Orphan's Song

by Gillian Bronte Adams

  Ky stretched the leather straps of his sling taut and released them with a snap. “Ready.”

  “On my signal . . . Go!”

  He dove away from the wagon, rolled, and came up on one knee, sling spinning around his head. He released the strap, sending the stone crashing into the driver’s helmet. His second stone pummeled the driver’s nose, releasing a fountain of blood. The driver crumpled to his knees, presenting a perfect target for Dizzier’s club.

  Ky shot underneath the wagon and belly-crawled between the front wheels, breath catching in his throat as the horses’ flashing hooves narrowly missed his hands. Then he leapt up onto the wagon tongue.

  The second soldier was leaning over the side of the wagon to yell at the others. “Back to the wagons! We’ll fight the curs later.”

  Ky fingered his short sword, but didn’t draw it. The sling was his true weapon. “Oi, you!”

  The soldier spun around, and Ky’s loaded sling clubbed him in the forehead, ripping his helmet away to reveal a pale face framed by shaggy light hair. It was his soldier—Hendryk.

  Hendryk staggered back, catching the side of the wagon to keep from toppling over. An arm reached up and knifed around his throat, slamming him to the ground. A dull thwock sounded out, then Dizzier clambered up into the back of the wagon. “What’re you waiting for?” He motioned to the reins. “G’on!”

  Ky scrambled into the driver’s seat and grabbed the reins. Only then did he have a chance to check on Cade and Paddy’s wagon in front of them. Both horses were now standing, and the two boys hopped up onto the driver’s seat as he watched.

  Cade’s whistle pierced the air.

  The fight ceased. The Underground runners halted mid-stroke and ran, releasing the trip lines to free the horses, then scattering down the side alleys into the maze of streets beyond. Some of the soldiers raced after the thieves, others stood bewildered, and still others started back toward the wagons.

  The front wagon rattled away, rapidly picking up speed with Cade and Paddy in the front, whooping and hollering and making more noise than an army of drunken soldiers.

  Ky cracked the reins against the horses’ hindquarters. “Hyah!” The wagon jolted forward, and he urged the horses on with another thwack of the reins, weaving left then right to avoid trampling two downed soldiers. Both seemed stunned rather than dead, and for that, he felt a strange sense of relief.

  He leaned into the right rein, and the wagon drifted around the turn onto the next street. At least there didn’t seem to be any Underground casualties. Amazing really, considering the numbers . . .

  Ky’s breath jammed in his throat at the sight of a cloaked form sprawled at the base of a stone stoop on his right. Brown hair hung in blood-matted clumps over a blackened face. Sweat marks streaked white through the mud, exposing the runner’s identity—Rab.

  Ky hauled back on the reins and tugged the brake lever, until the wagon slowed, iron-bound wheels screeching.

  “What’re you doing?” Dizzier shouted in his ear.

  Rough hands tore at his, trying to loosen his grip on the brake lever. Ky’s gaze locked on Rab’s open eyes. Lifeless, staring up at him like ice-crusted pools of water. Dead. The realization struck like a blow to the stomach, and he doubled over, gasping for air, fingers slipping from the reins and the brake lever.

  Dizzier leaned over him and shoved the reins back into his hands. “Go, go, go! Drive. Drive!”

  A gray fog surrounded him, deadening sight and sound, slowing movement until time itself seemed to dangle like a water droplet on the tip of the breaking point. Ky’s limbs moved as if by their own volition. He had no recollection of the thought before the action, or of performing the deed himself, but the next thing he knew, he was leaning forward in his seat, the reins flying loose in his hands, shouting and goading the horses on, while the buildings blurred on either side and the wagon creaked and groaned beneath him.

  Rab’s empty gaze haunted him. The sight of those blue eyes frosted in death sent a shiver through his body. He blinked to clear the fog from his vision, ears tingling at muffled shouts and the clatter of iron-shod feet behind. Something nagged at him—something was wrong. But he couldn’t figure out what it was.

  “Hah!” Dizzier thumped a long, flat, wooden box down on the seat.

  Ky glanced at it, then turned back to steering the horses. Of course the box was on their cart. Hendryk had been there, and he was sure to keep his find within reach.

  The sounds of pursuit swelled behind.

  “The soldiers know where it is.” The words slipped from his mouth of their own accord, but somehow vocalizing the thought made its reality all the more apparent.

  “Huh?” Dizzier clambered over the back of the seat, shifted the box out of the way, and slouched down beside Ky.

  “The soldiers, Dizzier. They knew which wagon the box was in. Don’t you see? Our distraction was pointless. They won’t bother chasing any of the others—they’re all home free.” Except Rab, of course. “The soldiers knew the box was in our wagon, so they’re going to focus on finding us. All of them after you and me.”

  The smirk withered on Dizzier’s face. His fingers tapped a restless tattoo on the wooden box. “Turn left here. Do it now!”

  Ky jerked the horses down the narrow alley Dizzier had selected. The buildings on either side were set so close that he could easily reach out a hand in both directions and touch the moss-clad stone. “What’re we doing?”

  The shouts behind grew closer. Looked like their sudden change of direction hadn’t confused the soldiers.

  “Take the next right,” Dizzier said.

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  A latch clicked open and hinges creaked. Out of the corner of his eye, Ky saw Dizzier pull the cloth-wrapped bundle out of the box and conceal it beneath his cloak. It was long and bulky, but Ky couldn’t make out what it was.

  He turned down the next right. Dizzier stood, balancing with one hand on the back of the seat. “So long, Shorty,” he said, and leapt from the moving wagon, landing in a roll that carried him back up to his feet.

  “What’re you doing?” Ky dragged on the reins to stop the horses.

  Dizzier patted the bundle beneath his cloak. “Gettin’ this safely to the Underground. You decoy ‘em, lead ‘em on ’til I can reach one of the tunnels.” Then, as Ky still hesitated, Dizzier waved him on. “Go on! Before they get here!”

  With a rustle of his cloak, Dizzier spun around and disappeared through the open window of one of the dilapidated buildings lining the street.

  Ky cracked the reins, harrying the horses down the street. Maybe if he went fast enough, he’d be out of sight before the soldiers rounded the corner, and then he wouldn’t have to bother with being bait.

  “Hoi! There he is!”

  He risked a glance over his shoulder. A dozen dark soldiers clattered around the corner, and behind them, a mass of slobbering jaws and flashing teeth, the hounds of the Takhran straining against their chains.

  The beasts howled, and his skin tingled as if a hundred ants skittered down his arms. There was no need to urge the horses now. Blowing panicked breaths from their nostrils, the horses settled into a run, ears pinned to their skulls, hooves pounding.

  The wagon skidded around the next corner, bumping and thumping as the wheels slipped and then caught again. The impetus of the turn nearly flung Ky out of the wagon, but he shoved his feet against the dashboard, dropped the reins, and clutched the seat with both hands.

  The discarded reins wriggled around his feet like living creatures. He pried one hand loose and snagged the quivering strands, throwing himself back into the seat as the wagon tottered around another curve. He tugged with all his strength to slow the horses, but he might as well have been trying to pull down a stone wall, for all the good it did.

  He forced his eyes away
from the road and glanced over his shoulder. The soldiers were nowhere in sight. But he had no time to feel relieved. He was nearing the market place . . . and what would he do with a runaway team in the middle of the crowd?

  The wagon jolted, throwing Ky off the seat and tangling his cloak around his arms and legs. He tore free of the constricting cloth and pitched the cloak over his shoulder into the bed of the wagon. Nursing a bloody lip, he picked himself up.

  The left hind-wheel rattled with an off-beat thump. The horses were approaching a sharp corner, far too quickly to clear it safely.

  An idea ignited in Ky’s mind, and he acted.

  No hesitation—no time for that. He hopped up onto the front edge of the wagon, arms jerking to keep himself balanced, and then he jumped.

  A vivid image of the cobblestones and the horses’ pounding hooves flashed through his mind. Then he landed, swaying, on the wagon tongue between the two horses, fingers clutching the leather harness on either side.

  He forced himself to stand upright on the bucking wooden spar, grasped the left horse’s collar and clawed his way up onto the horse’s back. The corner was less than a hundred feet away now. Ky fumbled with the straps of the harness.

  Only fifty feet.

  He needed something sharp! One of his slingstones maybe? His hand flew to his pouch and struck something cold and hard in passing—the short sword Cade had given him.

  He yanked the sword from its sheath and sliced through the harness for both horses. The straps snapped just before the left hind wheel collapsed and the cart tipped sideways.

  It skidded fifteen feet before wrapping around a lamppost and smashing into pieces.

  The air whooshed from Ky’s lungs, and he collapsed against the horse’s neck, stroking its sticky coat. Gradually the horse slowed to a shuddering trot, then a heaving walk.

  Ky sat up. He was in a curving alley that spilled into the market place about a hundred yards farther down. The market day hum droned in the background. A few bystanders cast curious glances at him, but none asked any questions.

  He slid off the horse’s back and nearly crumpled when his feet hit the ground. Leaving the horse, he staggered down the alley toward the market on quivering legs, only too glad to be nearing the Underground and safety.

  “Make way! Make way for the Takhran’s soldiers!”

  The cry propelled Ky back up the alley, scrambling to a makeshift hiding place behind a set of stone steps. Cobblestones dug into his knees and elbows. He crouched, neck tilted back to peek over the top of the steps.

  A soldier stalked past on the main street, sword drawn, shoving a cloaked form before him. The figure tripped and fell, hood flipping back to reveal the wide-eyed, still-sneering visage of Dizzier.

  21

  “Dizzier.” The mumbled words left Ky’s lips before he realized he had spoken aloud. He ducked his head, resting his forehead against the cold step. Shallow breaths puffed from his mouth, heating the stone in front of him and bouncing back to warm his cheeks.

  Moments passed without a cry of alarm. Slowly, he raised his head. The street was clear. The soldier and Dizzier were both gone.

  He sprang to his feet and darted down the street, pausing at the corner to pinpoint the tall soldier and Dizzier in the crowd. Then he slipped into the masses and half-ran, half-walked after them, tugging his sling from his waist.

  “Go on!” The soldier shoved Dizzer, and again the boy stumbled and fell.

  What was wrong with him? Was he hurt? Ky pressed forward, selecting a stone by feel and slipping it into the pouch of his sling.

  “Get up!” The soldier’s boot connected with Dizzier’s stomach.

  Dizzier groaned and struggled up to his knees, bent forward with his head brushing the ground. Cords bound his hands at the wrists, and a longer rope hobbled his feet, leaving him just enough slack to take short steps.

  Now less than five yards away, Ky slipped inside a fishmonger’s three-sided stall, nearly tripping over the old man’s feet. The fisherman just blinked, and drawing a long puff from his pipe, propped his feet on a stool.

  Ky took his silence as an invitation to stay. He pulled a pebble from his pouch and flicked it so it bounced off the top of Dizzier’s thick-skulled head.

  Dizzier’s gaze shot up from the ground.

  “Need some help?” Ky mouthed, dangling his sling over the side of the stall.

  Dizzier’s face darkened. “Get out o’ here.” He jerked his head toward the far side of the market where the empty seller’s stall concealed the Underground tunnel. “G’on! You have to get—”

  The soldier tugged Dizzier to his feet. “Move along, cur.”

  There was something familiar about the soldier’s voice. If he would just turn his head, Ky would be able to see his face through the open visor of his helmet.

  “Hoi, whatcha got there?” Two more soldiers clustered around Dizzier.

  Dizzier’s captor spat on the ground. “Caught this little vermin thievin’ in the square. He’s one of the ones who attacked us earlier.”

  Ky blinked at this revelation. He’d made himself a decoy, so Dizzier could palm a few coins when he was supposed to be delivering their take to the Underground?

  “Does he have it?”

  “No, but I’ll wager he can tell us where it is.”

  Ky shook his head, trying to focus. He had to forget about the prize and focus on Dizzier. There were three soldiers, now. Not tremendous odds, but he couldn’t just let them take Dizzier.

  The rules of the street ran through his mind, finishing with: Keep up or get left behind.

  Dizzier glanced back as the soldiers shoved him through the crowd. The condescending sneer was gone, replaced by fear.

  Suddenly, Ky knew that he could not . . . no, he would not allow Dizzier to be taken away without a fight. Swinging the sling around his head, he vaulted over the side of the stall and landed in a crouch.

  “Hoi! There’s another one.” A soldier jogged toward him from the right.

  The two soldiers standing beside Dizzier’s captor spun around, and one started toward him. He released a stone with a snap of his wrist, and it thudded against the closest soldier’s helmet with an audible clang. Reloading and slinging again took only a few seconds, and both soldiers stumbled back, half stunned.

  Ky dropped another stone into his sling and turned toward Dizzier’s captor. He could see the soldier’s face now. It was Hendryk. That cursed soldier was becoming a nuisance.

  Another three soldiers thundered toward him from the side. There was no way he could fight all of them and hope to rescue Dizzier, but he couldn’t just leave . . .

  Could he?

  Look out for yourself.

  He ran, dodging back toward the alley through the crowd, wishing he could forget the look on Dizzier’s face. A crack sounded behind him, and a crossbow bolt shattered on the wall, inches from his head. He skipped sideways, trying to see who was shooting at him.

  Dizzier grappled with Hendryk, struggling to yank the crossbow away from the man’s hands. Before Ky had time to think about helping him, Hendryk tore the crossbow free and bashed Dizzier in the head with the stock. Dizzier pitched forward onto the bolt that the soldier held.

  A cry caught in Ky’s throat. Even from a distance, he could see Dizzier convulse as the shaft pierced his side and hear his agonized scream. Hendryk jumped back, and Dizzier crumpled, the wind expelling from his lungs in a breathy groan that Ky heard over the market din.

  “Dizzier!”

  Soldiers hurtled toward him. He knew he should run, hide, do something, but his limbs seemed encased in granite. He forced himself to move, and somehow the spell was broken. Heat returned to his body, filling his legs with desperate energy, allowing him to escape into the maze of alleys. He ran until his lungs failed, and he collapsed on a pile of rags in the corner of
a doorway set deep in the wall of a crumbling house.

  His chest ached. But he forced himself to breathe slowly . . . evenly . . . and listen for pursuit. There was no sign that the soldiers were still on his trail. Doubtless they’d given up long ago and continued searching for the stolen prize—whatever it was.

  Curse Cade’s foolishness for meddling in the dark soldiers’ plans. And curse the fate that brought the dark soldiers to Kerby in the first place.

  The image of Dizzier, bound hand and foot, fighting to keep the soldier from shooting him in the back, haunted him. Why would Dizzier do such a thing? For once Ky had followed the rules of the street. He had survived and escaped the soldiers. He had looked out for himself.

  But Dizzier hadn’t. The thought struck him as if he had been punched in the gut. Dizzier had looked out for him, Ky, the annoying “younger brother” that he had always delighted in tormenting. He had fought for him. Died for him.

  Tears welled beneath Ky’s eyelids, and he blinked to hold them back, then surrendered the fight. He pressed his head against his arms and rested them on his knees.

  Thunder rumbled and a flash of lightning lit up the darkened alley. It was going to be a long, cold night. Ky thought of the warm, dry caverns below the city where the Underground runners would be settling down, boasting of the day’s adventures, little realizing the terrible price that had been paid.

  How could he break the news? Rab, Dizzier, both lost. And for what? Cade’s precious treasure was lost too. No, he couldn’t go back. Couldn’t face the questions or the sympathy or the blind support for Cade’s reckless war.

  Not now. Maybe not ever.

  22

  The peddler halted in front of Birdie, standing as stiff as a zoar tree, head tipped back, forehead wrinkled in concentration. Sunset painted the dunes with a ginger brush, and his figure cast a long shadow across the earth.

  “What is it, Amos? Soldiers?” She listened for the discordant strains that heralded the approach of one of the Khelari. But all she heard was the jouncing five-noted melody in Amos’s hearty baritone, with a reedy tenor—George’s voice—singing in the background. Odd how the longer she was around someone, the easier she found it to ignore their “singing,” until she only heard it if she listened for it.