Songkeeper
Page 28
“Right.” Paddy blew a sharp breath through pursed lips. “Right. Guess we’d better spread the word then.”
“But quietly. The more of us we can get in position before they know the game’s up, the better. I’ll take the dwarves. You rouse Cade. See if you can’t put together a warm Underground welcome for ’em.”
“Shure thing. Watch yourself.”
With a rattle of armor, Paddy was off and away. Ky just hoped he would keep his head down. Bent almost double, Ky ran up and over the crest of the bridge, swung over the battlement onto the wall-top of the north keep and nearly stumbled over a body.
He steadied himself with a hand against the battlement and picked his way past another body beside the steps leading down into the courtyard. He paused before the door most likely to lead into the commanding officer’s quarters, then eased it open and slipped within. A sputtering fire provided just enough light to see by. On a straw pallet beside the hearth, an old dwarf sprawled beneath a mound of blankets, snoring loud enough that Ky could have slammed the door without being heard.
He tapped the dwarf’s shoulder and jumped back as he roared awake, reaching for the mace propped beside his pallet. Curly gray hair and a beard the color and texture of an unshorn sheep stuck out in all directions around a face that most closely resembled a battering ram.
“Khelari, sir, we’re under attack.” Ky threw in the dwarvish version of a salute for good measure, hoping to avoid the lengthy explanation of who he was and what he was doing here. Given the way the old fellow was staring about with those rheumy eyes of his, he would probably be none the wiser.
“Khelari, you say? Here?” The old dwarf didn’t wait for more than that. Shedding blankets, he stumbled to the door, flung it open, and bellowed for his troops. “To the parapets! We’re under attack!”
The echoes of his voice had scarce died away, when the Keep exploded with noise. Bells clanged, followed by the thud of rushing feet and clattering armor as dwarves burst from the barracks and raced to the parapets. A moment later came the zip and crackle of arrows spattering the courtyard and the shouts of the wounded.
And there went the element of surprise …
“Don’t dally, beardling. Hand me my mace.”
Stunned into obedience, Ky caught up the weapon and passed it to him. Already fully clad and armored, the old dwarf paused only to grab a plumed helmet from a stand beside the door and then marched out into the courtyard, muttering.
“More trouble to take this stuff off than leave it on, at my age. Always be prepared, that’s what they say, right, beardling?” He must have figured out Ky wasn’t at his side when he didn’t get an answer, because a moment later, he was back and gripping Ky’s arm. “What’d I tell you about dallying? To the parapets, beardling, to the parapets!”
“Yessir!” Ky saluted and broke free, racing ahead of the old dwarf. For all his intensity, the fellow didn’t move very fast.
Up on the walkway, he dodged through the commotion of dwarves running hither and thither, manning all sorts of strange contraptions mounted on the keep walls—crossbows that fired a rapid round of bolts quicker than an archer could draw and fire, miniature sling catapults that launched pouchfuls of fist sized stones at the enemy clogging the roadway—all with deadly effect. Again and again, groups of Khelari with long scaling ladders were repulsed before they could even draw near the base of the bluff beneath the keep. But all too often, Khelari arrows rained death down upon the parapets as well and left Ky wishing he had one of those dwarf-made breastplates and chainmail shirts.
He might’ve even settled for a plumed helmet.
After one such volley, Ky found a protected perch where the bridge met the keep and took his time singling out the Khelari archers and picking them off. Sling-bullets to the noggin might not be fatal if the targets were wearing helmets, but getting knocked around sure wouldn’t improve their aim any.
And Ky was counting on that.
Migdon hadn’t been joking when he’d said that this was only a token force of Adulnae. There were barely enough of them to defend the parapets, and most looked to be at least as old as the commander Ky had woken, if not older.
He glanced over at the south keep, where from the sound of things, the Underground runners kept up a steady stream of arrows and stones flying from behind the battlements. Hopefully Cade and Paddy had thought to get the little ones safely hidden away before launching their defense. At least the Khelari were concentrating their attack on the north keep, pulling the heavy fire of the defenders toward the front …
Away from the pass.
A tap on the shoulder brought him spinning around, loaded sling ready.
“Easy, bucko my boyo. Little jumpy, eh?” Migdon scowled at him. “Dark armors are bunching by the breastwork, look like they’re fixing to make a concentrated rush through the pass. My guess is they hope to break through and not bother with conquering Siranos.”
Ky snapped off another shot. “So, you got a plan?”
“’Course. We’ve been letting them draw our fire forward. By now, they probably think they’ve got us duped. We let them rush into the pass, wait until they’re sitting nice and pretty beneath us, and rain fire down on their heads.” He tilted his head to indicate a pair of steaming buckets beside his feet and tossed a pair of thick leather gloves at Ky. “Boiling pitch and flaming arrows should just about do the trick, don’t you think?”
Working with Migdon and a dozen dwarves, Ky ran buckets of boiling pitch out onto the center of the bridge and placed them beside dozens of murder holes that had been concealed by the snow at the base of the battlements. The holes were small enough that a fellow couldn’t fall through, but he might twist an ankle if he wasn’t paying attention.
By the time they finished, the snow beneath the buckets of pitch had melted, leaving them sitting in pools of water, and the Khelari were already on the move. Through a gap in the battlements, Ky watched as the dark-armored soldiers bore down upon them, the noise of their charge covered by the ongoing attack on the north keep.
“Almost here,” he warned.
“Patience, bucko.”
The archers fell into position, crouching with arrows on the string, firepots at their feet. Fifty feet out now, then twenty, then ten.
“Now!” Migdon’s voice rang out.
Ky seized a bucket and carefully upended it over the murder hole, while dwarves all along the line did the same. Hissing pitch sloshed out around the edges, narrowly missing his feet. Shouts and cries rang out below, broken a moment later by the snap and whine of arrows and then the roar of flames. He poured out a second and third bucket and was reaching for a fourth, but Migdon stopped him, a note of satisfaction in his voice.
“Save it. They’re on the run.”
Peeling the gloves from his hands, Ky peered over the battlement into a blazing inferno. Horrible screams rose from the pass, and he could just make out dark shapes writhing in the flames. The rest of the Khelari scattered up the roadway, back toward the earthen breastwork, stragglers batting at flames that had latched onto articles of pitch covered clothing.
Bile rose in his throat at the sight, and he touched his forehead to the cool stone. He couldn’t imagine a more horrible way to die. It had the intended effect though. Within the hour, the Khelari called off the attack and retreated behind the earthen breastwork as the first glimmers of dawn broke over the eastern horizon. Ky sank down with his back to the battlement, stretching his legs out across the bridge, and wrapped his sling around his waist. His pouch hung limp from his belt, sling-bullets long since spent.
Lodged in the skulls of many a Khelari, as Migdon would have it. Hopefully that would be enough to earn him a new supply from the Adulnae armory, but now didn’t seem like the right time to ask. The dwarf paced back and forth, hands clasped behind his back, skirting Ky’s legs at each pass without so much as a glance.
“Beardling?” Migdon snorted. “You two have met?”
“Briefly.” Ky pushed up to his feet, grateful for an excuse to stretch his limbs after a night spent ducking behind cover, and nodded at the old dwarf. “We skipped the introductions.”
“In that case, this is my uncle, Commander Thallus Liturgis Xyamphene Noonan.” Migdon turned back to the blustering dwarf. “And tramping across the entire country of Leira isn’t a pleasure stroll. I can only cover so much ground in each trip. Near as I can figure it, the Takhran must have made a deal with the Langorians. We know he didn’t build a fleet himself, and they were already supplying him with a tribute of slaves. Makes proper sense.”
“We did it!” Cade pushed up the slope of the bridge from the south keep, Paddy at his heels, both elated and grinning. From the looks of the empty quiver strapped to his back, he’d spent every last arrow on the attackers. “We held them off.”
“For the time being,” Migdon grunted. “But they’ll be back.”
“Then we’ll send them running again with their tails between their legs.” Cade grounded his bow with a thump that drew all eyes to him. “I’ve been waiting years for the chance to strike a blow against them that will be remembered. I’m not about to lose heart.”
“Huh.” Commander Thallus set his hands on his hips and eyed Cade up and down, blinking his watery eyes. “Who is this young upstart? I like him.”
Migdon shook his head. “Too many of them, too few of us. You know what they say, ‘The only shame in being outmatched is in being too afraid to admit it.’ We’ll hold out as long as we may, but we should send word to the Caran and warn him that a second force will be coming down from the north once Siranos falls . . . and it will fall.”
“To your negativity, maybe, nephew. Who do you propose takes the message?’
But Migdon was already walking away, waving a jaunty farewell. “See you lot in a week or so. With any luck, we’ll all still be alive.”
His words sapped the last traces of victory from the air. With the fading of his footsteps, the group dispersed. Cade and Commander Thallus split off to visit the armory and restock, but Ky set his steps toward the south keep, moving at a determined pace that worked the crick from his back and the tightness from his legs. He could always resupply later. For now, he wanted to check on the runners and make sure that Meli and Syd had come safely through the night.
Paddy caught up and spun around to face him, walking backward alongside. “I know that look, laddy-boyo, an’ it doesn’t bode well for Cade’s little army.” He flung up both hands, forcing Ky to a halt. “What’re you thinking?”
“I don’t know.” Ky gnawed at his lip. A fight to the inevitable but glorious death in the defense of their homeland was well and good for the dwarves—Cade too, if that was his choice—but what about the young ones who had no choice in the matter? “I think it’s time we figured a way out.”
28
How long they had been marching through the tunnels, Birdie could not say. It might have been hours. It might have been days. She was just grateful Inali knew the way. Already the tunnel had split and converged and become a dozen different tunnels half a dozen times. A weariness deeper than exhaustion and murkier than despair settled over her. She stumbled more than once, and it was all she could do to set one foot in front of the other.
Inali glanced down at her, torchlight glinting off his spectacles and highlighting the concern in his eyes. He leaned close to whisper in her ear. “You feel it, little Songkeeper?”
She nodded but could not speak. With each step, she felt more vividly the throbbing pulse of two distinct melodies warring with one another in the depths of the earth. Or was it in the depths of her own heart? The melodies surrounded her, seeming as much a part of her as of her surroundings, as though they would overwhelm her and she would lose herself in that terrifying, rushing tide.
Behind, Amos and Sym maintained a stolid silence, marching with weapons in hand, ready to spring into battle if aught went wrong. Birdie reached for the grip of Artair’s sword, belted at her waist. Beneath the cloth, she felt the coolness of the blade. Somehow that icy touch helped clear her mind and relieve the pressure in her ears.
“Stop!” Inali hissed. He seized her arm, preventing her from taking another step. “Do you hear that?” He tapped his foot on the ground, producing a hollow thump. The earth seemed to shiver beneath Birdie’s feet. “It’s a false floor. Very thin. Could collapse beneath us. We have to spread out. Let me go first and Birdie next. Hawkness, you should be last.”
“Aye, but be careful.” Amos ran his hand through his hair, making it stand up about his head like a loaded fireflower. “Bilgewater! What I wouldn’t give for a bit o’ rope.”
Arms spread out, Inali took slow, shuffling steps that sounded as if he were walking on a drum. After he had gone about fifteen feet, he beckoned for Birdie to follow. She crept after him. Another ten feet beyond, he came to a stop and thumped his foot on the ground. “Solid here.”
She hurried across the last bit, only too anxious to have solid earth beneath her feet again, and then glanced back. Sym was halfway across, spears rattling in the quiver on her back as she moved with the same, light graceful step she had used in the spear dance, while Amos fidgeted with his dirk on the far side.
An ominous crack sounded out.
“Sym, hurry!” Inali shouted, but his voice was swallowed by a deep rumble, and the section of false floor disappeared, taking Sym with it, leaving only a gaping hole behind.
Dust clogged the air. The torch sputtered in Inali’s hands. Birdie’s ears rang with the distant echo of falling rocks. She stumbled to the edge, only to be thrust aside by Inali as he dropped to his knees and held the torch out over the hole. “No . . . no . . . Sym!”
“I can see her,” Amos’s voice rang out. Birdie could just make out his form, vague and shadowy in the haze of dust that the torch could not penetrate, as he knelt beside the hole. “Only about fifteen feet down or so. The floor looks t’ have collapsed into another tunnel. She’s . . . she’s not movin’.”
Inali groaned and staggered to his feet, blinking behind his spectacles as he surveyed the tunnel. “We . . . we . . . need to . . . head on. They’ll have heard the noise. This place will be swarming in minutes.”
Birdie blocked his path. “I thought you said this was a secret passage.”
“Yes, secret. Hidden, little used, but that doesn’t mean nobody else knows about it. And there are worse things in the tunnels below than Khelari.” He seized her wrist and tried to drag her after him, but she twisted away and ran back to the edge. “I must get you out of here.”
“Not without Amos!”
“Hawkness, please,” Inali pleaded. “Tell her to leave. There’s no time for anything else. You said yourself that her safety was of the utmost importance. Believe me, if I could stay here with Sym I would, but I must get Birdie out of here before it’s too late.”
“He’s right, lass.” Amos’s voice sounded cold and hard as flint. “I can’t get t’ ye across this mess, but I just might be able t’ get down t’ help Sym, an’ I have t’ try that. It’s best ye go on without me.”
“No, Amos, no!”
Inali’s good arm settled around her shoulders, wrenching her away from the edge and down the passage. She fought against him, but his grip only tightened, keeping her pinned against his side so she could not reach her sword hilt.
“Hawkness!” Inali called over his shoulder, grunting
with the strain of holding her back. “Once you get Sym, stick to the right hand passages. That should lead you back to us.”
“I’ll catch up . . . keep her safe, lad.”
Those words, spoken in a quiet, sad sort of voice so unlike Amos’s usual hearty bluster struck Birdie to the core. It was all she could do to keep the tears that welled in her eyes from spilling down her cheeks. Unresisting now, she followed Inali through the maze of passages, moving at a half jog up and down steep paths that left her breathless and Inali clutching his wounded shoulder, until they struck a wider passage with smooth walls and flagstone paving. Inali stopped finally in front of an arched doorway covered by a dark hanging, swept the hanging aside with the elbow of his torch hand, and motioned for her to enter.
“We’re here, little Songkeeper.”
Birdie stepped from the dark of the passage into a cavernous room lit by countless blazing firepots. It had a high vaulted ceiling and massive arches and columns carved from living rock. Dark blue and silver draperies with a single crimson teardrop emblazoned in the middle hung from the ceiling at intervals, bound in such a way that they twisted and curled like waterfalls in solid form.
In the center of the room stood a ring of figures clad in blue and silver robes. A low chanting filled the air, like the distant rumble of thunder before the advance of a storm. It stole the air from Birdie’s lungs and seized her limbs with an icy grip.
This . . . this was wrong.
Her hand went to her sword hilt, but she did not draw it yet, just backed toward the door. Only to bump into Inali. She twisted to the side, out of his reach. “What is this?” A glance over her shoulder revealed that the robed figures had broken from their ring and were moving toward her. “Where are we?”
The Saari warrior just stared at her with an eerily calm expression on his face, eyes half concealed behind his spectacles, half concealed behind a glassy mask all their own. “I should think that would be apparent by now, little Songkeeper. These are the Shantren.” With his good hand, he fished in his collar and pulled out the gold chain and clay bead he always wore. He crushed it into a puff of dust between his fingers, revealing a crimson teardrop jewel.