Hawkmaiden (27 page)

“Me?  Why
me?
” Dara asked, her eyes wide.

“Because they want you to use your powers to help the war effort,” he explained.  “They want you to use Frightful to spy on the enemy.  They want you, Dara, to join the other wizard folk at the castle in the Magical Corps . . . and try to defend and preserve our domain until the Magelord returns.”

Chapter Thirteen

Sevendor At War

Sevendor Castle looked different since she had last been here six months
before at Yule. 

The festive greenery was absent now, replaced with hastily-erected woodworks and platforms upon which archers patrolled.  The outer bailey, the vast empty space behind the castle’s first wall, was no longer deserted and barren.  Wagons and tents now filled the road on either side with more rumbling in behind her.  Livestock was herded into a fenced enclosure near the wall, while makeshift shelters were built on the cliffward side.  Dozens of campfires began cooking the breakfast of the displaced folk.  Dara tried not to stare too hard at their worried faces.

The castle was bustling inside the inner gate, even at this early hour.  Soldiers drilled in the yard in front of the castle while Bovali archers practiced shooting their great Wilderland bows in volleys.  Men shouted to each other across the yard, and horses were being saddled and readied to move.  There was a sense of urgency in the air that took Dara’s breath away.  She had wisely hooded Frightful, worried that she’d be startled by the noise.  She was glad she had taken the precaution.

The door of the castle’s great hall was guarded by a pair of burly-looking soldiers in mail coats, each bearing a spear and shield.  They checked the face and story of everyone entering into the hall, and Dara had to explain twice why she and her falcon needed to be admitted.  If it had been any other guards of any other castle, they might have sent her away as mad.  But in Sevendor, now, the idea of a girl magically seeing through the eyes of a falcon was almost mundane.  They let her pass with little question.

The interior of the hall was busy, as the night shift of guards came off duty and the morning shift was leaving breakfast to take their place.  The white walls and stonework were brightened even further by a few scattered magelights in important areas.

One hung over the far end of the hall, near the great white stone table near the great fireplace.  Dara could see that was where Sir Cei and Lady Alya were seated, overseeing the defense of the vale.  There was a line of people who urgently needed to speak to one or both of them.  Dara stood at the back of it, when she asked a guard what to do, then patiently waited to present herself.

It didn’t take as long as she feared.  Those ahead of her gave their reports or asked their questions quickly and were ushered away by a stubby-looking Tal Alon.

It was the first time that Dara had seen one of the strange nonhumans up close and in the light. She had heard of them, of course, from tales and stories, but no one in Sevendor had seen a living Tal Alon – called River Folk in polite company, or “spuds” by those who disparaged them – until Master Olmeg the Green, the wizard the Magelord had appointed his Greenward, had brought a tribe of them to the vales.  They had begun building a settlement in what was left of Farant’s Hold, with the Spellmonger’s permission. 

The Tal servant who worked with Lady Alya and Sir Cei looked nearly human, save for his low height and its thick coat of shaggy brown fur.  It was portly, by human standards, but the way it moved made Dara think that this was a normal state of affairs for the Tal, not an exception.  The River Folk’s reputation for both industrious cultivation and degenerate vice made many people wary of them, but the castle servant seemed quite level-headed, from Dara could tell.  He wore a broad green vest and short pants, as well as a perky cap that seemed far too small for his head, all originally intended for human wear but adopted by the Tal. 

He spoke Narasi, Dara’s language, fairly enough to be understood – indeed, he seemed more polite and articulate than most of the vale folk, if she had to swear before the Flame.  He knew his business, ushering people along out of the way of the leaders before they could slow down the line with the same efficiency she imagined a human servant might show.

Dara found herself daydreaming when it was finally her turn in front of the table.  She realized she didn’t have any idea what to say to the lady of the domain.  Luckily she was spared the embarrassment she felt when Sir Cei recognized her.

The castellan stood and smiled grimly when he saw her approach.

“Ah!  The Westwood girl!  Kamen said he would send her along, last night.  True to his word,” he said, approvingly.  Dara didn’t know what to make of that – as if a Westwoodman would be untrue! 

Before she could get offended, the big knight motioned her to approach more closely, so that both he and Lady Alya could hear her.  “This is the girl that Master Kamen spoke of,” he reminded their lady, who nodded in recognition.  “The one who espied the enemy in the field and kept us from losing the pass prematurely.”

“The hawk girl!” Lady Alya nodded.  “Sir Cei was telling me about you.  Good work, that.  Do you think you can do it again?”

“Yes, my lady,” Dara agreed, swallowing hard.  “It’s easy enough to see from behind Frightful’s eyes,” she offered.  “Although understanding what she’s seeing is hard, sometimes.”

“I can imagine,” Lady Alya agreed.  She looked tired, Dara decided, though she was a young a pretty woman.  Just a few years older than Dara’s oldest sister.  “But it would be invaluable if we could keep up to date on what our enemies are plotting.  Your father suggests you can be trusted on to give reliable accounts – is that true?  And what is your name, girl?”

“Uh, yes, my lady,” Dara nodded, swallowing hard.  “My name is Dara.  Short for ‘Lenodara’.  This is my falcon, Frightful.” 

“She’s utterly gorgeous!” Alya said, admirably.  “I used to watch them for hours, back home in the Mindens.  I grew up at a place called Hawk’s Reach.  You look scared, Dara – why?” she suddenly asked in a very direct matter.

“Me?” Dara squeaked.  “Maybe because there’s an army coming against us?  And I’m just thirteen?  And I’m suddenly . . . involved?”

“And you never pictured yourself a warrior,” nodded Lady Alya.  “I understand.  Six months ago, I’d never had pictured myself leading the defense of our home.  Yet here I am sending men to go stand on the walls and defend us.  I may do more before all is said and done.  We all take up challenges in such a situation.  Give us your best against the Warbird, and we’ll keep the valley defended.”

“We will do our best,” she added, apologetically.

“That’s all we’re accepting today,” Alya grinned at her.  “Welcome to our little army.”

“I’ll take her up to the rest of the Magical Corps in a moment,” Sir Cei suggested.  “I have some dispatches they need to see, anyway.  Just pull up a stool for a moment, girl,” the big knight ordered in a kindly voice.  “I’ll be ready for a break anon.”

Dara found a small wooden stool against the wall next to the fireplace and pulled it up near to the castellan, who was already addressing the next person in line – a guardsman with a report from Southridge Hold.

Dara ended up waiting for three more messengers while she soothed Frightful on her wrist.  The fire on the hearth was small, a mere token in the summer heat, and the hypnotic crackle and pop was soon lulling her into lethargy . . .

. . . until the great wooden doors banged open and a commotion began at the far end of the hall.  Dara had to stand to see what was happening, and ended up standing on top of her stool to see, but what she saw was worth the effort.  A somewhat familiar figure was being dragged before the Lady of Sevendor and her servants by soldiers – and not just any soldiers, but her brother Kyre and two of her cousins!

Dara was speechless.  She hadn’t expected to see many Westwoodmen at Sevendor Castle, much less her oldest brother.  What struck her about him was how adult he appeared as he pushed his prisoner down the aisle between tables toward the dais.  He didn’t move with the cocky self-assuredness of her adolescent brother, he moved like a very angry young man. 

With a sword.

“My lady!” he called as he and his kin pushed their prisoner forward.  “Caolan’s Pass was attacked again at dawn!”

“Casualties?” inquired Sir Cei, coolly, as he stood and assessed the situation.

“Four wounded,” Kyre reported promptly.  He did not see Dara, from where she was standing, but she could see him well enough.  His eyes were flashing hotly as he spoke the words.  “Two of our cottagers were fetching water from the spring and were shot in the attack.  Two others were wounded when they swarmed our position.  They sent forty men up the slope this time.  Only thirty-two returned when we drove them off.  We took four prisoners, including this . . .
gentleman
.”

The disgust and disdain Kyre felt for his prisoner was clear in his tone, and Dara wondered just what the enemy soldier had done to deserve it from the usually fair-minded Kyre.  The man was older, somewhat rotund, and wore a rustic-looking coat-of-plates.  That had to be the lucky part of his body, Dara reasoned, as his face was battered, bloody, and muddy.  His hands had been tied behind his back and a rope was looped around his neck.  Then Dara’s breath caught as she realized just who the prisoner was.

“Sir Erantal,” Sir Cei said, identifying the prisoner.  Dara held her breath.  Sir Erantal had presided over Sevendor’s slow death from neglect.  His name alone had been used as a means of scaring young children in the Westwood, and for as long as she could remember Dara could not recall ever hearing someone saying something kind about the man.  “And here I thought we had seen the last of you.”

“I have taken service with Sire Gimbal,” the man said, simply, as he looked around his old castle in wonder.  “What have you done with this place?  What sorcery is this?”

“The very best sort,” Lady Alya dismissed.  Dara decided she liked her, from the contemptuous way she treated the valley’s old oppressor.  “Sir Erantal, I believe at our last meeting you were instructed to leave Sevendor and never return.  Yet now you are here, bearing arms against us.”

“When my lord rides to war, I follow, or I am no knight,” he said, haughtily – earning a contemptuous snort from Sir Cei and a derisive chuckle from the Westwoodmen . . . and a fair number of other native Sevendori.  Not many who had acquaintance of him took the statement seriously.

Sir Cei eyed the man intently – he really was a knight, compared to Erantal.  He had fought in a war and even won a wife and a domain of his own with his jousting.  Sir Erantal had never drawn his sword, from what Dara knew of the man.  Yet he was clearly trying to impress his captors with his importance.  “I was given the honor of leading the attack on the pass.”

“A high honor,” Lady Alya nodded.  “And one that injured four of my subjects.  Yet your puissance was not so great as to keep you from getting captured yourself,” she noted.

“He tripped and fell over his own feet,” Kyre said, loudly.  “As he was running away from our counterattack.”

“He seems rather bruised for one little fall,” observed Sir Cei, looking at her brother meaningfully. 

“He fell down again as we were descending from the pass,” Kyre offered in a tone that Dara was certain he’d never use in front of the Flame.

“Fell down?” Lady Alya asked, as she looked closely at Sevendor’s former lord. 

“A
lot
,” Kyre assured her, lying to her face in a shameful manner.  “He’s
quite
clumsy.”

“I would say so,” the lady agreed, evenly.  “Yet no worse for wear—”

“No worse?” asked Erantal in disbelief.  “I was thrown to the ground repeatedly by these ignorant wretch—
umph!
” he finished, as Kyre slapped the back of his right knee with the flat of his new sword.

“Outrageous!” the old knight howled.  “When I am ransomed back to Sire Gimbal, you can be certain I will speak of my treatment at your hands!” he said, threateningly.

“You mistake yourself, Sir Erantal,” Lady Alya said, softly.  “You assume we will seek to ransom you back to your master.”

“What?”
Erantal asked, eyes wide.

“Ransom is a courtesy,” explained Sir Cei, taking Lady Alya’s lead.  “A courtesy among fighting gentleman.  While your little raid technically places you within that category, the codes do not mandate that ransom be sought for a valuable prisoner . . . they merely encourage it.”

“In this case, what we could fetch for you is dependent upon your ability to command the loyalty of your new master,” Lady Alya continued, picking up from Cei.  “More importantly, it is dependent upon our willingness to make such an exchange.”

“What?”
asked Sir Erantal again, confused.

“While ransom is a courtesy, it need not be one which we choose to exercise,” explained Sir Cei.  “In your case, Sir Erantal, as much as Sire Gimbal no doubt values your counsel and capabilities as a war leader,” he said, managing to keep a straight face, “I’m afraid you are far more valuable to the people of Sevendor.  I do not think we will be negotiating for your release.  With
anyone
,” he added.

“That’s outrageous!” declared Erantal, desperately.  “You can’t do that to me!”

“Do you never tire of being wrong?” Alya asked, amused.  “Indeed, we can.  Sir Roncil, please escort Sir Erantal to the very largest cell in our dungeon, as befits a noble prisoner of his high station,” she ordered another burly Wilderlands knight who stood nearby, his arms folded over his chest.  “There you will await not a negotiated release, but capital judgment from my husband, upon his return.”