The Killing Song: The Dragon Below Book III

by Don Bassingthwaite

  The half-orc grimaced, his lip stretching tight against his tusks. “Where do you think Virikhad is now?”

  Dandra shook her head. “He could be anywhere. It sounds like he knows Dah’mir’s plans. He’s probably moved on to another host so he can make sure Biish’s raid succeeds and Dah’mir captures the seventeen kalashtar he needs.”

  “Seventeen kalashtar with psicrystals to wear seventeen bracers with binding stones,” said Singe. With what they had found in the arena and what Natrac had heard from his cell, it hadn’t taken much to guess what had been on the list of targets Vennet had given Biish. The month Dah’mir had been in Sharn had certainly been enough time to gather the information. If his herons had watched Fan Adar for them, the birds might have watched for kalashtar carrying psicrystals too. Or maybe Dah’mir and Vennet had spied on Fan Adar themselves. How the dragon had built the list didn’t matter—it was a curiosity, much as the half-elf Benti’s role in the raid was a curiosity. Singe had tried to reason out why Vennet and Dah’mir should need another bearer of the Mark of Storm and come up with nothing. For the moment, the important thing was that list and the danger to the kalashtar.

  They still had a chance to disrupt Dah’mir’s plans. The kalashtar elders would also know who in Fan Adar possessed psicrystals, and Dah’mir’s potential victims could still be hidden or scattered.

  If they could get back to Overlook in time to warn them.

  There was still one thing that needed to be discussed before they left their cellar refuge, however. Singe turned around to face Ashi. The hunter had slipped through the goblin-sized door with lithe ease without saying anything. In fact, she’d barely spoken at all during their flight through the sewers. Now she crouched beside the door, a haunted look on her dragonmark patterned face, her mouth pressed closed so tightly the flesh was pale around the bone hoops that pierced her lower lip. Singe squatted down in front of her.

  “You’re thinking of Moon, aren’t you?” he said.

  The hunter’s eyes flicked up and focused on him. After a moment, she nodded and her lips parted. “I left him behind, Singe. I was supposed to watch over him and I left him behind. Vennet and Biish came over the wall and onto the terrace so suddenly all I could do was defend myself. I had to choose between protecting Moon and trying to warn you.”

  Singe spread his hands, sending light and shadows dancing around the room. “I think you made the right choice. If you’d tried to carry Moon with you, you would have been fighting with a dead weight over your shoulder. If you’d tried to stay, either Vennet or Biish would probably have slipped past you and come after us.”

  “But they came anyway. Now Moon is probably either dead or Dah’mir’s prisoner.” Ashi looked down at her sword, held across her hands—the bright honor blade of the Sentinel Marshals, a relic of the grandfather who had fallen prey to Dah’mir and the Bonetree clan. “I carry the Siberys Mark of Sentinel,” she said. “I should have stayed. I should have defended him.”

  “No,” Singe said firmly. “You shouldn’t have. You couldn’t have. You need to be realistic, Ashi. Think—House Deneith doesn’t defend everyone. The lords of Deneith know it’s impossible.”

  A harsh look crossed Ashi’s face. “The lords of Deneith sell their protection.”

  Singe grimaced. “Not all of them. You still have a lot to learn about Deneith. For every heir of Deneith like Mithas, there’s someone good, someone who thinks of others before they think of themselves. Someone who does try to defend other people when they can.”

  “Someone like Robrand used to be?”

  That stung. Singe bit his tongue—and nodded reluctantly. “Like Robrand used to be.” He sighed. “Ashi, what I’m saying is that you can’t blame yourself for everyone that falls. It’s just not possible. You have to look at the greater good. If you’d tried to defend Moon, what would have happened to Dandra and I?”

  “You could have defended yourselves.”

  “All right then, what would have happened to you? And if you died, what would have happened to Dandra?”

  Her only answer was to press her lips tight together again. Singe reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. “You’ll learn, Ashi. Having that kind of responsibility isn’t easy. You don’t have to forget about Moon, but you have to face that there’s nothing you can do for him now. There are kalashtar up in Fan Adar who are going to be in a lot of trouble very soon. You can’t help them if you’re caught up on one person you couldn’t defend.” He squeezed her shoulder then stood up. “You have to let him go for now.”

  Ashi looked up at him, her eyes intense. “This is the second time you’ve talked me into your point of view, Singe. The first time, you convinced me of Dah’mir’s evil and showed me I had the strength to turn my back on the Bonetree clan. I’m starting to think that it’s not your spells or your sword that make you dangerous.” She smiled wryly and stood. “Let’s make sure I didn’t leave Moon behind for nothing.”

  She moved past him and went to stand under the trapdoor in the ceiling, stretching up her arms to test its strength. Dandra stepped in to Singe’s side. “You can make a persuasive argument when you want to.”

  He shrugged. “My mother wanted me to be a wine trader. My professors at Wynarn University told me I could have become a lecturer.”

  “I can’t see you as a wine trader or a lecturer.”

  “Neither can I.” Singe smiled. “On the other hand, wine traders and lecturers don’t generally have to worry about dragons.”

  The building into which the sewer door opened was very nearly a ruin. The few goblins that Singe spotted as they made their way out to the street stayed far back in the shadows, keeping wary eyes on the intruders from below. A few drew back even further as they saw the dragonmark on Ashi’s face. The hunter’s scarf was long gone and there didn’t seem to be much point in trying to conceal the mark now. She left it exposed, and if respect for or fear of the mark sped their passage even a little, thought Singe, so much the better.

  He caught more than one of the goblins covering their noses. If the little creatures found the smell bad, the stink of the sewers that clung to them must have been truly foul. Before they passed out into the street, he cast a simple cantrip that stripped the filth and stench from their clothes. It was disconcerting to cast the magic—there was every chance they would be facing Biish’s gang as well as Dah’mir and Vennet very soon, and he wanted every possible spell at his disposal for the fight—but they didn’t need to attract any more attention than they had to on their way out of Malleon’s Gate. Any delay could cost them on the race back to Overlook.

  The delay that waited for them at the nearest lift, however, couldn’t have been avoided no matter how good they smelled. In fact, smelling really bad might have helped them more. Singe stopped on the edge of the festive crowd that plugged the street before the lift and cursed, remembering what they had seen on their ride down to Malleon’s Gate. “Thronehold! Bloody Thronehold! Everyone’s trying to get to the upper city to see the display!”

  Mention of the celebration brought a cheer from the nearest celebrants and tankards and wineskins were raised in a drunken toast. Natrac leaned closer to Singe and shouted above the noise. “Biish probably chose tonight for the raid deliberately! The upperr city will be so chaotic that the Sharn Watch won’t be able to respond quickly to the raid.”

  “Won’t that make it more difficult for him to find his targets in Fan Adar?” asked Ashi.

  Dandra scowled. “No. Remember how few banners there were in Fan Adar? The kalashtar don’t pay much attention to Thronehold. Fan Adar will probably be the quietest neighborhood in the upper city tonight.” She looked at Singe. “I’d bet choosing the night of Thronehold for the raid was Dah’mir’s plan more than it was Biish’s.”

  “I wouldn’t bet against you,” Singe said. He stared at the crowd. Goblins, hobgoblins, bugbears, some half-orcs, and even a few mangy-looking shifters were packed into the street almost ten ranks deep. It would take
at least two runs of the lift to clear them, and more people were arriving all the time. Trying to force their way through the crowd would be bad idea—he saw a hobgoblin try to wade forward only to be met with outraged curses and a flurry of blows that sent him staggering back. There didn’t seem to be much point in trying another lift. He suspected that every lift in the district, probably every lift in Sharn, was jammed with crowds.

  The crowds might slow Biish’s people too, but if Biish—or more likely Dah’mir as Dandra had suggested—had planned the raid around Thronehold, he’d likely have planned for the crowds as well. He spun around, eyes raking the streets, searching for inspiration. There had to be a way to get to the upper city quickly …

  His gaze settled on a large skycoach as it passed overhead, draped with the colorful banners of Thronehold and stuffed full with goblin revelers. It was old, worn, and flew with all the grace of a wounded dragonhawk, but it was flying. Dandra looked up as well. She must have guessed what he was thinking because she smiled grimly. “There were other skycoaches earlier,” she said. “Smaller ones. Faster ones.”

  “That’s what we need.” There were a few more skycoaches in the air, all heading toward the gaps that gave way to open sky. They had to find one on the ground—if there were any left. He turned to Natrac. “Where do you think we’d find a skycoach?”

  The half-orc shook his head. “They don’t usually come to Malleon’s Gate. Anyone here tonight must be wringing the rind—”

  “They’d still need a place to pick up passengers.” Singe grabbed Natrac and turned him around to face another wallowing vessel as it lifted clear of the buildings around them. “There! Where’s that one coming from?”

  Natrac squinted. “Reaver’s Square.” He thrust out his tusks and started down a sidestreet at a trot, moving against the current of people heading for the lift. Singe stayed right behind him with Ashi and Dandra following.

  Reaver’s Square was an unprepossessing expanse of stone utterly empty of buildings or any features at all. There were hardly even any people left in the square, as if the last of the large skycoaches had taken them all with it. Those people who were in the square seemed to be on their way to someplace else, likely a lift. That all of them rushed right past the last skycoach still hovering in the square, ignoring the piping calls in Goblin that Singe presumed were invitations to hire the coach, didn’t put any confidence into his heart. They didn’t have much choice, though. From across the square, the coach looked right enough, if some what smaller and distinctly less well maintained than the one he and Ashi had taken to Deathsgate. Even on closer approach there didn’t seem to be anything materially wrong with it.

  Then he saw the source of the piping voice—and the source of the piping voice, a goblin standing on a bench in the stern of the coach, saw him. Dark eyes in an orange-red face lit up. “Masters and mistresses! You must be lost. Hire Rhazala’s skycoach, and you’ll be in the sky before the show starts!”

  There wasn’t a chance, Singe was certain, that the coach belonged to her. At least not legally. If she sat down on the bench, he suspected that her short legs wouldn’t reach the floor. If she climbed out of the coach, he doubted that she would be able to climb back in. She looked like a child standing on the driver’s seat of a conventional carriage. In fact, he couldn’t be certain that she wasn’t a child. Her impish face and the oversized robes that swathed her small body gave the impression that if she was an adult, it was only by a matter of days. He glanced at Dandra.

  She lifted her hands and shrugged. The canny little goblin—Rhazala, presumably—must have caught either their indecision or their desperation because her voice became wheedling. “No other coaches left,” she said. “Don’t want to wait for a lift, do you? So slow. So many stops on the way up. The Thronehold show will be over before you see it.” Her eyes narrowed. “Or maybe the show isn’t what matters to you. Wherever you’re going, I can get you there, quick quick.”

  Singe grimaced. She might not have gotten the details right, but she had the basics of their situation pegged. He stepped up to the coach. “You can fly this thing, can’t you?” he asked.

  Rhazala put on an offended look. “For years I’ve flown it! Won races! My regular passengers took tickets on a party yacht to watch the show or I wouldn’t be down here now—”

  “It’s stolen,” he said bluntly. “You don’t have regular passengers. I don’t care. Just tell me if you can fly it.”

  She dropped her protestations. “I flew it here, didn’t it?”

  That, at least, had the ring of truth. “We need to go to Overlook, fast as you can. How much?”

  Rhazala’s eyes darted among them. “A gold galifar apiece,” she said. His eyebrows rose. She shrugged. “Wait for a lift.”

  “Twelve moons, you are a thief.”

  He found the coins, though, and dropped them into her small hand. They vanished into her robe. “In in!” she cried. “Faster you’re aboard, faster you’re in Overlook!”

  The coach rocked as first Singe, then Ashi and Natrac, climbed over the edge and sat. Only Dandra barely disturbed it, vaulting lightly over the side and settling down next to Singe. “I don’t feel good about this,” she said.

  “You’d feel less good waiting, wouldn’t you?”

  “Hold on!” said Rhazala. Singe heard her robes rustle—then the skycoach shot upward with an abruptness that took his breath away. His hands clamped onto the coach’s side as the vessel angled up and out of the square, nearly clipping the roof of one of the buildings lining it. In only moments, they were above Malleon’s Gate and still climbing, heading for a gap between the great towers.

  And straight toward one of the lumbering, banner-draped skycoaches they had seen earlier. “Rhazala!” Singe shouted. The goblin’s reply was muffled and their coach didn’t change course. Singe twisted around.

  In order to reach the rudder-like rod that steered the coach, Rhazala had to sit backward on the bench. The only way she could have seen where they were going was to turn and look over her shoulder. Unfortunately, the wind of their passage had blown the folds of her robe over her face. She couldn’t see anything, and her attempts to claw the fabric away were utterly unsuccessful. Singe freed one hand, reached back, and snatched the billowing robe clear of Rhazala’s face. The goblin’s dark eyes went wide as she saw what was ahead of them. She pulled on the steering rod, and their coach pitched up at an angle that brought a shout from Natrac, a laugh from Ashi, and frightened screams from the goblins crowding the other coach as they passed overhead.

  A moment later they emerged into the canyon between the towers, already almost at the height of the middle city. The coach slowed and dropped back to a more normal pitch, assuming a slightly less frantic pace of ascent. Rhazala grinned at Singe. “Quick quick!” she said brightly.

  Her orange skin, however, had paled to a kind of faded gold color, and her fingers were tight around the steering rod. Singe let go of the fabric of her robe and turned around to face the front of the coach and to look at the others. Ashi was flushed. Natrac was pale. Dandra was staring up at the sky overhead.

  “Singe, look,” she said, and he turned his face to the sky as well.

  Full night had fallen. Stars speckled the darkness along with the half-turned faces of the orange moon Olarune and the silver-gray moon Eyre, giving the night a pale glow against which the towers of Sharn stood out in silhouette. Stars and moons were far from the only things in the sky, however. The night was filled with skycoaches lit by lanterns and airships lit by the fire or moonglow of their elemental rings. Some of the vessels flitted about, but many just floated in place as those aboard awaited the beginning of the Thronehold spectacle. As their coach rose higher and the heights of the city came into view, even more lights appeared. Every tower in Sharn, every bridge, every open courtyard shone with torches and lanterns.

  “Rhazala, do you know when the spectacle is supposed to start?” Singe called over his shoulder.

  “When the
crescent of Aryth rises,” said the goblin. “Soon. Now close your mouth—I’m flying!” She turned the coach in a ragged arc and they began flying among the towers.

  Dandra’s hand sought out his. “Do you think we’ll make it in time?”

  “If we didn’t spend too long in the sewers, and if we’re right about Dah’mir using Thronehold as a cover for the raid,” Singe told her. “If I were him, I’d wait until the spectacle had actually started before I made my move.” He gave Dandra’s hand a squeeze. “We’ll make it. We’ll stop him.”

  The coach jerked and swerved suddenly as Rhazala tried to slow down at the same time she steered around a tower. Singe had to let go of Dandra’s hand to brace himself. Even Ashi yelped this time. “Sorry!” Rhazala called.

  “I hope you weren’t planning on going into the skycoach business permanently!” said Singe, glancing back at her.

  “Only for tonight.” Rhazala’s face was intense and possibly a little bit frightened. “Not so sure about the rest of tonight. This is Overlook now. Where are you going?”

  From the stress in her words, he guessed that she was hoping he’d tell her to set down at the first opportunity. He didn’t give her that satisfaction. “Fan Adar, the kalashtar neighborhood. Do you know it?”

  Rhazala’s flat nose wrinkled. “From the ground, yes. From the air, no.”

  “It’s there,” said Ashi from the front of the coach. Her voice was grim. “Straight ahead. Where all the herons are circling.”

  Singe swung around again. Beneath the moonlight, a dozen black herons swooped through the sky ahead of them. Something had them excited—they moved like cats with wings stalking earthbound prey. A large hulk of a skycoach, just like the ones they’d seen in Malleon’s Gate, drifted nearby, apparently abandoned. “Twelve bloody moons,” Singe hissed. They’d been wrong. He’d been wrong. Dah’mir hadn’t waited. The raid had already begun.