Orphan's Song

by Gillian Bronte Adams

  In the center of the subterranean room, a single torch guttered and rustled in a twisted bracket at the top of an iron pole. It cast a ten foot circle of dim light, swallowed by pitch black on the far side. Carhartan stumbled forward, spurs jingling, boots catching on unseen rocks. He hesitated, toes just touching the golden ring, and then forced himself to walk beneath the torch to the far side of the circle overlooking the Pit.

  A shudder seized him. He hated this place above all others.

  The vast crater spread before his feet, walls sloping down into blackness. A thick cloying scent filled his nostrils and clogged his throat. He resisted the urge to gag. Crimson drops flashed in the torchlight, spiraling down to rest in the empty streambed hidden below by distance and darkness. The steady drip fell upon his ears, like the beating of a heart.

  It whispered his name. Oran. Traitor. Condemning him. Reminding him of all he had once been, and all that he had become. Breath hissed through his gritted teeth. He reached for his sword before remembering that the blade was being repaired.

  “So many years after the rebels were crushed, and the blood still flows.”

  Carhartan’s spine tingled at the cold voice. It seemed to emanate from the Pit. “My lord, I have returned.”

  “What of your mission?”

  “A success. King Earnhult pledges his allegiance and the Midlands to your service.”

  “And the Songkeeper? Your spy sent word that she was in your charge.”

  Was it just his imagination, or was there a hint of laughter in the Takhran’s tone? “I regret that—”

  “I have already been apprised of your failure.” The Takhran’s voice hissed beside his ear, and it was all Carhartan could do to avoid starting. The torch sputtered, and the flames fizzled out until only a tiny spark remained. Wings fluttered overhead. The croaking cry of a raven tumbled down.

  “The Songkeeper lives and roams free,” the Takhran said.

  “Not free, my lord. Not yet. But there is more.” Carhartan cleared his throat. “Amos McElhenny guards the Songkeeper in the guise of a peddler. You know what he used to be. He may be an old fool, but he is no less dangerous than he once was. He should not be underestimated.”

  Not as Carhartan had when he’d assumed Amos had become so lost in his new identity that he would not dare give chase when the little Songkeeper disappeared.

  “The griffin lives as well—he attacked me in Dwimdor Pass and helped the Songkeeper escape, then waylaid the patrol I summoned and slew half of them before he retreated. We believe him to be injured, but still alive, possibly in the company of the Songkeeper. I alerted the army under Marshal Varon’s command and posted a line of sentries along the northern border of the forest. If they try to leave that way, they’ll be spotted.”

  The Takhran was silent a moment before he spoke. “So the mindless beast evades you again. Did he take your other hand this time?”

  “No, he did not.” Carhartan bit off the word at the end. The Takhran was baiting him, but a man who had failed could not afford to rise to the challenge. His life hung in the balance as it was.

  “Pity. Perhaps I shall be forced to do it for him.”

  An iron grip seized his left hand. He heard the ringing of a blade drawn from a metal scabbard, then the cold edge stung his wrist.

  “Shall I take it as recompense for your failure?”

  The Takhran’s grasp tightened. The blade slid forward across his wrist, slicing so fast that he scarce felt it. Blood welled from the cut, trickling down his hand and dripping from his fingers to the ground. Carhartan waited in frozen silence and made no attempt to staunch the bleeding.

  The Takhran’s will was law.

  “No, I suppose not.” The Takhran sighed, and it was the sigh of a world weary old man. “I will leave you your hand, Lord Carhartan. There is still work for you to do.”

  A chance to redeem himself and regain the Takhran’s favor? It was a rare offer.

  “You have been my right hand for many years . . . despite the fact that you have none.” An unpleasant chuckle twisted the Takhran’s voice. “I will give you one last chance. Are you ready for your task?”

  “Yes.” Emboldened by the Takhran’s words, Carhartan continued, “It will give me great pleasure to find my lord’s enemies and slay them.”

  “Undoubtedly, but your private revenge will have to wait. I want you in Kerby, at the River.”

  “The River?” He groped to understand. His failure deserved punishment, but this was far worse than death. A failing task assigned to an already failing man. How could he hope to redeem himself? “But my lord, that search has been going on for years.”

  “And you will end it soon.”

  “But . . .” Carhartan choked back his anger. “Do you mean to let the Songkeeper go free?”

  “The search in Kerby is of the utmost importance. Let the Songkeeper revel in her supposed freedom for a few days before we strike. The net draws tight about her. There is no hole, no shelter, no crack into which she can crawl that can help her escape us for long. Already Marshal Varon prepares to march upon the Midlands as soon as the road is complete, and if the griffin may yet be found in the forest, he will be dealt with, along with the Songkeeper and dear Amos.”

  “But if they leave—”

  “There is nowhere they can go that will be beyond my reach. It is only a matter of time, and time is ever in my favor.”

  Carhartan forced himself into a stiff bow, but his words still came out as a growl. “As you wish, my lord.”

  Beating wings approached. A raven swooped down, brushing Carhartan’s face as it passed. The bird croaked something, and the Takhran responded, but both spoke so quietly that Carhartan could not distinguish the words.

  Then the Takhran addressed him again. “Krakov will go to Kerby with you, to serve as your messenger. When you find it, send him to me with the tidings. Only then will you be free to hunt down those who have wronged you and bring them to me.”

  Carhartan bowed in acknowledgement. The extra incentive was hardly necessary. As much as he burned for revenge, he knew what would happen if he failed at the River. That was reason enough to succeed. The crimson drops drew his gaze, and Carhartan suppressed a shudder. The Takhran’s decision to hear his report in the Pit was not an idle threat. “I will leave at once, my lord.”

  Soft footsteps retreated toward the Pit. The torch flickered and came back to life, casting a yellow glow over Carhartan. He stood alone beside the pole with the raven perched on the crossbeam above him. Pain sliced through his wrist; he pressed it to his chest. The cut was deep. It needed bandaging, and unless he planned on using his teeth, he would require assistance.

  He cast one last glance around the cavern and at the Pit, the place of his glory and his shame, and then stumbled back to the cage. The raven screeched, soaring above him, as he painfully cranked the winch.

  Fate had a twisted sense of humor. If things had worked out as planned at Drengreth, the Takhran would already have his treasure, and Carhartan would not have been sent on this doomed mission. Yet another failure to add to the already haunting list.

  Another reason to hate Amos.

  The cage reached the top, and he ascended the narrow staircase. The Takhran’s parting words drove him through the Keep and out to the main barracks. He pushed through the door. Chairs fell over, bunks creaked, and armor rattled as the soldiers scrambled to attention.

  “Captain,” he said to a silver-cloaked officer. “Order a company of soldiers saddled and mounted at the gate. We leave within the hour.”

  17

  “To load your crossbow,” Jirkar said, “set your foot in the stirrup—that’s the square piece at the tip of the bow—and turn the crank to pull the string back.”

  Birdie blinked to clear the sleep from her eyes. Misty dawn hung over the campsite where Nisus and Amos slept be
side the dying fire. She would still be asleep too, if Jirkar hadn’t awakened her at first light for a shooting lesson

  She studied the strange contraption in her hands—a crossbow, Jirkar called it—and ran a finger along the smooth grain of the wooden stock. Weapon training may not have been what she’d originally hoped to gain from Jirkar, but after her experience with the sword last night, she was eager to learn more. With a good weapon in her fist and the skill to wield it, she wouldn’t have to answer to anyone ever again.

  “Still asleep, miss?” Jirkar tapped her on the shoulder. “Come on, now, stirrup and crank.”

  “Yes, sorry.” Fingers fumbling at the unfamiliar tasks, she followed the dwarf’s commands.

  “Good. Now drop the bolt into the groove.”

  Bolt—another unknown word. The groove was fairly easy to spot running down the length of the stock, but she had no idea what the bolt was. Perhaps another lever? She flipped the crossbow over.

  “No, no, not there.” Jirkar plucked the crossbow from her hands. “By Turning, miss, you don’t know overmuch about weapons, do you? The bolts are sitting at your feet.”

  “At my feet?” She glanced down. A quiver full of arrows lay on the ground, but she saw no sign of the mysterious bolts. “Where?”

  Jirkar sighed and nudged the quiver with his toe. “There.”

  “But I thought those were arrows?”

  “No, miss, a crossbow shoots bolts—they’re a bit shorter and heavier than arrows. So take a bolt, drop it in the groove”—he demonstrated each action as he described it—“lift the bow and set the stock firmly against your shoulder. Put your other hand beneath the lathe—that’s the bow part right here—to stabilize the crossbow. Look down the bolt, take a deep breath, and when you feel good and steady, squeeze the lever to release the bolt.”

  The string snapped forward, a blur of motion, and the bolt thunked into the trunk of a zoar tree fifty feet away.

  “Like so. The crossbow’s fairly easy to learn. You just point and shoot. Now,” he dropped the weapon into her hands, “your turn.”

  Birdie took a deep breath, and running through the steps in her mind, reloaded the crossbow. She raised it to her shoulder—it was heavier than she expected—and bent her head over it. Her cheek tingled at the coldness of the wooden stock.

  She aimed at the zoar tree, but her arm trembled beneath the strain, and the tip of the bow bobbed up and down. That was no good. How could she hope to hit her target if she couldn’t even hold still?

  She tensed, muscles tightening in her back and shoulders, and pulled the lever. It resisted, so she tugged harder. The crossbow jerked, and the bolt shot wide of her target and plunged into a thicket of dragon’s tongue.

  “Hmm.” Jirkar scratched his chin. “Missed. Try breathing this time, and don’t tense so. Squeeze the lever, don’t yank it.”

  She reloaded—quicker this time—forced air into her lungs, and raised the crossbow to her shoulder once more. The tip quivered for a moment and then became still. She exhaled and slowly squeezed the lever. A rewarding thwack sounded out.

  “Good shot.”

  The bolt quivered in the side of a rowan tree behind the zoar. “It’s the wrong tree. I missed again!”

  “Ah, but you hit something. That’s marked improvement. It’s the small victories that count in the long run, miss. Let’s try again, shall we?”

  “Birdie, Jirkar, time t’ head out.”

  The peddler’s brogue carried over the creaking of the crossbow. Birdie gave the crank a final turn, locking the string back, and dropped a bolt into the groove. She was still nowhere near as fast or accurate as Jirkar, but after an hour of practice the actions had begun to feel more natural.

  “Last shot, miss. Make it count, eh?”

  She pulled the lever, the bolt shot away, and a moment later, appeared as if by magic in the midst of a cluster of bolts protruding from the zoar tree.

  “Fine shot,” Jirkar said. “Fine shot, indeed.” He stumped over to the tree and began plucking the bolts out. “What do you think of our young warrior maid, Amos?”

  Birdie twirled around to face Amos, rocking back and forth on her heels in expectation.

  But the peddler didn’t answer. He stalked toward Jirkar, face as hard and expressionless as stone. “Birdie, won’t ye go an’ see if Nisus needs any help?”

  “Amos—”

  “Now, lass.”

  There was no point arguing when Amos spoke like that, but nor was it necessary to race to meet his demands. Birdie collected the bolts and quiver from Jirkar and strolled toward the wagon where Nisus was busy harnessing the horses.

  “Look here, dwarf, I don’t mind ye trainin’ the lass t’ defend herself, but I don’t want ye fillin’ her head with this warrior maid nonsense or any—” Amos’s voice faded behind her.

  Birdie stashed both crossbow and quiver in the weapon chest, and slumped down amidst the crates with her back to the raised deck. Amos had always been somewhat prone to dramatic outbursts, but his moods were becoming more and more difficult to understand. His reluctance to answer any of her questions, the antagonism he displayed at any mention of the Song and now toward Jirkar . . . did she truly know him anymore?

  “Psst.”

  Even in a whisper, there was no mistaking that voice. It was about time the cat showed himself—perhaps now she would get her answers. “George, where have you been?”

  “Pardon me if I don’t credit such a ridiculous question with an answer.” The cat’s head poked out between two crates at her feet. “Where do you suppose I’ve been? Hiding of course. As if there were anything else to do on this hideous conglomeration of disaster that they have the effrontery to call a wagon.”

  “You can come out now, if you like. There’s no one here but me.”

  The cat’s upper lip curled into a tight smile. “There’s about to be. Yon dwarf is nigh finished harnessing, and the other two approach as we speak.”

  He had scarce fallen silent when Amos and Jirkar climbed into the wagon and took their seats at opposite ends—Amos behind the driver’s seat, Jirkar passing Birdie to resume his usual position on the deck. A moment later, Nisus hopped up as well, snagged the reins, and the wagon jolted off into the forest.

  “What did you mean the other day—” Birdie turned back to the cat, but he was gone. Again. “George?”

  “Gracious me, there’s no need to shout,” he hissed into her ear. “Hiding, remember?”

  She jerked away. The cat sprawled across the lid of a barrel beside her, chin resting on his paws. “But how did you . . .”

  George winked. “That’s why I’m the master and you’re the pupil. Hmm, master of the Songkeeper. I rather like the sound of that.”

  “And what makes you the master?”

  “Simply because, my dear girl, I know more than you do.” The cat curled a paw over his mouth to conceal a yawn. “And in this splendid world of ours, information is currency. You should know that by—”

  The wagon jerked to a stop, slinging Birdie off balance. She crashed into the side of the wagon, and George landed on top in a yowling bundle of fur and claws. Boots thumped beside her, and George dashed away. She started to rise, but a hand—Jirkar’s hand—settled on her shoulder.

  “Stay low, miss. Khelari ahead.”

  He crept toward the front of the wagon, and Birdie crawled after him, halting beside Amos. Nisus crouched over the driver’s seat in front of them.

  “Would ye look at that,” Amos muttered. “It’s a blaggardly army.”

  Birdie peered past Nisus. The trees ahead petered out into a graveyard of fallen logs and stumps hacked by axes and scorched by fire. Beyond, rows upon rows of tents stretched in rigid lines across the plain. Black armored soldiers milled about the tents like Madame’s chickens scurrying through the inn-yard.

  “So this
is it then,” Amos whispered. “This is war.”

  “Nearly ten thousand men,” Nisus said. “Mostly infantry, some cavalry from the look of it . . .” He continued speaking, but the words seemed to dissolve into meaningless mutterings before they reached Birdie’s ears.

  A painful beat pulsed in her head. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples, struggling to think. Why the army? Why here . . . why now? Had they come to capture her? That seemed a bit ridiculous. Why send an entire army to capture one girl?

  The beat grew louder . . . deeper . . . and she recognized the discordant notes of the other melody—the song she had heard when Carhartan was near.

  Her eyes sprang open. There. At the edge of the tree line, a dark figure lurked in the shadows.

  Carhartan?

  She gripped the back of the driver’s seat with both hands, and fought to remain calm. Whoever he was, he didn’t seem to have noticed the wagon yet. At least, the dark figure hadn’t moved since she spied him.

  Focusing on the gloomy melody, she heard what sounded like a duplicate or an echo, faint and farther away, but still recognizable and undoubtedly sung by a second voice.

  Two Khelari. In the woods.

  She touched Amos’s shoulder. Holding a finger to her lips, she whispered, “Soldiers. In the forest.”

  “Where?”

  She pointed. “One to our left. Another father away to our right—at least one. I don’t think they’ve seen us.”

  “Bilgewater! Nisus, get us out o’ here. Back the way we came. Hurry.”

  Without a word, Nisus steered the horses into a tight turn. It was no easy matter with such a massive wagon, but the dwarf managed it somehow, and a moment later, they rolled back up the road away from the edge of the forest.

  Birdie scrambled to the back of the wagon and scanned the woods behind. Seconds slipped by, and still no movement came from the patch of trees where the dark figure had been. The melody gradually faded.

  Then silence.

  The Khelari was not following—he must not have seen them.