Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) (54 page)

“Fierans?” he asked. “Did His
Lordship send a missive?”

“Captain, my father is dead! It’s
not Fierans, it’s worse. Sound the alarm.”

“Lord Lander? Dead? But the—” He
straightened, cast Ruthan a sidelong glance stinging with skepticism. “How much
sleep have you had in the last couple of days, m’ lady? I seen you walking at
all hours, and others have reported it, too.”

“This has nothing to do with
sleep—”

“I think m’ Lady Ruthan has had a
bad dream.” His big hand swept her past the pimple-faced sentry and from his
office as effectively as a flood moves a pebble. “His Lordship is fine. You’ll
see. In a couple of days he’ll be home safe.”

Ruthan clenched her teeth and
ducked from his touch. “I am not a child, Captain, nor am I mad! You cannot see
because you are blind. You cannot hear because you are deaf. And I’m telling
you an army of darkness is about to attack Tírandon, and I won’t stand by while
you let them in.”

“Now just one moment. I’ll not be
accused of—”

“Raise the bridge!” Her shouting
brought half a dozen drowsy, glowering men from the barracks tower.

Reynal pursed his lips, taking a
slow, grudging measure of her. At last he nodded and gestured at the youth.
“Run down there and get the lads on the winch.”

“And the portcullises, all of them,”
Ruthan called after the boy as he struck out across the bailey, too slowly to
suit her.

“Sure, why not,” the castellan
said, waving the boy on. He was only humoring her. It was the quickest way back
to his pillow.

Ruthan’s palm across his cheek drove
the complacency off his face. “I am the daughter of Lander, Lord Tírandon, and
my father has been murdered.
I
am your lady now. You will not cross me
as you crossed him, Captain. Ring the alarm!”

He backed slowly for the bell
tower, veins protruding from his neck he was so furious.

“Ring the fucking bell!” she
bellowed in his face. “Ring it, ring it, ring it!” He ran, and she rounded on
the soldiers gawking at her from the barracks door. “Arm yourselves and get to
the wall. Move!”

She breathed easier only when she
heard the great bronze bell singing across the grounds and out into the night.
Even the villagers would hear it booming across the plain, awaken and be ready
for whatever came. Four great chains hauled up the drawbridge; the other
portcullises rattled into place. Men donned chainmail and helms, slung quivers
over their shoulders and sword belts around their waists as they trammeled up
the towers and across the skybridges to the outer curtain. Ruthan hurried to
the Bastion and listened for the clank of axes and jingle of armor. What if she
was
mad? Leshan had spoken to her, she was sure of it. Yet how could
that be?
Please, Goddess, don’t let me be mad
. The alternative, however,
was more frightening still.

Under the roar of the gusts in her
ears, she heard it. The marching of feet.
Please, no
, she prayed.
I
wish I were only mad.
She sagged against the battlements, high over the dark
sea of the plain, and sobbed.

At dawn she raised her head from
her arms and saw a banner standing alone in the middle of a field. On undyed
sackcloth fluttered a broken sword painted black.

~~~~

V
alryk smelled the stink of
blood, though he was locked away in his secret parlor. He sat before a blazing
hearth with his head in his hands and the taste of vomit in his mouth. Dried
tears stiffened his cheeks. He had been a fool to think this task would be
easy. Watching his father die slowly had been sickening. Reeling his people into
the safety of his walls, then listening to them scream was worse, a torment
beyond bearing. The walls were too thin to block out the high, desperate
wailing.

Lasharia provided his only comfort.
When he made his excuse to leave the King’s Hall, she was already here, waiting
for him. She wore her armor, however, rather than a gown. Today was not a day
for softness or beauty, even though her smile had been tender, her lilac eyes
full of affection.

At the first scream, Valryk broke.
He raced for the door, but Lasharia stopped him before he unlocked it and put a
stop to the bloodshed. “No, there has to be another way!”

Her fingers gripping his jaw were
iron. “A change of the watch. You and the Captain agreed this was the best way
to ensure our future, your rule. You can’t risk any traitors among them, you
said so yourself!” She held him until the screaming stopped. Shrieks of terror
suddenly cut off. Cries of pain that dwindled to whimpers, then to silence. It
seemed to last for hours, but it must have been only a short while. It didn’t
take unarmed people long to die. Then the thunder started and the walls shook,
and Valryk was sure the wrath of the Goddess had come upon him, that she meant
to bring the castle down atop his head.

The stillness that followed was
just as bad. The smells seeping in under the door turned his stomach. Soldiers’
feet tramped past, accompanied by gruff shouts and the whimpering of the
squires and servants whom the highborns had toted along. These were stuffed
into the ballroom. The killing wasn’t over yet.

“Do you want to see if she’s
there?” asked Lasharia. Her face was pressed to the wall, her eye to a
peephole. It looked out into the ballroom.

“She’d better not be,” Valryk said
gruffly, lurching unsteadily to his feet. He’d had one goblet of wine too many.
“Or I’ll have Dashka’s hide.”

Four peepholes were spaced across
the molding. Valryk eased one open and saw a couple hundred servants milling
about in the bright light of the chandelier, along with perhaps a hundred boys
and girls in squire’s livery. One of the thrones obstructed his view. He moved
to the next peephole. The towers of sweets and delicacies were long gone from
the room, the windows bolted shut. Night turned the glass into black mirrors
that reflected sullen faces, tear-streaked faces, angry faces. None of them
Carah’s. Dashka had followed his orders after all and locked her safely in her
room. Valryk shouldn’t have bothered sparing her. Once she learned what
happened to her father, what was happening to her mother, she wouldn’t make a
willing queen. She wouldn’t do at all. He could give her a quick, painless
death, however. Yes, he could do that much.

The ballroom door opened. In a rush
of voices, the servants demanded answers; instead, they received another
prisoner shoved among them. The door shut again. The newest dove flushed from
the hedges appeared to be a young nanny. She carried a child.

He remembered seeing a little boy
at the banquet, seated near Kelyn, in fact. Valryk hadn’t counted on any of the
heirs or squires being children. In the narrow view between two of the thrones
he counted at least a dozen prisoners under twelve. The nanny hugged her little
boy close as she tried to find space for them to stand. A valet wearing the
white primrose of Nathrachan waved her to the dais and kicked a squire out of
one of the thrones so she and the boy could sit. “Did you see all the blood?”
the child asked. He sat facing his nanny; his eyes were large and green. The
servants had to be escorted through the banquet hall to reach the ballroom;
many of them arrived sobbing because they had seen horrors Valryk could only
imagine.

“Don’t think about it,” his nanny
replied. “Shall I sing you a song?”

“I want my
mum
.”

“Shh, you’re tired. It’s past your
bedtime.”

“I
was
asleep! I never sleeped
under my bed before. Why did those mean men bring us down here? Are we going to
eat? I’m hungry.”

She lifted a dark lock from his
face. “You’re always hungry, Lassar. But it’s time for sleep. You can eat in
the morning.”

Valryk shut the peephole. “Can’t
they just get it over with?” he said, turning to Lasharia.

She stood on the threshold with
Dashka. Their whispers broke off. The Falcons captain clicked his heels and
bowed. “Sire, Lothiar is arrived. He’ll meet you in the King’s Hall.”

“The hell he will. I’m not going in
there, not till it’s cleaned up. If he wants an audience, he can come to me
here.” Valryk waved the man a dismissal, and then something happened that confounded
him:  Dashka remained on the threshold looking at him blankly for a moment too
long, then he and Lasharia exchanged a glance, and it was the small jut of her
chin that sent the man away.

“I pay that man good money to do as
he’s told,” Valryk said.

“It’s been a long, hard day for all
of us, beloved.” She took his hands. “I know you don’t want to, but think how
hard Lothiar has been working, day after day, to keep the wards in place.
You’ll meet him halfway, won’t you?”

It was a bad habit he’d started,
following that elf’s orders, but he couldn’t refuse Lasharia. How bad could it
be? It was only a battlefield. He had read about a thousand of them. He
straightened his doublet, raised his chin, and followed Dashka out. The reek of
blood and opened bowels was worse in the corridor. Valryk whipped out a perfumed
kerchief and pressed it under his nose.

“Watch where you step, sire,” said
Dashka holding the side door open. The doorposts and lintel framed more than
Valryk cared to see. This was worse than he had imagined. The high table had
been overturned; bodies were sprawled on both sides; one was draped over it,
arms dangling, red rivulets twining about gray fingers. One of the White
Mantles. Valryk’s narrow frame was full of White Mantles, their sweeping cloaks
and enameled armor stained red. They must have made their stand in this corner.
A few Falcons in black lay among them, a couple of highborns in velvet. Was that
the fat, mopey Prince Da’yn on the far side of the dais? Underneath the bodies
lay cold sticky pools. Valryk put a hand to the doorpost, wanting nothing more
than to turn around and run to a scalding bath, but Lasharia stood in the
corridor behind him. She would think him a mewling babe.
I didn’t know I was
squeamish
, he wanted to tell her.

She laid a gentle hand to his
shoulder and whispered in his ear, “Remember, they would all have been
traitors. They would have torn your empire to pieces.” Yes, a change of the
watch.

Valryk took one more step and the
whole horror opened up before him. As Lothiar had ordered, nothing had been
touched, not one hair or stick of furniture moved. Falcon guardsmen—Doreli
mercenaries actually—stood along the walls to ensure this order was carried
out. Lothiar said he wanted to do his own searching.

I don’t have to look
, Valryk
told himself, raising his eyes over the carnage, but blood streaked the walls,
too. Some desperate soul had tried to climb the impossible height to the windows;
a bloody hand had painted the stone with long dark smears.
A change of the
watch, a change of the watch.
His mother’s voice intruded:
Make sure
your legacy is one you’re proud of
. Was he proud of this? What would the
bards sing? Thirty years from now would he look back on this day and say, “Yes,
it was worth it and to hell with the bards and their songs?” All the Northwest
would be united under one banner, one law. No more wars. Who could threaten
Lasharia then? Yes, this sacrifice was worth it. Oh, Goddess, he had to make
sure of it, or this horror would drive him mad.

The floor was slick under his toes.
He had to look down to avoid stepping in gore. He was standing beside a woman
with fair hair and green eyes. A black flower had bloomed in the middle of her
back. A fly crawled on her cheek.

Three quick, careful steps brought
him to the dais. A strong night wind blew through a gaping hole in the wall. So
that’s what stirred up the stink. “How did this damned hole get here?”

“I’m sure Lothiar will want to know
as well,” Lasharia said. She leveled a cold eye on Dashka and the man’s face
blanched a fraction. “The string of bodies leads out into the city.”

“Ah, Goddess,” Valryk swore, seeing
the smoldering remains of the houses beyond the broken wall. Flickering
streetlamps revealed dark lumps on either side of the street. Unaware of
Lothiar’s orders, the citizens had laid the bodies in neat rows. But how had
these houses and shops burned down? The street was a rumpled ruin. “
He
was here after all. Look what he’s done to my city!”

The doors of the King’s Hall
crashed open. Lothiar’s arrival was as startling and daunting as that of a thunderbolt
waking one in the night. His was the kind of aura that Valryk hoped to project,
but every time he was in Lothiar’s presence he realized how short he fell of
that dream. His armor was massive yet graceful, fashioned of steel that rippled
with the colors of a bruise. Lasharia said such steel was infused with magic,
that it couldn’t be hewn even with the sharpest, luckiest blade. Bellowing
dragons were molded into the breastplate, pauldrons, and gauntlets; spiked
horns adorned the helm tucked under his arm.

The ice-eyed Elari called Wingfleet
accompanied him. Valryk had met him only once. He’d not said a word, this elf, but
Valryk got the distinct impression that he regarded the human king only a
little higher than a slug. He seemed to prefer supple gray leather and a shirt
of scales made from this enchanted dark steel.

Two enormous monsters brought up
the rear. Valryk staggered back into the overturned table, felt himself gaping,
and closed his mouth. He had glimpsed these foul creatures through Lasharia’s
portal years ago, the first time she’d come to him wearing armor and the blood
of her enemies. She had called them “infantry.” Valryk called them battering
rams. At the smell of blood their muzzles drew tight across scarred tusks. One
had disproportionately large hands, tiny red eyes, and a scraggly black braid
wagging from the top of his pointed head. The other wore what looked like a
leather hat; only when he turned around to examine the battlefield did Valryk
see that this hat was made from the skin of a dwarf’s head. The eyes and mouth
were stitched shut and the wiry, orange beard cascaded down the ogre’s back.

“We expected you hours ago, sir,”
said Lasharia.

“I wanted to
be
here hours
ago,” said Lothiar. “But when I let the wards dissolve I … lost consciousness.
That
worries me.” He pointed at the hole blasted through the wall. “Is it a blunder
of yours, Dashka?”

The guards commander bowed an
apology. “No, sir.”

Lothiar’s eyes narrowed, demanding
an explanation.

“I assume it was Dathiel, sir.”

“You assume?”

“He hurled me into the wall. I
don’t remember anything after that.” He gestured to the corner where this
mishap took place. “When I woke, the hole was there and I was buried under a
pile of bodies.”

“You were supposed to apprehend
him!” Color flooded Lothiar’s face. “Failing that, at least neutralize him.”
Bone crunched, and he rounded on his ogres. “Fogrim! If you have not the grace
the Goddess gave a cow, remove yourself. Crush a face before I can identify it
and I will cut off your feet a toe at a time.”

The ogre wearing the dwarf’s head
snarled in response, baring conical teeth like those of a Zhiani water dragon, but
he lifted his great foot out of the middle of some Leanian’s back and stopped meandering
about.

“Dathiel was not alone, sir,”
Dashka added.

“His apprentice, aye.”

“ ‘Apprentice’ he may have been,
but no longer. I could not fight them both, not once Dathiel got his hands on
his staff. It’s fortunate I didn’t end up like these.” Swaths of Falcons and
garrison soldiers appeared to have been hewn down like grain. Only, this sickle
had a blade of lightning.

Lothiar crowed at the ceiling,
sounding more amused than angry. “Dathiel, curse his bones. His chains remain
empty, Dashka.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

The ogre with the oversized hands
leaned close to Lothiar. “Dis naeni eat him for you, Cap.”

Lothiar crossed his arms and sucked
his teeth, considering it. “Of all the avedrin in the pit, Dashka, you are the
only one who was skilled enough to aid me. I won’t let Paggon eat you, not yet.
We’ll talk of this later.”

The pit? When Lothiar presented
Dashka to Valryk as his new guards captain, he hadn’t thought to ask why the
man looked so pale and bruised and hollow-eyed. He pleaded only “seasickness”
from the long voyage west. The Valroi recovered quickly and obeyed Valryk’s
orders with immediacy, competence, and exquisite attention to detail. It wasn’t
long before the moody and suspicious Captain Lissah became a dim, distasteful
memory.

Lothiar climbed onto one of the
central tables, stepped over a centerpiece whose flowers were smashed and
strewn, nudged a severed hand from his path with his toe. Turning slowly, he
studied the fall of bodies and soon growled in frustration. He slapped eyes on
Valryk. The acknowledgement was long overdue in Valryk’s opinion.

“Well, emperor, where is he? The
Son of Ilswythe, your War Commander.”

“You don’t see him?” Valryk leapt
onto one of the other tables. The view was just as horrifying from up here. “Kelyn
sat over there.” He pointed, and at the end of his finger found his great-aunt
Rilyth. She slumped sideways in her chair, an ugly black gash opening her from
shoulder to sternum. Valryk whirled away.