Dark hair, a ragged blue dress—Ky’s heart thumped—it was Birdie.
A pirate seized her by the waist, dragged her back to the longboat, and shoved her aboard. In another moment, the longboat would set out for the pirates’ ship, and once it left land, there wouldn’t be anything he could do to save her.
He had to act fast.
If he was going to act at all.
Look out for yourself.
Even as the hated words whispered in the back of his mind, Ky despised himself for thinking them. He could no more stand by while Birdie was captured, than he could have ignored Meli’s plight on her first apple bobbing run.
If there was one good thing he’d learned from Dizzier, it was that at the worst times, the best plan was often no plan. And Ky excelled at coming up with no plan.
Dozens of pirates grasped the sides of the longboat, hauling it across the shore toward the sea, beyond the reach of their pursuers. Ky shouted, drawing their attention. Ignoring the cold dread in the pit of his stomach, he dashed toward the longboat with Hendryk’s sword in his left hand and the familiar whirr-whirring and thrum-thrumming of his sling filling his ears.
The snap of the leather and the crack of the stones steadied him as the pirates closed in from all sides until they were so near that the sling was useless. But he could hear the echo of its humming even as a blow knocked the sword from his grip, and a fist hammered his back, and the edge of a knife stung his throat, bringing his charge to a halt.
Into the longboat he tumbled with his hands bound behind his back, landing with an aching thud at the feet of the crimson-clad pirate lord.
33
His lassie was gone. The thought seeped into Amos’s mind and consumed him, like the keening wail of the night moths. Taken by the pirates along with the lad, Ky, while he lay unconscious in the sand.
A failure to the end.
He slumped on the shore amidst the ashes of the Waveryder vessels with the waves hissing toward his toes, Artair’s sword bundled in his lap, his feathered cap resting on his knee. With hesitant hands, he fingered the heavy bandages on his side as he watched the Langorian ship scudding away, bearing his lass far from him, and there was naught he could do to stop it.
The ache of his wound paled in comparison to the pain of that knowledge.
Heavy footsteps padded toward him, then Gundhrold sat at his side. The griffin looked to have had a hard time of it during the fight. Numerous gashes along his sides leaked blood, matting his tawny fur and revealing the gaunt frame of a beast past his prime. One wing was broken and hung cockeyed from his back.
Only such an injury, Amos suspected, could keep the griffin land-bound while the Songkeeper was taken into captivity.
Gundhrold shaded his eyes with an unharmed wing tip. “The pirates follow a southern course. It appears they may be returning to Langoria.”
To Amos’s eyes, the pirate ship had already dwindled to a smudge on the horizon. “May be doesn’t tell us much, now does it?”
A growl rumbled in the beast’s throat. “What do you intend to do, Hawkness? Sit here contemplating your many failures—”
“Don’t lecture me, beastie. I’ve sworn t’ protect the wee lass, an’ I intend t’ do just that.”
“How?”
That was the question that haunted Amos, had been haunting him ever since he caught sight of the crimson and gold ship sailing away and heard from the Waveryders that his lass and the lad had been seen aboard one of the longboats. He permitted his gaze to wander across the battle scarred beach and the pockets of Waveryders picking their way through the bodies sprawled in the sand, tending to the wounded . . . and the dead.
“Ye say the pirates are headed south, back to their homeland?” He coughed to clear his throat and put as much force into the words as he could contrive. “Then we go south as well—overland—through the desert of Vituain. Cut them off before they reach Langoria. Rescue Birdie.”
The griffin nodded. “Indeed, we must.”
A jaunt through the desert was no small undertaking, yet the griffin accepted it without argument. Amos might just grow to tolerate the beast.
“And yet,” Gundhrold met his gaze, “we cannot hope to accomplish such a task on our own, Hawkness. We must seek aid.”
Should have boggswoggling known there would be something. “Who would help us?”
“The resistance is strong in the south. There are many among the desert dwellers—especially the Saari—that would be glad to fight for the Songkeeper and have the Songkeeper and Hawkness fight for them in turn.”
Resistance fighters . . . like Nisus and Jirkar.
Amos stood, ignoring the flare of pain, and jerked his cap on his head. “Right. It’s settled. We’ll seek the boggswoggled fools and charm them into helping us rescue Birdie.”
“Best leave the charming up to me. Hawkness was never renowned for the gentleness of his tongue.” With a stiff nod, the griffin padded up the beach.
Charming or not, Amos had a mission now, and he would do whatever was necessary to accomplish it, whether that meant working with the curmudgeonly old griffin or storming the walls of Serrin Vroi. Anything to bring his wee lass back.
He started to follow the griffin and then stopped, glancing from Artair’s sword in his hand to the fathomless depths of the Great Sea.
The muscles along his jaw tightened.
Then he spun on his heels and hurried across the beach to overtake the griffin, sliding the sword into his belt as he went. He wrapped his hand around the hilt. Cold seeped into his fingers through the cloth, spreading into his hand and up his arm until it settled in his chest.
Vibrating.
Amos halted, stock still, head cocked to listen. He could have sworn that he heard something, deep in the sword’s vibrations. A tremulous note, the beginnings of a whisper.
Of a melody.
He released the sword and clutched his hand to his chest, allowing the warmth of his beating heart to drive the chill from his skin. Back over his shoulder he glanced, to the sea and the ship that had taken his lass away, and whispered a promise.
The hatch clanged shut, leaving Birdie in the pitch black of the hold. Manacles scraped her wrists, chafing the rope burns she’d received while a prisoner of the Khelari. The chains attached to the deck, allowing her only a few feet of crawl room, but she was free of the gag.
Movement rustled to her right.
“Ky?” Her voice was still a hoarse whisper.
Groping fingers brushed against her arm. “Shh, listen.”
In the darkness beyond them, chains clinked, echoing hollowly through the hold, and shuffling feet scraped the floor. A hacking cough. Muttered voices. Stifled weeping.
Her breath caught in her throat, and Ky’s grim voice confirmed her fears.
“We’re not the only ones here.”
She slid back until her shoulders rested against the frame of the ship, sitting side by side with Ky, swaying with the motion of the sea, weary with despair.
The creaking of the wooden timbers, the hum of the rigging far overhead, and the groan of the masts blended and formed a melody. Deep below, the ocean depths sang in answer, and the Song coursed through Birdie’s veins.
Throbbing. Vast. Unfathomed.
Her eyes slipped shut, and a different hum filled her ears. Shriller, colder, more metallic. It beckoned to her and she followed it in her mind, unraveling the tangled strand of melody. Bright blue light flashed across her vision, and she bolted upright, gasping.
Her ears rang with the rumble of a familiar voice.
“Don’t worry, lass. We’re comin’ for ye.”
Acknowledgments
Writing a fantasy novel is an epic adventure in and of itself, and I’ve had enough encouragement, support, and assistance along every step of the journey to make any character jealou
s! So a special thank you goes to my incredible parents who suffered through the meandering first drafts and offered invaluable advice; my siblings who vowed not to read the book until it was published—giving me extra incentive to see it completed; writing mentors Jill Williamson and Stephanie Morrill who both helped chip this novel out of the rock; and my incredible agent, Amanda Luedeke, for brainstorming ideas, offering brilliant suggestions, and answering every single one of my gazillion questions!
I also want to thank the gracious folks who stopped after my accident this summer and rescued my laptop (and the latest version of Orphan’s Song) from the flames; John W. Otte who supplied the extra bit of encouragement I needed to enter my first pitching session with confidence; and my writing conference buddies, Emileigh Latham and Claire Talbott, who are a big part of my inspiration for writing! And thanks to you, dear reader, for picking this book off the shelf. I hoped you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!
About the Author
Gillian Bronte Adams is a sword-wielding, horse-riding, coffee-loving author from the great state of Texas. During the day, she manages the equine program at a Christian youth camp, but at night, she kicks off her boots and spurs and transforms into a novelist. Her love of epic stories and a desire to present truth in a new way drew her to the realm of fantasy.
Visit her web site: GillianBronteAdams.com
Facebook: GillianBronteAdams
Twitter: @theSongkeeper
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