Song of Leira

by Gillian Bronte Adams

  14

  It sounded great in theory. Not so much in practice. Standing on the boulder with the sack at his feet and all the Underground runners staring in astonishment at his outlandish gear and the short sword belted at his side, Ky found himself at a loss for words. The plan of action had seemed so clear in the woods. Both the slaves and the runners mattered. He couldn’t ignore one or the other. So he would recruit the runners to his mission, and together they would free the slaves, and by uniting the two, he could protect all of them.

  But when it came down to the meat and bones of it, he knew he wouldn’t be able to protect all of them. And what he was about to ask—it was far more than Cade ever had. He fingered the hawk feathers on his jacket as he scanned the crowd. Near the front, Slack and her crew glared up at him. The suspicion in their eyes grounded him. He drew a deep breath.

  It was time to be bold.

  “I know we’ve all heard tales about Hawkness. He was a hero in Kerby, a legend.” As the words began to flow, he sought Birdie in the crowd. She stood with her head lowered, hair veiling her eyes. Maybe he should have warned her that he planned to talk about Amos. “But I traveled with him a bit, and I got to know him. And I realized that he was more than that. He was something we can all be. Just an ordinary man who fought oppression. One of the first rules of the Underground has always been to look out for yourself . . .”

  The runners muttered agreement, but he cut them off. “But that’s not our way anymore. Sure, we got a good place here. We’re safe, but there’s many who aren’t. Paddy, Dizzier, all those who’ve been taken by the Khelari and turned into slaves.”

  Over the heads of the runners, he caught sight of Obasi lurking at the back of the crowd, but the Saari wouldn’t meet his gaze either. No support there, then.

  Ky drew in a deep breath, squared his shoulders. “Maybe you can forget about them, but I can’t. I mean to do something about it, and I’m offering you the chance to join me.”

  Slack’s snort cut through the crowd. “Oh, that’s just grand.”

  “No one will be forced to fight. Choose for yourselves. Anyone who wants can stay behind with the young ones.” Another snort. “But this is your chance to stand for what is right, like Hawkness and the outlaws of old.” He reached for the sack at his feet.

  “Hold on, just a moment.” Gull shoved his way to the front. “You’re talkin’ about scads more’n nickin’ a few loaves of bread, Ky. Even more’n robbin’ the Khelari supply wagons—and we all know how that went down. This is beyond us.”

  “It’s dangerous, sure, but I have a plan.” This wasn’t turning out like he’d hoped. Absently, he palmed a sling-bullet form his pouch, squeezing it as he tried to instill every ounce of the confidence he had felt in the woods into his voice so he could talk over the muttering. “We’ve trained. We know how to work together as teams. We aren’t just street rats anymore—”

  “Delian’s fist!” Slack’s shout cut across both his speech and the murmuring in the crowd. That girl had a fine pair of lungs, no denying that. She flung up her hands and marched up to the base of the boulder, elbowing Gull out of the way. “I can’t listen to this pack of lies anymore. This what you’ve been after all along? Your own little army? We all know you stood against fighting the Khelari when it was Cade’s idea, but now that it fits in with your plan, all of a sudden we’re supposed to just march blindly in your footsteps?”

  “What? No—”

  “You’re a fool, Ky. A worthless fool playing at being Cade.” Her voice shook with anger in a way that surprised Ky. He had half believed it all an act—just another attempt to undermine him and make him look the idjit. “He was worth twice of you, you lying, snake-tongued hypocrite.” She swung to face the runners and shook her hatchet in the air. “You lot can stand around and put up with the sort of drivel he likes to spout, pretend it’s not all a load of hokum, but I’m done with it.” She spat and turned away. “I’m done with the lot of you!”

  It was all spiraling out of control.

  From the top of the boulder, Ky watched her words take effect, dissolving the runners into confusion and division. All the things he had been trying to defeat. His speech, the hawk feathers, his plan to unite the Underground to a greater purpose—Slack had blasted it all to bits. Her words hammered his chest like sling-bullets. He tried to shrug them aside. Knew he shouldn’t let her get to him. But hang it all, they were just so close to achieving something good. To having a mission again. Couldn’t Slack look beyond herself for five minutes?

  The warning echoed in his mind. Shouldn’t let her get to him. Shouldn’t . . .

  His fist tightened around the sling-bullet.

  “Wait.” He vaulted over the edge of the boulder. “Slack, you need to understand.” The runners cleared out of his way. He managed to get one hand on her shoulder—the hatchet arm—but she jerked free and let fly with a punch.

  He saw it coming. Just enough to duck his head so her fist cracked against the bridge of his forehead instead of the tip of his nose. It stunned more than hurt. Slack let out a hiss of pain and pulled back, shaking her hand, but it didn’t slow her down. In seconds she was back and coming for him—this time with the hatchet in play. He had the short sword belted around his waist, but there wasn’t time to draw it. And it wasn’t like he wanted to try to kill her. Not really.

  She brought the hatchet arcing toward him, and he dodged. Just in time. It whistled dangerously close to his ear. Seemed she didn’t share his view on the whole no-killing thing. He lashed out with one fist then the other, more to ward her off than to cause any real damage, but somehow she ducked the first only to lunge right into the second.

  Her head snapped back, and Ky pulled back, a twinge of guilt in his gut. She dabbed at her mouth with the back of her hand, and her glare hardened.

  Now she really looked ready to kill.

  “Enough!” The griffin let out a roar and leapt through the crowd, bowling over a dozen runners in his way, but Ky shoved himself between Gundhrold and Slack.

  “Wait!” He held her gaze. “This what you wanted, Slack? A challenge?”

  She grinned down at him, and a sickly sort of grin it was too, with the blood from her split lip staining her teeth. “So, what, now you’ll accept? Winner takes the Underground?”

  A hand touched his shoulder. “Ky, surely there’s another way . . .”

  Birdie. He forced himself to swallow past the lump in his throat and gave her a slight shake of his head. This had gone on long enough. He couldn’t ensure the safety of the Underground and rescue the slaves while battling Slack every step of the way. It had to stop. Could he beat her? He had to.

  “You want a fight, Slack? You got it.”

  “Right-o!” Gull clapped his hands. “Come on, runners. Form the Ring!”

  Ky started to object but bit his tongue instead and watched as the runners lined up side by side, forming a circle around him and Slack. What did it matter how he fought her? He had tried to do things his way. Time and again, he had tried. But maybe the only way Slack could understand was Cade’s.

  Opposite him, Slack bounced on her toes. She swung her hatchet, then let go of the handle with a flick of her hand and let the weapon spin up and around her wrist before catching it again.

  Ky eyed the curved edge of the blade. “It’s a bare-knuckles fight. No weapons.”

  “Getting a bit ahead of yourself, aren’t you?” Slack spun the weapon again, this time letting it spin up and around one wrist and then up and around the other, before catching it and falling into a ready stance. “Way I see it, I’m the challenged party, and the challenged party gets to choose the manner of fightin’.”

  “You challenged me first.”

  “And you refused. Which means this time you challenged me.” She gave the hatchet another spin and sneered at him over the blade. “So I get to choose, and I say we go with weapons. Not picky about what kind. You’re going to lose either way, so arm yourself, Shorty, and let’s get it
over with.”

  Ky rolled a curse over his tongue but didn’t give voice to it. Weapons it was, then. Pulling punches in a fist fight was one thing, but when it came to an armed fight, well, it was a foregone conclusion that someone would get hurt. Maybe killed. Pride was a poor thing to cost your life.

  But what choice did he have?

  “Any day now.”

  Ky sucked in a deep breath and unbuckled the sword belt from his waist, letting the sword drop to his feet. Gull pounced on it and dragged it clear of the ring. He wouldn’t need it, and in any case, he didn’t want it. He had never managed to win with a sword against Cade. And anyway, this was between him and Slack, his way and hers, sling and hatchet. It was the only way to go.

  He checked the pouch at his waist, selected a stone—not a sling-bullet—and slipped it into the sling’s pocket. “Ready.”

  “Right-o. First one to lose their weapon forfeits. An’ go.”

  The words had hardly left Gull’s mouth before Slack lunged at him. Clearly she meant to make quick work of this fight. He couldn’t agree more. He had to disarm her quickly. Catch her off guard.

  She cut left and then right, and he leapt wide of the strikes, blade whipping past his chest. He ducked to the side below her third strike, letting her momentum carry her past him, and then lashed out with his sling as she wheeled. The loaded pouch wrapped once around the haft of her hatchet and locked against itself.

  Setting his feet, he yanked back on the straps, hoping to jerk the hatchet from her grip. But she clung on like a limpet, and he only succeeded in pulling her forward. Into striking range. Her fist smashed into his jaw, hard enough that his teeth clacked together and the ache ran up the side of his skull. But he shook off the pain. Didn’t let go of his sling, just pulled it in tight. Anchored it against his side. Tucked his chin, like he should have done at the start—like Dizzier had drilled into him again and again—and managed to get his free hand up to block.

  To hit.

  The moves ran though his head, and his body reacted, muscles responding as trained, without conscious thought driving them. He had always fought so outclassed against Cade and Dizzier, both much bigger and stronger than he was. With Slack, most of that weight advantage was gone. And for once, the fight felt natural. Just his sling and his fists. No clunky sword to get in the way. It was strange . . . and glorious. Because he wasn’t fighting for himself. He was fighting for Paddy, for the slaves, for everyone he could help protect if he continued to lead the Underground.

  And maybe he was fighting just a little bit for himself too.

  Because Slack—more so than Dizzier, even more so than Cade—knew how to get under his skin and nettle him, make him feel small and useless and unworthy of this trust.

  He peppered her with light blows and then landed two solid hits, and Slack screamed with rage. She had never been able to see him as anything but Cade’s punching bag. How could she know that each time he’d been knocked down, it had made him that much more resilient? She was fighting the one who had survived those fights and emerged stronger.

  Slack rammed in close, fast, pummeling his side with her free hand, then hooked her leg behind his knee. His back struck the earth, and her weight slammed into him, driving the air from his lungs. Still he kept his grip. But her fingers tore at the sling, and without his pull providing tension to the line, she’d soon have her hatchet free, and then where would he be? Pinned to the ground. An easy target. She wouldn’t even have to aim.

  Quick as the thought struck, Ky let one of the strings slip through his fingers so that her next tug pulled the hatchet free. It surprised her. Threw her off kilter so he was able to kick her knee out from under her and roll out and away. The fall had left him winded enough that it took some effort to get his limbs under him. He paused on hands and knees, head hanging, gulping in air. Caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye but didn’t so much see the coming attack as sense it.

  Slack let out a yell.

  He lunged back onto his heels just in time to see her hatchet slam into the earth where his hand had been resting a moment before and split a root neatly in two. The severed end stuck up out of the earth, pale and oozing sap. A wash of cold anger swept through his gut. Could have been his fingers she’d lopped off without a thought. Or even his hand.

  The anger drove him to his feet a safe distance away. She lurched to her feet as well, loose strands of hair hanging in a leaf-strewn tangle around her face. Without breaking eye contact, he readied his sling. It dangled limp from his hand. The stone had fallen out in the struggle. He pawed through his pouch for a replacement. Fingers closed around an iron sling-bullet. Passed over it in favor of stone. Stone would get the job done and do less damage.

  He wasn’t crazy. Not like her.

  She eased toward him, and he backed away, keeping the distance. It took an experienced hand to get off a skilled shot at a moving target at a short distance—or any distance, really. Too close, and he wouldn’t have enough time to react. She must have had the same thought, because she chose that moment to lurch toward him. He swung a rapid loop and released, shutting his eyes for the instant the stone shot free. It would be close, but it felt right.

  It would strike true.

  Slack let out a hiss of pain, startling his eyes open as the hatchet slipped from her hand, landing with a dull clank beside her toes.

  “Weapon down!” Gull swooped in and seized the hatchet, raising it above his head for all to see. “Weapon down. I declare Ky the winner.”

  Slack clutched her injured hand. His stone must have struck her wrist. Probably just numbed it, though there was a chance it was broken. Sure beat having your fingers lopped off. But from the look on her face, she didn’t see it that way. She let out a shrieking war cry and hurtled forward, knocking Gull out of the way.

  There wasn’t time to throw up his fists, reason with her, or even turn tail and run. She slammed full body into him, and down they both went. Her hands clawed at his throat, trying for a choke hold, but he broke free and shot back to his feet, fists raised. Circling. Weaving. Striking. The fight dissolved into the wild onslaught of blows and the moments between—the shock of a solid hit, the burn in his knuckles, the air expelled across his lips. With each punch, he felt the cold anger in his gut rising. He put more and more force behind his blows, letting his frustration with Slack drain from him, until he was panting for breath. She stumbled back, tripped over her own feet, and wound up flat on her back.

  He looked down at her over his cut and bleeding knuckles. Saw the steel behind the pain and the fury in her eyes. Watched as she tried to push herself up, wincing from the blows he had landed. And he knew. She wasn’t the sort you could beat by fighting. Knocking her down would just make her more determined to get back up and have another go, and another, until she knocked you down too, or wore you out trying. She was determined. Dauntless.

  She was him.

  And he was Cade.

  That thought washed through the last of the anger, extinguishing the burn and leaving nothing but a cold hollow inside of him. He stumbled back, swaying a little on his feet as all the aches and pains rushed through him, and surveyed the crowd. The runners had broken the ring and were scattered in clumps, eyeing him warily.

  He must look a fright. Battered, bloodied, and bruised. He had taken as good as he had given, but he had soiled his hands, become the bully he had always despised. And for what? This hadn’t fixed matters. If anything, it’d no doubt made it worse.

  But there was nothing for it now. Nothing but to put a bold face on it, stake his claim to the Underground, and press on for the sake of the good that he could do. It wasn’t such a terrible thing, was it, doing a little evil to achieve much good?

  His heart told him that it was.

  Wincing, he limped over to the sack and upended it on the ground. Hawk feathers and chita berries spilled out around his feet. He sucked in a ragged breath. “This is your chance to be more, Underground. Fight with me
to bring freedom to the slaves. Fight with me and be worthy of bearing Hawkness’s sign, of being one of his Raiders. Fight with me—”

  With a groan, Slack started to rise, and he turned to offer her his hand. Dor elbowed past him and got there first. And then Birdie was there too, eyes cast away from him as she bent over Slack from the other side. Slack shoved them both away and levered up to her feet on her own power, but then might have fallen if they hadn’t both gotten a shoulder under her arms. He jumped to help and got a hand beneath her elbow before she yanked away.

  It gave him a good look at the bruises forming from his handiwork. The fight had been provoked—demanded—and he had fared no better, but that empty feeling in the pit of his stomach churned all the same.

  “We leave tomorrow at dawn.”

  Then he turned and fled into the woods.

  •••

  He didn’t look up as Birdie approached, just sat slumped on a rotting log with his elbows on his knees and his chin cupped in his hands. Blood and dirt stained his desert leathers and made his hair stick up in ragged spikes around his head. It made him look even fiercer and more savage than he had before. Midmorning light cast slanted rays through the trees on all sides, but he and his log were in shadow. It was like he had tried to find the one spot that matched his own dark mood. That, or his mood had drained the light from the spot.

  She scuffed her feet as she neared, trying to give him some warning that someone was approaching. Either he didn’t care, or he was so far lost in his thoughts that the noise meant nothing to him. His melody was the truly troubling thing, though. She couldn’t recall ever hearing such a roiling, confused sound from him before. It was a melody at war. Not quite sure what to say or do, she lowered herself to the ground beside him and wrapped her arms around her knees. For a long moment, they just sat there in silence.

  “That was a . . . mess.” He spoke without lifting his head, and his melody thrummed with shame.