“Saw you looking at old Tildy here.” Migdon patted the sling tucked through his belt. “Knew you for a sling man since first I set eyes on you. Hope you’re good. You might need to be.” He rummaged in his pack a moment more, then pulled out a pouch that clacked and clattered when he tossed it into Ky’s outstretched hand.
Ky nearly dropped it.
Migdon grinned. “Lead sling-bullets. Best projectiles there are. Make them count.”
The dwarf took off without a backward glance, and Ky hurried to keep up. Without slackening pace, he looped the sling around his waist like a belt and tied the pouch in place. It felt good to have a weapon close to hand once more. He would not allow himself to be captured and disarmed again.
A fierce part of him ached to stand before the pirate lord Rhudashka and that wretch Fjordair, and give them a taste of the suffering the slaves had endured. But the Saari had beaten him to it and left the mangled corpses to rot on the beach until they washed into the seas they had terrorized. The vengeance of the desert was swift and brutal.
To Kerby then and the Underground. He shoved aside his nagging doubts, determined to fall upon the Khelari blockade and drive the dark soldiers away, cursing and cringing like dogs from the sting of his stones.
Bold as a lion in its den, Migdon jabbered away as he strode the palace hallways past stern-faced Saari who scarce noticed his passing. Ky fought the urge to fall into the familiar patterns of invisibility and instead marched along at Migdon’s side, shoulders erect, eyes fixed straight ahead.
“Don’t look so stiff and concerned, bucko. Word from the wise, sometimes there’s no better place to hide than in the open, and no better way to disappear than to stand out.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Sure it does. Hogan wrote it years and years ago—you do know who Hogan is right? Hogan Micthineous Cadronitus Roardin? No? Oh well, don’t worry about it.” Molasses dripped no smoother than the sarcasm rolling off the dwarf’s tongue. “He’s only the finest philosopher, teacher, and strategist we of the Whyndburg Mountains have ever had.”
Ky hiked his sack higher up on his shoulder. His battered body was beginning to protest the dwarf’s prolonged rapid pace. The breath came short in his throat, and his attention drifted from the dwarf’s words to their route. It was starting to look familiar. “Where are we headed?”
Migdon scowled over his shoulder. “They say ‘Chaos is the ally of the desperate man,’ and I reckon it applies to dwarves and snot-nosed boys too. Let’s test it at the front gate, shall we?”
•••
Tauros’s fingers had scarce cleared the tips of the mountains to the east when Amos called a halt beneath the shelter of a stone outcropping surrounded by drifts of sand. Birdie slipped from the saddle and landed on numb feet. She caught the high crested pommel just in time to keep from falling and leaned her weary head against the lioness’s muscled shoulder.
A whiskered muzzle nudged her ear. “There now, little cub, are you so weary you cannot wait to set camp?” A hint of amusement crept into the lioness’s voice. “I did not know two-legs slept on their feet like livestock.”
“Not asleep, Ryn,” Birdie mumbled into the lioness’s fur. “I’m awake. Truly.”
The past three nights of travel had given Birdie more than a passing acquaintance with the lioness she rode. Whispered conversation helped pass the long hours of darkness. Amos’s fear of pursuit or stumbling across a Khelari patrol prohibited speech between the mounted pairs, but so long as she whispered in Ryn’s ear, no one was any the wiser.
No doubt it was best that way. To anyone else, it would have sounded like she was talking to herself while the lioness simply purred or rumbled deep in its throat, and she knew from experience how utterly mad that looked.
“Right.” Amos dropped from his saddle. “Looks as good a place t’ rest as any. Decent shelter—” he nodded at the outcropping “—but there’s still a fair view in all directions so we can keep an eye out for pursuit.”
“Is it really wise to stop so early?” Inali leaned forward, elbows resting on the pommel, bringing his head closer to Amos’s level. “Should we not keep going and try to cover as much ground as we may?” He spoke quietly, but in the silence of the night Birdie had no trouble hearing him.
Nor, it appeared, did the others.
Sym’s tuneless laugh jerked Inali back to an upright position. “And why would you suggest that, Inali?” Though her hands were bound at the wrists and a guide rope ran from her lion’s steering collar to Inali’s saddle, when she spoke, she seemed the captor and he the captive. “Do you fear that your sister will not allow you to disappear? That she will convince the Matlal to send men in pursuit to drag you back to Nar-Kog in disgrace, again?”
“I am not afraid of my sister,” Inali snarled. “Our mission is important, and I do not wish to delay. That is all.”
“Are you so desperate to prove yourself that you would risk leaving our people vulnerable before the Khelari attack? You are a thoughtless fool and a simpering cowar—”
“Enough!”
Inali’s scream agitated his lioness, and the beast hunkered down to pounce. Sym looked ready to pounce too, bound hands and all, and one glance at the fury in her eyes was enough to clear any doubts as to who would rise victorious.
“Belay that!” Amos stepped between the two, hands raised. “We’re drawin’ nigh the border, an’ I don’t need t’ tell ye what sort o’ fools ye’ll both be if ye attract the attention o’ the Khelari. I’ll kill ye myself an’ save ye both the trouble. Inali, I allowed ye t’ bring Sym along because ye claimed her skills as a tracker would endanger us if she were free. But as soon as we reach the end o’ the desert, I intend t’ set her loose, an’ ye might as well know it now.”
“But—”
“Now,” Amos cut him off. “I said we’re stoppin’ for the day, an’ I meant it. If Inali’s navigational skills aren’t entirely awry—”
“They’re not.” Gundhrold looked up from preening his wing feathers. “The boy seems to be leading us true.”
“If that’s the case, an’ if we leave at dusk, we should cross into the Soudlands before midnight. I’ve no intention o’ tryin’ t’ attempt such a thing in broad daylight when the Takhran’s cursed spies could spot us movin’ from miles away. Are we clear?”
The griffin nodded assent, and both Inali and Sym muttered agreement.
“Right then, let’s get settled.”
Birdie searched through the packs slung behind her saddle and removed only the necessary supplies. There would be no fire—they had not risked building one since leaving Nar-Kog—but Inali had packed food aplenty for weeks to come, as well as spare skins and blankets to ward off the winter chill that crept over the desert sands with the sinking of the sun.
Ryn chuckled, a deep hacking noise that Birdie might have mistaken for a cough had she not become accustomed to the sound. “Yon peddler has a most efficient roar. For a two-legs, he would make a decent lion, I think.”
A rumble of agreement drifted through the other lions. As Birdie set out her bedroll and curled beneath the layer of skins and blankets with the rock outcropping shielding her from the rising sun and unfriendly eyes, she pondered the lion’s statement and Amos’s warnings of the dangers they would face in the days to come.
She recalled the words Quoth, Itera’s lioness, had spoken on her first day in Nar-Kog. “Stand if you would be seen as a lion and not as a mouse.”
Should she go through with this mission, there was no telling what would become of her or Amos or any of her companions. To brave the perils beneath Mount Eiphyr in search of a legend, to venture beneath the Takhran’s nose on nothing more than the whispered hints of a mysterious voice interpreted by a stranger, was there any greater madness than this?
Ryn had paid Amos a deep compliment. She gathered that much from he
r time among the Saari. But if Amos was a lion, then what was she?
A lion or a mouse?
11
The sounds of battle awakened Birdie from slumber: hoarse cries, drumming hooves, and the singing of arrows loosed from the string. Like a roll of thunder, the notes of the dark melody crashed into her with such force that it left her breathless. She tore free of her blankets and reached for the throwing spear Amos had given her when they snuck from Nar-Kog. Her fingers brushed wood and she caught it up, wheeling to crouch on hands and knees to take stock of her surroundings.
“Shh, lass. Stay down.” Amos’s hand pressed against the back of her head. Sand rustled beneath his shifting weight, and he wormed past her, dirk between his teeth, to peer out through the gap between the outcropping and the sand drifts. Sym, Inali, and Gundhrold were already there, bodies pressed flat against the sand. Gundhrold’s tawny wings were spread wide, shielding the two Saari from view. The lions waited in the hollow, growling in agitation.
Clutching the unwieldy length of the spear in one hand, Birdie inched her way up beside Amos and tilted her head to see over the edge. A scarce two hundred yards away, dark figures on armored steeds filled her vision—Khelari. Her grip tightened on the spear until the muscles in her arm trembled. Five . . . ten . . . almost a score of them, wheeling in battle formation to surround two Saari in a circle of ringing hooves and flashing steel.
One of the Saari, still mounted on a lion, paced a slow circle within the ring of death with his spear extended as if daring the Khelari to venture within range of his arm. The other knelt beside his fallen lion, but he seemed to be struggling to rise. Distance could not hide the bright splash of blood on the sand and on his clothes.
“Untie me, Inali.” Sym’s voice bore a harder edge than the tips of her spears. She gripped his forearm with her bound hands. “They are our scouts! They cannot stand alone. We must go to their aid.”
“Don’t be a fool, Sym.” Inali shrugged free of her grip. “What can we do against twenty? They are already dead, and we would simply join them.”
An arrow struck the downed Saari, and he collapsed onto the body of his steed. Intent upon the cacophony of music that warred within her skull, Birdie thought she heard a tenor voice break off, mid-note, into a strangled cry that faded away.
“The Songkeeper then!” Sym ground her fists into the sand, and the steel in her voice snapped. “We must do something.”
Birdie shivered beneath the gazes that settled upon her and felt the prickle of sweat forming on her forehead. She had promised to fight for the Saari if that was what it came to in the end, but that didn’t change the fact that she did not know how to use the melody against their foes, or how to get the Song to cooperate if she did. Charging out there with no plan and no Song seemed senseless.
“Venturing out there would be madness. We cannot risk the Songkeeper.” Gundhrold’s raspy voice flowed like cool water over her fears, extinguishing them—if only for the moment—and filling her with relief.
The thought instantly sickened her. When had she become heartless enough to feel relieved that she did not have to intervene while two men were slaughtered within sight of her hiding place? She cowered willingly behind Gundhrold’s excuse, buying another day to fumble through her role as the vaunted Songkeeper, before they saw her for the fraud she feared she was.
The griffin sighed, even as the death scream of the Saari’s lion reverberated through the rocks at their backs. “There is nothing we can do. Not if we would complete our mission.”
“He’s right. Curse him, but he is,” Amos hissed. “Those Khelari are advance scouts, but the main army will not be far behind, an’ there’s no tellin’ what spies were sent on ahead. If we go out now, we’ll be spotted sure an’ certain, an’ it’s only a wee step from there t’ execution. We’d arrive at Mount Eiphyr sure enough, be taken into the Pit no doubt, but ye can bet yer life we wouldn’t be comin’ out again.”
Sym struggled to rise but Gundhrold’s wing held her flat. “What do I care for your mission? Those are my people dying down there—my brothers. I cannot watch this. Unhand me!” She wrenched free of the griffin’s grasp and scrambled to the top of the drift.
Whatever she intended to do, bound and weaponless as she was, she never made it. Inali caught her by the ankle before she could descend and hauled her bodily back, sending a fountain of sand cascading over the side.
On the plain below, the Saari scout fell beneath the blade of a mounted Khelari. With a cry, he staggered to his feet and stumbled on a few steps, like a drunken man, straight into the path of a swinging sword. Birdie buried a cry in her hand. The warrior’s head flipped backwards, severed at the neck, and dropped to the ground at his feet, followed a moment later by his body. The note of his passing rippled through Birdie’s mind, and she clenched both hands to her ears in an attempt to quiet it.
Directly overhead, the shrill scream of a raven sounded out. As one, the Khelari pulled their steeds to a stamping halt and cast about in all directions. A second cry rang out, and the Khelari urged their horses toward the rock outcropping at a determined lope.
Amos dragged her to her feet. “Mount up, lass. We’ve got t’ run for it!”
Forsaking her cumbersome weapon, Birdie scrambled beneath the shelter of the outcropping and flung her saddle and bundle of supplies on Ryn’s back. Her hands were shaking so, she could not get the unfamiliar straps through the buckles. Even Sym, hampered though she was by the bindings on her wrists, managed to finish before Birdie. Inali shoved her out of the way, and in a matter of moments, his deft hands accomplished what hers could not. Swallowing her shame, she scrambled up into the saddle and seized the steering collar with both hands, forcing them to be steady.
Amos landed in his saddle with all the grace of a falling boulder, and the lion sagged beneath his sudden weight. Pulling the dirk from between his teeth, he nodded at Gundhrold. “Get us out o’ here, beastie.”
Before the words were fully spoken, Gundhrold was already moving. But he paused at the top of the sand drift, causing the rest of the company to bunch together in a jostling mass behind him. “Hawkness, we have a problem.”
“Can it wait? I prefer dealin’ with one problem at a time.”
“See for yourself.”
The griffin bounded out of the way, allowing Birdie to press up beside Amos and survey the path before them. From the west, the Khelari scouts advanced, settling into a faster pace now that their quarry was visible. They were far too near for her liking, but the griffin’s attention was directed toward the northeast.
Birdie tracked his sightline to a dark mass boiling on the northern horizon. Even as she watched, it twisted and grew, approaching at an increasingly quick rate.
“Is that—”
“A sandstorm,” Inali whispered. “By Sigurd’s beard, we are done for.”
“Belay that fool talk!” Amos barked over his shoulder and snapped straight in the saddle. “Sandstorm or not, it’s time we moved.” He set his back to the scouts and urged his lion into a run. In a moment, they were all flying across the sand.
“Hawkness, this is madness!” Inali pressed forward until his lion was even with Amos’s. “We must seek shelter. If the storm strikes while we are in the open, we will be unable to find our way. We could blunder into the path of the Khelari army before realizing it.”
“The path?” Amos snorted. “We could blunder into the middle o’ their ranks, lad, an’ march in step with ’em, an’ neither o’ us would know it until the sky cleared. If ye’ve got a better idea, by all means, enlighten me. If not, then save yer breath for speed.”
Balanced in the stirrups, Birdie leaned over the lioness’s neck, gripping the steering collar with all her might, as if by the force of her hold she could impart strength. The cries of the Khelari were so close now that she did not dare look back. There was no room left in her mind for fea
r, no room even for thought.
She gave herself up to the repetitive motion of the running lioness, to the wind in her eyes and the cold tears that slid down her cheeks, to the creak of the saddle, the grunting of Ryn’s breath in her throat, and the faint scrap of music that danced ahead of them like a wisp of cloud.
Just beyond reach.
“Keep going. Don’t slacken pace.” Gundhrold gasped. He raced at Birdie’s side with his heavy wings folded across his back. “It is working.”
She ventured a backward glance and saw that the griffin spoke true. In these heavy, blanketing sands, the Khelari horses could not outrun lions Saari born and bred. But although a few stragglers had fallen behind, the rest remained bunched in a knot, holding their position, and in the lead, a dark-haired Khelari soldier rode a wiry bay horse that easily outstripped its larger companions.
It had become a matter of endurance now . . . and the first to falter would die.
Gritting her teeth against the sand kicked up by the heels of Amos’s lion, Birdie set her face forward. The peddler had aimed their course at an angle so as to pass in between the sandstorm and the scouts. But with the swirling clouds roaring down upon them from the left and the thunder of hooves approaching from the right, Birdie felt a little like lamb herded to slaughter across the hills of home.
“Another three have fallen behind.” Sym’s shout registered in Birdie’s ears, but it took a moment before the meaning of the words actually sank in.
“Three more?” A trace of hope crept into Inali’s voice. “Then we shall outlast them.”
“Only to be taken by the storm.”
Birdie half expected Amos to pull some colorful response out of his seeming inexhaustible supply and rebuke Sym for such “fool talk,” but the peddler simply goaded his lion on with a thunderous kick to the ribs and the slap of his feathered cap on its rump.
Up a steep incline they bounded, lions lurching forward with their heads down, shoulders hunched, and hind legs slipping out in the deep sand. Over Ryn’s pinned ears, Birdie caught glimpses of the horizon, then Ryn skidded to a halt at the top of the dune, nearly catapulting Birdie out of the saddle. She slammed into the high pommel and slumped there, grasping for breath.
Songkeeper Page 10
