
~~~~
Kelyn dreamt of a light. A hovering ball of light. He couldn’t tell how large it was, for it floated in a black void. But he knew the light was moving. That it was aware. That it was coming for him.
He didn’t want it to find him. He didn’t want to die.
He woke and found himself staring at the flames in the central hearth. Perhaps that was all his dream had been, the light of the fire shining in his eyes. He shivered with the cold and hugged the woolen blanket to his chin. His left side, from his neck to his ribs, throbbed.
Quiet nestled in the great hall. A cough, a groan, a whisper.
Kelyn noticed that the windows near the ceiling were black with night. Sitting up was difficult; his head spun. Eliad lay at his feet, fast asleep. Kelyn shook the boy’s shoulder.
He bolted upright, startled, and looked at the windows. “I’m sorry, m’ lord—”
“Forget it. Help me into my armor.”
“But, m’ lord—”
“No arguments.”
Eliad gave in and carefully layered Kelyn in undershirt, mail hauberk, black surcoat, gauntlets, greaves, and the right shoulder-guard. Kelyn couldn’t bear the weight of the left one.
“Are we going back to Ilswythe?” the boy asked.
“I’m going. You’re staying here.”
“But you can’t go alone. You’re hurt. Something might—”
“Eliad, I need someone to cooperate with me. Please!” The squire sat back on his knees, dejected. “Listen,” Kelyn added, “I can’t have Lissah or Leshan or anyone else trying to stop me or bring me back, so you have to keep this a secret. You can do that, yes?”
“Yes,” Eliad said, little happier. “Do you need me to ready Chaya, too?”
“Stay here, and when I’m gone, find Laral and stay with him. Understand?” More to himself, he muttered, “If one inherits titles, one must inherit squires.”
“Fine,” Eliad pouted, “but I think you’re being stupid.”
“Behave,” Kelyn said, and started for the corridor, using the wall for support until the black spots cleared from his vision.
Sentries patrolled the curtain walls, and servants hurried by, but no one dared impede the king’s Guardsman. He saddled Chaya and led him to a side gate. Only one guard stood watch there, and Kelyn passed by with a finger to his lips, as if to inform the guard that he was on official business for the king. The guard saluted with a fist to his chest, and Kelyn left Lanwyk Manor without further hindrance.
He rode north for the King’s Highway. Thyrra’s silver light illumined the gentle hills, hedgerows and narrow cart lanes, and in the northern sky, the Blood Star showed the way. Though sweat beaded on Kelyn’s face, he was so damnably cold. He shivered uncontrollably; his muscles tightened and convulsed around the arrow shaft, sending razors of pain through his chest. Reason told him to turn around and go back to Lanwyk. But he had to go on. Had to tell them …
… we died well …
… tell him … proud …
His exhaustion and his fever overcame him before he reached the Highway. Chaya slowed to a gentle amble, and Kelyn slumped in the saddle, floating on the edge of awareness in a fog of cold and pain. That’s when the light found him. It hovered near Chaya’s ear, and the warhorse turned his path westward.
~~~~
42
Day dawned red. Against the livid horizon, Leshan saw the columns of smoke. Half a dozen dark wispy fingers to the south told of the Dragons’ path through villages and farmsteads. Leshan raced parallel to the line of fires; the land between Lanwyk and the Barren Heights had been unfamiliar to him, but he had pushed hard through the night, trusting Brandrith to find his way in the dark. With the new day, the Plain of Tírandon opened before him, and he knew the quickest route home.
One moment, he felt sure he would beat the Fierans to the gates. The next, he doubted his mad plan. Tírandon was built for defense, the safest place for his mother and sister. If he could get inside … but that would be impossible if the Fierans surrounded the walls for a siege. Maybe Leshan could get a note over the walls, assuring Mother that he and Laral and Father were alive and well, to hold out and be brave until King Rhorek could rally help. Yes, that was the most sensible plan, unless Leshan wanted to end up in enemy hands.
He galloped through a scorched field. The Dragons had ranged out this far? Turning Brandrith to the north, he hoped to avoid running into a band of mercenaries carrying Dragons full of bile. Fortunately, the rain and sleet had protected much of the grain. Maybe things weren’t as bad as they seemed.
He pulled Brandrith back for a rest. For several miles they continued at a trot, almost leisurely. When he stopped to let the warhorse drink at a pond, the stillness rattled Leshan’s nerve. Where were the sheep? Where the cattle? The pastures were empty. He assumed most of the herders had realized the cause for the fires and brought their livestock into their paddocks. But not all. Farther on, he rode into a field strewn with gray mounds like soft stones. A pair of dogs lay among the slaughtered sheep, helpless to fend off predators of this breed.
Shortly after, Leshan encountered the first of the refugees. Families loaded with bags of belongings like pack mules, others empty-handed, all white-faced and glancing over their shoulders. They were running away from Tírandon, the place that ought to protect them.
Leshan stopped an old man and asked, “The castle?”
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“M’ lord!” he cried, though Leshan didn’t recognize him. “Besieged.”
“Did the lady turn you out?”
“Naw, m’ lord, we had no warning. We couldn’t even approach the gate before they were upon us.”
No warning? What had become of the rider Father had sent? Captured, likely, or killed.
“Who are they, them with the flames on wheels?”
Wheels . . . what had Lady Rhyverdane said? … carted devices on wheels … not like any other siege engine. Leshan had forgotten that particular detail. He shot off at a gallop.
At last he arrived outside the village that lay only a couple of miles from the fortress. Leshan approached warily, expecting Goryth to have stationed his reserves here, but the streets resonated the silence of abandonment. Along the main thoroughfare, houses and shops smoldered. Corpses littered the cobblestones. They smoldered too, flesh and bone blackened by Dragon fire. The Zhianese hadn’t bothered slaying the people in their path before setting them ablaze. One woman had nearly made it to the town well. She lay crumpled over the stones, scraps of her burned skirts clinging to her legs, her hand only inches from the water.
Ravens perched on the roof poles or flapped from one body to the next, rejoicing noisily in their bounty. Billows of smoke rose beyond the village. The Warlord had surely ordered the town huddling below the fortress walls to be set ablaze too. This didn’t make sense to Leshan; the town would provide the Warlord with the best cover. Why burn it?
Leshan proceeded cautiously, sword drawn, ears open. The fringes of the Fieran army had to be close. A mile farther, but he encountered not one living soul.
The Warlord wouldn’t need to station his soldiers in outlying villages if the fortress were available. Could Tírandon have fallen so easily? Impossible. No warning, the cottar had said. Brandrith surged ahead. Clearing a stand of trees, Leshan saw the roofs of Tírandon Town smoldering. Above them, the walls and towers of the fortress itself belched smoke.
Leshan cried out, grief a blade in his chest; he charged into the ash and smoke, but no one countered him. The dead alone populated the town, those who were too reluctant or too stubborn to flee in time. The ruin was so recent that the ravens hadn’t settled in yet. At least here, Fierans and Zhianese lay among the corpses. There had been some kind of resistance. The number of bodies grew as Leshan neared the main gate. The massive wooden doors had been burnt to cinders. Both portcullises were warped from the intense heat of the Dragon fire, the softened iron twisted aside to allow the enemy into the inner wards. Scorched bones of one of the wheeled devices hunched between the gatehouse towers. Though the defenders had learned how to neutralize the Dragons, their efforts hadn’t spared them.
Later, Leshan couldn’t recall much of his search. Only glimpses. The keep was but a shell, the floors burnt and collapsed. The household would’ve taken refuge in the cellars, where they would’ve been crushed under the blazing timbers. The heaviest fighting had taken place outside the barracks. Lord Helwende’s men seemed to have fought well. Leshan’s tally of bodies in blue didn’t account for all the men he had left behind. Maybe the Warlord had taken prisoners after all. Maybe his mother and sister were among them. Lord Lander would pay a hefty sum to ransom his ladies; Goryth had to have taken them with ransom in mind.
He called for them, his voice ringing off the stones, though he didn’t expect an answer.
As a last resort, Leshan searched the dungeon. The doors leading beneath the gatehouse were charred and the hinges broken; who had tried to hole up in the dungeon? Cattle thieves aplenty had been detained in these cells. Leshan had once played sentry, pacing back and forth, ignoring the thieves who demanded he bring them a key. He descended now with a sword held out in front of him. The narrow corridor and open doors might hide a number of Fierans holding a few Aralorris prisoner.
A dim light drew him. A single torch, set in a sconce, had almost burnt out. The dungeons abandoned, too, then. With the torch in hand, he conducted a quick search of the cells. All empty, but for the last.
The light was so feeble that Leshan almost missed the cell’s lone occupant. A glimmer of naked, pale flesh, like a ghost hovering against the far wall, gave him a start. Rusty chains held her aloft, arms and legs spread. With her head bowed and her face discolored, Leshan didn’t recognize her at first. Those dead, dilated eyes belonged to a stranger, not his smiling, tender mother.
Someone had strangled her with her hair. A fair, silken rope. Dark rivulets had dried on her thighs, and a scrap of parchment was pinned to her bare breast with a nail.
Leshan dropped his sword. The clatter cut like a blasphemous word. Gently, so gently, he freed the parchment and read:
Lander, where are you? Your lady paid your debt for you.
Lord Machara
Leshan fled the dungeon, fell hard on his knees among the ashes and retched. Too late. Too late to save her. And where was Ruthan? With her nanny, likely, burnt to bone in the cellar. Please, Goddess, anywhere but at the mercy of these men. She was better off dead in the arms of someone who loved her. Better off … yes, maybe himself, too. He unsheathed his dagger from its shin-guard harness, and pressed the tip to his throat. Easy to end it, and all the faces. The faces of these he loved and could not save. Just a simple motion. He might even have enough time to return the dagger to its sheath and make himself a seat on the cobblestones before the blood drained from his head. Slowly the faces would drain with it. Goddess, yes, what release. His arm tensed, ready for the stroke.
Movement on the wall caught his eye. A child drifted along the battlements, white dress stained with soot.
“Mother’s mercy,” Leshan muttered. “Ruthan!” He ran up the nearest tower and along the wall. His sister went as rigid as a plank when he swept her up. “Ah, Goddess, where were you hiding? Did you hear me calling you? You saw what happened? Did they hurt you?” Though Ruthan blinked slowly, dazedly, she seemed unable to see him or hear him. He pinched the tender skin of her forearm. No response.
What had she seen? So young. The enemy may not have touched her, but how badly was she scarred?
“You’re safe now,” he cooed, holding her close. “I’m gonna take you to Da. Laral’s there, too. Hold onto me. Don’t look at anything else.” He carried her down the tower and lifted her into the saddle. He climbed up behind her, and shielding her eyes, urged Brandrith from the ruins of Tírandon.
~~~~
They took their time returning to Lanwyk. Leshan didn’t want to press Ruthan too hard. The first night they slept in an abandoned barn. The second night, out in the open. The clouds had cleared, but the nights were still cold, and a fire too large posed too great a risk. Ruthan never complained. She never spoke at all.
Leshan couldn’t decide when she realized who he was, that he was not an enemy, but it was somewhere between Tírandon and the old barn, for her terrified wooden posture relaxed and she slept curled against him.
Along the way, refugees camped on the roadsides and in the fields. “Tírandon is lost,” he told them. “Don’t go home. Don’t go to Bramoran either.” Surely the Black Falcon’s seat was the Warlord’s next objective. The royal castle lay only a day’s march to the northeast, and that day had passed. If Bramoran fell, did all Aralorr fall with it? No, the king was safe. Thanks to Leshan. He had done his duty well, saved his king, and sacrificed his mother.
He wasn’t going to take the blame for her loss.
At last, they rode through the gates of Lanwyck. The sunny courtyard swarmed with soldiers recovering from wounds, trying to walk off the stiffness and aches. Squires played as children should. They had divided into teams and kicked a ball around the bailey, laughing and shouting.
Ruthan didn’t appear to notice. The squeals from the children seemed to hit her ears and bounce off like the ball bouncing off the curtain wall. But when Leshan dismounted and tried to lift her down, she became as unyielding as a wooden doll. “Ruthan, Laral is here. He’ll want to see you. So will Father. Le
t’s go find you a soft bed to sleep in.” He finally had to pry her fingers from Brandrith’s mane. Her arms clung tight about his neck as he carried her to the keep. On the way, he saw Laral break from his teammates. The boy took one look at Ruthan’s scorched dress and Leshan’s face, then raced ahead. To fetch Father, no doubt.
Leshan chose one of the dusty guestrooms that looked unoccupied and set Ruthan on the bed. Mother would’ve insisted she take off her shoes before she climbed under the covers. Leshan choked on a sob when he saw how small Ruthan’s shoes were. White kid-leather boots. There was a dark smear on the toe of one that didn’t look like mud. He untied them and set them on the rug. “Are you hungry?” he asked. Ruthan stared at the far wall. While he waited for an answer, he heard someone bellow his name. His belly clenched, as it always did when battle approached. “Father’s coming,” he told Ruthan softly.
Laral ran into the room first, stopped and stared at his little sister. Lander arrived with Rhorek close on his heels. The latter lingered on the threshold, looking to Leshan for answers while Lander ran to his daughter. One touch to her shoulder and Ruthan loosed a scream to shatter crystal. With her eyes clenched shut, she screamed until her breath ran out; she sucked down another and screamed again.
Lander tried to quiet her. Even Laral cooed words of comfort, but to no avail. Leshan stood aside and let her scream. For two days she had held in her terror, silent, so silent lest the bad men find her. She needed to scream.
The sound brought people running down the corridor. Rhorek blocked the door and waved them away.
When the scream turned to sobs, Ruthan let her father cradle her.
Rhorek ventured closer and whispered, “I don’t understand. Tírandon surrendered?”
Leshan couldn’t look the king in the eye. He wasn’t sure why. Was it shame? Contempt? “The Dragons were too much for her. But you won’t waste men trying to take her back. The Fierans had no interest in staying.” He let Rhorek guess the rest.