The Song the Ogre Sang

by Peter Fane

  Dan patted Stormhammer’s cheek. “But dragons are the best. Ain’t that right, Stormy?”

  Again, Stormhammer didn’t answer.

  Stormy might not be talking now, but it was still true. Dragons were the best. And sometimes, if nobody was around, if you were real nice to him, you could put your hand on him and you could hear his dragon song. Yes, sir. Just whispers at first, then a kind of warm hum up your fingers, up your hands, through your arms, all the way to your heart.

  Little Dan nodded.

  An olden song from the olden times.

  “A song of silver and blood,” he whispered respectfully.

  Stormhammer’s song.

  Little Dan stopped polishing and glanced around. Then he scooted his toolbox away from Stormy’s muzzle, back to the side of Stormy’s head, and stepped onto his box. There, he pressed his chest against Stormy’s cheek, spread his arms wide and listened.

  He knew it’d be cold at the beginning, but he wanted to hear it. There was always something, if you waited long enough. You had to be patient. You had to be nice to Stormy. And you had to wait super quiet, like a little mouse . . . .

  Dan closed his eyes and pressed his ear against Stormy’s freezing scales, the silver smooth and hard against his cheek. He stretched out his arms, resting his chest against the cannon’s cold curve, letting some of his own warmth move into the big gun . . . .

  There!

  Soft at first. Real soft. Right there, where you almost couldn’t hear it. A kind of low beat, a kind of low thump. A bit of warmth coming into your fingers. A warm tingle. A warm hum, right on the edge of your hearing, like you could just barely hear it. Then a beat, a kind of cry, like those birds up in the sky, warmer now, warming your chest up, the thumping coming up and down, up and down. It felt good, it felt warm, like a coming summer storm, a distant cry, far away, not forever, not today. Like a thing that wanted to come closer, wanted to come out—but got pushed back, closer and back, closer and back . . . .

  “That’s right, Stormy,” Little Dan whispered. “That’s right.” He hummed his own little song back to the big cannon, his eyes shut tight. He was getting nice and toasty now, Stormy’s silver warming up. The song was still far away, but close enough to get you warm. One day it would be here, Dan knew that; one day the song would come all the way out. But not today. And that didn’t matter, because he was warm now, so warm.

  “Feels good,” Dan muttered. Then he laughed, holding onto Stormy’s warm side. “You the crazy one, Stormy.” Dan nuzzled the big gun. “Yes, sir! You the one! Ha-ha!”

  Little Dan smiled and shook his head.

  How could he be a crazy?

  He was warm, wasn’t he?

  And if Stormy’s song made him warm, then how could he be a crazy?

  “You got the best song, Stormy,” Dan whispered, pushing his chest against Stormhammer’s warm scales. “Dragons so good—.”

  “What you doin’ huggin’ that gun, Eadle?” a rough voice growled behind him.

  Everything vanished at once.

  Stormy’s song, his music, his warmth—bang and gone just like that. The icy cold rushed back like silent dark.

  “Master Falmon, sir!” Little Dan yelped, jumped, spun, banged his sore elbow again, nearly fell off his box as he tried to salute. “Sorry, sir! Master Falmon, sir! I—I was just—. I—I’m sorry, sir!”

  Dan wobbled, steadied himself on his box, stood tall, saluted, fist across his chest, spat on his rag, and started polishing Stormy like mad, even though he’d just cleaned that same spot not two moments ago.

  Master Falmon grunted and walked up to Stormhammer. He carried an iron lantern. He looked Dan over with his one good eye. Master Falmon’s other eye was covered by a patch of old leather. A tattoo of a six-pointed sun, the Tarn’s symbol, marked the Master’s temple. The rest of the Master’s face was a mess, his nose smashed flat, his right nostril nothing but a slit. His good eye was mostly closed by another big scar that ran from the top of his head to his jaw. His white hair was shaved short. His hands were twisted and bent, his knuckles busted by a thousand fights. Crazy Bill, one of Little Dan’s pals, sometimes made fun of Master Falmon when the Master wasn’t around. But not Little Dan. No, sir! That wasn’t a good game, and Dan knew better. One of the most important rules: Never make fun of another soldier.

  Master Falmon hung his lantern from an iron hook, gave Stormhammer a pat—and stopped short, keeping his palm on the cannon for a long moment.

  Then he looked down at Dan.

  “What you been doin’ down here, boy?”

  “Cleaning, sir!” Dan yelled as he cleaned, not looking up. “Working! Soldier’s duty! Every day, that’s the way! Sorry, sir! Clean, clean, clean—makes our guns mean, mean, mean!”

  Master Falmon didn’t say anything, but he kept his hand on Stormy’s side for a while. When Dan glanced up, Master Falmon was looking at him, a weird look on his face.

  “Cleaning?” Master Falmon asked.

  “Cleaning! Yes, sir!” Dan swallowed and nodded. “Every day, sir! Best way, sir! Cleaning! That’s what Little Dan does! Yes, sir! Master Falmon, sir!”

  “Hmm.” Master Falmon said. He didn’t say anything for a bit. Then he nodded. “The cannon masters and war adepts’ll need him at six bells. Some tests this morning. He gonna be ready? Big day, day after tomorrow.”

  Little Dan turned, stood straight on his box, and hollered at the top of his lungs, “Yes, sir! Master Falmon, sir!” Then he saluted again, remembered that he’d already saluted not a moment before, blinked, and turned back to his cleaning. One good thing about Master Falmon was that the Master was fair. He could be hard, but he was fair, too. If you did a good job for Master Falmon, then you were good.

  “You finish Oblivion?” Master Falmon asked.

  “Yes, sir! Master Falmon, sir!” Dan shouted as he cleaned, not looking up. The light from Master Falmon’s lantern made Oblivion’s lion shadow wobble.

  “Very well,” Master Falmon said. “Keep to it.”

  Little Dan nodded and kept polishing. You can do it, soldier. The good part was that he wasn’t cold anymore, not a bit. The bad part was that his elbow was real sore where he’d banged it, and his shoulder had been ouchy already—.

  Master Falmon turned and said, “Lord Michael, Lord Doldon, they’re ready.”

  Little Dan’s hair stood on end.

  The High Lords of the Tarn!

  Dan took a breath, swallowed, looked up a moment, then remembered to keep his head down, to keep working.

  He hadn’t heard them come in.

  But now, right there in Stormy’s side, he could see their reflections.

  The Lords of the Tarn.

  Lord Michael and Lord Doldon.

  You knew it was Lord Michael because of his black clothes. He was the best fighter in the Kingdom, he always wore black, and he could kill you just by looking at you. Sisters’ truth. Lord Doldon, he was Lord Michael’s brother. He was a little taller and a little bigger, but he wasn’t as good a fighter. Lord Doldon was the one in charge of the Tarn’s walls, and towers, and guns, other stuff like that. He was always down here.

  Dan risked another peek over his shoulder and saw that the High Lords weren’t alone. Behind Lord Michael was a black-haired lady in silver armor with a silver sword hanging from her belt. Dan had never seen her before. Beside the black-haired lady, there was a bald, purple dwarf. The Tarn’s six-pointed sun was tattooed in white on the dwarf’s forehead and a little blue dragon sat on his shoulder. On the other side of the black-haired lady, there was another lady, but this lady had blond hair and wore it in a ponytail. The blond lady carried a long case like a rifleman would, and a big, grey dog sat next to her, the biggest dog Dan had ever seen. Behind that lady was big Captain Colj. Dan didn’t know those ladies and that dwarf, but he did know Captain Colj. Yes, sir! Captain Colj was one of the Tarn’s Captains of the Guard. He was an ogre, of course, so he was about twice as tall as Lord Doldon, twice as wide,
and thick, like a tree. Captain Colj wore a giant suit of ogre-sized armor and carried a huge iron lantern. Everyone knew Captain Colj.

  “Guns are looking good,” Lord Doldon said. He stepped toward Stormy. His voice was deep and friendly. Then he stepped closer, right beside Dan, and patted Stormy on the nose. “Very good.”

  Master Falmon grunted.

  “What’s wrong, Falmon?” Lord Doldon chuckled. He patted Stormy again. “Come on. Look at him shine. He’s perfect. Don’t think big fella’s ever looked better. Even you’ve got to admit that.”

  Dan’s ears went warm. He tried to work harder. Every day’s a day to do better! Yes, sir! But he was polishing so hard, it felt like his arm was gonna fall off, and his darn elbow was killing him. So he bit his lip, blinked, and kept polishing.

  “It’s not that,” Master Falmon muttered.

  It went quiet.

  Nobody said anything.

  Then Lord Michael said, “It always seems wrong to bring these great weapons to bear against our own. Is that not so, Falmon?”

  Little Dan didn’t really understand what Lord Michael meant, but he could feel something inside his words. Lord Michael’s voice was way softer than Lord Doldon’s, but it filled up the whole room, like magic. Without thinking, Dan stopped polishing and looked at Lord Michael. He couldn’t help himself. Lord Michael seemed real sad and real tired, but also real angry. There was something in his eyes, too, something Dan could see but couldn’t quite understand, like falling into a dark hole. The little blue dragon squeaked. The purple dwarf fed it a scrap of meat, then wiped his fingers on a napkin tucked into his belt.

  Then Dan noticed Captain Colj looking at him. There was a strange look on Captain Colj’s big ogre face. Dan knew he should be working. But he’d never seen the Tarn’s Lords this close before. And he’d probably never see them like this again. And with Lord Michael’s voice, you just had to listen. Little Dan couldn’t have stopped listening, even if he wanted to.

  Lord Michael gestured again at Stormy. “Does it not seem wrong to bring this living fire against our own?”

  “As you say,” Master Falmon grunted. “They’re our men, my Lord.” He glanced at the black-haired lady in the silver armor. “No matter what some may say.”

  The black-haired lady frowned. “You make no distinction between a man who remains loyal to your Lord and King, Master Falmon, and a man who betrays him?” Her voice was hard. Dan didn’t understand what she meant exactly, but there was something scary in her voice. “You see no difference between a man who fights for the Realm and a man who fights against it? You surprise me.”

  “Don’t lecture me on loyalty, Captain Dyer,” Master Falmon growled. “I’ve spent as much time on Dávanor as you have, quite a bit more, in fact. And, again, I say: Those are our men out there. All of ‘em. Whether they serve Dorómy or Bellános, Lion or Fox, each man, each death, is our loss. That’s been true of every civil war there’s ever been. No different here.”

  The black-haired lady—Captain Dyer, Master Falmon called her—made like she was going to say something else, but Lord Michael raised his hand and stopped her.

  “Agreed, old friend,” Lord Michael said. “Agreed. But Ruge and his sons, the others—Serán, Carole, Shu, Taverly, all of them—they’re more than our men. They’re our comrades, our brothers-in-arms. For this reason we fight: ‘Not against our friends or enemies—but for the truth that is the Silver Kingdom, for the truths that are the Kingdom’s High Laws, for the truth that is Remain.’ And day after tomorrow, Great Sisters protect us, we’ll end this fighting for a time, give ourselves pause to bring friends back to the fold. Give a chance, perhaps, for lasting peace.”

  “Speak my own teachings back to me, eh?” Master Falmon said.

  “They’re all I know,” Lord Michael said. He looked so tired. “In any case, the cannon look excellent. Pass our thanks to your teams. How’re our adepts?”

  “Exhausted,” Master Falmon said. “Can’t ask much more of ‘em, my Lord. Some have got a couple days left, some a couple weeks—and that’s with the limited fire they’re giving now. They need proper rest.” The Master glanced at Stormy and Oblivion. “And if the big guns see action during parley, Great Sisters forbid . . . .”

  “How’re your shifts running now?” the purple dwarf asked. Dan knew that the war adepts sang with the big guns in “shifts,” just like cleaners worked in shifts, but he also knew that the adepts didn’t sing as much as they used to, because they were so tired. The big guns were tired, too.

  “Fair question, Zar.” Master Falmon adjusted his eye patch and touched the scar on his forehead. “We had adepts moving through every six bells up until two weeks ago, but we didn’t have the manpower to keep up the pace—especially with Ruge throwing everything he has at us day and night. So, we moved them to a four-bell rotation a week ago. Hasn’t helped. In fact, made it worse.” He shook his head. “It’s not the time on the guns that’s the issue. It’s that there’s no time off. And even if we had fresh adepts, the guns themselves are exhausted. It’s a mess. Stormhammer and Oblivion have plenty left, but we need to save them, should something real come up.”

  “Can we bring fresh guns through from Anor or Espónyo?” the purple dwarf, Zar, asked. “What of Dávanor?” He fed his little dragon another scrap of meat.

  Master Falmon nodded. “Lord Nor and Lady Dontaigne sent everything they could a year ago. They’re under siege themselves; Dontaigne is pressed with force. And Khondus sent us everything Dávanor could spare two months back.” Master Falmon cocked his head at Captain Dyer. Then he looked at Lord Michael. “We’re out-manned and out-gunned. We’re driving our adepts to their graves.” He gestured at Stormy and Oblivion. “We’ve got these two left, my Lords. That’s it. We must have peace.”

  Lord Michael looked from Master Falmon to Lord Doldon.

  “Hard to disagree, Michael.” Lord Doldon frowned. “Not sure what the plan is, but I do know we can’t keep this up. Two years since the siege began. Don’t know if we need peace, but we do need time. Time to recover.”

  Captain Colj listened to all of this very carefully, like he was paying special attention to all the words. Captain Dyer frowned. The blond lady with the rifleman’s case shivered and crossed her arms, like she was trying to stay warm. The big grey dog lay his big head on top of her boot.

  “If parley doesn’t work,” Master Falmon continued, “if we can’t reach an understanding, then we’ve got near nothing left. And without our great cannon, it’ll just be Garen’s trees. And when they go, Ruge can storm the Long Bridge whenever he wills. We won’t hold. The Tarn will fall.”

  “The Tarn will never fall,” Captain Dyer said. Her voice chilled Dan to the bone. “Not while we’re here.”

  Master Falmon made to speak, but Lord Doldon was there first. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “I agree with the sentiment, Anna. And I applaud you and Dagger and your squads. But the mathematics—they’re real. Dorómy’s forces outnumber us ten to one. That ratio changes daily and not in our favor. If we knew that Lord Jor was in-bound with his army, as he promised, then we might be able to wait, to hold, but where is he?” Lord Doldon looked at Lord Michael. “Dorómy moves in earnest, Michael. We now face his very best. At least two battalions of the Silver Guard were spotted a week ago, on their way in. Those boys know how to fight, and they’re not afraid to die—.”

  “And they’re fanatically loyal to Dorómy,” the blond lady with the ponytail added. It was the first time Dan had heard her voice. It was soft and beautiful.

  Captain Colj nodded slowly.

  Master Falmon said, “That’s right, Lady Kyla.” He looked at Lord Michael. “We just heard that parts of the Fourth, Ninth, and Twentieth Legions were moving up. They might be here already.”

  “I heard that, too.” Lord Doldon nodded. “But moving up from where?”

  “Still looking.” Master Falmon shrugged. Then he glanced at Lord Michael and Lord Doldon. “Maybe time to get James back
, send him out to see. Any news from him?

  Lord Doldon shook his head. “James is the one brother who truly marches to his own drummer.”

  “Truth.” Master Falmon nodded. He looked at Lord Michael. “Might be time to consider alternatives, my Lord.”

  “Such as?” Captain Dyer asked.

  “Not my place to say, Captain.” Master Falmon looked at her. “But I can tell you this: Sometimes you can’t kill your way out of a problem.”

  “You sure about that?” Captain Dyer asked.

  Beside her, the blond lady, Lady Kyla, closed her eyes.

  “I’m sure,” Master Falmon growled. “And you’d be sure, too, if—.”

  “Enough,” Lord Michael said softly. His tired eyes were dark, but something moved in the air when he spoke. “Save that talk until after our next days’ efforts. My father has given orders. Preparations for parley will continue. The command of the High King will be followed—to the letter.”

  Captain Dyer and Master Falmon bowed. Lord Michael nodded at Captain Colj. The group started walking away from the cannon, out of the armory, back the way they’d come. The big grey dog snorted, snuffled to his feet, and padded after them.

  “Master Falmon,” Lord Michael said as they walked away. “I understood you wanted to show me something in the lower vaults.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” Master Falmon answered. “For Colj. For parley.”

  “So Colj will serve as Garen’s honor guard?” the blond lady, Lady Kyla, asked.

  “Yes, Ky,” Lord Michael answered.

  Zar said, “Sensible choice.” The little dragon squeaked from his shoulder.

  “You know, Falmon,” Lord Doldon said as they walked out the door. “Couldn’t you have taught Garen a bit more about—I don’t know—fighting? Isn’t that what weapon masters do?”

  Master Falmon grunted. “Boy always liked his books and beakers better than honest bullets and blades.”

  Lord Doldon laughed.

  Nobody else did.