The Song the Ogre Sang

by Peter Fane

  The whole place by the big door was packed with bears and riders and soldiers and ogres and lords and guns and all the other things you needed to fight a war. Lord Michael was there at the front, by the big guns’ noses, wearing his black armor, looking through a little peephole. Lord Doldon was there beside him. Nobody was saying anything, but the bears were grunting and swaying around, their armor crunching. Master Falmon stood behind Lord Michael. He carried a silver spear with a blue ribbon tied at its tip. The sky was grey, a bit more snow was falling now, but it wasn’t cold. Dan stepped out of the roof’s shadow, opened his mouth, and caught a flake on his tongue. Lord Doldon turned away from Lord Michael. Master Falmon walked back past the cannon and the adepts, toward where Dan was. The Master was saying this and that to folks, patting the war adepts on their shoulders, his eyes sort of glowing.

  “Every day, a day to do better,” Dan whispered. Then he hummed a bit more of his song and swayed a little. He wasn’t nervous for himself, but he was nervous for Stormy. Lord Michael looked again through his peephole. Lord Michael’s war bear was the biggest bear Dan had ever seen; it waited and grunted behind Lord Michael, covered head to claw in silver armor. There was something scary in its big bear eyes. Dan swallowed and took a step back in spite of himself, but he bumped the Chief and said he was sorry. The Chief told him to shut up, to calm down, and to get ready, even though the Chief didn’t look too calm himself.

  Dan tried to be calm, but it didn’t work.

  So he just got ready.

  30

  THEN COLJ SAW something move.

  It was well behind Vymon Ruge and his sons, behind their squires and their banner-men, behind Lord Julane and the green-clad honor guard from Gelánen, back in the shadows of the barbican, in the dark mouth of barbican’s gate.

  Something large in the dark.

  Something moving forward.

  The war song swelled in Colj’s mind, his ja ringing with righteous cadence.

  It was beginning.

  Colj took a deep breath, felt the tension rush out of his enormous muscles.

  Then he deliberately shifted his shield on his shoulder.

  The movement was the signal to his ogres, to the Tarn’s batteries, to Lord Michael behind them at the Tarn’s Great Door.

  The sign was simple—as was its meaning.

  Treachery.

  31

  “THERE IT IS,” Lord Michael whispered at the big door. But when he whispered, it was like he was whispering right into Little Dan’s ear, real soft, but somehow everyone else heard him, too. “It’s happening. Prepare.”

  A kind of sigh went through everybody. Armor crunched, harnesses jingled. Then Lord Michael threw the scabbard off his black sword and climbed onto his giant war bear. The bear growled. It was probably the scariest sound Dan had ever heard. Lord Michael’s sword had a black blade; its edges crawled with smoky things. It was hard for Dan to look at it, but hard not to look at, too. The sword made a strange noise, kind of like a song, but underneath that, it was more like a hungry buzzard locked away from its meat, a sort of black sizzling.

  We thirst, all of us.

  “Ready the door,” Lord Michael said softly. “On my mark.” Four soldiers at the door got ready. Lord Michael put his eye to another peephole, this one high up so that a soldier on a bear could look out of it.

  Lord Michael turned around and looked at them. His eyes were black, and it looked to Dan like there was smoke around them, like the smoke from his sword.

  Lord Michael said, “We must not move until battle is joined, until the enemy’s intent is certain. But when we move, we move with force. Cannon out first. Soften them up. Five shots. Then we ride like a storm.”

  32

  JARED RUGE WAS still stuttering his way through the terms of parley. For Kyla, high on the Pinnacle, it was painful to watch Jared try so hard. Her heart went out to him—.

  And then Kyla saw Colj shift his shield.

  The gesture was barely noticeable, a simple tilt of the shield’s bottom away from the ogre’s huge, armored legs. But to Kyla, it was like a blood-red flag waving before a wall of white ice.

  Treachery.

  But from where?

  Colj shifted his shield again, tilting its front forward, toward the barbican.

  It was a subtle, natural gesture, almost unnoticeable.

  But to Kyla, it might as well have been a child’s scream.

  Treachery from the front, from the barbican. Behind Ruge and his entourage. But Kyla couldn’t see it.

  An icy claw touched the back of Kyla’s neck. She ignored it, breathed deeply, allowed her training to unfold around her, moving her telescope over the barbican, to the ridge above, north and south, the bridge, back to the barbican again.

  Nobody stirred.

  At least not that she could see.

  Her breath came more easily now. She tried to will warmth into her fingers. Jared still stood in front of Garen reading, stuttering, still trying to get through it, oblivious to anything other than his task.

  What did Colj see?

  “What is it, my Lady?” Filip asked, as if hearing her thoughts. “I thought I saw Captain Colj—.”

  “Quiet,” Kyla commanded. And there must’ve been something in her voice because Tarlen, Susan, Ponj, Bruno, all the scouts turned to her, their mouths clamped firmly shut.

  But she was still looking at the bridge, scanning, scanning.

  Filip cleared his throat. “Shall we arm?”

  “No,” Kyla said.

  She still couldn’t see what the danger was.

  In her eye, her telescope’s round image was a blur, the sounds from the ancient instrument a jumble of sighs, creaking armor, men’s breath, scraping metal on stone. She scanned the bridge, the barbican, the headlands again, the new fortifications on the southwestern embankment, then back to the barbican again.

  Colj had given the sign.

  He had given the direction.

  Treachery.

  From the front.

  She was certain.

  And now Colj’s ogres were responding, shifting their own shields, loosening their shoulders, preparing. Beside her on the tower’s top, Kyla could feel the scouts, everyone, looking at her, then turning and straining their eyes and scopes toward the gathering below, looking back to her.

  “What’s going on, Toller?” Sledder grumbled.

  Tellerman nodded. “Can’t see spit.”

  But Filip’s eye was pressed firmly to his own telescope now, his other eye clamped shut, looking as hard as Kyla was. “Something . . . ,” he muttered.

  “Gear up,” Sledder whispered and turned toward the hidden carbines.

  “Don’t touch those weapons,” Kyla said calmly, not taking her eye from her telescope.

  In the corner of her eye, Kyla saw Sledder freeze, then look to Filip. Filip mouthed to Sledder, “Are you mad?” Bruno growled. Susan stepped off him. The big cloud mastiff stood on his rear legs, shoved Sledder out of the way, and looked over the fortifications, his wet jowls resting on the battlement’s granite, grey fur hazing like silver fog, preparing for a fight. Behind them, the star tree shivered, as if sensing a change in the weather. A bit more snow was falling now. Ponj stepped forward and lifted Susan to his armored chest, so that she could see over the battlements, cradling her on his armored forearm, the other arm protectively across her middle.

  “Careful,” Tarlen said absently, not moving his spyglass from the barbican.

  Susan held the edge of the front paldron of Ponj’s armor. “Happy?” she asked. Tarlen ignored her. Susan patted Ponj’s huge armored forearm. “You’d never let anything happen to me, would you, Ponj?”

  There was a short pause. “No,” Ponj said in his voice deep. “Never.”

  “Do you see anything, my Lady?” Filip asked, his eye pushed hard against his telescope.

  She frowned. Because now there were some murmurs from Ruge’s side, behind Ruge’s entourage, behind the honor guard, insi
de the barbican’s gate. Some frowns as well from the green-clad soldiers of Gelánen. Vymon Ruge said something. Kyla didn’t catch the words. But they weren’t part of the parley ritual, that was certain.

  And then she realized that it didn’t matter.

  That words didn’t matter.

  Because Colj and his ogres were bracing for battle.

  And there was something now . . . .

  It was something Kyla couldn’t quite see, a kind of tension in the eyes of the standard-bearers and squires behind Lord Ruge, in the eyes of the men of Gelánen. Jon Ruge looked at his father. Jared looked down at his parchment, then up at Garen with complete sincerity, still stuttering, the effort of reading straining his face as he tried to complete the final terms of parley.

  Then Jared finished. Garen nodded and gestured back to his own entourage, to the squire who held the pale korom’s wood box. This squire stepped forward. Garen took the box, opened it, and took out the High Cup that Kyla had seen in Garen’s study. The Cup glowed silver-white in Garen’s armor. Even through Kyla’s telescope, at this distance, the Cup seemed alive, ready to reveal the memory it contained.

  “What is that, my Lady?” Filip asked.

  Kyla did not answer.

  “The High Cup from Garen’s study,” Tarlen said. “The Cup that Kate brought back from Paráden. The memory it holds must be the reason for parley.”

  Kyla nodded but said nothing.

  The enemy soldiers in the barbican shifted again. The men from Gelánen looked at each other, then to Marden Julane, their commanding officer; he shook his head. Another elusive movement, back there in the barbican’s gate.

  There was something big in the door shadow behind them.

  Kyla trained her telescope on it.

  “There.” Kyla cleared her throat. “There. The barbican, the barbican’s gate.”

  All the telescopes swung together, in unison.

  “That’s a great cannon,” Tarlen said calmly. The scouts muttered. Bruno growled, the sound pure menace.

  And it was.

  Floating, silver, alive, accompanied by the Pretender’s war adepts, two golden-robed young women at each of the big gun’s sides, their lead adept in gold at the rear. Kyla could just see the cannon’s nose, the yawning mouth of a great sea monster, hidden still in the shadow of the barbican’s gate, but coming, aiming straight down the axis of the Long Bridge, aiming straight at the two retinues.

  “Treachery,” Kyla said, a distant calm in her voice. “High treachery all along.”

  The plan was so simple, so obvious: Some commander would say that he’d seen some signal, maybe even Colj’s signal, that they had merely responded to a threat from the Tarn, as was their right.

  “What is it?” Susan asked.

  Kyla heard Tarlen murmur something, but she couldn’t take her eye from her telescope. There was no way to warn Garen. But Colj had seen the great gun. And Kyla couldn’t look away. It was like she was frozen. In the gate’s shadow, the great cannon seemed to crawl forward with infinite slowness, still partially hidden in the darkness of the gate’s mouth.

  “High Lord Commander,” Kyla heard Garen say through her telescope. Garen held the High Cup out to Ruge, looking at him. “We beg you to see this tale, for the good of the Remain and its people—a tale that once known, might set things right for all. In the name of my Father, High Lord Bellános Dallanar, the Silver King, in the names of the Great Sisters and their songs, I swear to this High Cup’s truth.”

  Ruge looked at Garen for a long moment. Then he looked at the High Cup.

  Back in the dark, the big cannon crept forward, slowly.

  Ruge didn’t know that it was coming behind him.

  Kyla stared, frozen, unable to move.

  Then Colj took a step forward, toward Garen, his armored ogre step enormous and heavy.

  And then everything seemed to stop.

  Kyla realized that she was holding her breath. She also realized, quite suddenly, that her hands weren’t cold anymore.

  They were warm.

  Ruge looked up from the High Cup to Garen. He blinked slowly, something new coming into the Lord Commander’s face.

  He understood something.

  But what?

  It didn’t matter, Kyla realized.

  Regardless of what vision the High Cup contained specifically, Ruge understood what it might hold—what it could hold.

  Once upon a time, Vymon, Bellános, and Dorómy had been the best of friends. Between the Dallanar brothers, of course, all trust had disintegrated. But faith still lived here, in the eyes of Vymon Ruge, in the heart of Dorómy’s Lord of the Siege. And just like that, Kyla saw something open in the old general’s face, open like a dawning answer.

  Ruge stepped to Garen and spoke softly, “High Lord Emissary, in the name of the Silver Throne and its rightful King, I am honored to see any vision High Lord Bellános places before me.”

  Ruge took the High Cup from Garen’s hands, lifted it, and inspected it.

  Behind them, still in shadow, the cannon moved up again, its great maw nearly out in the light, the snow coming a bit harder now, flakes swirling chaotically.

  Jon stepped forward and smiled—but his smile was venom.

  Jon put his hand on Garen’s arm.

  And then Colj was there, swinging his arm like an armored tree trunk, his massive high silver shield crashing down in front of Garen, its edge buried in stone. Colj backhanded Jon, the young lord skidding back across the granite pavers, clutching his arm. A single shot cracked out, everything happening at once.

  33

  FROM COLJ’S VANTAGE, the enemies’ reactions to the High Cup that Lord Garen revealed were varied. Some were surprised, some were confused, others were angry. Vymon Ruge was startled—and then hopeful. Jared Ruge was puzzled. Jon Ruge’s eyes narrowed, suspicious. Behind Vymon Ruge’s entourage, in the barbican’s gate, the cannon’s mouth was huge, the maw of a monstrous kraken. The big gun was almost in the open now.

  The attack would come in moments.

  Colj took a step forward.

  Vymon Ruge took the Cup and inspected it. Then he said to Lord Garen, “High Lord Emissary, in the name of the Silver Throne and its rightful King, I am honored to see any vision High Lord Bellános places before me.”

  Jon Ruge stepped forward, smiling.

  But his smile was a lie.

  Jon Ruge put his hand on Lord Garen’s arm.

  His touch was the enemy’s signal.

  Friendship as betrayal.

  A smile as treachery.

  The kiss of a serpent.

  The open maw of the enemy’s gun pushed out into the light.

  And then it was happening, everything at once, war song blossoming hot in Colj’s, and he swung his shield in front of Lord Garen, knocked Jon Ruge back. A single shot cracked the air.

  34

  “IT’S HAPPENING,” LORD Michael said. “Stand ready.”

  But Little Dan had heard the noise out there, a noise like a little firecracker, and Stormy and Oblivion wanted to go now, their humming coming louder and louder, even though the songs weren’t quite right, and Dan felt something move inside his head, a kind of hot craziness, the cannon songs getting louder in his ears.

  “Stand ready,” Lord Michael said.

  But Dan didn’t want to stand.

  Little Dan wanted to fight.

  35

  KYLA SAW THE bullet hit and disintegrated against Colj’s high silver shield, a tiny nova at the center of her telescope, just as Colj backhanded Jon, the young lord skidding across the pavers, armor scraping, clutching his arm.

  A few more shots broke the quiet—CRACK! CRACK! The dark blue standard of Rigel fell to the bridge, its bearer hit by friendly fire. Vymon Ruge looked around, confused—then furious. He yelled an order, something Kyla couldn’t hear until she focused her telescope on him, “Cease fire, curse you—!” Jared Ruge looked back at Jon, frowned, looked at Colj, uncertain, then moved to help hi
s injured brother.

  Kyla moved her telescope away. There were more shots coming now. Colj’s ogre phalanx had surrounded Garen, their shields turtling, a wall of impenetrable high silver. Colj’s second squad came up with the wagon, the field of the wagon’s little star tree moving forward to protect the phalanx. Carbine fire from the southwestern flank, the rounds winking against the star tree’s coppery field. Big Doj pulled the wagon forward, while another ogre at the wagon’s back pumped water into the little star tree’s roots. Another spattering of fire. Colj crouched behind his huge shield, holding Garen safely to his chest, high silver flashing, glowing with reflected force. And then the wagon was up with them, the little tree’s coppery field enveloping the phalanx. Garen shouted something to Colj, tried to straighten his spectacles, shouted something Kyla couldn’t hear.

  “What’s happening?” Susan asked calmly, a strange note in her voice. “What’s happening?”

  More guns were firing now, from the barbican, a heavier spatter, but still just warming up. Around the phalanx, the little tree’s coppery field shrank with the impacts, the tree’s branches trembling, its misty field dwindling as it absorbed incoming rounds, then growing once more—but smaller.

  And yet all the shots came from the opposite side of the Long Bridge, from the enemies’ forces. Kyla frowned. She knew that Michael, his mighty war bear Okros, his bear riders, and two of their own great cannon waited at the Tarn’s Great Door. She knew that the citadel’s countless artillery batteries stood ready. She knew that Anna and their dragons were only moments away.

  Why did they wait?

  A horrible suspicion rose in her mind, but it was blotted out by another bright flash that struck Colj’s shoulder guard, an ancient high silver round making its way through the little star tree’s field, the flash blinding white, the impact deflected by chance.

  “That was high silver,” Tarlen said calmly

  But the enemy was just getting started. The Pretender’s great cannon floated out of the barbican now, floating in plain sight, a bit faster now, its great maw aiming down the Long Bridge proper, its golden-robed adepts surrounding it, priming the living weapon’s song and fire. And it was a most lethal axis of fire. Garen and Colj had no cover save the little tree’s field and their ogres’ shields. And the little star tree’s field was still shrinking, already half of what it had been. It might be able to take one cannon shot—maybe. But even if it could, it would be finished after that, and Garen would be left entirely unprotected.