Hawkmaiden (30 page)

“No bow for you, Little Bird,” her cousin Linta said, shaking her head sadly.  “But if you want to fetch us shafts while we wait . . .”

“No,” Dara said, quietly, almost to herself.  Then she said it louder.  “No, I don’t need a bow!”  She turned to head back to her room.

“You can’t expect to use that toy crossbow of yours!” her aunt called to her back.  “That won’t even shoot across the chasm!”

“I’m not getting my bow!” Dara promised.  “I’m getting my
bird!
  And when I’m done with them, every West Flerian in that pass is going to be sorry they ever
heard
the name Sevendor!”

Chapter Fifteen

The Lifting Of The Siege

The road down from the captured pass lay for much of its length along the eastern side of the great chasm that separated the Westwood from the rest of Sevendor.  Along much of that length, concealed on the protected western side of the great gash in the earth, were places where archers could stand and shoot, harassing any attackers from behind the great natural defense.  Hundreds of years before the strategic value of the chasm had been recognized by the Westwoodmen, and they had long established ideal positions on the western side to protect the road.

Chief among these were the Seven Steps: seven particular positions, all of them great stones or natural landings, from which the Westwoodmen could cover nearly the entire run of the road.  While most of the armed men of the estate were now clustered at the bottom of the steep slope, the womenfolk of the Westwood quickly took up positions on the Seven Steps.   At every position four or five women set up their quivers and prepared their bows, nervously awaiting the chance at a target.

They didn’t wait long.

Dara surveyed the defenses from Frightful’s eyes as she flew the length of the road.  With the sun at her back in the early morning, the falcon’s eyes were particularly sharp – she could easily see the individual archers taking up their positions behind stones and embankments on the other side.  While they were just “people” to Frightful’s mind, when Dara exerted herself and exercised her will, she could identify individuals, like her aunt and her sister.

The base of the slope was barricaded by the Sevendori against the West Flerians.  Two large wagons had been pulled to block the way, while men with pikes and spears stood behind.  Flanking the position on either side were pockets of four or five Westwoodmen or archers from the castle.  More than seventy men stood to defend the road.

Their leader was not, she saw, her father, though Kamen was certainly there.  It was a young knight from the castle, bearing a dirty white cloak and a shock of unruly hair, when he took off his helmet.  He was no older than Kyre (who was paying rapt attention to the man as he discussed his plans with them), but he was directing the defense with the kind of confidence only a knight could command. 

Dara didn’t spare much time watching her kin – she wanted to see what the enemy was up to.

Frightful glided up the slope, catching a small thermal over the chasm for lift.  As she soared to a hemlock tree fifty feet from the pass, she saw the other side of the battle forming up.  Nearly a hundred men now swarmed over the small frontier station of Caolan’s Pass, and a slow trickle of reinforcements was hiking up behind them.

These were not the lightly-armored archers who had harassed the pass the last few days.  These men bore long swords, large shields, and well-crafted chain armor or coats of plates.  Twenty crossbowmen were setting up defensive positions, using the same advantages in height and angle that had been used against them the day before.

Unfortunately, there was no sign of Railan the Steady or his treacherous Genlymen.  Dara’s heart burned with hatred over the Yeoman’s betrayal.  His fear and resentment had put every soul in Sevendor at risk – especially her family.  As she watched the big, ugly-looking mercenary soldiers file in behind each other, preparing to descend the slope two-abreast, her fear for her father and brothers overtook her hatred of Railan.  She had to do something to help.  But what?

Convinced that she understood the nature of the forces about to come down, she directed Frightful back to her room and then went looking for her father.  The guards at the bridge almost stopped her, citing the danger.  A cousin and two second cousins tried to keep her safe in the hall, but when she threatened to make them bird food, they allowed her to pass.  Dara didn’t usually joke about such things, they knew.

She ran for almost half a mile through the outer forest until she got to the fork in the road.  She took the left-hand way, and within moments she was standing breathlessly at the blockade she had just seen from the air.

“Dara!” her father shouted across the field, his voice heavy with concern.  “What are
you
doing here?  What’s wrong?”

“I . . . I . . .” Dara panted, until someone handed her a waterskin.  She gulped it gratefully before continuing.  “I used Frightful to scout up ahead.  They have almost a hundred men up there, now.  Twenty with arbalests.  Mostly sword-and-shieldmen.  They’re preparing a sortie now!”

“What?”
the young knight asked, as he came to see what the commotion was about.  “How came you to know this, girl?”

“My sister is a beastmaster, Sir Festaran,” Kyre explained, helpfully.  “She can ride inside her falcon’s head.”

Dara expected the young knight to be skeptical and dismiss her, but instead his eyebrows shot up.

“This is true?” he merely asked.  The young man was tall and thin, and had a face full of freckles inside his steel helmet.  Nor was he a Bovali – Dara had become used to their strange accent, since the Magelord had come, but this man spoke like a proper Riverlord.

“Yes, my lord,” Dara said, her eyes downcast.  “I’m a . . . a falconer.  But I’m also Talented.  I, uh, I was flying the bird one day and saw a batfox raiding a chicken coop for eggs one morning,” she lied, thinking up a plausible story.  For some reason she was reluctant to mention Gareth’s role in her discovery to the young knight.  “Before I knew it, I was inside my bird’s head, seeing it as it attacked.  It was scary,” she said, truthfully. 

“Amazing!” the knight nodded, his eyes wide in wonder.

“Since then, I helped scout out the enemy positions for the Magical Corps all day yesterday,” she admitted.  “When I heard what that . . . rat Railan did, I knew you’d want to know what you were fighting against as soon as possible.”

“Outstanding initiative!” praised the young knight.  “That’s more help than I was looking for, but no less welcome.  What is your name, girl?”

“Lenodara – Dara, that is,” Dara answered, self-consciously.  “Of Westwood Hall.”

“Well, Dara of Westwood, I am Sir Festarlan of Hosly.  Technically I’m a prisoner of Sevendor awaiting ransom – a long tale for another time – but as my loyalties seem to be more with my captors than my father’s liege at the moment, I have accepted a temporary position as assistant to Sir Cei.  Who has tasked me to hold this road,” he added, glancing nervously at the end of the mountain trail.  “That is what I aim to do.  Further, I think it would be a lovely wedding gift to the man if we could re-capture the pass and secure it.”

“I can think of few finer, my lord,” agreed Dara, allowing the young knight’s enthusiasm to lift her spirits.  He didn’t sound discouraged at all – this was simply a task he was assigned, and he would do it with full devotion to duty, she suspected.  There was no gloom or fear, here.  That made her feel better.

“Then, if you please, employ your falcon to spy on our foes.  Let us know when they advance, for as you can see we cannot sight the top of the pass from here.  In truth I cannot see up to the second landing.  I have archers covering the entire eastern side of the road,” he said, pointing out to a few scattered knots of archers in the fields and scrublands around the trail.”

“You also have archers covering the western side,” Dara pointed out.  “My aunt led all of the Westwood’s womenfolk up to the Seven Steps.  They’re ready to fire.”

“The Seven Steps?” the freckled knight asked, confused.  “The womenfolk?”

Kamen stepped forward to explain the nature of the defense, assuring that the women would not even be seen by the attackers, thanks to the concealing rocks of the Steps, and that they would be competent enough at their archery to be effective.  Sir Festaran looked thoughtful, studying the winding path with his lips pursed.

“We will be best served if we can lure our foe into advancing, then, attacking him from an unexpected direction,” he decided.  “Send a runner to these Steps, of yours,” he ordered Kamen, “have them hold their fire until they hear the signal: a loud pop.”

“A loud pop?” her father asked, skeptically.

“I am,” Sir Festaran informed them all, proudly, “not
just
a simple country knight; thanks to the Spellmonger’s magical snowstorm, and the capricious whims of the gods, I seem to have possession of the smallest amount of
rajira
– magical Talent,” he explained. 

“A knight . . . who is a wizard?” Kamen asked, amused.

“No worse than a lord who’s a wizard,” considered Kyre.

“I believe the accepted term is ‘knight mage’ – or at least it will be if Lord Minalan gets his way.  Alas, the gods gave me only a small measure of
rajira
.  Even with some schooling in the arcane arts by the Spellmonger, I’m unable to do most of the spellwork ordinary wizards do.  Instead I have been given the ability to . . . well,
estimate
.”

“Estimate?” Dara asked.

“Ask me how much ale is left in a mug, how many sheep are in a field, how many pins in a cushion, and I can tell you the number almost instantly . . . or at least very,
very
close to the proper number.  It’s what the magi call a ‘sport talent’.”

“So . . . how is that useful here?” asked Kamen, confused.

“It isn’t,” shrugged the knight.  “At least, not as far as I can see.  But I have been studying with the Spellmonger’s apprentices, a little, and when I haven’t been beating them soundly in swordplay they’ve been teaching me a few of their smaller spells.  The few I have the Talent to manage.  One of which is a cantrip that does nothing more than make a loud pop.  And as pointless as it seems, that spell may, indeed, prove useful here.”

“So it may,” conceded Kamen.  “Very well, Kyre, send Kibi back to the first of the Steps; tell them to hold fire until they hear a loud noise, then fire at will.  Pass it on up until they all know,” he ordered.  Kibi, a second cousin not much older than Dara, sprinted off to do so.

“Now, Dara of Westwood,” Sir Festaran asked in a friendly voice, “can you climb back inside of your bird and tell us what our foes are up to?”

*                            *                            *

The first attack down the road came midmorning, when thirty heavily-armored infantry men marched down the hill, two-by-two.  They bore their shields in front of them, their spears on their shoulders, and walked with an arrogance and cockiness that angered Dara.  She was about to see that cockiness put to the test.

Sir Festaran allowed the invaders to advance unchallenged until they were half-way down the long slope.  When the first of them came within range of his farthest-set archers, all of the Westwoodmen on the eastern side of the road opened fire.  From her tree-top vantage point, Dara could see the shafts quietly let fly in a ragged volley, from positions all over the eastern side. 

The West Flerians quickly moved to defend themselves from the surprise attack.  Unfortunately for them, the shallow ditch on the eastern side of the trail gave them little cover from the arrows, and their attackers were spread out enough so that they only way they could defend themselves was to collect all in one place, using their great wooden shields to cover each other.  Men fell by ones and twos as arrows found their marks, and the shouts and screams from the road were pitiful.

Just when the West Flerians were preparing for a counter-attack, to leap across the ditch and give chase to the lightly-armored Westwoodmen, the women of the wood let fly with their own attack – directly into the unprotected backs of the invaders.  The sound of bowstrings twanging was unheard as the men tried to defend themselves from the front.  By the time the first shafts fell among them, it was too late.

The leader of the sortie was wise enough to know when he’d been beat.  He called the retreat and the remaining West Flerians scrambled back up the hill to the pass, leaving twelve men on the ground behind them.

“That’s the spirit!” the young knight cheered, when the report came back down the trail.  “That will teach them that they can’t just walk into Sevendor!”

Dara continued scouting by falcon for the rest of the morning.  Near noon, she saw the West Flerians preparing another sortie.  This time the Westwoodmen prepared a more aggressive response.  Sir Festaran took twenty men – including her father, uncle, and brothers – up the trail to the first switchback, where a blind landing gave them some cover from above.  There they waited until, once again, the Warbird’s troops began marching down the mountain, albeit with more caution this time.

Shields held carefully to their sides, against the scattered sniping, the West Flerians descended in force to halfway down the trail.  The hail of arrows from the western side of the chasm was more relentless, so they favored that side, but whoever
was in command of the sortie had figured out that running the gauntlet of arrows would be easier if the invaders began running, instead of walking slowly and presenting easier targets.

Dara couldn’t fault the logic of the enemy commander, but she watched with grim amusement as the West Flerians broke into a run.  While that did, indeed, make it more difficult for the defenders to hit their targets, it also scattered the West Flerians.  It also gave them ample opportunity to stumble and fall down the trail, which they began doing with increasing regularity.  By the time the force was near to the final quarter of the run, a third of their number had been wounded or slain.