Fire Hawk

by Justine Davis, Justine Dare

  “Do it,” the man hissed when Kane merely stood there, his sword held before him, between himself and his father, as if now, far too late, it could protect him from the evil. “You’ve betrayed me from the day you were born of that whore. So finish it.”

  “If she was what you say,” Kane said in a tone that was oddly conversational, “then why did you ever acknowledge me as your son?”

  Druas spat something out Jenna could not hear.

  “Because you know she was not,” Kane said. “You cannot have it both ways. Either she was a whore, and any man could be my father, or you know you are, and she was not. You acknowledged me, so you know—”

  “I acknowledged you because I hoped you would have more of my blood than hers,” Druas said, fury distorting his voice. He moved oddly, a sort of sideways twitch, and Jenna’s brows furrowed as he ranted on. “Because I thought you might become a worthy successor, heir to my empire.”

  “Your empire,” Kane said bitterly. “Built on the blood of innocents.”

  Druas laughed harshly. “You pious hypocrite! You spilled most of that blood.”

  “Aye. Except my mother’s. And my sister’s. I was too young to stop you then. But I will stop you now. It is the best I can do to atone for that.”

  Kane lifted his sword. He seemed to shudder, as if the weight were suddenly too much. Druas moved. Jenna saw the glint of silver in the man’s right hand. Saw the dagger he’d pulled streak toward Kane’s unprotected throat as Kane’s hands tightened on the hilt of his sword.

  It would not give him peace.

  She raised her bow and fired.

  Chapter 23

  KANE STARED AS his father suddenly grabbed at his neck. The malevolent pale eyes were staring, first at Kane, then at something past him.

  “You!”

  It was a hissing, gurgling sound as blood spurted from between his fingers, fingers that were grasping the crossbow bolt that protruded from between them.

  Only then did Kane see Jenna step out of the shadows near the wall and into the shaft of moonlight that came through the small window. She reached up and tugged away the dark scarf, letting the red fire of her hair tumble free as she strode toward them, looking to Kane’s stunned eyes like an avenging goddess come to earth.

  “Yes,” she said, her eyes fastened on Druas, who had sagged to his knees as his life pumped away. “I am the Hawk, and I claim your life for my clan. For those you have murdered. For my family. For the children. Even for the animals. But most of all, for your son.”

  Druas gurgled as Kane’s breath caught in his throat. His father was dying; the tormentor of his childhood, the creator of the thing he had become, was dying, but he could look only at the woman before him. Even when he heard the faint thud of Druas’s lifeless body at last slipping to the floor, he could not look away from her.

  “Jenna,” he said, and could say no more.

  Her eyes shifted from the dead man to Kane’s face. And when he saw her eyes, when he saw the fierceness that still glowed there, he knew she was the Hawk in more than just name.

  “You are the Hawk,” he said softly. “And you have your vengeance. As you said.”

  Her gaze seemed to narrow as she looked at him. “I meant what I said,” she told him pointedly. “All of what I said.”

  He knew what she referred to, but he couldn’t believe she meant it as it had sounded.

  “It is better this way,” she said softly, as if she’d read his thoughts. “Better that it was I who killed him. ’Tis why I came back. No matter how evil, he was still your father. That would not sit easy upon your soul.”

  Kane was stunned. She had done this, had come back when she could have escaped to safety, had killed a man, for a reason such as that? For him?

  “He . . . was not worth the cost to your soul. One more stain on mine would make little difference.”

  “Even the strain of patricide?”

  “ ’Twould be hard to make my soul any blacker.”

  “The storyteller once told me that the path to hell is the path to redemption, if you walk the other way.”

  Kane shook his head slowly. He doubted there was anything that could earn him redemption, but it was a tempting thought. And it warmed him that Jenna thought him worth it.

  And it stunned him anew, what she had done. She had killed a man, not just for her own powerful reasons, but so that he would not have to live what was left of his life with the knowledge he had killed his own father.

  “The storyteller,” Jenna breathed, turning her head to the window, where the moonlight poured in silver pure. But Kane knew she was thinking of what was happening outside in that unearthly light. Druas’s men fought on. And so did the Hawk clan.

  “Will they quit, now he is dead?” she asked, looking at Druas’s body.

  “Most will. But they must learn of it first.”

  “How?”

  “I will deal with that. You must get out of here. Go back to the south wall, you should be able to slip out unnoticed.”

  He saw her answer in the stiffening of her spine and the warning flash in her eyes before he heard it. “I will not. There is fighting yet to be done—”

  “And you would be the perfect hostage,” he pointed out. “Get out, get back to the forest. Druas’s men will give up eventually, when they realize he is dead.”

  “But you—”

  He cut her off. He could not bear to think that she would risk herself for him yet again. “It is your people who matter, Jenna. They are brave, Jenna. Foolhardy, but brave. They would fight to the death for you, to the last one standing. Is that what you wish them to do, thinking you are still held here?”

  He knew it was the one argument she could not meet. He could see the inner battle in her tight, troubled expression.

  “Go, Jenna. They need you.”

  She drew herself up, looking once again every bit the Hawk. “I will see you when it is done.”

  It was not a question; it was a command. Kane did not speak. He could not lie to her, and if he spoke the truth, he knew instinctively she would not go.

  After a moment, she turned and left the tower, back toward the south wall as he’d told her. Kane watched her go, and as she was about to disappear from his vision, he whispered softly, “Good-bye, Jenna.”

  When she was gone, he took a deep breath. He felt the pull, the tearing in his side. He ignored it, and knelt by the sprawled body of his father. He tried to lift him, but the pain that shot through him quickly told him he would not be able to. Quickly, he stripped off the man’s heavy armor and tossed it aside. Then he levered the literal dead weight over his shoulder, his jaw clenching as the pain ripped through him again as he tried to stand.

  I will see you when it is done.

  He only wished it could be true. Even if it were only to truly say good-bye, he wished he could see her again. But he knew it was not to be. Tal’s prophecy would come true. But first he had this to do, to show Druas’s force that they fought for a dead man who would neither pay them nor brutalize them again. He had to hold on long enough for that.

  And judging by the pain in his side, and the warm wetness steadily pumping from the wound there, it would be the last thing he would ever do. But as long as Jenna was safe, he didn’t care.

  He would be dead, but Jenna would survive. It was enough. It was all he had.

  JENNA SLIPPED through the shadows, toward the sounds of shouting and of the dull thuds of heavy stone on stone. The catapult she had thought at the time a waste of effort was doing its job well, it seemed. And the smoke was rising from inside the walls, adding to the chaos. She allowed herself a smile, then dodged behind a thick stand of old birch trees as a man shouted from the wall nearly over her head. She heard Druas’s name again and again, and it was clear the men were beginning to be
come aware they had not seen their leader in some time.

  She worked her way forward, until she could see the streaks of the arrows burning with what appeared to be merely normal fire now. And, it struck her suddenly, the mounted warriors had vanished, leaving not even torn and trampled earth behind them to mark their presence. It was puzzling, but she kept on, until she saw a familiar figure calling for the archers to unleash yet another volley.

  “Arlen!” she called.

  He whirled, giving her a startled look. Startled, but no more, Jenna thought, but before she had time to dwell on it, he spoke.

  “I thought you were with Kane.”

  “I was.”

  He glanced around, clearly puzzled. “Where is the horse you rode? You could not have returned so quickly on foot.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Horse?”

  Arlen stepped toward her, worry suddenly erasing the puzzlement from his face. “Are you hurt? Your head—”

  “I am fine,” she hastened to assure him. “But, Arlen, I must tell you—”

  A roar went up from the men working the catapult. “ ’Tis Kane!” they shouted, pointing.

  Jenna turned. She looked upward to where the men were pointing and gesturing wildly. And her heart nearly stopped at what she saw.

  Kane, silhouetted against the moon, his cloak swirling around him, his hair whipping in the wind. In his arms was an unmistakably limp body, and Jenna’s heart began to race to catch the missed beats as she realized what he was doing.

  “How did he get up there?” Arlen said, bewildered. “He was here, astride that huge warhorse of his, just moments ago.” He looked at Jenna. “You know, you were with him. How did he get you out so quickly?”

  She blinked, momentarily distracted. “What?”

  “We thought you still captured, when you rode out on that white steed, your hair like fire even in the moonlight. ’Twas a sight I’ll never forget—”

  “Arlen, what are you talking about?”

  “I—”

  The sudden hush cut him off as effectively as the roar of the men had. Jenna’s head snapped around as her eyes sought Kane once more. He was lifting the body he held, and then it was flying, through the moonlight, twisting, to land in a broken heap, in view of all on the ground and upon the walls. And Kane’s voice boomed out, loud enough to be heard by all.

  “Your leader is dead. You fight for nothing. Halt, and you will be allowed to leave alive. Continue, and you will die to the last man.” He paused, and in that moment Jenna knew she was seeing the man who had struck fear into the hearts of countless men, the man who had been as fierce as the ones he faced now. “I am Kane,” he said, his voice lower now, but no less powerful, “and you know I will keep my word. Whichever way you choose.”

  Even from here Jenna could hear the murmurings from the parapet, the cries of shock and fear and false bravado.

  “You have until dawn,” Kane announced.

  And then he was gone, vanished from the parapet in a swirl of dark cloth and rising smoke, like the demon some called him. ’Twas only a trick of the light and the thick haze from the fires she’d set, Jenna knew, but it was eerie nevertheless.

  Druas’s men seemed stunned, and the rain of arrows from the walls that had halted with Kane’s dramatic appearance did not resume. She heard the jubilant exclamations from around her as she began to walk among her people, fearful of what she might find. Yet all seemed accounted for; all seemed upright and well, if tired and shaky in the aftermath of a battle they had never expected to fight.

  And all of them, she came to realize in consternation, seemed to believe they had been led into this battle by two people, two mounted leaders who had exhorted them to fight as they never had, who had inspired in them a determination that would not be beaten. Two leaders, astride a black warhorse and a graceful pure white steed, a dark warrior and a fiery Hawk.

  Kane and Jenna.

  Who had been locked up inside the stronghold until a short while ago. But everyone of her clan believed Kane had miraculously rescued her from Druas’s clutches within minutes, and that they both had returned in time to lead the assault. It was a sight none of them would ever forget, they all said.

  A sight Jenna well knew they could not have really seen at all.

  It was then that Jenna began to search again. This time for two men with changeable eyes, both of whom were far too clever. She wasn’t certain who she wished to find first, the storyteller or Tal, but when she found them, she would have the truth out of them both. In plain words, no more obscure evasions, no more enigmatic allusions.

  And then she would deal with Kane. And if he did not come to her, she would find him.

  She returned to Evelin, who was still tending to the few minor wounds that had been inflicted on the clan. She had lit torches as clouds rolled in, obscuring the moon. Jenna shivered, although it was not really cold.

  “Where is the storyteller?” she asked the healer.

  Evelin looked up from the bloody splinter she had just removed from the hand of the man who had been loading the catapult; it seemed the most serious of the slight injuries.

  “I have not seen him,” she said. Then, forehead creasing, “Now you speak of it, I have not seen him since just after you were taken. Kane spoke to him then, but that was the last time anyone saw him, I believe.”

  “Have there been any strangers about? A young man, fine-featured, with dark brows, and silver-shot hair?”

  Evelin looked blank. “No. Why on earth would a stranger be here amid a battle?”

  “ ’Tis a long story,” Jenna said, and left the woman to her work.

  No one else she asked was of any more help. She knew Tal was here. He had to be; it was the only explanation for what had happened here. And she had the feeling that if he did not wish to be found, he would not be. But the storyteller—

  “Jenna!”

  She turned as Arlen came running up to her. As if suddenly remembering himself, he tipped his head and reported respectfully, “They are leaving, Hawk. Many of them, at least. Under cover of the darkness, now that the moon is hidden, out the back of the stronghold, where we have no men. Shall I send some to stop them?”

  She nearly smiled at the man’s assumption that they could stop them, even now. Victory was a heady thing, but Druas’s men were still hardened veterans of battle, and Jenna knew it was only the presence of Kane that was convincing them it would be wise to leave. But she would not deprive Arlen of his pride; he had earned it.

  “Let them go. It will be as Kane promised. If they wish to leave, they will be allowed.”

  Arlen looked almost disappointed, but he nodded. “Where is Kane?” he asked.

  “A question I would like answered myself,” she muttered. “Has no one seen him?”

  “Not after he tossed Druas like the offal he is. But Flaven said he saw someone on the rise, over there.”

  He gestured toward a small knoll between the stronghold and the forest. It would give a good view of the entire area, and she thought it likely Kane might have gone there, to the higher ground, to watch and be sure his orders were obeyed. She nodded at Arlen and headed that way.

  She only became aware of her own weariness when she began to walk to the top of the rise; it was not a great slope or a great height, yet she found it tiring. The air felt oddly heavy here, and the further she went, the greater effort each step took.

  The clouds sailing across the sky cleared for a moment, and in the spill of moonlight she saw a limp form at the crest of the rise. She could see only that it was a body, lying at a grimly awkward angle that suggested she was in no danger, yet she gripped the hilt of the small dagger she’d taken from the stronghold.

  She tried to run, but it was oddly difficult. Still, it was only a moment before she was close enough to s
ee more clearly, and a cry of protest rose from her when she saw the familiar dark robes of the storyteller.

  She did run then, fighting the odd lethargy at every step. She dropped to her knees before the motionless, hooded body, reaching for his shoulder to turn him over. A sharp cry stayed her hand. Startled, she looked up. She stared at the glistening black bird who was bobbing her head furiously.

  “Maud?” Jenna whispered in disbelief.

  She heard a low groan then, and yanked her attention away from the bird to the old man who lay, thankfully alive, before her. She rolled him over gently. The hood of the robe fell back, and in the momentary moonlight she saw his face. His hair.

  It was Tal.

  It came to her in a rush, with a certainty she could not deny. Tal was not related to the storyteller. He was the storyteller.

  He groaned again, and she saw his lashes flutter. She lifted him slightly, cradling his head on her knees.

  “Tal,” she whispered urgently.

  His eyes opened. He looked up at her. Blinked. Lifted a hand. Touched her arm.

  And smiled. “Jenna.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “I . . . no. Just . . . tired.”

  Relieved, Jenna’s questions burst from her. “What happened? How did you get here? Where have you been? Is this your doing?”

  He chuckled, or tried to; it was a mere ghost of his usual laugh. “At my best . . . I could not keep up with . . . that torrent of questions. And I’m not . . . at my best, at the moment.”

  “Talysn ap Bendigeidfran I will have a straight answer from you,” she said warningly.

  His mouth quirked as she managed to say his name without stumbling. “Been practicing?”

  “Do not try to divert me, I—”

  “You used my name,” he said suddenly, trying to rise, as if this realization disturbed him.