by Peter Fane
Michael looked from Yates to Doldon. “What would General Taverly trade for the life of his only daughter?”
“The location of the Pretender’s Gate?” Doldon grinned.
Yates’s eyes gleamed.
Michael nodded. The Vordan seemed to writhe in his hand. He looked at Doldon. “Did you wake Garen?”
Doldon shook his head. “I saw no need. Not yet, at least.”
“Good. I’ll speak to Lady Taverly first.”
Doldon nodded. Michael turned to Yates. “Have her ready for questioning. Meet me there in half a bell.”
“My Lords.” Yates bowed again and turned to go.
“Yates,” Michael said, stopping him. “What did Toller say about her, when he brought her in?”
“That he’d taken a prisoner. That he thought she was of high value.”
“That’s all?”
“Aye, my Lord.”
“Toller doesn’t know who she is?”
“No, my Lord. Don’t see how he could.”
“Who else knows that she’s here, who she is?”
“You, me, Lord Doldon, couple of the wardens down there, Filip Toller and his lads.”
“Let’s keep it that way.”
“Aye, my Lord.” Yates bowed and left.
“Interesting news.” Doldon scratched the side of his jaw.
Michael waited until Yates had turned the far corner, then he nodded. “Indeed. Dorómy’s Gate cannot be far, not with the pressure Vymon Ruge brought to bear, not with his new arrivals reaching the front so quickly. If Taverly can be persuaded to provide proper intelligence, we could move soon, by the end of the week, even. We don’t have Lord Jor’s reinforcements. But most of our dragons are intact, and we do have an unstoppable new weapon.”
Doldon nodded. But Michael could see something in his brother’s eyes, something like concern.
A hint of impatience stirred at Michael’s center, and he tried to quell it. The Vordan was cold in his hand. Within the family, Doldon was his most trusted ally. In a fight, there could be nobody better. They were more than brothers; they were best friends. More to the point, Doldon hated their uncle Dorómy almost as much as Michael did himself. Their positions were thus totally congruent.
“Something bothering you, brother?” Michael asked.
Doldon blinked, inclined his head, then looked both ways down the hallway to be sure they were unobserved. He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Just wondering how you’re doing, that’s all. Haven’t really had time. It got pretty close there.”
It took Michael a moment to suppress an irritated sigh. There was no time for this. “Indeed. But we pushed through. And now we have this good news. It is time to act.”
Doldon nodded, but then continued, oblivious to Michael’s annoyance. “How’s Anna?” he asked. “The Davanórians took it on the chin today. Over a hundred and fifty dragons and riders, dead. Anna lost—.”
“She’s a soldier,” Michael cut him off. “And the enemy paid for it.”
“Yes.” Doldon nodded. It looked like he was about to say something else, but then he stopped himself.
Michael took a deep breath. He loved Doldon—he loved all of them. But sometimes, it could be maddening. “Out with it, Doldon. Yates is waiting.”
Once again, Doldon looked down the hallway. “Some of the Davanórians are saying we suppressed the intelligence on the enemy’s great cannon, their strength and placement. Zar asked me about it. Unofficially, privately.”
Michael took another deep breath. “What did you say?”
“That it was nonsense, of course. But they do know we asked Anna to wait on her assault, to time it correctly. There’s a rumor that she ordered the Sundaggers and some of the other riders to stand down, to be held in reserve.”
Cold fury blossomed in Michael’s heart, but he laughed. “All these rumors, this cursed second guessing—after the fact, after I deliver one of the most crushing victories in recent memory. I wonder what they’d say if I’d lost?”
Doldon looked down at the floor. Michael was overcome with a sudden urge to grab his brother and shake his brains loose. How could he not see? The Vordan began to coo at his side, a kind of dark longing pushing through his hand and arm, into his heart. Doldon seemed not to hear it.
And suddenly, Michael was tired.
Just so tired.
He tried to take a deep breath, but it hitched in his chest and Doldon looked up, something like alarm on his face.
“Michael—,” Doldon began.
Michael looked up. At his gaze, Doldon shut his mouth.
“Brother,” Michael said. “There is much more to do. We’re close to the end of this. I know you feel it, too. It’s hard. There’s nothing harder. But we can’t wait, we can’t stop, and we most certainly cannot waste our time listening to these weaklings who would idly gossip while the Kingdom burns. We must end this, now.”
“Yes, Michael. I know, of course. I—.”
Michael raised his hand, a dark kind of spinning coming into his mind. “Zar asked if we knew about Dorómy’s big guns. Of course, we did not. But why don’t they ask where those guns came from? Why don’t they ask whence Dorómy recruited his battle mage? Our traitor uncle seeks aid from the darkest of quarters, yet my decisions are questioned, my reasoning is doubted? Was I not there, at the tip of the spear? Was my own life not forfeit to protect our people, our home, our family? I am no madman, brother. I never wanted this. I do not risk my own life or the lives of my men without cause. This is war. And it is my war now. And I will act as needed. We can have no doubt and we cannot wait. Great Sisters, how can this not be clear?!”
Doldon nodded, looked him in the eye, but said nothing. He looked like he was ashamed, and Michael was overcome by a strange split within his own heart: He wanted to hug his brother close, to tell him that he loved him—and choke the life out of him in the same moment. At his side, the Vordan whispered sweetly.
Michael closed his eyes, willed himself to calm. “Do you remember when we were kids, you were ten, I was eleven? Mother and Father had hired that sculptor from Aradan?”
Doldon nodded. “Tarana Glenfeld. I think I was in love.”
Michael nodded. “You spent all that time, working on that figure of an ogre, a big warrior of Jallow. You built the maquette and got that set. Then you built the armature, and then you started working on the final piece. You were obsessed. I’d never seen you so excited about a project.”
“I was just trying to impress her.”
“When you were more than halfway done, you’d spent two weeks modeling that thing—.”
“It fell over.” Doldon laughed. “The table I’d set him up on had a bad leg. The whole cursed thing went down.”
“What did Mother do?”
Doldon looked up at him; his eyes were bright. He cleared his throat. “She helped me start over, from scratch, got me back to where I’d been in no time. She . . . she was in the workshop as much as I was.”
“She loved you, Doldon. She loved us all. In ways we could never understand in the moment.”
Doldon nodded.
Michael looked him in the eye. “And Dorómy killed her.”
Doldon blinked like he’d been slapped.
Michael continued quickly, his voice soft. “Just like he killed Eíra. Just like he killed Tomas. Just like he tried to kill Father. Dorómy doesn’t just want the Silver Throne. He wants the throne uncontested. He wants his family—our family—dead. So I ask you, brother—not from the heart, but from the head—from the perspective of cold, hard logic: What should our response be? Shall we wonder at Dorómy’s intent? Should we wait until his armies have reestablished themselves here on Kon? Shall we second guess ourselves and our allies at every turn? Should we wait for the siege to resume? Shall we offer our throats to be cut, one by one? Or do we fight? There’s no time for discussion, for delay, Doldon. Look me in the eye and tell me I’m wrong. Look me in the eye and tell me I’m a madman.”
“You’re right, Michael.” Doldon’s voice came. “Of course, you are. You’re right. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I knew Yates was coming. Thought I’d see how you were.”
Michael blinked. Then he nodded, put on his best smile, and stepped forward, pounding his brother on the back, then pushing him away. “I can always count on you, brother. I know that. Now go and get some rest yourself; you earned it. You even been to bed yet?”
Doldon smiled sheepishly. “Almost.”
Michael forced himself to laugh. “Well, get going. I’ll see you in council chambers at the seventh bell.”
Doldon smiled. “Need anything else? Want me down there when you talk to Jane?”
“No.” Michael shook his head. “I don’t need a thing—other than for you to get some rack time. I’ll want to talk to Filip Toller sometime tomorrow, to hear more about Jane’s capture. I think I have another assignment for him. But that can wait.”
“Very well.” Doldon nodded. “Tomorrow, brother.”
“Tomorrow.”
Doldon turned and walked down the passage, his wide back seeming to fill the hallway.
Michael stepped back inside his bedroom and shut the door. He sat on his stool, pulled on his boots and pants. Yates would be waiting below with Jane Taverly. He nodded to himself, then drew the Vordan from its sheath and quickly wiped the black blade with a red silk cloth. It cooed at his touch, so he spent a few extra moments on it, working its smooth surfaces from point to pommel stone. The dark stone did not shine, but it did feel good to clean it; it was about the size of a large egg and fit his palm perfectly—although there’d been moments during the last few months when he’d thought it had grown . . . .
Suddenly, Michael had never felt so exhausted.
Even more tired than a few moments before.
He shut his eyes and continued to polish the Vordan.
Perhaps, this new business could wait—just a few bells.
He was so tired.
We thirst. The cold voice came. All of us.
“I know,” he said absently, forcing his eyes open. “I know.”
The Vordan purred and swelled under his touch, its icy surfaces so beautiful, so cold.
Michael shut his eyes.
And then he breathed a single word, a single word not entirely his own, a word so soft that only the sword could hear, an exhausted whisper, a poem to a lover.
“Soon.”
EPILOGUE
DEEP ASLEEP, DEEP in that glorious sleep that comes only to the truly exhausted, Little Dan dreamed.
And it was absolutely wonderful.
His bed was fresh and warm. His pillow was fluffy and clean. His belly was full. And he had his box. Yes, sir! Right beside him. It was the perfect room and the perfect bed—the perfect place for dreaming the very best dreams.
In this dream, Dan sat next to Stormy on a green hilltop under a strange tree on a warm summer day. A sparkling blue creek wound its way through the grass below, trailing off toward a little village, happy smoke rising from its chimneys. Below him on the green hillside, a herd of wooly sheep bleated; above, a little silver bird sat singing in the tree. The breeze smelled of hay and flowers and sunshine. Beside him, Stormy was quiet—at peace, at last. Every so often, Dan would reach up and give the big boy a little pat on his side. Then he’d look over the fields and let the golden sun pour into his bones and warm his toes while he listened to the silver bird’s song. Did it ever feel good! Yes, sir! There was something darker over there, an angry thundercloud on the horizon, but it was a long way off. Besides, Stormy had earned this. It was alright to take the day together, to spend the time.
Dan sat with Stormy like that for a long while, until an ogre came from across the field and walked up the green hill toward them. It wasn’t Captain Colj or any of the other ogres Dan knew, but that didn’t matter.
Dan waved and yelled, “Up here, sir! Sure is fine! Yes, sir! Mighty fine up here!”
The ogre came up, nodded to Dan, and sat down on the other side of Stormy, resting his huge ogre elbows on his huge ogre knees. Then he leaned back and closed his eyes, warming himself in the sun. The big ogre looked a bit like Captain Colj, but it wasn’t him. Dan patted Stormy, rested his elbows on his knees exactly like the ogre did, and enjoyed himself. It felt so good. Sun warm and bright against your face, the gentle breeze just perfect, the smell of green everywhere.
“This sure is the best up here, ain’t it?” Dan asked, keeping his eyes shut. The sunlight was red and warm against his eyelids.
The ogre didn’t say anything but instead gave a deep, satisfied grunt.
“Yeah.” Dan nodded. “The best. The very best.”
For a long time, they didn’t say a thing.
Stormy didn’t say anything, either.
Then the ogre sat up and gave a big, ogre-sized yawn.
“I’m tired, too.” Dan yawned and looked over at the ogre. “I’m gonna sleep like a baby tonight, for sure! Are you sleepy?”
The ogre looked at him for a long moment. Then he smiled his big ogre smile, put his hand on Stormy’s side, and closed his eyes.
And then the ogre started to hum.
The sound was low and deep, a big rumbling sound from his big ogre chest.
Dan blinked.
The ogre kept humming, not opening his eyes.
Dan sat there, looking at the ogre. Then he reached out, put his little hand on Stormy’s huge side, bowed his head, and listened to the ogre’s deep song.
There was something in the song that Dan recognized.
Something simple and pure and good.
Something sad and true and holy.
A song to himself, from himself, from his own heart:
Rest well, dear child, you have done your work. Tomorrow will come, and you will do your best. Have no worries, for you are true. In this land of dreams, you will always be welcomed, you will always be safe, and you will always be loved. Your song is no song of war or killing or blood, it is a song of peace and hope and joy, of green grass and tall trees and gleaming silver memories. You have earned this rest, dear child. Enjoy the calm. Enjoy it deeply. For you are true, dear child, you are true.
In his new bed, Dan nuzzled deeper into his pillow, a slight smile touching his face, sinking warm into the music’s gentle rhythm, losing himself at last within the very best of dreams and the song the ogre sang.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Deepest thanks are due Cari J., Erika J., Erin M., Heidi G., Jaiman W., Jen K., Kari M., Kelsey D., Matt C., Nikoli F., Patty D., Robert K., Robert R., Ron P., Shell S., and Tamara W., for their generosity, criticism, support, encouragement, and faith. High Ladies and Lords of Remain, the Kingdom and its peoples salute you.
Extra special thanks are also owed to a tough squadron of young Legionnaires who reviewed this book at an early stage: Archer G., Gentry N., Lisa X., Thomas W., and Trygve R.. Let it be known throughout the Realm: The next generation of the Remain’s elite fighting force is blessed with warriors of the highest quality—smart, dedicated, and fierce.
Finally, the Kingdom of Remain would not exist without the love and friendship of the following warriors and poets: Anna S., Aurora M., Cady R., Christina J., Darcie D., Eugene L., Jesse H., Kan L., Kelsey, D., Liz N., Elizabeth P., Mari H., Mark E., Olga P., Roger S., Ruth S., Tianhua X., Tom M., Travis K., William S., Vanessa H., and Zach F. I have not the words—so these, I borrowed: Πάς γοῦν ποιητής γίγνεται οὗ ἂν ἀγάπη ἅ
ψηται.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Peter Valerianos Fane served in the Silver Legion’s artillery corps for over forty years, rising to the rank of Peer Colonel under High Lords Bellános and Dorómy Dallanar. His most well-known actions took place on Colodóx, Batládea, and Ebum—all in the service of the High House of Remain. In retirement, Colonel Fane spends the majority of his time on the great library world of Genonea, where he lectures on military theory, ancient Davanórian war poetry, and moral philosophy. He winters at his clan’s hereditary estate on Egáton with his wife, his family, and a small flock of messenger dragons.
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This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE SONG THE OGRE SANG
Copyright © 2018 by Peter Fane
All rights reserved.
Published by Silver Goat Media, LLC, Fargo, ND 58108. This publication is protected by copyright, and permission should be obtained from the publisher prior to any reproduction, storage in a retrieval system, or transmission in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or likewise. SGM books are available at discounts, regardless of quantity, for K-12 schools, non-profits, or other educational institutions. To obtain permission(s) to use material from this work, or to order in bulk, please submit a written request to Silver Goat Media, LLC, PO Box 2336, Fargo, ND 58108, or contact SGM directly at: [email protected].