Song of Leira

by Gillian Bronte Adams

  Sling.

  The Khelari seized him by the shoulders and slammed his head against the ground. Jarring pain shot through his skull. He went still, and the Khelari relaxed slightly, sitting further back on his chest to let out a shout. “Hoi—”

  Ky lashed out with the sling, cutting him off. The loaded end swung up and snaked around the man’s neck. He caught it in his free hand. Used it pull himself close. Cinched it tight. Twisted. His weight dangled from the strap as veins bulged on the slavekeeper’s face and neck. Even in the dark, Ky could see the flash of fear in the man’s eyes.

  And the cunning.

  The slavekeeper flung himself to the side, bringing Ky with him and sending them both rolling in a wild scramble of flailing limbs. Ky’s heel struck something hard—wooden—and as if from a distance, he heard the clatter of the falling firepot. Burning embers scattered across the ground. One singed his calf in passing. But there was no time to give it thought because the wind had been knocked from his lungs, and a fist hammered against the back of his head, and one leg lay twisted painfully beneath himself. He gritted his teeth and clung on.

  Tightening his grip.

  The blows weakened, the slavekeeper’s limbs trembled, and then he collapsed, mashing Ky to the ground beneath his limp form. He shoved the man aside, lurched to his feet, and bent down to release his sling. Breathing raggedly, he hunched over with his elbows resting on his knees.

  Smoke drifted toward him, followed by the pop and crackle of flame. Even before he turned to look, he knew what it was—the fallen firepot. The embers must have landed in the tall grass and taken hold. Pockets of fire crawled toward him, and one patch caught a breath of wind and ran down into the hollow. Within moments, the smoke thickened and spread.

  Well . . . wasn’t luck a fickle thing?

  Ky started toward the flames, not sure what he intended other than to put them out somehow. Then he remembered his bare feet and paused to take stock of the situation. An animal’s bellow sounded from the hollow. Deep, harsh, infuriated. Clearly something huge. The slavekeeper was stirring, already beginning to come around again, and within the camp, the alarm was spreading. There wasn’t much time.

  Throwing caution aside, he dashed to the cage and seized the bars in both fists. A tug yielded nothing. Solid, of course. And the lashings were made from thick, new rope. Given enough time with the short sword, he could break through . . . But time was one thing he didn’t have. Still, it was worth a try if Paddy was here.

  “Paddy?” He pressed his forehead to the bars, whispering at first, then calling out as loud as he dared. “Paddy? You in there? It’s me . . . Ky . . .”

  Figures shifted within. The firelight behind him cast a long shadow and painted the lines of the bars in stripes across the slaves. Ky risked a glance over his shoulder toward the rest of the camp. The nearest tents teemed with activity motivated by the fire burning unchecked. What was it Migdon had said? Something about chaos being the friend of the desperate? Seemed true enough. He slid the sword from its sheath and knelt to saw at the ropes.

  “What in blazes are ye doin’?” One of the captives separated from the mass within the cage and approached the bars, moving with a halting step that wrenched his body in a way that looked unbearably painful. “D’ye mean t’ get us all killed?” Fire glow fell across him, revealing an old man with a face weathered by years in the elements and a body diminished to little more than bone and sinew.

  Ky straightened from his work and met the slave’s accusatory glare. “Not killed. Free.”

  “That’s a fool’s hope.” The old man spat. “Don’t you know what fate they’ve threatened to any who are caught escapin’? Not a man here will risk it. Be gone while you have the chance.”

  “He’s right.” Another voice broke in. This from a woman with a narrow, pinched face half covered in dried blood from a gash in her forehead. “There’s no hope for it. Leave us be. Don’t you go causing any more trouble than you already have!” Her voice bordered on hysteria.

  Ky glanced down at the clunky blade in his hand. Hacking at the ropes that held the cage together had accomplished little. There wasn’t time to cut through enough to make a difference. From the shouts rising behind, it could only be a matter of seconds before the whole camp broke over his head. He had to act fast or not at all.

  “Look.” He dropped the sword and seized the woman’s elbow through the bars. She stared at his hand, aghast, but he didn’t let go. “Help me and I can help you. Looking for a friend of mine—freckled, red hair. Goes by the name of Paddy.”

  “Can you destroy every last one of these filthy dogs? Unless you can, there’s nothing you can do to help us.” She twisted free from his grip and retreated a step, darting wide-eyed glances past him. “Don’t know no Paddy. Don’t know nothin’. Leave us be.” Her voice fell to a harsh whisper. “They’re comin’. They’re comin’!”

  The shouts behind grew louder, and Ky risked another glance over his shoulder. Dark figures approached at a run, buckets in hand, movements harsh and jerky in the unsteady light. In the hollow, the beast bellowed again—an enraged roar—joined a moment later by a second bellow, higher in pitch.

  Time to be gone.

  But he couldn’t give up. “He would have been injured. Leg wound.”

  The woman just shook her head, not even looking at him now. Her clawlike hand darted to her neck, grasping a fistful of her dress and pressing it to her chest, giving him a clear view of the iron collar fastened tightly around her throat and the pus-oozing sores surrounding it. She backed away, melting into the mass of figures huddled just beyond the reach of the light.

  “Wait!” Ky darted along the side of the cage, trying to catch sight of her again. “Wait. Are there any other slave pens in the camp?”

  No answer.

  With a groan, he slammed a fist against the bars, and the whole cage rattled. He could hear the slaves within, could dimly make out the shadowy outline of figures clustered as far away from him as possible. No help here.

  He let his forehead rest against the bars.

  “Hoi! Over here!”

  The hoarse shout brought him spinning around to see the slavekeeper he had strangled lurching to his feet and pointing a trembling arm in his direction. He jerked into action. Bent down to snatch up his fallen sword and then raced for the confusion raging beside the fire. He dove headlong into the action, weaving through the smoke and the rush of slavekeepers and soldiers with buckets. Mustering every ounce of courage in his gut, he leaped over a patch of low flame—heat searing his bare feet—tumbled down into the hollow, and rolled upright, wincing at the prick of blistered skin.

  He took off at a flat run across the hollow, finally grateful for the lack of moonlight. If anyone had seen his desperate exit through the fire, their eyesight would be hindered by the light, so they shouldn’t be able to spot him now. Of course, it meant he was running blind too, and it wouldn’t keep him from being spotted by any sentries patrolling the ridges surrounding the camp. He hadn’t seen any on the way down, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. And the fire would make them more alert. He was still a long ways from being home free. By his reckoning, he was about halfway to the slope now, and from there it was a quick jaunt down the other side and then a several-hours-long, bone-­jarring ride on the griffin’s back to the cave.

  The griffin . . .

  The thought crashed through his head, interrupting his stride. He eased to a walk and tried to recall the last time he remembered being with Gundhrold. On the way down, he’d assumed the griffin was somewhere ahead of him. Now he strained his senses for any sign of the creature. That’s when he noticed it: a whisper of air movement that washed over him, too strong and rank to be a breeze. Followed by the huff and wet snuffle of a breath.

  He braced himself for the exhale, dread prickling its way down his spine. There was something in front of him. Something big. It shifted with a massive rustling of grass and crackling of shrubs. So close. Too clos
e. He had stopped just in time. Another couple of steps, and he would have rammed into it.

  The beast snorted, blowing out a blast of warm air that smacked Ky in the face. He gagged at the reek of it and fought to stand still. Silent. Eventually, though, he would have to move. He couldn’t just stand here all night, waiting for the beast to move or for a Khelari sentry to spot him. He peered into the dark, racking his brain for a way out.

  And then he found that he could see. Whatever clouds had been covering the moon must have chosen that moment to roll back, releasing pale light into the hollow and revealing a monstrous beast with a body roughly the shape of a bull, only about four times as large. Ky had to tilt his head back to see the thick, stony carapace covering its head and running down along its neck and back, wrapping around to cover its chest like an ingrown suit of armor. Sleek leathery skin covered its flank and limbs. It stood as still as a statue, blocks of muscle taut like cut stone. Oddly enough, it wasn’t looking at him but past him, toward the camp . . . and the fire.

  It let out a trumpeting bellow that reverberated through the hollows of its throat and rib cage, loud enough that Ky’s eardrums ached with the pain of it. He crouched, clapping his hands over his ears. Sword and sling were of no use here. It didn’t seem to have noticed him, but a beast that size could crush him without a moment’s thought.

  Head lowered, the beast snorted and stamped one massive leg, and the impact shook the ground. Bellowing low in its throat, it took off in a wild, earth-shattering charge. Ky threw himself flat on the ground as it careened past and felt a hoof skim the air above his head. Then it was gone.

  And still he didn’t dare move. Just lay with his face in the earth as if his bones had melted, breathing in the strange, musty scent of springtime soil, feeling the cool hand of a breeze rifling through his sweat-slick hair, grateful to find himself still alive.

  Something brushed his shoulder and awareness flooded him again. He remembered where he was and what he had been doing, and that Khelari could be close behind. He lurched to his feet, groping for his sword.

  It was the griffin.

  Gundhrold cocked an eyebrow at him and scanned him from head to toe, then turned away. “Come, youngling.” He spoke in a soft rasp. “We must away.”

  Blood glistened on the griffin’s neck feathers and stained the curve of his beak, and the tip of one ear was missing, but for once Ky didn’t bother with questions. Just brushed the dirt and soot from his trousers, settled his sword more firmly into his sheath, and swung up on the griffin’s back.

  “Let’s go.”

  13

  By the time they completed the bone-jarring, muscle-aching return trip and reached the outskirts of the Underground camp, Ky had made up his mind. And all things considered, he honestly wasn’t sure which would prove more painful—the trip or his decision. He tightened his grip on the griffin’s neck feathers when they reached the creek, bracing for the halt.

  “Can we stop here?”

  The griffin came to a plunging stop, breathing heavily, and cocked an ear back at him. Not yet ready to answer the unspoken question, Ky slid down behind the trunk of a tree and peered across the creek at the clearing and the cave behind it. They had halted far enough from the camp that they remained beyond the line that had been cleared, so there was plenty of undergrowth to serve as concealment. He was grateful for that and the extra time it would give him to figure out how to break the news to the others and how to deal with the mess of the night’s mission. They would be in danger now, but that was nothing new.

  How much danger remained to be seen.

  Dawn was but a memory, shredded by the onslaught of the sun. Gundhrold had taken a crisscrossing return route, nearly twice as long as the first journey. From the look of things, the Underground had been up and working for some time and had already accomplished much—food cooked, bedrolls stashed, newly cut wood stacked beside the entrance. Slack had them all at fighting practice now, and she marched up and down the lines and in between the groups, tossing that hatchet of hers from hand to hand without missing a stride and issuing commands like she had been born to it. It was a natural, familiar scene—for the Underground, at least. Trade the woods for the red-rock walls of the cavern, swap blue sky for a soot-stained ceiling, and replace Slack with Cade, and it might have been any other morning, any other day of the year, before that cursed raid had brought terror and death upon the city.

  Leaves rustled behind him, and the griffin’s nearness set the hair bristling on his neck. He shifted his footing to look the creature in the eye and leaned one shoulder against the trunk for support. “Those slaves back there . . . at the Khelari camp. They were so far gone. It was like they didn’t even want to be rescued. Didn’t believe it could happen. Wouldn’t see it if it did.”

  “Fear can do strange things to a man, youngling.”

  “I know it.”

  And he did. He’d felt a touch of that fear in the hold of the Langorian slave ship. The atmosphere there had reeked of it—a stench that clung to your clothes and followed you no matter how you tried to escape it. It was a fear that made you crawl into yourself, like a rat into a hole, to try to block out the rest of the world. A part of him—the part that still shivered at the memory of Fjordair’s knife—understood. But the part of him that had survived the hold, journeyed the desert, fought Cade tooth and nail, suffered the white plague, and escaped the slaughter of Siranos . . . That part that just wouldn’t give up couldn’t help but be frustrated at the slaves. All of them too consumed to see the chance for freedom staring them in the face. When the time came, he would have to make them see.

  Wake them up.

  Somehow.

  “I have to go back.” The words escaped before he realized it. But once he had spoken them, he knew he had to say them again: a vow. “I will rescue the slaves. All of them.”

  A soft, hissing noise sent a shiver racing down his spine. He jerked around to see the griffin with his chin tucked against his chest, shoulders shaking. Laughing. Only laughing. But it had to be one of the most unnerving sounds he had ever heard—and the most disappointing.

  Did the griffin think it all a jest?

  “I’m serious.” He ground the words between his teeth.

  The griffin quieted, studying him. “Forgive me, youngling. I am no longer as skilled at identifying the manners of speech utilized by two-legs. I take it this was not sarcasm?”

  “No.”

  “How do you plan to rescue the slaves from beneath the watchful eyes of the entire Khelari army?” Gundhrold had his own watchful eyes trained on Ky, and he found himself withering a bit beneath the intensity of that stare. “These matters are beyond your skill, youngling. You strayed from my side in the dark. I know not how you evaded the sentries on the way down, but it was well that I came across them and not you.”

  That explained both the blood on his feathers and why they had not met any patrols on their retreat from the encampment after Ky’s plan went up in flames. He felt his respect for the griffin growing, while a tinge of shame at his own clumsiness burned in his gut. Somewhere in the back of his head, he could hear Dizzier mocking him again.

  “Though, perhaps, had you stumbled into the sentries, you would not have made it to the camp to cause such havoc.” Gundhrold’s voice hardened. “By the time I located you again, youngling, you had alerted the camp, lit the valley afire, and were about to be crushed beneath the hooves of a quimram. You were being followed by a slavekeeper—did you know that? One who bore your scent upon his hands and the marks of your sling around his neck. I slew him. It may be that the others will assume our night’s work was the result of a sortie from the dwarves within Cadel-Gidhar. May Emhran make it so. As for the safety of your camp, I laid such layers of false trails behind us, I trust that it remains safe. But we must lie low until the threat passes, like dune rabbits in their burrows.” Disgust tinged his tone. No doubt, “lying low” seemed a distasteful thing to a predator. “Hardly a successful miss
ion.”

  “It could have gone better.” That much Ky could admit, though he found it hard to meet the griffin’s gaze. Putting the Underground at risk was the last thing he had wanted to do. “The next one will.” He seized upon the chance to change the course of the conversation. “You said that thing was a quimram? What is that?”

  “Nothing to be trifled with.”

  Ky glared at him.

  The griffin relented. “Quimrams are monstrous beasts possessed of incredible strength and rage when roused.”

  “Yeah. I gathered that.”

  “It has been long since one has been sighted anywhere in the world, though I suppose now that the Takhran has been concealing them in the putrid holes beneath Mount Eiphyr, breeding them to strengthen his army for such a time. No shield line can hold against the force of their charge, and even gates and walls cannot withstand their pounding forever.”

  “So they’re, what, trained to be weapons?”

  The griffin snorted. “Trained? Certainly not. One does not train a bow. One simply aims and releases, and the impetus of the string speeds the arrow on its way. So it is with the quimram. The beastkeepers stoke their fury, aim them where they will, and the beasts’ rage does the rest.” He dipped his head in a gesture that could easily pass for a shrug. “Or so the old tales say.”

  There was something in that, something that could be useful . . . Ky’s brain latched onto the piece of information and held it tight, but he was too weary to unravel all the possible implications just yet. Maybe tomorrow, after some sleep.

  “Next archer!” Gull’s voice rang out.

  Ky snuck a glance around the side of the tree he leaned against. On the edge of the clearing to his left, a familiar dusty-haired figure skipped to the front of the practicing archers and took up her position on the firing line beside Gull. Meli. He was near enough to make out how her brow furrowed in concentration and the tip of her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth. Her arms trembled at the strain as she drew back to shoot. Still such a little thing.