The Killing Song: The Dragon Below Book III

by Don Bassingthwaite

  He grabbed for Dandra’s hand again, but she managed to elude his grasp, stepping to stand beside Singe. Moon’s smiled faltered, and his face hardened with jealous rage. “As you wish,” he said tightly and turned to continue on down the stairs. “Follow me. There’s a lift near here that will take us down to the lower city.”

  “I don’t like this,” Dandra murmured.

  “Neither do I,” said Singe. He started after the young kalashtar. “But if Moon’s thinking of turning on us, we’ll be ready for him. That power he used on Mithas—is there any way to defend against it?”

  “Hit him before he can hit you.” Dandra stared at Moon. “We shouldn’t be doing this. We should get him back to Nevchaned. Something is wrong—”

  “Hush!” said Ashi. “Listen!” She pointed at Moon.

  The noise on the lower street came up the stairs like smoke, growing louder as they descended. It took a moment for Singe to pick out the noise that Ashi was hearing. When he did, though, a shiver crawled slowly up his spine. Beside him, Dandra tensed.

  Moon was humming absently, his lips shaping soft words. It could have been the happy tune of a young man setting off on an adventure—except that it wasn’t.

  “Aahyi-ksiksiksi-kladakla-yahaahyi—”

  As the four figures moved off and down toward the lower street, Vennet raised his hat and brushed aside the rack of scarves that had hidden him in one of the stair-side stalls. Singe’s call to this kalashtar named Moon had been all the warning there’d been—the shock of the wizard’s familiar voice had nearly brought Vennet around with his cutlass drawn. It had taken tremendous self-control to dodge to the side of the stairs and spy on his enemies instead. Some might have said it was luck that they’d stopped within earshot of his hiding place too, but Vennet knew better. He’d called on the wind that blew along the stairs, commanding it to strengthen and stay their progress. And now he knew not only that their enemies had followed them to Sharn, but what they intended to do.

  “Clever, clever,” he whispered to himself. Dah’mir had advised him to learn and learn he had.

  Standing in the shadows behind the stall, Biish stirred and spoke. “Friends of yours, Storm?”

  “Oh, yes. Old friends. The kinds of friends you’re always happy to see again.” His hands tightened convulsively.

  “Who was this Dah’mir they talked about?” Biish grunted.

  “That’s not your concern.” Vennet watched Singe, Dandra, and Ashi vanish into the crowd. He’d noticed the children of the Adaran neighborhood harassing Dah’mir’s herons and wondered at it—now it was clear that it was some clever ruse to mask their enemies’ presence in Sharn.

  How much did they know? How much had they told the kalashtar? If they were still just looking for Dah’mir, they couldn’t know everything. They had managed to elude the watching herons, though, and they might actually uncover his and Dah’mir’s hiding place. They could be dangerous, although it didn’t seem like the young kalashtar could present much of a threat—he was clearly insane.

  Dah’mir had to be warned of their approach, though. Vennet focused on the burning heat that crossed his back and invoked the power of his dragonmark. “Hear me, winds! I command you!” He paused, listening for a response, and frowned when there was none. He concentrated harder. “Hear me!”

  The answer came on the whistle of the breeze and in the murmur of the crowd on the street below. What would you have us do?

  “Go to my master. Tell him our enemies approach. Tell him to open his jaws to receive them. Go!”

  The voice of the wind faded back into whistles and murmurs. Biish stared at him. “What are you babbling about, Storm?”

  “Nothing you need to know about.” Vennet’s hands clenched once more. Something in the neck of the stallkeeper, an old woman who had found objections to him hiding among her wares, gave way with a crunch. Vennet let her drop—her dying breath had already joined the wind, and there wasn’t anyone to hide from anymore. He stepped out of the stall. “Your people will need to be alert tonight, Biish. The kalashtar may have been warned to expect something.”

  The hobgoblin sneered. “I saw nothing. They make no preparations. The attack will be daring, but it won’t fail.”

  “That’s what I like to hear.” Vennet adjusted his hat, plucked a handsome red scarf from a rack, and stuffed it in his pocket. “Now, would you like to join me on a little hunt? It will get your blood up for tonight. I believe you’ve just seen our quarry.” He sauntered down the stairs, dreaming of the praise Dah’mir would heap on him for this bit of cleverness.

  CHAPTER

  12

  The camp in the Sharvat Vvaraak stood empty. The horde of Angry Eyes had assembled beyond the Sharvat’s northeastern slope, on the side of the holy site that faced the distant Bonetree mound. Warriors carried their weapons and perhaps a small pack, but nothing else. Everything else—tents, supplies, food, possessions—had been left in the now-silent camp. The senior Gatekeepers clustered on the rim of the Sharvat above the horde, one among them shouting words of blessing and wisdom: “And Vvaraak said, ‘Let rage be your weapon and anger your armor. Let Eberron feed you. Leave behind the things of this world when you go to fight what is not of this world—trust in nature and you will defeat the unnatural!’”

  The voices of hundreds of orcs rose in a wild roar. In pockets among the horde, the answering cries were nearly bestial—they came from warriors who had embraced the teachings with such fervor that they would fight naked, armed only with fists or whatever makeshift weapons they might seize on the battleground. Everywhere, the sounds of drums and flutes and bone rattles rose, a climax to the weird music that had filled the camp. The frenzy of the horde had reached its pitch. Every orc watched the descending eye of the sun. When it closed in sunset, the frenzy would break. The horde would be let loose. The Angry Eyes would march.

  Geth’s hand clenched hard around Wrath’s hilt, listening to the words of the Gatekeepers and the warriors. Every orc’s eyes might have been on the sun, but his—and Ekhaas’s—were on Medala. The mad kalashtar and her guards stood on the slope of the Sharvat close to the senior Gatekeepers. Geth knew that he wasn’t imagining the possessive intensity that shone in her face whenever she looked out across the horde.

  “This is wrong,” he growled. “This is all wrong.”

  “It’s not all wrong,” Ekhaas hissed back at him. “It’s almost entirely right. That’s what makes it so terrifying. The horde should be marching, the Gatekeepers should be acting against the Master of Silence—but not with Medala at the reins.” The hobgoblin’s ears laid back. “Khaavolaar, I almost admire her.”

  “Don’t say that!” Geth glared at Medala. The rush of the horde to prepare for departure after Batul’s announcement had separated them from her. Not that he’d felt any desire to remain close to the kalashtar. All he’d really wanted to do was run and hide like a dog during a thunderstorm. He hadn’t even been able to do that.

  The Gatekeeper on the slope shouted yet another impassioned, inspiring passage from the teachings of Vvaraak and yet another roar from the horde answered him. Some of the loudest shouts came from immediately around Geth. Kobus bellowed loud enough for three orcs. He punched at the air with a massive fist—the other held a nasty-looking double axe—then thumped his hand across Geth’s shoulders and shouted in his ear. He spoke in Orc, but Wrath translated his words. “This will be a fight, my brother! This will be a fight to tell grandchildren about!” The big orc looked around them. “We march with one who has been to the Bonetree mound before!” he said. “We march with one who fought a dragon! We march with Geth!”

  And as they had done at least half a dozen times since Kobus had sought him out to claim a place at his side, the warriors around him—once the followers of Kobus and other orc champions—took up the chant. “We march with Geth! We march with Geth! We march with Geth!”

  Geth pulled his hand away from Wrath and the words faded back into unintelligible Orc. “K
er’od Geth! Ker’od Geth!” It didn’t seem to bother them that he neither spoke nor, so far as they knew, understood their language. They made up for it with enthusiasm.

  “You need to acknowledge them,” said Ekhaas. “If you don’t, they’ll just keep chanting.”

  He clenched his teeth and raised his gauntlet-clad arm into the air. The chant broke off into a cheer and faded away. Kobus gave him another jaw-rattling slap on the back. Geth grimaced.

  A few hours ago, he would have accepted this hero-worship. He would have—no, he had enjoyed it. After talking with Medala, though, it just ate at his guts like poison. Was it real, or was it just a part of Medala’s manipulations? Was the warriors’ admiration just a side effect of her power over the horde, or was this a deliberate ploy, trying to get him to lower his defenses?

  He was no leader. Just the idea of being a hero to warriors like Kobus made him feel awkward. It was good—the warmth he had first felt last night still hadn’t gone away completely—but it was also frightening. To be hero or leader gave him a responsibility to the warriors. He didn’t want that. Besides, he already had enough responsibility pressing down on his shoulders.

  He looked at Ekhaas. “Do you think Medala was right about what’s going to happen in Sharn?” he asked. “All those ‘possibilities’ and ‘certainties’—maybe she’s just wrong.”

  Ekhaas’s ears flicked and her amber eyes narrowed. “Prophecy is a treacherous thing,” she said. “Medala was right about one thing at least. Until an event actually takes place, there’s always a chance that it might not. The tales of the duur’kala record many instances of mistaken or misinterpreted prophecy.”

  “But do you think she was right when she said that anyone who stands against Dah’mir will die?”

  Ekhaas turned to look at him, but hesitated before answering. “It would be foolish,” she said, “to dismiss that possibility. We should assume that Dandra and Singe will—or have already—died in Sharn. We should assume that Dah’mir will come to the Bonetree mound as and when Medala says he will.”

  Another roar from the horde covered Geth’s groan. “That’s what I was afraid of.” He looked back to the slope of the Sharvat, to Medala, and to the senior Gatekeepers. Batul stood among them, his blind eye stark white in the shadows of his face, his good eye scanning the horde. Geth’s belly tightened with his own certainty. “We need to talk to Batul,” he said. “He needs to know what Medala told us. He’ll know what to do.” He glanced at Ekhaas. “Can you cast the spell you used to protect us on him? Would it free him from Medala’s control?”

  She nodded. “It should. The way he tried to warn you before, it sounds like he’s at least aware of her influence already. Do you think we’ll be able to get close to him once the horde marches?”

  “Once the horde marches, it may be too late to do anything.” He started forward. Ekhaas grabbed for him, but he just pulled her after him.

  “You’re going to interrupt the ceremony?”

  “If I have to.”

  They were already near the front of the horde and close to the Gatekeepers, but the warriors were packed tightly together in an effort to be near the druids. Squeezing through them was a battle in itself. No one wanted to give up their place. He and Ekhaas made almost no forward progress—at least not until Ekhaas turned around and shouted in Orc at Kobus. The big warrior slapped some of his friends, and they began clearing a path through the crowd, roughly thrusting aside anyone who would not move. Geth could hear his name in Kobus’s shouts, and he glanced suspiciously at Ekhaas as they followed behind the orcs.

  The hobgoblin shrugged. “I told them you wanted to talk to the Gatekeepers but needed their help. What good is having followers if you don’t give them something to do?”

  They were through the crowd in moments and broke onto the clear ground of the slope just as the horde let loose yet another roar. The timing wasn’t the best. The roar of the horde seemed to shove them forward. All of the senior Gatekeepers looked down to stare at them.

  So did Medala. Her face knotted up into a hideous tangle. Geth put his back to her and faced the orc druids. The Gatekeeper who had been speaking glowered at him and said something in Orc. “He wants to know what you’re doing here,” Ekhaas translated, but Geth was already facing Batul.

  We need to talk, he attempted to mouth silently, his lips and face moving in exaggerated motions. Not for the first time, he wished he had Dandra’s power of kesh. He added gestures—pointing at himself, then at Batul, then making talking and walking motions.

  Batul just scowled and the words on his lips were easy to read. Not now!

  Geth opened his hands in pleading request, but Batul’s scowl only grew deeper. He shook his head emphatically and shaped the same words. Not now! The rejection made Geth’s teeth clench, but the fire in his belly was blazing. He stared at Batul as if he did have the power of kesh and mouthed two words: Medala lied!

  The reaction wasn’t what he’d hoped for. Batul thrust his tusks forward and stepped up to whisper to the speaker for the Gatekeepers before melting back again. The speaker’s angry expression changed instantly, opening like an ugly flower. He raised his arms and barked something at the crowd. Kobus howled in gleeful response and in only moments the howl spread through the horde. Ekhaas stiffened, her ears springing upright. Hands grabbed Geth and her, pushing them both toward the Gatekeepers.

  “What did he just say?” Geth demanded

  “That the hero of the Bonetree raid, the conqueror of Jhegesh Dol, wants to offer inspiration to the horde!”

  “Me?” Geth’s voice came out in a croak. Before he could make any other protest, though, he was whirled around and the hands left him. The horde of Angry Eyes spread out before him, hundreds of orc warriors chanting his name.

  Geth! Geth! Geth! Geth!

  The chant rolled through him in waves that made the admiration he’d felt from Kobus and around the campfires the night before feel like nothing at all. It made him feel the same as the first time he’d seen the ocean or the first time he’d gone into real battle—incredibly small. And yet it also made him feel huge, powerful, as invincible as he felt when he shifted, but even more so.

  And if it were possible, it made him hate Medala even more than he already did. All of these warriors with their red-striped horde marks would soon go into battle against a powerful enemy, an enemy that had to be fought, but that shouldn’t have been fought on Medala’s secret agenda.

  But he couldn’t tell them about Medala. Caught up in the frenzy of the horde, they wouldn’t believe him. They probably wouldn’t even listen. Batul had thrust him into the one position where he could speak to everyone—but couldn’t say anything.

  No, he could say one thing. If the battle had to be fought, it could at least be fought well. Geth pulled Wrath from his scabbard and thrust it over his head, crossing the purple byeshk blade with the black steel of his gauntlet. The sinking sun behind him painted both weapons red, so that bloody light dripped down his arms.

  “Hit them hard!” he bellowed.

  Ekhaas echoed his cry in Orc, and the roar that came back from the horde was like a wall of sound.

  When the roar subsided, and the speaker for the Gatekeepers—not to mention a steady stream of warleaders making their way to the slope to imitate Geth’s passionate words—stepped forward again, there was no sign of Batul. He was gone, as if he had run away rather than speak to Geth.

  “Maybe he had the better idea,” Ekhaas suggested as Kobus led them back down into the horde. “What could he have done with the information we have?”

  Hands reached out of the crowd to touch Geth. He slapped a few of them back, but he didn’t feel the enthusiasm of the warriors. “He could have told us what to do.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to do that in front of Medala.”

  “Maybe.”

  Kobus punched Geth’s unarmored arm and said something in Orc. “Laugh, friend,” Ekhaas repeated for Geth. “We go to battle. Soon we�
�ll kill!”

  “We should hope we’re the ones doing the killing,” Geth said grimly.

  Ekhaas’s ears bent. “Do you want me to tell him that?”

  “Don’t bother,” said Geth. Something in his tone had clearly already passed on to Kobus. The warrior wore a vaguely disappointed expression and was giving him a sideways glance. Geth didn’t try to correct him.

  “Ekhaas duur’kala!” called a voice from behind them. “Ekhaas duur’kala, kato gosh!”

  Ekhaas turned. Geth turned with her. One of the Gatekeepers, a crook-headed hunda stick in her hand, was pushing through the horde after them. Ekhaas answered her in Orc. Geth touched his hand to Wrath—now sheathed again—so he could follow their conversation.

  “What do you want, Gatekeeper?” Ekhaas asked as the druid squeezed past Kobus to stand before them. The Gatekeeper’s eyes were bright, and her gray-green skin flushed as if with excitement, though she seemed a little old for youthful enthusiasm.

  Her excitement extended to her voice, however. “A story,” she said. “Or stories.” She ducked her head in a gesture of awkward respect. “My name is Hona. I’m a lorespeaker among the Gatekeepers. Ever since Batul told us about your arrival yesterday, the other lorespeakers and I have wanted to meet with you, but we couldn’t leave the council lodge. Batul says you know stories of Aryd and the time of the Daelkyr War that we’ve forgotten.”

  Ekhaas stood straight, her ears pricked up tall. “This is true,” she answered with the self-righteous arrogance that sometimes made Geth wonder how he endured her. Hona just looked even more excited.

  “Will you tell us the stories as the horde marches?” she asked. “We’ll tell you what stories we can that you don’t already know.”

  “I will be pleased to.” Ekhaas nodded gracefully. Geth was surprised her neck didn’t snap. It was an effort not to roll his eyes and reveal that he could understand what was being said. “How should I find you during the march?”