Hawkmaiden (29 page)

“It looks like most of the troops facing the Diketower to the north are from West Flerian domains, by their heraldry,” Banamor observed, when he read their report that afternoon.  “A thousand peasant militia, and three dozen knights and their households.  With two small companies of mercenary archers and a company of mercenary lancers.  The army in Sashtalia seems to be mostly mercenaries, from the look of it.  Light infantry and cavalry, probably locals getting paid by the day.  One large company of professional crossbowman – that red rose and spear device you described fits the description of a mercenary unit known as the Gardener’s Men, from Lanteel.  Less than a quarter of the army is actually Sire Gimbal’s sworn men.”

“But that’s where I saw the checkered cloaks!” Dara pointed out.

“So you did,” agreed the Spellwarden, pursing his lips.  “They’ve warded the bottom of the trail and kept us from scrying.  It’s possible that they’ve laid other traps along the way, too.  If the Censorate is who is paying for those mercenaries, you can bet that they’ll want to keep a pretty close eye on how they’re used.”

“So what help is that to us?” Dara demanded.  She had worked so hard, gathering that information, she wanted someone to look at the map and yell “Aha!” and realize a way to win the war.  But Master Banamor merely shrugged.

“We don’t know yet,” he admitted.  “This is just one part of the puzzle, my dear.  And one I’m not very good at, I’m afraid.  But it’s always a good idea to know who you are facing in a conflict.  And where they are.  The Censorate has gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to conceal their armies’ movements, and with an afternoon’s worth of work you managed to ruin that for them.  That, my dear, is a serious boon, even if we don’t know yet how it will prove useful.”

Dara had to be satisfied with that.  She was exhausted, after so much mentally-challenging work guiding Frightful’s path and helping the magical corps.  After Master Banamor thanked her for her assistance and dismissed her for the day, she had Frightful make one final circuit around the pass before heading back to the castle.  Once she was certain her kin were faring well, she felt like she could go back to Westwood Hall and rest.

Thankfully the Westwoodmen still had control of the pass.  The attackers had retreated their archers back down the mountain, and a column of Sevendori militia was marching up the other side of the ridge to relieve her tired brothers. 

Dara’s relief was cut short, however, as Frightful passed overhead.  Something caught the bird’s eye, if not its attention, and Dara had to exert herself to get her tired falcon to wing back around for another look.  She mollified the falcon by letting her rest on a tall branch overlooking the trail . . . and the soldiers.

As the small line of men climbed up the shadowed hill like a troop of determined ants, Dara caught sight of the small banner they bore in addition to the snowflake emblem of Sevendor.  A haystack: the symbol of the hamlet of Genly.

The Genlymen were relieving the Westwoodmen in defense of the pass.  Just to be certain, Dara held Frightful still until she sighted the leader of the company.  Sure enough, the tall form of Railan the Steady plodded into view.  The man ignored the bird, as most valefolk ignored wildlife, but Dara did see him turn back and gaze at the castle and villages below him, a strange look on his face.

With a feeling of foreboding in her heart, Dara summoned Frightful back to the castle and broke contact.

“What’s the matter?” Gareth asked, tiredly.  “Did something happen?”

“No, the attackers have withdrawn,” she said, mimicking a term she had picked up from the military folk.  It wasn’t that hard, once you knew what the words really meant.  “The militia marches to relieve the pass now.”

“But that’s
good
news,” Gareth said, his mouth askew with concern.

“Well, yes . . . only the ones who got sent to relieve them are the Genlymen.  The villein militia of Genly Hamlet, under Railan the Steady.”

“But . . . Railan is a sworn yeoman of Sevendor,” Gareth pointed out.

“Who doesn’t like magi, Bovali, or the Magelord,” reminded Dara, uneasily. 

“To betray Sevendor would make him an oathbreaker,” Gareth said, shaking his head.  “He could lose his head for that.  Or worse.  He wouldn’t risk that, Dara.  It just wouldn’t be . . . sane.”

“You don’t know the valefolk like we do,” Dara said, shaking her head.  “They’ve been kept down for so long that Railan has them convinced that that’s the only thing that they deserve.  Look at them: most of them have never eaten so well or lived better in their lives, yet they’re always the ones complaining at the market.  They call us woodfolk superstitious, because we hold the Flame in reverence, but the fact is they listen to Railan far more than they do their proper gods.  For years he told them that he was their only shield against Sir Erantal.  Now he’s telling them that he’s their only hope against the Magelord.  Putting him in charge of that pass is a mistake,” Dara warned.

Gareth shook his head.  “Sir Cei knows what he’s doing,” he insisted.  “He’s been to war, before, and he’s a good judge of men.  He wouldn’t send Railan and the Genlymen up there unless he was certain of their loyalty.”

“He wouldn’t send Railan and the Genlymen up there if he was better acquainted with them,” Dara sniffed.  “I only hope that I’m wrong.”

“So do I,” agreed Gareth, seriously.  “If we lose that pass, our enemies will be able to march right over it and to the gates of the castle.”

“And right past the Westwood,” Dara nodded, gravely. 

That evening Dara joined a long line of folk risking leaving the castle before the great gates were shut and locked for the night.  The guardsmen recognized her, apparently, from the falcon on her arm and let her pass without questioning.  Dara was just as glad that they hadn’t – she was exhausted.  She had considered lingering at the castle for supper, at Gareth’s shy invitation, but she wanted to see her brothers and ensure that they were really alive.  Each of them, even Kobb.

Thankfully the Hall was glowing with light and merriment, though there were three men guarding the bridge.  The fighting men had returned home to a generous dinner, and everyone wanted to hear stories of battle . . . particularly the capture of the hated Sir Erantal.

Usually it would be Kobb who dominated the conversation with bragging and boasting, but even he deferred to Kyre with respect Dara had never seen before.  Her uncle and her father looked on proudly as her oldest brother quietly recounted the second dawn attack, and how he and two of his brothers had tackled the knight as he tried to turn and flee.  They had wrestled his sword away from him, demanding his surrender in the name of the Magelord.  The old knight had been frightened and had promised him a great reward if he let him go . . . but the
Westwoodmen knew their duty
, as Kyre said, quoting a popular proverb. 

“Then the clumsy ox kept tripping over his feet all the way down the mountain,” Kyre shrugged with a rare grin.  “As hard as I tried to keep him on his feet, he kept falling into briars, and brambles, and the occasional tree or shrub . . .”

That brought a roar of laughter from the Hall.  Everyone hated Erantal for his years of neglect and abuse.  Kamen’s unfortunate injury last winter had been only the last of the insults the knight had given the entire domain over the years.  That laugh seemed to release the long-held tension everyone had always felt about Sir Erantal.  Only now, with him sitting in a dank cell below his former castle, did everyone feel safe.

Kyre had little good to say about his relief at the pass, however.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” he said, glancing at the Flame, “we’re
tired!
  Two solid days and nights was hard.  We would have been happy to see a company of Tal Alon with wooden spoons, if they were there to relieve us.  But to see that . . . that brigade of peasants standing there, holding their spears like hoes and their bows like snakes . . . by the Flame, I hope they don’t face anything tougher than a stiff breeze!  Yeoman Railan was just as glad to see us go, the way he dismissed us.  Like we had bungled the whole thing up . . .” he growled.

“He’s just jealous that he wasn’t the one who captured Erantal!” called one of her cousins, which inspired more laughter.  Railan had long been Erantal’s chief opponent, in the valley.  He had hated Sir Erantal longer and with better reason than most.  Personally, Dara was glad that it had been her brother, and a Westwoodman, who had taken the prize.  He might not be worth much in ransom, perhaps, but just having him under lock and key made everyone feel better.

Dara kept quiet about her own role in the war effort.  She didn’t want the attention – she barely understood what she had done for Sevendor, and it didn’t seem nearly as important or glorious as Kyre’s contribution.  He and their kin had risked their lives, after all.  She had just flown her falcon a lot.

The older men had broken out a bottle of spirits to toast Kyre’s victory and everyone’s service, and perhaps because everyone was anxious and some of them just needed a snort before bed.  But Dara found herself yawning in front of the Flame.  Custom said that meant it was time for bed, and no arguments.  While Dara was now old enough to decide such things as when to go to bed on her own, she could feel her body getting heavier an her eyelids drooping. 

She quietly excused herself and went upstairs, checking on Frightful’s perch before stripping off her clothes and putting on her sleeping gown.  She rarely bothered with the thing, usually, but suddenly sleeping in soft linen in a comfortable bed sounded extremely appealing.  With thoughts of the Otherworld and armies spinning in her head, Dara fell asleep.

The next morning she awoke late, the sun already in the sky.  She didn’t know why or how she knew, but something was wrong, she felt.  The Hall didn’t sound different, from her room, but something was . . . off.

Not even bothering to dress she bounded down the creaky stairway barefooted, expecting to see the Hall packed for breakfast before everyone went to their duties for the day.  Instead it was mostly empty, with only a few women bustling about the kitchen.  But their voices weren’t their usual calm, chattering tones.  There was a note of anxiety in them that disturbed Dara before she even heard their words.

When she entered the kitchen she was surprised to see her aunt – not working at kneading bread or stirring soup or directing the making of the porridge, but standing before a little-used cabinet door.  The spice jars and preserves stored inside had been pushed aside, and her aunt was handing out short bows and quivers of arrows to her cousins and kinswomen.  The looks on their faces were stark.

“What’s wrong?” Dara demanded.  “What’s happened?”

“Little Bird!” her aunt scolded her.  “Go put some clothes on!  The sun is long up!”

Dara ignored her.  “What is happening?  Why . . .?”

Dara’s aunt looked troubled.  “Word came before dawn this morning – a young knight from the castle and his men.  They went up to inspect the pass.  Only they were greeted with arrows, not passwords.”

“What?”
Dara asked, her eyes wide in disbelief.

“That damn fool Railan has gone and
turned his colors
on us!” spat her aunt, furiously.  “He and his idiots waited until all the responsible folk were gone, and then they sent word down to the enemy.  Sometime after midnight they laid down their arms and surrendered. 
Without a fight
.  The West Flerians hold the pass now – I guess Sir Erantal will have the last laugh, Flame burn his bones!”

Dara didn’t know what to say – her worst fears had come to pass!  The road from Caolan’s Pass led straight to the gates of Sevendor Castle, bypassing the strength the domain had gathered at the Diketower.  This was a disaster!

“So where is everyone?” Dara finally managed.

“That young knight collected all the menfolk at the manor to hold the bottom of the trail – if we can’t hold the pass, at least we can deny them the use of the road.  They’re up at the second landing, I expect, keeping them at bay.” 

“So . . . why are you . . .?”

Dara’s aunt grunted.  “The chasm protects us and the Westwood from ruffians, girl, but it also overlooks that road almost half way down.  There are places that can be held, where invaders can be shot at across the chasm without worry of them coming after you.”

“So why aren’t the men out there?” Dara asked, confused.  If that was a safer position, then . . .

“Because they’re needed on the road,” her aunt explained, with diminishing patience.  “All of them!  Your father, your uncles, your cousins, your brothers, all of them!”  She sounded desperately worried. 

But then she picked up the last bow from the secret cache and strung it with surprising familiarity.  Then the dumpy middle-aged woman slipped a quiver over her back and drew an arrow in a smooth motion.  “They’re needed on the road, but it doesn’t take a man’s arm to hold a bow.  Every woman here has learned how to nock and fire, and if we can help snipe at the foe then that will discourage them from harming our kin!” 

Dara looked around at her female cousins, and even saw her sister among them, a bow in her hand.  None of them looked particularly enthusiastic, but they all looked determined.  They knew what was at stake, and they knew their duty as well as any in the Westwood.  Westwoodmen could shoot . . . that was true regardless if they wore skirts or leggings.