“Aye, the pirates’ve been marauding along the west coast. Night attacks. Villages burned. People starving ’cause the fishing boats and merchant ships daren’t put to sea.”
Amos curled his lip in disgust. Accursed foreign devils. “Ye haven’t heard any news o’ Bryllhyn, have ye?”
Brog shook his head. “Thinkin’ of your mother? No, no news of Bryllhyn. Doubt the Langorians will go that far north. Though I wish pirates were all we had to deal with.”
Amos shot him a quizzical look.
“There’ve been other travelers on the road lately. Unwholesome folk. Won’t say where they’re coming from or where they’re goin’.” His voice dropped. “Even seen some dark soldiers.”
“Khelari?”
“Aye, travelin’ secretive like. Didn’t come near me, and you can be sure I kept my distance.”
Amos scraped the last traces of stew from his bowl, then tugged his long-stemmed pipe from his belt, lighting it with the aid of the sputtering candle. He mulled over his words before he spoke. “I met one today.”
Brog’s eyes widened into an unspoken question behind his spectacles.
“The Second Marshal o’ the Takhran’s forces was riding through the hills out near the Sylvan Swan. But that’s not all.” Amos hitched his chair closer to the tavern keeper. In return, Brog leaned forward across the table, so intent upon the conversation that he ignored the candle flame licking at his beard. “He travels under the protection o’ King Earnhult.”
Brog shook his head. He looked like a man struck unaware by an arrow. “A Khelari bearing the pledge of the Midland king? By Turning, what evil days are these?”
“Evil enough, I’m—”
The tavern door burst open, slapping against the opposite wall with a noise like thunder. In staggered a blood stained man. He croaked, a piteous plea for aid, and collapsed on the threshold. Amos nearly overthrew the table in his haste to reach the fallen stranger. Brog followed at his heels, rumbling commands that few heard or cared to heed.
Amos placed a hand beneath the corner of the man’s jaw. A pulse. He lived. “Quick, get him over t’ the fire. Bring water an’ bandages.” He shouldered the limp form. The crowd scattered, cleaving an open path to the fireplace, while the three dwarves grumblingly shifted to a vacant corner.
Amos lowered the dead weight onto the hearth, and relinquished his position to Brog, who barreled past with a wet cloth in his hands. He watched the tavern keeper tend the man’s wounds. Despite copious amounts of blood, the wounds did not appear serious. The man’s face was pale, and his light hair was plastered to his scalp by congealed blood from a gash on his forehead. He was clad in plate mail and a sheath hung empty at his side.
Amos’s breath caught in his throat. Beneath the layer of mud and smirch, the dark color of the armor was visible. Black. A Khelari. He stared at his hands as if they might be contaminated.
“Amos? Are you listening?” Brog’s voice startled him out of his daze.
“What? O’ course,” Amos said.
“I asked you to pass me the bandages.” Brog glared at him over the rims of his spectacles. “Would you see the man bleed to death? We’re not at war. Not yet. Any wounded man has the right to claim my help, regardless of the color of his armor.”
Biting back a reply, Amos forced his wooden hands to work. In a moment, Brog completed his task, and wiping his bloodied hands on his apron, sat back on his heels to survey his handiwork.
The soldier moaned. His eyes shot open. Wide staring eyes, enormous in his haunted face. Lashing out with his fists, he curled up into a defensive ball, whimpering. “No! No . . . don’t hurt me!”
The fires in Amos’s stomach wilted. The soldier seemed so . . . young. No more than two or three years past twenty.
But a Khelari none the less.
A fist whistled past his nose. Amos caught the arm. “Enough o’ that. Take it easy.”
The soldier stared at him, face wrinkled in concentration. “Where . . . am I?”
“The Whistlin’ Waterfly, in the village of Hardale,” Brog said. “Can you stand?”
“Yes . . . I think so.”
“Let me give you a hand. Amos?”
Amos stared stupidly at Brog; then swallowing his distaste, helped heave the soldier to his feet, set his broad shoulder under the man’s arm, and half carried him to the spare chair at his own table. Once more the crowd parted before him; this time, stumbling back as though he bore death in his arms.
Brog disappeared into the kitchen, returning a moment later, with his favorite remedy: a mug and a bowl of stew. The soldier raised the mug with trembling hands and took a long gulp before sinking back into his chair, leaving the stew untouched.
Gradually, the tavern hum resumed, interrupted conversations and half sung songs starting midsentence as though the stranger’s arrival had never occurred. Though from the black glances cast their way, Amos knew what was foremost in every mind.
At length, Brog gave utterance to the shapeless thought. “We’re none too fond of the Khelari here,” he said.
Defiance steeled the soldier’s gaze. “Perhaps you farmers should get accustomed to us. Might be you’ll see a lot more of us in the future, once the road’s finished.”
“What road would that be?” Amos asked.
“The Takhran’s new expansion project. A road from Serrin Vroi straight through Dunfaen Forest to the Midlands, bypasses the River, Shallow Pass, everything.” The soldier shrugged. “We’ll be here before you know it.”
“What was wrong with the old one?” Brog demanded.
The answer was obvious. At least to Amos. The old road was too long. Too long and too roundabout to provision and reinforce an army on the road to war. “The Takhran needs a clear route southward.”
“The Takhran’s purposes are his own. I simply obey orders.”
“Don’t take offense, lad,” Brog said. “Do you mind tellin’ us what happened to you, er, Mister . . .”
The wild look crept back into the soldier’s eyes. “Hendryk. My name’s Hendryk.”
“So, Hendryk,” Amos said, a grin tweaking his face. “What happened? Did ye run afoul o’ a farmer with a pitchfork?”
A red flush suffused Hendryk’s pale cheeks and his lips trembled. “Don’t mock me, old man. I have seen things you cannot imagine. A monster! Enormous. Screeching like a hawk on the wing. Four of us were scouting ahead of the main party, and we didn’t stand a chance against it. We tried to run, but it was everywhere we turned. Bredger fell. Zerek and Fullers attacked it with spears. I saw Zerek crash against a rock, and then the thing dove at Fullers. And I ran, as hard and fast as I could, my head splitting with the screams of my comrades and the roars of the beast. Got lost in the forest for a day . . . maybe two. Finally stumbled out on a hillside and have been wandering ever since.”
For a moment, Amos said nothing. A fly buzzed past his head, and he swiped irritably at it. He realized how quiet the inn seemed. Strange. He looked up into the incredulous glares of tavern-goers gathered in a semicircle around his table.
Bilgewater! That didn’t look good.
“Well,” one drawled, “ye don’t say.” The man’s tattooed arms and bright head scarf proclaimed him a Waveryder. He spat into a large brass spittoon several yards away, a perfect hit. “That’s quite a tale, Khelari.”
“It’s true.”
“What d’ ye take us for, babes? Nightmare—that’s all it was. Afeard of the dark, are ye?”
“I tell you I saw a monster! As clear as I see you now. He haunts Dwimdor Pass in Dunfaen Forest.”
“D’ ye hear that, mates?” the sailor bellowed. “Now he’d have us believin’ in ghosts and fairy tales! Whoo-hee, did the big bad beastie scare ye laddie?”
Brog stood. “Come now, Corrd. That’s enough. He’s a customer, same as you.”
“Customer? He’s a blaggardly Khelari.” Corrd stooped to stare Hendryk in the eye. “I tell ye soldier, the only monster in Leira lurks in the heart of Serrin Vroi—your master, the Takhran.”
“That’s a filthy lie!” Hendryk fumbled for his missing sword.
“Enough!” Brog’s fist descended like a sledgehammer on the table. Hendryk’s bowl of stew bounced off and shattered on the floor. “I won’t have any brawlin’ in my tavern. Take your disputes outside.”
Corrd grinned and folded his brawny arms across his chest. “With pleasure. How’s that Khelari? Are ye man enough to come out and fight me?”
The soldier licked his dry lips. His face seemed even paler than before. “I . . . will fight.”
The room erupted in a roar of approval, and the crowd surged toward the door. Amos stifled a groan. Pity tugged at his heart, combating the hatred stirred by the whispered name of the Takhran. What did he care? The man was a Khelari. A plague. He deserved death. No matter how young and frightened he looked, he could never change that.
“Belay there!” A voice split the exulting tumult and Amos was surprised to discover that it had come from his own throat. The crowd’s questioning eyes gazed into his own. He fought to speak. “The man . . . is injured. Corrd, ye’re no Waveryder if ye’d fight a wounded man.”
Corrd squared off with Amos, the muscles standing out like ropes on his neck. His boulder-like fists tightened.
Amos set his teeth. His hand moved to the knife at his belt. Pity he had sold the spear pipe to the general store. It would have come in handy . . . to save a Khelari? What was he thinking?
Corrd spat. “Keep yer friend, peddler. I won’t dishonor my hands with his blood.” He stormed away and the crowd dispersed.
“I would have fought him, but thank you.”
Amos spun around. The soldier stood at his elbow, clutching a chair for support, right hand extended. “I didn’t do it for ye, Khelari.” Amos brushed past and snatched his overcoat and cap from the table. “T’wasn’t a fair fight.”
Brog’s voice stopped him halfway to the door. “Amos, haven’t you forgotten something?”
Amos filled his lungs with air and slowly turned around. “No, I don’t think I have.”
“A small matter of four coins . . .”
Amos dug around in his pouch as he stumped over to Brog, and then dropped the coins into the tavern keeper’s hand. He swept his cap from his head, bowed to the tavern and its inmates, and stalked out into the night, thoroughly disgusted with himself and the whole evening.
“Bloodwuthering blodknockers!”
Master Dalton was dead, dead and it was all her fault.
A shuddering breath escaped Birdie’s lips, and she blinked away the tears streaming down her cheeks. Again and again, she saw him fall, heard his cry, smelled the sickening tang of blood.
She sat behind Carhartan on the leather skirt-like armor that covered the gray horse’s rump, her legs chaffing against the back of the saddle. Forced to cling to Carhartan’s waist to keep from falling, though the very thought of his touch repulsed her.
The pounding ache in her head drummed in time to the horse’s beating hooves. A relentless, jarring trot. The rocky red road dragged past underhoof, while heather-crowned hills and sheep-sheared troughs fell away on either side.
At last, she summoned the courage to venture a question. “Please . . . Sir . . .”
He gave no sign that he had heard her.
She forged ahead, louder. “Where are you tak—”
“Be silent,” Carhartan snarled.
She shrank away from him. Back into silence. Her head throbbed, and her back ached, and exhaustion crept over her, weakening her grip and weighing down her eyelids.
On and on they rode. Now walking . . . now trotting . . . now slowing to a walk once more. Until night settled over Leira and darkness hid the road from view. Overhead, the moon, Mindolyn, drifted across the sky, while the stars stirred and came alive, glowing like pearls in the blue, black sea.
Birdie gazed at the dancing constellations, reveling in their beauty. For a moment, peace washed over her. High and far away, the melody echoed in her mind. Pure and glowing, yet strong and cold as steel, achingly, hauntingly beautiful. A tear slipped from her eyes.
The stars. Were they singing? The melody swelled inside her like a wave, threatening to burst from her lips in triumphant refrain.
Then the dark music crashed into her mind. Black, ominous, foreboding. She flinched and clasped her hands to her ears in a vain attempt to block the noise. Her head spun and she swayed. Carhartan’s left hand shot out, steadying her.
“Careful.” A single word barked beneath his breath, then he faced forward again, urging the horse back into a trot. Once more, Birdie found herself staring at the armor on his back.
How long would the night last?
She lifted her gaze to the stars, as though expecting some answer to her unvoiced question, but the stars made no reply. Even the airy enchanting melody faded from her mind. She was alone in the dark, a captive with her captor.
Birdie bowed her head and longed for the night to end.
5
“C’mon ye fly-swoggled lollygaggin’ worthless lump o’ dragon bait! ’Tis only a wee bit further!” Amos yanked at Balaam’s lead rope, forcing the donkey to stumble after him into the yard of the Sylvan Swan.
It had been a fine pair of days. What with the Khelari turning up at the inn on the same day Amos discovered Birdie’s curse, then Brog’s news of pirates pillaging the coast, and now word of a new road through the forest—a road that could only be the prelude to war.
Aye, ’twas grand. Boggswogglingly grand.
Amos stumbled to a halt in front of the barn and scrubbed at his bleary eyes with the back of his hand. There would be time enough to worry come morning. For now, he planned on getting some sleep. Thanks to the new coins in his pouch, he’d be able to sleep inside the inn for once, instead of roughing it in the barn.
He tugged the barn door open and fought with Balaam’s girth until the packsaddle slid off, and the donkey was free.
“Gerroff with ye.” Amos slapped the donkey’s hindquarters.
Balaam grunted but stood still, head swaying between his knees, asleep on his feet before the opening.
“Suit yerself.” Amos slung the packs over his shoulder and trudged toward the inn. The lazy donkey would never consider running away. It required too much effort with too little reward, especially when there was fresh hay waiting in his stall.
The inn door slid open on oiled hinges, and Amos tiptoed inside, noting his muddy footprints with a touch of satisfaction. He’d have to pay for it in the morning, but for the moment, revenge—however pointless—was sweet.
A voice stopped him just before he reached the guest quarters. “Back here to gloat?”
He whirled around and froze at the sight of Madame standing, arms crossed, in front of the kitchen door. Bother the woman! Why wasn’t she asleep like any sensible person ought to be at this hour of the night?
He tugged the feathered cap from his head and plodded over to her. “Madame—”
Smack.
He blinked, cheek stinging from her slap.
“Don’t speak to me you brute,” Madame said. “If it wasn’t for you none of this would have happened!”
“None o’ what?” He dodged another strike, stumbled through the kitchen door, and halted in shock.
“Stay out of there! You can’t go in!” Madame’s frantic cries buzzed around his ears like a swarm of flies. He swatted her away.
Dalton, swathed in blood soaked bandages, lay on a bedroll beside the sputtering fire. The orange glow highlighted his hollow cheeks and the dark circles beneath his eyes. Breath rasped in his throat, and his fingers clutched feebly at the covering.
“Dalton?”
&nb
sp; The innkeeper moaned, and his head rolled to one side. Madame pushed past Amos and knelt beside the cot. For a moment, as she bent over her husband, the sharp lines of her face smoothed to tenderness. Then Amos shuffled closer, and the fire returned to her eyes.
“That cursed Khelari stabbed him. All to get that wretched girl!”
“Birdie?” A twinge of pain in Amos’s chest sent the blood roaring to his head. He grasped the startled woman by the elbow. “Where is she? Is she safe?”
Madame wrenched herself away. “I don’t know and I couldn’t care less. The fiend took her away. Good riddance.”
“When? Where did they go?”
A cold hand clutched his wrist. “Amos?” Dalton struggled to rise and fell back, gasping for breath, his face the color of bread dough.
Amos dropped to his knees and clasped the innkeeper’s hand in both of his own. “Dalton. Listen t’ me. Ye have t’ listen. What happened t’ Birdie? Where did he take her?”
Dalton’s eyes dulled. “It’s over, Amos,” he rasped. “He’s taken her.” He choked and hacking coughs shook his frame. “She’s gone. Like Artair and the others, and not even Hawkness could have saved her.”
Artair.
Amos jerked back and fell over his own feet. The name pounded in his head, and he spat to rid his mouth of the horrible taste rising in his throat. He gritted his teeth. “Just tell me about Birdie. When did they leave?”
“Rode out north two hours ago—”
Two hours . . . then there was still time!
Amos did not wait to find out more. Thrusting Madame aside, he yanked his cap onto his head and barreled out of the inn into the starlit dark of the night. He paused just outside the door, flung his packs open, and rummaged through them. Bolts of cloth, pots, an empty brew skin, odds and ends—all that he had not yet sold—went flying. He growled and dumped out the contents of the first bag, then started on the next.
There, at the bottom of the pack, he felt it, and a chill ran up his arm.
He withdrew the oilcloth packet, yanked the string off, and tore open the wrappings. The dirk fell into his hands—battle scarred leather sheath, blade miraculously free of rust, and the bronze hawk’s head pommel crowning the carved wooden handle. Amos fastened the dirk to his belt and started back to his feet, leaving his wares scattered in the inn yard.
Orphan's Song Page 5
