Hawkmaiden (28 page)

“Your husband?” snorted Erantal.  “He’ll never return!  We’ve made sure of that.  He’ll never break through our defenses, warmage or no!”

“Then you will be enjoying your former dungeon for a very long time,” Lady Alya said, sweetly.  “But there you will stay until he can hear your case.”

“Surely some more expedient method could be considered,” Erantal said, his face pale at the mention of the dungeon he’d thrown so many Sevendori into over the years.  It appeared as if the old knight wanted Lady Alya to sit in judgment on him.  Perhaps he considered her more merciful than her fierce lord.

“I could, indeed, try you myself, here and now,” agreed Alya.  “I’m tempted.  If you insist, I will.  But I advise you to await my husband,” she continued.  “Of the two of us, it is my guess he is less inclined to have you summarily executed.” 

Erantal’s face went even paler. 

“Of course, he’d do it nice and clean.  I would have a set of stocks commissioned to replace the ones we destroyed, when we arrived here last autumn, for the express purpose of allowing the folk of Sevendor vale to show you their gratitude and devotion for your management of the domain over the years.  From what I understand, there are many in the vale who would relish such an opportunity.  For
days.
  Take him away,” she commanded Sir Roncil. 

“As for you, Kyre of Westwood, for taking this important prisoner I reward you with an ounce of silver,” she continued.  Sir Cei did not argue – he dug into a purse on the table and threw the boy a heavy silver coin.

“That’s very welcome, my lady,” Kyre said as he caught the coin, noticing Dara for the first time behind the table, “but what we really need is some relief.  My men have been on watch for two days, now, and have borne two dawn attacks.  We can keep at it another day or two, but . . .”

“Fear not,” Sir Cei said, nodding.  “We’ve mustered the village militias.  They are preparing to march in support of the Diketower, Caolan’s Pass, and other strategically important areas.  By dusk you should stand relieved, and can retire and get some rest.  You’ve done admirably,” he added.  “What kind of force do you need to relieve you?”

“It’s not a hard job, standing at the top of a hill and keeping folk off it,” Kyre acknowledged.  “A few bowmen and you can sweep the trail for a hundred feet down.  A score, two if you can spare them, can hold that pass.”

“We do need the hardier troops for defense of the Diketower,” agreed Lady Alya.  “Sir Forondo is preparing the garrison to engage in a charge to break through the besiegers,” she added, hopefully.  “We’d like as many infantry to support them as possible.  But if a few score bowmen and spearmen can hold that pass, we can spare them.”

“It would be a gracious respite, my lady,” Kyre said, bowing with his hand on his chest.  Dara felt proud of how well he comported himself.  He had been in an actual battle – two, if you counted yesterday’s raid – and he had survived.  More, he had taken a valuable prisoner.  That brought honor to the Westwood.  Dara hoped she could add to that.

Kyre gave her a wink and a smile before he departed, as Sir Roncil – one of the few Bovali knights who had come with the settlers – dragged Sir Erantal down to the dungeon.  Dara made a point of watching every step the man took.  She knew she would be asked about it over and over, once she got back home, and she didn’t want to miss a single detail.  Sir Erantal was hated in Sevendor.  His capture almost made the war worth it.

“That man is a disgrace to the chivalry,” Dara overheard Sir Cei tell Lady Alya.  The young noblewoman nodded grimly.

“Disgrace to the chivalry?” Dara felt her mouth say before she could catch it.  “He’s a disgrace as a human being.  My entire life I’ve lived in fear of the mean old knight in this castle.  I’m just happy I got to see him get stuck under it.”

*                            *                            *

Dara had no idea what a “magical corps” was when Sir Cei escorted her to the Magelord’s private workshop, pointed her to the right door, and then hurried off on important castle business.  But she soon discovered that it was merely what the group of warmagi attached to an army was called.

Of course, at the moment Sevendor’s “magical corps” consisted of only one mage with any formal training in warmagic – her friend Gareth, who looked like he was made of sticks and straw.  He was waving his hands in the air over a table of sand while his employer, Master Banamor, looked on.

She had met Master Banamor before, when Sevendor’s Spellwarden had come to visit the Westwood after the Snow That Never Melted.  He was a man of middle age who wore a simple peaked cap and a burgher’s robe.  Gareth had mentioned to her that he was a former footwizard – an unregistered mage who illegally pedaled his spells from village to village, often one step ahead of the feared Censorate.  Now that he had taken service with the Magelord, the former vagabond had prospered in Sevendor. . . and if Dara was any judge, he seemed like a man unwilling to allow his fortunes to vanish without a fight.

Olmeg the Green was present, looking like he was slowly recovering from the savage beating by the hated West Flerians.  His long, wide face still bore the signs of his resistance.  There were bruises on his face and fresh bandages wrapped around his head.  As the domain’s Greenwarden, Master Olmeg had been put in charge of all of the plants in Sevendor, and that included the Westwood.  He had made several trips to the estate since he’d arrived.  He was hard to miss, as he was not only taller than Sir Cei, but he wore an even taller pointed green hat and a green tunic or smock.  He also went everywhere barefoot. 

Her father spoke highly of the man for his wood-lore and wisdom.  Dara could tell immediately why.  Master Olmeg never seemed to hurry.  He always considered everything he said before he spoke, and then he spoke slowly.  He was staring at a parchment map of the domain and muttering under his breath as he fingered something in a tiny wooden box.

The last member of the “magical corps” was a mage Dara had never met, one of the Bovali immigrants, by his dress.  He was a funny-looking fellow, a bit like Master Olmeg in some ways, but instead of a simple tunic or robe he wore a shaggy sheepskin vest over a dark maroon tunic.  His bushy beard hung down almost as low as Master Olmeg’s, and his eyes were two kindly lamps in a well-weathered face.  He seemed to be engaged in a starring contest with a bowl of water.  Unless Dara was mistaken, the bowl was winning. 

Master Banamor was looking frustrated with Gareth, who had his eyes closed and was waving his hands slowly in the air in front of him.  Dara could almost see something there, she thought for a moment – a kind of distortion in the air, like the heat over a fire.  But then it was gone.  So was Gareth’s concentration, when he realized that she had arrived.

“Dara!” he said, excitedly, when his eyes fluttered open.

“Damn!” barked Banamor.  “Concentrate, boy!  Didn’t they teach you that at that fancy academy?”

“Sorry, Master, but it wasn’t working anyway,” the young mage said to his employer.  “That’s the fourth time I’ve tried.  Someone has blocked traditional scrying in the vales beyond the frontier.  I can’t get anything beyond the Enchanted Forest.”

“Enchanted forest?” Dara blurted out.  She had heard rumors that Master Olmeg was planting something out beyond the Diketower, but Dara had never been that far from home to see it. 

“A bit of nastiness that Master Olmeg is growing,” Gareth supplied, helpfully.  “Gallows Oaks, deadly plants, briars, enchantments . . . it’s actually pretty impressive,” he said, admiringly.

“More impressive in a few years,” admitted Olmeg, thoughtfully.  “Most of my obstacles will not be fully grown for several seasons, even with magical assistance.  But they cannot dispute my control over it,” he added, proudly.  “They can stop me from scrying, but there are other ways to see through the Green.”

“They must have a warmage aiding them,” Gareth agreed.  “That’s the only reason our scrying is blocked.”

“My sightings, too, are obscured,” the strange mage reported with a shrug.  “I am Zagor, hedgemage of Boval Village,” he said, giving her a curt but polite little bow. 

“What’s scrying?” Dara asked, feeling foolish for not knowing.  “And where is Boval Village?”

“Boval Village is what they’re calling the new settler’s new village,” explained Gareth, standing and stretching.  “It’s near the sight of the old Brestal Farms village, the one that the Warbird burned down when he took Brestal Vale.  Zagor came here with the Bovali, and he’s set up shop there in Boval Village as a spellmonger.”

“Hedgemage,” corrected the man with the thick accent.  “I do not sell my spells.  I sing an enchantment for folk I find worthy.  Then they give me a gift, sometimes,” he shrugged again.

“It’s still commerce, and it’s still getting taxed as such,” Master Banamor insisted, gruffly.  “I don’t care if you try to pretty it up with your folksy ways!  As long as I’m Spellwarden, that’s how it will be seen.  And scrying?” he added, as he pulled out his long pipe and leaf pouch and began packing it.  “That’s when a mage uses magic to see someplace that’s not right in front of him.  Lots of ways to do it.  Unfortunately, there are an equal number of ways to
keep
it from happening.  If they have a warmage . . .”

“They do,” Dara said, realizing that she had valuable information that only these men would know what to do with.  “When I was scouting over the northern ridge with my falcon, I had her fly over their encampment.  She only saw it for a moment, but . . . I believe there was a black and white checkered cloak among them.” 

The face of every mage in the room went pale.  Master Banamor stopped packing his pipe.

“The bloody Censors!” Banamor cursed.  “How I hate that order!  Even after they’ve been sacked, they still won’t leave me alone!”

“Are you certain, Dara?” asked Gareth, concerned.  “I only mentioned them that one time, and—”

“Black and white checks are fairly distinctive,” Dara said, defensively.  “And while I might just be a girl, unused to weapons and war, I think I know what a cloak looks like.  It was there,” she said, with certainty. 

“That would explain a lot,” Master Olmeg nodded, sagely.  “Our inability to scry, the failure of my defensive spells . . . a warmage is involved.  And the Censorate’s antipathy towards our lord is well-known.”

“Would they actively assist in a small, private war like this?” asked Zagor.  The rustic hedgemage had had little experience with the regulators of magic, Dara figured, if he had come from way off in the Mindens. 

“You’d better believe it,” grunted Banamor.  “Despite their pretensions of neutrality, the Censorate will use whatever means it needs to in order to achieve its goals.  Toppling the Spellmonger while he’s off in the capital is, apparently, a high priority.”

“Lucky us,” Gareth said, shaking his head darkly.  “If they’re rendering magical assistance, I imagine that they may be lending material assistance as well.”

“You think?” Banamor asked, lighting his pipe with a flame that just appeared on his finger.  “That would be very bad, then.  If we face the might of West Fleria alone, we’re going to be outnumbered.  If Sire Gimbal has managed to hire mercenaries on someone else’s coin . . .”

“That would be very bad,” agreed Zagor, conversationally.  “But what can we do?”

“Precious little,” Gareth said, starkly.  “We can’t scry.  And we can’t see beyond the Enchanted Forest.  And that’s where Dara comes in.”

“The falcon,” smiled Olmeg.  It was a very big smile on a very big face.  In other circumstances Dara might have found it intimidating, but Dara could tell it was genuine.  “Your beautiful falcon.”

“Her name is Frightful,” Dara said, stroking the back of the bird’s neck with a finger. 

“And you can bilocate with this animal?” Banamor asked.

“I can,” she nodded.  “I’ve been practicing.”

“Good,” Banamor nodded, smoke trickling from his nostrils.  “We have a sortie ready to go forth against our besiegers.  At least thirty heavy lancers.  We have no idea what they’re going to be facing.  If there’s any way you could remedy that . . .”

“Can you open a window?” Dara asked, looking for a place to launch her falcon.  “And find a comfortable place for me to sit?  I get a little stiff, if I’m with her too long.  And if you don’t mind sending to the kitchens for a little raw meat, kidney or liver if you have it, she’s going to be hungry when she gets back.”

Chapter Fourteen

The Magical Corps

All morning Dara sent Frightful soaring across the valley investigating the movements of the West Flerians from the sky.  The work was mostly beyond Sevendor’s enclosed valley, out beyond the ridges to the north and west. 

It was farther than either Frightful or Dara had ever gone before, and both bird and trainer were uneasy at first.  But with patient direction from Gareth and Banamor she managed to get the bird to the top of Matten’s Helm, to get her bearings, and thence across to the large earthen dike and small fortress known as the Diketower.  There the bulk of Sevendor’s defenders were concentrated. 

Though it was difficult to gauge exact numbers through Frightful’s eyes, Dara could see hundreds of Sevendori – natives and Bovali immigrants alike – patrolling with bow and spear the great earthen wall that now guarded the pass.  More peered out from the top of the three-story tower that overlooked the pass, their arrows ready to fire.  Yet more waited behind the dike, ready to defend it.

Beyond the wall Frightful found most of Sevendor’s few mounted troops assembling for a sortie against the West Flerian enemy.  Sir Forondo, the man who served the Magelord as Captain of the Guard, had formed up a line of thirty brave lancers to take the field.  Frightful saw the long line of horses, felt their excitement and smelled their rider’s dread.  It took Dara’s mind to see the men in glittering armor, their long lances tipped with sharp steel held high.  From many of the points a small green-and-white banner fluttered. 

The Snowflake of Sevendor
.  Dara had barely known of it, before she came to the castle, but the Magelord’s new device for the small domain was starting to appear in banners and tokens everywhere around the place.  It was a wild-looking six-pointed star in white, on a green field, said to be what a snowflake looked like up close.  It was the device adopted by the Magelord, in honor of the Snow That Never Melted. 

It was pretty, if odd, especially through the eyes of a falcon.  Dara had no idea how one would perceive such a thing, but the spider-web like device had been eagerly adopted by the fighting men in this little war.  At least it was simpler to stitch, than, say, a holly leaf.  That exercise had been what had convinced Dara that needlework was not her strong point.  But the Snowflake would be easy to copy, she decided.  A larger example hung defiantly from the top of the Diketower, she noted, when Frightful circled back once over the horsemen.

The road to Sevendor below the dike descended through a rocky wasteland that had recently been planted with trees – that was Master Olmeg’s new Enchanted Forest, Dara guessed, as Frightful winged over it.  She saw men moving below, hiding behind boulders or saplings.  She couldn’t guess which ones were fighting for Sevendor and which were against it from this height.  She pushed her falcon to move on.

Less than a mile down the road she saw the first band of foes on the road.  She had Frightful land in the top of a tall elm tree within sight of the road.  Thankfully, the men ignored her.  But she could easily see them from her vantage: a score of men bearing the device of the Warbird on their sashes and tabards.  Only a quarter of them were mounted. 

It didn’t take long for Frightful to become aware of other noises and smells from her vantage point, however.  She cocked her head when she heard more horses in the distance.  Dara urged her to take wing again and wheel in the direction of the noise.

Off the road, to the east, lay a much, much larger company.  More than four times the number of Sir Forondo’s brave men had mustered in a barren pasture, ready to ride to the defense of their foes.  While the distances meant little to the falcon, Dara realized that the larger army was ready to pounce on any defenders Sevendor might send forth, should they chase the lure of the smaller force in the road.  That could be devastating to Sevendor.

Frightful flew on.  Beyond the mounted men by another half-mile was a fallow field sprawling with tents, canopies, and wagons.  Far, far more men than Dara had ever seen together at one time.  It was dizzying for her to see from that high in the air, and even more dizzying to contemplate.  There had to be over a thousand, she reasoned, as she tried to gauge exactly how many. 

Periodically in her flying she would land Frightful somewhere, or give her some basic but firm direction, and then break her trance long enough to report back to Gareth or Banamor.  When she reported the larger force lying in wait for Sir Forondo, he raced from the room with impressive speed. 

“How will he get there in time?” she asked, her eyes wide.  If he didn’t, she realized, thirty men and their horses would be dead or captured. 

“He’s rushing to get Sir Cei,” Gareth explained.  “He has a device – a magical device – called a Mirror.  It uses magic to allow the castellan to speak with the commander of the Diketower, for just this sort of thing.  As soon as he can get to Sir Cei, a messenger can be dispatched to reach Sir Forondo in time . . . I hope,” he added.

Dara immediately went back into contact with Frightful.  It was difficult, at this great distance, but long practice and familiarity soon brought her back over the besieging army.   She had Frightful circle the twenty men being used as a lure by the West Flerians, and saw as Sevendor’s small force advanced down the road, two by two.

The vanguard of the company spread out as much as the road allowed and advanced.  The West Flerians feigned surprise and began a ragged retreat down the road, drawing the Sevendori into the trap.  Just as the first of the lancers reached the point where their foes had awaited them, however, a swift horse came up from behind and found Sir Forondo before the company was committed . . . and ensnared.

With a sigh of relief Dara slipped back out of her trance and told the other magi the good news. 

“That’s the second time you’ve saved the domain, you and Frightful,” Gareth pointed out, as Zagor and Olmeg went down to the Great Hall to relay the news to the rest of the castle.  “That was about the only mounted force the domain has, and it would have been tragic if it had been taken . . . or slaughtered.”

“I was just trying to help,” Dara said, dazedly. 

“That’s the kind of help we need more of,” Gareth assured her.  “With the Magelord gone . . .”

“Has no one sent a messenger?” Dara asked in disbelief.  That would seem like the first thing she would have done . . .

“We tried, “ nodded Gareth, as he stifled a yawn.  “But they were intercepted by the West Flerians.  Zagor tried to contact him through the Otherworld, last night, but—”

“The . . .
Otherworld?
” Dara asked in confusion. 

Gareth shook his shaggy head in irritation.  “Sorry.  I’m used to having this sort of discussion with fellow magi.  The Otherworld . . . well, you know that place you go when you dream?  That’s the gateway to the Otherworld.  It’s like . . . like our world, only it exists in the magosphere, not here in reality.”

“You know, as explanations go, that was a particularly poor one.  It made no sense to me at all,” Dara decided. 

“Of course not,” Gareth sighed.  “You just don’t have the education.  Maybe if your Talent really emerges someone will see to training you properly.”

“I’m a
falconer,
” Dara reminded him, a little defiantly.

“And I’m a
thaumaturge
,” Gareth replied, “only now I’m a
warmage
.  When I’m not being a
junior assistant bureaucrat
.  We do what the gods want us to do, Dara, not what we
think
we should do,” he said, sadly.

“Anyway, the Otherworld is a way that one mage can communicate with another, only it’s hard.  Not everyone can do it.  You have to be very familiar with the person you’re trying to contact, and I don’t think any of us really know Master Minalan well enough to be able to get his attention in the Otherworld.
If
we could even find him.”

“So what
are
you doing?” Dara asked, frustrated by her ignorance.

“Master Minalan has another magic Mirror that Master Banamor had made for him.  We’ve been trying to speak to him through it, day and night.  The problem is he has to actually be
using
it.  And he has to remember he even has it – it’s likely still packed away in his luggage.  But we have someone trying.  We may have gotten a message to Minalan’s friend, Baron Arathaniel.  But I don’t know if he wants to risk a war over a man he’s known for half a year.”

“So we’re . . . alone,” Dara said, frowning.

“Don’t worry,” Gareth urged, with concern.  “I may not be a real warmage, but I did study a lot of it back at the War College.  Private wars like this often sputter out for all sorts of reasons without much of anything really happening.”

“The two attacks on the pass certainly happened!” Dara pointed out.  “My brothers were almost killed!”

“I didn’t say it would turn out that way, just that it might,” Gareth said, a little discouraged.  “We aren’t defenseless, here.  It’s not like it was, before the Spellmonger arrived.  The Bovali are strong, and with war leaders like Sir Cei and Sir Forondo around we should be able to hold out for weeks, here.  Maybe even drive them off, if we’re clever.”

“I’m clever,” Dara blurted.  “At least . . . that’s what I’m told,” she added, blushing a bit. 

“Yes, you’re clever,” Gareth agreed.  “And you are a falconer.  And you are Talented.  So let’s bring all of that wealth to bear on our problems, and see just
how
clever you are.”

Dara returned to her work with new purpose.  If she could help, she wanted to.  For the rest of the morning she sent Frightful crisscrossing the enemy encampment, spying on where their sentries were stationed, where their supplies were kept, and where their forces were deployed.  Gareth made notes on a sheaf of parchment and placed counters on the large map of the domain. 

A little after midday Zagor returned to the tower and bade them join the company in the Great Hall for luncheon.  Dara realized that she was famished – not only had she not eaten since dawn, her falcon had expended a lot of energy flying under her direction.  She recalled the bird with a gentle command and skipped down the stairs after the other magi.

The magical corps was afforded high status in the castle, eating at the trestle table closest to the dais where Lady Alya ate with her new baby.  Below them in order sat the garrison soldiers, some of whom had returned from duty at the Diketower.  Dara enjoyed listening to their rough talk and frank discussion of the work being done there.  They expected an attack to come at any time, but seemed almost enthusiastic about the idea.

Her attention was returned to the magi at her table when Gareth and Zagor began discussing how scrying worked, magically.  She found it fascinating, the idea of a simple human mind commanding the very elements by magic.  Dara did her best to absorb every word.

Most of the language was far above her, but it was helpful that Gareth was what he called “formally Imperially trained” and Zagor was a rustic mountain wild mage who had learned much of his craft from the mysterious Tree Folk – nonhumans who were acknowledged as the masters of magic.  The two colleagues frequently had to stop each other and explain something or define a term, and Dara greedily absorbed as much as she could from the conversation.

She was tempted to ask questions . . . but she remembered how difficult it had been for Gareth to explain the Otherworld, without her understanding simpler concepts.  Dara might have magical Talent, but she actually knew very little about what that meant.  She kept quiet and focused on listening.  By the end of the meal, she actually had a pretty good idea of what the Otherworld was, and how it functioned, just from the context of their conversation.

Frightful was waiting at the window for her, when she got back, and she spent some time feeding and praising the bird for her good service.  Someone had left a bowl full of chicken innards for her, and she rewarded Frightful with the liver, which she ate greedily.  The falcon was confused over Dara’s praise.  From her perspective she had been flying all day long, and had not caught as much as a sparrow.  Dara was reluctant to send her out again so soon, but she wanted to check on her brothers at Caolan’s pass, and the enemy they faced on the other side of the ridge.

There was a skirmish of sorts going on when she climbed back behind Frightful’s eyes as she circled over the pass.  A half-dozen West Flerians were attempting to flank the Westwoodmen’s strong position by going off the trail – but that was of little value, Dara figured, based on the number of still bodies lying about with arrows in them.  The last fifty feet of the road sloped up to the pass in a way that allowed the defenders an excellent opportunity to shoot at the attackers from behind the barricade at the top of the hill.  And the folk of the Westwood were excellent shots.

At the bottom of the slope, safely around a bend to the south and out of bowshot, a larger group of fifty men waited impatiently for an opportunity to do something, while effectively keeping the Sevendori from escaping.  As there was no simple way around the barricade at the pass, there was no simple way off of the trail that could avoid the besiegers.

The smaller of the attacking armies was still in the same place as a few days ago, Dara reported, and gave a more accurate picture of their disposition and arrangement to the magical corps, who in turn reported them to Sir Cei.  While the Sevendori could do little about the armies that besieged them, at least they were aware of where and who they were.