Talon of the Silver Hawk (3 page)

Everywhere was flame and smoke. He could see figures in the smoke, many on horseback, and the outlines of bodies on the ground. Kieli paused. To run down the trail would make him a target. Better to circle along the line of the wood until reaching the point closest to the village, behind Many Fine Horses's home.

As he moved to his right, he found the smoke blowing away from him. Now he could see the carnage in the village. Many of his friends lay motionless upon the ground. It was hard to make sense of the tableau before him.

Men on horseback, wearing various styles of clothing and armor, rode through the village, several bearing torches firing the houses. Mercenaries or slavers, Kieli knew. Then he saw footmen wearing the tabard of the Duke of Olasko, ruler of the powerful duchy to the southeast. But why would they be aiding raiders in the mountains of the Orosini?

Reaching the back of Many Fine Horses's home, Kieli crept along. He saw an Olaskan soldier lying motionless just beyond the edge of the building. Casting aside his dagger, Kieli decided to make a run for the man's sword. If no one noticed, he would attempt to remove the round shield on the man's left arm as well. It would hurt to carry the shield on his injured arm, but it could also mean the difference between life and death.

The sound of fighting was coming from the other side of the village, so he thought it possible he might be able to fall upon the invaders from behind. Creeping forward, he retrieved the shield and sword and paused for a moment.

In the smoke, he could faintly discern figures moving in the distance; cries of outrage and pain drifted toward him, as his people struggled to repel the invaders.

His eyes smarted from the acrid smoke, and he blinked
back tears as he reached the fallen soldier. He turned over the body to retrieve the sword and as his hand fell upon the hilt, the soldier's eyes snapped open. Kieli froze, and as he yanked back the sword the soldier lashed out with his shield, bashing him in the face.

Kieli fell back, his vision swimming and the world seemingly tilting under his feet. Only his natural quickness saved him, for just as the soldier was on his feet—dagger drawn—and slashed at him, Kieli dodged.

For a second he thought he had avoided the blade, then pain erupted across his chest and he felt blood flowing. It was a shallow wound, but a long one, running from just under his left collarbone down to his right nipple and there to the bottom of his ribs.

Kieli slashed with his own blade and felt shock run up his arm as the soldier deftly took the blow on his shield.

Another attack, and the boy knew that he was overmatched, for he only narrowly avoided death from a dagger slash to the stomach. Had the soldier attacked with his sword instead of a short blade, Kieli knew he'd be lying gutted upon the ground.

Fear threatened to rise up and overwhelm him then, but the thought of his family fighting for their lives only yards beyond the masking smoke forced it aside.

Seeing the boy's hesitation, the soldier grinned wickedly and closed in. Kieli knew that his only advantage was the length of his blade, so he offered his already-wounded chest as a target and clumsily raised the sword with both hands as if to bring it crashing down upon the soldier's head. As Kieli had hoped, the soldier reflexively raised his shield to take the blow and drew back his dagger for the killing thrust.

Kieli, however, dropped to his knees with a spin, bringing his sword down and around in a powerful arc
which sliced through the soldier's leg, knocking him backward screaming. Blood sprayed from the severed arteries just below his knee. Leaping to his feet, Kieli stepped upon the man's dagger hand and struck straight down with the sword's point into the man's throat, ending his agony.

He tried to wipe his sword hand dry, but discovered that blood was flowing freely from the long cut on his chest and knew he'd soon be weakening if he didn't bind it, though he thought it probably looked a great deal worse than it was.

As he hurried toward the sounds of battle, a gust of wind cleared his vision for a moment so that he had a clean line of sight and could see the village's central square. The tables that had been heavily laden with food and ale were overturned, the ground around them littered with the feast for the day's celebration. The flower garlands were crushed into mud made up of soil and blood. For a panic-stricken second, Kieli faltered, horror causing his gorge to rise. He blinked back tears—though whether they were caused by smoke or rage he didn't know. A short distance away lay the bodies of three children, obviously cut down from behind as they raced for shelter. Beyond them, he could see the men of his village making a stand before the round house. Kieli knew the women and surviving children would be inside, the women armed with knives and daggers to defend the children should the men fall.

Men he had known all his life were being slaughtered, despite fighting with desperation to protect their families. The soldiers had set up a shield wall and were pressing in with spears leveled, while behind them sat mounted soldiers, calmly loading and firing crossbows into the villagers.

The Orosini bowmen responded, but the battle's outcome was obvious, even to a boy like Kieli. He knew he
would not survive this day, but even so, he could not stand behind the invaders and not do whatever was in his power.

On wobbly legs he started forward, his target a man upon a black horse, obviously the leader of these murderers. Next to him sat another horseman wearing a black tunic and trousers. His hair was as dark as his clothing, pulled back behind his ears and falling to his shoulders.

The man somehow sensed something was behind him, for he turned just as Kieli started to run. Kieli saw the man's face clearly; a dark beard trimmed close to his jawline, a long nose which gave him a harsh appearance, and pursed lips as if he had been lost in thought before he heard Kieli's charge. The rider's eyes widened slightly at the sight of the armed and bloody boy, then he calmly said something to the officer, who turned. The man in black carefully lifted his arm. There was a small crossbow in his hand. He calmly took aim.

Kieli knew he had to strike before the man's finger tightened on the release. But two strides away from the horseman the boy's knees weakened. Kieli's newly acquired sword felt as if it had been fashioned of lead and stone, and his arm refused to obey his command to deliver a killing blow to the invader.

The boy was one stride away when the black-clad man fired the crossbow. Then his knees buckled. The bolt had taken him in the chest, high up in the muscle below his first wound.

The bolt spun him around completely, and his blood splattered both men as it fountained from the wound. The sword flew backward from fingers that could no longer grip. His knees struck the ground and he fell over backward, his eyes losing focus as pain and shock swept over him.

Voices shouted, but the sound was muted, and he could not understand what they were saying. For a brief instant, he saw something: high in the sky above him a silver hawk flew in a circle, and to Kieli it seemed to be looking directly down at him. In his mind he heard the voice once again.
Linger, little brother, for your time is not yet. Be my talon and rend our enemies.

His last thought was of the bird.

Kieli's pain pierced the
darkness.

He couldn't will his eyes open, yet he knew he was alive. He felt hands upon him and as if from a great distance heard a voice mutter, “This one's still alive.''

Another voice said, “Let's get him in the wagon. He's lost a lot of blood.''

Part of Kieli's mind registered he was hearing words in the traders' language, what was called the Common Tongue, not the language of the Orosini.

He felt another pair of hands upon him. As they began to move him, he groaned and lapsed back into unconsciousness.

Pain coursed though Kieli's body as he came awake. He forced his eyes open and tried to lift his head. The effort
brought forth a wave of agony, and his stomach churned, yet there was nothing in it for him to vomit up. The wracking pain that swept through him made him gasp aloud and moan.

His eyes couldn't focus, so he could not see the owner of the gentle hands who pushed him back and said, “Lie still, lad. Breathe slowly.''

Kieli saw shapes before him: heads in shadow, lightening in the sky above them. He blinked and tried to clear his eyes. “Here,” said another voice from above him, and a gourd of water touched his lips.

“Drink slowly,” said the first voice. “You've lost a lot of blood. We didn't think you'd make it.''

The first swallow of water caused the spasms to return, and he vomited up the tiny bit of water. “Sip, then,” said the voice.

He did as he was instructed, and the mouthful of water stayed down. Suddenly he was thirsty beyond memory. He tried to swallow, but the gourd was removed from his lips. He attempted to lift his hand to grasp it, but his arm would not obey his command.

“Sip, I said,” demanded the voice. The gourd was pressed against his lips again, and he sipped, and the cool water trickled down his throat.

He focused his meager strength on getting the water down and keeping it down. Then he lifted his eyes above the rim of the gourd and attempted to discern the features of his benefactor. All he could see was a vague lump of features topped by a thatch of grey. Then he fell back into darkness.

At some point they stopped for a few days. He recognized a structure around him, a barn or shed, he couldn't be sure
which. And he knew it was raining for a time, because the air was heavy with the scent of wet soil and the mustiness of mold on wood.

After that images came and fled. He was in a wagon, and for a brief time one afternoon he sensed he was in the woodlands, but not those near his home. He didn't know how he knew—some glimpse of trees that didn't match the lofty balsams, cedars, and aspens of his own forest. There were oaks, and elms, and trees he didn't recognize. He lapsed back into his troubled slumber.

He remembered bits of food being pressed to his mouth and how he swallowed them, his throat constricting and his chest burning. He remembered feverish dreams and awoke several times drenched in sweat, his heart pounding. He remembered calling out his father's name.

One night he dreamed he was warm, at home, in the round house with his mother and the other women. He felt awash with their love. Then he awoke on the hard ground with the smell of wet soil in his nostrils, the smoke from a recently banked campfire cutting through the air, and two men asleep on either side of him, and he fell back, wondering how he had come to this place. Then memory returned to him, and he recalled the attack on his village. Tears came unbidden to his eyes and he wept as he felt all the hope and joy die in his chest.

He could not count the days he traveled. He knew there were two men caring for him, but he could not recall if they had given him their names. He knew they had asked him questions and that he had answered, but he could not recall the subject of those discussions.

Then, one morning, clarity returned to him.

Kieli opened his eyes and although he was weak, he found he could understand his surroundings. He was in a large barn, with doors at either end. In a close-by stall, he
could hear horses eating. He was lying upon a pallet of straw covered by a double blanket, and had two more blankets over him. The air was hazy with smoke from a small camp stove, a rectangle of beaten iron sheeting within which coals were allowed to burn. Safer in a barn full of hay than an open fire. Kieli elbowed himself up and gazed around. The smoke stung his eyes a little, but much of it escaped through an open door in the hayloft. It was quiet, so Kieli judged it was not raining.

His body ached, and he felt stiff, but his slight movement didn't bring on waves of pain as it had before.

There was a man sitting upon a wooden stool, regarding him with dark eyes. The man's hair was mostly grey, though bits of black still remained. His droopy moustache hung down on either side of a mouth that was tightly pursed as if he were concentrating. A heavy fringe hid most of his forehead, and his hair hung to his shoulders.

Blinking an accumulation of gunk from the corners of his eyes, Kieli asked, “Where am I?''

The man looked at him inquisitively. “So, you're back with us?” he asked rhetorically. He paused for a moment. “Robert!” he shouted over his shoulder toward the barn doors.

A moment later the doors swung open and another man entered the barn and came to kneel beside Kieli.

This man was older still, his hair grey without color, but his eyes were powerful, and his gaze held the boy's. “Well, Talon, how do you feel?” he asked softly.

“Talon?”

“You said your name was Talon of the Silver Hawk,” supplied the older man.

The lad blinked and tried to gather his thoughts, struggling to understand why he might have said such a thing.
Then he recalled the vision, and he realized that it had, indeed, been his naming vision. A distant voice echoed in his mind,
rise and be a talon for your people.

“What do you remember?”

“I remember the battle . . .” A dark pit opened inside his stomach, and he felt tears begin to gather. Forcing the sadness aside, he said, “They're all dead, aren't they?''

“Yes,” answered the man named Robert. “What do you recall after the battle?''

“A wagon . . .” Kieli, who now had to think of himself as “Talon,” closed his eyes for a while, then said, “You carried me away.''

“Yes,” agreed Robert. “We couldn't very well leave you to die from your wounds.” Softly he added, “Besides, there are some things we would know of you and the battle.''

“What?” asked Talon.

“That can wait until later.''

“Where am I?” Talon repeated.

“You are in the barn at Kendrick's Steading.”

Talon tried to remember. He had heard of this place, but could not recall any details. “Why am I here?''

The man with the droopy mustache laughed. “Because we rescued your sorry carcass, and this is where we were bound.''

“And,” continued Robert, “this is a very good place to rest and heal.” He stood and moved away, stooping to avoid the low ceiling. “This barn Kendrick is allowing us to use without charge. His inn has warmer rooms, cleaner bedding, and better food—‘'

“But it also has too many eyes and ears,” offered the first man.

Robert threw him a glance and shook his head slightly.

The first man said, “You bear a man's name, yet I see no tattoos upon your face.''

“The battle was on my naming day,” Talon answered weakly.

The second man, the one called Robert, looked back at his companion, then returned his attention to the boy. “That was over two weeks ago, lad. You've been traveling with us since Pasko found you in your village.''

“Did anyone else survive?” Talon asked, his voice choking with emotion.

Robert returned to the boy's side, knelt, and put his hand gently on his shoulders and said, “Gone. All of them.''

Pasko said, “The bastards were thorough, I'll give them that.''

“Who?” asked Talon.

Robert's hand gently pushed the boy back onto the pallet. “Rest. Pasko will have some hot soup for you soon. You've been at death's door. For a long while, we didn't think you'd survive. We've seen you through with sips of water and cold broth. It's time to put some strength back in you.” He paused. “There are many things to talk about, but we have time. We have a great deal of time, Talon of the Silver Hawk.''

Talon did not want to rest: he wanted answers, but his weakened body betrayed him, and he lay back and found sleep welcoming him again.

The song of birds greeted him as he awoke ravenous. Pasko brought over a large earthen mug of hot broth and urged him to drink slowly. The other man, Robert, was nowhere to be seen.

After stinging his mouth with the hot liquid, Talon asked, “What is this place?''

“Kendrick's? It's an . . . inn, buried somewhere in the forests of Latagore.”

“Why?”

“Why what? Why are we here, or why are you alive?''

“Both, I suppose,” said Talon.

“The second, first,” answered Pasko, as he sat down on the little stool and hefted his own mug of broth. “We found you amidst carnage unlike any I've seen since my youth—when I was a soldier in the service of the Duke of Dungarren, down in Far Loren. We'd have left you for crow bait with the others, save I heard you moan . . . well, wasn't even a proper moan, more like a loud sigh. It was only by the hand of fate you survived. You had so much blood on you and such a jagged wound across your chest, we both took you for dead to start with. Anyway, you were breathing, so my master said to fetch you along. He's a soft-hearted sort, I can tell you.''

“I should thank him,” said Talon, though he felt so miserable for being alive while the rest of his family had perished that he didn't feel remotely thankful.

“I suspect he'll find a way for you to repay him,” said Pasko. He stood up. “Feel like stretching your legs?''

Talon nodded. He started to rise and found that his head swam and his body ached. He had no strength.