Fury of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga 5)

by Ellyn, Court

  She whirled sharply and pursued the orderlies down the corridor.

  Queen Briéllyn wasn’t the last who tried to argue. As dusk settled a cool, clammy hand in the bailey, Carah trudged from the infirmary and breathed air that smelled of dew and horse manure and clean summer wind. On the edge of the Fieran camp, half a dozen White Mantles clustered, bored and irritable. A couple of them saw Carah emerge, and she felt their gaze follow her as she made for the well.

  She drew a bucket of fresh cold water and with two handfuls, doused her face. The taste of sweat, the stink of death sloughed off her skin. She dabbed her face dry on her sleeve and opened her eyes to find Captain Moray leaning across the well toward her.

  “That work is beneath him, as you well know,” he hissed. “You should send him away.” Bushy gray eyebrows pinched tight under the rim of his shiny helm. Such hostility in the hard line of his mouth.

  Carah burst out laughing. “Send the White Falcon away? My, but you do think highly of me. This wasn’t my idea. You can take it up with him.” The belligerence in the man’s face proved more than a little unnerving. Carah’s instinct was to retreat fast, but she was sick of this man’s disdain. She raised her chin. “And do have a care. He’s not stupid. He’ll see that jealousy turning your face green.”

  She turned go, but Moray lunged, seizing her arm in bruising fingers. “Listen here, missy. I am the captain of the king’s guard, and I will not suffer a little girl’s insults—”

  “No, you listen!” Threatened twice in one day? Whatever had she done to deserve all this spite? “When a man must throw rank at a little girl, he has troubles more dire than her pert tongue. I have no quarrel with you, Captain. You’ve imagined—”

  “Is there a problem?” Arryk’s voice was very soft. With no herald to announce him, he had approached within ten feet without being noticed. Rance stood behind him, staring at his captain in disbelief.

  Moray dropped Carah’s arm as if she had caught fire, and came to attention. A long while Arryk stared at him, his face devoid of any expression whatsoever.

  Carah eased away. Why hadn’t she held her tongue? Moray would surely blame her for any punishment that thundered down upon him.

  Whether he was too tired, or whether he was reserving stronger measures for later, Arryk merely said, “Who is guarding my suite? Go relieve them.”

  As if his spine had been replaced with an iron rod, Moray about-faced and marched off for the keep. Rance swept a hand, and the other Mantles departed as well.

  Arryk whispered something to the lieutenant, then turned to Carah. “Did he hurt you?”

  She tested her wrist. The captain’s fingerprints would darken her skin, she was sure of it. “No, sire. It was my fault.”

  “Do not apologize for the likes of Moray.”

  His contempt surprised her. With a small gesture, he bid Rance move out of earshot. When they were alone, Arryk confided, “Istra clashed with many of my advisers. They killed her for it.”

  “Surely not Moray.”

  “No. But do be careful.”

  His concern was almost as unnerving as the captain’s aggression.

  “Sire, may I ask…?” The attentive incline of his head gave her permission. “What was she like?”

  The question discomfited him. Surely no one had asked him such a thing before. Those who had known his queen had no reason to; the rest didn’t dare. Some moments passed before he answered. “Bold. Yet there was something vulnerable about her, but it didn’t stop her from doing whatever she wanted to do. She was fierce when it came to guarding me, my space, my time.” He stopped there, but his thoughts carried on, In the end … nothing I could do to protect her in return.

  Carah worked until the supper hour. By then she was too tired to see straight. Her brain was numb, her hands sore from channeling. It was at this time of day, when the orderlies were passing out bowls of soup and settling the wounded for the night, that Carah would find Rhian and slip off with him and fall asleep in the crook of his arm.

  Exhaustion wore her shield thin, and tears tried to rise. She sat down heavily at the supply table and turned her back to the room until the urge passed.

  A hand brushed her shoulder and a wooden cup lowered in front of her. She muttered thanks and sipped, expecting stale lukewarm water. But the tannic bite of Doreli red struck her tongue. The first swallow choked her.

  Arryk eased onto the next stool with a cup of his own. “A gift from Lady Drona. She must’ve thought I’d need bolstering. I don’t know about you, but I’ve earned it. I’ve never worked so hard in my life. Feels strangely rewarding.”

  Carah savored the next sip. “Will you be back tomorrow?”

  “Bright and early.”

  Soft music rose from a lute. Byrn the Blue toured the rows of cots in full costume, despite the lingering heat. His array of bows and sashes, his slashed sleeves and tall boots were each a shade of blue, from the color of shade on snow to a hue just short of midnight; even his wide-brimmed hat and the feathers trailing down his back. I would not sing if I had to look so foolish, Carah thought. But there was not a soul in the tower he did not enrapture with that clear tenor voice.

  Some of the songs were new, featuring wild descriptions of people and events Carah recognized. One was about a crow who disguised itself as a falcon and terrorized the unsuspecting doves. The wounded soldiers jeered when they realized the song referred to King Valryk.

  He’d best be cautious, Carah thought, lest his royal patron take issue with him composing songs that vilified her son. Fortunately for Byrn, Queen Briéllyn had retired.

  Oh, please don’t add a verse about my brother. To imagine Kethlyn shamed for all time, a butt of jokes, mocked in bardsong, an object of scathing laughter … it was too much. Carah turned back to the table and busied herself measuring herbs into small paper packets.

  Had Saffron flown back to Windhaven to speak with Kethlyn? What had the fay learned? If Carah was lucid when she returned to the keep, she would ask.

  Byrn struck a familiar chord. Oh, not that one, Carah longed to shout, but the orderlies, the nurses, and some of the wounded cheered him on. Why did people love Alovi’s Ballad so deeply? Tonight, especially, Carah dreaded it. Its refrain struck too close to her heart:

  I shall find thee, love, near or far

  Though I search beyond sun and star...

  She hadn’t searched. She hadn’t even tried. Nor had Uncle Thorn. They had abandoned Rhian to his fate. If she had been the one taken, would Rhian have surrendered so easily?

  Guilt sapped the strength from her legs, else she would have fled the infirmary. She lowered her face into her hand and let the notes from the lute strike her like fists.

  A gentle touch came to rest on her forearm. “I hope you find him. I really do.” Sincerity rang hollow in Arryk’s words, though Carah suspected that he strained to believe what he said. He rose quickly and left her side, before she could detect darker thoughts through his touch.

  ~~~~

  6

  Portals crackled open and deposited Lothiar’s commanders inside Bramor’s Audience Chamber. Lasharia had arrived from her outpost in Evaronna early enough to change out of her armor and scrub the stink of ogre from her hair. Still damp, her silver-gold braid twined heavily over one shoulder. She helped herself to a flask of chilled melon wine.

  The council table was set with bowls of fruit, platters of pastries, crocks of butter and boats of sweetened cream. Human fare all, prepared by a human chef locked in the kitchens, but not bad, Lothiar had to admit.

  Tréandyn turned up his nose, regardless, and settled on a boiled goose egg. He had come all the way from Brynduvh. Unlike Lasharia, he had made only a cursory attempt to dust off his armor. The long siege of the White Falcon’s city was taking a toll. Weariness creased his face and weighted his shoulders. Bitterness crouched at the corners of his mouth as he rolled the egg between his palms.

  Iryan Wingfleet left a scattering of leaves and loam as he eme
rged from his portal. The siege of Linndun lay behind him. In the moment before the portal sealed, Lothiar glimpsed the Black Marsh ogres chipping away at the ancient sandstone wall. The gates themselves might be warded, but the walls were not.

  “You’re making progress, I see.” Lothiar gestured Iryan to an empty seat at the table; Tréandyn harrumphed, jealous for the approbation he had yet to earn. The greater goal for Brynduvh, however, was not to break in and overrun it, but to contain it, and Tréandyn had failed even at that.

  Wingfleet shrugged, as unenthused as ever. “Ogres chisel through mountains. What’s a wall? It’ll just take time.”

  The giddiness of hope surged in Lothiar’s chest. Why should he feel so invigorated this morning? Ah, yes, he had slept the whole night through, uninterrupted by a dragon’s whispers or Amanthia’s imploring. His head still swam with the fraying remnants of poppy wine, but that would wane by noon. Had Rashén Varél grown bored tormenting him, as if he were a replete cat batting around a mouse? Had Amanthia given up fretting over his soul?

  Good riddance to both of them.

  “Why the urgent summons, Captain?” Lasharia offered him a goblet of wine.

  He waved it away. His aim was to clear the poppy spinning in his head, not exacerbate it. To that end, he propped his feet on the table and tore into a loaf of crusty bread. Steam rose. “I’m pleased to see you’re reluctant to leave your razing of the Evaronnan countryside, Lieutenant, but are not all my summons to be considered urgent?”

  She and Wingfleet exchanged a look of caution. Tréandyn was oblivious to the tension, glaring in silent contemplation at the tablecloth, his egg forgotten.

  “They are, sir,” said Iryan.

  “I only meant that I thought something was terribly wrong,” Lasharia added. “Yet here you are treating us to breakfast.”

  Lothiar grinned wolfishly. “I have good news. But it will wait until everyone has arrived.”

  Three were still missing. What detained them?

  In this hall of soaring vaults and cold formality, generations of kings and councilors had met to decide the course of human history. Dining among the thick marble pillars, in sunlight that slanted through lofty narrow windows, Lothiar reveled in this change of fortune.

  No more would human voices reverberate under this ceiling, squabbling over how to wring the greatest advantage out of their world. High upon the dais, the throne had been stripped of its overlay of silver falcons, the silver melted down into tidy ingots. A sheet covered the chair’s ugly wooden bones. Likewise the Falcon Crown that had graced the brow of Aralorr’s kings. Once the onyx falcons had been pried out and the gold poured into the mold, Lothiar had marveled at how much value humans put on such a small amount of yellow metal. Like crows, they were, mesmerized by shiny things and the men who wielded them. Still primitive, still barbarous, after all these centuries. Merely half a step above ogres, truth be told.

  “Have your naenion sniffed out the rest of the tunnels?” Lothiar asked.

  When no one else spoke, Tréandyn realized the question was intended for him. He raised eyes that were a purple so dark they were nearly black. “They’re working on it,” he snapped, shame eroding his cordiality. Somehow, thousands of Fieran soldiers had slipped from Brynduvh’s walls and reinforced Kelyn at Tírandon. “We’ve sealed off at least four. Though … there must be more. We learned that the city’s extra mouths are being smuggled out and taken to the coast. Should we pursue them?”

  “The babes, the infirm?” Lothiar asked. “No point in wasting resources on them.”

  Tréandyn’s damson glare turned on Paggon Ironfist. The old ogre, to whom the lieutenants had honed their portals, slouched on the steps of the dais, as faithful and patient as a hound. “My task would be easier if the naenion weren’t so damned stupid. Half the time, Grayscar doesn’t seem to understand what I’m saying, and the rest of the time he’s misinterpreting my orders. Worse, the clans despise each other. The Thunderstone ogres believe themselves superior, and the Shadow clan twists every sideward glance into an insult. There’s nothing but confusion among the ranks. I spend the majority of my time sorting it out.” He raked his hands through hair the color and texture of corrugated steel.

  Iryan huffed. “Stupid? Or rebellious? Korax understands every word and more, but he’d rather chew on my bones than follow a direct order.”

  “You must learn how to talk to an ogre,” Lothiar cooed, more to irritate his lieutenants than educate them. He was exceedingly blessed to have such a tractable chieftain in Paggon Ironfist.

  Tréandyn released a heated sigh. “I don’t have your patience with them, sir.”

  “Bide your time, Lieutenant. If all goes well, you’ll have help soon.”

  “Oh?”

  The double doors opened abruptly. Ruvion swaggered in from the corridor, forcing Tréandyn to remain curious a little longer. Having returned from Linndun with Lothiar two days before, he had no need for a portal.

  “You’re late,” Lothiar grumbled.

  There was something different, something unsettling, about Ruvion’s appearance. Lothiar studied the scout as he approached, trying to pick out the anomaly, then realized Ruvion’s human-colored eyes were now a startling turquoise.

  “What the hell have you done?”

  Ruvion beamed and gazed at each lieutenant, making sure they noticed the alteration. “Do they look quite real?”

  Lasharia sniggered behind her fingers. Iryan looked anything but impressed.

  “Did you disobey my orders?” Lothiar demanded.

  “And tear Rhian’s eyes out of his skull? No, Captain, it’s a glamour. Once I took care of the tower, I made my way to the library. Amazing how one has free rein in a city when the populace is in a panic. Anyway, dug around looking for some way to exchange Rhian’s eyes for mine, in a way that wouldn’t offend you, sir, but found the next best thing instead. It’ll do, until I find a more permanent solution.”

  How Ruvion had pleaded for permission to cut out the young avedra’s stunning Elaran eyes. Lothiar had vehemently refused, primarily because he needed a scout who could see the comings and goings of the remaining avedrin, not one who experimented with grafts that might rot inside his skull.

  “Captain,” asked Tréandyn, “what panicked populace?”

  “What tower?” Lasharia added.

  Lothiar exchanged a glance with Iryan and Ruvion. They were the only three who knew. “We’ll wait for Da’ith.”

  Where was the up-jumped lieutenant, anyway? When a portal opened beside Paggon, letting in a breeze redolent of sun-warmed grass, it was Dashka who emerged. Battle suited the avedra well, it seemed. His usual slinking step was gone; he approached the table with a confident stride. Time in the sun and wind had given his pallid, gaunt face a healthy flush of color.

  Lothiar chuckled. “Enjoy yourself?”

  Dashka bowed smartly and showed off fingers reddened from the breath of fire. “I have much to report, Captain.”

  “Where is Da’ith?”

  “He comes shortly. He brings something for you, sir.” The avedra’s jaw clenched, and his eyes were indirect. Lothiar suspected this ‘something’ might ruin his day.

  Dashka plunked himself down at the table—Iryan scooted half a foot away—and poured himself a hefty helping of the melon wine.

  “You were to report how well Da’ith is handling the Storm Mount ogres. Give me the skinny before he gets here.”

  “The ogres fear him.” Dashka gulped the wine like water and refilled the goblet. He eyed Paggon uneasily; it was Ironfist’s clan they were discussing. “Some of those ogres who ran when the Miraji first arrived? He had them stretched and quartered. A few days ago, when the Miraji attacked the trenches, no one ran. They gave chase instead.”

  “Effective.”

  “Now Da’ith wants to dig new trenches, at the edge of the plain, a mile or two from Tírandon’s walls. Better deterrent, he says. Er, with your permission, of course, Captain.”

&n
bsp; Lothiar knifed butter onto a slice of bread, considering. Da’ith’s brainchild, the trenches had been as efficient as a wall in keeping the Miraji from venturing too close to Bramor. Digging new ones closer to Tírandon might serve in strangling the humans’ supply lines. Lothiar nodded. “Granted. But tell me. Was it the Miraji who routed you this time as well?

  Dashka cleared his throat, fingered the rim of his goblet. “The very rocks of the earth fought against us. And there was something else … something I can’t explain.”

  The dwindling portal stretched wide again to accommodate Da’ith. He carried a burlap bag over his shoulder. There was little about him that did not reek of aggression. His boot heels attacked the floor as though it had offended him. He had a habit of glaring unblinking with his chin lowered, like a predator who has pinned its prey. A continual flame burned behind his eyes. Rage, Lothiar suspected. Bloodlust, yes. Contempt, certainly. Madness, perhaps.

  His presence made Lothiar’s hackles rise. When at last the humans were subdued, Da’ith would make an exquisite enforcer. Presently, however, he resembled a farmer lugging a sack of potatoes. Without a salute or a word of greeting, he upended the burlap over the table. A grotesque lump of flesh spilled out and flopped down among the trays of bread and fruit.

  Lasharia scuttled from her chair. Lothiar dropped his chunk of bread and surged to his feet. Iryan reached for a dagger. But the thing didn’t move.

  “What is that?” asked Ruvion, grimacing as he leaned closer.

  Wounds on its humped back had slain the creature. Arrows, most likely. Muscular frog-like legs splayed across the grape bowl, as long as Lothiar’s arm. Stunted, reptilian arms boasted half-inch-long hooked claws. A thick spotted tongue lolled from a wide mouth. Vestigial tusks jutted from the lower jaw, and tiny red eyes rolled back in gummy sockets.

  “That is … was … an ogre,” said Da’ith.