Sons of the Falcon (The Falcons Saga) by Court Ellyn Page B

hides,” growled Falyr,
even as he retreated a step toward the keep.
    A sudden hammering on a windowpane turned
all their heads. A small white hand slapped at the glass on the third floor,
and a blurred, pale face appeared. “ Laral! ” The shriek was indistinct
through the thick pane. “Laral, I’m here!”
    “Ride from Brengarra now,” Fe’olan bellowed,
“and all will live.”
    Kalla winced, Drys snorted, and
Laral charged. Long legs ate up the steps before Fe’olan could flee into the
keep. Laral’s arm hooked the old man around the neck, and the point of the
diamond dagger teased his ribs. His companions bared their swords and slowly
advanced up the steps, keeping wary eyes on the walls and on Falyr.
    The latter lunged to aid his
father. Laral spun from the reach of his sword, dragging Lord Fe’olan with him.
Drys’s fist shattered Falyr’s teeth. Squealing, he sank to the steps, blood and
tooth fragments streaming from his mouth.
    “Loose!” Fe’olan choked out. The
creak of two dozen bows drawing taut brought Drys and Kalla back to back, but their
shields hung from their saddles outside the gate.
    Laral didn’t hear the bows, only
the blood thundering inside his ears and Bethyn pounding, pounding on the
glass.
    A bow lowered. “Stand down, men.”
The man’s elaborate helm denoted him as the castellan. Laral remembered that
bushy white beard from the last time he dared enter Brengarra’s walls.
    “No—kill—” Fe’olan grunted. Laral’s
arm tightened.
    The commander called down from the
wall, “Her Ladyship told us you would come, Tírandon. I, for one, did not
believe her. She regards you highly. Free her without spilling more blood, and
you have our aid. The stairwell to the left, third floor.” He motioned for a
squad of ten to accompany Laral and his companions into the keep. Half a dozen
others surrounded Falyr, who writhed and vomited on the steps.
    Laral sheathed his dagger and hauled
Lord Fe’olan into the keep by the scruff of his neck. “I will not endure this
indignity!” he cried, sweat seeping under Laral’s fingers.
    “Keep quiet, or I might forget the
castellan’s invitation.”
    Servants and staff, who had crowded
into the foyer to investigate the shouts, now scattered from the Aralorri
incursion. The squad of soldiers cleared the way through the dark, ancient
expanse of the old Lord’s Hall and up the stairs to a new wing. Here the stone shined
pale silver in the light of wrought-iron lamps. Ornate doors lined a long
corridor. “Which room, damn it?” Laral said, giving Fe’olan a shove. “Wren!”
    One of the doors burst open. A
plump woman ran into the corridor, shouting at someone behind her, “You little
wretch, you wouldn’t dare!” Something large and heavy swung from inside the
parlor and missed the woman’s head by a fingerspan. With a shriek the woman
fled toward the soldiers, but as soon as she recognized her husband approaching
in a stranger’s custody, her feet stuttered to a stop. A wraith of a girl
caught up to her and swung a lute as if it were a sword. The wooden belly of
the instrument smashed across the woman’s arse and exploded into splinters. The
impact flung the woman to her knees. Howling and fighting her skirts, she
scrambled through the nearest door and slammed it shut.
    Bethyn sank against the wall,
panting, her eyes closed and a hand touching a ghostly face as if she fought a
wave of dizziness. She dropped the remains of the lute. Her features, small
anyway, were grievously shrunken. The blush was gone from her cheek, and dark
circles bruised eyes that had grown too large. An ivory dressing gown blanched
her the more, and her torrent of brown hair was a neglected shambles.
    Laral roared in fury, seized
Fe’olan by the collar, and hammered his into the wall. “What have you done to
her!”
    The castellan intercepted before
Laral squeezed the life from his captive. “We’ll take him from here, Tírandon.”
    Bethyn reached for