Song of Leira

by Gillian Bronte Adams

  She looked every inch the queen and a warrior.

  By her side walked a seemingly young dwarf with a golden beard and short-cropped hair. Over his breastplate a magnificent torc gleamed about his neck. In contrast, the dark circles beneath his eyes gave his face a gaunt, haunted look, and his right arm rested in a sling.

  “That is the Caran.”

  It struck Birdie as odd that the Caran’s introduction should be such a simple one, falling so close upon the lengthy introductions for both the Xanthen and the Adulnae. She shot a questioning look at Sym. The Saari warrior leaned over and whispered in her ear. “The Caran holds the highest trust in all the land, and for that he forfeits all else—names, titles, birthrights. His lack of titles is a sign of humility.”

  Sa Itera and the Caran claimed the seats at the head of the table, and Sa Itera spoke. “Please be seated.” For a moment, there was nothing but the rustle of clothing, the rattle of armor, and the creak of the stools as all sat. “Friends.” Sa Itera’s steely gaze swept down both sides of the table. “I need not remind you why we are gathered here today. The fate of Leira rests upon our decisions. May we choose well. May Emhran make it so.” She bent her regal head.

  The Caran spoke up next. His voice, like his melody, was soft spoken. “My honored ally speaks true, and I welcome her candor.” He sat with his eyes cast down as if to study the maps. His left hand toyed with a quill. “I also will speak plainly, for the time for false pride perished when the Earthshaker’s song tore apart the fortress of my fathers. We are in dire straits. The Waveryders and people of the Westmark are but a scattered tribe with no governance and no soldiers to speak of. The Midlands are decimated, and King Earnhult is dead. We alone remain to stand in the Takhran’s way.” The quill fell from his fingers, and he lifted his red-rimmed gaze. “It is time for the free tribes of Leira to unite in this battle. Unite or fall.”

  His words were met with a murmur that varied from approval to outright disagreement. The discussion lagged into a recounting of recent skirmishes and enemy sightings, news from both the desert and mountains and all the lands in between, and each seemed more dismal than the last. Until Sym gave a recounting of Ky’s mission to Al Tachaad. It was the first good news and seemed to lighten the mood, if only for a moment.

  “And then, there is Earthshaker.” Nisus set his pewter cup down and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a handkerchief. “If we are to take an accounting of the threats we face, we cannot ignore the most powerful Shantren to have emerged from the Pit.”

  Jirkar grunted agreement. “There’s been no sighting since Cadel-Gidhar fell, but all that means is that we don’t know where he is . . . or where he might strike next.”

  “In the desert we have heard tidings of this Earthshaker, of how the defenses of Cadel-Gidhar fell like water before his might. We heard and quailed at the hearing.” Sa Itera stood and paced the length of the table, her beaded cloak hissing across the ground with each step. “But now, rumors arise of another. Captive enemies speak of Seabringer, one whose voice summons wind and rain and the sea itself to rise at his command.” Her eyes flickered to Birdie as she rounded the far end of the table and began to make her way up the inside of the table’s U. “Our land is a land of storms. Fierce winds sweep across the sand. Gales boil upon the sea that crashes against our coast. And when the two collide, the mountains are torn asunder.” She shook her head. “What can sword and spear do against such as these?”

  The woman halted before Birdie, and it felt like her gaze sliced through flesh, bone, and marrow. “We have heard other rumors. The tales of the little Songkeeper grow. She summoned a storm to wreck the slave ship. She ventured within Mount Eiphyr and emerged unscathed. She stood upon the heights while the battle for Cadel-Gidhar raged, and her song shook the mountains and summoned a fount from within the earth that scattered her enemies. Her melody loosens chains, heals the wounded, and whispers peace to the dying. You, Songkeeper, can stand in the gap where sword and spear have failed.”

  Told in such a way, Birdie scarce recognized these exploits as her own. They were the things of legend, the sort of stories that wild-eyed travelers told over mugs of brew beside roaring fires. Oddly enough, it didn’t leave her feeling strong or powerful or even equipped for this fight.

  So much hope . . . resting on her.

  And yet, not on her alone. Some truth lurked in the stories—there was almost always some truth in such tales—but the greater truth was missing.

  The Song stirred inside her.

  You have listened, Songkeeper. Now speak.

  Speak.

  Sa Itera began to turn away, but Birdie shot to her feet. All eyes turned to her. The low stool rocked back from the force of her stance. Dimly, she was aware that Sym steadied it. Her mouth had gone dry, and she had to clench her hands to prevent trembling, but she spoke. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t do any of those things.”

  “Birdie?” Warning flooded Sym’s voice.

  For the first time, Sa Itera’s regal composure slipped. Shock and then annoyance flashed across her features. “What are you saying, child? Are you not the Songkeeper?”

  “You misunderstood. I am the Songkeeper, but I didn’t do any of that. The Song did. I don’t control it. It belongs to the Master Singer. I only follow its leading.”

  Her words met with silence. Sa Itera’s imperious head tilted to one side, as if Birdie were a puzzle she could not comprehend. The Caran picked up his quill and started twisting it through his fingers again. Nisus set his pewter cup on the table. “And what does the Song lead you to now, Songkeeper?”

  The words were borne to her tongue upon the melody. “To do good. To end this war. To bring peace.”

  “That’s a tall order there, miss.” Jirkar winked encouragement in her direction. “How do you mean to accomplish it?”

  How indeed . . .

  But no sooner had the doubt surfaced than the Song gave her direction. Gathering her thoughts, she walked the length of the table as Itera had and stood in the middle. “You sought my aid for a reason. You wish to unite forces, but Matlal Quahtli will not dare pledge his troops unless the Takhran’s fleet has been destroyed.” There was a long, calculating pause before Sa Itera nodded. The Song whispered within her, stoking her courage to boldness. “I will help you destroy the fleet, if you will help me in turn.”

  A sharp bark from one of the robed dwarves drew her gaze. He pounded the table with a fist. “What mockery is this? We are among the mightiest of our tribes—Xanthen, Adulnae, Nordlanders, and Saari warriors, and we stand here united for the first time in centuries. Will this war-meet be waylaid by the demands of a child?”

  With a crack, the quill snapped in the Caran’s fingers. “Silence, Zeino. This war-meet will hear the request of the Songkeeper.” He shot a stern glare in the dwarf’s direction, and the dwarf sat back, a disgruntled expression on his face. Perhaps there was more to this leader of the dwarves than had first appeared. His eyes settled on Birdie. “Your conditions?”

  The words spilled out of her, born of the Song and talks with Eirnin and Ky, and the suffering in the melodies of the slaves rescued from Al Tachaad. “The Takhran is planning something terrible, something to do with the slave camps. I don’t know exactly, but they’re important somehow, especially the one called Dacheren. Fellow Leirans are suffering and dying in slavery . . .”

  “Your point, Songkeeper?” Not an ounce of compassion or empathy shone in Sa Itera’s eyes or voice. “We are at war. Suffering and death await us all if we lose.”

  “And I can help you win, if you will help me strike back.”

  A scuffle broke out at the door of the tent, and then a hound barreled in. Renegade’s familiar melody eased Birdie’s stab of panic. But shouts of alarm rang out, along with the metallic hum of drawn weapons and the clatter of falling stools.

  Birdie darted to shield him. “Wait! He is a friend.”

  She knelt beside his panting form, ignoring the shouts of disbelief and
Sym’s assurances of the truth. Between labored breaths, he gasped his message in her ear and then sat back, tongue lolling from his mouth.

  His words lodged like a lump of ice in her chest.

  Birdie stood. “The Takhran’s fleet is already on the move. It sailed from Fuernos Bay outside of Siranos, just this morning. If we are to act, we must decide now.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Renegade leave the tent.

  “This is madness.” The dwarf, Zeino, crowded in upon her, chest puffed out, head held high. And yet for all that, her head stood a little higher than his. “We cannot fight a fleet without a fleet of our own. Our only hope was to catch them unawares in the bay. And even then, without vessels of our own there would have been little that we could do. But now?” He scoffed. “We cannot march to battle against ships.”

  “I was there, dwarf, when the Songkeeper crashed a ship upon the desert shore.” Sym’s dark eyes flashed. “Do not doubt her word or the strength of the Song.”

  Again the Song welled up within Birdie, filling her with a surging confidence and hope and, most wondrous of all, peace. “We can do this. We can destroy the fleet.” She made her plea to all of them, turning to face first the mahtems, then Sa Itera, then the Caran, and lastly the dwarves. All of them had to be convinced of the rightness of this mission, just as she was. “Once the fleet is destroyed, you will help me free the slaves at Dacheren, find out what the Takhran has been planning, and then . . .”

  “Yes, and then?” The Caran sat upon the edge of his seat.

  “And then we assault Serrin Vroi.”

  Her words sparked silence and then an uproar that shook the tent.

  •••

  “Delian’s fist.” Cade swore beneath his breath, shaking his head. A rueful expression lined his face. “I cannot believe you convinced them, Songkeeper.”

  The tent emptied, dwarves and Saari streaming out beneath the flap. Birdie slumped in her seat, elbows resting on the table. She blinked the weariness from her eyes as the former Underground leader sauntered over, arms folded across his chest. After a draining seven hours, the war-meet had finally come to a close. Once the Caran had agreed to her plan and convinced Sa Itera to agree as well, they had moved on to discussions of the specifics. Myriad details such as plans for tracking the location of the Takhran’s fleet and for the dispersal of troops and provisions on the road to war.

  She rubbed her eyes with both hands then moved on to massaging her aching temples. “It’s the right thing to do.”

  “No, it’s foolish.” Cade shook his head, pityingly. “You’ve been around Ky so long you can’t see the difference. He’s infected you with his cursed sense of rightness and wrongness. Never could see the city for the streets. Beware.”

  He marched out behind the others, leaving only Jirkar and Nisus behind. Though it had been months since Birdie had seen the dwarves, and their acquaintance had been a brief one at best, the sight of them still brought a smile to her face. They were a last remnant of a simpler life when she had been content to simply follow Amos, before she knew the depth of the dangers that faced her or understood the calling of a Songkeeper.

  Jirkar grinned. “Good to see you still in one piece, miss.”

  Nisus took a sip from his pewter tea cup and pulled a wry face. “Pardon my manners. I would offer you a spot of tea, but I am afraid it has long since gone cold, and there is simply nothing more indigestible than cold tea.” Gently swirling the liquid, he gazed into the cup as if a solution lurked somewhere at the bottom. “That is the problem with long meetings.”

  “No.” Jirkar sighed. “The problem with long meetings is that you spend a lot of time talking about the things you’ve got to get done and not much time doing them.” He lifted his plumed helmet from the table and settled it on his head. “If you’ll pardon me, miss.” With a bow, he exited the tent.

  Birdie stifled a yawn. Her exhaustion ran deep.

  Nisus fidgeted uncomfortably, turning his pewter cup around and around in his hands before finally sloshing the tea out upon the ground. “I was grieved to hear rumor of Hawkness. Though” —he gave a rueful laugh— “I honestly cannot imagine the old reprobate going any other way. Weapon in hand, braving the Pit, defiant to the end. It was a fittingly brazen death for a legend.” He sighed heavily. “But a poor way to lose a friend.”

  “Nisus . . .” Birdie’s voice failed her. It was all she could do to get the words out. “Amos isn’t dead.” The dwarf’s eyes widened. “He escaped the Pit. We found him at Drengreth . . .” She trailed off as Nisus’s perceptive eyes searched her face.

  “He is well?”

  “He is alive.”

  “That is not the same thing.” Nisus pursed his lips, still studying her. Then he seemed to come to a decision. “You head back to Drengreth tonight, do you not?”

  She nodded. Sa Itera and the Caran had been loath to let her leave, but it would take at least two days to gather forces enough to begin the march to attack the Takhran’s fleet. They had no need of her until the battle march began.

  “Let me travel back with you, Songkeeper. I would speak with him.”

  Whatever hope she might have felt at the offer was clouded by recollections of Amos’s fearsome, distant moods. She fingered the scraps of parchment scattered across the table, shards of discarded battle plans. “He does not speak with many now. He barely speaks at all.”

  “He will speak with me.”

  28

  The cries of the dying echoed through his head. He could not escape them. Covering his ears did nothing to blot out the sounds. He had tried. Wrapped a cloak around his head. Stuffed his ears full of rags. Hammered his palms against his ears until blood trickled down his neck. Nothing worked. The screams continued unabated.

  Amos sat alone in the grove of trees surrounding the old, dried-up well, and he shivered. Shivered though the sun blazed in the sky with the coming onset of summer and his ragged overcoat was damp with sweat. On a distant level, he was aware of the folk busy at work in the ruins of Drengreth, building new homes in this forsaken place and scratching a sort of living out of the ruined soil. The noise was a blend of everyday chatter—mothers scolding youngsters, folk chatting as they went about their work, and the nonsensical quarrels that inevitably arise when folk live together for a long period of time—and the preludes to battle: warriors sharpening weapons, the ring of hammer on anvil, and the clang of the practice yard.

  It was a familiar blend.

  And that was the problem, because beneath the hum of the present-­day camp, there was another layer of sound. The sudden cry of alarm. The hiss and whine of arrows. The crackle of devouring flames. And the shrieks of the dying.

  The dying . . .

  For years he had buried the memories, but now he was here, trapped in the midst of them, and there was no escaping. The time he had spent in the Pit had shattered the walls he had built, dredging up every horror he had ever tried to forget, and left them churning together in the forefront of his mind. It formed a roiling, boiling cauldron of sticky, black sludge.

  And he was drowning in it.

  “Hawkness.”

  The familiar voice broke through the screams. He blinked and rubbed his good hand across his bleary eyes, focusing on a short figure with dark hair and a curly beard shot through with tints of red.

  He blinked. “Nisus . . .” He breathed it out and then slammed his head into his hands and groaned. Because the last wall had snapped. The past had invaded his vision as well as his mind. If Nisus was here, it meant that he was trapped there, in the past and not the now. Panic cinched tight around his throat. He could see himself as if from the outside. A broken figure stumbling through the wreckage, tripping over bodies and averting his eyes from their faces, because they were his friends—his friends—as a rain of flaming leaves tumbled from burning trees and the thick smoke scorched his throat and a haze of tears swam in his eyes. And all the while he searched desperately for Artair.

  But
Artair was gone.

  “Hawkness.” A rough hand seized his shoulder and shook him. “Amos.”

  Nisus never called him that.

  The oddness of it snapped him back to the present. The world around him sharpened. Colors came into focus. Shapes solidified. Sounds gained meaning and reason again. He drew a breath into his lungs and did not choke upon the stench of burning flesh. For a moment, if only then, the shadows had been dispelled.

  He blinked again at the dwarf hovering over him. “Nisus?” His voice came out as a croak. How long had it been since he had spoken? He wet his dry lips, wished vainly for a pint of brew to clear his throat, and tried again. “Is that truly ye?”

  “It is truly me.” A tear glistened in the dwarf’s eye. “To the Pit and back again for the second time. I cannot believe it. You will be the death of me, man.”

  Cold settled in the hollow of Amos’s chest. The dwarf did not know just how true his words were. Sooner or later, Amos brought death to all around him. Whether by his own hand or because he led them into danger or simply failed to saved them, death trailed in his wake. A legacy no less gruesome than the Takhran’s work in the Pit.

  A tremor seized his crippled hand. He jerked it beneath the folds of his overcoat, but the dwarf’s eyes narrowed at the movement. Shame roiled in his gut. Curse Nisus and his sharp gaze. And curse the Takhran too, for leaving him as this pitiful, cringing thing.

  The great Amos McElhenny, naught but a shadow of a man.

  “The legend will only grow after this, you know.”

  Was the dwarf utterly boggswoggling mad? “There is no legend, Nisus. Never was.”