“O’ course not. No man does.”
“Then hear me out . . . or rather, let me show you.”
Amos bent over the lad until their faces were separated by a mere foot. “If this way o’ yours is so secret, then how d’ ye know about it?”
“You forget, Hawkness, I’ve been here before too.” The lad met his gaze, unblinking. No man could fake the glint of raw fear that Amos saw lurking behind the lad’s eyes. He knew it too well. He felt it crawling in his own. It was a shadow cast by the Pit, by horrors no man could ever unsee. At length, Inali glanced away and settled the spectacles on the bridge of his nose. “Shall we go tonight then?”
Amos pulled back. “No, lad, I’m afraid ye’re stayin’ right here.” The lad’s eyes were sincere, but Oran’s eyes had been sincere too. Before he turned traitor. Before he became Carhartan. “If it’s a trap—an’ I won’t lie, I half believe it is—I don’t want ye along t’ set it off. Ye tell me where t’ go, an’ Sym an’ I will scout it out. Ye stay back here, relax, let that shoulder heal, let Birdie and Gundhrold keep an eye on ye like a good lad.”
“What must I do to earn your trust?” Inali set his jaw, but there was a quiver in his voice that almost made Amos feel sorry for him. “I was almost killed for the little Songkeeper.”
“He’s right, Amos. I would have been dead if not for him. Surely we can trust him.”
Amos stood and stretched, basking in the relief as the tension in his shoulders and back slowly released. However nonsensical his suspicions might seem, they felt right, and safe was a thousand times better than dead. “Sorry, lass. I’m afraid trust isn’t one o’ my strengths. Now, I propose a wee bit o’ shuteye. We’ve work t’ do tonight.”
22
“We should have burned the bodies,” Cade said in a soft voice. He stooped and scattered a handful of dirt over the small mound of earth that now served as a final resting place for Jena and three other Underground runners who had fallen in the night to the white fever.
Ky nodded mutely, stabbed his shovel into the frost hardened ground and leaned against the haft, staring dry-eyed at the mound. He had shed too many tears in the month they had traveled since bidding Kerby farewell, as the white fever burned through the Underground like a lion on the rampage, and their numbers dwindled from thirty to nineteen.
Some it had taken quickly, like a lightning strike come and gone in a breath, and he discovered why the fever incited such terror. Some recovered after a matter of days, as Cade had, and now his sister Aliyah. But others lingered in pain and weakness, slowly reduced to shadows of their former selves, clinging to life with a tenuous grip.
Meli among them.
“We should have burned them.” Clasping his hands behind his back, Cade stood and took a deep breath. “But I could not bring myself to do it.”
In silence, he turned and strode back to the cart, and Ky followed him. Moments later, they were under way again, rolling deeper beneath the shadow of the Whyndburg Mountains, all steep angles, blued ridges, and peaks capped with gleaming snow. They were only in the foothills now, but would venture into the mountains themselves before nightfall.
So close now, so close to achieving their goal, to finding safety and aid for the sick. Every passing moment fueled Ky’s desire for action. If he could have lashed the horses to greater speed without fear of the wagon breaking apart, he would have wielded the whip until his arm ached. If adding his strength to that of the horses could have gained any ground, he would have set his own chest to the traces and hauled with all his might.
Anything would be better than sitting, waiting.
When he could no longer stand the bone-jarring clump thump of the wheels rattling the teeth in his head, or the skritching of a pin working its way loose, or the dull, listless expressions of his companions, he turned to the dwarf.
“How much farther?”
Migdon sighed a world-weary sigh. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re more persistent than a petra digging for beetles? Knowing how much farther would be dependent on me knowing exactly where we’re going, which I don’t. We’re less than a week’s travel from the Caran’s stronghold—though I don’t expect us to get that far—and already deep in the area under the protection of the Adulnae, so in case you were having second thoughts, it’s too late to turn back now. In fact”—Migdon cast a squint-eyed glance over his shoulder—“I’ll bet you a dicus for a dagger we’re being watched right now.”
Ky’s hand strayed to his sling of its own accord as he scanned the snow encrusted countryside. “What do you mean we won’t make it that far?”
The dwarf fixed him with a chilling glare. “We’ll all be dead of course.”
“What?”
Migdon roared with laughter and clapped him on the back. “Try not to look so glum, bucko! I’m expecting an old acquaintance, that’s all. Ran into a patrol yesterday when I was out scouting ahead. Sent word to arrange a meeting. If we’re going to make this mad scheme work, it’s going to take some mighty delicate handling. You better hope old Silvertongue hasn’t lost his charm.”
Ky hoped it all right.
Hoped it fervently throughout the day whenever he caught sight of his grimy hands, still caked with dirt from the grave he had dug, and he prayed he would have to dig no more. He hoped it throughout the night too, while Meli alternately shivered and burned in her sleep. And he hoped it again, when Tauros rose at last and the wagon jolted forward, bathed in the sickly light of a winter’s dawn. Midafternoon, as the wagon crested an arm of the nearest mountain and started down the other side, Migdon’s whisper at last fell on his ear.
“Show time, bucko …”
“Ambush!” Braids flying, Slack shot to her feet, and brandished her hatchet. “Weapons out! Look lively. We’re under attack.”
Ky scrambled to his feet and balanced precariously on the jolting wagon bed, clinging to the seat back in front of him. Framed by four sets of bobbing horse ears, a company of dwarves stood in rigid battle formation halfway up the opposite hillside. Armed with dual swords strapped to their backs and crossbows in hand, the dwarves wore helmets plumed with sea-green feathers and bronze breastplates emblazoned with designs that shimmered many colors in the sunlight. They looked altogether fierce and terrible . . . and deadly.
Just the sort who might set the Khelari running with their tails between their legs.
In the shallow valley between the two hills, Cade brought the wagon to a stop, horses stamping and snorting in their traces. Without a word, he snatched the hatchet from Slack’s hand and stowed it in his own belt. Migdon disembarked and landed with a grunt. “Wait here for now, and try to keep Miss Blood-and-Guts here quiet, or we will have trouble. When I signal, Cade, you and Bucko here can come.” He flicked a dismissive hand at Slack as he marched away. “She can stay behind.”
Two dwarves separated from the others and descended to meet him. Scouting out easy marks in the city square had taught Ky a thing or two about how to judge the measure of a man in a glance or two, but one was enough to see that these two were not the sort a fellow wanted to mess with.
He could only hope Silvertongue was up to the challenge.
With the sudden silence left by the stilled wagon wheels, the rustle of anxious conversation rose up around him on all sides. On the raised front seat, Slack argued with Cade, bartering to get her hatchet back. From what he could hear, things weren’t looking too positive on that front—and he’d sleep all the easier because of it.
The talking rubbed him raw. It was just noise all of it. Pointless noise. His limbs ached for action. He slipped over the side of the wagon and paced alongside. A moment later, measured footsteps heralded Cade’s approach from his left, then Paddy’s on his right.
“Would you just look at their armor?” Paddy whistled softly. “Must be worth a pretty bit.”
“Worth more than coin,” Cade said. “Armor
like that would more than level the field of contest against the Khelari. Just think—no more dodging arrows in shirtsleeves and leather vests. You’d appreciate that, wouldn’t you, Ky?” The older boy cuffed his shoulder hard enough to jar his teeth. “Safety above everything else, right?”
The words stung like a blow to the face.
But Ky knew more than a little about blows to the face, so he just shrugged Cade’s words aside as if they weren’t worth crediting with an answer, and watched as the three dwarves halted a short distance from one another and each thumped a fist to the side of his head.
The two strangers were a touch shorter than Migdon, but both so alike, they had to be related. They shared the same short, curly, dark hair and cropped beards, and Ky would have had a hard time telling them apart if they hadn’t been garbed differently. One wore bronze armor like the dwarves still lined up in battle array, but his helmet had a taller, thicker plume and a fur-trimmed cape trailed behind him, so he clearly possessed some sort of higher military rank. The other was clad in a simple, loose-fitting robe with a wide sash draped over one shoulder and a bronze torc around his neck.
Migdon’s voice suddenly rose in anger, but he was too far away for Ky to distinguish the words. All three of the dwarves gestured emphatically, hands stabbing the air with as much force as a Saari spear strike. Even without being able to hear the actual words, the gist of it wasn’t too hard to imagine.
For once, Silvertongue didn’t seem to be getting his way.
“Just think of it.” Cade folded his arms across his chest, surveying the shallow valley as if he was seeing a very different scene than the one unfolding before them. “Fighting alongside real warriors for a change. The dark soldiers won’t stand a chance. Finally, we’ll be free of them.”
So that was what Silvertongue had promised Cade to get him here. Honestly, Ky felt a bit the dunce for not guessing it sooner. Too consumed by his dreams of shelter and a healer. Too ready for the fighting to be over.
By the time Migdon finally gestured for them to approach, Ky was sure he’d sprouted a beard of his own. At least earned a few gray hairs or worn the soles of his feet down to nothing with all his pacing.
“First things first.” Migdon assumed a wide stance and set both fists on his hips. “Introductions. Meet Chancellor Nisus Plexipus Molineous Creegnan of the Xanthen, and his brother, Commander Jirkar Mundi—”
“Jirkar will do.” The armored dwarf grinned, smile lines splaying from his eyes. “Best we keep this moving along, don’t you think?”
Ky couldn’t have agreed more. In any case, he wasn’t sure his head could have wrapped itself around another string of names like the first. He had once heard it said that dwarf names were longer than a dwarf was tall. Hadn’t really believed it before.
“If anything is precious now, it is time.” The other dwarf, Chancellor Nisus-something-or-other, ran a pensive hand through his beard. Even up close, the only real difference Ky could make out between the two was that Nisus had reddish streaks in his hair and beard, and a sharper look to his features than Jirkar. “Your message could not have come at a less opportune time, Migdon. You do realize we are on the verge of battling these cursed Khelari for our homeland? Their army has been amassing to the southeast of the Caran’s stronghold for months now.”
Jirkar nodded. “It’s a wonder you didn’t run into their scouts—they’ve been ranging all along the southern border of the mountains.”
“So tell me”—Nisus’s eyes flickered from Ky to Cade and back again—“with the Takhran’s might bearing down and war breaking loose upon us, why should we help you? Why expend valuable remedies and risk exposing our soldiers to the white fever for a wagonload of waifs? Silvertongue said you could be quite persuasive.”
And now the dwarf’s gaze rested on Ky alone.
His mouth went dry, and he fumbled for an answer—any answer—to give. But all the arguments he’d deployed against Migdon seemed weak and threadbare before Nisus’s calculating stare. The seconds slipped past, and he was still no closer to a response.
Time was running out for Meli and so many of the others. Without help, they were all of them doomed. But it had been foolish to imagine the dwarves would risk their own to help strangers. And if there truly was a Master Singer somewhere, weaving the course of the world in song, he couldn’t care much about the fate of a bunch of thieving orphans. No, if help was going to come, it would be won by the sweat of their own brows and the force of their own wit.
Ky took a breath to speak, still not entirely sure what was going to come out of his mouth, and at the same time, felt a brush on his sleeve as Cade shouldered past. “Those waifs are the Underground of Kerby and—”
“No matter what you call yourself, your people are just children, not even beardlings.”
“Hardly that.” Cade tilted his chin back, pride lacing his voice. “For five years, we’ve stood against the dark soldiers when no one else in our city would dare. You will not find us lacking in courage or skill. We ask only the chance to fight the dark soldiers when they come. If you help us, we will help you.”
“I’m sorry, truly,” Jirkar said and actually sounded like he meant it. “The risk is too great. I cannot endanger my cohort, or the lives that would be in peril should my company be weakened by fever.” He executed a sharp turn, cloak flapping, and strode away.
“My brother can be a bit blunt-headed.” Nisus spoke in the dry sort of tone one would use to make observations about the weather. “Once he’s seized upon a notion, he drives after it with all the force and precision of a battering ram. But for once, he is right. We cannot help you.” The dwarf spread his arms in a shrug, then clasped his hands before him and started after Jirkar.
Ky’s voice failed him but he finally managed to croak out a desperate plea. “Migdon, do something!”
“Sorry, bucko. Got nothing.” Migdon puffed his cheeks out and released a heavy puff of air that steamed before his face. “Pity too. Silvertongue’s never failed before. It’s a dark blot on my otherwise shining record. I’ve got a reputation to consider, you know.”
Ky opened his mouth to protest, but once again, Cade beat him to it.
“Hold! A word, if you please.” Both Nisus and Jirkar paused, and Cade advanced toward them, one hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. Ever commanding. Ever collected. Ky envied him that. “I don’t think you understand. I’m Cade Peregrine . . . of Kerby.”
“We know who you are.”
“No, I don’t think you do, but I know a lot about you. Nisus and Jirkar. Names like those aren’t easy to forget. You remember Lucas Peregrine, the swordsmith? He was my father.”
Both dwarves started at that, and a little of the color leeched from their skin until it was almost the same dull gray as the winter sky.
Cade flung an arm around Ky’s shoulder, and he flinched from the touch. “And Ky here is a friend of Hawkness. If you knew my father, I guess that means you must have known Hawkness too. So no, we’re not just some strangers asking for aid. You should think of it as helping an old friend.”
Jirkar and Nisus pulled to the side and muttered together for a moment. Ky only caught snatches of the conversation. “Well, that changes things …” “Lucas’s son …” and “Siranos would be best.”
Then Nisus stepped forward, arms spread in a placating gesture. “Perhaps we can help one another after all. There is a fortress on the northern side of the—”
“What of a healer?” Ky burst out. The fortress could wait. There were more important things to be dealt with first. “Migdon said you had medicines for the white fever?”
“Yes, you shall have your remedies.” The dwarf inclined his head with the air of a longsuffering martyr. “As I was saying, the fortress of Siranos is on the northern side of the range, far enough away for there to be little threat of an attack, so I will leave a few soldiers and there will
be little risk of them contracting the fever. It is little more than a pair of towers, and somewhat rough, so …”
Ky didn’t hear any more. Others could worry about the details. For him, it was enough that Meli would soon be well, sheltered from the cold, and safe from fear of attack.
What more could a fellow ask for?
23
The floorboards creaked beneath her feet, and Birdie winced, casting an anxious glance over her shoulder. Gundhrold sat before the shuttered window, keeping a “weather eye out,” as Amos put it, but his ears did not so much as twitch at her movement. She slipped into the second room, hugging Artair’s sword to her chest, and eased the door shut behind her. That should buy her a few minutes of quiet before the griffin realized she had gone.
Within, Inali sat on a bedroll with his back to the wall, strands of dark hair falling across his face, eyes lowered to a thin strip of parchment in his lap where the first lines of a picture were just beginning to take shape. Old blood still stained the bandage on his left shoulder, and a thin strip of cloth bound his arm against his chest.
“Have they gone out?” He spoke without lifting his gaze.
Even the softness of his voice was enough to make Birdie glance back over her shoulder toward the closed door, though there was no way the griffin could have heard it. Nor was there anything to conceal. She was doing nothing wrong. Amos might not trust Inali completely, but then he never trusted anyone. Since what had happened with George, she might have had a little trouble trusting too, had it not been for the blow Inali had taken in her stead.
“Sym and Amos?” She fiddled with the sword in her hands. It was probably foolish to carry it around so, but she was hesitant to set it aside. After scouting all night, Amos and Sym had returned with the first glimmer of dawn to catch a few hours of sleep and had only just gone out again to watch the movements of the Khelari while they could blend in with a crowd. “Yes, they’ve gone.”
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