Fury of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga 5)

by Ellyn, Court

  “The fuck you say,” Wingfleet exclaimed.

  Paggon approached from the dais, his step soft for his size. He reached for the carcass and lifted it by a hind leg. Bovine nostrils flared as he sniffed. Then his blood-blister eyes widened in horror, and he dropped the thing at Lothiar’s feet. “Dis Worak. Dis naeni brodder son.”

  “This was your nephew?” Lothiar wanted to laugh at the absurdity, but the implications wrenched a groan from him instead.

  “But how?” Lasharia asked.

  “We don’t know,” Da’ith said.

  “The naenion reported a black fog,” Dashka tossed in. “And we found shards of shattered vessels.”

  Da’ith buffeted the avedra upside the head, sloshing the wine in Dashka’s hand. “This idiot refused to obey orders and reclaim a shard for you, Captain. I sure as hell wasn’t about to venture into that ring of dead grass.”

  “How many … how many ogres were … like this?” Lothiar asked. Where had his voice gone?

  “Counted thirty-some, all with dranithi arrows in them, but who knows how many hopped or slithered or scurried off and got away.”

  “Word has spread,” Dashka added. “Storm Mount’s ranks are ripe with fear. Infighting, too.”

  “And you want to dig trenches closer to Tírandon?” Lothiar asked Da’ith. “Will the ogres cooperate?”

  The lieutenant’s grin was feral. “They’ll cooperate.”

  Lothiar paced. His circuit carried him away from the table and into the shadows among the marble pillars. What magery could accomplish this? How many more disasters could his army tolerate? The veil had been rendered useless by some spell or other, and now ogres, massive, strong, indomitable ogres reduced to hapless vermin? Was the event an isolated one? Would it spread like contagion?

  At the table, the lieutenants muttered among themselves. Speculation turned to arguments. Tréandyn slashed a hand, putting a stop to Ruvion’s remarks. “That’s not what I’m saying! As much as I loathe them, we need the ogres as they are! Without them, we have nothing. We might as well slink back to the trees.”

  Was that a grin on Paggon’s thick muzzle?

  Lasharia crouched beside the carcass. “There must be a way to combat it.”

  “Aye,” Lothiar said, returning to the table. “Easily done. Avoid black fog.”

  The lieutenants chuckled uneasily.

  Lothiar had to make light of the situation, at least until he acquired some answers, but inside he was shaking. Tréandyn’s comments rang all too true.

  A caress, as of a breath blown softly, shivered up his neck. This was a surprise, Azhdyr, hissed a whisper, even for me.

  “Ah, damn it!” Lothiar brushed the tingling of avë from his neck and whirled to look for the dragon. How many blessed hours had he been free of Rashén’s taunting?

  Dathiel has been busy. The voice swirled like a vortex, coming at Lothiar from all sides. Quite an accomplishment, no? The ends to which he will go to stop you…

  “Shut up! Be gone!” Lothiar’s shout echoed against the vaulted ceiling.

  I will not let you be. Rashén hissed in a slow coil. I will dog your heels until the Abyss opens for you. Only then will you find relief.

  Paggon snarled, baring long scarred tusks, and backed away from the table.

  “Sir,” said Ruvion, forcefully, as if trying to drag a sleeping man from a nightmare. He had witnessed this before, these apparent one-sided conversations, as had Lasharia and Iryan and Dashka, but Tréandyn looked to someone for an explanation.

  “Is he talking to us?”

  Even Da’ith eased back a step.

  “I’m not mad, curse you!” Lothiar bellowed.

  Laughter, as light as a child’s and as rumbling as a crocodile’s, rippled around him. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed the youth in his long silver robe, with a grin like razors. How do you know you’re not insane? I might have been born of your guilt.

  Lothiar rounded on the youth, but that space of floor was empty after all. “You blinked, dragon, and now she’s slain. She and Tíryus and Saeralín, and you did nothing to save them.”

  Silence.

  “Captain?” Lasharia’s plea broke through the veil of his rage. “What are you saying? Who is slain?”

  “Aerdria, of course,” supplied Ruvion.

  Lasharia gaped as if she’d been slapped. “Was this your good news? Your grand announcement?”

  The scout overlooked her horror and explained things to a mute, gawping Tréandyn: “A brilliant move. They all perished in the same hour.”

  Da’ith nodded approval. “Clean.”

  Lasharia flew at them. “Clean? Brilliant? This was our Lady! We may have turned our backs on her, but we swore to protect her. How could—?”

  “Caution, Lieutenant,” said Lothiar. “Discard that line of thought immediately.”

  Lasharia raised her chin, smoothed the anguish from her face. Her fists balled at her sides, and she nearly choked. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  How glorious it had been, escaping over the roof of the barracks and watching the veil, the dome that dulled the night sky to a faded purple glow, pulse out and disintegrate. For the first time in his memory, the stars shone in full splendor above the treetops. “Conscience that hinders must be cast aside. Aerdria dictated her own end when she sent our people to fight for the Sons of Ilswythe. And without Tíryus, the Regulars will install a new commander, a new voice, one whom we must hope is open to negotiation.”

  “And Saeralín?” Since when did Lasharia feel the need to be inquisitive?

  “Hiding behind illusion is no longer an option. You know this. By destroying the Tower of the Veil and its Keepers, we have given our people more than words. We have shown them the kind of freedom we hope to achieve. We have demonstrated our strength, our fearlessness, and proved there is nothing beyond our reach. Without their enablers, our people can no longer shrink from their rightful place in the sun. They will stand. They must stand.”

  “Is this the ‘help’ you mentioned?” asked Tréandyn. “Can you guarantee our people will stand with us?”

  “Of course not. The gamble is a dire one.”

  “Our next step,” Wingfleet added, “will complete the task.”

  “Indeed.” Lothiar glanced at the grotesque carcass sprawled on the floor. The creature was a clarion call to action. It was more critical than ever that he win the support of his people, and quickly, before the black fog spread. “Tomorrow, Iryan will lead a caravan to Avidanyth. Each wagon is loaded with kegs of oil. No veil, no trees.”

  Da’ith laughed, eyes wild. “I’m jealous, Wingfleet. I’ve wanted to torch that bloody forest for decades.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” said Iryan with palpable chill. “Ever since we Dranithion rejected your application.”

  Reminder of that old sting put an end to Da’ith’s good humor.

  Lothiar watched Lasharia carefully. She gripped the finials on the back of her chair and pressed a smile onto her face. It was a wooden, brittle thing. Under the table, he nudged Dashka’s leg with a toe. The avedra was already working, so intent on gleaning Lasharia’s thoughts that he didn’t flinch at Lothiar’s touch.

  A lovely, functional family you have, Azhdyr. Rashén’s voice ghosted past his ear. The presence hovered, close enough to grace Lothiar’s cheek with a kiss. The razor-edged grin flashed.

  Lothiar turned and found the youth standing, large as life, beside his chair. How could the others not see him? “Bloody spy. It’s a wonder you don’t tell the Sons of Ilswythe our plans.”

  What a lovely idea. Don’t worry, they’ll learn of your stroke of genius soon enough. But careful you don’t play into the Mother’s hands.

  “The Goddess wants me to burn the Wood?”

  The dragon shrugged willowy shoulders.

  “Stop toying with me!”

  Rashén feigned a pout. Hnh, I’m going, I’m going. But I’ll be back. See you tonight. The argent presence evanesced and was gone. The weig
ht of avë pressing against Lothiar’s skin lifted.

  His fist thundered down upon the table. Goblets shuddered.

  “Sir?” Tréandyn squirmed inside his armor as if a spider skittered down his spine. “I don’t think you are mad. I felt … something. It’s gone now.”

  Lothiar ground his teeth. “Your diagnosis of my mental state gives me such comfort, Lieutenant. Seems the only one besides me who perceives the truth is the stupid ogre! Not those who profess to having been taught song and speech by the damnable dragons, oh no. You’re all as bad as the humans who denied our existence for a thousand years. There’s not one inkling of difference between you and them. Get out. All of you! We have work to do.”

  The table cleared in seconds. Fingers drew sigils. Portals opened.

  “Ruvion, wait,” Lothiar called. The scout stepped away from a portal that opened on a road lined with hedges; Tírandon’s towers loomed on the horizon. “Can that ridiculous glamour change your entire face?”

  “My face is that offensive? Hnh.” As wounded as a wallflower, he started for his portal again.

  Lothiar dragged him back. “Stop being childish. Can you expand the glamour?”

  Ruvion shrugged, finding it difficult to shed his petulance. “There’s all sorts of spells in the book.”

  “Your vanity may have provided us an opportunity.” Not that Lothiar would order his scout to sit down at Kieryn Dathiel’s table, but… “Keep practicing. We might find a use for it yet.”

  Ruvion saluted and stepped through his portal.

  Da’ith had left the twisted carcass behind, like any untidy child. Dashka tossed it unceremoniously through the portal, but did not move to follow the lieutenant.

  Lothiar beckoned him aside. “Well?”

  The avedra’s cheeks were flush with wine. He waited until Lasharia’s portal to Evaronna closed. “She’s faltering, Captain. Thinks you as mad as the moons. The plan to burn the Wood sealed it for her. He’ll leave nothing, nothing at all, she kept saying to herself. He talks to air and murders our Lady and calls it good. Run run run. On and on run.”

  Lothiar groaned.

  “What will you do about it, sir?”

  “Revoke her command, that’s what.” Lothiar waved him toward the sizzling portal.

  Dashka stood his ground. “Sir, I think … I think I better stay with you and keep an eye on things.”

  Lothiar stared, incredulous. Would Lasharia portal in and put a dagger in her captain’s back? Maybe it wasn’t only dragons he needed to dread in the night.

  ~~~~

  7

  Laral kept a tighter rein on his horse as he approached Tírandon. The black and silver chevrons flew upon the keep’s roof; helms of watchful sentries glinted behind the battlements. A horn somewhere blared. His arrival did not go unnoticed. Though he was exhausted from weeks of difficult, disheartening travel into the Drakhan Mountains, he was in no hurry to enter the gate. His case of nerves surprised him. Yesterday, he had felt a flutter of joy at the thought of journey’s end. But now … actually being here …

  Behind him, four companies of gray-clad Elarion marched at an increasingly slower step, matching his pace. They appeared to be tireless, these mountain elves, though they seemed to sweat more in the heavy lowland air. The early summer heat baked the white strip of roadway, compelling the Elarion to furl their tattered gray cloaks and bundle them on their backs with their bows. Underneath, they wore supple gray leather, subtly dappled with color like lichen-painted stone.

  At their head, Lord Daryon somehow remained cool in heavy enameled plate armor. The golden horns of his helm swept back from his acid-green eyes. How did he march, mile after mile, bearing such weight?

  Once they came out of the mountains and reached Locmar, he had refused the offer of a horse. “Horses don’t like me. Didn’t like my mother either, come to think of it. Can’t say why. Maybe they think I’ll gobble them up.” He had grinned then, in such a way that made Laral shy away from him too.

  His contraptions clanked alongside him: a wolf made of beaten copper, another fashioned from scraps of tin, and a great iron dragon with glowing purple eyes. A menagerie of smaller devices rode the wind, circling the Elarion like moons. Many spun, armed with blades; others bobbed and hummed, apparently harmless. Daryon used all of them to keep an eye on the surrounding countryside. He saw what they saw, and the method of it eluded Laral.

  The avedra grumbled, “Are we to reach the castle before the end of the era?”

  Laral sought an excuse to explain his delay. But the road appeared to be clear of danger. No reason to turn aside. In all honesty, he had expected Tírandon to be surrounded by ogres and her gates unreachable. Scorched grass, pitted earth, dismembered siege equipment hinted that battle had been fierce. Bad luck that he had arrived after the ogres had abandoned the field.

  “What’s wrong, Laral?” asked Kalla. She had found a wide-brimmed hat to protect her freckled face from the sun. Dust and wind matted her red curls. “I thought you’d be overjoyed to return home.”

  “This isn’t my home.” Laral was too weary to explain, too soul-sick to face the hostility of his father’s people.

  “But you were born and raised here,” Drys declared, as if Laral had forgotten. As always, Drys had chosen a horse taller than the mounts his friends rode; he almost met them eye-level. Having grown grumpier with the miles, he wore a ferocious expression, as if he expected Laral to find a way to forbid him the comforts of a soft bed and fine table.

  Maybe Laral’s friends were right. Maybe no one cared. Who would remember him anyway, after so long a banishment? The sigil on his chest would announce him, however, and if Tírandon’s people recognized him, they would also remember Lord Lander’s wrath.

  “Did you wrong these people?” asked Daryon.

  “My father disowned me for wedding a Fieran. I haven’t set foot here in eighteen years.”

  He was almost relieved when twenty or more riders came galloping around the massive curve of the wall, shouting and nocking arrows. The sunlight rebounded off the gilded sheen of their armor, and their warhorses were the color of sand. Foreign words tumbled angrily from their mouths.

  Laral tossed up a fist, halting the mountain companies.

  “I don’t believe it,” Daryon said. “I think they’re Miraji. So far from their desert? Unheard of. The dragon has been busy.” He raised a hand in greeting and shouted, “Slandé!”

  The leader of these sentries did not return the gesture but pointed in an accusatory way while he shouted at Laral, at Daryon, at the whole regiment in general.

  “He asks us to state our allegiance,” Daryon translated. Roughly. Laral assumed he omitted the insults and unseemly demands.

  “I am Lord Brengarra,” he said, and Daryon rattled off the words in Elaran. “My allegiance is to the White Falcon, and to Kelyn of Ilswythe. He holds this castle, does he not? You, Elari, are a guest on the lands of my fathers. My sister is lady here, and I will enter these gates of my own free will.”

  The Miraji lieutenant’s bronze jaw knotted as he considered. Then he spoke, waving his hand about. Daryon said, “You and I may enter, and Drys and Kalla. My people must remain here.”

  To forbid allies the comfort of a decent greeting, maybe a mug of ale? It wasn’t as if Laral had returned with a regiment of ogres. Why the suspicion?

  The Miraji led Laral and his three companions around the curve of the wall to Andett’s Bastion. War had been gnawing at the great drum towers. Soot blackened the stone, and shot from engines had taken bites out of it, but the towers held firm. Just as Leshan said they would.

  Two steel portcullises halted them on the drawbridge. On the other side, sentries wearing Tírandon’s double chevron demanded names.

  Laral lost his nerve. “Drys, announce yourself.”

  Scowling, his friend nudged his horse forward and bellowed, “All you bloody sods! I’m Lord Zeldanor. Open the gate. I’m tired and I’m hungry.”

  “Diplomati
c as always,” Kalla muttered.

  “Who is with you?” the sentry demanded.

  “Lady Kalla of Blue Mountain. These others? Allies! Soldiers! Better than you.”

  The wardens consulted one another.

  Drys gave the portcullis a shake. “Where’s Kelyn? Where’s Lady Ruthan? They’ll vouch for us, you sorry lot. Ach, open the mother-loving gate or I’ll use my fist.”

  Daryon bared his teeth and laughed a feral laugh. “I like you immensely, Drys. There’s no false couth about you.”

  “Whatever the hell that means,” Drys retorted.

  The portcullises shuddered and rose. Curious eyes fell upon the black tor and yellow lightning bolt that slashed across Laral’s gray surcoat. A few whispered, but Daryon’s whirligigs soon distracted them. He had left behind the dragon, the two wolves, and the majority of the bobbing constructs, but two hovered close, following him beneath the gatehouse and into the bailey. One was a small spying device, made mostly of a palm-sized glass lens and whirling fins. The other was larger, its metal carcass shaped like an egg and skirted with retractable knives.

  Soon no one cared what sigil rode on Laral’s chest.

  “Ach, Mother spare me,” Daryon groused, peering into the soldier-beleaguered bailey. “So many humans. No wonder the place reeks.”

  It was true. The stench of blood and sweat poured from the Bastion’s north tower. Wounded soldiers hobbled in and out. Ash rose from the burning yards. Tírandon had seen action recently, in the last couple of days, by the look of it.

  Catapults and ballistae crouched along the outer wall, a few on the inner. Rows of tents under flapping banners filled the grounds between the Bastion and the outskirts of the town. Long lines of horses swished tails at biting flies. Militias drilled with pikes. Cavalry galloped at tilts.

  Laral saw not a single face he recognized. He spurred his horse to a canter, not caring whether his companions kept up or not. North Town passed on his left, tidy cottages, well-to-do merchants’ houses, and craftsmen’s quarters. On his right, South Town was a tangle of narrow streets shaded by tenements leaning eave to eave. Both were more crowded than Laral remembered.