Blood of the Falcon, Volume 2 (The Falcons Saga)

by Ellyn, Court

  Rhoslyn dealt his good shoulder a solid thump with her knuckles. “Me, fool. He’s refused the dukedom. Because of you, I might add.”

  “Me? Sentimental idiot, that’s what he is.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “We all know you wouldn’t refuse.”

  “Hell, no.”

  “That’s why I didn’t ask you.”

  Despite how pleased Rhoslyn seemed, Kelyn couldn’t disregard his long-held opinion of her. Meaning it like a slap in the face, he asked, “Do you mean to take advantage of him?”

  She stared back blankly, then asked, “In what way? What do you mean?”

  Kelyn didn’t bother elaborating. There shouldn’t have been a need to. The Duchess either loved Kieryn or she meant to use him. Could one do both? It was possible, he supposed. What had Rhoslyn ever learned but how to use people to her advantage?

  Was his assessment unfair?

  She rose and went to the window, as if she were too uncomfortable to sit near him. “In truth, I doubt I’ll see him very often.” She sounded resentful, distant, pondering years spent alone. “I need him near, I…. Such a dreary fog.”

  This last was but a whisper and one Kelyn couldn’t follow. Rhoslyn read the confusion on his face and added, “Sweeping in off the sea. It often does in autumn. I hate it. I don’t like things to be confused. There’s been enough confusion lately.”

  What kind of confusion did she refer to? Something involving the war, perhaps? Preparation for a wedding? Surely she wasn’t doubting her choice. Kelyn decided he would rather not know. His brother’s heart was at stake, and he didn’t trust Rhoslyn with it for one instant.

  ~~~~

  45

  Your Majesty~

  As your most humble servant, I must regretfully inform you that we have been forced to relinquish our hold on Ulmarr. The day after you departed, Lord Degan and Lady Drona fell upon us in full force. We met them at the Crossroads as we had half a dozen times, believing we could again deflect them from the field, but they brought a small detachment of foreign allies with them. Initially, these outlanders seemed hardly numerous enough to cause concern, but they brought fire with them! You know me well, Sire, and understand that I am hardly one to exaggerate, and so I beg you to believe me when I tell you that these fires burned with a fury that threatened to consume every last one of us.

  Your cousin, Lady Maeret, led a charge against the outlanders before we were aware of the danger, and she was overtaken by the fire. May the Mother-Father guard her soul. Lady Genna has assumed command of the Lunélion cavalry. Her arm, as you know, has healed since the disaster on the racetrack, and while she mourns her sister, she is eager to prove her worth.

  In an attempt to preserve our numbers, your commanders unanimously agreed to fall back to Nathrachan until you and the War Commander return to us or provide us with further orders.

  I pray this finds you safe in Leania, and in promising negotiation with King Bano’en.

  With my deepest apologies,

  Your servant,

  ~Davhin, Lord Vonmora

  Rhorek sank into an armchair with a groan. Old Lord Acwyl’s study provided the quietest refuge for a king to receive war correspondence and to grieve over it. The dusty glass eyes of old hunting trophies provided a grim audience. Down the corridor, soldiers coughed with cases of pneumonia after fighting in the sleet, or cheered over games of dice. What would he tell them? All the blood they had shed at the Crossroads during the summer, lost in vain.

  Should he hurry back to Nathrachan in hopes of bolstering the spirits of the soldiers who had fled? Should he press on to Leania?

  Safe in Leania … had that been the reason he’d ridden north? Yes, mustn’t lose sight of things. Yet, now, was it too late? Could he afford the time it would take to convince Bano’en to lend him aid? The space Keth left was suddenly larger than Rhorek had imagined. He would’ve known what to do. Hell, he had known, and Rhorek hadn’t listened.

  His worst fears were coming to pass. He would lose them all. Keth, Athlem, Maeret. So many hundreds upon hundreds of others, and only since spring. Not even a full year of fighting. Barely six months.

  How many more months, lives…? It wouldn’t be long now. Bramoran might last one winter under a siege, but after that? Shadryk would have his crown.

  “You didn’t want this, did you?”

  The voice startled Rhorek to his feet. Briéllyn stood in the doorway. Jareg hovered at her elbow. Rhorek waved him away. When the Guards Captain bowed and left, Briéllyn added, “It was not my place to follow you, but I saw the rider and thought she might’ve brought some word from Bano’en.” She wore her tumble of red curls under a snug white kerchief; brown smears stained her apron. She held a towel, as if she’d been drying her hands when the courier arrived.

  “Alas,” Rhorek replied. He set the letter on a cluttered writing desk. “It’s from one of my commanders across the river. Things are only getting more desperate. Everything … everything is falling apart! We’ll all be burnt to ash. To answer your question, lady, no I didn’t want this war, but my people left me no choice. Now my people are dying! And the only way I can see to stop it is to surrender.” He realized his voice had become heated and that Briéllyn’s green eyes reflected embarrassment or surprise at his outburst. “You don’t understand, do you?” Bitter, he turned his back to her and gazed out the window at the falling dusk. “Keth would’ve understood. He would’ve spoken the right words.”

  “You loved him dearly.”

  “He was more than my friend. He was savior of the realm. I have my crown because of him. By all accounts, Aralorr should’ve seen its end at the Battle of the Bryna, for what kingdom outlasts the loss of her king and her War Commander in a single day?” He shook his head, despairing. “Perhaps Keth only staved off the inevitable. How are we to survive without him? Did I learn nothing from him after all these years? The Black Falcon should know what to do. Isn’t that what you’re thinking, lady?” He rounded on her and shouted, “I’m a man first, damn it, and I don’t have all the answers!”

  A tear slipped down Briéllyn’s cheek, like an opal in the half-dark. “I understand you. When the rains come, the Heath rises, and my people suffer. Their sheep drown and their children die of the gloamwater fever. When they ask me why the Mother-Father has turned on them, what can I tell them? All I can do is burn the bodies and weep when no one is looking.” Her hand rose and touched his face; it was a rough hand to belong to a lady. “I understand you.” Her eyes were full of searching, as if she were peering through a thinning veil to see the man hiding there. All at once she seemed to remember herself. Her hand retreated and she eased away.

  “Stay,” he said. “Hide here with me for one hour, two hours.”

  She glanced at the doorway, like a fawn preparing to flee, and shook her head.

  “Not like that,” he said, shamed. “I’m not brave enough to ask such a thing of you. Talk with me. Help me to forget. Tell me of Rhyverdane. Unless … unless you think me weak for feeling this way and expressing it.”

  She raised her chin. “No, but it’s a shame you suspect me of thinking less of you because you prefer not to hate and massacre your enemies. If the way of the world is to hate and massacre in return for every wrong done us, then we are loathsome wolves, sire, and I pray that some great catastrophe swallows us whole.”

  Rhorek chuckled, charmed by her innocence. “Lady, I fear that day is coming.”

  She glanced at the rug between them, then in deliberate fashion filled the armchair. “Very well, sire. Rhyverdane. Where shall I begin?”

  ~~~~

  The next day confirmed Rhorek’s suspicions. He had sent a rider to reconnoiter the state of Bramoran Royal. When she returned, her face streaked with dirt and sweat, Rhorek received her in the study. He invited Jareg, Lander, and Garrs of Helwende to join him and hear the report as well. The news was as bad as he’d feared.

  “The outer gates are destroyed, sire, and the gatehouse towers scorc
hed by fire.”

  Lander’s shoulders slumped. “Tírandon all over again. Goddess help us.”

  “The Fierans have infiltrated the Green and set up camp there. They didn’t take it without a hard fight though. Pyres of the dead still burn and many more casualties had yet to be gathered up.”

  “Have they breached the inner gate as well?” Rhorek asked.

  The rider grinned. “Your flag still flies atop the towers, sire.”

  “Well, that’s something,” said Garrs, all optimism and hope.

  “Yes, but it’s only a matter of time,” Lander said.

  The reports of the slaughter and devastation at Tírandon put a terror in Rhorek’s heart. “The town,” he said. “Could you determine the state of the town?”

  Hundreds of cottages, shops, and gardens lined the thoroughfare between the gates and clustered below the inner curtain.

  “I got barely a glimpse, sire. Getting that close was just too risky. But it appeared the Zhianese had set many of the buildings on fire, perhaps to weaken the inner wall.”

  “No, not the buildings. The people.”

  “Apologies, sire. I could see no sign of our own. We can only hope Master Dinél let them inside before the Fierans broke through.”

  Yes, given time, the faithful old steward would have done just that, rather than leave hundreds of civilians naked to fire and blade. So many stuffed into such a small space. How long would the granaries be able to feed them? Yesterday he had calculated Bramoran could hold out till spring, but that was before he knew the Green had been taken. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, sire,” she said. “Two things. One, I saw a party of Zhianese headed south. They were herding the blues.”

  “The Guard’s horses?” Jareg asked. “What in hell would the Zhianese want with them?”

  “Taking them as trophies likely,” Lander growled. “Or maybe they mean to give them to Shadryk. What a boast that would be.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Rhorek said. “Horses are just horses. What about the second item?”

  “The Warlord has deployed the Zhianese with their Dragons. I passed two war parties without being seen. They’re not being very cautious in my estimate. They feel no reason for caution.”

  “Ah!” Garrs said, shoulders straightening. “The plumes of smoke I saw yesterday.”

  “Yes,” the rider confirmed. “The cottages within half a day’s march west of Bramoran were burned to cinders, the residents dead or fled.”

  “They could show up here at any time,” Lander said.

  “The parties were small, my lord. Numbering only a dozen or so. By no means prepared to take a holding, even one as small as Lanwyk.”

  “Foragers and bullies,” said Captain Jareg and spat.

  “The only thing to be done,” Lander said, “is to call our men at Nathrachan back across the river and take back what is ours.”

  Garrs nodded, his wild cropped hair wilder than usual. He’d been riding patrols about Lanwyk and seemed kin to the north wind.

  Rhorek eased himself onto the edge of the writing desk. “My lords, I am not a strategist, but even I can see the consequences of retreating from Fiera. With Goryth ensconced at Bramoran, the Athmar twins would surely feel bold enough to pursue our host north. And why not? With no place left near the river to make our stand, we would be scattered and lost.”

  “But we cannot take Bramoran back ourselves,” Lander cried. “Without our forces from across the river, Goryth’s host outnumbers us seven to one, eight to one. We have barely one hundred soldiers who are in any condition to fight. That’s no army. That’s a castle garrison. A garrison can’t oust fifteen hundred Fierans from the Green.”

  If Keth had reminded Rhorek of his boundaries, even harshly, Lander seemed to think the king utterly daft. He tried to take into account Lander’s sorrow and anger over his recent loss and measured his tone carefully: “Thank you, Lander, I was aware of the ratio. I was hardly suggesting that we charge the Fieran rear.”

  Lander’s teeth ground audibly. “I could hardly predict such wisdom on your part, sire, after you insisted we make a stand atop that bloody hill.”

  Jareg, resembling a boar in the long grass, unfolded his arms and watched Lander’s every gesture.

  “Is that so?” Rhorek asked. “As I recall, Lord Tírandon, you were in agreement with that decision. I remember because it was the first time you agreed with me on any decision.”

  “Fighting should never have been suggested!”

  Rhorek saw something about to break in Lander’s face. His son blamed him for his mother’s death, and Lander would find blame wherever he could. “You are right, sir,” Rhorek said. “As sure as the sun rises, Keth knew what would happen that day, and we wouldn’t listen. Now we face the consequences. The loss of your lady, the loss of my friend, perhaps even the loss of our land and our freedom. But you’re right, Lander. This is my fault.” He rose from his perch and drifted to the window. New plumes of smoke rose blue in the east. “A blunder, that’s what the histories will call it. Will the bard’s sing of Rhorek the Fool? It is the sovereign’s responsibility to bear the blame for every loss, just as he is credited with great victories.

  “The books read, ‘Tallon won the rebellion and the Aralorri crown, Tallon united Aralorr and Evaronna,’ as if his armies never existed, or as if they had acted as non-willed appendages of that one man. Why is that? Because he is responsible for them. When they fail, he fails; when he fails, they die. When they die, he has nothing. And no man is a king when he stands alone among ashes.” He turned from the window and asked his men, “How are we to redeem ourselves? Redemption won’t be won through blind folly. No, Lander, we will not attack the Fieran rear. Unless Ana-Forah herself batters the Fierans into the ground, they will break through the inner wall and our kingdom will be lost. But as surely as the Mother shaped the sun and stars, my enemies will not sleep peacefully in my bed. If we must relive the days of Tallon and fight for decades in guerrilla bands, we will retake what we have lost, and we will march victoriously into Bramoran again.”

  ~~~~

  Two days later, Leshan listened in apathy to the brave talk circling the tables in the feasting hall. Fools, the lot of them, plotting glorious dreams. “It won’t take much to rouse the commoners,” Garrs of Helwende said. “And I don’t mean just the village militias.” He sat at the high table with the king, Lord Acwyl and Lander and Captain Jareg, his roast mutton all but forgotten.

  “Aye, with the country up in arms,” said Captain Arqueth from one of the lower tables, “we would be able to storm Bramoran’s gates.”

  Lander guffawed. “You’ve never been to Bramoran, have you, Captain? It’s not one of your river forts. Besides, an army of commoners would run at the first sight of Dragon fire.”

  Perhaps Leshan had made a mistake bringing Ruthan to dine here after all. She clung to him these days, even when he was on duty. While he stood at attention outside the king’s chamber door, Ruthan would sit in the corridor and play with a pair of ratty dolls she had found somewhere. Leshan watched her face as the talk of fighting and fire progressed, and for a while she seemed oblivious to what the men were saying. She picked at a gravy-soaked bit of mutton with small delicate fingers. Leshan buttered a slice of bread for her and she picked at that, too. But soon her attention changed from eating to listening.

  “Why not call the reserves from the river forts?” asked Garrs, his flow of ideas apparently endless.

  “Most have been moved to Nathrachan, lad,” Jareg said flatly, tiring of the talk himself. “You’re no War Commander. Keep your nose in your ale.”

  Rhorek held up a hand before the dreaming turned to arguing. “Perhaps assembling a new army of boys and old men is the thing to do. Perhaps not. We will think on it another day, then …”

  Ruthan tugged Leshan’s sleeve.

  “You want more mutton?” he asked.

  She shook her head, her dark eyes like storm-tossed waters. She crooked her fin
ger, bidding Leshan lean close. Her breath tickled his ear as she whispered, “They’re coming.”

  He stared at her in wonderment for a while before he thought to ask, “Who is coming, dear one?”

  “Men bringing the sun.”

  What was he to say to that? He suspected that his sister feared the Zhiani fire-spitters were returning. The balls of fire exploding from the nozzles might be taken for falling stars. “Did you dream this?” he asked.

  She nodded. Ah, that explained it. He hugged her close and said, “It was only a dream, Ruthie. There’s no one coming.” She reclined against him and ate her bread in peace.

  About the time the food had gone cold and talk had looped around to numbers for the tenth time, a steward entered with the announcement that a rider had arrived with a message for the king. Faces fell. Grown men and women seemed near to tears, for the courier could only be one of Rhorek’s riders with news that Bramoran had fallen. Rhorek pushed his plate away, and motioned for the courier to be escorted in. Only the panting of the resident wolfhounds disrupted the sorrowful silence.

  The moment the courier entered the feasting hall, Leshan understood. He looked at his sister in astonishment, and Ruthan smiled. The courier wore a dark blue surcoat and descending down his chest and shoulders were the orange stylized rays of the setting sun. The uniform of a Leanian cavalryman. He clicked his spurs together, bowed rigidly, and extended a sealed parchment. Rhorek broke Bano’en’s seal and read. Every lord, Falcon, knight, and squire in the room seemed to lean forward, waiting. Finally, Rhorek looked to the rafters and said, “Ana has not yet abandoned us. Lord Wyramor, Bano’en’s nephew, seeks our permission to enter Aralorr with his army.”

  Cheers resounded, embraces were exchanged, a pair of squires tossed up a pile of linen napkins in joyful abandon. Lissah squeezed Leshan’s shoulder. “Things will be better now,” she said.