The Killing Song: The Dragon Below Book III

by Don Bassingthwaite

  “Speak for yourself,” said Natrac.

  The air remained nearly as humid as it had been in the lower city. The wind was sluggish and the clouds above seemed darker than ever. They were very nearly at the top of the lift shaft when the clouds opened, and rain began to fall in dense sheets that turned the city black around them. Falling water beat against the glass roof of the lift, running in long streams into the void below.

  “Wonderful timing,” Singe groaned.

  Dandra shrugged. “You get used to the rain too.”

  The lift slowed and stopped. The railing slid aside, and they stepped from the platform into Overlook.

  Gray stone soared above and below them. A bridge leaped from the lift stop to a nearby tower, while coiling stairs climbed and descended to what passed for streets in Sharn’s upper levels. Doorways, stalls, and underpasses were all crowded with people seeking shelter from the rain. In spite of the downpour, they seemed to be in a good mood, a mix of halflings, dwarves, and humans chatting easily with friends and neighbors.

  Dandra led them down one of the staircases and along the lower street through the rain. “We’re close,” she said.

  While they were in Sharn, they would stay at the apartment that had once been home to Tetkashtai, Medalashana, and Virikhad. The three kalashtar had left it behind, waiting for their return, when they had accepted what they believed was an honest invitation to visit a scholar in Zarash’ak who shared their interest in the interaction between dragonshards and psionics. That scholar had turned out to be Dah’mir, his invitation a deadly lure, and the possibility of their return permanently ended—after all, Dandra and her current company were the only ones who knew that the three kalashtar were now dead.

  Occupying the apartment seemed vaguely ghoulish, but, Singe had to admit, eminently practical. He could even understand Dandra’s haste to reach it when they were so close. He just wished the rain had held off a little longer. Singe looked at the sheltering citizens with envy as they hurried past.

  Ashi, barely even noticing the rain, just kept looking around. “Are the streets always decorated here?” she asked.

  Singe raised his head and squinted against the rain. Wet and heavy, banners hung from windows and along the faces of shops. Most were the crimson and gold of Breland, but here and there were the colors of other nations. He calculated the date in his head. “Tomorrow is Thronehold,” he said. “A celebration of the end of the Last War. We’re just in time for a—Twelve moons!”

  He flung up one arm, shoving Ashi and Natrac back into an unoccupied doorway, and grabbed for Dandra with the other, pulling her back against the wall with him. None of the others spoke, sudden alarm forcing them to silence, but Dandra looked at him questioningly. Singe pointed along the street and up.

  Perched on a gushing rainspout at a point where the street turned was the huddled shape of a very wet black heron. One of Dah’mir’s herons. If Ashi hadn’t drawn his attention to the banners and he hadn’t been looking up, Singe wouldn’t have seen it himself. Dandra drew a sharp breath, and Singe felt the pressure of her mind against his as she reached out in the mental link of kesh. He accepted the touch, and an awareness of her—and of Ashi and Natrac as well—blossomed in his thoughts.

  Is it watching for us? Natrac asked.

  Does it matter?

  I think it does, said Dandra. Beyond that bend in the street is Fan Adar, the kalashtar neighborhood. I think the heron is watching the kalashtar.

  Singe cursed silently and thought for a moment, then asked. Does anyone see any others?

  The others scanned walls and rooftops. One by one, they shook their heads. Good, said Singe. He raised his hand, a spell forming on his lips. Dandra looked at him with alarm.

  Singe, a spell will attract attention!

  Not this one. Singe focused his will, crooked his fingers, and murmured a soft word of magic.

  Fire magic might have been his strength, but they’d just spent weeks on a wooden ship. If the crew of the White Bull had turned on them, throwing flames around wouldn’t have been a good idea, so Singe had made certain he was ready to cast a different kind of spell if the need arose. Up on the rainspout, the heron seemed to shiver slightly, then to sag. Singe lowered his hand and stepped away from the wall. The heron didn’t move, not even when he walked right up and stood underneath it. He turned back and gestured for the others to join him. “It’s asleep,” he said. “It should stay that way for a while and wake up without even knowing we were here.”

  Dandra released her hold on the kesh, and the mental link vanished. “Why don’t you use that spell more often?”

  He spread his hands. “Not everything falls asleep so easily, but pretty much everything will burn.”

  Dandra shook her head and led them around the corner.

  It was almost as if they had entered another city. The crowds that had packed the other streets were gone, leaving only a few figures huddled here and there. Singe had a feeling that even if it hadn’t been raining, the streets in this neighborhood would have been quiet and nearly empty. The Thronehold banners, though still present, were subdued. The gray stone of Overlook remained, but the decorations that enlivened it elsewhere were different here: bright flowers in painted window boxes gave way to gray-green herbs in suspended trays, curtains in windows bore curious embroidery that Singe had only seen in Dandra’s clothing, doors carried strange signs and symbols.

  “Welcome to Fan Adar,” said Dandra softly.

  The few faces that regarded them from arches and stalls shared features distinct from the men and women of the Five Nations. Some had the distinct exotic beauty—long and thin with angular features—that marked a kalashtar. Others had the rounder, softer features of humans, though they and the kalashtar were alike enough that they might have been distant cousins.

  In a way, Singe supposed, they were. The humans were Adarans; Dandra had said that the far-off nation of Adar had been the birthplace of kalashtar eighteen hundred years before and that kalashtar and Adarans still lived close together. All had dark hair and eyes, with bronzed skin tones that ranged from the same rich brown as Dandra’s to a pale duskiness. Most wore clothes and sandals similar to hers as well.

  Dandra kept to the middle of the street, not returning the dark-eyed gazes. Singe thought he saw recognition in some of the faces they passed, but no one called out and as soon as a kalashtar or Adaran turned to him, Natrac, or Ashi, even the merest hint of curiosity vanished into blank solemnity.

  “Real welcoming sorts, aren’t they?” said Natrac under his breath.

  Dandra turned her head just enough to reply. “They’re insular, that’s all. Adar is a place of refuge. Kalashtar and Adarans don’t trust outsiders easily.”

  “Even here in Sharn?” Singe asked her. “Dandra, if this was a village and we were passing through here during the war, I’d say the locals were scared of something.”

  “If Dah’mir’s herons have been watching the neighborhood,” said Ashi, “maybe they are.”

  Singe felt his skin crawl at the suggestion. “Let’s get to the apartment before we start speculating,” he said. “We may need to revise our—”

  The shrill howl that erupted to his right stopped the words in his throat. Singe whirled to face a flash of movement and glimpsed a man—a kalashtar—as he leaped from behind a closed-up stall, his eyes wild, wet hair plastered against his head. Ashi’s sword flashed and Natrac’s knife-hand rose, but Singe was closest to the attacking man. He fell back a step, grabbing for his rapier.

  The kalashtar was on him before he could draw it, hands outstretched. Singe twisted and one hand missed him, but the long fingers of the other grabbed at his sword arm. There was a silver-white flash, a crack like lightning striking close, and sharp pain burst through the wizard’s arm. He shouted, wrenched his arm free, and planted a kick in the kalashtar’s belly.

  The man staggered but came surging back, hands reaching once more. There was no room for Singe to draw his sword, no ti
me for him to cast a spell. Moving quickly, he pushed himself inside the kalashtar’s reach, grabbed his arms at the wrists, and forced his hands away. The kalashtar, however, fought with the strength of a madman. Singe yelped as he was heaved off his feet. Natrac, Ashi, and a glimpse of the street—kalashtar and Adarans alike staring in shock—blurred past him.

  He ended up with his neck locked in the crook of the other man’s arm. The smell of his unwashed body was thick in Singe’s nose and mouth. The kalashtar screamed again, and his hand darted at Singe’s face. Silver-white light shimmered around his fingers.

  “Ashi! Natrac! Get back!”

  A sharp drone rose like a chorus. Out of the corner of his eye, Singe saw Dandra’s face tense with concentration.

  Whitefire burst around him and the kalashtar man both, enveloping them in a heat so intense that took Singe’s breath away. He flinched, an automatic reaction and nothing more. The ring he had inherited from his grandfather consumed the magical fire that licked at him. The kalashtar, however, had no such protection. His howl turned into a gasp as the heat sucked the air from his lungs. The hand before Singe’s face fell away, the pressure on his throat eased. Singe tore himself free and the kalashtar swayed, then slumped to the ground. His wet clothes steamed, but the kalashtar was otherwise uninjured.

  Singe bent over with his arms on his knees and breathed in cool air before glancing up at Dandra. “Thanks,” he began, but paused as he saw the expression on her face.

  She was staring at the fallen man. Singe looked down at him as well. He was as dirty as he had smelled. The rain was making streaks in a face smudged with grime. His clothes were dirty and wet too, but otherwise in good repair. His features carried the slightly stretched look of someone who hadn’t eaten for several days. He had been living rough, Singe guessed, but not for very long. Probably less than a week.

  “I know him,” said Dandra, “or at least Tetkashtai knew him. His name is Erimelk. He’s a scribe.” She knelt down beside him. “This isn’t like him.”

  “There’s a surprise.” Singe straightened and twisted his arm to see where Erimelk had grabbed him. Blood stained the wet cloth in two big patches. “Twelve moons! He hits hard for a scribe.”

  A hiss of warning from Natrac brought Singe’s head up again. The half-orc stood with his knife-hand held low and ready. Ashi kept her sword unsheathed.

  The few kalashtar and Adarans who had been lingering on the rainy street were closing in on them, their faces hard with concern. Singe let loose a curse under his breath. He could imagine how the attack must have looked. They weren’t making a good first impression! “Dandra?” Singe said softly with a glance over his shoulder.

  Dandra was still kneeling beside Erimelk, worry on her face.

  Before she could rise, before the clustered locals could draw too close, though, a shout rose up. “Erimelk! Light of il-Yannah, you’ve found him, Tetkashtai!”

  The locals paused and turned as new figures came hurrying up the street and pushed past them. There were four of them, three men and a woman, all kalashtar. They drew up short as they saw Natrac’s and Ashi’s weapons. The one who had called out, a big man with coarse gray hair and a worn face, was the first to step forward again. “It’s all right,” he said, holding his hands out flat and gesturing for the hunter and the half-orc to be calm. “We’ve been hunting for him. I’m sorry if he’s caused you—ah.” His gaze stopped for a moment on Singe. “You’re hurt.”

  “It’s not serious,” Singe said. He glanced at Natrac and Ashi and nodded at them. They lowered their weapons. By the time he had looked back to the old kalashtar, however, the other man had already moved past him to Dandra.

  “This is a poor homecoming. I’m sorry, Tetkashtai. Come away from him. You can’t have hurt Erimelk more than he’s hurt himself. We’ll look after him. Here, stand up.”

  The kalashtar was holding an arm out to Dandra when his words sank into Singe’s head. You’ve found him, Tetkashtai … I’m sorry, Tetkashtai.

  Twelve bloody moons, Singe thought. He can’t tell what’s happened.

  The same thought must have worked its way through Dandra’s head. As rapidly as a cloud drifting past the sun, her face brightened and became confident. “Thank you, Nevchaned,” said Dandra, her voice unfamiliar and haughty as she fell into the role of her creator. “What happened—”

  The old kalashtar cut her off with a shake of his head as he helped her to his feet. “The poor man,” he said sadly, and Singe noticed that he left the statement hanging to wave forward the two men who had come with him. The woman, the wizard realized, was moving among those who had been on the street when the attack occurred, calming them and sending them on their way. Before the men bent to pick up Erimelk’s unconscious form, the small crowd had already begun to disperse.

  The men’s touch, however, must have roused Erimelk. The scribe’s eyes snapped open wide and for an instant he seemed to stare straight at Singe—then his eyes rolled back and the tones of a strange wordless song rippled from his lips, clashing but somehow still musical. “Aahyi-ksiksiksi-kladakla—”

  The two kalashtar holding him stiffened. Nevchaned reacted instantly, pulling his hand from Dandra’s and reaching across to clap it across Erimelk’s mouth, muffling the song. “Take him to my shop, Fekharath,” he said swiftly. The men holding Erimelk began to move and Nevchaned went with them, hand still over the scribe’s mouth. The woman fell in beside them, staring at Erimelk. Nevchaned twisted around enough to nod a farewell to Dandra. “A poor homecoming,” he called back to her, “but it’s good to see you again. Are Virikhad and Medalashana …?”

  “Still in Zarash’ak,” Dandra lied.

  “Ah.” Nevchaned threw a brief glance at Singe and the others. For a moment, Singe thought he saw suspicion and disappointment in the old man’s eyes, then Nevchaned gave Dandra another nod and said, “Patan yannah, Tetkashtai.”

  “Patan yannah, Nevchaned,” Dandra answered coolly.

  And then they were alone on the wet street once more.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Geth’s, shoulders ached from the exertion of paddling. It was a good ache, though. It warmed him from the inside, just as the sweat on his skin cooled him from the outside. Everything was in balance. The quiet dip and splash of his paddle, in rhythm with Orshok and Ekhaas’s, was a soft echo to the sounds of unseen marsh birds and animals stirring in the gathering dusk. Only the steady passing of the reedy banks marked their progress across the smooth surface of the river, cutting against the slow, strong current. Neither shifter, nor orc, nor hobgoblin spoke.

  Zarash’ak, where they had acquired the small boat, was three nights travel behind them. The camp of the Fat Tusk tribe was, according to Orshok, still a night ahead. Geth’s mind drifted, at ease.

  When they’d first separated from Singe, Dandra, and the others at Tzaryan Keep, he’d had found it difficult to sleep at night. He hadn’t been the only one. The message they carried was urgent. News of Dah’mir’s schemes, of the daelkyr—remembered in Ekhaas’s stories as the Master of Silence—imprisoned beneath the mound of the Bonetree clan, had to reach Orshok’s old master, Batul. The druids of the Gatekeeper sect had to be warned of the ancient evil that was reaching out for new power.

  As the wastes of Droaam and then the swamps of the Shadow Marches passed beneath their feet, though, the rhythm of travel had blunted that frantic edge. They could only go so fast and no faster. Both Ekhaas and Orshok knew magic that could speed their journey and they used it, but even magic had limits. They’d fallen into a cycle of traveling hard from the late afternoon until just after dawn—all three of them could see as well at night as at day—then sleeping just enough to refresh themselves before rising and continuing on.

  It was a pattern Geth remembered from his own years of wandering after he had fled the massacre at Narath and before he’d found haven in Bull Hollow. One morning as he’d taken the first watch of the day, he’d watched the rising sun chase the moo
ns of Therendor and Dravago over the horizon and had thought back to Bull Hollow. To Adolan. What had begun as a mission of vengeance for the devastation of the village and the death of his friend at the hands of the Bonetree hunters had turned into something much larger. Confronting a dragon. Thwarting a daelkyr. It made Geth feel strangely small by comparison.

  He’d wondered what Adolan would have thought of it all. He probably would have been pleased, though Geth wasn’t sure what would have pleased him more: that Geth was fighting the twisted, unnatural enemies of his ancient sect or that Geth had fought a more personal battle and confronted his own past. That Dandra, Singe, and his other allies knew now what had happened at Narath, that the terrible slaughter of a town and his old Blademarks company had been his fault.

  Days and nights had passed since that morning, and Geth still didn’t have an answer.

  Singe and Dandra still don’t know everything, Adolan, he thought, digging his paddle into the water once more. And Tiger’s blood, I’m fighting a dragon and a daelkyr! Who wouldn’t be scared?

  There was no answer, of course, but the old collar of rune-carved black stones that had once belonged to Adolan slid around his neck with a reassuring weight.

  And then turned shockingly cold.

  Geth sat up straight, rocking the boat and nearly dropping his paddle. Kneeling in the center of the boat, Ekhaas grabbed for the sides and cursed. “Khaavolaar! What are you doing?” The hobgoblin twisted around to glare at him with amber eyes, a scowl on her flattened face. “Are you trying to turn us over?”

  “Adolan’s collar—” Geth grunted and reached up to touch the stones. The collar was an artifact of the Gatekeepers. It had shielded him from the mental powers of Dah’mir and the hideous mind flayers in service to the Master of Silence and given him warning of danger. If it had grown cold …

  To his surprise, the stones were once again warm under his fingers.

  “Well?” asked Ekhaas. Her voice was both smooth and coarse at the same time, like cedar smoke, and when she wasn’t feeling patient, it could carry a vicious sting.