The Song the Ogre Sang

by Peter Fane

  He took another drink. The room was silent. Colj listened intently.

  “Me and my boys, we were down in the gorge proper, in the Trange itself, inspecting the bridge and the foundations. Most of the base of the bridge at the Trange is solid granite, you know. Pillars roughhewn, most of them forty paces wide. Takes real time to break that up, but Jor wasn’t in a hurry. He knew the Trange was a bottle neck, a tough place to get stuck if something went wrong. ‘Get your lads down in there, Eagleton,’ he says to me. ‘Check it out, top to bottom. I’m not putting one foot across ‘til I know we’re good.’ And he’d already sent some extra riders and dragons up front, of course. At that point, he had good patrols out three, four days ahead of us, and he had his spies well out in front of that, too. Always knew exactly what was happening. He took pride in that—and rightly so.

  “Later that morning, he’s down in the gorge with us, looking things over, and one of his spies comes in with a young fellow who says he’s from you, my Lord.” Eagleton nodded at Lord Michael. “This guy says that there’s been major action here at the Tarn. Says that Dorómy and Ruge have brought through a third invasion force, somehow, that they’ve taken up on the southern headlands with a dozen big guns and their war adepts, that they’ve finally committed their great cannon, not just their local iron. They were pushing hard on the inside, too, through the Tarn’s gate, this guy says. Something had happened with our adepts here, that you were facing hard pressure, inside and out. We had to hurry. That was the point of the message, my Lord: We had to hurry.

  “Of course, Lord Jor had been getting messages like this from you for some time, my Lord. It made sense. In fact, it seemed like exactly the kind of message you’d send, if the circumstances related had been true. But again, Jor had that calm sense about him. He listened, then he nodded and said, ‘We’ll get there. That’s what counts.’ Not rushed. And we were still at least ten weeks out, even at our very best speed. Even so, he gathered the generals that morning and started making plans to pick up the pace a bit, to push through the Trange the next day. The next day they hit us.

  “They came at noon. The sun was bright, just blinding bright. White snow against that sky you get in the high country, that deep, winter blue. Not a cloud in sight. Word had gotten back through most of the column that we were gonna do some real marching, so there was a bit of a logjam at the Trange proper, right there at the bridge. Nothing serious, just enough to block things up a bit. And then—out of nowhere—the enemy’s big iron opens up on us from the far side of the gorge, right there—practically on top of us—right there above the far side of the bridge. And not a few guns, either. Must’ve been a couple dozen batteries. Over a hundred guns, easy. Maybe more. The whole mountainside, it erupts, smoke everywhere, everyone diving for cover, taking hits on the bridge proper, wounded starting to come back almost immediately, our vanguard advancing across the bridge, heading right into that fire, trying to get under some cover—they got torn to pieces. We had ten good squads of dragons for such occasions, however; Lord Jor didn’t waste time. He sends half our wing up and out and around, flanking the enemy’s big iron, burning the forest to cinders—but then it was like the forest itself reached up for those dragon riders, a thousand bolts at once—ballistae, if you can believe it—fired together, synchronized, bolt cable strung between them, wing cutters, and there were chained balls coming up from their iron artillery, too. We couldn’t believe what we were seeing. The scale of fire was immense. And then our dragons were gone. Only took a moment. This crazy fire from the mountain—and then our dragons are falling from the sky. There were men and bears and guns going off in our middle, too. From both sides, then all at once. Men in furs screaming bloody murder coming down through the forest from every direction, both flanks. It seemed like the enemy was along our whole length. Then from our rear. And the mountain kept thundering. Smoke everywhere. Our guys were getting our own guns unshipped, but the road was narrow, and we were already backed up a little. They had us outmanned and outgunned about two to one, for sure. We didn’t stand a chance. There was nothing to do.”

  Eagleton cleared his throat. His eyes looked strange, almost crazed. Colj appreciated his distress; it was hard news.

  “So, I ran. My crews, most of them, maybe two hundred guys, we were still down in the gorge when everything opened up. We had some riflemen assigned to us. My idea was to cross the river, get up on the other side of the gorge—we had all the climbing tackle—climb up there, and get after some of those enemy placements. But the enemy had men in the gorge, too. Down in there, with us. They’d been hiding for weeks. Maybe three or four weeks, dug in way deep. Must’ve been, to avoid our scouts. These guys came charging down the north side of the gorge. Wild men looked like old Konungur berserkers. They knew we’d be down there. My friend Jalen, he got shot through the stomach, I saw his back pop open through his coat, saw him go down. Then they were on top of us; hatchets, logging axes, a few carbines going off here and there, hacking us to pieces . . . and, and I just ran.” He blinked, like waking from a nightmare. He looked at Lord Michael, then repeated softly, “I ran.”

  Nobody spoke.

  “How many escaped, sergeant?” Lord Michael asked. “What happened to Lord Jor?”

  Eagleton frowned. “Dead, my Lord. There’s nothing left. A few got away in the woods, perhaps. But the enemy had the mountain on his side, the land. It was the perfect spot. He’d kind of lulled us into thinking he didn’t have the men to engage us, spent months singing us to sleep. And then the messenger made it sound like there was real action up here—and even then, Lord Jor didn’t let his guard down, not even for a moment. But it didn’t matter.”

  “Where did you get this?” Lord Michael asked, gesturing to the oil skin package and black claw in front of him.

  “They caught me, kept me and a couple others tied up. Tortured us.” He touched the five cuts on his cheek. “Asked us questions. But what could we tell? Then their leader came, this huge man. ‘The Mountain King comes!’ they cried. The ‘Mountain King.’ And it is a name rightly earned, my Lord. He was enormous, a beast of a man. He rode into camp on a giant, white war bear. Bear albino, eyes like red murder, armored head to toe in the best gear, superb silver. When he jumped off his bear, the ground seemed to shake. He walked to me, looked me over, then orders a tree stump brought close. They bind my wrist, he cuts my hand off, shoves my wrist in the fire—all without saying a word.” Eagleton blinked and lifted his stump. “Didn’t even ask my name. No questions. Just ordered his men to get me ready to travel. Then he takes out that oil skin and claw and says, ‘Take this to the Tarn. Put it in Bellános’s hand. Tell him he’d better hope Dorómy gets to him before I do.’ Then he mounts his great white bear and leaves, as quickly as he’d come. His men loaded me onto a fast cart, hung a courier banner from the signal pole, brought me to Korfort, then sent me here by zeppelin. That’s what happened, my Lord.”

  Lord Michael looked at Sergeant Eagleton for a moment, then he frowned. “Hard news. We thank you, sergeant. Stay a moment longer. I would speak with you when we adjourn.”

  Eagleton bowed and stepped away.

  Around the table, the mood was dark. To Colj, it was as if every ja in the room had dimmed—all except Lord Michael’s, whose ja seemed to swell. Nobody said a word. Everyone waited for Lord Michael to speak.

  “Hard news, indeed,” Lord Michael said again. He looked from Master Falmon, to Lord Doldon, to Colj. “Opinions?”

  Master Falmon said, “The timing is suspect, of course.”

  “You read my mind.” Lord Doldon nodded.

  Colj inclined his head in acknowledgement. He had had the same suspicion.

  “Agreed,” Lord Michael said. “The very day before parley and we just happen to receive news that our best hope for relief has been butchered wholesale by an army of savages and their ‘Mountain King.’ If they hope to intimidate us with Hone’s army, they’ll be disappointed.”

  Captain Dyer nodded grimly, but
her face was pale.

  Lord Garen shook his head. “That’s only part of the message.”

  “What do you mean?” Lady Kyla asked.

  Lord Garen adjusted his silver spectacles. “The ‘Mountain King’ is an old Konungur myth. It tells of an enormous, ancient bear that guards Aaryn’s Cry from all who would defile it. An ancient legend. Branten Hone has been active against us with his guerillas for years, but he’s never had much luck rallying the locals. He’s an off-worlder himself, came to Kon from Paráden years ago. He raised a family here, but he’s still an outsider; the locals have never trusted him. More to the point, the old Konungur freeholders don’t give a damn about Dorómy or about Father—or about the whole war, for that matter. As far as they’re concerned, it matters not whether the Tarn—whether all Kon—is held by the Iron Lion or the Silver Fox. They hate both with equal passion; they loathe the Dallanar. But they love their land.”

  “So.” Lady Kyla inclined her head. “Hone engages our forces in his own name, not in Dorómy’s, even though the two of them are fast friends, even though Hone has always been loyal to him. Hone then says that he ‘fights for the land,’ not for Dorómy, even though he’s been in Dorómy’s service from the beginning. Hone uses an ancient Konungur legend—the ‘Mountain King’—to attract local Konish men and minor houses to his cause—.”

  “Sounds like it’s working,” Lord Doldon muttered.

  “Exactly.” Lady Kyla’s eyes were bright. She looked at Lord Michael. “Hone didn’t send this message to tell us that Lord Jor is dead, that his army is gone, or that we have no hope of present relief. With this message, Hone tells us that he controls the land itself, that he’s engaged the support of the countryside’s families, that the Konungur freeholders fight for him, and that, by extension, they fight for Dorómy. Hone sends this message to say relief will never come.”

  Colj grunted. Lady Kyla’s analysis was sound. The gathered generals and commanders seemed to concur; they murmured and nodded with agreement. And the danger was real. Colj himself had served under General Hone on numerous occasions on several different campaigns. He knew the High General and his family well. Indeed, only eight years ago, Bellános and Dorómy had sent Colj and Zar to Hone’s homestead to investigate the murder of Dorómy’s adopted daughter, Giácoma Norfell, before the beginning of the war. Colj had seen Hone in battle, both as a commander and as a front-line fighter. There were few in the Realm like him. If Hone had truly raised the old Konungur freeholders against the Tarn, then their situation had worsened ten-fold.

  Lady Kyla raised her chin. “We must have peace, Michael. Tomorrow’s parley must succeed. Surely we can agree on this.”

  Lord Michael looked at her, nodded, and gazed around the table and room at the gathered commanders. Then he looked at Colj for a moment before turning back to Lady Kyla. “We will do our best tomorrow to come to an understanding, dearest niece. Such is the High King’s command. We shall obey it, as always, to the letter. But if we should fail, if our good faith is met by lies, if our honest attempt for armistice is met with treachery, then ‘peace’—a false peace procured by the sword—will not be our answer.” His dark eyes flashed. “Our answer will be what it should have been from the beginning.”

  “And what is that?” Lady Kyla asked.

  Lord Michael’s eyes seemed to go darker still.

  “Total war.”

  20

  LITTLE DAN WASN’T very good at counting, but he’d been trying hard to count the stairs as he and the Chief, Val, Benjy, and Zebber followed the tall captain—Captain Durn—up and up and up. Dan would count ten stairs, which was about as far as he could count, and then he’d start over, and then he’d start that over again, too. There were a lot of stairs. And he didn’t want to fall behind, because a good soldier was a good marcher—but some of the stairs were so darn tall, and he was getting tired even though he was trying hard to keep up. Finally, Captain Durn picked him up and carried him, and that was fine, except that the Chief kept giving him those mean looks, and that was making Dan feel funny.

  After a while, they finally got to the Tarn’s big Square. It was open to the sky. There were coppery trees on the walls and roofs, and the Tarn’s big silver Gate was there in the middle. Captain Durn set Dan down on the ground and said, “Keep up, now.”

  But Dan couldn’t keep up.

  He couldn’t even move.

  Because the big Gate in the Square was singing!

  Sister’s truth, it was!

  The Gate’s song sounded like Stormy’s song, in some ways. But in other ways, it was different. Older and sadder and more tired. There were five adepts in their blue robes at the Gate. They were all singing, too. Two adepts knelt on each side of the Gate like they were supposed to, and one adept stood in the middle, inside the Gate’s silvery mist. The adept in the middle was little. Her blue hood was pulled back and her little arms were held out as she sang. As she sang, soldiers and wagons and ogres and oxen and carts and creatures and dragons came through the Gate, stepping and flying and rolling through the Gate’s silvery fog. They were coming from other worlds, Dan knew. That little adept in the middle was little, but she was a good singer. Yes, sir! Dan could feel her voice through his entire body, from head to toe, her song winding under the Gate’s deep music, giving the Gate some help, showing him the way. An image in Dan’s mind: A little girl in a blue robe walking down a smooth beach with a giant old man, leading him along with a silver string tied around one of his big fingers. Dan nodded. He didn’t understand the little singer’s words, but he could feel that her song was good and right, just like when he was singing with Stormy.

  Everywhere else in the Square, lots of work was going on, everyone getting ready to fight, the whole place moving with people, shouting and working with the Gate’s music below it all. A little snow was falling, but there wasn’t any wind. Dan opened his mouth to catch some snow on his tongue. There were big towers above him vanishing into the clouds, so tall he couldn’t see their tops, and all those coppery trees, too. He didn’t even remember the last time he’d been outside. When had that been? It was cold, but not cave cold. It was that outside kind of cold—nice and clean.

  “Real good.” Dan nodded and closed his eyes, swaying, listening to the Gate’s song, smelling the fresh air. He opened his mouth wider; a diamond of snow landed on his tongue.

  “Come on, Eadle,” the Chief hissed.

  “Let’s go, lad.” Captain Durn touched him on the shoulder. “No time to lollygag.”

  Dan jumped, then saluted. “Yes, sir!”

  They crossed the Square, but it was packed, and the Captain had to yell at people to get out of the way. When they were about halfway across, they stopped, and Captain Durn talked to another soldier. That soldier took the Chief, Val, Benjy, and Zebber off a different way, across to the other side of the Square to do their work, Dan supposed. Then the Captain picked him up and walked real fast, almost running, in a different direction, way faster than before, through a stone arch and up some more steps, and then they were going up and up and up again, up a big staircase, then across another open courtyard, through a big door, then up another set of stairs. Dan lost track of how many tens he’d counted. Through another set of doors and up another set of stairs that was so darn long Dan was glad he was getting carried, then up and up again.

  “You sure are a good marcher,” Dan told Captain Durn, patting his shoulder. “I wish I could do it like you.”

  The Captain grunted and kept marching.

  Dan nodded. He understood. No time to talk when you were on the march.

  They kept on going up until they got to a wide hallway, then they went down that hallway until they were standing in front of a door guarded by two big ogres in armor.

  Captain Durn set Dan down on the floor. “This is the boy Lord Garen summoned.”

  The ogres looked down at Dan, then looked at the Captain.

  Captain Durn didn’t say anything else, so Dan stood tall, saluted
the biggest ogre, and said, “Ready to work, sir!”

  The ogre blinked at him, then nodded and returned his salute, his huge fist crossing his armored chest. He really was the biggest ogre that Dan had ever seen. Bigger than Captain Colj, even. Two big fangs stuck out of one side of his mouth.

  “They’re done,” the big ogre rumbled slowly. He tilted his huge head at the door. As he did this, a pair of men in fine clothes came out, talking together in low voices, not looking up, walking past them, down the hall. Then another man came out. One of his hands was missing, wrapped up in a white bandage. There was a grey-haired man at his side talking to him about something, something about dragons; the man with the missing hand looked real sad.

  “Go ahead.” The big ogre pushed the door open.

  Captain Durn touched Dan’s shoulder. “Come, lad.”

  It was a long room with a big table in the middle and lamps and lanterns everywhere. There were banners hanging from the ceiling in all sorts of different shapes and colors. A bunch of armor and weapons hung on the walls with little signs next to them. There were some shelves running around the sides, too, but short ones, filled with little blue books like the ones Dan had seen down with Master Falmon. Some soldiers stood around the table talking in little groups, and a couple of people sat at the table, moving things around on it; Dan couldn’t see what they were doing because the tabletop was above his head. The blond lady with the ponytail he’d seen down with Stormy yesterday, Lady Kyla, was talking to the purple dwarf, Master Zar, and his little blue dragon. There was another lady who had darker hair who Dan had never seen before. The black-haired lady in silver armor was there, Captain Dyer, but she wasn’t talking to anybody. Lord Doldon and Lord Michael were talking at the end of the table. Big Captain Colj was over there talking to an old man in a black robe with a big scar on his forehead, the old man leaning on a crooked walking stick.