Other books by Gillian Bronte Adams
The Songkeeper Chronicles
Orphan’s Song
Songkeeper
Song of Leira: Book #3 in The Songkeeper Chronicles series
Copyright © 2018 by Gillian Bronte Adams
Published by Enclave, an imprint of Gilead Publishing, LLC,
Wheaton, Illinois, USA.
www.gileadpublishing.com
www.enclavepublishing.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, digitally stored, or transmitted in any form without written permission from Gilead Publishing, LLC.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-68370-086-9 (printed softcover)
ISBN: 978-1-68370-087-6 (ebook)
Cover illustration and design by Darko Tomic
Interior design by Beth Shagene
Ebook production by Book Genesis, Inc.
To all who long for restoration
For broken hearts to be mended
And weary souls to be renewed
This tale is penned for you
Prologue
Over the past few days, Amos McElhenny had stared death in the face so many times that he hardly blinked anymore. What harm could once more do? To be sure, rumor declared the Takhran’s fortress impenetrable. The tunnels below Mount Eiphyr did not even exist, if idle tavern blather was to be believed, and the Pit itself was mere legend. And no sane man with a price on his head would dream of walking bold faced and unchallenged through the torch-lit gateway into the festering heart of Serrin Vroi.
But sane had never been a title Amos McElhenny claimed.
The thought brought a smidge of a grin to his lips—though it was more grimace than grin—as he tramped at the heels of a Khelari squad through the tunnellike entrance, trying to ignore the murder holes glaring down from above. Rejecting his Waveryder heritage, leaving the vessel that bore his mother’s name and could have been his, setting off to follow a wandering Songkeeper—on the surface, none of it made sense. And following Artair still, through betrayal, slaughter, and capture, to the very depths of ruin?
It was beyond insane.
It was blind, unreasoning devotion—the kind that always got a man killed. But in his vast experience, he had never yet met a latch that couldn’t be jimmied, a chain that couldn’t be broken, or a defense that couldn’t be cracked. Not with a skilled hand at the dirk and a purpose strong and deadly enough to guide it true.
Purpose he had aplenty. He had but to brush the cold pommel of the sword strapped to his belt to be struck anew by images he would do anything to forget: the panicked faces of his comrades, the woods ablaze by the traitor’s hands, and Artair dragged—unresisting—into the night. The death screams echoing in his ears were incentive enough to find a way.
Even more so when the way in was as simple as robbing a dead Khelari of his armor.
Once through the gate, his borrowed squad marched off to their barracks with the stumbling, stiff-limbed strides of men weary for the hearth, but Amos hung back under the pretense of shaking the stones from his boots. He halted in the center of the castle bailey, fighting the need for action that burned in his gut, and sought to gain his bearings first. Charging blindly ahead was the game of fools and simpletons. And Amos McElhenny was neither. Chaos ranged about him, and yet it was an orderly sort of chaos. Orderly enough that a lone Khelari standing idle was sure to draw attention.
He must determine his path and quickly.
Wattle-and-daub buildings surrounded him on all sides. Ahead, wide steps mounted to the entrance of an enormous keep that melted into the side of the mountain behind—Mount Eiphyr. Somewhere beneath its ponderous bulk sat the Pit. The word alone summoned a sheen of sweat to his brow, fogging his vision in the confines of his visored helm.
“To the Pit . . . Captives are sent to the Pit.” So much he had gathered from the dying Khelari before a stroke of his dirk hastened the man’s passing and freed his fouled armor for use. Amos blew out an uneven breath. The Pit it was, then. And pray Emhran he was neither wrong nor too late. If that was where they had taken Artair, then it must be his destination too.
It might have been blind, but devotion was not to be denied.
•••
Darkness had never seemed an absolute before. Not even during the long, weary watches of the night when all Drengreth was asleep and Amos had sat alone upon the lookout rock, flipping his dirk from hand to hand to keep his blood stirring and his eyes from slumber. Even during the new moon, when Mindolyn’s place in the night sky sat cold and vacant, the stars seemed to shine out the brighter. But here, beneath the vast hulk of Mount Eiphyr, the shadows crouched like a living beast waiting to swallow a man whole.
Still Amos soldiered on, tamping down the horror as he felt his way down the crooked passages—ever down, down, down, until it seemed he must be buried beneath the earth. He fought the fear that clogged his throat and sent him cringing for cover at every growl and hiss emanating from the side tunnels. But beyond those distant, unnerving noises, so far the dead silence was disturbed only by the thwack of his footsteps against the uneven ground. Only yesterday the worn stitching on his right boot had given out, leaving the leather sole flapping at the toe so it smacked, snagged, and squeaked like a snared petra. The boots had served him well, but the blistering pace he had set over the past few days had taken their toll.
The dangling sole caught on a rock and nearly dumped Amos on his face. He smacked into the opposite wall, palms first, and just managed to keep his balance. “Bilgewater!” The muttered curse shot down the tunnel ahead of him. “Silversteam and podboggles too!” Balancing on one foot, he seized the sole and his dirk, set bronze edge to leather . . . and then stopped, squinting.
Bent over like this, it almost seemed . . . Was it . . . growing lighter ahead?
He sheathed his dirk and crept forward, taking care to step softly on the loose sole. Now that his ears were pricked, he could hear the murmur of harsh voices, punctuated by the sharp clack of blows. Moments later, he slipped shy of the tunnel into a vast open space suffused in a dark-orange glow. But he hardly noticed his surroundings, for his gaze was drawn to the party of Khelari—nigh two score strong—standing in a half-moon shape, ringed about with torches.
And in the center, a prone figure, beaten and bloody.
The Khelari thronged about him in a grinning, ravenous mob. Amos could almost feel the rage boiling off them as they kicked, pummeled, and beat the man with the flats of their swords and spear butts. The man’s groans rang out, and the sound stoked the fire in Amos’s gut. Somehow he knew. Knew before the figure lifted his head. Knew even with the blood concealing his battered features and slicking his dark hair to his forehead.
It was Artair.
The breath rose hot in his throat. What fool game was the Songkeeper playing at to suffer such treatment from the cursed scum? Whatever it was, it was not to be borne. Amos seized the icy pommel of the sword—Artair’s sword—and tensed for the rush of battle. What mattered forty Khelari? With the sword lodged in Artair’s fist, the Songkeeper would be unstoppable. The Takhran’s forces would fall like dune grass before the scythe. So it was written . . . somewhere. Or so Nisus had claimed, and he was a learned dwarf, studying to become one of the Xanthen.
Amos tightened his grip on the sword, and the chill ran up his arm and into his shoulder. It was right, somehow, that he alone should witness this final victory. He alone had stayed true. Loyal Hawkness, faithful to the bitter end. He alone had rallied the courage to pursue the Khe
lari. He alone had endured countless hungry days and sleepless nights. He alone had braved the dark terror of the tunnels.
And now, to have found Artair at the end of it?
Some things were just meant to be.
He stole toward the mob, wincing at each smack of the flapping sole, but the Khelari were intent upon their prey. The fools didn’t so much as glance around, though Amos was close enough now to count the streaks and rust stains on the nearest soldier’s dented breastplate. But even if they had looked, he still wore the hated Khelari armor. To all appearances, he was one of their own foul kind. Gritting his teeth, he eased the sword from its sheath.
A strange, metallic note filled his ears, and the rush of cold rattled his teeth.
Artair lifted his head and met Amos’s gaze.
The extent of his swellings and bruises set Amos’s chest pounding with renewed wrath. Blood dribbled from Artair’s broken lips and leaked from a gash on his forehead. His features were wrong somehow. Misshapen and bent. But there was no denying the command in Artair’s eyes. Or in his voice when he spoke.
“Wait.”
Amos’s blood boiled within him. What in the name of all things fair and foul did Artair mean? He was the Songkeeper. How could he allow these cursed Khelari dogs to treat him so? Amos eased forward another step and slid another inch of the blade from the scabbard. But before he could attack, a clear, golden voice rang out. “Hold, soldier. The man asks us to wait.”
Something about the voice struck Amos as dangerous. It was too calm, too unnaturally steady and gentle compared to the wild raging of the mob.
“What it is, Songkeeper? Have you something to say? Do you wish to beg for mercy?”
The hair stood up on the nape of Amos’s neck. It seemed a hundred eyes settled on him from somewhere in the surrounding dark. The vulnerability of his position struck him, standing exposed in such a wide-open space, surrounded by enemies. Amos retreated a step, then another, then backed away until he reached the opening he had entered through and squatted just out of sight within the mouth of the tunnel.
No one had followed him.
Had he imagined the eyes upon him? He let out a stale breath. Who would have thought the steely nerves of the great Amos McElhenny would fail at last? Of course no one had followed him. He looked like one of their own. Or he would, if he stopped cowering.
The ranks of the Khelari parted, and a tall man clad in silver and blue stepped through. He towered over Artair’s prone form and spoke to him in a low voice, though Amos couldn’t make out what was said. Artair struggled to his feet and stood with his head bent, swaying a little. The man’s laughter rang out, and the sound sent a shiver coursing down Amos’s spine.
This was the Takhran.
He knew it with the same sense of certainty that had filled him when he saw Artair. The final battle had truly come. Any moment now, Artair would break into Song, and the ranks of the Khelari would fall at his feet. That’s when Amos would be there with the sword at the ready. Loyal Hawkness. Ever faithful—
And yet, at this moment, he crouched in the shadows while the Songkeeper stood alone.
He would have gone in.
Would still go in.
He flung the thought out, fierce, vehement. It was not cowardice that held him back, but Artair’s command. A man could not rush blindly into battle against overwhelming odds and hope to prove victorious. No, somewhere in the midst of this muddled mess, Artair had a plan, and Amos must just bide his time until it became clear.
Wait, Artair had commanded.
But waiting was for the cautious and indecisive, and neither were attributes Amos claimed. He shoved to his feet and inched again from the safety of his hiding place, back into the danger of that wide-open space where the darkness pressed about him and a chill breeze blew against his back . . . just in time to see the Takhran strike.
Metal flashed in the Takhran’s hand, and a curse sprang to Amos’s lips even before the blow landed. But the warning was too late. Artair seized, limbs quivering, and then collapsed.
He lay still.
Wait.
The command beat in Amos’s ears. There was strength enough in it still to hold his battle blood in check. Barely. He rubbed the pommel of his dirk between fevered fingers, gradually tightening his grip until the hawk’s beak stabbed his flesh. There was a plan here. Had to be a plan. Somehow.
But Artair did not move.
The tang of copper flooded his mouth, and Amos realized he had bitten his tongue. He spat out a glob of blood. A mistake, that’s all it was. Another moment and Artair would rise, ready for the fight.
But the moment came and went, and still Artair did not move.
“Get up,” Amos muttered. “Now’s not the time for lollygaggin’, ye great ormahound! This is it. It’s time. Get up, man. Get up!”
The Takhran lowered his knife, and red ran down the edge of the blade. A cheer burst from the Khelari, drowning the rest of Amos’s frantic thoughts. One of the Khelari bent and seized Artair by the ankle. Not until the soldier began dragging Artair away, his limbs limp, skull bumping and thumping across the uneven ground, did the truth sink in.
Artair was dead.
Amos’s ears filled with a dizzying roar, blotting out the soldiers’ jeers. Dimly, as if through a cloud of smoke, he watched the Takhran halt the soldier with an upraised hand and then dispatch a dozen others with a word. Within minutes, they were back and rigging together a strange sort of contraption with a web of ropes and pulleys. Three soldiers grabbed Artair’s arms and legs, dumped his body onto the frame, bound him in place, and then seized the ropes along with the others to hoist it up so that Artair hung from the underside. At the Takhran’s signal, they tugged. The frame rose into the air, settled, rose again, settled. One of the ropes caught and the contraption tipped. Artair’s body slid forward and jerked to a stop. The neck of his tunic parted, snagged on the bonds, revealing the gaping wound in his throat.
Something wet fell on Amos’s hand.
A drop of blood.
He gazed down at it, uncomprehending, then back up at Artair, now directly above him, and then at the soldiers jostling around him on either side. Slowly, ever so slowly, his mind plodded along the path his feet had taken, struggling to reconcile where he stood now with where he had been. Somehow—he wasn’t sure how—his feet had moved without his command and borne him out into the midst of the crowd.
“Whoa, whoa, steady there!” one of the Khelari shouted. “Ease back, man!”
Someone shoved Amos from behind. He spun around, and his dirk was in his hand before his mind could process the decision behind the action. But the soldier had his head down and his back bent with the effort of yanking on his rope to steady the platform. A bead of sweat slid down the bridge of his nose to dangle from the tip. He tossed his head, cracking his neck, and blew a hefty breath through pursed lips.
Looked to be about Amos’s own age. Or younger.
Strange how human these monsters could appear. Downright sickening. But Amos had seen their depravity written in blood across the pale faces of his slain brethren. Their humanity almost made it worse.
The blood pounded in his head, and his breath hissed through clenched teeth. It took every ounce of his will to force his hand to his belt to sheathe his dirk. He backed away, and his gaze was drawn again to Artair’s livid, bruised face.
Up and up the frame went, the soldiers hauling on the creaking ropes with a mixture of groans and harsh laughter, until it clunked against the top pulley and came to a halt, jerking and swaying on its fastenings. The ring of torches painted the ceiling with a garish orange hue and lit Artair’s body from below, so that each movement of the contraption sent shadows dancing convulsively across the roof of the cavern.
A boot scuffed the ground just to his left. Someone stood shoulder to shoulder with him. Out of the corner of his eye, Amos could just see the stranger’s outline standing with head tipped back. The stranger let out a breath. Not so much a
sigh as the sort of settling of the lungs that a man allows when all is right with the world.
“Hail.” The strange, soft, dangerous voice of the Takhran spoke next to his ear, but he didn’t dare look. Didn’t dare turn his head. Hardly dared breathe. “Hail the great Songkeeper.”
Amos’s hand found his dirk again. He wrapped his fingers around the stacked leather grip and shut his eyes, picturing the weapon tearing into the Takhran’s chest. One thrust was all it would take. The bronze blade would sink in deep, severing flesh and arteries. The Takhran would fall. Leira would be freed.
But without the Songkeeper, what hope did they have?
The platform rotated slowly. Artair’s feet dangled high about Amos’s head now, then his chest, and finally his head, so that Amos stared directly up into his broken face. His eyes stared back at him, so bright and clear they seemed almost alive.
A lump clogged his throat. His lungs didn’t seem to work the way they were supposed to, as if the mechanics of breathing was the sort of thing a man could forget. He broke away, heedless of the Takhran beside him and the Khelari ringed about and the thud-slap of his boot’s broken sole, and fled across the cavern toward the tunnel.
The Songkeeper’s sword slapped against his hip and tangled between his legs. He clutched the hilt to steady it, but it grew colder and colder inside his clenched fist, until he tore it from his belt, scabbard and all, and hugged it to his chest instead. The chill seeped through his borrowed breastplate and sat like a ball of ice against his heart.
Artair was dead.
And Amos was a blame fool for believing in him for so long.
Now the world had turned upside down, and there was nothing left to do but run and keep on running. Some things just weren’t meant to be.
Part One
1
There is a moment between life and death when the chain of time is broken. Shrouded by a thicket of sage from unfriendly eyes, Birdie dwelt in that moment, feeling it in the heavy stillness that surrounded her as she knelt over the broken body of a dwarf. His head was wrenched back at a terrible angle, limbs bent and twisted in ways that defied nature and bone.
Song of Leira Page 1
