Orphan's Song

by Gillian Bronte Adams

  But his sheath was empty.

  Carhartan seized him by the shoulders and pulled him close—a brotherly hug. “Looking for this?”

  A burning brand stabbed his side, tearing into his flesh. Carhartan released him, and he staggered back, tripping over his feet to the ground. He groped at the wound. Warm blood coated his fingers, and his hand settled around the hawk’s head pommel of his own dirk.

  Carhartan loomed over him, and the tip of the crimson sword dug into his throat. “I’ve waited almost thirty years for this, Hawkness. Thirty years a failure. Now it’s your turn. And with you out of the way, there will be no one to stop me from bringing the Songkeeper and the sword to the Takhran.”

  Amos’s gaze dropped to the gold hilt of Artair’s sword stuck through Carhartan’s belt. Despair swept over him. Always he failed. Every important task he had ever undertaken ended in disaster—first Artair, then the sword, and even his misguided attempt to keep Birdie from becoming the Songkeeper.

  He had failed. He deserved to die and face Emhran’s judgment.

  A small hand reached around Carhartan and seized Artair’s sword. Blue light flashed, and the blade leapt from Carhartan’s belt and stabbed toward the unprotected patch visible beneath the Khelari’s arm.

  A quiet voice, like a whisper of music, spoke beside Carhartan. “You’re wrong.”

  Ky whirled his sling around his head, loosing stone after stone into the mass of pirates as rapidly as he could. A slingstone bounced off a pirate’s forehead, unleashing a fountain of blood. The pirate scrubbed at his face, screamed something Ky was grateful he couldn’t understand, and charged. A second slingstone laid him flat in his tracks.

  Shuffling steps approached from behind. Out of the corner of his eye, Ky caught a glimpse of a bright yellow tunic and a dark snarling face. He flicked his wrist, releasing a stone, and the pirate crumpled. Through the gap in the crowd left by the fallen pirate, he saw a flash of light-colored hair and black armor.

  Hendryk.

  The blood ran hot in his ears, and he charged through the battle, automatically reloading his sling. He had a score to settle.

  Hendryk battled an old Waveryder, attacking with forceful swings that sent the man stumbling backward on quivering legs. But there was no mercy, no sympathy, in Hendryk’s eyes. As Ky neared, Hendryk sliced through the old man’s spear and stabbed him in the gut.

  Ky stalled mid stride.

  The Waveryder collapsed with a moan that Ky heard over the clamor of the battle. For a moment, he seemed to be standing again in the market place with Dizzier lying on the cobblestones at Hendryk’s feet, life seeping from the wound in his side.

  An axe swished past Ky’s face, and he jerked back to the present. Anger simmered in his chest. He slung a stone at Hendryk. It missed, but served its purpose nonetheless, catching Hendryk’s attention. He dropped another stone into the pouch and threw himself on the dark soldier, wielding his loaded sling like a hammer. Pounding . . . pounding . . . pounding.

  Blood streamed down Hendryk’s face, but Ky didn’t let up. The soldier would be hampered by his nearness—one thing he recalled from battling Cade in the Ring. A sword was only an advantage if you had room to use it. But somehow, Hendryk managed to tuck his elbow back and bring his sword edge up to slice at Ky’s side.

  He threw himself back just in time.

  Catching himself from a stumble, he tried to gather his wits and his strategy, but Hendryk advanced toward him, striking faster and faster, forcing him to dodge. And Ky knew he couldn’t evade forever.

  If he couldn’t just disappear for a moment . . . regain the advantage of surprise and distance. Becoming invisible, that was the answer!

  Ky lunged to the side and thwacked Hendryk’s helmet with his loaded sling. Then he threw himself flat past the soldier, rolled, and came up on his feet behind a pirate battling a Waveryder. He turned heel and ran, disappearing into the chaos.

  He could still see Hendryk, but from the way the dark soldier peered about him, it was clear Ky’s ruse had worked. Guided by instincts gained through a life on the streets, he darted from cover to cover, the pattern playing through his mind: forward two steps, swing left, back up one.

  He crept up behind Hendryk and tapped him on the shoulder. Hendryk spun around.

  Thwack.

  The sling hit Hendryk full in the nose. Blood gushed over his face, and water streamed from his eyes. Ky flung all his weight at the man, toppling him to the ground. He yanked the sword from Hendryk’s hand, and kneeling on his chest, shoved the tip of the sword at his throat.

  “You killed my brother. I told you I’d kill you for it.”

  A crooked grin spread across Hendryk’s face, and his head rolled back as he uttered a derisive laugh. The sound turned Ky’s blood to frost.

  “I didn’t kill him. He isn’t dead.”

  Birdie pressed the tip of Artair’s sword into Carhartan’s side. The hilt turned to ice in her grip, and her hand seized involuntarily at the cold. The burning sensation spread up her arm and into her shoulder, but like a plunge into a cold spring on a hot summer day, it brought new life to her weary limbs.

  “You’re wrong,” she repeated. “I will stop you.”

  At the first prick of her sword, Carhartan had jerked away from Amos. His sword now hovered over Amos’s neck rather than resting with the tip piercing the peddler’s skin but it was still far too close for Birdie’s comfort.

  “Release him,” she said. “And you can go free, unharmed.”

  Carhartan chuckled. “You are a fool, little Songkeeper. One little thrust is all it takes, and he will choke on his own blood. Whereas if you are too slow . . . if I act first . . . would you risk his life by trying to kill me before I slay him? Do you think I don’t know you, little one? You are incapable of such a deed. You could not harm me if your life depended on it.”

  Birdie set her jaw. “No, I don’t think you know me.”

  She had fought and killed in the Underground, and she would do it again if she had to. If it would save Amos. More troubling though, was Carhartan’s assertion that she couldn’t stop him before he cut Amos’s throat. Who was to say that even if she did stab Carhartan, he wouldn’t still be able to harm Amos?

  Carhartan tensed.

  “Wait!” Birdie licked her dry lips. “Don’t do this. Let Amos go . . . I’ll . . . I’ll come with you.” She nearly choked on the words. What was she saying? She couldn’t go with him. Yet looking down at the peddler sprawled helpless before Carhartan, she knew that she could, and she must.

  “Lass, don’t even think it!” Amos groaned. “Ye can’t. I won’t permit it.”

  Carhartan’s dark gaze turned upon her, considering her a moment in silence. Then slowly, he pulled the sword away from Amos’s throat.

  Now, a voice within her cried, and her sword arm shook with the desire of it. Stab him and be done with it. She could be safe. No longer hunted. Free. In the whispered voice, she heard echoed the poisonous strains of the dark melody.

  And in that moment, her decision was made.

  She lowered Artair’s sword.

  A smile spread across Carhartan’s face, and he drew his arm back to thrust at Amos.

  Before his action had even fully registered in her brain, Birdie’s sword arm was moving. She stabbed straight up into the gap beneath Carhartan’s arm where the two halves of his breastplate came together. The sword pierced flesh—a sickening feeling—and Carhartan’s scream filled her ears. He staggered back and collapsed in a clatter of armor.

  Birdie trembled, watching the red drops congeal on the blue-white blade, then she dropped the sword and flung herself beside Amos. Blood soaked his shirt around the dirk protruding from his side. “Amos? Are you all right? Oh please, please, tell me you’re all right.”

  “Aye, lass. Just grand,” he said, but his voice sounded feeble. “Help me
up, would ye?”

  She bent over him and tried to get her hands under his arms, but someone grabbed her from behind and dragged her backward.

  “Birdie!” Amos clutched at her, but he was too far away.

  The edge of a blade stung her throat, and Carhartan’s voice hissed in her ear. “We made a bargain, little Songkeeper. Now, let’s forget about Hawkness, because you and I are going to take that sword back to the Takhran. And don’t even think about trying to escape, or I will slit your throat.”

  Sing, little Songkeeper.

  Without pausing to think, she opened her mouth, and the first notes poured out. Then Carhartan’s hand settled around her throat, choking her, and the melody died. He spun her around to face him, and she quailed at the hatred in his eyes.

  And suddenly she knew. Carhartan couldn’t kill her, or he would have done it long before. He’d said it himself earlier. The Takhran wanted her alive, and she could only imagine the sort of horrible punishment he would inflict on the one who deprived him of his prize. Carhartan didn’t dare harm her.

  A muffled groan drew her attention to the side where Amos lay. The peddler was struggling to rise, but Carhartan, so intent on her, didn’t appear to have noticed.

  If she could just stall him long enough, perhaps Amos would be able to do something.

  Carhartan’s fingers dug into her throat. She tried to speak, and his grip loosened just enough that she could choke out a few words.

  “You and I . . . both know . . . you . . . can’t . . . kill me,” she gasped.

  His scowl deepened, but he said nothing. His hold relaxed a little more.

  “A dead Songkeeper isn’t worth anything to the Takhran.”

  She didn’t dare look at Amos now, for fear Carhartan would discern her plan. She could only hope that Amos would see the opportunity and take advantage of it.

  “We both know the sword is just an empty threat, so you might as well put it away and then we can sit down and talk it over like reasonable people.” She continued talking, scarce knowing what she was saying, just speaking the first words that came into her mind. “Who knows, if you have a good enough argument, I might be convinced to go with you. Or you might be convinced to forget about the whole thing. What’s so important about it any—”

  His hand constricted about her throat. She could no longer speak . . . could no longer breathe. Gray tinged the edges of her vision. Panic seized her limbs. Carhartan might not be able to kill her, but he could choke her into unconsciousness.

  Then Amos’s deep brogue spoke beside her. “I swore t’ kill ye if ye harmed my lass, Oran.”

  Something whipped past Birdie’s head and struck Carhartan in the neck. Convulsions shook his body, tearing his hands away from her throat. She tumbled to the ground, heaving for breath.

  Carhartan toppled at her feet, a look of horror on his face, hands clutched around Amos’s dirk in his throat.

  Dead.

  32

  Birdie could scarce believe it. Carhartan lay at her feet, lifeless and empty. The noise of the battle faded, and she sat in stunned silence, massaging her aching throat. For so long, she had been running. Hunted. Afraid. Now with the passing of Carhartan, she felt free.

  A breath of wind trickled toward her, lifting the hair from her sticky forehead. She flung her head back and closed her eyes reveling in peace in the midst of ruin.

  “Lass? Are ye all right?” Amos dropped beside her and gathered her into his arms. She laid her head on his chest, content to simply be held. “Oh lass, I’m so sorry. Sorry for denyin’ ye were the Songkeeper, for lyin’ t’ ye, for everythin’. Can ye ever forgive me?”

  Hearing those words from Amos warmed her through and through. Tears welled in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She tried to speak, but no sound came out.

  “Hush, lass, don’t try t’ speak. Everythin’ will be all right now. Just wait . . . wait an’ . . . see . . .” Amos’s voice slurred and his body went limp, sinking back to the ground.

  “Amos!” The word came out as a gasping croak. Birdie started to her knees beside the peddler and reached out to touch him, then froze at the sight of blood covering her arm where it had rested against Amos’s side.

  The peddler moaned and his eyelids fluttered.

  She fought against the panic constricting her throat. She had to think, do something, anything! If she could just stop the bleeding . . . Her roving gaze caught on Amos’s cloak laying where she had dropped it when she drew Artair’s sword. Skirting Carhartan’s corpse, she snatched up the cloak and brought it back to Amos. She pressed it to the wound in his side and held it in place, but didn’t know what to do after that. Amos needed better help than she could offer.

  In the Underground, the Song had healed the injured runners. Perhaps it could do the same for Amos. But try as she might, she could not coax a single note from her throat, and the melody itself was strangely distant.

  A tear slipped down her cheek as she turned to survey the battlefield. All around her, the cries of the wounded and dying rose to the sky. During the confrontation with Carhartan, the battle had drifted shoreward of them, leaving them in between the main fight and the sea. As she watched, the pirates retreated, streaming back toward their ship, past her and Amos. She hunched over the peddler’s still form and hoped she would go unnoticed.

  But scarce a dozen pirates had raced by before a hand gripped her shoulder and flung her onto her back in the sand. She looked up into Fjordair’s blade-like visage. He fingered the hilt of one of the many daggers in his belt, then looked over his shoulder and reeled off a long sentence in Langorian.

  Lord Rhudashka lumbered past Fjordair, his red robe shimmering as if covered in blood. His bulbous eyes narrowed at the sight of her. “The little Songkeeper . . .” He spoke the tongue of Leira deliberately, as if each word was completely unrelated and uncomfortable on his tongue. “Bring her.”

  Birdie opened her mouth to cry for help, but could only manage a little croaking yelp, like the meow of a kitten. Fjordair pounced, stifling her cries, stuffed a kerchief in her mouth, and tied it behind her head. With the fury of despair, she kicked and hit, trying to fend him off, but he outweighed her by far too much. In a few moments, she found herself bound hand and foot yet again.

  Tears streamed down Birdie’s face. She searched the beach for Ky, the griffin, anyone who might help. But the griffin was locked in battle with four Khelari, and she saw no sign of Ky. She was captured . . . again . . . and there was no one to save her.

  But this time, Amos needed her. Without aid, he would bleed to death.

  She crawled toward him and gripped his hand in both of hers, silently begging him to wake and be well. Then Fjordair yanked her up and dragged her after the retreating pirates to the longboats beached on the shore.

  Hendryk’s words sank into Ky’s brain like one of his slingstones. He knelt on the man’s chest, keeping the dark soldier from rising with the tip of his sword. “What do you mean he isn’t dead?” He tightened his grip on the weapon. “What happened to him?”

  “Same thing that happens to all criminals arrested by the Khelari. Sent to a slave camp to be employed in good honest labor advancing the Takhran’s might.” Hendryk slowly raised his hands. “And if you kill me, you’ll never find out where.”

  If Dizzier was truly alive, then Ky was glad. Glad that Dizzier’s life had not been sacrificed for his, and yet Dizzier had fought to save him. But if Hendryk told the truth, then Dizzier was a slave, and wasn’t slavery a fate worse than death?

  “Where is he?”

  The soldier shook his head. “First give me your word that you won’t harm me. Your brother’s not dead—there’s no reason to kill me.”

  A bitter taste flooded Ky’s mouth. He wouldn’t slay anyone in cold blood, yet here he sat listening to a man bargain for his life. This was something Cade might do—maybe even
Dizzier—but not Ky. This wasn’t who he was. He was sick of the charade.

  He eyed the sword with distaste, and stood, removing his weight from Hendryk’s chest. “Tell me what I need to know.”

  Hendryk stared at him in silence, and then scrambled to his feet. He cast a fleeting glance over his shoulder as if he were going to run for it.

  Ky’s sling dangled from his sword hand, a stone already in the pouch. He slipped his fingers in between the strands, ready to drop the sword, if necessary, and send a stone after the dark soldier. He might not murder a man in cold blood, but a man reneging on a deal for information? That fellow might just be better off after receiving one of his slingstones.

  But Hendryk didn’t run. He leaned in until his shoulder brushed Ky’s and spoke in a whisper. “Dacheren. He’s in Dacheren.”

  The name was unfamiliar. “What’s—”

  But Hendryk was already gone, dashing away across the battlefield, leaving his sword in Ky’s hand. Ky fingered his sling and considered sending a shot or two flying after Hendryk, just to teach him a lesson.

  Better not to waste the stones. Though the battle did seem to be drawing to a close, and the beach was littered with the dead and dying. The flying beast—Ky had never before seen the like, half bird and half lion—had made short work of the pirates, and the rest were retreating past Ky to their longboats pursued by a horde of victorious Waveryders.

  He fell into line with the others and scanned the beach for Birdie and Amos and the sword. So far his plan to drag the cursed weapon all over Leira in the hopes of drawing the black soldiers after him seemed to be working. Almost working too well.

  Scores of Waveryders surrounded the pirates clustered around the longboats, attacking them with fist and chain as they tried to embark. In the midst of the confusion, a small figure tore away from the pirates.