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

by Ellyn, Court

  Shadryk had chosen his mercenaries well. The Aralorris had no love for the Zhiani barbarians, and would not suffer them to be freed. That mattered little when the new barracks were full of two thousand more Zhianese to send north after the thaw. What would those hairless, uncivilized men do if they learned their prince was a prisoner of their enemy? That had taken some thought, but in the end Shadryk decided it best not to tell them. A prisoner was a conquered man, and Zhianese did not follow the conquered. They might laugh at Saj’nal, the Fourth Son of Osaya, and refuse to obey his orders on the field. Or Goryth’s for that matter. Ah, Goddess, everything was unraveling. How could Goryth let this happen?

  “One blunder after another,” Ki’eva muttered, resuming her pacing. “Why not just attack Whitewood and free them yourself?”

  “Because of your blunder, sister dear. Nathrachan lies between us and Goryth, and Nathrachan is manned by Aralorris. Or did you forget?”

  She tossed Rhorek’s letter at him and shouted, “I’m no strategist! But I’m not a fool.”

  Shadryk sighed. “Send for my chamberlain. I need a bath. After that, I’ll see my Keeper of Coin.”

  Ki’eva’s lips pursed against her protest. She voiced it anyway: “Don’t give that man what he wants.”

  Shadryk pushed himself out of the chair, lightheaded from the wine. Better get on with it, sick as the idea made him. “Rhorek knows my commanders alone are worth all fifty of those Helwende pikemen put together. He is asking for more than he expects to receive. We’ll reach an agreement, and I’ll have Goryth back.”

  “You can trust him after this?”

  “No. But I can make him sorry he failed me. He will not fail me a third time. That, I promise you.”

  ~~~~

  Rhorek did not budge an inch on the offer of exchange. Why should he? It took a month of correspondence between Brynduvh and Bramoran before Shadryk admitted that he had no choice but to send the chest of silver across the Bryna along with the fifty Helwende foot soldiers. He and his White Mantles rode with all haste to Athmar to observe the send off.

  The castle towers brooded over the river plain, roofs hooded with snow. The green boar danced upon its white field on the banners over the gatehouse turrets. Thick, twisted bushes with thorns four inches long surrounded the stark gray walls and crawled toward the river, snares for the unwary cattle thief. Lady Drona’s grounds people cultivated brambles like the gardeners at Brynduvh cultivated roses. A wide avenue wending through the thorns delivered the White Falcon to the safety of the gate.

  In compliance with his orders, the prisoners were ushered up from the dungeons. The river twins had not been kind to their guests. Lady Drona, outfitted in full armor, sat her warhorse, her square scarred face hard with loathing as the Helwende soldiers slunk past under her gaze. Helping them along, Lord Degan boasted, “I would’ve turned these pricks into sheep like I did the others had you not stayed me, Your Majesty. I can’t abide the stink of Aralorri.”

  All Shadryk could smell was the reek of Athmar’s dungeon wafting from unwashed bodies and filth-stained surcoats. He could scarcely tell that the X across the prisoners’ chests was supposed to be yellow. Beaten and starved for sunlight, the Helwende soldiers piled into barred prison wagons for the ride east.

  “Look at them, grinning!” Degan exclaimed and kicked the nearest Aralorri in the thigh. The boy stumbled and hurried into the wagon. One of the boy’s ears was missing. Shadryk hadn’t noticed a grin on his face, or any other, for that matter. Degan was half-mad with rage at being forced to release his playthings. “They’ll remember the treatment we gave ‘em though, I assure you of that, sire. They won’t want to cross the Bryna any time soon.”

  “No, certainly not,” muttered the White Falcon. “Except perhaps for revenge. I’m not pleased that I must deliver damaged goods, Degan. If Rhorek demands justice, I’ll point him your direction, shall I?”

  “I did right by you, sire,” Degan vowed, pointing a finger that was dangerously close to dictatorial. “These surly bastards would’ve tried escaping had I not taken the spirit out of them.”

  They did seem rather spiritless, climbing up one after another. No defiant words or gestures as they passed. Shadryk patted Degan on the shoulder and smiled. Degan took it for approval until the king said, “Be glad you didn’t kill any of them.”

  When the prisoners were loaded, a vanguard of Athmar’s knights led the wagons from the bailey and onto the muddy highway. Shadryk called for his horse, and one of the White Mantles led the white stallion to him. With a sharp gesture of his finger to the ground, the stallion knelt cumbrously to allow the king easy access to the saddle, then pranced about crossly, shaking his curling mane.

  From the back of his own warhorse, Degan said, “You mean to accompany us to Nathrachan, sire?”

  “No. You’re not going either. You will see to the riverland’s defense while your sister sees to the exchange.” Degan stared a moment, face growing slowly redder behind his wiry beard. Shadryk flicked his fingers. “You may go about your business.”

  Degan swallowed his protest as if it were made of briars and barbs, dismounted, and hurried to the keep. Drona watched him go with smug indifference. The features that were chiseled in Degan were harsh and ugly in his sister. “I pray you forgive him, sire. My brother has always been rash where his hatred is concerned.”

  “And I’m sure you tried to stop him.”

  Drona’s shrewd, dark eyes pinned the king. “I wasn’t aware that the White Falcon favored non-violence toward his enemies.”

  He refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing him squirm under the merciless gaze that made other men tremble. “Ill treatment of men is another matter. Especially when I need them. Rhorek’s river lords better have treated my men far more kindly than mine treated his. If Goryth is unable to serve the realm …” No, it didn’t bear thinking about.

  Drona’s grin proved as discomfiting as her glare. “I would gladly serve in his place.”

  Shadryk watched the wagons recede between the snowy banks of the highway. “Perhaps I should send your brother to secure my men instead. He’s not so clever as you, lady. Nor as ambitious, I take it.”

  Lady Athmar crowed with laughter. “I’ll see the Warlord delivered to you safely, sire. He doesn’t need my help to see himself undone.”

  “Go,” Shadryk growled.

  Drona spurred her stallion so hard that the beast reared in surprise, then loped through the gate in pursuit of the wagons. A long while Shadryk sat staring out the gate in despair as his dream dwindled, just like the wagons in the blinding winter sunlight. What was a king to do when he learned that his heroes were just men, after all?

  ~~~~

  Brynduvh’s small audience room held no more than twenty retainers. Crimson velvet hung lavishly about a high seat carved from a single giant andyr tree, and quivering flames in crystal sconces illumined warm tapestries of vineyards and enchanted forests. Here, where the king met with only one supplicant at a time, Shadryk received Prince Saj’nal. After an oil bath and a much needed shave, he sauntered across the Ixakan rug with a disdainful sneer on his face, as if he expected an apology for the insult done to him just so he could refuse it. Arrogant as he carried himself, he couldn’t bring himself to meet the White Falcon’s eye. He stopped before the dais and flicked a feather fan against his thigh. The room was chill, but Saj’nal was sweating.

  “You are not ill, I hope,” said Shadryk.

  “Not I, great king. Only … only so angry! My men, those pathetic goats, they languish still in that prison. They cry out to me, but I cannot help them. And my guards, those Aralorri scorpions kill all but two! Even those they refuse to give me.”

  “Your slaves have been freed.”

  “Slaves? What good are they? Witless dogs, the Aralorris can have them, but those they let go.”

  Wise of Rhorek, Shadryk decided. No, he never claimed he was warring against a lackwit.

  “My great king grins? He doe
s not care about my soldiers, rotting in that place?”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Pitiful goats,” Saj’nal wailed, making a great show of his grief with his face raised to the ceiling and his arms thrown wide. “They will never breathe the sunlight again.”

  “And who’s fault is that?” Shadryk bellowed, startling the prince. “You’re out a few men, I’m out a few silvers, but there’s nothing to show me that you are worth even that much. You whine about your loss when it was in your power to win. My money might be better spent if I sent for one of your older brothers.”

  Saj’nal rushed the dais. The White Mantles surged forward, but the prince restrained himself. “You cannot say such things! My brothers are lice, maggots! No one defeats the fourth son of Osaya.”

  The White Falcon gained his feet and asked with the softness of a snow cat’s purr, “Where was that conviction when the Falcon Crown was in your grasp? When the Black Falcon’s fortress sheltered your men instead of his? There is no pardon for this failure, princeling. You had the prize, and you lost it. You and Goryth both. Were you my subject, I would send you as far from my presence as possible. But because I pay you to fight, I expect you to keep fighting. Until I get what I paid for, I’ll hear not one word more from you. Not one. Your rooms have been moved to the new barracks, where you will be a living inspiration to the two thousand men waiting to fight under your banner. Let them know, the White Falcon brooks no failure. Get out.”

  Perhaps his capture and humiliation had been more trying than Shadryk had suspected, for the prince’s dark eyes grew large and liquid, as if he might actually weep. The expression of a younger son who hopes for the sympathy of the older siblings who hurt him. Shadryk had practiced it himself once, but he’d learned it rarely worked. He strode from the audience room, leaving Saj’nal to sulk as long as he liked among the woven trees.

  ~~~~

  Goryth thought the worst of his shame was losing his sword to the very man he’d hoped to slay with it. Far worse was the way King Shadryk slipped into his suite on the top floor of the old barracks and stood staring at him. Judging the sorrow on his face, one would think Goryth had killed all three of the king’s sons and his sister in one fell swoop. He was a careful, calculating boy, the king, and he did not waste words, but damn, Goryth wished he would say what he had to say and be gone. His silent disappointment was unbearable.

  Twenty years ago, Shadryk’s father had paid a fine price in silver to bail him out of Tírandon’s dungeon. Goryth had been too grateful to escape the pain and interrogation to feel any humiliation. He’d been just a knight at the time, with nothing so heavy on his shoulders as the command of Fiera’s army and the responsibility of its victory or its defeat. King Daeryk had seen to his wounds, clapped him on the back, and sent him straight back to the front. Shadryk had to weigh different options.

  Goryth did not bother standing in his presence, but behaved like the defeated prisoner still, huddling in a beshadowed corner as if his suite was a cell. The door had been locked, after all, in case he decided to flee in his shame, and the king had yet to declare him anything but the lowest kind of disgrace.

  At last, Shadryk inhaled deeply and wandered to the window, bright with the afternoon sun. Melting snow dripped from the eaves and pattered on the ledge. He tugged his cloak tighter about his shoulders. “Your squires have not seen to your fire,” he said, not bothering to look at the empty hearth.

  The choice of conversation was hardly better than the silence. “I sent them away. Little bastards creeping around like cockroaches.” And no wonder, the foul temper he was in. “Would His Majesty prefer a fire?” The offer sounded more like a snarl than an invitation.

  When Shadryk turned toward him again, all the disappointment and disgust was gone from those green eyes. He wore his king’s face, as loveless as stone. “I’ve decided I must be merciful. But I will not be kind.”

  Goryth snorted. “I should hope not.”

  “You’ll be made an example, and I don’t like it, but there it is.”

  He wanted to ask what punishment the White Falcon had in mind, but decided he’d sleep better tonight not knowing. “I’m to keep the army, then.”

  “Drona wants it. Should I give it to her?”

  “Ha!” Goryth crowed, heaving himself to his feet. “I thought you wanted to win.”

  “Very well. I’ll send for you at noon.”

  Goryth bowed and waited until the king was long gone before he showed his temper. A gracefully carved dinner chair was reduced to splinters in seconds.

  ~~~~

  Word of the Warlord’s humiliating capture spread through the city like the gloamwater fever. The people of Brynduvh whispered that the war was lost, that Aralorris were on their way, carrying Goryth’s head on a pike. Vendors helped fuel the fear by charging ridiculous prices for bread. Others said the Warlord had betrayed the king and joined the Aralorris after days of brutal torture. Another rumor went so far as to claim that Shadryk had named his sister the new Warlord.

  Goryth’s squires chuckled over the latest tidbit while helping him into his mail and strapping his leering gargoyle onto his chest. The armor was his ceremonial set, gorgeously plated in white silver. The gargoyle, done up in black enamel, had a pair of rubies for eyes. He didn’t dare ride into battle wearing it, but his battle armor now languished in Bramoran’s armory with the gear and weapons of all the men who’d suffered capture. The squires fixed a heavy white cloak to his shoulders. The gargoyle grinned nastily there, too, embroidered in glossy black thread. Though it was meant to inspire fear, Goryth suspected the sigil of his fathers mocked him as it rode silently on his back.

  Shortly before noon he rode to

  Sanguine Square. The broad forum outside the castle walls was reserved for public executions. Once, the place also served as a market, but the common folk had come to dread it and moved their wares elsewhere. On this day, however, crowds swarmed the square. Bloodlust was a common disease, he gathered. He expected a public flogging, tedious and messy. He’d resolved not to cry out but doubted he’d be able to keep that promise to himself. At the north end of the square, the royal box faced a high stone platform with a gallows, a pillory, a block, and a whipping post. Goryth rode up to the box and dismounted. The White Falcon stood from his throne under the emerald green awning and welcomed him with a solemn nod. Seated on the king’s right, Princess Ki’eva refused to acknowledge him. On his left sat Prince Saj’nal, the smug goat-buggering bastard. In smaller seats behind the throne, the two princes-in-residence squirmed restlessly. Three-year-old Bhodryk swept a white wooden horse through the air as though it had wings. Lord Jast and Captain Wess had charge of the phalanxes of soldiers, drawn up below the platform. They stood at attention, stone-faced, surely aware that Goryth’s example was meant primarily for them.

  Shadryk started down the steps, paused and turned to Saj’nal. “Come, come, Highness. I insist you have the best view possible.”

  The Zhiani princeling did not seem so eager to please today. Rising from his chair, he was as slow as a cold water-dragon. Prince Bhodryk dropped down after him, wanting to see, too, but Shadryk said, “No, son, sit by your brother.” A new nurse grabbed the boy’s hand and tugged him down into her lap. He whined but stayed put.

  An event not suitable for babes, eh? Goryth’s teeth were on edge already. Shadryk led him and Saj’nal up the stone platform. A man in a black hood with arms like tree trunks stood there with an axe. Goddess, the king had tricked him. He’d always wondered how long a pair of eyes saw the world spinning after a head was lopped off. Would he be able to keep his eyes open long enough to find out?

  Shadryk went to the rail and looked out over the sea of people. His white silk sleeves set off the white falcon spreading its wings across the dark green surcoat; his hair shined golden under the high sun, brilliant as a crown. The people cheered his appearance among them. For a long while, he let their worship wash over him, though he did not look pleased by it.
Allowing the people time to love him was surely part of his tactic. At last, he raised a hand and the crowd gradually grew still, like the slow freezing of the tide. “My people,” he called, “we Fierans are among the strongest people under the moons because he do not settle for failure. We do not settle for second-best or half-measures. When our forefathers split the realm, did King Fiernen settle for title of Under-king? No, he and his sons fought until they won the respect they deserved. Today we fight to reclaim what we lost, to stitch back together that which is long broken.

  “Contrary to the rumors you have heard, the Aralorris have been pushed back. Brynduvh is secure. Our borders safe for the winter. The failure of my generals means another season of war, not the end our vision. But failure it is. The Warlord Goryth, Lord Machara, led our army across a land where he was not welcome. Now the Leanians raise their banners against us. He held the Black Falcon’s castle in his talons and lost it. Failures of this magnitude, bearing consequences so dire, cannot go unpunished. Yet we still believe that Lord Machara remains the most capable man to lead us to victory. Rather than suffer banishment when Fiera needs him most, rather than suffer a flogging for disobedience and bear scars that are easily hidden, the Warlord’s punishment will serve as a permanent reminder to you, my people, and to the army he commands. Let it be seen that Fiera does not settle for failure.”

  Ah, Goddess, Goryth groaned, quit the chatter and get it over with. Failure was painful enough without harping on it to the mob. Who would respect him now? No, laughter would follow him wherever he went, like the gargoyle on his back.

  With the monotone clarity of a judge, Shadryk pronounced the sentence: “Lord Machara will take the executioner’s axe in his own right hand and sever from his body his left hand, in accordance with our justice and mercy.”

  The sea of faces sighed. The formal lines of soldiers forgot to remain at attention.