Song of Leira

by Gillian Bronte Adams

  “What will you do, Songkeeper?

  She slipped into the cave and ducked beneath the right-hand hanging into the healing room to fetch a satchel of herbs and bandages. The sharp, fresh scent in there almost undid her, so strongly did it remind her of Quillan. Clutching the satchel to her chest, she made her way back to the injured Shantren. Halfway through the massive task of bandaging his chest, his eyes flickered open and settled upon her.

  “Songkeeper?” he whispered.

  Her hands trembled. In the next instant his eyes slid shut again, but the damage had already been done. He had seen her. Frey nuzzled her aside and set his antlers to the Shantren’s chest. An unexpected fire burned in his eyes.

  “He has seen you, Songkeeper. He cannot live.”

  And it was just too convenient a thing. It matched too easily with the cruelty of the thoughts she had entertained moments before. Undeniable truth filled Frey’s words. Allowing the Shantren to live was a danger. She could not simply bandage his wounds and leave him to spread rumors about her presence in this portion of the mountains. She could not risk the refuge that they had built at Drengreth in that way. But to kill a man in cold blood, in this place where Quillan had sought to foster peace?

  It was convenient, and it was evil.

  Gently, she pressed the saif’s antlers aside and returned to bandaging the man’s chest and then splinting his legs. Both bandages and splints would need to be strong to withstand what she had planned. “He’s coming with us.”

  23

  Al Tachaad was far bigger than Ky had expected. It was like showing up expecting to fight Paddy in the Ring, only to find Dizzier and Cade in there instead. He lay on his stomach in the grass on a hill overlooking the front side of the camp, Obasi and Gull flanking him. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that not one of the other fifteen raiders was visible. No, wait, there—a helmeted face, peeking around a sage. He scowled and jerked his chin at the offender, and the helmet ducked back out of sight.

  Caution was the most important thing tonight. This wasn’t a raid. This was a full-out assault, thanks to Obasi’s urging, and it could very easily turn into a full-out and very messy battle if every raider wasn’t careful.

  Gull whistled softly between his teeth. “Whoo-whee, what an operation.”

  The words pulled Ky back to his study of the camp. It sat in a wide basin between two arms of a mountain. An iron-spiked wooden palisade formed the perimeter. It enclosed lines of low, open buildings, which housed the smoke-belching forges, a cluster of huts in the center—some sort of command post and housing for the Khelari, according to Renegade—and the slave pens, located nearest the mountain. The whole place practically crawled with slaves, keepers, and hounds, but only a handful of sentries were stationed along the whole perimeter. Renegade was right: they kept a poor watch.

  Even without Renegade to guide them, finding the camp wouldn’t have been an issue. The entire valley reeked of burning, and the smoke from the forges had been visible from miles away, not to mention the ringing of the hammers and the relentless clang of metal on metal. Ky’s head already pounded with the din.

  “Never knew Khelari armor was so uncomfortable.” Gull grimaced and tugged at the mail coif around his neck. His movement set the grass rustling. “Much longer, an’ I’m goin’ to start feelin’ sorry for those wretched creatures.”

  “Pipe down, cub.”

  Ky smiled wryly at Obasi’s words. Uncomfortable as the harvested armor might be, it was an important part of the assault plan. If Gull’s wriggling didn’t give their positions away, the armor would shield him and his archers. Even more important, it would allow Ky’s team to get close enough to the gate to take down the sentries without spreading the alarm. It wasn’t a perfect disguise—they’d had to share pieces of the armor around, so some had mail, and some had breastplates, and a few had helmets or pauldrons. But none of that mattered if the other pieces of the plan didn’t fall into line first.

  “There ain’t no way in Leira this is going to work, Ky.”

  He didn’t bother lifting his eyes again. Just kept scanning for Renegade. The hound had slipped in during the sentry change about an hour ago and melted seamlessly into the pack of over a dozen scruffy, flea-ridden hounds already in the camp. “It’ll work.”

  “Sendin’ a mindless beast in to do a man’s job? It’s nuts. What do you say, Obasi? You reckon it’s foolhardy too, don’t you?”

  “Desert lions are not mindless. Why hounds?”

  “Yeah, I liked you better when you were a crazy old man.”

  Ky motioned for him to keep his voice down. “You know, we did plan this whole thing based on that hound’s scouting mission, so it’s a bit late to be bellyachin’ now. Not to mention the place looks just like he said.”

  “Nah.” Gull wagged a finger at him. “That Birdie could have magicked her way into his mind to see what he saw an’ then tell us. No thinking involved. Pretty good trick, if you ask me. Which is why there ain’t no way the rest of this plan is going to work.”

  He should have known better than to feed Gull’s argument. Time to shut it down and focus on the mission at hand. “Complaining about everything isn’t going to get you out of that armor any faster.”

  “But I ain’t even going down there.”

  Obasi chuckled. “Believe me, cub, you will be grateful when they try to kill you.”

  Ky tuned out Gull’s response and ran through the plan again to pass the time. The worst part of any raid was the waiting. Well, waiting and timing, but the two kind of went hand in hand. And timing was important on this one. Once it was almost dark, he and his team would approach the gate. Meanwhile, Gull and three other archers were to get in position about twenty yards out, from four different spots along the palisade, and await the signal to shoot.

  That’s why the timing was so important. Too dark, and they wouldn’t be able to see the targets, let alone make the shots.

  And as for the targets . . .

  Renegade loped up from behind, ears flopping as he ran. He crouched low and slunk up beside Ky. Dropped a pouch beside his hand and pulled back, panting, revealing a mouth full of jagged teeth. Ky reached out a tentative hand and took the pouch, ignoring the slick of dog saliva, and peered inside.

  “One pouch of genuine ryree powder.”

  Swiping ryree powder from the Khelari to blow their way into camp—there was a satisfying sense of irony in that. He pulled out the extra three pouches that he had carried tucked in his belt and carefully portioned out the powder. Finished, he slid the pouches back toward Renegade, who managed to wrap his jaws around all four of them before slinking away to place them for the assault.

  Ky turned to Gull. “Remember where the pouches are going to be?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Ready to admit you were wrong?”

  Gull snorted. “Nah. I still don’t reckon it’s going to work.”

  “Trust me. It’ll work.”

  •••

  “It’ll work . . .” Ky muttered the words beneath his breath as they neared the gate. “It will work.” It had better, because even though he would never have admitted it to Gull, the stuffiness of the borrowed armor was near about driving him mad. Sweat dripped down his spine, the ill-fitting breastplate dug into his collarbone, and the helmet was so big he’d had to stuff it with grass to keep it from wobbling. The stalks itched incessantly against his scalp.

  He had belted on a sword to fit with the armor but carried his sling wrapped around his fist with the loaded pouch clenched against his palm. Ready for action, and not a moment too soon. Evening haze gradually crept over the earth as Tauros’s upper rim slid toward the horizon. His pace quickened. If dark hit before the archers made their shots, the mission would be over.

  “Steady.” Obasi’s even rumble checked his pace. “Steady, lionheart.”

  Sucking in a deep breath, Ky forced himself to slow. Just like picking pockets in the marketplace—rushing about was sure to
get you caught.

  “Halt!”

  Obasi assumed the lead as they marched up to the sentries. Even disguised in borrowed armor, Ky’s age would make them suspicious. The Khelari might not have a problem with enslaving or killing folk his age, but he had yet to see any wearing dark armor. And the third member of their team—a middle-aged Waveryder named Joryd who walked with a limp and had been a sailmaker before the Khelari made him a slave—had a tendency to babble when he got nervous. Wielded a sword with mad precision, but it was best if he held his tongue.

  One of the sentries stepped forward. “State your business.”

  Obasi shot back some sort of an answer, but Ky’s mind had already skipped ahead to planning the rest of the assault. Two sentries against the three of them. Not bad odds considering. Once the ryree pouches went off, it was bound to get hairy for a few minutes, with the three of them against everyone inside until reinforcements could arrive. He imagined the rest of the raiders crouched out there in the gathering dark, waiting, and hoped they paid close attention—though as far as signals went, a ryree explosion tended to be hard to miss.

  The sentry’s voice cut into Ky’s thoughts. “Hold a moment. Who did you say—”

  Obasi ended the question by burying his knife in the sentry’s throat. It threw him back against his partner. Ky shot into action, unfurling his sling and loosing a stone that rattled against the helm of the other sentry, dropping him to his knees. Joryd’s blade finished him off.

  They raced through the gate, sidestepping the bodies, into a yard cluttered with wagons and barrows and a pair of massive horses munching in feedbags. Beyond, dense smoke formed a haze over the maze of smithy sheds. Joryd paused past the gate, but Obasi shoved him forward.

  “Move!”

  Quick as the conflict had been, it hadn’t gone unnoticed. Ky caught a glimpse of the tail end of a hound rounding the corner of one of the smithies. His sling-bullet slammed into the corner post a second too late. A groom sprinted out under the neck of one of the horses. Obasi started after him, but a slavekeeper fell upon him from the side. Ky whipped out his sword. Joryd got there first.

  No sooner had the body hit the ground than an explosion ripped through the palisade. A split second later, two more tore out. Three explosions, not four. Someone had missed their shot. Even with the distance, Ky felt like his ears had burst. He shook his head to clear the ringing and sheathed the sword.

  Chaos ravaged the camp. Slavekeepers and hounds dashed about helter-skelter. Some shouted for buckets to douse the fires. Others yelled that it was an attack or screamed that there were intruders in the camp. Ky was tempted to sit back and watch the madness descend. It was like Migdon had said: “Chaos is the ally of the desperate man.” All those panicked folk looked a lot like allies. Not that he would ever actually want murderers and torturers as such. Slavekeepers were the lowest scum. Bullies, really. The least trained and least equipped of the Takhran’s army. It was small wonder they spooked when the tide turned.

  But there were soldiers here too—folk who’d been trained to keep their senses even under attack—so they had to strike hard and fast before the Khelari could rally and resume control. Hard and fast.

  “Go!” Ky sent a shot winging at a Khelari who’d appeared inside one of the smithies. Knocked him back against the forge chimney. A second shot laid him flat. Sling-bullets really were a wonder. “Go!” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joryd take off to the right at a limping run. Obasi moved off the left, bashing a pair of slavekeepers to the ground with sweeping strokes of his sword. Ky yanked the too-big helmet from his head and tossed it aside. Spreading out was more dangerous, but it would keep the Khelari off balance.

  More attacks. Happening at more places at once.

  Like a brutal hammering to the face—sharp, relentless, merciless. Dizzier had enjoyed demonstrating that trick.

  To his left, a slavekeeper and hound appeared around a smithy. The hound charged. In the distance, an explosion tore through wood and earth—the fourth ryree packet. Ky cringed instinctively at the sound. It threw off his aim, and the sling-bullet skipped past the hound. He ripped out his sword, but the hound struck first. Teeth clamped around his wrist and sank deep, forcing his grip open. Paws slammed into his chest, pinning him against a pole. The beast’s claws raked him chest to waist, screeching across the breastplate.

  An arrow pierced the hound’s side, and it collapsed against him. Ky struggled free of the deadweight and lunged for his sword, but a booted foot kicked it aside. The slavekeeper brought his whip up—all nine feet of gleaming, black bull hide—and grinned down at him. A dagger shone in his left hand. “It’ll be the graves for you, boy.”

  The whip fell.

  Ky dodged around the pole—one in a row holding up the thatched roof—and ducked into the smithy. He fumbled for a sling-bullet, but his pouch was gone. No time to figure out how or why. The slavekeeper advanced toward him, whip coiling at his side. Ky backed away, casting about for a weapon.

  A dozen hammers lay on a table before the forge. Ky lunged for them. The whip cracked against his shoulder. He felt the snap of it through the armor as he slammed into the table.

  Feet pounded behind him.

  His hand settled on a hammer, and he whipped around. The hammer smashed into the slavekeeper’s head. The man fell forward, dagger glancing off Ky’s breastplate, and crashed into the table. Its legs buckled, and tools rained down upon the hearth before the forge.

  Ky just stood there, breathing hard.

  A scuffle of movement jarred his senses. He whirled around, hammer raised. A tow-headed boy peeked around the side of a basket laden with kindling and then jerked back when he caught Ky looking. But not before Ky saw the collar bolted around his neck.

  “Shh.” He motioned for the boy to stay hidden.

  Pausing only to snatch up his sword and gather the scattered remnants of his pouch and sling-bullets—torn away by the hound’s claws—he set out in search of more enemies. As he dashed past one smithy, he caught a glimpse of a man in a slave collar inside, hammering at a lump of red-hot metal on his anvil. The man’s eyes flared wide with fear, but he didn’t stop working. Just kept hammering away.

  What kind of fear kept a man slaving in the midst of a battle waged for his rescue?

  The roar of fire drew Ky beyond the maze of smithies toward the circle of huts that had housed the Khelari. Obasi stood in the center of the blazing ring, sword planted in the ground at his feet beside the body of a slavekeeper. Ky pressed through the heat to his side. Thatching flared up, sending black smoke billowing into the air and dispersing burning leaf fragments that rained down around them.

  One stung his hand. He shook it off and seized Obasi’s arm.

  The Saari’s eyes snapped to him, and the reflection of the flames was nothing compared to the blaze of the hatred that engulfed him from within.

  “Obasi, the camp?”

  The rage gave way to a savage grin. “It is ours.”

  •••

  Gull wrestled with the padlock on the first of three slave pens. Only the first two were occupied. The other must have housed the shift of slaves who had been working at the time of the attack. Teeth gritted, knuckles white, Gull alternately tugged on the chain, rattled the door, and then slammed his weight against the lock itself. In the light of the burning brand that Ky had lifted from the wreckage of the fire, it was clearly a nasty piece of metalwork—clunky, misshapen, and immensely strong. The whole cage looked the same. Unlike the slave pen at the army encampment, this seemed a permanent structure, fashioned from solid iron bars. A thatched roof provided some measure of protection from the weather, but—Ky craned his neck to look inside—iron bars formed both the ceiling and floor.

  The only way in or out was through the door.

  Gull slammed his hands against the bars. “Of all the cursed things . . .” He threw a kick at it too and then spun away and tore the mail coif off his neck. The mail shirt went next. Both wound up in an u
ngainly pile at Ky’s feet, leaving Gull standing in the shirt and trousers that he had stained with berry juice in the symbol of a hawk at the start of their first mission.

  Ky eyed the discarded mail. “Feel better?”

  “Yes.”

  But Gull still glared at him. “Here.” Ky held out the hammer and chisel he had borrowed from the nearest smithy. “Try these.”

  “Fine.”

  An instant later, the ringing tones of hammer striking chisel striking chain sounded out, eerily loud against the cloud of smoke from the burning huts and the dying forges. Aside from Gull’s hammering, Ky reckoned it was the first time this place had ever been even relatively quiet. Throughout the camp, the rest of his raiders worked to bear the good news to those in the smithies, cut away slave collars, and explain to them—a dozen times if necessary—that they were free.

  His gaze latched onto the slaves inside the pen. Bleak eyes stared straight past him. Not one looked at Gull as he hammered at the chains that kept them caged. So many crammed in the pen, it was a wonder any could sit. They were all covered in a layer of soot and filth, bony frames draped in ragged clothes pockmarked with holes singed from the sparks that flew from the forges. Forced to live and breathe and sleep and die like animals. Ky’s anger grew.

  But he broke from it, steadied by his mission. It drove him to the bars, brand held high to light the massed faces. “Paddy?” He searched the length of both pens and then circled around to the opposite side. No response. And no sign of the redhead. “Oi, anyone seen a fellow named Paddy?” He rattled the bars to get their attention, but only one or two even bothered to look up. “About my age, thin, freckled, red hair, bum leg?”

  Still nothing.

  The chains split with a clang, and Gull let out a crow of triumph. The door groaned open and crashed against the opposite wall. Still the slaves sat. No one so much as twitched. It was a far cry from the mad rush Ky had anticipated. Finally, Gull swept an arm toward the open doorway. “Anyone want out?” Even then, it took another couple of minutes before two burly fellows with arms like tree limbs and tattoos spiraling around their knotted biceps stood and waded through the others. They emerged from the cage with the air of men sentenced to death, not freedom, and stood before Gull as if awaiting orders.