“I reckon we all have.” Brog nodded slowly, nursing his empty mug. “It’s good that you found me. The Soudlands can be a dangerous place. Especially now with so many fighting bands running about claiming to oppose the Takhran but robbing everyone else. If the Khelari don’t get you, I reckon they will. It isn’t safe.” His brow furrowed, casting his eyes in shadow. “Though I expect you can say the same about most of Leira at the moment.”
“What happened in Hardale?”
“You’d be better off asking what didn’t happen in Hardale.” Brog snorted. “Official word of the truce came from Earnhult’s fortress not long after you left. That was the start of it. Then the posters showed up overnight, plastered all over town with your face on them and that wee girl’s. By the time the dark soldiers finished building their cursed road and marched down through the mountain pass, I knew we were in for it once they reached Hardale, but I couldn’t bear to leave the Waterfly. Not yet. More fool I. And I let Ma stay too.”
Unshed tears glimmered in Brog’s eyes. Amos glanced quickly away, down at his stained hands and the scarred wood of the tabletop.
“They left bloodstained footprints when they marched out of town, but there wasn’t any town left by then. You could see the smoke of the burning for miles.”
Amos’s blood boiled at the thought of it. He’d thought the massacre of Drengreth horror enough, but this was a widespread march of terror and death meant to assert the Takhran’s authority once and for all and annihilate any who might stand in his path.
He’d predicted it.
The knowledge that he’d been right brought no pleasure.
“That’s when I came here.” Brog reached for the jug and poured another mugful. He peered into the swirling brown liquid. “Always figured the Soudlands was the dregs of Leira. It’s desolate and wild enough that decent folk don’t settle here, and remote enough to lure those who want to disappear or have been chased away from everywhere else. I figured it was insignificant enough that the Khelari would leave it alone. What’s the point of conquering no-man’s land? Guess I was wrong about that.”
“Guess we’ve all been wrong about a lot o’ things.” Amos glanced over at his lass, sleeping beside the fire. “There’s something I have t’ tell ye.”
All things considered, Brog took the news that the wee lass sleeping on the floor of his hovel was the next Songkeeper of legend rather well. Until he passed out and spent the remaining hours of the night snoring with his head on the table and an empty mug clutched in his hand. It had been right to tell him. In granting them shelter, the man shared their danger. It was only right that he knew why.
Yet secrets had never spilled easily from Amos’s tongue.
He fiddled with the hilt of his dirk and watched the shifting firelight advance and retreat across the tavern keeper’s sleeping face, until he felt sleep claiming him too.
He awoke to the sounds of someone moving about. Instinctively his grip tightened on his dirk until the sleep cleared from his eyes. Dawn light filtered through the cracks around the door and cast a hazy light over Birdie as she rummaged through their packs and pulled out several rounds of flatbread and a handful of dried fruit and smoked meat and set it on the table.
She caught him watching and smiled. “Morning! Breakfast?”
“Right.” Wincing at aching muscles and a stiff neck—should have boggswoggling known better than to fall asleep in a chair—Amos hauled himself to his feet and shook Brog. But Sym was already up and helping herself to food by the time the big tavern keeper raised his head from the table and blinked bleary eyes.
“Up an’ at ’em, Brog. First we eat, then we’ve plans t’ make.”
“Plans?” Brog swiped both hands across his face and then skewered Amos with a confused look while he scratched his beard. “Not so fast. Hold on a second while I get my head on straight. Was I just dreamin’ or do I recall you making a certain revelation last night about a certain member of your company? You know . . . her.” His gaze darted to Birdie, and he jerked his chin in her direction.
Subtle, wasn’t he?
“Aye, I did.”
“Saints alive.” Brog sat back in his chair with a thump.
“An’ now, there’s important work t’ be done t’ plot our route northward, so eat up.”
A feeble cough came from the hearth. “Map . . . in my satchel.” Propped up on one elbow, Inali gestured with a languid hand toward the packs. “My satchel.”
The lad was awake sooner than Amos had expected and already struggling to rise. Sym forced him to settle back with all the motherly instinct and gentleness of a lioness reprimanding her cub, while Birdie retrieved his satchel. Inali reached a quivering hand inside to withdraw a folded rectangle of parchment. He handed it to Birdie and she spread it out on the table, using Brog’s empty mug and jug to hold down the upper corners.
Stroking his chin, Amos bent over the map to gather his bearings, judging by landmarks rather than labels since those were penned in the coarse script of the desert. Like most maps, it was drawn from the artist’s perspective—here, that of the Saari. As such, the desert seemed disproportionately large compared to the rest of Leira, and the Nordlands—especially the dunes and mountains surrounding Serrin Vroi—were squished and shapeless.
Dark hair spilled across the lower corner of the map. He glanced over to find Birdie hunched at his side, gazing at the parchment with an expression of intense wonder. Come to think of it, she’d probably never seen such a thing before.
He tapped a finger against the narrow sliver of land just north of the desert and explained for her benefit. “Here’s where we are now, lass, the Soudlands. There’s no established ruler, no government. Just drifters an’ outlaws. It’s considered a no-man’s land, the home o’ the outcast an’ abandoned.”
Her serious blue eyes turned up to him. “People like us?”
“Sure,” Brog chuckled. “And some not so pleasant.”
Amos cleared his throat and turned back to the map. “We know the Midlands are crawling with Khelari. I imagine they’ll be headquartered out o’ King Earnhult’s fortress.”
Brog nodded. “Last word we received was that Earnhult was dead and they’d placed his son—a lad of seven—on the throne. An easy puppet.”
Sym slid a spear from her quiver and reached it across the table to use the tip to indicate an area on the east coast. “The Salt Flats of Kerar—the Khelari have been amassing forces there in secret to march on the desert while the army that took the Midlands is still dealing with . . . local problems. You’ll recall we received word of them in the council last week. No doubt it was a portion of that army we encountered on the border.”
She dragged the tip of her spear across the map, carving a shallow line in the parchment. “If you figure in supply and messenger routes, you get a nice little triangle from the Salt Flats to the army on the border to King Earnhult’s fortress, and we are currently at the center of it. In short, gentlemen,” she stood straight and tossed her head, dark braids cascading around her shoulders, “there’s not a good route north.”
Amos caught himself before a thoughtless remark questioning her courage and the strength of her spear arm could spring from his lips, and forced himself to actually consider her words. “No good route?”
“Well, of course there’s always a way. You would know that better than any, Hawkness. With a good dose of caution, days spent studying the troop movements, restricting our travel to the dead of night to avoid the Takhran’s spies . . . there’s a chance we can make it through.”
“We.” Birdie spoke up. “Do you plan to go with us then?”
Sym sheathed her spear. “I intend to see Inali well. My decision can wait until after that. I had no part in this plan at the beginning.” Her eyes flashed toward the hearth. “Dah Inali dragged me into it. If it were up to me, I would see the Songkeeper and Hawkness safel
y returned to the desert to honor their word and fight alongside our forces. But as there is no good route north, there is no safe route south.” Her voice softened. “And perhaps there are other ways to fight . . . perhaps there is a part of me that at least half believes your mission could work.”
“I, on the other hand, have no faith that your mission—whatever it is—can succeed. I’m content to bide my time here in this tiny, damp, worm-infested hovel and wait for the world to end. Cheers.” Brog tipped his mug toward his mouth, but not a drop came out. He plunked it down again with a sigh, and his head drooped into his hands.
Amos motioned for silence. “I’d say our best bet would be t’ make our way t’ one o’ the small coastal towns—big enough t’ warrant fair sized shipping—an’ borrow a boat t’ beat up round the coast t’ Rolis Bay an’ approach Serrin Vroi from the east.”
“Serrin Vroi?” Brog’s bloodshot gaze swung around to Amos. “Are you mad? You didn’t say anything about journeying to Serrin Vroi.”
“Oh, aye. Did I forget t’ mention that? Sym, how long before Inali can travel?”
“Give me a week and I’ll be fine.” The lad’s voice was so faint it could scarce be heard over the crackling of the fire.
Sym rolled her eyes. “Give him three.”
“Well then.” Amos plucked the map from the table and folded it up. “Looks like we’ll have t’ impose on yer hospitality a wee bit longer, Brog.”
“No bother, no bother at all.” Brog’s voice was muffled by his hands. “Your griffin is welcome to stay in the stable with the donkey—it’s more of a shed really—but at least it would keep him hidden from prying eyes.”
It took all of Amos’s willpower to maintain a straight face at that. “How about I let ye suggest that t’ him?” And how he hoped he was around—but a safe distance away—to witness the exchange. “In the meantime, we’ve scoutin’ t’ do.”
PART Three
14
If there was one word Ky could have used to describe his escape from Nar-Kog and subsequent journey across the desert, it would be brazen. Downright brazen. Not to mention cheeky, and a little hairy, and on the very rare occasion enlightening. Migdon had a way of doing things that left Ky about a mile behind and doubtful he would ever catch up.
Take the coffin, for instance.
Migdon had declared it a stroke of luck when they stumbled across the plain board box half buried beneath the rubble of a farmhouse just inside the Soudlands border. Once it was divested of its proper owner—and he was given a decent burial at Ky’s insistence, along with the other bodies they found in the ruin—Migdon declared it just the “right size” for what he had in mind and lugged it out to the side of the nearest cart track.
Of course he hadn’t thought fit to share just what he was planning, just pointed at the box and insisted Ky climb inside. And he, more fool that he was, had obliged.
Now almost an hour later, he was seriously regretting that decision. He chipped at a knot in the wood with his fingernail and shuffled around as much as the space allowed, to relieve the tingly sensation slowly creeping along his cramped limbs.
“Stop thumping.” Something thudded into the side of the box. Migdon’s boot by the sound of it. “You sound like a rabbit in a barrel.”
“What are we doing?”
“Waiting, bucko, waiting.”
Before Ky could demand to know what they were waiting for, the rattle of cart wheels caught his attention. The coffin shook as something heavy fell across the top. Migdon’s raucous sobs echoed through the wood and raised Ky’s hackles.
“My poor, poor son. Didn’t I warn you to stay home? Didn’t I tell you it wasn’t safe, what with them marauding armies about and poor folk—decent folk—getting slaughtered in their fields?”
This type of trickery was well beyond Ky’s area of expertise. He preferred to blend in, to disappear so completely into the crowd that no one could recall that you had been there. But Migdon heralded the complete opposite, claiming that if you were loud enough and obvious enough, folks figured you couldn’t have anything to hide.
Still, wasn’t he spreading it on a bit thick?
The cart’s brakes locked on the wheels and the horses came to a stop. “Your son is it?” It was an old, thin voice that quavered like a fiddle in need of new strings.
Naw, not an old man.
Ky bit his tongue to keep from shouting for Migdon to stop. Tricking a harmless old man was lower than low. Even in the Underground, they’d restricted their harvesting to folk who could afford it or were asking for it, like the Khelari.
“Shame that, real shame.” The old man sighed. “I seen more fathers burying their youngsters over the past weeks than I thought to see in a lifetime. Didn’t know there were any dwarves living in these parts, though.” A hint of suspicion crept into his tone.
Maybe not so harmless at that.
Migdon shuffled his weight off the coffin lid. “Not from these parts. That’s what I kept telling my son. We’re Nordlands folk, I said, he had no right sticking his nose into Soudlands squabbles. Haven’t we trouble enough of our own at home without borrowing it from our neighbors? But he insisted on joining one of them fighting bands, said he had to stand against the cursed dark soldiers or he couldn’t live with himself. And now he’s dead, and I’ve come to fetch his body and bring it home to his mother. Poor woman—she’s sick, don’t know how she’ll handle the news…”
On and on he rattled, spinning a tale of such complexity with such conviction and real honest-to-goodness sorrow, that Ky would have been tempted to believe him, if he hadn’t been playing the uncomfortable role of the dead son in question.
The old man cleared his throat at last, cutting Migdon off in the middle of a detailed explanation of how the Khelari had stolen the cart and donkey he had planned to use to carry the coffin home. “Nordlands, did you say? That’s a long way. I’m only going as far as the next Midlands border town, but I daresay I could give you a lift.” The cart’s axle squeaked, and the old man dropped to the ground. “Let’s get loaded up, shall we? It’s tempting fate, we are, standing around here. I’ve no desire to lose my cart too.”
Ky heard the crunch of footsteps approaching both the head and foot of the coffin, and then it pitched first one way and then the other before settling with a thud in the back of the cart. A moment later, the old man clicked his tongue and the cart lurched forward.
By the time they came to a halt hours later, Ky ached from the cart’s motion and his cramped position. His ears rang from the thud of the box each time it jostled and the clatter of the wheels just beneath him, and his nose itched with an intensity that would have been enough to drive any man mad.
Now that they were still, he could hear Migdon and the old man chattering away up front, and the hubbub of voices in the street—dogs barking, children shouting, sellers hawking their wares. A deadly invasion had come and gone through the Midlands, leaving countless bodies in its wake, and yet here, it seemed, they had escaped the worst. There were still things to sell and people to buy them, and so life proceeded as normal.
What lies had Migdon spun during the hours of travel with their host? And more importantly, just how was Migdon planning on getting him out of this coffin, now that they were in a town? He couldn’t just climb out and walk away—that was the sort of thing that would set any town talking for months, and he was pretty sure it didn’t fall into Migdon’s category of things that were so ridiculously visible they became invisible.
He could feel the panic welling up inside his chest and instinctively lifted his arm to cover his mouth. His knuckles thumped the lid, and his elbow stuck against the side. It was too tight . . . too tight. And for a runner who’d spent three years ducking in and out of chimneys, through cracks between buildings, and under floorboards, that was saying a lot. Squeezing his eyes shut tight, every muscle and sense stretche
d to its utmost, he fought the panic. One push—that was all it would take. Migdon hadn’t nailed the lid shut—remember—he’d left it cracked to allow air to seep through.
The cart sagged beneath the weight of someone climbing up into the back. He heard the scraping and thumping of boxes and crates being shuffled around and unloaded, then the clink of coins penetrated the wood slats, followed by Migdon’s gruff voice.
“Best be off then.”
The cart jolted forward with the coffin still in the back. Ky held in the panic until the noises of the town faded behind them, then slammed his hands up against the lid and shoved it aside. He half sat up, gulping in mouthfuls of crisp evening air and peered over the edge of the coffin. The cart stood alone in the middle of a deserted track that ran through moss green hills. A few sheep dotted the hillside to his left, but there was no sign of anyone else in sight.
“What do you think you’re doing, bucko?”
Ky lurched up to his hands and knees and almost fell when his half-asleep limbs gave way beneath him. He caught himself on the edge of the coffin and struggled around to face the front of the cart as it came to a halt. Migdon slouched on the driver’s seat with the reins in his hands and an indignant expression on his face. There was no sign of the old man.
“We aren’t free and clear yet. Get back in the coffin—you could spoil everything.”
“Afraid not, bucko.” Ky glared back. “How ’bout you tell me what you’re doing instead.”
Migdon tugged at his earlobe with a grimy hand. “Then will you get back in the coffin?”
“No.”
“Shame—and here I thought you were showing real style, bucko.” Migdon swung around and rested his feet on the edge of the coffin. “Folk are mighty suspicious right now—and who can blame them? What with marauding soldiers marching about killing civilians as they go, and the fighting bands getting in the way and killing more by way of accident, not to mention the looters that follow to prey upon innocent folk. It stands to reason that a man’s far more likely to offer a ride to a fellow grieving the death of his son than to two drifters, especially in the Soudlands. Common sense—trust me, bucko.”
Songkeeper Page 13
