Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (59 page)

“Aye,
and you must consider yourselves at war.”

“Have
Fierans done this? Was it the Convention what done it?”

Carah
started to glance down at the White Falcon, then stopped herself.

“Fiera
is not at fault.”

“Who
then?”

“I’m
not sure yet.”

“But
you’re the War Commander,” cried an old woman with a sack of mewling kittens on
her back. “How can you not know?”

 “What
I know is that we flee Bramoran because mercenaries attacked us, Aralorri,
Leanian, and Fieran alike. You must spread the word. Militias are to muster and
be ready the instant they receive notice from me.”

He
did mean to fight! Pride swelled into Carah’s throat, nearly choking her. She
glanced at Drys seated on the bench and Lady Drona on her right. The one roared
in triumph, shaking his fists; the other stared at Da, her mouth open before it
closed with a grin.

“Lord
Kingshield!” cried Aisley, pointing back along the road.

Carah
sighed in relief at the sight of Thorn and Rhian trotting over the hill on
their Elaran blacks. Blood splashed Rhian’s face. She leapt out of the wagon
and ran to him. “It isn’t bad,” he told her, pressing at the gash over his
eyebrow.

“Hnh,”
Thorn grunted. “That axe bit an inch deeper and you’d be singing a different
song.”

“Aye,
to Ana-Forah.”

“Is
that supposed to be funny?” Carah demanded. “Must I drag you down or will you clean
it yourself?”

“I
think I better—”

“Oh,
get off the bloody horse, eejit.”

Rhian
laughed at the sound of his word in Carah’s mouth. He dismounted and perched on
the back of the wagon so she could tend to the wound.

Longmead’s
people began to disperse. Aisley’s outcry hadn’t gone unnoticed. As the
townsfolk passed, they stared and whispered and tipped their hats in Uncle
Thorn’s direction. He leaned on his saddlehorn, deep in thought, but when he
noticed the attention, he waved a tentative hand, eyebrows high, as if he wondered
why he merited their regard.

“Hnh,”
Rhian said, “sometimes he’s actually capable of humility.”

Carah
chuckled and used a hem torn from her undershirt to clean away the blood dried
on his cheek and down his neck. It was caked in his eyelashes. Their party
hadn’t much water to spare; the wineskin was almost empty. But Carah was
starting to think like an avedra. She suspected how they might procure more. “What
did you do with the dew?” she asked. They tried to avoid looking each other in
the eye. It wasn’t easy.

“Saw
that, did ya? Impressed?”

“Don’t
you dare start flirting with me now,” she whispered. “People will get
suspicious. Hold still, or I’ll stitch it crooked.”

By
the time the gash closed under her fingers, Da and the rest were demanding
answers. They stood around the wagon like conspirators. All but Daxon, who
moped off by himself. “I expected the Falcon Guard or proper soldiers,” Lord
Rorin cried. “Those things weren’t even human! It’s like the Abyss broke wide
open.”

“Nothing
like,” Thorn said. “The ogres came from your backyard most likely. But the
other. The one leading them. I knew him. He vanished years ago. Seeing him here
this morning was the last thing I expected.”

The
word ‘Elari’ screamed from Uncle Thorn’s head, but Carah found it interesting
that he avoided using it aloud.

“Maybe
they were just after
you
,” Lady Drona taunted.

“That’s
why the one came running after the wagon, I assume,” he retorted.

“On
the night of the Greening Festival,” Da said, “you told me you knew who led
these ogres. You didn’t suspect Valryk. Is he giving the orders or not?”

Uncle
Thorn pondered, shook his head. “No, I doubt it.”

“Then
who leads them?” Drona demanded. “Who is Valryk in league with?”

“I
will have to seek answers elsewhere before I can confirm anything.” Thorn
turned and mounted up before they could ask more from him. “We’ll make for
Drenéleth.”

“But
that’s leagues away,” Rorin complained, pointing east instead of north.

Of
course, Drona didn’t like the suggestion either. “Why not Nathrachan?”

Thorn
glanced away, not inclined to explain himself.

“I’m
not going anywhere with you people,” Daxon exclaimed. “I’m going home.”

“You
won’t make it,” Kelyn said. “The bridges will be covered. And Valryk will
expect the White Falcon to make for one of them.”

Daxon’s
dark eyes narrowed. “Do not address me again, Lord Ilswythe. Lay aside that
sword long enough and I’ll show you what I’d like to do with it. Aunt? Are you coming?”
He expected her to stand shoulder to shoulder with him, but she hesitated.

“You’re
not leaving my side,” she said at last. “Where I go, you go. Your father
would’ve wanted it that way.” She glared at Kelyn, who returned a guileless
lift of the eyebrows. He didn’t seem interested in acknowledging events that
took place twenty years before. “So? I’ve never heard of this Drenéleth.”

“It
isn’t a stronghold,” he said. “It’s just a lodge. We’ll do what we can to
change that, but for now, it’s too small and out of the way to be of notice.”

“My
concern is Lord Eliad,” said Rhogan. “Pardons, but he
is
the king’s
bastard brother. Are they close? Lord Drenéleth avoided the conference. Might
he have been privy to the Black Falcon’s plan?”

Drona
took up that note with fervor. “Aye, he might’ve struck a deal in exchange for
royal favor.”

“He
would never—” Carah began.

“
I
raised Eliad,” Da insisted. “He’s like my own son.”

“Aye?”
Drona drawled. “And where
is
your son, by the way?”

King’s
business
, Valryk
had told Carah. She nearly choked.
Impossible
, she thought and kept her
fear to herself.

Kelyn
reined in his anger and turned to his brother. “Has Eliad betrayed us?”

Thorn
shrugged in an exaggerated way. “I can’t know a man’s thoughts from afar. We’ll
see when we get there, won’t we? If he has, I won’t care whose son he is.” He
dug in his heels, and the Elaran black darted off at a quick trot.

Drys
cleared his throat. “If it’s all the same to you, m’ Lord Commander, I’ll
strike out on my own. If Zeldanor is under attack, I need to be there.”

“I’m
going too,” said Maeret. “If I’m Lady Lunélion now, I must see to my people.”

The
two of them exchanged a glance that hinted they had planned this earlier,
perhaps last night among the trees. “I’ll see Lady Maeret home safe, then
strike east,” Drys added.

Da
let out a heavy breath. “I wouldn’t advise it, but I can’t stop you. Goddess go
with you both.”

As
Drys and Maeret started across the hillside, Carah called after them, “Be
safe!”

Maeret
glanced back. “I don’t mean to stay safe. I mean to dig my aunt’s morning star
from the ashes. Save a brigade for me, War Commander.”

The
wagon trundled down into Longmead Valley to a crossroads that branched south
for Lunélion and north toward the Silver Mountains. Taking Kelyn’s advice, a
majority of Longmead’s people chose the north road. Fewer holdfasts and more
villages lay across the high moor. The people hoped to disappear there. They
bore their children on their backs and a few precious items, snatched from
burning houses, in their arms. Rain had turned the road to soft mud that
squelched under their feet and clung to the wagon wheels in black clumps. Carah
despaired at the sight of the ruts. More ogres were sure to track them down.
But the villagers who parted to let the wagon pass closed behind it again. Some
of them drove carts, too, and soon the tracks of the wine wagon were lost among
those of the refugees. Surely Da and Uncle Thorn had planned it that way. Yes,
they might make it to Drenéleth after all.

~~~~

T
he bags of coin jingled as
Lothiar passed them into the hands of the Doreli mercenaries. They had tossed
off their black surcoats and looked like proper swords-for-hire in their
studded leather and mismatched armor. Only a third of the original fifty
remained. The rest had been piled into the King’s Hall with the highborns and
burned. Their comrades wasted no tears on them.

“You
performed better than I hoped,” Lothiar told them, sinking into the oversized
chair behind the desk. The headquarters of the guards captain was spacious and
rich, though lit poorly, having no window of its own. “There’s a bonus in there
for you.”

The
cockiest man among them bounced his pouch in his palm and grinned. Rows of
small round bruises from a dwarf’s hobnailed boot were imprinted on his cheek.
“People-a back home-a,” he said in his Doreli accent, “they not-a believe us
when we say we worked for an elf-a.”

“Be
sure to tell these unbelievers that they’re about to see a good deal more of
us.”

“Eh?”
said the Doreli.

Lothiar
flicked a hand. “Goddess go with you. Now get out.”

Other
than a couple of terrified cooks, a surgeon to tend to the wounded, and a
handful of servants to wash and run errands, the Dorelis were the last humans
to be expelled from Bramor. The exodus of an entire royal city took all day
yesterday and half the night. Now the streets were littered with treasures the humans
couldn’t carry and the bodies of those who had argued with Lothiar’s orders. Mongrels,
rats, and naenion would grow fat on the pickings. Eerie, riding through those
silent streets lined with empty windows like eye sockets. Plenty of rich villas
to divide among his commanders, though, Lothiar decided.

The
ogre chieftains complained about Lothiar letting the townsfolk go. They
expected slaughter rights, like those Lothiar had granted in the dwarven
caverns. But he saw no point in executing all these humans. They were beaten,
or soon would be, and why should Elarion cook and clean for themselves? Once
the strongholds had fallen, raids on towns and farms would provide more than
enough slaves.

The
last of the mercenaries filed from the office, then Captain Dashka said, “I did
not think you would let the Dorelis go either.”

Lothiar
closed the small chest of silver coin and turned the key. “If they stick to the
main roads they’re liable to run into an ogre war band. If they
do
make
it home, however, we will have occasion to work with them again. I’m not
worried about the Mahkah-pi. They’re reclusive and disunited. Conquering them
will cost us little. But the Zhianese are fierce fighters. It will pay to have
a few faithful recruits waiting in the wings, and I hear that Dorelis are no
friend to the painted kings of Zhian. Of course, our mercenaries won’t like it
when we turn our war machine toward Dorél. And Dorél is the real prize for us.
Their land takes its name from our first Lady, and the ruins of our oldest city
hide somewhere in their mountains. I mean to rebuild it. Worthy goal, yes?”

The
avedra’s pale gaunt face remained wooden. “Yes.”

“You
commanded them well, but with them gone the illusion of your authority
vanishes. You’re just ‘Dashka’ again, so lower that nose and get rid of that
disdainful eye or I’ll pluck it out.”

The
avedra lowered his chin. “Yessir.”

“Your
reward is staying out of the pit, don’t forget that.”

“Never,
sir.”

Lothiar
had exchanged the heavy steel plate for supple gray leather and silk so soft it
might as well be water. The chair was deep and supple and cool. Goddess, he was
tired. Three days after the cleansing, and he still hadn’t slept. Too many
details kept him moving. In the rare moments he managed to sit still, his mind
raced, and he was up and running again before he knew it. He still had a
certain emperor to visit. Valryk had languished for two nights in his cell
under Paggon’s watchful eye. The ogre chieftain reported that the ‘little king’
had panicked and beat on the door, but now his anger had given in to despair.
Almost time to talk him into writing that letter to his cousin.

More,
each of the Elaran commanders had to be contacted for updates. Of all the
strongholds under siege, only Tírandon still resisted. Which meant it was time
to move some of the pieces on the board.

He
had hoped to assign at least one Elari to each division of naenion. Ogres were
not talented improvisers, after all, and if things went wrong for them, they
were more like to break and reform to attempt Lothiar’s order a second time
rather than adjust their strategy to new conditions. But his efforts to recruit
more of his own people had largely failed. Tréandyn commanded the Thunderstone
and Shadow Clans against the Fieran strongholds; their main camp was drawn up
outside Brynduvh’s gates. Solandyr led the Red Axe Clan at Ilswythe; Elyandir
and the Broke Blade ogres attacked Tírandon. Neither Sky Rock nor Fire Spear
had Elarion leading them, and Lothiar dared not send one to command Black
Marsh. That clan belonged to Korax Elfbane, and though the ogre agreed to fight
for Lothiar, he refused to abide the presence of an Elari. A small price for
such a fierce ally.

There
were a few other Elarion on hand. Ruvion raked the countryside for avedrin. But
most were smiths and carpenters or grunts recruited from the Regs. These were
not able leaders. But dispersed among the ogre regiments, the craftsmen helped
the lieutenants maintain order and kept the fighters supplied. Once he had
dealt with Valryk, Lothiar would spend the next few hours smelling marsh water
in a basin as he relayed new orders to each division.

“You
must rest,” Lasharia had told him half a dozen times over the last couple of
days. She was right, Lothiar knew, but there was no time, not yet. Twice he
caught himself nodding off, and both times the whisper had startled him. “
Azhdyyyyr…
”
Nightmares, too close to the surface. What else could it be?

Lothiar
rounded on Dashka. The avedra stood staunchly in the back corner of the office.
The sudden motion startled him. Determined to prove himself loyal and
indispensable, he had declared himself Lothiar’s bodyguard. But he was also a
trained mind reader. Might he be manipulating Lothiar’s thoughts in hopes of
driving him mad? “Don’t stand behind me. Get out,” Lothiar ordered. “But don’t
go far. Stand watch outside the door.” The avedra might be useful, but Lothiar wasn’t
ready to consider him trustworthy.

Shortly
after Dashka stepped from the office, he poked his head in again. “Captain,
Iryan Wingfleet has returned. He’s headed to the infirmary.”

T
he human had acted as King
Rhorek’s physician and Valryk’s after that. He attended to his duty objectively,
keeping his eyes down and his recriminations to himself, but his pale
age-spotted hands trembled as they lifted the glass bottles from the apothecary
cabinet. Lothiar suspected it was the presence of two ogres in the corridor that
unnerved the old man. Even though the naenion bled and stank of burned flesh,
Lothiar ordered them to leave. The physician relaxed after that and began
cleaning Iryan’s face.

He
was missing an ear, and the skin had been seared from his cheekbone. What flesh
was left was on the right side of his face was blistered black and raw. A
similar burn blackened his ribs. Iryan reeled with pain, gripped the side of
the physician’s table to hold himself upright. When he opened an eye and saw
Lothiar standing on the threshold, he muttered, “Whips made of lightning. Never
read about that in the chants. Have you?”

No,
Lothiar had not, but he wasn’t surprised. He had known many an avedra in his
lifetime, and like Dathiel, they were wont to get creative. The results had
been as devastating a thousand years ago. Floods of ice, rocks that walked,
armies of ravens that went straight for the eyes.
Imagination, will,
execution.
Wasn’t that the avedra way? “I’ll flay Dashka myself for sending
so few ogres with you.” Only three of the twelve naenion had made it back alive,
a fourth had died on the return to Bramor, and one of the others had carried
Iryan over his shoulder.

“The
avedrin were aware of us before we got into position, sir. We’d hoped—”

“You’d
hoped, you’d hoped! When you’re dealing with avedrin the caliber of Kieryn
Dathiel, you have to do more than
hope
, Wingfleet.”

“Yes,
sir.”

Lothiar
snorted. “It’s not you I blame. I should have sent the entire Dragon Claw
regiment. That might have made a mark. Do you know which way Dathiel and his
party went?”

“East,
as before.”

“Longmead
was raided in the middle of the night. They’ll find no refuge there. Lunélion
is ours. Blue Mountain burns. What else
is
there?” He paced,
calculating. “Zeldanor maybe, but half of Sky Rock is bound to break its gates
while the rest are down south rounding up slaves. It may be ash by the time
they get there. And if Dathiel leads the survivors north to Ilswythe he’ll be
gravely disappointed.” He grinned, jubilant and having a hard time restraining
it. “Solandyr contacted me first thing this morning. Ilswythe is ours.”
At
last, at last.
Of all the human holdfasts that Lothiar hoped to smash,
Ilswythe topped the list. Not only because it belonged to the Sons of Edur, but
because Amanthia herself had raised those ten white stones and measured the
heavens from atop that hill. Lothiar had joined her every spring in her house beside
the river. Until Edur caught her eye. That didn’t change who the hill belonged
to, however. Once details were settled here, Lothiar intended to visit Ilswythe
and congratulate Solandyr in person.

“I’m
happy for you, sir.” Pain and habit made the word ‘happy’ sound hollow in
Iryan’s mouth. “I know how much that means to you.”

“No,
you don’t. Not really.” He patted his lieutenant’s shoulder. “Don’t talk
anymore. Go into the trance and rest.”

“Yessir.”
Iryan shoved the doctor aside, then breathed deeply and focused his eyes on
nothing. When his chin lowered and his eyes dilated, Lothiar waved the doctor
to proceed. “No worries, he feels no pain now. I’ll return later to check on
him. I need voice no threats, I trust.”

The
physician’s fingers paused on a spool of thread. Scissors snipped a long strand.
“The lieutenant will recover.”

Turning
out the infirmary door, Lothiar found Lasharia pacing the hallway. Her golden
curls lay soft upon the black steel of her armor. Her left hand clenched the
pommel of the sword at her side. “Bad news?” he asked.

She
saluted. Her eyes strayed to the infirmary door. “Are we going to lose him?”

“Iryan?
Of course not. Dathiel cost him an ear, no more.”

“Wasted
effort, sir, I’m sorry.”

“Dashka
is no tactician. I should not have expected him to be. But you didn’t come to
apologize about Iryan losing the avedrin.”

“No.
Some of the naenion have come to blows, sir. A squabble over campsites, it
would seem.”

“How
many is ‘some’?” They walked briskly from the royal infirmary and along a grand
gallery bright with sunlight. Blushing lady’s lips vine climbed the row of
columns, filling the damp morning air with a honey-scented perfume. Medicinal
herbs grew in tidy rows around the basin of a fountain. A lovely place to
convalesce. Of course, without groundskeepers to look after it, the fountain
lay stagnant. Three falcons met wing to wing, but their open beaks spewed
silence instead of water.

“A
company from Dragon Claw and another from Storm Mount,” Lasharia replied.

“A
company—?” ‘Come to blows’ was an understatement, then. The clans had opened
battle on each other. “Haven’t they learned to cooperate by now? When did
naenion become so particular? I will not be sorry, Lasharia, when our need for
them is over.”

“Nor
I, sir.”

“Has
the fighting stopped?”

“They
were licking their wounds when I left. You’re the only one they listen to.”

Which
meant less sleep for him. “Tell Dragon Claw they are to camp on the south side
of the Green, and Storm Mount on the north. They are not to cross the avenue
into each other’s camp. Spell it out for them if you must, then read very
slowly what you spell for them.”

Lasharia
grinned at the quip.

“I
will be down shortly to reinforce my order, but now I have an emperor to
visit.”

Lasharia
paused on the gravel path between rows of lavender. Though it was still too
early for the buds to sprout, the shrubs smelled refreshing in the warm morning
sun. “That’s another thing, sir. Valryk used the sigil to contact me again.
That’s four times since he’s been locked up. I wish we had found another method
of communicating with him. He’ll drive me mad.”

Lothiar
sympathized. He was not the only one sick of maddening whispers. It was not
King Valryk who taunted him, however. Who then? “Have you visited him?”

“Not
without your leave.”

“Good.
He’s not liable to listen to your kind of persuasion right now. I’ll take care
of it.” He started across a wide cobbled courtyard. The dilapidated prison
tower rose near the curtain wall, its slate roof sagging, its plaster sloughing
off the brick. Lasharia’s voice stopped him.