Fire Hawk

by Justine Davis, Justine Dare

  “But how—”

  “I do not know. Most likely it is a trap of some kind. But no more than this room is.”

  “Then we are . . . going?”

  He looked back at her. His eyes held that flat, emotionless look she had seen when she had first come to the mountain. She had almost forgotten it, and she did not care for its return. It spoke too clearly of a man who considered himself beyond feeling. Beyond caring. Beyond redemption.

  “Will you trust me enough to come with me?”

  Her brows furrowed. “Why would I not?”

  “You know whose spawn I am now.”

  Jenna stared at him. “You think I would . . . turn on you, for that?”

  “It would take less, for some.”

  “To repudiate you because of something you had nothing to do with?”

  “You are the Hawk for the same reason.”

  “Only because my people have not found cause to replace my family.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “ ’Tis all it would take. A simple vote. If enough felt we were not doing what was best, a new Hawk would be chosen.”

  “I . . . did not know.”

  “And I did not know you thought me of that ilk, to turn upon you so easily,” she said, making her pained disappointment with a cool tone. “Now, are we going?”

  He hesitated, as if he’d heard the hurt in her voice, but in the end he only confirmed, “We are.”

  The strained exchange pushed aside with an ease Jenna envied, he turned away from the beckoning doorway, his eyes darting about the room. He quickly gathered up anything he thought likely to help; flint and stone, tallow candles, a polished bit of metal that had no doubt served as a shaving mirror for the deposed owner. Seeing what he was doing, Jenna ran to the trunk that sat against the wall by the bed and pulled it open. She pulled out items of clothing, then a woman’s shawl. She seized it and lay it out on the bed. Swiftly he dropped the things he’d collected onto the cloth, then knotted the corners together around his belt.

  “See if there is anything else of use in there,” he said with a gesture at the trunk. “And something to cover your hair.”

  Then he walked back to the open doorway, as warily as a wolf scenting the lure yet instinctively sensing the snare.

  Seeing the point of hiding the hair that stood out like a beacon, Jenna dug into the trunk and found a small, rough-woven cloth in a dark shade of blue. She quickly bound her hair, covering the now tangled mass as best she could. She returned to her search of the trunk, but found nothing but more clothing, and then a belt. She thought perhaps that might be of some kind of use, so she pulled at it. It came out of the tangle of cloth she’d made, and only then did she see that she had found more than a simple belt. She rose quickly and hurried over to Kane.

  “I found a dagger,” she told him.

  He glanced at the small knife with its bejeweled handle. His mouth twisted. “A lovely woman’s weapon,” he said. “But of little use.”

  Jenna glared at him. “And who would a woman have cause to use such a weapon against, but a man?”

  In the space of a moment he looked startled, then thoughtful. And then one corner of his mouth twitched upward as he said ruefully, “Would that this blade were as quick and as sharp as your mind.” Then, in an entirely different tone, and with his jaw set, he added, “Bring it. You may have need of it.”

  Mollified, Jenna strapped the belt on over her own, and watched as Kane edged forward. He peered into the darkened hallway. He reached down to his left and came up with a thick, heavy board of the kind that barred other doors in the stronghold.

  “It appears to have slipped free,” he said.

  “But you don’t believe it,” Jenna guessed from his tone.

  “It seems a bit . . . convenient.”

  She could not disagree with that, and kept close behind him when he started down the dank corridor. He kept the piece of wood in his hand; it was not much, but even a club was better than nothing. And Jenna guessed that Kane the Warrior could make even that a formidable weapon.

  Kane seemed to know where he was going, and Jenna was of no mind to question him. Her mind was reeling with the realization that the man they faced, the man who had brought such suffering to her clan, was Kane’s father. She understood much now of why he had been the man he was, and admired even more that he had found the courage to leave it behind, to turn his back on the evil that he had truly been innocently born into.

  “Wait,” Kane said suddenly.

  “What—”

  She broke off as he held up a hand for silence and turned his head as if listening. They were, she guessed, beneath the parapet walk on the south wall. The sounds of fighting were clearly heard here. And from the sound of it, Druas’s men were not happy with the way things were going.

  Kane swore, low and harsh.

  “I told Arlen to retreat as soon as I was inside,” he muttered. “And not to come back.” He glanced at her. “I should have guessed he would not leave until you were safe.”

  “He is loyal,” Jenna agreed. “But I would hate for him to die for my sake.”

  “Then we’d best give him some help.”

  Jenna looked at the club he held, his only weapon. “How?”

  “The same way you held Druas in place for days on end, Hawk.”

  He did not say the title with the respect and deference her people did. But he did say it in a way that made her feel more than all their obeisance ever had. As if he approved of what she’d done. As if he were proud of her. As if he cared.

  Keeping to the shadows, Kane moved toward the inner wall, looking, Jenna guessed, for a passageway to the inner courtyard. They reached the curved wall of a flanking tower, and he found what he wanted. He pulled the door open slightly, then paused, listening.

  Jenna’s breath caught as she heard Druas’s voice; it sounded as if he were right over their heads.

  “—have you found?”

  “There has been much damage to the north wall, sir. I fear a breach is imminent.”

  Druas swore. “Who are they?”

  “They wear a badge, sir. A raven.”

  A raven?

  Kane glanced at Jenna and saw the same thought in her eyes. Tal? Could it be?

  “I know no one with such a preposterous insignia who could raise such a force,” Druas said, clearly losing patience.

  “Still, they are here, and they are gaining ground,” the man insisted. There was a pause before the man said in odd tones, “And they cry the name of Kane the Warrior. The men fear it is he who leads them.”

  “It is not Kane,” Druas said.

  “But the men have seen a huge man, astride a destrier as dark as the night—”

  “It is not Kane! He is dead . . . or as good as.”

  Kane pulled back into the tower and closed the door. Swiftly he unknotted the cloth at his waist, and handed Jenna the flint and the candles. She took them, then gave him a questioning look.

  “We need to draw their attention to another flank. There is more wood here than you might think. Set fire to what you can find. There should be straw to be found in the bailey. If not, use the rushes from the floors. They should be dry enough this late in the year.”

  Wide-eyed, Jenna nodded.

  “Watch the smoke from your first fire, and work your way upwind, if you can. The smoke will be thick enough, trapped inside the walls.”

  She nodded again. “And you?”

  “I will do what I can,” he said simply.

  “Kane, if it is Tal—”

  “Even he will need help.” He took in a deep breath. “He told me once that magic is an illusion, and it was foolish to be afraid of an illusion.” He looked upward, where the sounds were still echoing
, the shouts, the running, the occasional cry as a man was struck down. “An illusion, no matter how clever, is not going to win this battle. Now go. And when you have done all you can, get out. There is a postern in the west wall, take it and get to the forest as fast as you can.”

  “But you—”

  “Do not worry about me. Get yourself out. Your people need you, Jenna.”

  She grabbed his arm. “We need you, too.”

  He looked down at her, and what she saw in his eyes—acknowledgment and resignation—took her breath away.

  “I will make sure of one thing,” he said. “You will no longer face Druas.”

  He did not say, “If it costs me my life,” but Jenna heard the words as clearly as if they had been spoken.

  “Kane, please—”

  “Go. Time is short.”

  She knew he was right, but she hated leaving so much unsaid between them. She also knew the worst thing she could do right now was give him the declaration that was in her heart to carry with him. She sensed somehow that even Kane the Warrior, that man who admitted no emotions, had his limits, and that he was near them now.

  “Live,” she said fiercely, with all the command of the Hawk ringing in her voice. “We have too much to say.”

  “Go,” he ordered in turn.

  In this, the order of Kane the Warrior held more weight than the Hawk, and she turned to go.

  “Jenna?”

  She looked back at him, her breath stopping at the sound of his voice, as if her name had been wrenched from him by some force he had tried mightily to resist.

  “I . . . Thank you.”

  And then he was gone, leaving her to wonder what he had been going to say. And to try and quash the hope that she knew she was a fool for harboring. Especially since it was likely neither she nor Kane would survive this night’s work.

  Because she had no intention of leaving him here to die alone.

  JENNA COUGHED as she ran, thinking how much worse this would have been had she not followed Kane’s advice and worked upwind, even in the slight current of air moving inside the walls of the stronghold.

  No one seemed to notice her as she moved in the shadows. She’d not dared risk trying to keep the candle lit, so had had to rely on the flint and what straw or tinder she found or could carry with her. She’d ignited whatever looked likely, as swiftly as she could. And soon she heard the shouts of the men as they realized something was wrong within as well as without.

  When she’d reached the kitchens, she’d found the rooms empty of men and full of wooden tables and chairs. As swiftly as she could, she dragged several into a large pile against an inner wall. She lit one of the candles, and set it to burning where the flame would, she hoped, eventually set the whole heap afire.

  She saw wounded men being carried down the ladders that led to the battlements. She thought of burning them, too, but settled for simply removing the ladders whenever she could without being spotted. She used the small dagger to slice through the leather strips holding them together, then pulled them apart, rendering them useless even if somebody should find them. It wasn’t much, she thought, but it might slow them down.

  When she could find nothing left to burn, she set herself to her next task. And it was not getting herself safely to the protection of the forest, as Kane had ordered. She ran back to the south wall, where she had already seen there were few men left fighting. She wrestled with one of the ladders she had removed and hidden intact for this reason, raising it again to the parapet walk, and scrambled up.

  The moment she was on the walk, she loaded her small crossbow. She ran forward in a low crouch, thankful for once for her size, which allowed her to keep in the shadows, and the hours of training Kane had forced upon her. Only when she reached the flanking tower did she look over the wall, toward the north. What she saw stunned her; it appeared dozens of men, all mounted on powerful warhorses, their armor not gleaming silver in the moonlight but as black as Kane’s, rode back and forth at will, seemingly impervious to the arrows rained down on them by Druas’s men. From where she stood she could see the men behind those armored riders, her clan, loading and firing the catapult more rapidly than she would have thought possible. And she saw a rank of archers, sending waves of flaming arrows toward the walls, arrows that burned with an unearthly light.

  They cannot be smothered, or doused. ’Tis sorcery, I swear!

  The excited babblings of Druas’s man did not seem so demented now, and Jenna became more certain that somewhere in this was indeed Tal’s fine hand.

  She started forward again, dodging men who seemed too hurried to notice one small, silent, dark shape hidden by shadows. She reached the corner tower safely, pausing to listen to the odd, clanging sounds from within. She found the arched entryway, but the moment she stepped inside she came up hard against a man hastening out. They both careened back out onto the parapet. He seemed more startled than anything, but she took advantage, as Kane had taught her, of his heavy armor and weight, and her small stature; she used her body to take him at the knees, and he went over the edge with barely a cry.

  She stepped back into the round tower room. And sucked in a sharp breath at what she saw, the answer to the clanging she in her ignorance of such things had not recognized.

  A wide shaft of moonlight lit the scene like some sort of devil’s dance. Two tall, strong men, evenly matched in size and strength, one with hair shorn battle-helm short, one with hair flowing in a dark mane down his back, each doing his best to hack the other to pieces with heavy blades. These were not the graceful blades like Kane’s slim sword; they were heavy, brutal broadswords of weight and killing edges. Nor was the fighting graceful; it, too, was heavy and brutal.

  Sweat poured off them both, and she wondered how long they had been at it, how long father and son had been locked in a battle she knew would be to the death.

  She watched as if entranced as the fight went on, fighting the urge to cover her ears to muffle the clanging of metal on metal. It seemed she could almost feel the vibration of the blows as they were struck. Once Kane staggered, and she held her breath; no matter how evil or powerful she had always thought Druas, she had never imagined anyone could overcome Kane, and the thought that this might have a different outcome than she expected only now occurred to her.

  And if Kane died, that left her to deal with Druas.

  Her own words echoed in her head. I will die first.

  Then Kane’s words, his odd tone, and the set of his jaw as he spoke of the dagger she’d found came back to her.

  Bring it. You may have need of it.

  And she suddenly knew what he’d been thinking. She might well need that dagger, to use upon herself if both of them failed to take Druas down.

  Druas. She still thought of him in that way. Kane spoke of him in that way. As Druas, not his father. Although she could not doubt the connection, it seemed too awful to be real, and she couldn’t bear to think of what Kane had had to endure as the son of this man. What he still had to bear. And she realized now that what she had seen in his eyes when he had learned it was Druas they faced was hatred. A pure, raging hatred for the man who had betrayed his own son from the day he was born.

  The men passed out of the silvery light, made eerier by the smoke from the fires she’d set, then back into it again as Kane pressed the attack and Druas fell back. Jenna, crouched in the shadows, staring as if spellbound. They were so alike in size, build, and quickness. And so very different in mind, intention, and heart. She knew that as well as she knew her own name, no matter that Kane did not believe it.

  Would he believe it, even if he killed Druas? Would that gain him the peace he thought beyond his reach?

  Even as she thought it, she knew it would not. He was not his father, who could, she knew without doubt, strike down his own son with little more feelin
g than as if he were killing a helpless puppy. No, he was Kane, not Kane the Warrior, but the Kane he had become on his mountain, the Kane she had come to know, the Kane who had loved her with passion and held her tenderly, a man who sought only peace, and to leave behind the horrors of his father’s kind of life.

  No, it would not give him peace, for the torture was not from his father; it was from within himself. And patricide would only increase the agony, and she could not bear to think of him in more pain.

  When I first found him, I feared he might seek a permanent end to his pain.

  Tal’s words haunted her now more than ever, for she could easily see this becoming the last blow that would send him in search of that final respite.

  She would not let it happen. She could not. Not even were it to save her clan, she could not let him pay such a price. She had no time to analyze what that meant; she could only accept that somehow this man, this warrior who carried scars beyond believing, scars far worse than those that marked his powerful, beautiful body, had become as important to her as her people.

  Kane slipped, as if he had stepped on water-slick stone. Druas struck from the side, hard and swift. Kane took the blow on the ribs, where Jenna knew the opening in his lightweight armor left him vulnerable. Jenna heard his grunt of pain. He went down to one knee, clearly stunned.

  She straightened in the instant that Druas raised his sword. He lifted the heavy sword above his son’s head. Jenna saw his face in the moonlight, a face twisted by a hatred unlike anything she’d ever seen before. She could not doubt for an instant that this was to be a death blow. She stepped away from the wall. She lifted the small bow to her shoulder.

  And then Kane moved, with a swiftness that took her breath away. He launched himself from the knee he had feigned collapsing to, and drove his full weight into Druas’s belly. The man staggered back, his intended blow glancing off Kane’s black armor. The force of it was proven as the weapon bucked in his hands and Druas lost his grip on it. It clattered to the stone floor. And Druas stood unarmed before the son he’d been ready to kill.