The Falconer's Daughter (Complete)

Chapter 20 (Cral)

The Cliffport refugee camp burns. 

The moans of wailing captives dragged off in chains fills the night. A falling star streaks between the sparse clouds – or is the sky crying? Cral’s eyes sting with smoke. He shouts as the Serpent raider’s heavy boot forces him to his knees. A hard–faced man raises his own stolen blade high. 

This cannot be his end. He grits his teeth and growls at the flame–lit sky. Cral wills his muscles to lift him off his knees. His executioner pauses. 

“If you’re going to kill me, look me in the eye, northlander.” 

The raider looks confused. A nearby companion translates. Nods and murmurs of appreciation ripple through the soldiers. Cral smiles. They understand. He looks past the soldiers, at the rows of shackled slaves. These barbarians know an opportunity when they see one. Look how they waited for the refugee camp to fatten itself like a calf for slaughter.

Cral shouts at the translator. “If you kill me, you’ll never know the secrets of the Irsoi. I can deliver them to your hands.” Deliver is a strong word, but this is no time to quibble over details. 

The barbarian rubs his chin and flashes an amused smile. He responds in broken Tundran. “Iron Suns dead. Mo’Oni take what is needed – men, coin, food. Secrets don’t make strength.” 

Cral’s eyes widen. His voice quavers and rises. “I know where to find a talisman of great power! It is in the hands of helpless children and an old man! It will be a great boon to your king! Spare me, and I will lead you to it.” 

The Serpents exchange hurried words, arguing. Cral searches the circle for an opening, a place to escape, but he would not get far with his hands tied behind his back. He slumps his shoulders. His fate balances on the edge of barbarian whims. 

The executioner points Cral’s own sword at him and speaks. Others nod in agreement. Cral waits. 

The translator smiles wickedly. “You fought well, show brave before death. You buy great honor – see king before die.” The translator shouts in his native tongue, and two raiders seize Cral. He would never have thought he could be so grateful to be treated so roughly. Praise heaven his scouts found a reliable rumor of the traitor, the brat, and the girl. 

Cral is dragged, kicked, and corralled over the fallen, through the smoke, toward a large tent the color of wet moss. Two mountains of men with glaives guard the entrance. They step aside after a short parley. 

Inside the tent, Cral blinks against the light from hanging lanterns. A dozen soldiers keep silent watch. Three men and a woman, distinguished in their tall collars and shoulder capes, hunch over a map on a table, discussing in their guttural tongue. Cral does his best to square his shoulders. The translator bows low and introduces them. Cral scrutinizes the apparent leader’s face. It is an unchanging mask. He is not as old as Cral expected of one leading an army of this size – for that is what it is, no longer a raiding party. He wears a short beard ending in a braided goatee, and his eyes are hard. Cral would give anything for a hint of this man’s thoughts. 

The leader nods to the translator and points at Cral. 

“Speak, southlander.”

Cral fumbles, unbalanced by the abrupt invitation. “As I told your man, I know where great secrets lie, secrets of the Irsoi’s strength.” 

“You say you have secret, not know where to find,” the translator interrupts. 

Cral bows low. “I can lead you to it, great king, if you spare my life.” 

The leader speaks and waves his hand. Cral is shoved into a chair at the table, his bonds loosed, quill and scroll set before him. 

“Show me. What. Where,” says the leader. 

Cral silently curses Ohad for betraying him and Tar for dying. They were the ones who got a good look at the talisman. He will have to do his best from the memory of their descriptions. Cral bites his lower lips and rubs his forehead. His hand shakes. 

As Cral finishes his crude sketches – the talisman covers most of his canvas, but a small map occupies the rest – the leader’s stony mask develops a hairline fracture. He waves to his guards and shouts clipped commands. The guards exchange glances, but soon leave the tent. The translator is halfway to the tent flap, when a word holds him in place. Soon, only Cral, the translator, three advisors, and the barbarian king remain. 

Cral swallows back bile. 

“Tell all,” the leader commands.