Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (52 page)

Men’s voices rose from far below.
“There we are, Your Grace, just a little farther.”

The shaft ended, giving way to
impenetrable darkness to either side. A pair of strong arms lifted him down
from the ladder. One of the soldiers helped Etivva down next. Babies wailed
higher up the shaft, their cries thin and echoing. The duchess’s face, lit
brightly by her flickering lantern, smiled down at him, though her mouth
trembled.

Once the last stableboy descended
the ladder, Longbeard Angson lit a torch with the lantern hanging on his belt
and raised it high. Soot blackened the low arched ceiling and revealed support
beams sagging under the weight of earth and stone and centuries. “Slow she goes
now,” he said and started off into the dark. With a long-hafted spade he felt
for the levelness of the path and tapped the beams and walls for signs of weakness.
Dust shivered down from the old wood, and water dripped down on Jaedren’s head.
Water gathered in rank, cold pools, too, that climbed halfway up his boots.
Even down here, with twenty feet of earth between him and the surface he could
hear the ram thudding at the main gate. The sound dwindled as they crept
through the dark. He could tell that they neared the north gate when the
thunder of the second ram shook earth from the ceiling. After that there was
silence, deep dark silence broken by the dripping of water, the shuffle and
trip of a hundred feet, the cry of a baby, and the whispers of frightened men
and women. These people didn’t have to be as brave as Jaedren did. He was to be
a knight and that meant he had to feel no fear. At least, that’s what he
suspected, even though Kelyn never said so.

Still, he took comfort in Etivva’s
hand hovering nearby. She depended on his lantern to see, and murmured soft
prayers as she hobbled along beside him.

He suspected they were well away
from the castle when Sergeant Angson called a halt. Quiet Nael came up from the
rear of the line and the two of them inspected a jumble of tree roots that had
grown through the stone arch and collapsed a section of the ceiling. “I can see
to the other side,” Angson said, and Nael grunted. They ordered a rest and the fugitives
found dry places to sit and complain. “I’m hungry. I’m wet. I’m scared. I wanna
go home.” Amazing how many ways different folks could grumble about the same
thing in so short a time. Jaedren was glad the darkness hid his face; else,
they would see him rolling his eyes. A young woman sitting across the tunnel
from him started sobbing softly. An older woman hugged her and whispered,
“He’ll be all right.” Was her beloved an archer of the garrison, perhaps, or
one of the footmen who had stayed?

The townsman who had crossed the
ford carrying the girl and the baby offered to help the two soldiers dig
through the roots and rubble. Jaedren leaned into Etivva with her arm tight
around him, kinda wishing they could stay here until Captain Maegeth came to
tell them they’d beaten the ogres back, but Rhoslyn urged the diggers to hurry.
The news they carried was urgent.

Before the fugitives could decide
whether or not to break into their food supply, Angson announced their success.
Nael led the way this time, shimmying through a break in the roots and climbing
over a moldy mound of earth. He disappeared on the other side, but his torch
bobbed ahead, orange and encouraging. The others followed one at a time. Etivva
had to go slowly, or her wooden foot might fall off, she said with a snicker.

They had to stop frequently after
that. All the men and working women took turns digging through cave-ins. “It’s
hopeless. We should turn back,” became the complaint. “We’ll never make it.” Rhoslyn
ordered them onward.

When they finally stopped to eat,
Jaedren felt as if they’d been walking for miles, but Angson said they had a
long way to go yet. “There’s supposed to be a well at the halfway point. We’ll
see if old stories are true, eh?”

Hadn’t the ogres proven that?
Jaedren decided asking would be impertinent.

“I saw an elf, Etivva,” he
whispered around a mouthful of black bread. She lowered her ear so she could
hear him. “I’ll bet Thorn never met this one though. The elves he talks about don’t
attack innocent people.”

“No, I am sure they don’t.”

Once the way was clear, the fugitives
tied up their bundles of food and climbed through the mud. They did a lot of
crawling now. Centuries of rain had washed entire fields into the tunnels so
that the ceiling was too low to walk upright. If the well Angson spoke of
existed, mud had filled it up long ago.

Sergeant Nael’s fist darted up. The
fugitives drew to a gradual halt, bumping into each other, pressing their
neighbors aside so they could see what the newest obstacle was. Nael handed off
his torch to no one in particular and crawled ahead into the dark. He crawled
back moments later. “Moonlight,” he said.

Angson scurried forward to see for
himself. When he came back he told the duchess, “There’s an opening, all right.
Good thing, too. The tunnel’s blocked again just past it. Poked my head out
into fresh night air. It’s not the livery though. An old oak broke through the
ceiling. We can climb up the roots.”

“Is it safe?” Rhoslyn asked. “How
far is Bransdon?”

“Lights about a hundred yards to
the north. We can make it now.”

Rhoslyn breathed a sigh of relief
and turned to smile at Lura and Esmi, Etivva and Jaedren and the rest. Her face
was smeared brown with mud. So were Etivva’s and the handmaids’. Jaedren
suspected he looked like he’d had a mud-bath himself.

Nael stayed in the tunnel to help
the fugitives maneuver up the oak tree’s roots, while Angson climbed up and
lifted everybody out. Night air never smelled so sweet. Jaedren hoped he’d
never have to see another pit as dark and terrifying again. How glorious the
low ragged clouds, pink with Forath’s bloody light. Men, women, and children
alike celebrated their escape with laughter and sobs. “Keep it down,” Angson
ordered. “Stay together. Make for the lights of town.”

The fickle moonlight taunted them
with brief glimpses of the hills and hedgerows. Jaedren made out a swath of
black trees cloaking the dim lights of a small town. The duchess, however,
gazed back the other way. On a far hill, the ruddy glow of a large fire.
“They’re burning the village,” she muttered. “You don’t think it’s the keep, do
you?”

Lura leaned close and whispered
words of reassurance.

Rhoslyn raised her chin, grabbed
Jaedren’s hand and that of her handmaid and turned them toward Bransdon. They
trudged across open meadow and onto a cart lane that led them into the trees.
Two rows of cottages spread out quietly to each side of the lane. All the
while, Jaedren searched with Veil Sight, but the only lifelights belonged to
humans. Aster’s soft blue tracers circled one cottage, then the next, darted up
into the livery’s loft and down the smithy’s chimney as she inspected the town
for any sign of danger.

The hour was late, indeed, for all
the windows were shuttered and dark. The lamps on the corners of lanes and
alleys burned low as their oil dwindled. A swinging sign painted with a rat
drowning in a foaming tankard announced the local tavern. Longbeard Angson
pounded on the door. “Rouse, you sleeping sods!” he called up at the windows. A
light flared, disappeared, reappeared in the downstairs window, and an old man
in a nightcap showed up at the door with a meat cleaver. Seeing the crowd
gathered outside his door, he stammered, “What in the Abyss—?”

Angson jabbed a finger at Rhoslyn.
“This is Her Grace, the Duchess of Liraness, His Lordship’s lady, and she
needs—”

“Ha!” the proprietor crowed. It was
no wonder he doubted the sergeant’s word. The duchess looked like a pea planter
who’d had a tussle with a litter of piglets. The falcon sigil on the soldiers’
surcoats and Jaedren’s, too, were masked under thick mud. “And I’m the Black
Falcon, eh? What’s your game, man? Who the hell are these people gallivanting
about in the middle of the bloody night?”

“I just told you,” Angson roared.

Rhoslyn laid a hand to the
sergeant’s arm, and he stepped aside. Her smile was as sweet as Nelda’s
honey-glazed cinnamon buns. “Goodman, er?”

“Manders.” The old man leaned away
from the earth-caked woman, who he surely thought was mad, and tucked the
cleaver behind his back.

“Yes, Goodman Manders. Listen to
me, and listen well. Ilswythe is under attack. His Lordship is away at the
King’s Convention, and these people, his people, are in my care. If you will
look over there,” she added, pointing toward the southern hills, “you will see
the fires our attackers have set. Ilswythe may be burning to the ground. Now,
in my lord-husband’s name, I am requisitioning your fine establishment for the
shelter of his people. They need ale and baths and beds, at His Lordship’s
expense, of course. In the meantime, you will run and wake every man in Bransdon
and see that they are gathered in the square, fully armed, in half an hour.”

Old Manders glanced between the
duchess, the halo of the distant fire, and the faces of the refugees, his mouth
moving with wordless doubt.

“Move it, move it, move it!”
bellowed Angson, hand going for his sword haft.

Lights flared in windows across the
lane.

Manders scrambled to set down his
candle and his cleaver and raced away through his neighbor’s turnip patch. A
moment later a bell, presumably hanging in the town square, clanged like mad.
Rhoslyn ushered her people into the tavern. The keeper’s confounded wife saw
the muddy children in the light of the bobbing lanterns and threw her hands
over her plump, round cheeks. In no time she had the refugees filling the
tables in the common room and bread rounds sliced and buttered and mugs of ale
foaming in a row along the polished bar. Jaedren was so tired that he slumped
into the table nearest the window and laid his head on his arms. Etivva tried
to put a thick slice of bread in his fingers, but his stomach was full of fear
and sadness. What if the ogres broke through the gate and found the tunnel?
What if scouts saw the humans climb out of the ground under the oak tree? They
might show up outside the tavern any time. How were these blind villagers
supposed to protect anybody?

While the men shuffled back outside
to join the gathering villagers, several of their women and children clustered near
the bar to tell the keeper’s wife their version of the attack, none of whom, in
Jaedren’s opinion, knew what they were talking about, but he hadn’t the
enthusiasm to correct them. Others sought out Etivva and asked for the Mother’s
comfort. The shaddra prayed with them, but in the end she had to admit that she
didn’t know why monsters had attacked them.

Jaedren made himself gnaw the stiff
bread and dug into his sackcloth for the apple and cheese Nelda had given him.
He stared at the apple’s red skin a long time before he realized it reminded
him of the heads he’d seen rolling in the streets of Ilswythe village. Red on
the road, red in the water. If only he had shouted louder, shouted sooner. He
tucked the apple back into the sackcloth.

Outside in the lane, the townspeople
grumbled and shouted. Sergeant Angson explained over and over why they’d been
awakened. Nael grunted agreement, and when Rhoslyn was satisfied that her
people had been put at ease, she went to the threshold and raised her hands.
“Listen! The sergeant speaks the truth. The true name of our enemy remains a
mystery. Until we know who has ordered this attack on our refuge, you must
prepare for the worst.”

Jaedren nudged Etivva. “Should I
tell them about the ogres?”

“What do
you
think you
should do?” she asked softly.

“They won’t believe me.”

“Then do not trouble them with it.
They will find out soon enough. Removing the blinders from their eyes need not
be your burden.”

Rhoslyn added, “Messengers are to
spread word that all town militias are to arm and be ready for His Lordship’s
call. It is also critical that we get word to Thyrvael immediately. I have
reason to believe that the dwarves can offer us special aid in this matter.
Ilswythe’s people are to be made welcome until they can return to their own
homes. I myself will ride tonight with Sergeant Nael to Drenéleth and deliver this
message to the highlanders.”

Jaedren and Etivva exchanged a
glance. Across the table, Lura reluctantly gained her feet. Esmi squeezed her
hand and whispered, “Goddess go with you.”

Jaedren scrambled out of his chair.
He wasn’t about to be left behind with these frightened farmers.

“Sergeant Angson will remain here
to ensure my orders are carried out,” Rhoslyn went on. “You will obey him as if
he were Lord Kelyn himself. Now, who runs the livery?”

Peeking around the doorpost,
Jaedren glimpsed a dark-bearded, balding man raise a finger and shoulder his
way closer to the tavern.

“I will need three horses—” Rhoslyn
began, but Jaedren tugged her sleeve. Etivva placed her hands on his shoulders.
Instead of holding him back, the gesture was meant to imply that she too would accompany
the duchess. “Er, five horses.” Rhoslyn reached for her pearl earrings. “Here.”

“No, Your Grace,” said the stableman,
waving his hands, “take the mounts. They are not worth such fine baubles.”

“They are not lame?”

“No, ma’am! I would not disgrace
myself, but—”

“Then take this payment. I … I
cannot promise the horses will be returned.” Knowing that even the duchess feared
axes waiting in the hollows and lurking behind the hedgerows somehow made
Jaedren feel braver. He would see Her Grace safely to Drenéleth, whatever it
took.

The “horses” amounted to two drays
and three mules. The mules stubbornly fought the order to run, but finally decided
they better keep up with the herd as soon as the plow horses started to leave
them behind. They agreed only to a jouncy trot that bruised Jaedren’s arse, and
though the animals had halters, they had neither proper bridles nor saddles.
Etivva worried that she wouldn’t be able to walk the next day, and Lura would
have liked to complain too, but as the duchess’s handmaid, she was far too
disciplined and kept her mouth shut. Sergeant Nael rode the second dray and trotted
ahead, a torch held high. Rhoslyn jested, “I wish Carah were here to see this.
She’d have a tale for the Ladies’ Riding Society.”