Songs for the Sacred and the Soulless (Roads of the Righteous and the Rotten Book 2)

by Kameron Williams

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

  There were great boulders scattered in the clearing, tawny-brown with edges as sharp as the cliffs they had likely broken off from. Shahla kept thinking that someone was going to come pouncing out from behind one of them. She was braced and ready for it, but it never happened. She was always like that—thinking of the worst possible scenario, thinking of what she’d do and how she’d fight out of it. She counted it as a good thing, for she was always prepared, even if it did cause her some measure of unnecessary worry.

  Shahla rose on her tiptoes and crept toward the openings in the stone, a small breach in the rock wall with a larger one right beside it. She could see into the larger cave, the tunnel running back and showing a faint image of planks or poles, she couldn’t yet tell. The smaller cave’s mouth was still too dark to make anything out, and as Shahla came closer she could see it was too small for much of anything at all save being some sort of place for storage. She shifted her attention to the other cave, moving as quietly as she knew how, her bowstring already half-drawn. She could now see the rows of wooden bars, a framework of thin, solid logs running perpendicular across the cave’s wall. A torch, almost burned out, shone in the back, and Shahla was surprised at what else she saw there.

  Nothing. She didn’t see anything. No guards in front; no guards anywhere.

  She darted inside, greeted by the dim torchlight, pointing her bow around everywhere as she scanned the cave. Then she looked down into the cell, the back end of the cave sectioned off by the wooden gate, and she saw the same thing again. Nothing.

  Zar isn’t here.

  4

  Zar adjusted his dress and looked down from the castle window. He could see them all in the courtyard, rows of savage troops filed tightly from the gates to the castle doors. Hide and boiled leather, shaggy unkempt hair, pierced faces with axes and spears waving alongside of them. They were Turagols. Anza had acquired herself an army.

  More than that, though, mottled among the three dozen nimble Condor assassins that had helped them take the castle, there were other Condor now, the large, brutish hunters that he remembered Anza commanding to stay in the cliffs and guard their home. Anza had more up her sleeve than Zar had imagined, and he realized, right then and there, that they had all underestimated her.

  She had the Turagols doing her bidding, something that neither he nor Tuskin had known. Whether she had paid them, offered them a place of standing in her new kingdom, or rewarded them in some other way, it was all grains of sand in the sea. She had secured their service, one way or another, and she now had a force that could possibly rival the number of troops Dandil would arrive with.

  Zar backed away from the window and spun around. “How do I look?” He turned a slow circle and showed his gown, red and white flowing silk with a corset fastened by golden lace.

  The women gave him looks that he couldn’t describe.

  “Will it work?” one asked.

  “It must work,” Zar replied, shrugging and lifting his hands until his funnel sleeves fluttered. “It must.”

  It was an odd thing to ask of them, or rather, an odd thing to tell them to do. Since his life depended on it, he had told them that their lives depended on it too, and it was the only thing that made Zar think the whole thing might work.

  “You ready, girls?” Zar asked them.

  The whole group looked about, at each other, at Zar, at their garments. One was dressed in a purple gown with fancy yellow stitching, secured at the shoulder by a golden brooch forged in the shape of a bear cub; another wore a dress of green silk, bodice laced in silver ribbon with long, bell sleeves hanging nearly to the ground; another in a linen skirt fancily embroidered, wrapped in a bodice of silk lace, covered by a surcoat. The queen’s garments were varied and exquisite, and while Zar had attempted to find more common clothes in the place, there simply weren’t any to be found.

  “A bonnet to cover your head,” said one, shuffling over and securing the headdress over Zar’s locks. “And you should wear a surcoat or shawl to cover your . . . shape.”

  Zar grew even more hopeful. This one had sense. While the others had simply done what he had said without a blink or murmur, looking oblivious, this one had eyes that were focused and aware. Zar expected the former from the lot of them, considering what had happened, so he wasn’t at all surprised by their manner, eyes that still looked dazed and baffled and scared. This one, though—golden-haired with sparkling green eyes, adorned in a black silk gown fastened with cherry lace—she was different. And Zar knew he’d need her.

  “What’s your name?” he asked her.

  “I’m Tana.” She had found a fancy bonnet of ruffled red silk to match the gown, not pausing at the question, but moving to find something else to cover him up with.

  She shuffled over to the queen’s wardrobe and returned with a shawl a few moments later. It was white linen with the edges embroidered in fine gold stitching, and she draped it over Zar’s muscled shoulders that protruded from the skin-tight gown.

  Tuskin rushed forward with open arms.

  “Scarlet Quill, easy enough to find us, eh?”

  Shahla hugged the man, but she didn’t respond until she had pulled back from the embrace and looked into his eyes. “He wasn’t there.”

  Tuskin held the gaze, looking long and grave. “What do ye mean?”

  “He wasn’t there,” Shahla repeated with a bit more behind it.

  Tuskin’s eyes waxed pensive, and he stood silent a few moments.

  Shahla had followed the Cyanan army’s trail from Lolia, and now they were camped in a large wood just south of Red Valley. She had found them before the dusk, the dense wood of pines and churs standing tall in the graying air, concealing an army of five hundred mounted Cyanan soldiers. She had been led to the place by the camel tracks, and it hadn’t been much longer than an hour or two after she picked up the trail that she found them in the woods, mounted on their camels that looked ready for a charge, snouts covered in studded leather chamfrains, some boasting an ox horn sticking out. Cyanan war camels; Shahla hadn’t seen so many in her life. They were long-legged, saddled, and lightly armored like their riders, a chamfrain to cover their heads followed by full caparisons of iron-studded quilts.

  Their riders sat equipped in linen or silk, armored in chainmail or boiled leather. Between their native climate and way of fighting, most Cyanans preferred to remain light. Speed and maneuverability were far more important than being covered in steel plates. Many wielded lances and rapiers, both which were adept at piercing chainmail and plate. Others wielded scimitars, agile and swift, with a long, fine-tipped dagger that they kept for piercing armor, since their scimitars were slashing weapons. They knew if they came across a foe covered in full plate or even good chainmail, it would be a difficult task to make a wound with their scimitars, even as swift as they were wielding them. So, it was a common thing for Cyanan soldiers who wielded those curved slashing swords to keep a dagger on their hip as well, and necessity and popularity had dictated a change in their fighting style that saw much more dual wielding. Scimitar and dagger had become a usual combination.

  Then there were the archers, who were far more than archers. They were skilled and versatile men at arms, equipped with bow and quiver, dagger and shield. Their bows were small composite recurves made of horn, which they fired flawlessly despite the small round shield fastened to their bow arm. The composite bows shot extremely far, and even after the archers had rained down bolts on their enemies from a distance, the bowmen stayed in the vanguard and led the charge, catching enemy arrows with their shields and blocking the blades that followed. The small size of their composite bows made them ideal for short-ranged fighting, and when they needed a melee weapon or when their arrows had expired, they pulled the long daggers from their belts, blocking blows with their shields and thrusting away.

  The differences of Cyanan combat had long been both criticized and praised in the m
ainreach. Regardless of what men said, the red-haired southerners had never lost a war to anyone but themselves. In the Great War, after the three kings of Krii had united to drive out the Serradiians, they turned their attention to the south, but Cyana was never conquered. Between the extreme heat that the mainreachers weren’t accustomed to and the unusual fighting tactics of the Cyanans, the kings of Krii gave up the endeavor. A second attempt was made nearly a decade later, and that attempt had been even more costly than the first, for two Kriian kings had been killed in the attempted siege. The remaining Kriian king’s power weakened over time, and, decades later, his heir let the kingdom slip into rebellion. A peasant revolt claimed the king’s life years later, and by the time Tiomot had ventured down from the highlands, the mainreach was nothing more than a slew of warring tribes. As for the Cyanans, the only war that had hurt them was a civil war that had nearly brought them to a point as low as the mainreachers before Tiomot came to rule. They recovered themselves by naming their own king, a king that they themselves had chosen, a lad of fifteen years from a noble and honorable family. His name was Dandil.

  A bonfire blazed ahead, burning in the center of an assortment of tents. The dusk was darkening into night, and Tuskin’s worried face dissolved into a blur under the gray air.

  “He wasn’t there,” Shahla repeated, pulling her eyes from Tuskin and looking ahead at the bonfire. She didn’t want to look at him anymore, didn’t want to see that face that said he had no idea where Zar might be or if he was even alive. “Where do you think he is?”

  “I don’t know, but he’ll find us, if he lives.”

  Shahla turned a glance at the man to find him looking off into the flames.

  “He might be in Snowstone,” the man said, “as a captive. If not then he is free, whether living or dead.”

  Shahla hated Tuskin in that moment, but only while he delivered those words—not a moment before, not a moment after. Zar’s life or death was of far more consequence than the man had made it seem. Shahla knew he believed that, and she couldn’t tell if he was trying to delude her or himself by offering the statement so nonchalantly.

  “Can’t see how they coulda brought Zar with them as they lay siege on the place,” Tuskin kept on. “Can’t see it. But they coulda brought him there after.”

  “Who’s scouting Snowstone?” Shahla’s voice pierced the air like the screech of some wild bird. Tuskin turned back toward her.

  “A man named Daro. He knows the mainreach.”

  “Not better than me,” said Shahla. “I’ll go with him—show him where to look.”

  He didn’t have his sword, and he was wearing a dress. Zar had never felt more out of place in his life. He wasn’t complaining, though, for it was certainly better than the alternative.

  “Stop!” It was Yari Thorn. She wore a face sourer than rotten fruit. She peered into the throng, and Zar sunk back to the middle, drowning himself amid a drapery of shawls, gown skirts and flowing funnel sleeves.

  The group stopped, and Zar hunched and hung his head, bonnet tilted low over his brow, making himself as small and insignificant as possible. The castle gates were still open, barely fifty steps ahead. Anza’s army of Turagols looked at the women as if they were food, and one had grabbed an arm and pulled a woman away from the group.

  “I won’t tell you again!” Yari called. She was talking to a Turagol, not the group Zar was concealed in, and the savage was just now noticing.

  “Spoils,” the man retorted, others stalking toward the group. “We take.”

  Anza came out of the keep, Minkus and Maza on each side. Her force of Condor warriors filed behind her as she walked to stand near Yari. She was red from head to toe, awash in blood, not her own but a liquid trophy granted by her enemies. She stood too straight, too strong, to have any serious wounds, face smeared with blood and still beautiful, a warrior queen at the end of a day’s work.

  “Your spoils include the treasures of this castle,” Anza announced. “Silver and gold, weapons and armor. Your spoils include a place in my royal army and the bounty of the battles to come. They do not include these women.”

  The man looked askance, his face a confused canvas of tattoos and bone piercings. He huffed out some sort of grunt before releasing the arm in his grip. Anza looked over the group.

  “Tiomot t—took us captive,” said Tana, voice shaking like autumn leaves. She dipped and bowed, as stiff, tense, and frail as a twig bent nearly to the point of snapping. “He—he held us prisoner. He abused us—in strange ways. Is there any service you would have of us? Or may we leave?”

  Anza’s eyes oozed pride and complacency. “You may go. Tell your people what happened here today. Tell them Anza freed you—Queen Anza of Snowstone.”

  A smile beamed under Zar’s bonnet. He had been right about Tana, and he was impressed how much she’d altered the way she moved and spoke now that she was in front of Anza. While mere moments ago while getting dressed in the keep she had been confident and clever—even under the circumstances—she now presented herself as a broken woman, voice trembling and hoarse.

  Zar was also happy it was the Condor who were in charge and not the Turagols. If it had been any other force that had taken the castle—any force led by men—he wouldn’t have been so hopeful about the whole thing. But Anza was a queen, a woman before anything, and he knew she’d let the women be on their way.

  There was something else, though. Anza hadn’t just done it out of the goodness of her heart or to avoid seeing women wronged. She had done it for herself. He saw the look in Anza’s eyes, and even more than the pride of being the queen who saved the day, Anza wanted to make sure the captives understood they were free because of her. She wanted them to spread the word. She wanted to be known for it, loved for it.

  They were off in different directions as soon as they made it to Sirith, vibrant hues of silk skirts and lace scattering like a flutter of butterflies. Zar stayed with Tana long enough for her to buy him more suitable clothes with a few pieces of gold he had given her. He waited in a small wood outside of the city, embarrassed in his woman’s clothes and not wanting to draw attention.

  The woman returned with the cloak and tunic he requested, and Zar shuffled out of the gown and slipped on the garments. He still had his pants and boots which he’d kept on, hidden under the silky billows of Queen Thae’s skirt.

  “Where will you go?” The woman’s green eyes flashed like emeralds, and Zar saw her smile for the first time.

  “Fairview Meadow,” said Zar. “It’s barely ten miles south.”

  “I know where it is. I live here in Sirith. Won’t you come to my house for a hot meal? It’s the least I can do.”

  Well, isn’t she a star from the heavens? A hot meal sounded sweeter than honey, but Zar wanted nothing more than to be in Fairview Meadow where Shahla had likely taken Asha, and where he could eat goat ‘n greens with Barek and catch up with the old man over a flask of wine. He wanted nothing more than to be on his way.

  Zar looked at the woman and her eyes said many things: that she was curious about him, curious about the state of the land; that she wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye; but most of all, Zar thought, they said thank you.

  “I owe you my life,” said Tana, eyes stuck to Zar’s as still as a statue.

  “Could be,” said Zar. “Or, perhaps, I owe you mine. I doubt things would’ve gone as smoothly if you weren’t there. War will come soon. Very soon, I daresay. Mind yourself, your family, and I wish you well.”

  He thought he saw more in her eyes right before he turned and left her, a longing or deep concern. Then she was yelling at his back.

  “Gods bless you, Zar! I live in the lower quarter! If you’re in the city and you need anything, you come find me!”

  Zar remembered the last time he had traveled from Sirith to the meadow. Asha spit in the face of some young lord and started a fight. Then, he had to run halfway there. Thinking about it made him laugh, but him going down that same road, unarmored
with only a dagger for a weapon was no laughing matter. If anyone recognized him from some old offence he had committed, or worse, anyone tried to collect the bounty that Tiomot had placed on his head, not knowing the old letch was dead, he could be in serious trouble.

  So he decided he’d stay in the trees. The woods would let out right above the meadow, and even on foot he could make it there in a few hours. But he hadn’t been walking an hour when his stomach grumbled, and he started to regret turning down Tana’s offer of a hot meal. Never mind it, you’ll be there before you know it.

  There was a noise ahead, a warning through the calm forest air that Zar would be a fool to ignore. Not a bird or deer or any creature of the wild—no—it was only men who moved so clumsily.

  Zar unsheathed his dagger from his belt and hugged a tree. He slid around it, slow and quiet, the bark chaffing his cheap, newly-bought clothes. He could see the leg of a horse, black and white speckled, snow flurries on a blackwood tree. Another leg, and another, and another. A girl sitting beside them.

  She had a camp, had some small critter skewered through a branch, ready to roast it. Some stringed instrument, a harp or lyre, leaned against a tree next to her. She was young—and beautiful as far as Zar could see through the V-shaped space he looked between, a crossing of branches with foliage hanging down, veiling the opening like curtains. Her hair was as red as fire. Cyanan.

  Zar came out of hiding.

  “Who’s there?” She hopped up, red hair dancing under a braided leather wreath.

  Zar sheathed his dagger. “I’m Zar. I’m a friend of your king. Is Tuskin with you? Shahla? King Dandil?”

  The girl said nothing for a good while, looking at Zar with knowing eyes, like he looked familiar. She sat down calmly, propped up her meat to roast and sparked up a fire beneath it.