Falconfar 01-Dark Lord (21 page)

Ambrelle nodded. "Shall we leave them to last, sisters mine? Whispering to rulers takes longest when one must learn who and where each ruler is, and with our wings, we stand out, and may easily be used as unwitting pawns by the malicious, to work mischief by our very approaches to the ears of kings."

"Well said," Dauntra agreed. "So, trending back toward us, west of Inrysk along the shores of the Wyrmsea, we come to Harfleet, Sholdoon, and Zancrast; all but names on the map to me."

"I've been to two of the three," Lorlarra said quietly. "All are bustling ports on Ommaun the Wyrmsea, their wealth ruling small territories around them. Uneasy neighbors, but too greedy for daily gold to leave off trading long enough to take up arms against each other. I'm sure the Dooms would love to rule them, and they would welcome wizards and the cultists as they welcome everything: as tools to earn them even more coin."

"The Dooms and priesthoods are hardly tools to be governed for long by mere greedy traders," Juskra disagreed.

"True, sister, but the folk of those ports won't know that until too late. Taraun Zaer is High Lord of Zancrast, a vain, purring, oh-so-jaded man whose wits are keen, but far feebler than he thinks they are." Lorlarra rolled her eyes. "Tall, slender, trim-black-bearded, and thinks himself irresistible to all women and any man he puts his mind to conquering."

"Charming," Juskra said venemously. "Well, Belrikoun is a lesser evil, then. He's the Ruling Scepter of Sholdoon. A fat man who looks like the former pirate and everyday greasy glutton that he is, but just and kind when he wants to be, and nobody's fool. He will listen, I think."

It was Dauntra's turn to frown. "Wasn't Sholdoon the place with the oh-so-sneering merchant nobles, who feud with everyone who comes within reach, and allow their own pride to rule them?"

Juskra nodded. "It was, but Belrikoun tamed them, by wooing the younger ones and slaughtering their elders but making the deaths seem richly self-earned. They love him not, but they do obey him, and now see and judge the world as it is, and not as they prefer it to be."

"Which proves that one man can change attitudes within his lifetime." Dauntra held up a hand to stop her fellow Aumrarr interrupting as she pondered. "Hmm. For my part, I have been to Harfleet. Arl Hraskur is the Waveking of Harfleet, and has received Aumrarr before in friendship. The more beautiful we, the more friendly he, if you take my meaning."

Lorlarra sighed. "Sister, we do. A night in his bed will mean he listens, then, but will he heed?"

Dauntra nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. "Like Belrikoun, he's too wise not to pounce on any hint of a threat to his rule. He is wary, and has his spies, and plans ahead. He will know what to do. And do it."

"Which brings us to Scarlorn, just the other side of the Falconspires from us," Juskra said briskly. "Huge, pastoral Scarlorn."

"Land of farms, swamps, and more decadent satraps than I can count," Ambrelle sighed. "Must we visit them all?"

"But of cour—"

"No, Juskra. Here I disagree with you," Dauntra said firmly. "I have done sister-work in Scarlorn a time or two. Visit the right handful of satraps, and the spies of the rest will carry word to their masters better, and with it more apt to be believed, than if we came to whisper it ourselves."

"Fair enough," Juskra granted, scratching at her bandages and wincing. "So who are these 'right handful?' Vorl Dhaerar? Mrauker Zael? Haremmon?"

"Mrauker, Haremmon, and Imb Trar. Vorl's palace is haunted by his aunts." Dauntra rolled her eyes again. "Their ghosts strangle spies, and most of Scarlorn knows that by now."

"Right, that's Scarlorn. Important enough, after we've dealt with the mess in our laps. Galath. If we fail there, it won't matter which god or goddess this kingdom or that chants to, or what way-hold bows to which Doom; we'll be dead and Falconfar will be lost," Lorlarra said quietly.

"And Taeauna and her pet wizard are in Galath right now," Juskra snarled.

Lorlarra shook her head. "He'll have to be far more than a pet, this mage of hers, if he's to have any hope of surviving for long in Galath. Arlaghaun rules in Galath, his spells right up the Mad King's backside, controlling every word that comes out of Devaer's mouth."

"Every noble of the realm has been summoned to Galathgard, to hear the king's will," Dauntra said grimly. "All who attend not will be branded traitors, their lives and lands forfeit."

Juskra shrugged. "Who of the Galathan nobles isn't his already? Deldragon, old Hornsar, Mistryn, and a handful of barons; Tindror, Ammurt..."

Ambrelle smiled mirthlessly. "Ammurt was killed a few days back, with all of his kin and most of his household. His tower collapsed on his head. 'Mysteriously,' they say."

"Aye, 'mysteriously' as in spell-blasted," Lorlarra sighed.

"So that's—what?" Juskra snarled. "Three veldukes and a baron, out of them all? While Arlaghaun sits on the throne of Galath, with Devaer a puppet in his lap!"

"Indeed," Dauntra agreed. "The king is his, two of the veldukes, all of the ardukes, every last marquel and klarl, all but one baron, and any number of the border knights. Against four men who may not ride together or agree on anything, save bending the knee to a king they deem mad. So, sisters, do we throw our lives away swording all who gather in Galathgard?"

Juskra shook her head fiercely. "Trying that would be just what you called it: throwing our lives away. If we don't slay Arlaghaun, then Galath is doomed. And we may have to do it several times since he may have spells set to bring him back from death. Then swiftly must we serve Malraun the same way, for he's sniffing around Galath, watching what Arlaghaun does and awaiting his chance. The nobles are but shouting brutes on horses, the king reduced to a drool-wits; 'tis the wizards who matter."

Ambrelle sighed, her face grim. "Sisters mine, it's always been the wizards who mattered."

"Why the hurry
?" Rod muttered through clenched teeth, as his saddle rose painfully to meet his descending crotch one more time. "Who would dispute with a velduke of the realm, and all these knights?"

Deldragon glanced at Rod with those ice-blue eyes for a moment, and then pointed up into the sky.

"They will," he said shortly, and then bellowed, "Lances up, lads! Gallop! Lorn!"

Rod's horse knew that barked command, if Rod didn't, and leaped forward. Rod hastily caught hold of the high horn of his saddle to keep from falling off, as the world suddenly became a blurred din of pounding hooves. Looking up, he saw a descending cloud of lorn, like a twister he'd once seen in the sky but lacking a dark cloud above it... a lowering, questing snout...

There was a terrible majesty in that slow, ponderous turn in the air, and then the swift and quickening dive, gray wings snapping back like the feathers of an arrow, claws extended, impassive skull-faces staring...

Hundreds of skulls, staring...

We have no lances, we three, Rod thought, or said in apprehension, in the instant before the lorn struck.

"I
can't go
on alone," Carandrur snapped. His eyes glittered; the sly little cobbler was seething. "So, are you all traitors to Arvale, then?"

Thrayl turned to Dombur and Pheldur; the three men exchanged dark glances, but kept silent, their faces expressionless. Thrayl looked back at Carandrur, his face a mask that betrayed nothing.

"Well?" the cobbler spat.

The three taller men went on giving him silence.

"Thrayl, when I get back to the vale and tell Lord Tharlark of this, what do you think he'll do to you? Hey? Kill you and your wife and daughter, and seize your shop and home, of course, but how will he hand you death? Do you really think he'll be merciful about it? That it'll be quick? Hey?"

"Lorn, yonder, diving out of the sky," Dombur said quietly, lifting his head in a gleam of earrings. "Lots of them."

Carandrur went on glaring at Thrayl, watching the shopkeeper's eyes leave his and lift to stare where Dombur and Pheldur were looking, up into the sky.

After watching their intent faces for some time, he turned to look, too.

Thrayl's sword was already in his hand; he stepped forward and swung, in one swift movement.

His steel bit deep into Carandrur's neck before the cobbler had even started to turn back.

Carandrur's head flopped loosely and his body spasmed, writhing wildly off Thrayl's blade into the dirt.

Thrayl stood like a statue, and watched the cobbler die.

He didn't look at Dombur or Pheldur until he was straightening from wiping his blade clean on the dead man's vest.

They looked back at him expressionlessly.

"Shrewdly struck," was all Dombur said, before they turned together, to begin the long trudge back to Arvale.

Velduke Deldragon looked
every inch the warrior hero, twisting and hewing in the heart of a cloud of flapping lorn, standing up in his saddle to deal flickering, darting death in all directions, as Rod stared at him open-mouthed.

His sword was like a great flashing fang as it swept up into a lorn breast, slicing open the squalling, clawing thing even as it tried to gore him. Entrails and blood gouted down the withers of his mount, and on the ground and horse behind. All around them, horses were starting to scream.

Brushing Rod's hip as their horses bucked and started to rear, Taeauna leaned perilously over in her saddle, exposing her side to the lorn that would have torn her open if it hadn't struck Deldragon's lorn and been hurled past, to slash with her blade at the lorn that was menacing Rod. Hissing, it batted at her blade and then was past her, great wings flapping, barbed tail lashing at Rod's face, before being severed by Taeauna's snarling slash. Blue blood spattered their faces as the lorn arched and squalled, fading away in the distance as fresh lorn swooped in.

It was all a blur to Rod, as he crouched low and fought to hold on to his saddle horn with all his strength, staring in astonishment at the forest of knights' lances ahead of them that were thrusting at the sky, impaling and slicing lorn here, there, and blood spraying everywhere.

"'Ware! They're coming around again!" Deldragon roared, reaching out a gleaming gauntlet to take Taeauna by the severed stump of one wing, where it protruded through her armor, and haul her back upright.

"No!" Taeauna shouted back almost merrily, eyes bright. "They are? You surprise me!"

Deldragon stared at her for a moment, then bellowed out surprised laughter, as lorn wheeled overhead and swooped down.

One was coming in low at Rod, this time from the side, almost kissing the ground before soaring up at his leg, head bent to lay open his thigh, tip him out of his saddle, or both. He snatched out his dagger, not knowing what else to do, and then Taeauna was there again, her shoulder ramming him as she flung herself across the curving back of his saddle to hold out her sword two-handed like a lance, giving the lorn the choice of impalement or shearing off.

It chose the latter at the last tail-lashing instant, hissing in fury. Again her blade met the barbed tail, but this time the lorn won free.

"They'll be after our horses next," Deldragon growled. "Time for some family magic."

"Magic?" Taeauna's head snapped around in a flurry of hair. "You're a wizard?"

"Hah!" the velduke snorted. "Hardly. I'm a man with something the wizards that bedevil us want. I have an enchanted ring!"

"I see," Taeauna panted, as her racing horse hit a hollow and bounced her in her saddle, hard. "What does it do?"

"This!" Deldragon called, thrusting out his hand at the next wave of lorn.

The sky in front of his spread fingers seemed to catch fire.

An instant later, the lorn did, too, howling in agony as they swept down, trailing crimson flames. In the air, those raging fires seemed to tug at their bodies, curling them in upon themselves like hide-head beetles, dragging them aside in ragged arcs from the bucking Deldragon horses.

Whereupon the burning lorn exploded—and horses, knights, wingless Aumrarr and all were hurled forward into the air, amid a great wave of searing flame.

"Isk, you awake?
Galath at last," the fat man growled from the front of the wagon. "Look dead, now."

The skeletally thin woman inside the creaking wagon made a rude sound by way of reply, shrugged off the cloak that had been keeping her warm, and laid herself down in the coffin.

Arranging the thin shroud over her naked body, she composed herself with her hands folded over her mouth. Between her fingers was the pinch of powdered arsauva that would leave her senseless the moment it touched her tongue; she held her fingers firmly together and waited. No sense wasting good arsauva if lazy border guards made its use unnecessary.

"I'm ready, Gar," she announced, closing her eyes. "Try to sound convincing, for once."

"I thought he'd never stop chasing us," the fat man muttered, as an armored Galathan warrior stepped out into the road and held up his hand in the signal to halt. "Still, we're here now. Driven to take refuge at last in the most law-abiding kingdom in all Falconfar. Strong king, proud nobles, lots of guards and coins. Bugger it all, anyway. Well, at least we'll be safe here."

"Tauren's merchants will
do whatever they see best for preserving their own backsides," Juskra said flatly, running thoughtful fingers along the three old, white sword-scars that crisscrossed on her left cheek. "If that means deserting Tauren and taking themselves down the Ladruar to the Ports of Storm, that's just what they'll do. As allies, they are useless, and they'll never order their mercenaries into Galath to so much as lift a finger to aid someone else, not even if all of the Dooms lay wounded and helpless, for the ready slaying, because it will cost them coin."