6

Chapter Six

The news of the Bastard Breeds sent shockwaves through the Clan leaders who surrounded Dearn.

Questions, protestations and outrage that any who carried Clan blood could have anything to do with the Vultures were voiced.

All but Jalon, the leader of the White Lance Spiritmen. As Dearn continued into the Fortress, he noticed Jalon followed closely behind him, silent, reflective. The old man had something on his mind, and he indicated clearly his determination to voice those thoughts.

“Brendar, inform the Clan leaders I’ll meet with them momentarily.” Dearn turned to his general with the quiet order. “Then you and Tamora ply them with wine and keep them calm, and I’ll be in soon to soothe their ruffled feathers.”

There was an edge of impatience in his voice that he couldn’t filter out. His Clan leaders were becoming worse than old women in their petty bickering and debates over how this situation should be handled.

“Jalon, you wish to speak with me?”

The old man nodded silently, his blue eyes dark and somber, his body tense.

“Come with me then, and we will talk.”

Dearn led the way to the small room he used for private meetings. He poured them both wine as Jalon sat. Jalon accepted his with a look of relief, still not speaking, only watching expectantly.

“What do you wish to discuss, Jalon?” Dearn sat behind the dark oldtree wood desk.

“I wish to speak of bastards, Sire,” Jalon said, his voice raspy with age, though his eyes were still clear and filled with wisdom.

Dearn frowned. “What can I tell you that you did not hear within the courtyard?”

“I would know if you saw one who is written of in the Cries of Algernon.” He spoke of old writings handed down for centuries, written by the most favored of Ashrad’s winged warriors. Dearn shook his head in confusion.

“I have never read the Cries of Algernon, as well you know, Jalon. How would I know if there is a bastard those writings speak of?” He leaned forward, surveying the Spiritman curiously.

“‘A warrior, his hair as black as the midnight sky, save the streak of silver it carries. Eyes the color of the White Lance, Wings the hue of all the Clans, like a rainbow of the land’s pride. Honor in full measure, a voice that thunders across the land. One who stands tall, and one who yet shall bend his knee to the Clans.’” Jalon seemed to be reciting a verse he had memorized, and Dearn realized he must have done just that.

He shook his head.

“I saw no such warrior, Jalon. There was one—a woman, though—whose voice rankled my pride and set my feathers on edge. But I gather this is not the one you speak of?” He smiled a bit mockingly.

Jalon sighed in regret.

“No, Sire, I speak of no woman. Perhaps he is one who was not with the troops you met.” Dearn studied him for long seconds, wondering if an explanation would be forthcoming. When one was not, he finally spoke.

“What is this warrior, Jalon, that you think he is the one Algernon spoke of?”

“It was written that the bastards would be conceived in violence and sent beneath the sword. But treachery would save them, vengeance would return them and honor would flow from them. That the Black Scourge of death would return, bearing the bastards as a source of strength, yet a strength not theirs to claim. Algernon wrote of them, and he saw this warrior. The bastards have returned, so, surely, this warrior is among them.”

The cryptically worded legend left Dearn confused, but he readily admitted that would be no hard task, at the moment. Weariness lay upon his shoulders like the heaviest cloak and dragged from his mind the

strength he needed to sort through this. He would have to find his bed and sleep soon, or he would be unable to make the slightest decisions.

“As I said, I saw no such warrior. But the Bastard Breeds do seem to be betraying those they fight with.

This gives me hope for a swift end to this war.” He sighed. “I know no more than that.” Jalon, his face filled with regret, rose to his feet, lowering his head as he faced his king.

“Thank you for your time, Sire,” he said softly. “I know it is full, and your kindness in sharing it with me is much appreciated.”

The long silvered hair of the White Lance priest framed the dark, sun-weathered skin that had begun to wrinkle with age. But the man’s wisdom and intelligence had not dimmed and gleamed brightly from his deep blue eyes.

“Whenever you need me, Grace, you know I am here.” Dearn stood now as well. “I only regret I do not have the information you wanted.”

Jalon smiled ruefully.

“You had much information that I wanted, just not the whole of what I needed,” he said. “We will talk later, perhaps.”

Dearn watched the Spiritman leave the room, still frowning, still wondering at the meaning behind the priest’s words.

* * * * *

Jalon was met by two other White Lance priests as he closed the door to the king’s meeting chamber.

“The warrior was not there, but the woman was,” he murmured as they walked away through the well-lit stone hallway. “He has seen her, and in his voice I hear the truth of Algernon’s words.”

“Then the bastards have returned.” Heaviness weighed in the priest’s voice. “Death will come with them, Jalon, this you well know.”

“But with them, my friend, comes the hope for the future. The reunion with those we have lost, a land that will feed us as our Clans grow and bring us strength in the coming centuries against those who would rise against us.” Jalon nodded. “The legacy of the Bastard Breeds will not be all death, my brother. With them will come victory—and, for our king, a much awaited season of light.”

* * * * *

Several hours later, Dearn entered his rooms, aware that the Clan leaders were far from satisfied with his plan of action and still argued fiercely on the best way to handle the war they were now enmeshed in.

He felt they needed more information before sending a full-scale attack force into the human cities. The humans outnumbered the Clans more than five to one, and if they attacked their cities they warred not just with the soldiers but the innocent women and children who had no place in war.

And yet, hadn’t the Vultures attacked their women and children? They had come into their homes,

destroyed lives and families, and made war on the innocent, the leaders reminded him.

The debate raging within the converted meeting room had given Dearn a headache that drove him from them, seeking relief from their shouting, angry voices.

For now, Dearn wanted his people in the Fortress, safe and secure from the human and Vulture raiding parties, until he could learn the truth of the charges against the Clans. It shouldn’t take long. There were humans who traded with the Clans, and the Southern Valley held several human villages that Dearn knew were loyal. Scouts from those villages had already been sent out, surely there would be news soon. He prayed there was, because he didn’t know how much more death his people could endure and still retain their own honor. He was quickly approaching his own limit.

He was soul-tired, weary to the bone, and yet he feared closing his eyes. He feared the images he would see as sleep drifted over him, should he allow it now. The image of Mera, her body abused and beaten, the pain and horror in her eyes, the savagery of the attack marked plainly on her body. And Ralnd. He clenched his fists as he sat down slowly on his bed. Gods have mercy on him, but he could feel the rage and the grief that he knew must have torn at his cousin a thousand times stronger than it did him. Indeed, he felt that, of the two of them, his cousin was much luckier. The Vultures had relieved him of the torment of living with that image, while Dearn now suffered from it each second.

It was like an open, bloody wound on his soul, and he wondered if it would ever heal, if the pain would ever ease.

He lowered his head, feeling his hair fall to cover his face and wishing he could hide forever from the reality of what had come to his people. He looked down at his hands, turning them palms up, watching as the muscles there flexed and wishing there was a Vulture or human neck clenched between them. He would wring the life from them, he swore. He would make them pay for the deaths, for the savagery and the pain.

“King Dearn?” A soft voice accompanied a gentle knock on the door.

Dearn raised his head, watching as the young woman entered the room, her hazel eyes gazing into his.

He frowned, wondering whose daughter she was. Surely, she had not been raised within the Fortress or he would recognize her.

“Yes?” He rose from his bed, studying the Eagle colors of her wings while the unusual hazel of her eyes threw him back. It was rare for a child born of the Eagle Clan, even when it carried blood mixed with another of the Clans, to have eyes nearly green—most were of a brownish hue. “What can I help you with?”

“Your mother has sent you dinner and wine.”

Only then did he notice the tray she carried.

“Place it on the table, then leave me alone,” he ordered as he watched her closely. “What is your name, girl?” he finally asked as she moved to do as he bade.

“I am Lenora, Sire.” Was that a flash of fear he saw in her eyes? He wondered.

“And from whose Clan have you come?”

She squared her shoulders, much as he had seen a warrior do during questioning.

“I was Clayden’s daughter.” She whispered the name of a reclusive Eagle warrior who had left the Clans decades before.

“Clayden? Is he well?” Dearn had often wondered at the fate of his father’s old friend.

She lowered her head, only shaking it slowly, and he clenched his fists in renewed fury. She looked so tiny standing there, another orphan, another child who was alone in the world, for Clayden had no Clan of his own.

“Thank you for the dinner, Lenora.” He fought the bitter bile that rose in his throat at the thought of food.

“Your mother sent a message as well.” Her head rose once again, and once again Dearn was halted by those eyes, so unlike the eyes of other Clan members. “She asks that you come to her after you have rested. General Brendar has sent the same message.” Dearn sighed, glancing toward the open balcony doors. The sun had long since risen along the Eastern Range, and he had not slept in two days. He needed rest before he could tackle any more death.

“I will see them later.” He nodded, sighing wearily. “You may go now.” Lenora bowed then turned and left the room, drawing the door closed behind her with a snap. What an odd child Clayden had raised, he thought. But he could have expected little else from the old warrior.

Clayden had often fought bitterly on behalf of the few women of the Clans who desired to become warriors. He had even trained a few, but the Clan leaders had refused to allow them to join the warrior ranks.

Dearn had not reversed that decision during his reign for the simple reason that he knew no women strong enough to complete the warrior training. The men would have been unable to train one effectively, anyway. How do you raise your fist to a woman and expect her to defend herself? Tamora was the strongest woman he knew, and even the careful secret training he knew she received from Brendar had not changed the soft delicacy of her body. How could she fight as a warrior when she had no hope of attaining a warrior’s strength?

Those questions went as quickly as they came to his wearied mind. He sipped the wine that had been sent up, then stripped his warrior’s leathers from his body and lay down. If he didn’t sleep he would not have the presence of mind to lead. It was one of the first lessons his father taught him. During times of great stress or crisis, a warrior must learn to sleep when he could so he could keep his body and his mind alert.

He slipped quickly into the darkness, fighting the haunting images of blood and death and the sorrow and whispered cries of the children he had found that morning. But nothing could prevent the blood from intruding, the horror from spreading through his nightmares, robbing him of peace, stealing from him the full effect of the rest he needed