Falconfar 03-Falconfar (34 page)

"It was a tower, aye," Askurr said shortly. "I've stood right here, more than once, looking across at it. Rose like a beast's fang, right about... there. I've a mind to camp right here, going no closer, until morning. The moonlight's bright enough, but we can't trust it. Look at all those clouds."

"They're galloping across the stars in a fair hurry, aye," Zorzaerel agreed. "What about Harlhoh, yonder? Is there an inn?"

"No," Olondyn the archer said flatly. "As I discovered to my cost, once; had to spend an uncomfortable night shivering out in the woods somewhere yonder. It had an inn, once, aye, but Malraun wanted guests in his hold, right under his hand—or far away. So the inn burnt down, mysteriously. Thrice."

"And stopped burning down when they stopped rebuilding it, hey?" chuckled Bracebold of Telchassur.

Olondyn nodded. "Indeed. I stand with Askurr; right here is as close to Malragard as I care to get, in the dark. Let's camp—in a ring we can defend, from right under our boots here to yon dead tree, and stand strong watches, the night through. We can cross the valley on the morrow."

"When there'll be light enough to see what's killing us," Askurr agreed dryly.

There were nods and murmurs of assent. "A fair plan," Bracebold told them all. "A fair plan."

At that moment, a swarm of shadows with silent wings and gleaming swords came swooping out of the night. Two warriors fell dying, nearly beheaded, before Askurr roared, "Lorn! We're under attack! Lorn! Throw down your torches, out in a ring around us—there and there, like so! Hurry!"

Two lorn tried to silence him, diving in from opposite directions and slashing at his head, but the old warcaptain was faster than he looked. His worn and half-laced armor let him roll smoothly and swiftly away, taking care to be seen to stagger helplessly until the lorn had committed themselves to the kill.

They slammed helplessly into each other in mid-air, already hacking with their blades. Their dying screams rent the night in unison.

Olondyn smiled mirthlessly as he strung his bow. His men hadn't waited for his orders; shafts were singing through the night already. Good lads.

It had been a while since he'd heard a lorn scream, but it was a sound he never tired of hearing.

GARFIST RAN OUT of things to say, and looked to Iskarra.

She shrugged. "You left nothing much out, Old Ox." She turned to look at the two Aumrarr. "That's more or less how it befell."

The winged women regarded each other grimly.

"Raenor," Juskra said to Dauntra. "Hereabouts, already."

Her fellow Aumrarr nodded, her face somber, then looked at Iskarra and said almost gently, "Matters in Galath are worse than I'd—"

" We'd," Juskra interrupted.

"—thought, and our plans must now change."

"Is this a 'we four' our, or 'ye two wingbitches' our?" Garfist rumbled warily. "An' what's so dark and dire about this Raenor? He seemed as big a glork-nose as most Galathan knights, all 'obey me or die, scrapings-of-my-boots,' but if that's cause for gloom an' plan-changing, ye must spend every day weeping an' tearing up plans, over an' over again! They're all like that!"

"Raenor," Juskra said sharply, "dwells about as far away from here as one can get and still be in Galath, yet your telling suggests he and his armsmen have been hereabouts long enough to become known and settled at the Stag's Head—and to feel as if he can swagger it under its roof without answering to the knights hereabout. So someone brought him here who either gives orders to local lords, or is a local lord. Someone is preparing for trouble."

"A throne war," Iskarra said flatly. "Galath torn apart over who rules it."

Both Aumrarr nodded. "Indeed. Which means, Gar, you'll get butchered in short order if you wander about Galath right now trying your swindles and tongue-wagging. So plans have changed for us all."

"Suppose, before ye assume that much," Garfist growled, "ye tell us just what these new plans are. Leaving out no trifling detail— such as, for instance, occasions upon which we'll be fighting pitched battles against mounted armies, or besieging keeps. That sort of thing."

The ghost of a smile crossed Juskra's face, just for a moment, before she sat up, flexed her fingers, and announced, "We'll be staying together, we four. Flying as before, by night. So we have the day ahead of us to rest and eat and make ready—in a manner that doesn't draw Raenor or his like into hunting us—and we fly on after the next sunset."

"Fly where?"

"Galathgard. The famous ruined royal castle of the realm, aye. We must get there as swiftly as we can, to see how things stand with its rebuilding, and where we can best hide. In plain sight in its kitchens, if need be—which should please you, Gar. We must be there when the Great Court convenes, and I've a feeling it will be easier to get there now than it will be to try to fight our way across the realm when all the rival nobles and their armies are converging at its gates—with none of them wanting witnesses to what befalls."

"An' why care we for the first conclave of the new king of Galath?" Garfist sounded more wary than truculent. "Is he likely to ennoble Garfist Gulkoun? Or grant us immunity to his laws?"

"Hardly," Dauntra told the moon. "If he listens to even a few of the many, many tales about the scoundrel Gulkoun, a swift death for such a miscreant may seem the very height of benevolent mercy. And kings known to have been gentle as nobles often find it prudent, at the outset of their reign, to reveal how strong and ruthless they can be if the need should arise. Just to, ah, educate their nobility."

Gar waved a dismissive hand. "I'm familiar with both the tactics an' the necessity. 'Change or die' is hardly a new notion, hey?"

"Iskarra and Garfist, hear me," Juskra said then, gravely. "We may well need you—humans without wings and the unfortunate reputation that goes with them—to aid us or speak for us, if the need arises in Galathgard. As to why we need to be there, let me put it plainly."

"At last," Garfist grunted, as Iskarra said politely, "Please do."

Juskra nodded. "We need to see not only how strong Brorsavar's rule looks to be, and who seems to be favored and powerful in 'the new Galath,' and who's out of favor—but we also need to be there if blades are drawn and trouble erupts. Whether such open strife breaks out or not, we also need to see who's missing from the gathering—and perhaps already dead—and what mischief befalls after the Court ends and the nobles all head for home... or elsewhere."

Garfist started to grin. "Ye make it sound interesting. Like just the sort of time an' place me an' Serpenthips here should be loitering near, to seize spoils and opportunities."

The scarred Aumrarr gave him a crooked smile. "Well put. If things grow too... perilous, we can vanish in a trice, too. In one of the cellars of Galathgard there's an ancient spell-gate linking it to Ironthorn; we can be back there in a single stride."

Garfist blinked, drew in a deep breath, and then made it loudly and colorfully clear that he never in his life, whatever befell, wanted to see Ironthorn again. His bellows echoed back to them all from the dark forest as he wound down, lowered his voice again, and descended to a surly snarl.

"Nor," he said, after much other ranting, "am I all that Falcon- glorking eager to taste the delights of hiding like a rat in the walls of Galathgard, dodging haunts an' lorn an' ancient death-traps if we keep to the ruined wings—an' running the constant risk of discovery by all the arriving nobles an' their knights an' armsmen an' doxies, too, if we venture anywhere they've put a roof on—ye know, the places where the king an' the nobles we want to listen in on will be. Not to mention that hiding in ruins we'll find a distinct lack of easily procured food—or any strong drink at all. Why, I've a mind to—"

"Obey these good lady Aumrarr," Iskarra snapped at him suddenly, rising and glaring up at him. "And agree with their highly sensible schemes, and follow their very reasonable orders like a wise man. For once."

Garfist Gulkoun blinked at his furious partner—by the Falcon, her eyes blazed like fires, they did!—and managed to say, "Uh. Um. Ah. Aye... aye, I will."

Iskarra pointed at the two Aumrarr, and Garfist obediently turned his head and repeated his promise to them.

The moonlight was full on their faces, so he saw their utter astonishment very clearly.

ASKURR DISPATCHED A lorn viciously, trampling and stabbing it until it spasmed and slumped limp and helpless, to bleed out its life. Then he sawed off its talons, on general principles. If you gave these glorkers half a chance to gut you, they'd...

Slashing the air around him as he rose, out of habit, Askurr heard the squalling of wounded lorn on all sides—and the heavy thumps and crashes of their landings. Good, good...

He looked around. Four lorn were converging on one of Olondyn's archers, over on his left, and another pair—no, three—of the beasts were already clawing and slashing at another one, yonder.

"
Guard the bowmen
!" he roared. "They're going for Olondyn's archers!"

"Hear you!" Zorzaerel cried in reply, from somewhere under a shrieking knot of lorn straight ahead of Askurr, perhaps a dozen strides distant.

A moment later, two of the bat-winged beasts fell away from the struggling mass, fronts laid open and spewing gore—and the young warcaptain surged up into view, throttling a third lorn as he slashed at a fourth and fifth wildly and tirelessly with his sword.

The two lorn reeled back, giving Zorzaerel room to spin and gut another charging at him from behind, swinging the helpless lorn he had by the throat around as a shield to be impaled by his new attacker.

Zorzaerel let go of the dying lorn, its writhing body carrying the blade thrust through it to the ground, and stepped over it to drive his own sword deep into the lorn crouched behind it, still struggling to free its blade. The creature stiffened, gargling wetly on its own blood, then slumped down atop its fellow that it had killed.

Thus freed of foes for a moment, but drenched in lorn blood, the young warcaptain hastened through the fray to Askurr. "Which archer?" he called as he came. "Which one d'you want me to guard?"

"That one," Askurr yelled, pointing with his sword. Then he spun on one foot, bringing his sword around in a great whistling slash to catch a diving lorn in the side of the head and send it sprawling, mewling in pain. The blasted beast had been swooping in to take him from behind.

Again he pounced, stabbing ruthlessly. A wounded lorn was a lorn who'd attack you from behind, given any chance at all.

He'd not gotten this old by giving lorn any chances.

"Wings of the Falcon!" someone cursed, in the fray nearby. Bracebold of Telchassur gave a great bellow from off to his left. Askurr spun to face him, and saw several lorn tumbling through the air, fleeing wildly amid a great flapping of wings.

Behind them stood Bracebold, roaring in rage—and all around his feet were dead or dying bowmen. The damned beasts were going for the archers.

"To me!" Olondyn shouted, from another direction. "My men, to me!"

A moment later, he added in lower tones, "Narbrel! Yon torch!"

Narbrel dropped his own bow and hastened to pluck up the torch and apply its flames to the arrow Olondyn held ready. The shaft streaked aloft, its brief light showing the warriors more than a dozen lorn in the sky, flapping or diving.

Arrows sang up at them from six or seven places.

"To me, and I'll send up another!" Olondyn cried. "To me!"

Askurr launched himself into a gasping run toward the archer, knowing that any lorn who hadn't sense enough to flee would be streaking down at Olondyn in the next few breaths.

There were a lot of senseless lorn here this night, it seemed, but by leaping high he managed to catch one of them with the tip of his sword, and send it off-balance and flapping sideways—to where Bracebold, also lumbering toward Olondyn, clubbed it to the ground. It didn't even have time to shriek before the warcaptain from Telchassur crashed down on it with both knees, to pin and butcher it.

Lorn were racing out of the darkness from all directions now, but the archers were ready for them. Shaft after humming shaft found its mark, and lorn fell to their deaths or squealed and flapped away, trailing blood.