The Song the Ogre Sang

by Peter Fane

  Dan watched as they left.

  When they were gone, he turned back to his work—and started polishing as hard as he could. His elbow was sore, his shoulder hurt, and it was gonna be worse in the morning, but he couldn’t stop.

  “Not now,” he whispered to himself.

  How could he stop?

  Never in his whole life had his work been more important.

  Master Falmon was counting on him.

  The High Lords were counting on him.

  The High King was counting on him.

  And they were all counting on Stormy, too.

  “We gotta do good for ‘em, Stormy,” Dan said, polishing harder than ever, his elbow really hurting now. “We can do it. Gotta do right by ‘em. You hear me, Stormy? Gotta do good. You hear me?!”

  Dan realized that he was yelling at Stormy and stopped.

  A big step came from behind him. The orange glow of lantern light.

  Dan turned.

  It was Captain Colj.

  The big ogre captain was standing there, looking down at him, holding his big lantern, a strange look in his deep ogre eyes. He was enormous. One of his ogre hands was bigger than Little Dan’s whole chest. His ears were slightly pointed. His big head was almost as big as Little Dan’s whole body. The light from his lantern shone in his silver armor and made a giant ogre shadow behind him.

  Dan swallowed, bowed his head, and closed his eyes.

  He was just so tired.

  “Should’ve gone to bed, stupid,” he whispered to himself.

  He hadn’t meant to yell at Stormy.

  Stormy was his best friend. For truth.

  “I’m sorry, Captain Colj, sir,” Dan said, keeping his head down. “Forgive me, sir. I—I know my work, sir. I—. Please. I’m a good soldier. I’m not a . . . well, it won’t happen no more like that, sir. I won’t yell like that no more. I work harder. I work way harder from now on. Please, sir.”

  And then, not sure what he was doing, Little Dan turned back to his job and started polishing again, waiting for the punishment to come. He didn’t look up. He didn’t know how giant ogre captains punished bad workers, but he was scared out of his wits to find out.

  “You just take it, soldier,” Dan whispered as he polished. “You take it, boy.”

  But Captain Colj didn’t do anything or say anything.

  Dan kept polishing.

  After for a long time, Captain Colj said, “There is an ancient story we tell on Jallow. It was a favorite of my son, Saj. Before death found him. It cannot be told in your tongue. But I will share it, all the same.”

  Dan didn’t look up. He didn’t understand what Captain Colj meant, but he did know that he had to keep going, that he had to show Captain Colj he was a good soldier. Dan was tired, sure. But everyone got tired. Soldier’s life. One of the rules.

  “Every day’s a day to do better,” he whispered. “Every day, like today. Every day, there’s a way.” Besides, if he didn’t understand Captain Colj’s words, then he might as well just shut his stupid mouth and work.

  Then Captain Colj started talking.

  But he was talking like Dan had never heard before.

  Dan didn’t know any of these ogre words. Not one. The sound was like rocks crunching together in some old gorge. But it was nice, too, Dan realized.

  And as Dan listened, it seemed to him like the grumbling words also had a kind of music inside them, like an ogre song all their own.

  Captain Colj talked for a while, and as he talked, Dan kept his head down and worked.

  Then Captain Colj finished talking. He waited for a moment, then he took off one of his huge armored gloves, put his big hand on Stormy’s side, and closed his eyes.

  And then Captain Colj started to hum. It was real low and rumbly, a big sound from his big ogre chest.

  Dan looked up and stared.

  Captain Colj kept on humming, not opening his eyes.

  Dan stood there, blinking.

  Then he reached out, put his hand on Stormy’s side, bowed his head, and listened to the ogre’s deep song.

  Dan had never heard anything like it before.

  But, no.

  That wasn’t true.

  There was something in the ogre’s song that Dan did know. Something Little Dan could almost understand—.

  And then Captain Colj stopped humming.

  Dan opened his eyes, blinked, and looked up.

  Captain Colj was looking down at him.

  After a moment, Captain Colj said, “Well done.”

  His ogre voice was so deep.

  Dan swallowed, then nodded. He didn’t know what to say, or if he should say anything at all. And his elbow was killing him, so he just nodded again.

  “Finish your work,” Captain Colj said. “Get some sleep.” Captain Colj looked at Stormy. “In two days, you will face battle together.”

  Little Dan stared, then blinked.

  What did it mean?

  Captain Colj looked down at Dan for another long moment. “I will see to it. You will be tested. You will face battle together. You have my word, little soldier.”

  Then the ogre turned and left, his armored footsteps slow and strong and deep.

  Little Dan watched him go.

  Then he yawned, gave Stormy one last wipe, and packed his box, made sure everything was just so.

  “Goodnight, Stormy.” Dan patted Stormy’s side. “I go to bed now. You be good down here. See you tomorrow.”

  Stormhammer didn’t answer.

  But his great dragon eye followed Little Dan all the way to the door.

  4

  ABOUT A BELL earlier, in one of the Tarn’s underground firing ranges—a long storage cavern that only recently had been converted to training space on account of the siege—fourteen-year-old Kyla Dallanar adjusted the coon skin muffs at her ears, sighted down the barrel of her carbine, and did her best to ignore the sloppy snorts and snuffles of Bruno, her cloud mastiff, who snored on the ground beside her. Kyla was envious. The giant war dog could sleep like the dead.

  “All right.” She pushed a lock of blond hair from her face and snugged her carbine into her shoulder. “Let’s try for perfection.”

  Kyla’s shooting posture was a classic one, that of a standing marksman. In terms of accuracy, it was the most challenging rifleman’s stance: leather boots shoulder-width apart, weight on the balls of your feet, back slightly bent, stomach muscles tight. Unlike a prone or kneeling firing position, a standing posture demanded that all stability come from the soldier herself. There was nothing to lean against; you were entirely on your own.

  At the center of her carbine’s sight, Kyla held her target: a cracked clay jug at the far end of the range, a little over one hundred paces distant. The jug rested on a wooden beam set against an earthen berm, lit by a pair of oil lamps. Filip Toller had helped Kyla set up the range a couple of months ago. It’d been his idea to use the damaged vessels for target practice. Kyla smiled. Filip was practical like that, the son of Kelton Toller, one of the Tarn’s most experienced woodsmen, not prone to waste or embellishment. “Might as well get another use out of it.” Filip had shrugged in that simple way of his. When he spoke, he looked at her directly, his honest eyes the color of winter sky.

  Filip didn’t know it—and Kyla would never tell him, could never tell him—but his eyes had become quite important to her as of late, lights in the dark. More and more often, especially when he was gone on a mission or out on patrol, Kyla found herself thinking of Filip, his eyes, the rightness she saw therein. “You’re a better shot than me,” Filip had said last week as they’d practiced down here, the day before Kyla’s uncle, Garen, had sent Filip’s squad out yet again. “If Lord Garen asked me for our best sharpshooter, I’d tell him it was you.” And that was the thing about Filip. He didn’t say these things to compliment or to flatter. Kyla would have known it instantly. He said these things because they were true. And it was a relief to talk with someone—to be with someone—where you d
idn’t have to pretend, where you could just be who you were.

  Kyla took a deep breath, finger resting on trigger guard, the carbine’s contoured stock snug against her shoulder. “Shooting is an exercise in reason,” Master Falmon would always say. “An exercise in science.” Kyla agreed entirely. Her finger wouldn’t move until she was ready to destroy her mark. Her focus was pure, her trained awareness tunneling into absolute clarity of vision. The clay jug was all she could see, the center of everything, perfectly aligned. She would not miss.

  “Goodbye.” She let out her breath.

  Her finger moved smoothly on the trigger, and she fired.

  CRACK!

  The jug exploded.

  A perfect hit.

  And then—without warning, entirely of their own accord—her eyes filled with tears and her fingers went icy cold.

  And then, as usual, the anger came.

  Her hands trembled.

  Immediately, despite herself, Kyla imagined Garen—the young, brilliant, perfect scholar—standing there behind her, concerned, polishing his silver spectacles, worrying about his sensitive niece. And then, in the same vision, before she could stop it, Michael stepped up—the young, brilliant, perfect warrior—shaking his head, vexed by her shaking hands, troubled about her faculties as a soldier.

  Kyla frowned, set her carbine down on the firing table, and blinked the image away before the rest of the family could pile in. She rubbed her hands together. She was a better shot than any of them. And she had a cooler head, too.

  But none of that mattered.

  What mattered was that she had been at the range for almost a full bell now, that she had hit every target she’d set up—but that she still couldn’t get rid of the shakes. From his place on the floor, Bruno snuffled, looked up at the ceiling, yawned, and shook his big mastiff head, grey jowls and slobber flapping. A trained war dog, he hadn’t even twitched at the gun’s discharge. Now he stretched his muscly grey legs in front of him, stumpy tail moving slowly as he rolled onto his side and gave a deep, snuffling snore. Kyla massaged her frozen fingers, tried to push some warmth into them.

  What would Filip say if he was there? Would he take her cold hands in his? Warm them with his own? In her daydreams, his hands were always warm.

  And what would the family say about that? Kyla wondered. What would Michael say? What would Grandpa say? What would Nana say?

  Kyla already knew.

  “The Tollers are good people,” Nana had nodded kindly a couple months ago. “The most loyal of servants.” Key emphasis on “servants.”

  And that was the end of it.

  Filip might be “good people,” but he wasn’t good enough for her.

  Kyla shook her head and tried to push the thought away. Was it strange that she valued Filip’s company more than that of her own family? Not really, she realized. Filip never made her feel useless, never made her feel weak. When he was around, she just felt good.

  Maybe they could run away together? Leave this stupid siege, this pointless war behind. Flee for another duchy, one not wholly consumed by violence. Or maybe renounce her name and title altogether? Such a thing was not unprecedented. Take Filip to Gelánen, some other beautiful world, get married, leave the Tarn and its pressures and powers and responsibilities behind? Oh Sisters, wouldn’t it be wonderful? On the stone floor, Bruno snorted and gave another deep snore, his tail quivering in the midst of some pleasant dream.

  Kyla smiled.

  Because they were dreams. Sweet, but childish. Kyla knew her duty, she knew her place, and she knew her purpose. She was a High Lady of Remain. A Dallanar princess, the firstborn daughter of Tomas and Eíra Dallanar, first grandchild of High King and Queen Bellános and Adara Dallanar, a representative of the High Family of the Tarn, and potential heir to the Silver Throne. There were expectations. She’d been trained to meet them. And she did meet them. And she would continue to meet them. Regardless of where her foolish heart might look in the deep of the night.

  She wiped her carbine down with a soft cloth. There were many reasons she came down to the range so late, it wasn’t just that she couldn’t sleep—she hadn’t slept well in a year. One of the reasons was that she knew what was wrong. She knew why her hands went cold, why despite all her training they trembled and shook. She knew why she found herself blinking back tears that came for no reason. Garen, Michael, Doldon, Nana, Grandpa, even James—the rest of them—they all knew what was wrong, too.

  My family is killing itself.

  The truth. Plain and simple.

  But they were horrible at talking about it.

  And everybody knew that the High Family was perfect anyway, so what was there to talk about, really? How could there be a problem with perfection? What was there to talk about when everything and everybody was always “excellent?”

  Never mind the fact that her perfect family also happened to have led the Realm into civil war, a war that had consumed the Silver Kingdom for over five years now. The irony would have been comical, if it weren’t for the horror of it all, the ceaseless death.

  But down here at the range, none of that seemed to matter. Mother, Father, and Master Falmon had taught her to shoot; they’d taught her the science of it, the tranquility of it. And even though Mother and Father were gone—Great Sisters sing their praises—target practice always made her feel closer to them, as strange as that sounded. Indeed, the high silver carbine with which she now practiced had been a gift from her parents a year ago, on her thirteenth birthday. “Nana and Garen did some extra work on its pedigree.” Father had winked at her as she’d unwrapped the gun’s polished case. “It was originally carried by Katherine the Second. Ancient, very special.” Mother had nodded, smiled, and taken up the thread. “Nana carried this very gun during her own rites of passage. Just like you will carry it, Ky. A weapon of storied lore. Use it well.” Regardless of the identity of its original owner, the carbine was a priceless gift. A gift fit for a queen. Ancient, indestructible, deadly—and worth more than a hardworking woodsman might make in ten lifetimes. The kind of gift given to someone of whom much is expected. The kind of gift that demanded something of the receiver. The kind of gift that was hard to live up to.

  And then, Mother and Father were gone.

  Just like that.

  Assassinated by Grandpa’s brother, Kyla’s great uncle, Dorómy Dallanar.

  Killed by the “Iron Lion.”

  Slain as they slept by cutthroats’ blades.

  Murdered by family.

  Her hands seemed to go colder still, the trembling worse than ever. She closed her eyes, concentrated on her breathing, on her trained awareness, allowed a lifetime of teaching to drop like a grid over her emotions. “You conquer the world when you conquer yourself,” Nana always said.

  A nice idea.

  But once again, the conclusion provided by Kyla’s clarity of mind was simple and absolute.

  My family is killing itself.

  So, yes.

  She knew what was wrong.

  Her family was perfect—perfect at tearing itself apart. The real mystery was how everyone else seemed to get on. Sometimes, it was almost like nothing had happened, like nothing was happening. Sometimes, when the family was together, especially at dinner, it was like her parents had never lived. Her father, High Lord Tomas Dallanar, firstborn son of Bellános Dallanar, High King of Remain, and rightful heir to the Silver Throne. Her mother, High Lady Eíra Dallanar, Duchess of Aradan Primu, a scholar and soldier of unmatched skill. Both slain as they slept by her Uncle Dorómy.

  Kyla closed her eyes, seeing the dinner scene at table. Even during the worst of the siege, Nana always insisted they make time to eat together. So they’d sit and they’d eat and they’d discuss the day’s action, the latest intelligence, the week’s logistics—and all Kyla wanted to do was to stand up, slam her goblet to the floor, and scream, “Don’t you people see! They’re gone! Who’s next? When will this thrice-cursed insanity end?” Even Tarlen and Susa
n, Kyla’s younger brother and sister, seemed to be moving on.

  It didn’t seem possible.

  Yet, there it was.

  Kyla frowned. It had been the same when her aunt, Kate, had left two years ago. Father and her uncle Michael had both been furious at first, near out of their minds at the rumors that their little sister had gone over to Dorómy, that the brilliant, young Lady Katherine Dallanar had betrayed them, that she had betrayed the Tarn, that she had betrayed family for family. Kyla herself had never believed it of Kate. But it hadn’t mattered, because—just like that—Kate’s leaving had passed, as if nothing had happened. Just another loss to the Great War. And everyone had just moved along, kept working, kept fighting, like perfect soldiers—as if Kate had never lived. Everyone except Nana, of course. Nana, as always, had just smiled and had folded Kyla into one of her big Nana-bear hugs. (While it was not common knowledge to her subjects, High Queen Adara Dallanar gave the most incredible hugs.) “Kate’s the best we have, dearest,” Nana had said. “Wherever she is, you can be sure she’s got good reason, that she acts for us and our well-being.” And for some reason, even though there’d been no real information in Nana’s words, the words had been enough.

  And now Kate had returned.

  Just like that. Kate was back as quickly as she had left. Kyla hadn’t seen her yet, but she couldn’t wait to talk to her, to hear everything.

  Kyla rubbed her hands together, took a deep breath, lifted her carbine again, sighted down range.

  Another little jug sat there, held once again by her sights.

  But now her hands really shook—jittery and off-target. And her breath was all wrong, too. She couldn’t seem to center, to find her balance.

  She took a deep breath, allowed training and muscle memory to take over. Then she aimed, let her breath out. “Goodbye.”

  CRACK!

  And destroyed her target.

  “Nice shot.” A clear voice came from behind her.

  Bruno snorted, eyes snapping open, his foggy grey fur shimmering like lightning in cloud, and then he quietly vanished from his place on the ground at Kyla’s feet with a puff of cave dust—PFT!—the sound like a pearl dropped on a pillow.