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

side of the wide, lazy current rose the
imposing towers of Nathrachan. A green-and-white-striped banner flew over the
roof of the keep.
    “Somebody’s home,” Kalla said. Lord
Nathrachan had died in the first engagement of the war, on Kelyn’s sword, no
less. Whoever had inherited his domain was currently in residence. “We’re
riding straight through, right?”
    “Hell, yes, we’re not stopping
here,” Drys said. “I hope to never see the inside of that place again.”
    One of the stipulations for peace
was that King Rhorek’s massive stone bridge remain unmolested. Gatehouses now
studded both ends, each manned by twenty soldiers. In the center, where the
Brother Realms officially divided, rose an arch without a door or portcullis.
    The Aralorri guards greeted the
young travelers with salutes and a warning: “Careful, if you mean to cross.
It’s a bit cold at the other end today.” The guardhouse commander looked them
over closely, noted their weapons, and nodded.
    “You actually talk to the Fieran
guards?” asked Kalla.
    “Hurl insults mostly,” the
commander replied with a dry grin. “Though on occasion, when we’re feeling
friendly, we might trade a bottle of wine. Not today, though. Something crawled
up their butts, and it’s likely orders from higher-ups to be less friendly to
the enemy. Genius, I tell you. Way to incite another war, in my opinion, but
you didn’t ask, did you? So who do we write in the books as crossed today?”
    Laral told the commander who he and
his friends were and the commander’s eyebrows jumped toward a receding
hairline. “Right. Very well, m’ lords, m’ lady, another warning. If they attack
you, we’re authorized to fight only if you’re wounded. And it will take mounds
of paperwork to retrieve any bodies. Fine travels, then. G’day.”
    “Mother’s tits, this girl better be
worth it,” Drys said and clucked his horse onto the bridge and through the gate.
Horseshoes echoed dully on the wooden planks. The stink of dead fish rose from
the churning waters below. At the halfway point, they rode under the arch and the
white falcon carved in the stone. Laral would feel happier when they passed back
under the black falcon on the other side.
    “Keep your hands away from your
weapons,” Kalla said as they approached the Fieran gatehouse. A pair of guards
in green livery crossed eight-foot-long pikes.
    “Dismount,” one called.
    The Aralorris obeyed and led their
horses cautiously closer.
    “You will pay the toll.” Noting
their fine clothes, horses, and weapons, the guard added, “For you? Ten silvers
a piece.”
    Glowering, Laral asked, “And how
much if we change into homespun and hide the horses back in the trees so you
can’t see them?”
    “Just pay him,” Kalla snapped.
    Drys tossed Laral a clinking
leather bag.
    “That’s right,” said the sentry. “Listen
to your little friends now.”
    Biting his tongue, Laral counted
out the thirty silvers, which left only seven in the bag. Damn, they would be
camping the rest of the journey as well. Still, better to reach Brengarra stiff
and sore from sleeping on the ground than itching with fleas.
    The sentry’s fingers beckoned the
highborn to come to him and deliver. Laral locked eyes with the man, stood his
ground, held out the coins, and grinned. Like yowling tomcats, neither moved,
both determined to force the other to defer.
    Kalla nudged Laral in the ribs.
Guileless, he told the sentry, “If you don’t want the silver, we can always
swim across.”
    “And drown,” the man sneered.
    “We got across once before.”
    The sentry bristled and leveled his
pike. His companion did the same.
    “What’s the trouble?” From the shadow
under the gatehouse emerged the Fieran commander. He eyed the Aralorris’
weapons, found them sheathed, and ordered the two sentries to stand down. The
butts of the pikes struck the planks, and the sentries snapped to attention.
    With a shrug, Laral explained, “These
fine