Song of Leira

by Gillian Bronte Adams

  She gripped Ky’s arm in turn. “Don’t move.”

  He stiffened and went still, and she could only hope the others would do the same. The soldier seemed to be moving at a steady pace. Neither rushing forward to attack nor moving warily. Perhaps he was only on his way to replace one of the lookouts. But in another dozen steps, he would stumble across them.

  Ky shifted beside her, body tensing. His hand crept to the sword at his waist.

  Birdie pressed herself flat against the ground and let her forehead rest in the spongy grass, breathing in the mustiness of the earth. It was a strangely peaceful scent, out of place against the roar of the battle. She blocked her ears to the din and focused on the soldier’s melody. In his notes, she sensed an insatiable hunger, a hunger that no riches, honor, or glory could ever assuage. And in the wake of the hunger, sorrow. And beyond the sorrow, relief. Relief to stand in the coolness of night beneath a star-strewn sky, with the wind on his face, rather than being stifled in the throng of soldiers mustered before the fortress walls. And buried beneath the relief, shame. Shame at finding relief while his comrades suffered and died.

  The soldier’s melody sputtered and cut off suddenly. Birdie’s head jolted up in time to see a dark figure stumble and then collapse beneath the griffin’s pounce, falling flat with his outstretched arm only inches from her face. The griffin backed away from the body, a low growl, so soft it could scarce be heard, still rumbling in his throat.

  So swift, the passage from life to death.

  Suppressing a shudder, Birdie led the runners on and halted at last on the edge of a burned area just outside the ring of light surrounding the war camp. She traced the melodies of the slaves to a large cage not fifty yards away, and though her heart burned with anger at the thought of those imprisoned within, she didn’t see a clear way to them. This section of the encampment bustled with activity. Soldiers marched to and fro between the tents, some hastening to the battle with weapons drawn at the heels of silver-cloaked officers bellowing orders, while others kept up a steady stream bearing litters of the wounded from the front lines. Some came within thirty feet of their hiding place but seemed so intent upon their tasks that Birdie had little fear of being seen, and yet she could not help but see. Broken and crushed bones, missing limbs, blood dripping down the sides of the litters and watering the ground.

  They were not invincible monsters in hideous black steel, these Khelari. They were human soldiers, men and woman who could feel hope and fear and pain. The pain was overwhelming. It drew her in, threatened to swallow her.

  Birdie took a deep breath and shook herself free of their songs. It was a strange thing to feel pity for her enemies while they slew her allies in the fortress and kept slaves imprisoned in a cage.

  Ky’s voice startled her back to the present. “Those are the slave cages over there. We’ll need two—no, four—runners to go in and . . .” He paused, obviously considering options. “And cut the cords holding the bars in place.” He nodded to himself. “Yes, that should work. We’ll do that.” Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how much of this he was making up as he went along. And that was a terrifying thought. “With this much activity, we’re better off releasing a few at a time and leading them back here while the other runners cover—” He broke off, eyes wide and staring straight ahead.

  Birdie tried to follow his gaze but saw only the chaotic scene before her: two soldiers rushing past with a litter bearing a man screaming in pain, a hound loping at the heels of its handler, and . . . There. She caught a glimpse in the narrow gap between two torch-lit tents a little ways off, of a redheaded, lanky-limbed boy.

  “Paddy . . .” His gaze oscillated to the cage and then back again, and she knew what he was thinking as clearly as if the words had been spelled out upon his face.

  “Ky, no, wait—”

  Still intent upon his target, he neatly evaded her restraining hand. “Wait here. Don’t move until I get back.” Without another word he dashed away, and she didn’t dare raise her voice to call after him. Of all the insane things to do! Where was Gundhrold? He could have stopped Ky in his tracks. Or Amos, with his endless supply of insults. Because she could think of a choice name or two she would have liked to use, and the peddler could have easily thrown out another half dozen to make the point really sink in.

  “Oi, where’s Ky off to?” Gull whispered across the intervening runners, and she motioned for him to be quiet while racking her brain for an answer that would satisfy him without being too far from the truth.

  “Scouting.”

  That seemed to settle him, for the moment. But she was painfully aware of the ten other runners beginning to shift uneasily in the damp grass while the rumble and roar of the battle grew louder every second and half second, until the crack of the stones and the bellowing of the quimram and the clash of swords seeped beneath their skin and left them shivering. If they waited much longer, the mission would be lost before it began. And each time they dared to sneak this close to the Khelari camp, they danced with disaster. How many times could they try before the sentries discovered them?

  Just beyond the cage on the campward side, a silver-cloaked officer dashed up on a lathered horse and bellowed a command. The nearest tents emptied, soldiers seizing armor and weapons. In a matter of minutes, they had fallen into rank and file and quick-marched away behind the officer.

  Birdie didn’t know what it meant for the dwarves in the fortress, but for her and the runners, it was an opportunity. Following the departure of the officer and his men, there was a lull in the activity directly ahead. The closest melodies were now a fair distance away. The time to act had come. She turned to the others behind her, took a deep breath, and then dove headlong into Ky’s madness. “First three, with me. Gull, you wait with the others and cover us. We’re going in.”

  Murmurs broke out behind, but she didn’t wait to let them argue it out. Either they would choose to follow her or not, and there was little she could do about it. It was best to act as if they should obey her and hope for the best.

  She pushed up to her feet, motioned for them to follow, and took off at the now-normal crouching half run. Blood hammered in her ears. With an effort, she quelled the thunder of her heart and focused on the melodies. At any moment she expected the alarm to spread. Not until she reached the cage and had flung her back against it, breathless, did she feel her heart settle. The three runners knelt beside her. Both a surprise and a relief. Perhaps they were just used to jumping to obey orders, but they had followed her, and that gave her the confidence to carry on.

  One jerked his chin up at her. “What now?”

  “The cords.” She slid her axe from its sling and gestured at the tight lashings that bound the poles of the cage together. “We need to make an opening—and we need to hurry.”

  No sooner had the words left her lips than a horn call rang out. Sharp. Brash. A call to arms. She spun around and scanned their surroundings, but she knew already it had nothing to do with them. None of the dark melodies had drawn any closer to them. For the moment, at least, they were in the clear.

  But what about Ky?

  16

  Trying to ignore the fear clenching his stomach as they traveled deeper into the Khelari camp, Ky kept to the shadows as he trailed Paddy through the maze of tents. At least he hoped it was Paddy, because if not, it had been a pretty rum thing to do, dashing away from Birdie at the start of his mission. If he could just close the distance enough to know for sure, then he could rescue Paddy and hightail it back to the others before it was too late. But no matter how fast he tried to go, he couldn’t seem to catch up or get more than a glimpse of red hair between the two flanking soldiers. Wherever they were taking Paddy, they were in a rush to get there. And that thought conjured up all sorts of horrible speculations and far too vivid images in his mind’s eye. He could just see Paddy, defiant to the last, being dragged by the Khelari to an unthinkable end.

  Not if he could get there first . . .

/>   Voices neared. He ducked low with his back to a tent and waited for the coast to clear, chafing at the delay. Migdon would have favored a bolder approach. Probably would have stolen the first suit of armor that he could get his hands on—maybe even knocked off a soldier or two to get it—and then marched, bold as a karnoth in his nest, through the middle of the camp, chatting it up with every soldier he met along the way. But Migdon wasn’t here, and with Ky’s desert leathers proclaiming him an outsider for all to see, it was best that he stick to the shadows.

  He peered around the edge of the tent to plan out his next move. Only he didn’t see any sign of Paddy or the two soldiers. Couldn’t have lost them for more than a few seconds, but they were gone. A muttered curse slipped from his tongue. Keeping to the shadows was a decent way to stay alive, but not at the risk of losing Paddy or leaving Birdie and his crew hanging. Because this was the true mission—truer even than rescuing the slaves—and it had been from the start: find Paddy, bring him home.

  There wasn’t time for caution.

  He readied his sling, took a deep breath, and darted out around the tent. The lane between the tents was deserted. Almost eerily so. Still doing his best to keep out of the light cast by sputtering firepots and campfires, he sped down the row, dodged into an alleyway, paused at the next row of tents to peer up and down it, and then raced on, repeating it at the next row and the one after that. In the fourth row he caught sight of them, Paddy and the two soldiers, standing just beyond the fire glow at the edge of camp with their backs toward him.

  It was Paddy.

  Even without seeing his face, Ky knew it. Knew it from the way his head cocked slightly to the left, knew it from that unruly mop of hair and the lanky limbs that had always been able to leave him behind in a long-distance run. It was Paddy, and he had found him. Already on the move, he set his sling whirling. His limbs were wound up so tight with resolve and adrenaline that he slung faster and sharper than he ever had before. The first sling-bullet slammed into one soldier’s helmet and dropped him instantly. Didn’t have enough force to actually penetrate the metal, but it would scramble his brains a little, knock him unconscious, and keep him out for a while. At the crash, the second soldier spun around in time to catch Ky’s next throw in the teeth. He went down too, and from the way he fell, odds were he wouldn’t rise again.

  “Oi!” Ky raced toward Paddy, and the feeling of relief mingling with the shame churning in his gut was so strong that he could barely force the words out. “Paddy . . . it’s me.”

  Paddy turned around.

  Ky instinctively slowed. Something was off. He felt it like a weight pressing against his chest, although it took him another moment to realize just what it was. Paddy’s hands weren’t bound. A little thing, but it bothered him. Bothered him enough that he jerked to a stop, because there was no way on earth he could imagine Paddy submitting tamely, no matter what the Khelari had threatened.

  Paddy’s clothes were wrong too. A quilted leather vest over a shapeless blue robe, thick leather gloves covering his forearms, and a crimson jewel that gleamed from a chain about his neck. All much too fine for a slave.

  Paddy stepped forward into the light cast by a nearby firepot, and Ky’s heart just about stuttered to a stop. It wasn’t Paddy. The resemblance was strong, no denying that. Similar high cheekbones and spattered freckles, same hair and build. But Paddy’s face had never worn such an unpleasant smile—the kind that didn’t reach the eyes—and this fellow was definitely older, with more than a wisp of scruff shadowing his jawline.

  It’s not Paddy. Not Paddy.

  He repeated the words to himself, waiting for them to sink in.

  For a long moment the boy just stood there, scrutinizing him, and then he tilted his head back and let out a long, clear whistle. That snapped Ky out of his stupor. His hand shot to his belt for a sling-­bullet, but the boy didn’t move to attack, just stood there watching, and he didn’t dare waste a shot. Not with his supply running low and the mission hanging in the balance. Not with Birdie and the other runners still awaiting his signal at the edge of camp. He cursed himself for a reckless fool and hoped they were still waiting. Odds were good. Birdie wasn’t the reckless sort.

  Without breaking eye contact he slowly backed away . . . and felt the blast of a heated breath on his neck. Every muscle prickled at the feeling, because whatever crouched behind him, it was big. A hiss sounded beside his ear. He flung himself flat, catching a glimpse of the boy’s smirk on the way down. Something struck the side of his shoulder in passing, throwing him off balance. He landed with a jolt that snapped into his skull and gave him an instant headache. Blindly, he shoved himself back to his feet, blinking to clear his vision, fingers already flying to load a sling-bullet.

  That’s when he caught sight of it.

  Most nights, he reckoned himself a brave enough fellow. But this thing—it sent a chill through his veins. It was a three-headed monster—part snake, part lion, part goat. And if that wasn’t terrifying enough, fire and smoke smoldered in the back of the lion’s throat. Fangs exposed, the snake’s head was just pulling back out of striking reach. Was that what had hit him? He worked his arm around, fighting back panic. No pain, other than the dull ache of a forming bruise. Maybe its fangs had missed.

  The boy whistled again—a shrill, ear-piercing call—and the beast stalked toward him, a growl rumbling in all three throats. Escape wasn’t an option, not with the camp at his back and the monster in front. Fighting wasn’t much of an option, either, but he didn’t have a choice. He whipped off a shot. Too slow. The sling-bullet whizzed harmlessly past the snake’s weaving head and clacked off one of the goat’s horns with an audible crack.

  All three heads fixed him with a murderous glare, and the beast charged.

  Ky fled, staggering backward in an attempt to get off one more shot, but the beast was too fast. It was on him in a moment, and he lashed out with the loaded sling, just managing to knock the snake’s head out of the way before one of the goat’s horns hooked the straps and tore it from his grasp. The other horn scored a cut across his side. Gasping, he fumbled for the hilt of his sword then dropped flat as the lion’s open maw lunged toward him. A burst of flames singed the side of his head. He could smell his hair crinkling in the heat, and the healed burn on his arm blazed anew with pain.

  Half blinded, he scrambled forward on hands and knees through soft grass that clung to his limbs and slowed him down. Claws raked his ankle, and he let out a yell. He managed to free the sword this time and lash out behind. Struck something too, because the beast let out a roar and the blade sank in. He had to yank it free. Then the goat head rammed him in the chest, striking with the flat of its poll, sending him flying a dozen feet before he crashed into the side of a tent and brought it to the ground around him. Light spiked across his vision, and for a moment all he could do was lie there and blink and gasp for breath while the canvas fluttered down over him.

  A roar and a blast of heat brought him surging back to his feet, fighting to break free of the smoldering canvas. No flames licked around him, but the edges of the canvas charred and smoked. The beast crashed into him, and its claws and horns ripped the canvas away, leaving him scrambling for the sword that had been knocked out of his hand. He pounced on it and surged upright just in time to catch the lion’s claws across his chest.

  He screamed at the sudden blaze of pain. The blow sent him reeling backward. One leg gave out, and he dropped to his other knee.

  Panting, he brought his sword up. One look at the beast as it crouched to spring, blood dripping from a wound in the neck connected to the lion’s head, and his limbs felt weak beneath him. This was beyond him. Odds were he wasn’t dead yet only because it was the sort of beast that enjoyed the kill more than merely killing. And the boy who had summoned the beast—the beastkeeper—he seemed like he enjoyed the kill too.

  The camp loomed behind the hulking form of the beast. A harsh horn call rang out nearby. Once, twice, and then a third ti
me. An alarm. He was sunk. If the beast didn’t slay him, the soldiers would. Though the likelihood of his surviving until the soldiers arrived was pretty slim. Still, defeat had never come easy for him. He could thank Dizzier for that. Before the echoes of the horns had died away, Ky pushed to his feet, gritting his teeth against the pain. At least he had struck a blow against the monster. That was something, even though he couldn’t win this fight.

  The boy whistled again, and the beast pitched toward Ky. He gasped in a breath that caught in his parched throat and tightened his clumsy grip around the hilt of the sword. “Come on,” he muttered. “Let’s finish this.”

  He yelled as he charged toward the monster . . . only to be bowled aside as a shrieking fury plummeted from the sky and struck the beast from above with the crack of a catapult. It was the griffin. The monster’s knees buckled under his weight. Gundhrold’s beak stabbed at the unprotected skulls of all three heads, and the monster let out a roar of pain and lunged over onto its back, trying to pin Gundhrold to the ground. The griffin flared his wings and soared free at the last moment. He circled once and came back around, diving in for a quick strike before pulling back again.

  Not fast enough. The monster sprang, farther and faster than Ky would have imagined possible. Its foreclaws sank into Gundhrold’s haunches. He let out a roar, wings beating the air, but the beast dragged him down. And down they both went, in a tangle of slashing limbs, bared teeth and beak, and torn feathers and scales, rolling away from the camp.

  The savage ferocity of the fight tore his breath away. Ky had seen the griffin in battle twice before, and he had never thought to find an opponent to match him. Until now. It made it all the more obvious that Ky still breathed only because the beast had been taunting him.

  Gundhrold seized the snake’s head in his jaws and held it fast, beak cutting into the writhing neck, hind claws raking the monster’s underbelly. But the beast was no dune rabbit to die of fear at the mere sight of the griffin. The goat’s horns left gashes of torn, shivering flesh on Gundhrold’s side, while the lion’s teeth snapped at his neck and missed, hindered more by the attacks of its other heads than anything Gundhrold could do to defend himself in that position. Weak puffs of smoke gushed from the lion’s mouth, but no flames.