Songs for the Sacred and the Soulless

by Kameron Williams

  Tuskin swiped at another in his path, his axe clanging against a blade. He parried and swung again until his axe found flesh. Tuskin shot a glance to Ringo at his side: a swarm of men were trying to bring him down. Prince Hinrik could be seen not far from the man, knocked off his mount, attempting to stand as blood ran down his arm that was planted on the ground for support. Tuskin rushed and swept a man off his feet, hooking his axe around his ankle and giving the soldier a shove. He killed that man when he struck the ground, and he swiped at another who had made his way to Ringo’s back.

  Big Ringo only focused on protecting the prince, and since Tuskin didn’t see anyone protecting Ringo, he thought he’d take up the duty. For as he saw it, Ringo the Hammer was both his and Prince Hinrik’s key for getting out of the skirmish alive. He was bigger than both of them combined, with thick steel armor that would no doubt prevent a normal sized man from moving. He would also be taking the brunt of the attacks, being the most threatening on the field, and so opposing to look at that he drew much of the enemy’s attention.

  Tuskin was chopping away when he heard it, the sound of music, curious and strange. He began to think of how odd it was until he commanded himself to focus on the battle. But he couldn’t concentrate, not on fighting. It seemed he could focus on a dozen other things besides the fighting, like why they needed to be fighting, and how it had been his goal to avoid war instead of starting one. Ringo had nearly cleared the area where the prince struggled, and the few who remained backed away slowly and looked confused.

  Tuskin gazed around the battlefield and no one was fighting. Some were running, others were standing still and glancing around. Somethin’ strange is happening.

  Ringo turned slowly and looked at Tuskin. “I don’t think we should fight anymore.”

  Tuskin gazed back at the commander. He was wounded in several places but still standing strong, taller than any other man on the field and twice as wide.

  “Aye, me neither. But why?”

  Just then a camel galloped by and a Cyanan soldier called, “Retreat! Retreat! The king calls us all back! Retreat!”

  Tuskin ran to check on Hinrik, but Ringo had beaten him to it. The commander offered his shoulder to the prince after noticing a limp in the young man’s stride, but Hinrik would have none of it. He hobbled proudly at the commander’s side and ignored any offer of an arm or shoulder to lean on.

  King Dandil and Baram were mounted, leading the retreat. Tuskin was able to double-mount with a fellow soldier, and Ringo commandeered the horse of one of his soldiers to carry him and the prince, and made the man find another mount—or walk. They had gotten back to the encampment when the men and their king gathered around Dandil’s tent, discussing what they all thought happened, and what they all thought should happen next.

  “We can’t stay here!” a soldier called. “We’re only a few miles away. The enemy could circle back.”

  “They don’t have the numbers to beat us,” said another.

  Baram stood next to his king, glancing across at Tuskin, and then at Dandil beside him.

  “No, they don’t.”

  Tuskin knew what the man wanted to say, but he knew he wouldn’t do so in front of Dandil. It didn’t matter; someone else said it for him.

  “Then why did we retreat?”

  “We retreated because our king commanded it,” said Baram, sounding sure and stern, even though Tuskin didn’t believe the man really knew why. He didn’t imagine anyone knew why.

  “No,” the king finally spoke, hand on his chin and looking pensive. “He’s right. There was no reason to retreat. Yet I did.”

  “Did anyone hear it?” asked Tuskin.

  “I felt,” said Dandil, “I felt we needed to retreat.”

  “We need to pursue them or leave,” said Baram. “We cannot stay here.”

  “Did anyone hear it?” Tuskin asked again, this time louder.

  “Aye,” one called, “I heard a song.”

  “Aye,” called another. “I heard it too.”

  “As did we all!” called the prince, hobbling up between his father and Baram. “Did we not all hear that song?”

  A chorus of voices chimed their agreement, and a silence followed with an unspoken acquiescence: no one knew what had just happened, nor would anyone attempt to figure it out.

  Their eyes had looked lost, some bright with ideas that they would not name, others dim, possibly with the thought that something had just happened to them which they had no control of; but all held a look of confusion, whether slight or great. Still, they didn’t speak of it.

  The king still looked thoughtful, a hand cupped under his graying red beard.

  “Ringo, Baram, Tuskin, what do you advise?”

  The three men turned glances at one another. Ringo spoke first. “The castle is our goal, my king. The force we fought cannot beat us in the field.”

  “They have less than two hundred men,” added Baram. “Even less now.”

  Tuskin smiled. The two commanders’ thoughts were in accord with his own.

  “Let us keep to the castle,” he said. “But we need to move now. I doubt Banas will regroup and try his hand again, but if he does, let us be in the castle by then. Let ’em try takin’ the castle from us if they’re fool enough.”

  3

  Zar hadn’t been able to get away from them. A throng of scared women, naked and confused, huddled about him like a littler of wolf pups around their mother. He was sure it would be short-lived, though, for once he left the great hall and made his way out to the yard he’d be looking out for familiar faces, and when he found them they’d have the women calmed and clothed and on their way. He’d be keeping an eye out for Tuskin, Shahla, King Dandil or anyone who looked like a Cyanan; for anyone who didn’t, he had a sword for them.

  The stomping he had heard from below had been clear enough. Dandil’s army had stormed the courtyard, and it was the only reason he’d marched up from the castle basement so confidently. But the castle could still likely be under siege, and if Anza or Yari Thorn hadn’t yet been captured or killed, nothing was sure or finished. It wasn’t even Anza who he feared. Not really. It was the deadly archer, Yari Thorn. He had seen her skill with a bow, the immense trust Anza placed in her, and a shrewd skepticism and a generally bad attitude that had given Zar the feeling that she wasn’t one to fiddle about with. He’d imagined from the start, when the plan went wrong and he was made to join the Condor in their siege of Snowstone, that if he were to die amidst it all, it would be by an arrow from Yari Thorn. While it wasn’t a good thing to think about, as an intelligent man, astute, and with a healthy imagination, it’s the conclusion he had come to.

  If Anza still lived, it meant the Condor had hope, an ember of survival that could only be fanned back into a flame if their numbers permitted it. There would need to be a good number of Condor soldiers left for it to mean anything at all. If Yari Thorn lived, however, it likely meant death for whoever she saw without being noticed. He hoped someone had gotten rid of her and that she hadn’t escaped, or, even worse, hidden somewhere high like the Condor she was, waiting for the right time to fire her bolts down at them.

  She hadn’t seemed to Zar the type who feared to die, but rather, the type to attempt to dispatch as many of her enemies before she did. With this in mind, Zar stayed watchful; he didn’t want an arrow through his skull, nor Shahla’s, Tuskin’s, or even King Dandil’s. He slowed his step, lifted his sword, and looked every which way as he crept toward the castle doors.

  Zar stopped in his tracks, his naked adherents stopping with him, looking forward at the wooden castle doors tilted ajar. He could see someone through the space, the face of the one person he didn’t want to see, showing through the crack of the two castle doors pushed slightly forward. And she was talking to the other person he didn’t want to see.

  “Your Turagol army has come in time. The castle is ours.”

  He could see the vixen archer from the side, her wavy black hair, two quivers
crossing her back and sticking up over her shoulders. One left glance or turn would have her looking their way into the hall. The anxiety of that was enough, but the words she spoke were a whole other matter entirely.

  Turagol army?

  Zar didn’t pause another moment; he didn’t stop to think or look or breathe. He turned quickly from the doors and shifted to the right and made for the stairs. It was all fortune now—whether he made it out or not—good or bad fortune, luck or blessings or fate. He was certain he could move quickly and quietly enough to escape the place, but for the small crowd of followers that moved with him, he could make no promises. He would leave them if he had to—if he could, but the way it appeared now his fate was tied to theirs, and theirs to his own. If one of them were seen and discovered, they would all be.

  He shuffled up the stairs, not knowing what he’d run into, sword ready for whoever might still be lurking about. It was quiet, so quiet all he heard was the breathing of those who followed, a murmur here and a question there—questions he hadn’t meant to entertain until, “Clothes,” one said, and Zar’s mind sparked and flared.

  “Aye, clothes,” said Zar quietly. “Keep close and quiet. If anyone sees us, they will kill us all.”

  Zar didn’t believe it, but they would certainly kill him. He doubted Anza would put these innocent women to the blade; in fact, he was sure that she wouldn’t. But he didn’t feel too bad about the lie, for he had saved all their lives, and what better way to repay him than helping him escape the place?

  “Find the chambers of the queen and ladies of the castle,” Zar whispered. “Find their clothes. Bring them all to the top.” He motioned a thumb upwards.

  It was the first time they left his side since the basement, scurrying off into different rooms, moving awkwardly and quietly. A few covered their breasts and crotches as they tiptoed about, but most hadn’t the shame or pettiness to even bother. He wanted to keep them all together, since a plan had formed in his mind and it relied on them staying in a group. The more they split up, the higher the chance it was for someone to catch one of them unawares, and one scream or shout would send whatever army Anza had down there in the yard to come running back into the castle.

  First, he would clear the place. If anyone was still lurking on any of the floors, he wanted to find them before anyone else. If it was a soldier or two he could likely end things quick enough to remain unnoticed.

  Zar crept up the next few floors and searched. The only people he found there were of no concern at all. They were corpses. When he came to the floor of the king’s chamber, there were two corpses arranged in a scene that was too intimate for the dead. It was Prince Tharid, slain on the floor with an arrow through his back, and what must’ve been the body of Queen Thae on the ground beside him. Her clothes, fancily braided hair, pale face looking like a model for the prince—it must’ve been the queen. Her corpse faced the prince, their heads barely an inch apart, face to face with open eyes that seemed to look into the other’s. One of her hands rested on his face, and as Zar examined the wound in her back, he imagined she had crawled to her son with the last of her strength, wanting nothing more than to hold him one last time before she died.

  By the looks of it, Zar wagered that the two were likely as close in life as they were now in death, and he was taken aback for a moment looking down at the slain mother and son. He almost pitied them.

  Midday, Shahla thought. Tuskin said midday would be the perfect time. He’d insisted there’d be no way she’d be able to navigate the place at night so she shouldn’t even bother. The Condor were active in the early morning, he’d also advised, so she shouldn’t go then. But now, when the sun hung high in the sky was when they’d be most off guard, lounging in the crevices between the cliffs to escape the sun. Now is when she should be there. And so she was.

  “They won’t have no armor,” Tuskin had said. “Leather, leather, leather, too easy for your arrows to pierce. And all the mercenaries will be gone. She will leave only the hunters—if anyone at all—big, strong ones, aye, but not fighting men. They’ll be lookin’ formidable. They won’t be.”

  She had an arrow knocked, held against her bow in her left hand, index finger curled around the shaft to keep it there. She needed her other hand for balance. The way was almost as rough as Or, that deadly maze of cliffs she had scaled to put a coven of witches to their end. Still, Tuskin’s directions had made the place a lot easier to navigate, and he’d insisted that if she stuck to the route he’d drawn out she wouldn’t have to fear the cliffs. So far, he had been right; so instead of fearing a tumble from a high, steep cliff as she did in Or, she instead was on the lookout for others. Even if they weren’t mercenaries, the Condor who remained would still have the advantage of numbers and would no doubt be eager to defend their home. She had to be careful, but she’d be lying if she said the danger didn’t excite her.

  Shahla slipped a bit, and the tilt of the slope pushed her body downhill. A ledge she’d grabbed to help her down the incline had broken off, and she stumbled down to the bottom of the ridge, catching herself from toppling over by planting down her right arm. Her arrow was still set and knocked, and she looked over at a cliff up ahead, pointed the weapon, and drew and fired in an instant. The man had only seen her for a moment, striking stiff, eyes and mouth gaping open before the arrow plunged through his leather. His body curled forward, hunching over the shaft in his chest, and he fell from his feet and slid down the stone wall into the gorge below.

  Shahla slipped through the fissure past the freshly made corpse. The basin. The cells are in the basin. There was a cliff in her way up ahead, and according to Tuskin’s map, she had to climb over it. She had redrawn instinctively after she had shot down the Condor, but she knew she’d need both hands to scale the cliff up ahead. She reluctantly slipped the arrow back in her quiver.

  She reached up for the cliff’s wall, one hand grasping a ledge, and the other, a little higher up, securing itself around a knob of stone. She pulled herself up, her foot tucking into a pocket and giving her leverage. Pushing forward on her stomach, the incline was so steep it nearly felt vertical. Shahla began to think she had missed a path, for Tuskin had promised she wouldn’t have to do any serious climbing. Maybe he didn’t consider this serious climbing. After all, he used to be one of them. He used to be a Condor.

  But she made it up without too much trouble, and coming over the other side, the cliff ran down at an angle almost as steep as the way she’d come up. She started forward, immediately losing traction and sliding down swiftly until her feet hit a ridge of stone and stopped her. She decided she’d turn around and go down backwards, one step at a time, but just then the ridge crumbled away, and before she could blink, she was sliding again.

  Dust kicked up under her boots from scraped and broken rock, rising like smoke as she coasted down the slope. She wasn’t worried about her landing; she would slide down about ten more paces before she met the ground. She was moving fast, but not fast enough for the impact to cause an injury. But the two Condor who had popped up from the crevices ahead and were running towards her with clubs—she was worried about that.

  By the time she met the ground they would’ve made it to her and she’d have barely any time. And that was coming soon. That was coming—now! Her boots struck the dirt and ignited a bomb of dust, and Shahla’s feet kept moving to break her momentum, all the while reaching back for her quiver. Her fingers found a shaft in less than a second, but seeing the two men running forward with their clubs, both the same distance away and running abreast, she didn’t pull the shaft out alone. She curled a finger around another shaft and pulled out two, bow turned diagonal, the thumb of her bow hand between the two shafts for spacing.

  She whipped the bowstring back and let it fly.

  The double-drawn arrows both found their places, one sinking into a hide-covered chest, the other burrowing through a throat. Both fell at Shahla’s feet merely inches away, and Shahla redrew and kept moving.


  She didn’t want to be in this place long. She wanted to find Zar and get out. It wasn’t like what she had done at Or. This was a rescue. Or was an execution. She had scoured every nook and cranny of those caverns to put every single witch to their end. And she had, as far as she knew, and the world would be a better place for it. But this was different. Her only goal now was to free Zar, and gods forbid she got caught up trying to battle the Condor alone and ended up captured or killed. That wouldn’t do anyone any good. No, she wanted to pass through as quickly as she could, and she would only fight those who stood in her way.

  Why risk it, anyway? She was in a strange place among dangerous folk. It’s not that she doubted Tuskin’s word regarding the Condor Anza would leave in the cliffs; it’s not that she didn’t believe him. But the man could be wrong like any other. It was the Condor, after all, and the likelihood of running into dangerous folk was still high, in her opinion. They had that reputation.

  The way ran narrow between two walls of cliffs, tapering at the top until they almost touched, making the path close like a tunnel. Barely any sun found its way into the cleft, and the path was tight and dim. But soon that corridor of stone opened into a wide, circular clearing where the ground dipped in like a bowl. Shahla grabbed at the map tucked in her belt before she decided she didn’t need it. She remembered this basin clearly from the map. The Low Hollow. It was where the cells were, up ahead in the northwest pocket, in one of those gaping stone mouths she could see from there, a shallow cave the Condor used as a jail.

  Shahla moved towards it, eyes peeled, arrow knocked and ready.