Hawkmaiden (26 page)

“We are to take control of the high pass,” Kamen announced to everyone at dinner.  “We march after this meal.  The Westwood is to hold and reinforce Caolan’s Pass until we’re relieved.  That was expected.  But we’re to go tonight and march in the darkness.  Certain . . . intelligence has passed our way that leads us to believe that the pass will be assaulted.  Perhaps soon.  We want to be there first, and in strength.  Otherwise we’ll be having a lot of fun shooting at the invaders who come down that hill.”

There was some grim laughter at that – the Westwoodmen had concealed blinds for hunting and defense all along the ridgelines and the edge of their territory.  Many could cover the long trail down from the pass, shooting from cover and inaccessible places. 

After dinner Kamen took her aside again, near the Flame, as her brothers and cousins donned their armor and the kitchen prepared food for them to take. 

“I told Sir Cei what you reported,” he said, quietly, so no one else could overhear.  “He accepted it as good reporting.  That’s why we’re leaving tonight, instead of at dawn.  He suspects that the only reason that they would encamp so close to the pass is if they expected to press a surprise attack.”

“And dawn would be the perfect time to attack an undefended pass,” agreed Dara.  Her father nodded approvingly.  Even though she didn’t have the rudimentary military training her brothers had been forced to endure, she understood basic tactics. 

“Which is why the Westwood will be there in force,” he nodded.  “I’ll lead the lads up myself.  If they try to come up that trail they’ll do it sprouting arrows like spring plumage!”

Despite his brave words Dara could see that her father was afraid.  Not of his own life, as much, she realized, as for what the potential of battle could do to his family.  Those weren’t just soldiers he was leading up that ridge.  Those were his sons and nephews.  Dara developed a new appreciation for the supposed “power” of the Master of the Wood.  If that was power, she wanted none of it.

Still, she felt somewhat responsible herself, for what she had done: gotten her family deployed into danger earlier than they had expected.  As the boys marched across the rope bridge, singing a simple hymn to the Flame, Dara felt her heart sink.  How many would return, she wondered.

News came before the dawn the next morning.  Dara had barely been able to sleep, worrying about her father, uncles, brothers and cousins atop the ridge.  When the shouts from one of the younger boys raised the sentry at the chasm, most of the Hall woke up to hear the report.

Dara’s intelligence had been correct, as had Sir Cei’s analysis of it.  The West Flerians had tried to take the high pass in an early morning raid.  Had old Carkan, the Yeoman of the pass, been alone the foe would be marching on Sevendor Castle past the very door of the Westwood.  But with the Westwoodmen able to respond so quickly and by surprise, the West Flerian men had been driven halfway back down the ridge in disarray.  Now the ridge was held under the Westwood’s small wolfshead banner.

The messenger who brought the news was jubilant – there had been almost no injuries in the fighting, and the West Flerians had clearly not expected the pass to be held in such force.  That was welcome news for the community.

But Dara was still frightened of what might happen if the West Flerians continued to push.  She was forbidden to go out ranging, even in the Westwood, now that the war banner flew from the castle’s highest tower, but as soon as it was light enough she took Frightful out to the yard and flung her into the air.  Then she returned to her room, took to her bed, and fell into rapport with her falcon.  She had to know what was happening at the ridge.

Frightful’s perspective swam crazily for Dara in her mind’s eye until she settled in behind the bird’s eyes.  Below the land was waking up, the fields and meadows were alive with creatures stirring for the day’s first meal.  Ordinarily that was what Frightful herself would be doing, if Dara hadn’t had other plans for her.

The gap in the ridge to the north that made up Caolan’s Pass was narrow, and the road up to it was twisty and steep, but it took the falcon almost no time to reach it.  Dara noted how attentively the dark-clad figures of her folk manned the log barricade they had thrown up at the ridgeline.  A few bodies lay still below the ridge on the other side, testament to the Westwood’s skill with archery. 

Still further down the trail on the other side of the ridge, just a few dozen feet out of bowshot, gathered thirty or forty more soldiers bearing the Warbird’s livery, regrouping and scheming.  No doubt they were considering other plans, now that their first had been so quickly upset.  Dara was no soldier, but she saw little hope of the West Flerians taking the ridge.  The path up the hill was well-exposed to the arrows of the Sevendori, and it was far too steep for a war horse to be used to any effect. 

Satisfied that the enemy was, indeed, at bay, Dara had Frightful wheel back around and return to circle the pass.  She was almost startled when she saw the strangely small figure of her father notice the falcon and wave up to her, recognizing her for what she was.

The thought of him waving up into the sky at his daughter amused her so much she almost lost he rapport with her bird.  Instead, she commanded Frightful to glide to a landing on the barricade.

It was odd – she could hear everything that Frightful could, but that did not mean she understood.  Her father was speaking to the bird, she knew, but it took tremendous concentration for her to ferret out the actual words.  To Frightful such human speech was largely unintelligible.  But after some effort Dara was able to understand that her father was reporting that all was well, and that he would be returning to the Hall soon enough.

Satisfied, Dara had Frightful return to Westwood Hall for a well-deserved treat.  She spent the rest of the day rolling bandages and helping prepare more medicines, until her father returned alone at dusk.

“We had a right fun day,” he told his half-empty hall.  The place seemed abandoned, almost, without the usual noise from all of her male relations to fill it.  “Three sorties they made up that slope, since dawn.  Three times we drove them back with arrows before they came half-way.  The last time they left a half-dozen men behind,” he boasted.  “I left Kyre in charge of the men.”

“Kyre?”
asked Aunt Anira, a little alarmed.  “Should not Keram be—?”

“Kyre will be master of this Hall in his own right, some day,” Kamen observed to his sister-in-law.  “He has the respect of our folk and the courage to lead.  It is well and right that the boy should command his own men.”

“That’s . . . but in time of war?” she asked, skeptically.

“Particularly in a time of war,” Kamen said, darkly.  “He is my oldest son.  I cherish him above all else as the hope for our people.  Yet I would not deny him the opportunity to take his position as a man, even though it is at risk of his life.” 

“He’s just . . . so
young,
” Anira said. 

Dara was astute enough to realize what she was really saying
: Why did you not leave my husband, your brother, in charge of such an important assignment?
Her aunt was as loyal as anyone in the Hall, but Anira had always harbored some resentment over her brother-in-law’s position.  Keram the Crafty was adept at much, Dara knew, and the Hall wouldn’t work without his diligence . . . but he was not Master of the Hall, nor would he be. 

Unless her father and all of her brothers died.

“I’ve a duty to report to the castellan and our lady at the castle,” Kamen continued, “let them know what forces we face at the ridge.  I had to leave someone in charge while I did so.  We heard that a raid was staged on the Diketower, too,” he added.  That was the main entrance to the vale of Sevendor, at the far eastern end of the valley, where many of the Bovali immigrants had settled.   “Sir Roncil rode by to inspect us and brought the news.  We drove them back.  The Diketower stands well-defended.  If the Warbird wants Sevendor, he’ll pay dearly for it!” he declared, with more fervor than Dara had suspected he had.

“Do you think they’ll just . . . go away, now that they see we’re defended?” Dara asked, knowing how silly the question was as soon as she asked it.  The Warbird had a reputation across the vales as a man of great power and vengeance.  He ran the neighboring domains with an iron fist.  As poor as the people of Sevendor had been, as neglectful as Sir Erantal had been, the prospect of Sire Gimbal the Warbird as overlord of Sevendor sounded appalling.  There was no way his honor would allow him to retreat, once battle had been engaged.

“Nay, Little Bird,” her father sighed.  “They’ve been preparing for weeks, awaiting the Magelord’s journey away from here with his apprentices.  They won’t back down now, not when they have an advantage.  They hoped to conquer us quickly, though.  Thanks to your intelligence, we denied them that at Caolan’s Pass,” he said, gratefully.   “I’ll be mentioning that to Sir Cei and Lady Alya, when I make my report.”

Dara continued to fret as she prepared for bed.  She didn’t know how she could possibly sleep while her brothers and cousins faced danger only a mile or so from her bed.  She tossed and turned in her sheets, the heat of the night feeling oppressive to her.  When sleep did finally come, it was a restless sleep full of dread and anxiety.

She found herself being shaken awake in the middle of the night.  Terrified, she bolted upright, her eyes wide with fear.  Her father, still in his armor, was standing in front of her with a taper.  Frightful started to wake up, her tiny eyes shining in the light at the foot of Dara’s bed.

“What is it?  What’s wrong?” Dara demanded, fearing the worse.

“Calm yourself, Little Bird,” Kamen said, soothingly.  “There’s nothing amiss.  Last word I got from the Pass said all was well, and there’s no beacon fire on the ridge.  I just got back from the war council at the castle,” he explained.  “I thought I would tell you what came of it, as you were so helpful yesterday.”

“What happened?” Dara asked, as she composed herself.  No one was hurt, she reminded herself.  Her dreams had not been real.

“I gave my report in turn, as all the Yeomen did,” her father said, taking a seat on her creaking old bed.  “I told them how you suggested we deploy up the ridge early . . . and why.  And how our being there kept the West Flerians at bay.  Sir Cei was mightily impressed,” he smiled.  “Both with our boys’ initiative and bravery, and with my daughter’s cleverness.”

“I wasn’t being clever,” Dara dismissed.

“You were clever enough to bring it to my attention, and spare us a bloody battle in our vale.  You may never be Master of the Wood, Little Bird, but you’ve certainly the wit and wisdom for it.”

The unexpected praise made Dara blush – and change the subject.  “What happens now?”

“We continue to guard the pass,” Kamen replied.  “The domain is under siege, now.  The folk of Gurisham, Genly, and Sevendor Village have already been moved into the outer bailey of the castle as a precaution.  We will be safe enough behind our chasm. But if either the Diketower or the Pass falls, then we will see a different type of war,” he said, darkly.

Dara suppressed a shudder.  “We won’t let that happen,” she promised, encouragingly.  “The Magelord will learn of this and return in time.”

“Aye, that’s the hope,” sighed her father.  “Though what one man, even a mage, can do against an entire army is beyond my ken.   You needn’t worry yourself.   Sir Cei and Lady Alya have things well in-hand.  The castle is provisioned, defended, and manned – far more than Sir Erantal ever did.  And there are plenty of brave men willing to fight for Sevendor.  The Bovali seem to be spoiling for a fight.  A stout castle and brave men can withstand a siege of hundreds of days, if need be.”  Despite his assuredness, Dara could tell her father had some doubts.  “The biggest problem, they say, is magical.”

“Magical?” Dara asked, confused.

“Aye.  Many of the defenses the Magelord put into place before he left were magical.  Without him or his fellow wizards around, they’re useless.  Or something like that.  I confess, I knew but half of what was said at council when they spoke of magic and spellcraft.  Thing is,” he continued, “they want every mage in the domain to go to the castle and help.”

“Well, they should!” Dara agreed.  Gareth had pointed out several of the footwizards and other itinerate magi who had made their way to Sevendor, at market.  They were generally odd-looking fellows, looking more like vagabonds than tradesmen, but there had been several.  Surely they could be put to use.  “We’re at war!  Everyone should be willing to do their part!  Are some of the other wizards not—”

“Oh, the castle is full of wizards,” chuckled Kamen.  “Master Banamor is there, fretting over his enterprises. That young man Gareth you spoke of is there.   Master Olmeg the Greenward is there, though he is still hurt.  And a few others from the village.  None of them are warmagi.  Fighting wizards,” he explained.

“I know what warmagi are!” Dara said, rolling her eyes.  Gareth had explained that to her
weeks
ago. 

“Then you know how valuable they are in war,” Kamen said.  “And why the Magelord needs to return.  But that’s not why I mentioned it, Dara.  When I spoke of your help in the battle yesterday, Sir Cei and Lady Alya were very intrigued.”

“I was glad to help,” she said, uncomfortably.

“That is good to hear,” nodded Kamen.  “Because an order has been issued that all wizard folk are to report to the castle for service. 
All
wizard folk.”  He paused, and looked at her meaningfully.  “Including Talented, untrained beastmasters who figured out how to . . .
bilocate
,” he said, his mouth having difficulty with the strange word.  “Sir Cei wants to see you and Frightful at the castle, first thing in the morning.”