“By my Eagle’s sight, I swear to you, Captain, that I see what you cannot. The Eika are marching out of their city even now to attack Lavastine’s army. We must ride to warn the count. Now!”
Perhaps it was her tone of voice. Perhaps it was the stories they had heard at Steleshame of the horrific illusions that had marched alongside the Eika soldiers when the savages had attacked the holding. Perhaps they had heard her own story of the fall of Gent, retold endless times.
No one argued, though Erkanwulf stared and stared eastward trying to see what she saw until Ulric grabbed him by the arm and yanked him back.
“Come, boy! You heard the Eagle!”
No one heard the drums. No one saw the Eika coming. No one but her. She was the only one who could warn Lavastine—and make him believe.
XV
THE FURY OF THE EIKA
1
ALAIN woke at dawn and scrambled outside to find his father sitting at his ease under the awning, sipping wine. The count had unchained Terror, and the old hound rested his head on Lavastine’s knee and gazed adoringly at his master.
“Did you rest well?” Lavastine offered Alain the cup.
“Well enough.” The wine hit Alain’s stomach with a bracing flood of warmth. Rage whined, scenting eastward.
“Did you dream?”
“Just nightmares of the Eika arming. Like locusts, swarming everywhere. But Fifth Son did not leave the cathedral.”
“It seems the Eika intend no attack, then. Not this morning, at least. All lies at peace.”
“My lord!” The captain hurried up. “A band of some dozen horsemen has been sighted, riding hard from the north.”
Lavastine jumped up and strode to the north corner of the hill. Alain thrust the cup into the hand of a servant and hurried after him. He scrambled up onto the rough platform and from there could clearly see the earthworks laid out below, ringing the hill, and—to the north—a dozen or more riders galloping toward their position. As this group enveloped a pair of waiting outriders, one rider slowed to pass on their news. At once the scouts turned and followed the rest toward the hill.
“They ride with some urgency,” observed Lavastine calmly. He beckoned to a servant. “My arms. And another glass of wine.” Like Alain, he already wore sword and mail.
“That’s Liath!” Alain saw scarlet flash in her Eagle’s cloak.
Lavastine leaned down toward his captain. “Bring the Eagle to me as soon as she enters camp. Let the other captains assemble.” When he turned back to Alain, he regarded the young man with a seriousness that made Alain flush with more than wine—with a dreadful anticipation, a fluttering in his stomach. “No matter what is said, or left unsaid, you must trust me, Alain. Your part is to defend this hill.” His gaze shifted to encompass the expanse of fields stretching eastward toward the river and Gent, which lay silent and peaceful under the new sun. “How quiet it is this morning,” he added softly.
Voices swelled below, a hubbub of excited speech and shouting. The captain rode up the hill, Liath right behind him. Her horse was foundering and, as soon as she dismounted, a servant led it away.
“My lord count!”
He lifted a hand for silence and counted his captains: Lord Geoffrey, Lord Wichman, Lady Amalia, Lord Dedi of Autun. The sergeants had already assembled. “Eagle, give us your report.”
Out it spilled so quickly that Alain could scarcely make sense of it: an illusion that appeared as no illusion? the Eika attacking now? With each phrase she glanced east, her expression so transparent that Alain thought he could read each least slight grimace or widening of eyes. She was not as afraid of what she claimed to see as of how her news would be received by her listeners.
They all looked. They could not help it, her gaze drew their own so strongly toward the plain lying bright and empty between their position and the distant city of Gent.
There was nothing there, no army racing toward them, no drums beating to sound the advance.
Nothing but the quiet land under the morning sun.
“Ai, Lady,” she burst out at last, seeing their skeptical expressions.
Alain stepped forward.
Seeing him, she reached toward him like a supplicant. Sorrow and Rage, growling softly, retreated behind him, and old Terror whined and slunk back behind Lavastine. “Lord Alain! You must believe me. They’re halfway across the plains. They’ll overwhelm us if we aren’t ready for them—if they don’t overwhelm us with sheer numbers!” She grabbed Alain’s arm. Rage snapped at her just as Lavastine began to protest this liberty, but Alain called Rage down and, with a look at his father, gained silence. “Don’t you see?” she cried, gesturing toward the east.
He murmured under his breath. “I pray you, Lady of Battles, let me see with her sight. Let me see with the inner heart, not the outer seeming.”