Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (50 page)

Her
eyes fluttered shut, and her awareness plunged down through her hands and into
the White Falcon. This was no cut finger, but she
understood
this. Flesh
broken from flesh, vein from vein.
Beat, heart
, she commanded. No, wait,
that was wrong. She had to tend to the wound first or a heartbeat would only
cost him more blood. Her hand pressed his right side, found that the sword’s
blade had punctured deep, stopping only when it hit a rib. She shuddered,
afraid. The damage was enormous, but the proper flow of energies in her own
body showed her how to fix it, if only she had time. For now, just the basics.
A tingling sensation danced down from the base of her skull, across her
shoulders, into her hands. Broken veins closed. Tissue of liver and muscle
stitched together again. They seemed to understand their intended order and
reconnected with only the slightest urging.

When
Carah was satisfied the veins would hold together, she set her hand over
Arryk’s heart. Miraculous impulses caused her own to beat; in its drumming was
the music of the Mother-Father, clouds of light circling a mountaintop.
Awake,
Kharah. You have work to do
. She relayed each pulse down through her hand and
into Arryk’s chest. Tiny, reluctant movement quivered and grew with each new
shock of energy. Blood began sliding through his veins again, sluggish rivers.
Breathe
with me
, she urged. Her focus turned to her lungs drawing air. Arryk gasped
and matched her breath for breath, shallowly, but without will of his own. His
eyes remained lifeless; his azeth still hovered high in the trees. The thread
anchoring him to his body was less visible than before.

Carah
panicked. It wasn’t working!

Arryk!
You can’t abandon your people, not now. They need you more than ever. You don’t
have to fight. Is that why you’re running? There must be other ways. Please.
Come back to us.

The
silver thread shivered.
Istra? Can’t find you. Too tired.

Here,
Carah said.
I’m here. So very
close. Feel where I am. Come back to me.

For
an instant, she feared the thread had snapped, that he’d fled away, but a glow
grew softly outward from his face, pushing aside the shadow of death, silver
and summer green and gold. His eyes shut, a motion independent of Carah’s will,
then opened groggily again. But she still feared to release him.

You
…,
he said.
Their breathing and the rhythm of their hearts kept time, like a dance.

Don’t
make me do that again
,
she implored.

He
managed a meager shake of the head. Slowly, reluctantly, Carah eased her
awareness free of him, letting go of his heart last of all. It took on a rhythm
of its own, weaker than she liked, but steady. “Rest,” she whispered. He didn’t
need convincing. His eyes closed. Cries of dismay echoed through the trees. “Be
still.” The otherworldly power in her command surprised even Carah herself. “He
only sleeps.” She raised her hand from Arryk’s chest, and weakness and blinding
pain washed through her. She crumpled over.

Kelyn
caught her and cradled her and kissed her throbbing forehead. “You’re a wonder,
dearheart. And look what your fairies did while you were busy.”

Beyond
the eaves of the wood stood a driverless wagon drawn by four drays. It was a wine
wagon, wide and sturdy enough to haul several rows of heavy barrels. Rhogan
lifted his granddaughter into the bed. She still seemed only half-conscious. Rorin
stood beside it like a man who’d forgotten how to walk. Rhogan nudged him, and
he climbed aboard. Drys and Maeret and Daxon followed. The White Mantles lifted
Arryk carefully while Drona demanded, “Where the hell are we supposed to go?”

“East,”
Kelyn said, helping Carah to her feet.

“Why?”

“Because
Thorn Kingshield said so. I don’t know why. But until you can see what he sees,
Lady Athmar, we listen to him. Get in the wagon.”

“Will
we circle round for home, Da?” Carah held onto him tightly because her legs were
as shaky as reeds in the wind.

He
glanced north across the hills, a terrible bleakness aging his face. “No.
Valryk’s men will look there for us first.”

“But
Mum—!”

“Hush!
We’ll find shelter, don’t worry.”

Carah
crawled into the bed of the wagon and paused to inspect Aisley’s scalp. “One of
the Falcons struck her and left her for dead,” Lord Rhogan said, cradling his
granddaughter against his shoulder. Though he was nearly sixty, his thick hair
was as blue-black as ever. “She’s never been ill-treated before. I can’t bear
the sight of it.”

Carah’s
fingers detected a bruise on her brain, but no internal bleeding, despite the
blood drying in her hair. “Keep her awake, m’ lord.”

She
turned to Daxon. The three red towers of his device had darkened with the blood
that feathered across the chest. “Keep those hands off my nephew,” Drona said.

“Shut
up, Aunt. I could be dying here.”

Carah
pressed a palm to his chest. Daxon winced. The sword’s tip had cut only as
deeply as the breastbone. “Nothing pierced, nothing broken,” she said, wishing
she had salves for infection. Sewer water inside gaping wounds couldn’t be
good. “Try not to move too much. I’ll see if I can stitch it up later.”

Lieutenant
Rance supported the king’s head on his lap. Arryk’s color hadn’t improved. Too
much blood lost. One glance was all it took for Carah to convince Drona to move
aside and let her sit close to him. Odd to see mean-as-swords Lady Athmar give
ground as Carah had earlier. Her fingers sought the White Falcon’s pulse.

“Will
he live?” asked Rance, suspicion lingering in eyes as dark as molasses.

Brother
to Arryk’s queen, thought Carah, feeling out of place squeezed between him and
Drona. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I’ll be dead before I let him die.”

“Why
would you bother, Aralorri?” Drona snarled.

“Because
he did not try to have me killed. He danced with me instead.”

Da
climbed onto the bench beside one of the Mantles, grabbed the reins, and
slapped the drays hard. Jouncing along the stone-strewn moor, the fugitives
watched Bramoran and its horrors slowly recede. The thunder of battle had grown
silent, and no one else leapt through the breach.

~~~~

J
aedren slumped at the writing
table, tapped his quill irritably on the parchment, and stared longingly out
the library windows. A sentry with a pike on his shoulder and a crossbow
hanging from his belt ambled past, headed toward the north gatehouse. Jaedren
preferred to be out there in the chill wind with a practice sword in hand than
in here wielding a quill. He hadn’t looked for ogres in two whole hours, ever since
lunchtime.

His
tutor showed no sympathy. “Are you still thinking about your answer?” Etivva
prodded. “Jaedren! Look what you are doing.”

Black
ink had splattered from the tip of his quill all over the parchment. He grabbed
the blotter and dabbed up the spots, but the parchment was ruined. That didn’t
deter Etivva, however. Her white eyebrows pinched together, the wrinkles in her
cinnamon-colored skin deepened, and she asked again, “Was Tallon the Unifier a
good king or a bad king? Defend your answer.”

Usually
Jaedren didn’t mind history lessons, but today was different. He had more
immediate concerns than philosophizing about kings long dead. “Thorn says
Tallon was the only human to have the aid of the Elarion since the Elf War made
them our enemies. That’s not in the history books. Can I write that down?

Etivva
waved a brown hand, permitting it. Halfway through his scribbling, Jaedren
glanced up and asked, “Have you ever seen an elf?”

She
huffed. “No. Now concentrate. The sooner you finish, the sooner you can go.”

“If
humans and elves hate each other, why would they help Tallon?”

“You
reason it out, my lord. Speculate.”

“But
I don’t know what elves think.”

“Then
write down what you read in here.” Her finger tapped the leather cover of
History
of the Falcon Kings
.

Jaedren
dipped his quill again and wrote what would please her, that Tallon was a man
of honor, that he stood up to a king who had none. “I’ll bet that’s why the
Elarion helped him,” he said, glancing up thoughtfully. “It was because King
Mathonryk roasted people alive and ate dinner while they screamed.”

“That
is why most of his people abandoned him in the end, but why should Elarion
care? Mathonryk was not the only evil king of Bhodryn’s dynasty. King Haegeth
supposedly fed his own daughters to a pair of dune lions he kept in the
dungeons.”

“Really?
Why would he do
that
? Wait, what’s a dynasty?”

Etivva
chuckled. “A dynasty is a succession of rulers from the same bloodline. King
Valryk is of Tallon’s dynasty, as Mathonryk was a descendent of Bhodryn. The
Fieran kings still come from Bhodryn’s line.”

“Do
dynasties always end in war?”

“Not
always. Sometimes a bloodline simply dies out and a new king is elected. But
when a dynasty ends in war, it may be because people believe their kings have
failed them, that the line is become evil or weak and must be replaced with
new, strong blood.”

“So Tallon’s people thought he was
good, or they wouldn’t have elected him, right?”

“Did they think he was good, or
just the strongest among them?”

Jaedren growled in frustration. “Can’t
there just be an easy answer?”

“Rarely. Now, you have stalled long
enough. Write your answer.”

He was sure he left out all the
good evidence for his argument, but Jaedren’s mind was out on the wall already.
He wrote big letters, so maybe Etivva would think he’d written more than he
really had, then he flipped the parchment down in front of her. “Can I go now?”

She eyed the results of his
efforts, her jaw askew, which meant his ruse wasn’t as convincing as he’d hoped.
She was going to make him start over, he was sure of it. “Hnh, go,” she said,
flicking a hand at him. “I supposed boys cannot excel every day.”

He raced from the library,
jubilant, before she changed her mind. A cold damp wind hit him in the face as
he topped the wallwalk and peered through the crenels. Veil Sight revealed the
clear white azethion of the townspeople across the river. A break in the
rainfall had brought them out in droves. In the middle of the muddy fields,
women crouched on their knees, planting peas in the furrows. Jaedren wished
they wouldn’t plant peas. He didn’t like peas. The rye, planted on the ridges, had
started to sprout, a bright green fuzz. Between the cottages, he glimpsed the
town square. There, a woman carried a basket. It was piled with eggs, he saw.
That was better. He liked eggs. The wheel of the mill spun in the floodwaters,
churning up a pink froth. The wind carried the ting-ting of the smithy’s
hammer, the shouts of men, the whinny of a plow horse, and the laughter of
children. Three boys carried poles and nets to the river’s edge; a couple of
girls tagged along behind, but the Avidan was too swift and brown for fishing
today. Didn’t matter to them. They made a game of how far they could toss their
hooks. Jaedren decided he was younger than most of them, but he had no time for
games. He had duties. The notion made him feel taller and broader in the
shoulders. He tucked his practice sword into his belt and strolled along the
walls like he’d seen Rhian and the sentries do a million times. Every third
crenel, he paused and peered out along the Highway that receded into the
rain-hazed west. For the best view, he had to hoist himself up between the
merlons because the wall was too thick for someone who had so little leg under
him. After he passed the garden tower he heard the grunts and shouts of the
garrison soldiers drilling in the bailey. Swords rang against shields, and
bowstrings twanged. Captain Maegeth supervised from atop the north gatehouse. A
sergeant shouted down orders while another walked among the rows of sparring
men berating them for their incompetence.

“Back again, Master Jaedren?” Maegeth
said as he approached. The wind whipped her silver and black hair loose from under
her helmet.

“Thorn will blast me if I don’t keep
watch.”

Maegeth drew away from the sergeant
and cleared her throat in a hesitant fashion. “He, er, expects trouble, does
he?”

Jaedren swaggered. “I’m the only
one who can see it coming.”

“Yes…,” she said, pondering while a
gloved forefinger rubbed her lower lip. This morning when he told her what he
was doing on the wall, she smiled in that way that said grown-ups don’t really
believe you. Her glance settled on the soldiers at the archery butts. One of
Kelyn’s parting orders was to drill the garrison heavily and take stock of the
armory’s supplies. Near the stables, His Lordship’s own smith was busy pouring
molten iron into arrowhead casts. “Any idea what this trouble might look like?”

Nobody had told her? “Um, I don’t
know if I should …”

She waved away her curiosity.
“Never mind. Just keep me informed, eh?”

What good would that do? Even if a
thousand ogres passed, she wouldn’t be able to see them. How much noise did
that many ogres make? he wondered, continuing on his rounds. They were quiet,
he bet, as quiet as mice stealing into the pantry, or else people would have
heard them before.

He walked from tower to tower, around
and around the entire wall. He took extra time to inspect the foothills to the
north and the high moor to the east because they looked wild enough to conceal
companies of ogres, but Veil Sight showed him only human azethion in those
directions, too. Far away, tucked among trees and along streamlets rolling down
to the river, chimneys in villages sent up pale wisps of smoke. A shepherd and
his dog prodded a herd of sheep along a hilltop, then out of sight.

Around and around. After an hour or
so, his belly started griping and his feet hurt and his eyes glazed over when
he looked out between the merlons. He could see why sentries dozed off on the
job. Maybe he’d head to the kitchens for bread and butter and come back after
supper. He hadn’t tried Veil Sight after dark yet, but Rhian told him he could
see lifelights even better in the dark.

He started down the garden tower,
hoping Nelda would let him have some buttermilk, too, but Aster stopped him
with a sharp tug to his hair. The fairy blazed bright blue, and she pulled that
lock of hair until he yelped. “Hurry! On the Highway, love,” she shrieked.
“They approach!” He raced back up the tower and along the parapets, jumping like
a circus dog to get a view through the crenels as he went. The western stretch
of Highway looked clear. Not even a human driving a cart. “Where, Aster?” he
cried, breathless.

Blue tracers of light led him to
the main gatehouse.

He ducked under a sentry’s elbow
and threw himself onto the battlements. He scraped his arm and bumped his knee,
but he couldn’t care about that now. He had counting to do.

“Hey, now! Get down from there, m’
lord,” said the sentry, dragging Jaedren down from the wall by the back of his
tabard. He was a chubby fellow, round and hard like a barrel. His pike looked
twig-thin in his grasp. “You fall, don’t blame me.”

“Where’s the captain?” Jaedren demanded.

“Busy. What d’you want?”

“Trouble. She wanted to know if I
saw anything.”

“What kinda trouble?”

“Just get her, please.” Jaedren
tried pushing the guard in the ribs, but he didn’t budge.

“Not till you tell me.
I
will decide if it’s worth bothering the cap’n about.”

Jaedren gritted his teeth and returned
to the wall. Along the Highway that cut through town, he saw only the white
azethion of humans. Nothing had changed. The children with the fishing poles
had abandoned their game and left the riverside. Near the ford, the miller
loaded bags of seed or, Goddess forbid, more peas into the back of a
two-wheeled cart.

His fairy had never lied to him,
but he was starting to feel angry with her. “Aster, what—?” She hovered at his
shoulder, staring southward so intently that she appeared not to hear him.

“I don’t know what he’s talking about,
Cap’n,” he heard the sentry say.

Maegeth climbed the wallwalk toward
them. The garrison soldiers, sweaty and tired after their drills, filed toward
the barracks for mess. The scent of roast mutton wafted from the chimney. She
dismissed the sentry and turned to Jaedren. “Well?”

“It’s the green men, I swear! Aster
says they’re coming.” Maegeth raised her eyebrows, skeptical. He wished she could
see the fairy. She would know something was wrong, then.

Out in a muddy field, two women
gained their feet, their rows of peas forgotten. Leaning together, they gazed
south. A dray pulling a plow pranced aside, shaking his head; the man behind
him shouted some curse at the horse for messing up the furrow, then he too
turned to gaze south. What did they see that Jaedren couldn’t?

A low rumble built in his ears. It
was hard to make out over the angry rush of the flooded river, but when he
glanced at Maegeth, he saw her tilt her head and her eyes go all glossy. She
was listening, too. “A stampede,” she muttered. “No. Marching.” Yes, Jaedren
recognized it now, a thunderous rhythm, the occasional gruff shout muffled
beyond the rise in the southern stretch of Highway. From over the hill, a
banner rose into view: on undyed, roughly woven linen was painted a bright
orange axe. Stones … no, skulls! … swung from the cross-pole, and another,
painted orange, adorned the top of the main pole. Jaedren gaped at the creature
carrying it. In his nightmares the green men hadn’t been so huge. Though the
ogre was far away he already looked bigger than the people in the town square. Crowds
gathered on the street corners, in cottage garden plots; the people pointed,
shouted, confused. Others whisked up their children and slammed their doors
shut.

“M’ lord!” Maegeth shook Jaedren by
the shoulder. “What do you see?”

Row after row of ogres rolled over
the hill, following the Highway toward town. Their lifelights were dull and
murky gray, just as Thorn said they would be. Their skin was gray-green,
painted or tattooed with darker splotches, or maybe it was naturally striped
and spotted. Thorn said ogres had been made from toads and other slimy things
from the Mahkahan swamps. Where they got their tusks Jaedren couldn’t guess,
but every one of them boasted wicked yellowed scimitar-shaped teeth jutting up
from his lower jaw. Some wore untanned cuts of hide, others boiled leather
armor. The ogre leading them, however, directly behind the flag-bearer, was a
juggernaut in a shiny, dark chest plate, shoulder guards, and grieves. His
horned helm gave him the look of a black bull walking upright.

Fear numbed Jaedren’s wits so much
that he almost forgot to count them. Five ogres to a row. Five rows, ten,
twelve, fifteen, no, sixteen, twenty. After that he lost count. It was the
blazing, golden lifelight that appeared on the hilltop that distracted him. Long
pale hair flowed around armor of the same stormy-gray plate. Male or female,
Jaedren couldn’t tell. The figure sat a tall black horse that looked just like
Thorn’s and reined in on the lip of the hill to watch the ogres advance. “They’re
not turning aside,” Jaedren said.

“Damn it, boy! Who’s not?” Anger
pitched Maegeth’s voice.

“Ogres!” he cried, pointing. “I
told
you.”

Sentries, garrison soldiers, and members
of the household gathered along the parapets, worry creasing their faces.
Still, a few snickered at Jaedren’s claim.

The rhythm of feet stopped. The
lines of murky lifelights grew still. One of the ogres raised a curling black
horn banded in silver and blew a long, low, ululating note. As one, the ranks
of ogres unslung axes from their backs and slammed them into shields on their
forearms. The thunder of it broke against the castle walls and rumbled back. The
people in town screamed and started scrambling like scattering chickens. The
horn blasted a short note, and the ogres charged.