Hawklady: A Spellmonger Cadet Novel

by Terry Mancour

  “Someone moved the pile,” she said, crossly, as she struggled achingly to her feet. “Really!”

  “Inanimate objects move all the time,” Rondal agreed, reasonably, joining his fellow. “In my experience, at least. You’d be amazed how quickly a sack of dirt can turn on you. Good work, today,” he said, quickly, before Tyndal could say something stupid. “Master Minalan is very, very pleased. You killed a dragon.”

  “You passed the test,” Tyndal said, with a smile. “You kill a dragon, you get to stay. The first one is always the hardest,” he added.

  “Don’t listen to that idiot,” Rondal said, rolling his eyes. “Master Min sent us to check on you. The first reinforcements from Barrowbell just arrived, and are taking over our pickets and patrols. We get to be off-duty for a few hours.”

  “And it doesn’t have to be in this leaky dump,” Tyndal added. “We kind of took over a prosperous peasant’s home, in the largely unspoiled section of scenic Cambrian Village. The roof doesn’t leak as much, it isn’t burned to a crisp, and there might even be some decent food there,” he added, enticingly. “The goblins took most of the bedding, damn them, but it’s safe and dry and warm.”

  “And Master Min wants the Magical Corps to relocate there for the night, his orders,” added Rondal. “We’re here to help you gather your things and move our supplies there.”

  “We won’t be there long,” promised Tyndal, as he eyed Frightful thoughtfully. “You leave for Barrowbell tomorrow or the next day with the wounded, I’m guessing. They can rest and recover, there. That’s where they’re taking Sire Cei,” he added, sorrowfully.

  “Anywhere that isn’t here, is an improvement,” Rondal agreed. “That dragon stinks even worse, now that it’s dead.”

  “And while scenic Cambrian Castle is still quite scenic, the amenities have lapsed distressingly, in recent times,” Tyndal added, earning a disgusted look from Rondal.

  “So grab your pack and come with us,” Rondal sighed. “Bring your bird. And your pony,” he added. “She survived the battle?”

  “As far as I know,” Dara said, suddenly feeling guilty that she hadn’t so much as checked on Doughty for hours, now. She hoped someone had. “It won’t take me long. Gareth took the Thoughtful Knife, to clean it off. I’ll grab Doughty if one of you two can take Frightful for me.”

  “I’m not sure she likes me,” Tyndal said, as her bird stared at him protectively.

  “Unless you’re a rabbit, you have nothing to fear,” chided Rondal, grabbing Frightful’s jesses and transferring her to his armored gauntlet. “Then again . . . those ears . . .”

  “But we should be doing more in Barrowbell than just resting,” Tyndal said, as he helped Dara sling her pack and quiver. “We just saved an entire city from a dragon!”

  “Well, she did,” Rondal said, sourly. “You had very little to do with it.”

  “I provided essential moral support at a critical time,” Tyndal said, with a snort.

  “Which means you didn’t do anything to actually contribute,” Rondal sneered.

  “Sort of like you did, to get your knighthood?” Tyndal shot back.

  Dara shook her head and giggled to herself as she gathered her things. Every muscle in her body ached with her long, busy day. This morning she’d woken and broken her fast in Sevendor, a frightened girl facing an uncertain future. At midnight, she was a seasoned veteran, retiring after battle.

  “She’s the important one, here,” Rondal insisted. “It was Dara and Cei who did the deed. They’re the ones who deserve the glory!”

  “Oh, I know!” Tyndal said, exasperated. “Sire Cei the Dragonslayer, and the Hawkmaiden! Barrowbell will go crazy, when they see the two of you!”

  “What?” Dara asked, in disbelief. “Why?”

  “Because you’re heroes, that’s why,” Rondal answered, simply. “Real heroes. You did something no one else has ever done. You killed a dragon in battle. Not even Master Min has done that.”

  “Well, sure,” Dara shrugged. “But it’s not like . . . I mean, we . . . I . . .” The room started to spin.

  “Relax!” Tyndal insisted. “Ron, you’re scaring the girl! Ishi’s—look, let’s just get her back to the cottage and let her sleep. She’s exhausted, and you’re badgering her!”

  “I am not badgering her!” Rondal complained, loudly. Loudly enough to make Frightful complain.

  “See? Even the bird thinks you’re badgering her. Come on, Dara,” he said, with slightly too much sympathy, “let’s get you someplace dry. Someplace befitting a Dragonslayer.”

  Her head settled down a bit, but didn’t stop spinning entirely, as the boys escorted her and Doughty the mile and a half through the dark to the cottage they’d claimed. Along the way they continued to bicker loudly enough to alert any goblin in the area.

  But Dara wasn’t really listening to their banter. She was still absorbing what they’d told her – she and Sire Cei were heroes. They’d slain a dragon.

  She’d slain a dragon! Or at least helped slay a dragon.

  Either way, it was a strange experience. One that she didn’t really understand, not after midnight, slogging her way through the mud and drizzle across a dark and treacherous battlefield. Even with magesight – which her fellow apprentices insisted she use, instead of casting a magelight that could attract snipers – she could see piles of goblin corpses as they walked down the road, carrion birds braving the dark and drizzle for the opportunity of a grisly feast, the flies already beginning to swarm.

  The human dead were laid out in neat rows, covered by their own mantles or by tarpaulins, and guarded from such ignominy by somber knights who volunteered for the sacred battlefield vigil. Eventually they would be collected by priestesses, the Silent Sisters of various sects, identified, embalmed, and carted back to their home villages for proper burial.

  There were an awful lot of them, she realized, as she passed the long, orderly row. She wondered how many she knew. The boys were reverent enough to keep silent, as they passed the dead soldiers, gathered in one last formation. The all saluted the guardians of the dead, who returned the salute with grim expressions.

  “Not great duty to draw,” Rondal said, shaking his head.

  “For once, I agree,” Tyndal nodded, in a low voice. “Hard to see that and not think . . .”

  “Yeah,” Rondal said, quickly, before he could finish the thought.

  Dara said nothing. She didn’t know what to say. Had the battle gone even slightly differently, she realized, she and her family could be stretched out under those tarps.

  Two days later she departed ruined Cambrian as part of the first wave of wounded to be evacuated to Barrowbell. Thankfully the weather had broken, and the rain had departed before they did.

  They set out south along the ruined road, passing more troops arriving to secure the battlefield. A small contingent of warmagi were staying behind to examine the giant corpse of the dragon, but most were accompanying the main force from the Riverlands in clean-up detail. The goblins who’d survived the battle were fleeing northward, whence they came, or had taken off across country to hide. Lady Ithalia and Sarakeem, some zealous warmagi and a host of eager Riverlord knights were chasing them across the desolate cotton fields of Gilmora.

  The rest of the Magical Corps were headed to Barrowbell. Though the roads were good, the rain that had soaked the flat ground on either side began to dry up. Master Minalan and Lady Pentandra rode knee-to-knee, conspiring for a little while along the first part of the journey, while a few Riverlords of the Bontal Vales escorted the long line of wagons and carts that bore the most grievously-wounded.

  Dara stuck with her kinfolk, who were also being used as escorts, until she’d heard every story her brothers had about the battle, twice.

  “Good thing you were safe behind the wall, Little Bird,” Kobb smirked. “And a better thing you had that handsome knight rescue you in your moment of need!”

  “I did not require his help,” Dara scoffed. “
And he’s not that handsome!”

  “He’s in the train, you know,” Kobb teased. “I saw him riding in the rearguard. I know you didn’t do much in the battle, but I’m sure you impressed him by stabbing that goblin. Most ladylike,” he mocked, solemnly.

  “I didn’t do—?” Dara began, sputtering at her obnoxious older brother.

  “Did you not see her tending the wounded, with that clever young wizard?” her uncle Keram scolded Kobb. “She did her share, and then some!”

  “Yes, she is adept at bandages. And water,” he added. “She was wicked quick with a water bottle. But nothing a nun couldn’t do,” he dismissed, rudely.

  “Little Bird shot as much as you did, and better!” Kyre reproved. “And she assisted with magic,” he reminded them all. “She used Frightful to spy from above and give us intelligence. It was worth bringing her!” he insisted.

  Dara snorted angrily – both at the defensive tone her oldest brother took for her, and for the ignorance from her kin that inspired it. After all she’d been through in the battle and after, they still had little idea what she’d done, or why she’d been brought. Though she knew they might benefit from a lengthy lecture on both, she suddenly didn’t feel in the mood to convince her kin she was worth the pony who carried her. She rode further up in the column until she was back with her fellows among the Magical Corps.

  That was where she felt most comfortable, she realized. She’d barely spoken of her role in the battle to her father, uncle, and kin – as far as they were concerned, she’d spent the worst of it safe and tidy in the ruined cottage, and was uninvolved in the greater battle.

  Here, among the magi, she felt more at ease. They were more aware of what she’d done, though Sire Cei seemed to get the bulk of the credit for the dragon’s demise, thanks to his personal sacrifice and bravery in doing so.

  Dara could not argue against that. Sire Cei had known, it was said, that he would likely not survive the attack . . . yet he had couched his lance and driven his destrier at the outstretched neck anyway. She had been safe from the result of the attack.

  If it had been anyone but Sire Cei, she might not have felt so stricken about his fall. But Dara was growing fond of the dour Wilderlord, she realized, and would mourn if he was taken from Sevendor. She sent a silent prayer to the Flame to watch over him and speed his healing. She knew that the knight mage was a devotee of Duin the Destroyer, as most chivalry were, and that the war god was reputed to protect the most valiant of his sons, should he not take them on the battlefield. Dara figured the Flame was a better divinity to invoke – the peace and warmth of the hearth was associated with healing and recuperation. Even the Narasi anthropomorphized version, the fire goddess Briga, was seen as a healer.

  It was fascinating, listening to her colleagues speak of the battle in ways her brothers’ stories of heroics did not. Her arrival did not deter the discussion, which had been on the lightning strike the Magical Corps had constructed; in fact, it changed it. Once Sire Cei the Dragonslayer’s part in the elaborate battle was acknowledged, the assembled wizards were happy to laud the other Dragonslayer, the one in their midst. Dara was, she learned, a real celebrity among the wizards for what she’d done. No one could imagine even flying the Thoughtful Knife, much less doing it with such adeptness.

  They demanded that she tell her story, and she found herself struggling to put the experience into words. Indeed, after the first telling they demanded that she tell it again, asking for more detail and embellishment. Dara managed to improve the telling, she felt, until they were satisfied that she was as brave and heroic and clever as they all insisted she was.

  But it was a good thing she did. Over the next few days, she would re-tell the story so many times that it came naturally to her lips.

  In the column marching the ten miles to Barrowbell, though, it was still fresh in her mouth. After the second telling, she relaxed into answering a few more questions about the feat. Gareth, in particular, wanted to know the details. He’d been at her side, relaying instructions from Pentandra, and hadn’t even seen the battle. She entertained the wizard with as much as she could remember, until she realized that he was extending the conversation just to speak with her, not out of a real interest.

  She wasn’t certain what to feel about that, but she knew it made her uncomfortable. Making the excuse that she wanted to let Frightful fly a bit, she excused herself and slipped back toward the rear of the long train of wagons. Doughty was a surprisingly well-mannered mount, for a former pack animal, and she didn’t seem to mind Dara’s gentle intrusion into her mind, as long as she got the carrots she was promised.

  Eventually, she found herself riding knee-to-knee with Sir Festaran, as the column reached the crest of a slight hill. Everything was so burning flat in Gilmora, she reflected, when the handsome young knight appeared.

  “Good morning, Maid Dara,” he said, politely. “I believe I have you to thank for that sudden rescue, on the battlefield.”

  “That was you?” Dara asked, absently. She didn’t know why she didn’t want to admit she’d known Festaran was there, but she did it. “I hadn’t noticed. Consider my debt to you repaid, then,” she said.

  “Debt? What debt?” Festaran asked, confused.

  “Saving my life in the cotyard?” she reminded him. The incident felt as if it had happened a year ago. “Now we are even.”

  “So we are, then,” the young knight chuckled. “And lucky for all of us that I did. I hear our victory was due in large part to your efforts. Yours and Sire Cei’s.”

  “We all helped where we could,” she dismissed. “I witnessed the occasional glimpse of your own efforts, from the clouds. At least,” she said, considering, “I think it was you,” she teased.

  “Oh, if the knight was knee-deep in mud and tripping over his mantle every third step, then yes, it was I,” Sir Festaran said, airily. “Most of my efforts can be attributed to a combination of luck and desperation. And I took no serious wound, for it, thank Duin,” he added. “All in all, I would say the scions of Sevendor acquitted themselves admirably on the field . . . and so soon after being forced to defend their lands. It speaks highly of your folk.”

  “Our folk, now,” she reminded him. Minalan had taken possession of Sir Festaran’s domain as liege after the short war with the Warbird of West Fleria. As fellow vassals under the same lord, that made them both countrymen, now. “And don’t forget our Magelord,” she reminded. “Master Minalan orchestrated the entire battle, with Pentandra’s help.”

  “It is a privilege to be a vassal of such a nobleman,” Festaran agreed. “Especially in such vital service. Fair Gilmora is wounded,” he said, grimly, his manner changing as he looked around at the countryside. “Every third cot is burned, every hamlet deserted, every field barren. Beyond the road small squadrons lurk behind every hedge, inside every barn. It could be years before they will be rooted out of the countryside,” he said, sourly. “And had they reached Barrowbell in force, I shy from imagining such a thing. It was a mercy of us to intervene.”

  “Perhaps,” Dara sighed. “But I wish it wasn’t necessary. It was frightening.”

  “And yet you rose to the challenge with uncommon bravery, Maid Dara,” Sir Festaran said, kindly and with genuine respect. “Young as you are, you fought as boldly and fearlessly as any knight.”

  “You are . . . you are kind to say so, Sir Festaran,” she said, blushing under her helmet. She was unused to such admiration – to such attention. Despite becoming renown in Sevendor after the Spellmonger’s Trial, she still felt self-conscious every time someone did.

  “It’s not kindness to observe a plain truth,” the knight continued, looking in the distance. ‘Ah, that is the gate of Barrowbell, ahead,” he said, as they rounded a sweeping curve that continued due south.

  Dara caught her breath. She had never seen anything so . . . massive.

  The great city of Barrowbell was emerging before them, getting larger with every step. Dara thought it was a mou
ntain, at first – until she realized there were no other mountains around. The great wall stretched across the horizon as they rounded the bend, sprawling from one end of the horizon to the other. Spires and rooftops rose overhead, and the dark hulk of a castle loomed on one side of the city.

  There was plenty of activity around it, too, she noted. Thousands of troops were encamped outside of the walls, and redoubts were being built just inside of bowshot from the wall. The walls themselves seemed packed with moving figures, running along their tops like ants up a table leg.

  And there was a noise. She couldn’t place what it was, in the distance – it sounded almost like a river. As the column rode closer she could start to pick out the sound of bells ringing higher, over the roar.

  “What is that sound?” she asked, shaking her head in confusion.

  “That?” Sir Festaran asked, with a chuckle. “That, Maid Dara, is people cheering. For us. For you,” he said.

  She realized, to her horror, that he was correct. Thousands had gathered to the walls of Barrowbell, and were cheering so loudly that, together, their voices created a roar that could be heard more than a mile away.

  “There must be thousands of them,” she said, in a daze.

  “At least six thousand, four hundred and twenty-one,” Festaran agreed. “Unless you count the soldiers cheering, too. Then it’s about nine thousand, seven hundred and ninety-six. All the people we saved,” he said, with a note of satisfaction. “And they’re all cheering for us!”

  Chapter Eleven

  The City of Barrowbell

  By the next morning, Dara was starting to wish she was still in a leaky, burned-out cottage on a battlefield, instead of a beautifully-appointed chamber in one of the finer homes of the city.

  It wasn’t the accommodations that were the problem, though Dara had never enjoyed the luxury of a bed that soft before. Nor was it really the awkward fact that here, in Barrowbell, she now had servants to wait upon her. Even when she took a bath. Both of those had been difficult adjustments for her to make, but she’d grown used to that kind of thing in the Spellmonger’s service.