The Hawk and the Falcon

  THE HAWK AND THE FALCON

  Benjamin Corman

  Copyright © 2019 by Benjamin Corman

  All Rights Reserved.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  Other Books by Benjamin Corman

  The Last Swordsman

  If you enjoyed this book, please leave a review on Amazon.com

  If you have any comments, please feel free to send them to hello@cormanmedia.com

  Or visit cormanmedia.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter One

  ROBERT

  Robert hurried down the vast, open courtyard of the Iyril Palace. He was late for his meeting with the Prince, a fact that would be construed as an affront no matter his intentions. It was something that would put him at an immediate disadvantage in the coming negotiations, but he had to find out. The rumors coming in with the tides made his head hurt.

  A piercing, orange sun was breaking through clouds of purple, over the many white towers of the city of Valis. From between thick columns he could see the emerald sea, rising and falling in towering waves, before crashing against the rocky bluff below. Combined with the strong smell of sea air that filled the marble halls, it all made him nauseous.

  Victyr Siran strode by his side, his dark features so much in contrast to their surroundings. Nothing seemed to shake Victyr, yet Robert felt as he did when he was young. He tried to force himself to calmness, to control his stride, but then became so conscious of his movements that he stumbled slightly, and Victyr turned to look at him in question. Robert shook his head in answer.

  The pair moved into a domed hall. Navigating between a mass of dignitaries and petitioners, they found Reghald Lyston marching toward them, his gray, scraggly hair swaying in fits and starts, as he limped ahead.

  “Any word?” Robert asked, as the man joined them.

  He nodded, and a long scar that ran down his right cheek pulled taut as he spoke. “A ship came into port this morning, from across the seas. The hull was scorched black by fire, the sails in tatters.”

  Robert smoothed his dark goatee with thumb and forefinger, swallowed hard. “Then it’s true?”

  “Mandra has fallen.”

  Robert stopped, nearly causing Victyr to collide with his shoulder. “It can’t be.” The implications of the fall of so great a power, no matter how much their influence had waned, made his throat tight. Though well past thirty, Robert, Duke of Lyle, still wasn’t half the leader his father was.

  “It is,” said Lyston, with a grimace. “Verenki from the north overran the walls of the capitol. The Empire’s own conscription forces turned cloak and put the blade to the last of the Talon Guard.”

  Chaos would reign through the provinces. The Houses drew their strength from Imperial claims. The official bonds would come into question, and lesser Houses would seek to gain advantage in the aftermath. “We should leave. Return to Lyle. My father is old, slow to act. He’ll need my council in the weeks ahead.”

  Lyston shook his head. “You must stay. Meet with the Prince. We’ll make the negotiations as brief as possible, and then make our excuses to depart.”

  Robert stopped. “Reghald–”

  “Relations with the Prince of Valis must be maintained. Now is no time to show weakness.”

  Robert stiffened, causing the silver falcon sewn on the breast of his blue tunic to stand out in sharp relief. The city of Valis sat at the southern tip of the Kingdom of Hyrel, where the land of Myren met Kyres. It straddled the vast Eiron River, the wide bridges that ran through the city being the only means of passing from one land to the other, without crossing the Kaspen Sea. To be denied access to the city was to hinder travel, to halt trade.

  “We’ll stay,” Robert said, finally. “For at least the week.” He had once resented Lyston, and his father’s insistence that the old man accompany him on his travels. Time on the road had changed his opinion of the man.

  As the group moved along down the hall again, Robert ran a finger over the pommel of the shortsword sheathed by his side. It had been law in Valis for centuries that no man may enter the Iyril palace armed, but the guards had let him keep his Imperial blade, as a ceremonial arm. Now, his mind was suddenly drawn to the eagle carved on the hilt, its wings spread high, its sharp beak pointing upward. Nowhere else in the realm would you find that crest, but on a sword of this type. Even before the fall of the Mandra, no man in Hyrel would dare wear the Imperial Eagle, a claim of dominion across the seas. Assertions of power would be tremulous in the times ahead.

  “What are they doing here?” Lyston asked, drawing Robert from his thoughts.

  Robert looked up and narrowed his eyes. Across the hall three men stood conversing quietly with one another. They wore chainmail, and yellow surcoats with a black hawk emblazoned upon the chest. House Casterlin.

  The Duke of Casterlin stood at the fore of the second most powerful family in the realm, second only to Robert’s own House. Odd that they were here now. What business could they have in the city?

  “Come on,” said Reghald. “The Prince is waiting.”

  As they were about to step into the Prince’s chambers, a man dressed in a coat of purple velvet sprang from the crowd and bolted at Robert. Reghald grabbed Robert’s arm, moving to step in front of him, but the page stopped before he reached them and bowed. In outstretched hands he proffered a folded piece of parchment. Robert took the note and the page disappeared into the crowd again. Then the pair stepped through the doors ahead.

  The domed chamber was wide, the walls and floor of white marble, veined with black. Circles of red and yellow stone cut patterns leading toward the center, where they culminated in the crest of the Prince’s House – two white swans, facing on a circle of orange and purple.

  Brien Laswick and Dickon Tyree waited for them in the center of the room. Brien was fair of hair and face, though his usual smile was not present. Dickon made up for it, a wide grin pushing up chubby cheeks.

  “Ah, Robert,” said Dickon, biting the knuckle of his forefinger, “Last night I met a maid of such endowments.”

  “Fortune or fortitude?”

  Dickon grinned and swatted him on the back. “Both.”

  As Dickon went on about his escapades, Brien appeared at Robert’s shoulder. “We missed you last night.”

  Robert suppressed a pang of jealousy and smiled. “Something’s come up.”

  “The rumors?”

  Robert nodded.

  “True?”

  “Looks like.”

  “Gods. Who confirmed?”

  “Later. The Prince is due any moment.”

  Lyston began tracing the perimeter of the room, his sword hand constantly twitching at his side,
while Dickon strode about, glancing at the ornamentation set in small alcoves along the wall. Victyr stood in a corner, arms crossed, surveying the room.

  Brien wandered off, seeming anxious about the Prince’s arrival, which struck Robert as odd considering his usual lack of concern in these affairs. He almost wondered if there was something wrong with the man, but then his gaze came back to the note in his hand and he started to unfold it.

  His eyes traced the familiar, ordered scrawl within and he smiled, but as he read on, his heart sank. His throat grew tight and he rubbed at the feeling of pressure that was filling his chest.

  Lyston was the first to notice something was amiss, taking a few steps toward him and then stopping when he saw the look on Robert’s face. “What does it say?”

  Victyr and Dickon turned then, while Brien hung back, staring with uneasy eyes.

  Robert looked up and inhaled deeply. “The King of Hyrel is dead.” The parchment fell from trembling fingers. “My father is dead.”

  Lyston ducked and retrieved the note from the floor. His eyes narrowed, flicking back and forth across the text. “Gods.”

  Dickon shook his head and swallowed a nervous laugh. “It can’t be.”

  Victyr bowed his head and whispered something indiscernible. Robert felt tears forming in his eyes and he turned away from his friends. “It’s in my sister’s own hand,” he managed. He walked slowly to a window, letting the marble sill catch him as he fell against it.

  Outside, a flock of gulls wheeled above the deep sea. The weight of possibilities pounded against him as the surf on the rocks below; endless, relentless. Now was the time, his time, to do something. He would mourn for his father; even as his mind raced, he could not imagine assuming the old man’s place. But he would, he had to. The realm would look to him.

  Robert, Duke of Lyle, had been groomed for this moment all of his life. Affairs at Valis would have to be cut short. The Prince could not possibly take offense given this latest development. A funeral would have to be arranged. He would need to get missives out straight away, gather the nobles and address the Houses.

  There would be much work to do, but then, after it was done… the great things he could accomplish…

  A side door to the chamber banged open behind him, and Robert turned with a start. Lyston sprang forward, going for a blade that wasn’t at his side. Dickon cursed and Victyr crouched low.

  A score of men in burnished platemail and visored helms stormed into the room, swords in their hands. They wore surcoats of black, bearing a thin, solitary red stripe down the front. The colors didn’t belong to any House or Order Robert recognized.

  He stepped forward, putting a hand to the hilt of his sword, but the first man shouldered past him, followed by a pair that grabbed him by the arms. A half-dozen others moved into the room, as he struggled to get free.

  Three of the men encircled Dickon, who pushed at their blades, cursing and kicking. Victyr was surrounded as well, pacing about in a circle, keeping his distance from the iron-clad men as much as possible.

  What were armed men doing in the Iyril Palace? This all had to be some sort of misunderstanding. “Gentlemen–”

  It was too late. Swords were raised, and suddenly Dickon was bleeding, though he spat and fought and kicked at the men. Victyr kept them circling for a time, but soon had a streak of blood running down his arm and a deep gash across his forehead.

  Lyston jumped into the fray and managed to wrest a sword from one of the men, prying it from his grip with apparent ease. He made trickles of red flow down their polished armor but was soon defending against five attackers.

  Robert finally managed to break free from his captors, loosed his sword from its sheath, and made toward Lyston. When he was halfway there, he thought better of it and spun around in time to see Brien Laswick go down amidst a tangle of men. A single arm rose above the fray, as if clawing for escape.

  Robert growled, ran a man through that attempted to bar his way, then leaped over his fallen body. He tore across the room, slashing another attacker across the chest and pushing him aside with his forearm.

  The path clear, he sprang toward Brien, was nearly upon him when another armored figure appeared, blocking his path. This new man was tall and thin and drew off his helm and let it clatter to the floor. He had long, golden hair, a youthful countenance, and a dagger glistening in his fist.

  Robert raised his sword high, but fast as lightning the man was upon him, pushing in close. Robert staggered backward, feeling at his stomach with shaking fingers. They came away covered in blood.

  He tried to raise his sword again, but pain seared through him and he fell to the floor. Around him steel clashed and men yelled. Feet stomped on once polished marble, now stained with blood.

  Lyston still stood, but his clothes were red. Victyr struggled, three men holding him down, their swords rising and falling in succession. Dickon lay alone in a corner, but his eyes were wide, and he wasn’t moving. Brien couldn’t be seen through a wall of men who were surely ending his life

  Robert pulled himself along the floor with one hand, clinging to his sword in the other. He reached the crest at the center of the room: two swans facing, an ancient symbol of Valis’ oath of neutrality. He pushed himself over.

  The young man with the dagger stood over him. He looked somehow familiar, but Robert didn’t have time to think on it, as the man’s lips twitched up in the slightest of grins and he crouched down. The whiskers of his face scratched Robert’s cheek as he whispered, “Say hello to your father.”

  With that he rammed his dagger into Robert’s chest. The silver falcon on his tunic tore, and then turned crimson. The last thing the Duke of Lyle saw, before the world went dark, was the man’s eyes. They were a deep gray – the color of a coming storm.

  Chapter Two

  WILLIAM

  Someone was pounding on the door. The heavy oak, banded in iron, rattled against its stone frame. The assault stopped for a moment, a blessed reprieve, and then began again in earnest. “M’lord?” a voice cried from without. “M’lord Erris?”

  “There’s no Lord here,” Will groaned. He rolled away from the sound, dragging the bedclothes around him. “You must have the wrong chamber.”

  “William Erris?”

  Will cursed and sat up. The room was dark, the stone floor cold on his feet. His first ragged breath was filled with the familiar earthy smell of the lower levels. “What is it?”

  “Lord Byron of Lyle commands your presence in his privy chamber.”

  With a spark of flint, the lantern beside his bed flared to life, filling the small chamber with a soft, orange glow. A figure stirred beside him and the quilt slipped, revealing the bare shoulder of a young woman. Will grinned, let his eyes trace the curve of her side, from tousled auburn hair, to slender waist. She rolled over toward him and smiled in her sleep.

  Her cheeks were still marked by streaks of tears that had run through the dark liner around her eyes, but this did nothing to mar her beauty. She had always caught his eye, even when they were young. When she had come to him the evening before, there was sadness on her face, despair at what had happened. But she’d found comfort in his arms. They’d finally found each other in that late hour of misery.

  “M’lord?” the voice prompted again, from outside the chamber.

  “A moment,” Will sighed, standing and looking about for something to wear. He scrounged a wrinkled tunic and a pair of trousers from the floor, and pulled them on, gave his mop of brown hair a quick shake, and headed for the door.

  He was careful to allow it to open only a crack, just enough so he could squeeze out, and then quickly closed it behind him. Though in his rush, it banged against its frame, evoking a wince and a prayer to the gods that it wasn’t loud enough to wake the woman in his bed. If she made a sound…

  Nothing came. He turned to find a solitary guard waiting for him – the torch in his hand casting reddish light off sharp halberd, conical helm, and chainmail hauberk
. “Will,” the guard breathed.

  Will let his shoulders relax, not realizing he had been tensing them. He smiled. “Morey.” If they knew, they wouldn’t have sent just one guard, and not this one. “What brings you around at this fine hour of the evening?”

  Morey wasn’t smiling. “I’m to take you to Lord Byron’s chamber.”

  “I know the way,” Will said. He started off, down the narrow, stone corridor.

  “Sorry, Will,” said Morey, shuffling after him. “Strange happenings of late. First Mandra falls, then a week ago, the King… those like us got to stick together.”

  Will stopped and turned to the guard, glaring. “What do you mean?”

  Morey came to a halt so suddenly that his helm slipped over his eyes, and he had to quickly push it back up into place. “You know, we ain’t got noble blood in our families, to protect us no more, but we ain’t common...”

  Morey’s grandfather had led the fourth conquest against Kyres more than a hundred years ago. It was successful. Shortly thereafter, he was charged with wanting to carve a large part of the eastern land out for himself and was promptly hung for treason. The man’s widow was married off to the third or fourth son of some lord of middling import, his family and land quickly assimilated by the new House. “Sometimes it’s easier to dull the bloodlines, then to spill them on the field of battle,” Will’s father had said, more than once.

  Perhaps their heritages weren’t as dissimilar as he thought.

  Will started back down the hallway. “I think you’re getting ahead of yourself, Morey. The Mandren Empire had been withering for two centuries. The King… was old.”

  “But now this meeting, Will–”

  They were at the privy chamber. Two, wide doors set in an arched frame; thick enough to withstand the battering of any ram that might fit in the cramped hall. It would take quite the onslaught to get through, if someone wanted to keep you out.