Ky hurried past, unwinding his sling from his waist as he went. Only Cade could fall for a girl so completely bonkers. He halted on the far side of the courtyard in front of a trio of snow-capped straw dummies that must have been set up for archery practice, but would work well enough for the sling too. His fingers shook a little as he dug in his pouch for a sling-bullet and even more when he loosed the first round. The sling-bullet zipped past the target’s left ear and cracked off the wall behind.
Clamping his teeth together, Ky slung once . . . twice . . . more. The first shot struck the second dummy in the forehead. But the third overshot to the right by at least three inches. Ky paused to rub the haze from his eyes and knead his aching temples. Maybe Paddy was right.
Maybe he was worn out.
Head hanging, he jogged over to the target and stooped to retrieve his spent sling-bullets. A sword landed flat-side down, inches from his fingers. Crisp footsteps marched toward him, and he knew who it was without having to look.
Payback.
“Oi, Cade.” He pocketed the sling-bullets, forced a stiff smile to his cold chapped lips, and rose. “Raided the armory, I see.”
The Underground leader’s eyes glinted dangerously. Slack stood at his elbow, flushed and grinning, buckler hugged to her chest, sword hand empty. It must be her blade at his feet.
“Pick it up, Ky,” Cade said. “There are things between us, unsettled things. It’s time to finish what we began in the Underground. Show these youngsters what real fighting looks like.” He jerked his chin back over his shoulder, and Ky saw that the runners had abandoned their practice and were gathering around.
To witness his humiliation again.
Legs strangely unsteady, he bent, settled his hand around the grip, and hefted the blade. For half a second, he glared down the blunted length toward Cade, and he couldn’t deny being tempted. If he could beat Cade once—just once—surely that wasn’t too much to ask?
But more than anything else, he was weary of it all.
Weary of the games. Of the posturing. Of the need to keep face or die trying.
A flick of his wrist deposited the sword at Cade’s feet. “I’m not going to fight you again. It’s over and done with. I got us out. You led us here. We both just want what’s best for the Underground. Besides”—he lifted his dangling sling—“this is my weapon.” He turned and strode back toward the sickroom.
Slack snorted. “’Course it is.” Already halfway across the courtyard, Ky could hear her well enough to know that she meant him to. “You stand at a distance and pelt your opponent with rocks. A blade? Now, that’s a man’s weapon. Only a coward would use a sling.”
Mockery, Ky could take. Hard knocks, those he was accustomed to. But being outright called a coward, now that was too much. He didn’t give himself time to think, to breathe, to cool down. Driven by the force of his fury, he spun around and launched three slingstones at top speed at the closest dummy. The straw head burst, showering Slack with golden flecks.
Before she could recover, he broke into a run, released another two shots on the move that cracked against the stone building. The sound drew her attention. He threw himself into a roll and came up on his feet, mere inches away, with his loaded sling back and ready to strike.
“A coward’s weapon, you say?”
She met his glare, eyes bristling with anger . . . and a touch of fear.
Did she expect him to actually attack?
His arm lowered of its own accord, and his wrath fizzled out like a torch snuffed in water. Black specks danced before his eyes. For a moment, his vision spun. He was no bully. Slow clapping broke out behind, and an appreciative whistle brought him reeling to his senses. He pulled away and stumbled back a step before his vision cleared and he could see the dwarf, Jirkar, standing by the Keep’s gate.
“Bravo, little master.” Chuckling, the dwarf shook his head. “If you can all handle yourselves half so well, I imagine any dwarf would be glad to have you fighting alongside when the Khelari come.”
Not exactly what he’d intended to prove …
Cade spun his practice sword through the air and easily caught it again by the hilt. “Put us to the test. You won’t be disappointed.”
“I imagine not.” The dwarf smiled and held out an oilcloth bound package. “But your sick must be tended first. I will not risk my soldiers. A few drops thrice a day should do the trick. With Nisus’s compliments.”
Ky stumbled forward and snatched the package before the dwarf could change his mind or something bad could happen. Something bad always seemed to happen just when things started going right. Cade’s shouts chased him across the courtyard, but he wasn’t stopping for any man, Underground leader or not. Clutching the precious bundle to his chest, he burst through the door into the sick chamber, startling Paddy from his borrowed seat. On his knees beside Meli’s pallet, he tore the wrapping off the package, revealing several brown glass vials.
“Is that …”
“Yeah.” He yanked the stopper from the first vial and managed to will his hand steady long enough to place a few drops in her mouth. Having his head down set his skull throbbing as if he’d been punched in the temple. Shadows lurked at the edge of his vision.
The room turned cold.
“Ky?” Paddy’s voice seemed to come from a great distance. “You’re white as a ghost.”
“What?” He shook his head, trying to clear the jumbled thoughts from his mind. For a moment, everything grayed. He heard a thump and the clinking of glass against stone. A sharp exclamation from Paddy.
Suddenly, he realized that he was no longer kneeling, but slumped with his back to the wall and his chin drooped to his chest. “It’s fine . . . I’m fine …” He struggled to rise, but his head spun, and he couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t he breathe?
Paddy’s hands settled on his shoulders, holding him down. “Stay. I’m goin’ for Cade.”
“No …” He managed to croak. “Not Cade …”
But Paddy was already gone.
25
The bloodstained wrappings of Artair’s blade held Amos’s focus as he paced a circle around the table where Birdie, Inali, and Sym were seated, tossing his dirk from hand to hand with each step. He could not look away, not even when he had to weave wide around the griffin’s tawny bulk to avoid stepping on his feather-tufted tail.
Hound’s blood . . .
But it could so easily have been her own.
Who could’ve dreamed that guarding the wee lass could be so boggswoggling hard on the nerves? By Turning, if she had but called for help, instead of trying to fend the beastie off all by herself. Now the monster had escaped, and there was no telling what terrors might rain down on their heads.
It was a sheer pity she hadn’t killed it with the first stroke.
“Please, Amos.” Birdie sounded weary. “I don’t think he means to turn us in. He outright warned me I was in danger.”
A low growl rumbled in Gundhrold’s throat, and his voice exploded with the burst of a thunderclap. “The assurances of a traitor are worthless, little Songkeeper.”
Amos caught himself nodding along with the griffin, until he studied Birdie’s face. Solemn, she looked. Hard, almost. But beneath he knew her strength was brittle, like ice formed on rigging, bound to snap at the first stiff gust of wind.
He shrugged. “Och, what’s one more danger in a city full o’ ’em? An’ the city is full o’ ’em, make no doubt about that. I fear . . . I fear our presence here was known even before the beastie made his escape.” With that admission, it seemed the last of his restless energy drained away. He rested both fists against the table—careful not to smudge Inali’s map—and let the rickety legs sag in support of his weight. “Sym an’ I’ve been watchin’ the Khelari all week. It’s been silent—almost too silent—until today. Now, all o’ a sudden, the streets are full o’
hounds and the sky is teemin’ with ravens. Soldiers are on the lookout everywhere, stirred up like a blatherin’ slickjaw nest.”
Sym glanced up from directing Inali on the placement of troops on his charcoal map and took up the story in her pleasantly hoarse voice. “On our way back, we nearly ran into a full company that had been dispatched to reinforce the guards along the outer wall. Word is they’ve shut all the gates too.”
Gundhrold’s ears perked at that. “Including the main entrance to his fortress?”
“All of them. This city is nailed down tighter than a keg.” Sym rocked back in her chair and stuck her booted feet up on the edge of the table. “If the Takhran knows we are here, he does not want us leaving.”
It seemed a mighty small if to Amos. What but the presence of the Songkeeper in his city would stir the Takhran to employ such measures? From any other ruler, it would be considered standard precaution when at war. But from one who took such pride in his strength that he had boasted often and loudly that a closed gate was a sign of weakness?
For him, it was a sign of weakness indeed.
“I don’t understand,” Birdie said. “If it wasn’t the hound, how were we discovered?”
“Aye, it does lead one t’ wonder …” Almost unconsciously, Amos let his gaze stray to Inali, only to be met head on. The lad seemed to have paused mid-stroke, hand hovering over the table, charcoal piece gripped between his fingers, knotted strands of hair falling over his forehead so only his spectacles and eyes were visible—wide, innocent, reproachful eyes. Inali’s mouth worked into a frown, but he said nothing.
Bilgewater.
It wasn’t anything personal. Inali seemed a fine enough lad, in his own way. But if nigh six decades on this wretched earth had taught Amos anything, it was that the suspicious survived.
The trusting were killed.
Gundhrold hefted himself to his feet and eyed the shuttered window. “Perhaps it is not such a wonder after all . . . or perhaps wonder is not the right word. Terror might be more apt.” He twisted around to face them, and his expression was one that Amos knew only too well. “I have seen a ghost.”
“A ghost?” Sym repeated.
“Perhaps not a ghost per se—”
“We’ve not the time for word games. Just what are ye babblin’ about? Spit it out!”
“That is just it, I am afraid, I cannot simply spit it out.” The griffin lashed his tail, the tuft of feathers at the end thrumming through the air. “I saw one who should be dead. In your fanciful human reasoning, I believe that would make her a ghost.”
“Who in bilges are ye talkin’ about?”
“Someone I knew long ago. But it defies reason. I saw her wounded . . . saw her fall to flame and venom. She was slain. And yet I also saw her with my own two eyes in the streets below only this morning.”
“Who, Gundhrold?”
The lass’s plea worked where Amos’s demand had not. “A Songling named Zahar. Long ago, her brother Rav was determined to prove her the next Songkeeper. He brought her before the council of griffins, but when it was determined that she was a Songling and nothing more, he grew angry. Violent. Demanded the Protectors recognize her in Auna’s stead. We turned him out. Believed it ended.”
“But it wasn’t?”
“No, little one.” With a sigh that seemed to drain all the ferocity from his voice, the griffin’s gaze drooped. “A year later, he returned and begged the Protectors for one more chance to prove his sister’s abilities against Auna’s. Under the guise of a meeting, he lured us into a trap where he unleashed monsters upon us. Foul beasts I can only assume came from the Takhran’s Pit. With flame and poisoned fang, they attacked, and it was all I could do to get Auna to safety Far too many of my brothers and sisters fell behind. But as we fled, I saw her. Zahar. Standing on the brink of the fight. Then she plunged in after her brother only to fall at the feet of one of the beasts. Dead. I am convinced of it.”
“An’ yet ye claim she’s bloody well walkin’ about the city now?”
“There is worse still. The woman I saw this morning wore the talav. I fear that somehow, by some cursed magic, Zahar survived and has become one of the Shantren, and if that is true, then we are indeed in grave danger.”
The lass opened her mouth, but Amos forestalled further questions with an upraised hand. “Hold a moment an’ let the griffin explain. Who or what are the Shantren? I’ve never heard tell o’ ’em.”
“Indeed?” The griffin looked surprised. “Suffice it to say, they are a blight in the heart of Leira. Commoners and Songlings alike who have been recruited by the Takhran to become a part of his elite forces. He gifts them with abilities. Dangerous abilities. It may be that she . . . or they . . . are to blame for our discovery.”
“The hound wore the talav.” Birdie spoke up. “George and Carhartan too.”
“This is grand. Just grand.” Amos took a deep breath and forced it out between his teeth. This madcap mission seemed to be falling apart at the seams. They had scarce begun, but they were already beaten. The others might not like it, but if anyone was going to make the hard decision, it would have to be him. Sometimes, one had to simply cut one’s losses, turn tail and run, and hope for the best.
“Well, my friends, there’s only one thing for it. We have t’ leave immediately.”
To say the outcry was greater than Amos had anticipated would have been an understatement. Sym pulled her feet from the table’s edge, grounding her chair with a thud, and glowered at him as she produced a whetstone from a pouch in her quiver and began sharpening her spear points one by one. Inali sank back in his seat, cradling his wounded arm, with the melancholy air of a dejected pup. Even Gundhrold managed to convey the proper amount of feather-ruffled dismay without looking aught less than dignified.
But it was Birdie’s response that set his brain fumbling to recall the arguments that had seemed so conclusive only moments before. She just sat there, face devoid of any emotion, but she could not conceal the hurt in her eyes.
Not from him.
Amos balked before the pressure of so many reproachful glances and blustered for a response. At the very least, he had thought Gundhrold would be on his side. The old catbird was practically rabid about protecting the Songkeeper. “Look, it’s leave or be captured, an’ I daresay we all agree the second one is not an option.”
“Well, when you put it that way . . . but perhaps those aren’t the only options.” Sym observed drily, pausing her sharpening long enough to inspect the angle of a blade. “This heightened security could work to our advantage. After all, if the Khelari are watching for us to leave the city, then they won’t be paying near as much attention to anyone slipping farther behind their lines. It’s the last thing he’ll expect.”
Inali slid the spectacles from his nose and polished the lenses on his knees, blinking owlishly. “The little Songkeeper has the Takhran running scared. For once, the battle threatens his own turf—putting him on the offensive, reacting to our moves, rather than controlling the field—and he is afraid.”
“Indeed.” Gundhrold nodded sagely. Somehow the catbird made everything he did appear wise. It was no wonder everyone listened to him. “What is more, his fear lends credence to this wild mission of ours. The Songkeeper must pose a viable threat, else our presence would not worry him so.”
“Ye read too much into it! Mayhap he just means t’ catch us this time.”
“Hawkness.” Gundhrold’s voice assumed a placating tone as he drifted around the table to stand beak to nose with Amos. The griffin’s wing settled on his shoulder, and Amos turned a cold glare upon it, but his scowl had never been enough to dissuade the catbird. “I understand your desire to protect the Songkeeper, but you cannot deny the importance of this mission, whispered in the Songkeeper’s ear in the Hollow Cave by Emhran himself.”
“Don’t patronize me, griffin.” Muttered words, i
mbued with every ounce of the anger he’d bottled up inside. He shoved the griffin’s wing away. “Ye know I don’t care much for any o’ that. I’ve gone along with this madness so far, but I’m done. We’re finished here.”
Breaking free of the griffin’s stare, he marched to their collection of belongings piled just inside the door and shrugged into his damp overcoat. He kept his chin tucked to avoid meeting Birdie’s eyes, but he couldn’t evade the griffin’s voice.
“The decision is not yours to make, Hawkness. It is the Songkeeper’s.”
A twinge seized the muscles in Amos’s chest, as though an arrow had pierced his lungs, leaving him gaping and breathless. He would not have expected this from Gundhrold, pitting the lass—his lass—against him. What could she choose but to stay and carry out this absurd mission, only to get herself caught or killed . . . or worse?
Would he, the great Amos McElhenny, who legend claimed had never turned his back on a fight, simply walk away? The legends never got it right. He had walked away before. Away from Artair . . . from Kerby …
He could do it again.
“What say you, little Songkeeper.” Inali’s soft voice broke the silence, sending a shiver marching down Amos’s spine. “Shall we flee . . . or fight?”
Amos’s hand found the hilt of his dirk, and he wrapped his fingers around the hawk’s head, tightening his grip until the curved beak bit into his palm. The lass’s answer came at last, in a voice both soft and sad as a distant shoreline and strong as the ocean’s pull.
“We fight.”
“So be it.” The words fell with the weight of an oath. “But we do it on my terms.”
“Terms?” Gundhrold’s eyes flashed. “Really, Hawkness, this is too—”
“We do it today. We go in through Inali’s secret passage. Sym an’ I have been watchin’ it off an’ on for the past week now, an’ I believe ’tis our best bet.”
Songkeeper Page 26
