The Killing Song: The Dragon Below Book III

by Don Bassingthwaite

  He hadn’t even hit the ground before the other orcs were swarming in. “Kill him!” bellowed Kobus.

  Geth jumped back again and felt his backside strike the rough bark of the tree. He pivoted, putting the trunk between him and the orcs. His weapons felt as heavy on his arms as his heart in his chest. Seven to one were no odds for clean fighting—or mercy. He kept pivoting right around the tree, swinging Wrath more by instinct than intellect as he went.

  The byeshk sword cut down into the soft belly of the first orc coming around the far side of the tree. Geth turned with the blow and whirled out into the open. It cost him the protection of the tree, but for a moment the dying orc offered him the same cover as his friends tried to get around him. A wide-bladed sword painted with the same red hordemarks that decorated its wielder swung at him—he turned it with his gauntlet and swung Wrath in reply, but the warrior was fast and leaped back.

  Another orc started to shove forward and pulled up short. Geth caught a flash of wariness in his face and threw himself to the side just as one head of Kobus’s double axe flashed down from behind to slice the ground here he’d stood. The shifter rolled on his shoulder, came back up in a crouch, and before Kobus had a chance to recover, pushed himself forward again, charging to meet the two orcs who had come around the tree behind the big warrior. One of the pair tried to block Wrath’s whistling arc. The other tried to swing his axe under Geth’s gauntleted arm, aiming for his vulnerable torso.

  Geth twisted aside and the axe skimmed past his ribs, slicing fabric and nicking flesh, but no worse. The steel-jacketed fingers of Geth’s hand, however, raked at the warrior’s head as he passed, caught on hair and ear, and spun him into Kobus. Both went down in a tangle. At the same moment, Wrath chopped deep into the thick wooden shaft of the other warrior’s axe. The orc was canny and turned his weapon sharply, trying to trap Geth’s sword. Geth didn’t bother fighting him for it. Already moving backward, he kept on turning, slamming the elbow of his gauntlet back into the warrior’s face and stomping down hard on his shin. Something—face or leg, maybe both—splintered loudly. The warrior screamed and fell.

  His fall freed Wrath. Geth whipped the sword forward and hacked at the orc with the torn ear as he staggered clear of Kobus. Wrath’s edge sheared clean through his skull, spraying blood and bits of brain across Kobus’s massive chest. The dead warrior pitched over sideways, his limbs spasming—and Medala’s hatred, strangely, vanishing from his eyes like a candle flame in a windstorm. It wasn’t until his ruined head bounced against the leaf-covered earth that Geth realized he had just killed Pog.

  A memory of the warrior offering him ale came back to him with terrible clarity. Tag domad’ad chuf! You can drink with me and my friends!

  That moment of distraction cost him. Hands grabbed onto his leg from behind and sudden pain shoved a groan out of his throat as the orc he had knocked down sank big teeth into the meat of his calf. Shifting-toughened flesh resisted his teeth, but the orc gnawed like an animal. Geth tried to pull away, but the orc held on with hands and jaws. Kobus shouted and swung his axe.

  Geth saw the heavy blades cut the air, saw the long shaft slide through Kobus’s fingers to extend the reach and power of the blow. The two remaining warriors, including the one whose cheek Geth had shattered, surged in at his side. Geth flung up sword and gauntlet to meet their attacks—

  —and fell backward as the orc who had trapped ripped suddenly at his leg. His savagery brought new pain burning through Geth’s leg and knocked him off his already awkward balance. The shifter crashed back, and Kobus’s axe swung past in a flat arc just above his chest.

  It caught Wrath though. The Dhakaani sword rang like a heavy chime as it was ripped from Geth’s grip and flung away into the shadows of the trees.

  Geth came down hard on top of the wounded orc, the fall wrenching his leg out of the warrior’s grasp. He also came down on top of the warrior’s injured leg, bringing another scream out of him—a scream that ended sharply as Geth kicked him in the head. Geth got his gauntlet up, swept aside a blow from the warrior with the shattered cheek, and rolled across the ground as the second head of Kobus’s axe swung down. He felt a tug on his scalp as he moved and looked back to see locks of thick brown hair clinging to the axe as Kobus whirled it up again.

  The big orc howled in frustration and spat something in Orc, but without Wrath Geth could no longer understand him. He bared his teeth and climbed to his feet, his chewed leg forcing him to limp. Kobus’s eyes flicked to his injury and his posture changed. He sank back on his tree-trunk legs and began to swing his double axe in slow circles. His eyes focused on Geth’s face, then he began to move forward, step by slow step. The other two orcs moved out to the sides, coming at Geth from right and from left. Geth backed up cautiously, but they followed, quicker than him with uninjured legs.

  They weren’t, however, entirely uninjured. Geth feinted toward the warrior with the broken cheek. His face was beginning swell, squeezing closed the eye above the cheek. Geth took a fast step toward him, feinted with his gauntlet toward the warrior’s good side—then leaped at him, striking with the heel of his empty left hand straight at his broken face. Bones that were already shattered crumbled under his blow, driving inward. The warrior wailed and Geth swarmed around behind him even as Kobus and the final orc turned to help their friend. Geth took a firm grip on the warrior’s good cheek with on hand, wrapped the other arm around his throat, and twisted hard.

  The orc’s neck snapped and his body went limp. Quick as thought, Geth bent down, grabbed the axe from his dead hand and hurled it the last warrior. The heavy-headed weapon hadn’t been meant for throwing, but at close range and with Geth’s strength behind it, it flew well enough to split the orc’s breastbone and sink deep into his chest.

  The death of his final man didn’t slow Kobus down, however. His double-axe spun up, stopped at the top of its arc, then chopped down. Geth barely blocked it, and the force of the impact left his arm numb inside the gauntlet. He gritted his teeth and blocked a second blow, this one low, as Kobus whirled the second head at him. Then a third blow, high, and a fourth, low. Deceptively low. He left himself open as he tried to stop it and abruptly Kobus had turned his weapon and the edge was diving across Geth’s belly. He twisted to avoid it and the steel cut a deep gash across his hip instead. Geth staggered, then staggered again as he tripped over Pog’s still body. He slid down to one knee.

  And without a moment’s hesitation, Kobus released one hand from the shaft of his double axe and clamped it around Geth’s throat, squeezing hard. It was the same tactic that had almost won him the challenge in the horde camp, but this time he kept Geth down, forcing him to his knees in Pog’s warm blood.

  Shadows swam in Geth’s vision. Kobus grinned horribly, and his pin-prick mad eyes looked merry. He spoke in Orc, and while Geth couldn’t understand the words, he could guess at them. We’ve been here before, you and I.

  It occurred to Geth that he wasn’t sure who did the speaking. Kobus had almost strangled him—but in their last meeting, Medala had almost suffocated him. Who spoke from Kobus’s mouth?

  It didn’t matter. Geth met Kobus’s eyes and managed to force a few words out of his crushed throat. “Last time,” he croaked, “I wasn’t armed.”

  His right arm brought up Pog’s axe, plucked from the ground, and swung it in an awkward but powerful arc.

  The bit deep into Kobus’ upper arm, cutting through flesh and chopping through bone. Kobus screamed. His grasp went limp, and he staggered back. His arm hung from a tatter of muscle, fingers clenching wildly. His double-axe fell from his other hand as he tried to clutch at his maimed limb. Geth sucked air into his lungs and went after him. Kobus looked up, his eyes pools of insane hatred. Tears of rage washed his red horde marks. Geth’s gut twisted.

  Kobus lunged at him, massive jaws snapping. Geth stepped back and swung the axe, burying it in Kobus’s skull. The speed of the warrior’s moving body carried him on to plow into the dirt, bu
t when he stopped, he lay very still.

  Geth groaned and staggered, releasing his hold on his shifting and sucking in his breath as the act tugged closed the worst of his wounds. Vulnerability rushed back to him—vulnerability and the ache of what he had done. He put his hands to his forehead and knotted his fingers in his hair. “Tiger and Wolf—”

  “Geth!”

  An orc’s voice, but not speaking Orc. Young. Clear. Familiar. Geth spun around, his heart lifting suddenly. “Orshok!” he said—then froze.

  It was the young druid, but his face was cold and his eyes were as hard and insane as Kobus’s had been. As Medala’s were. Geth’s heart felt like it had been torn out of his chest.

  In one hand, Orshok held a hunda stick. In the other, he held Wrath. He flung it in the dirt at Geth’s feet almost casually. Geth stared at it, then up at Orshok. The Gatekeeper smiled.

  “No,” Geth groaned. “No.”

  “Kill or be killed.” The voice that came from Orshok’s lips didn’t have the warm tones Geth had come to know in his travels. Instead, it was dry and harsh, the voice of a kalashtar who had traveled to the heart of madness and back. “Either way, I will have what I want.” Orshok’s eyes flickered—and a low song rippled out of his mouth. Geth realized he knew the rhythm, that he had heard it in the drums and flutes and rattles of the horde of Angry Eyes, but this was the first time he had heard it given voice and something about it chilled him to the bone.

  “Aahyi-ksiksiksi-kladakla-yahaahyi—”

  Orshok’s eyes focused on him, and the song rose to a pitch. He raised his hunda, holding it like a weapon. Geth didn’t move. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t kill a friend. Run, he told himself. Take Wrath and run!

  And leave Orshok in Medala’s power?

  Then a shadow moved behind Orshok, seeming to emerge from the solid trunk of one of the trees. Something rose and fell with a swiftness Geth wouldn’t have expected. It struck Orshok across the back of his head, and the young orc’s eyes rolled back. His body slid to the ground—and Batul faced Geth over his prone student, his own hunda stick slowly sinking.

  “You fool,” he said harshly. “You couldn’t wait? You couldn’t restrain yourself?”

  Geth barely heard the words. He stared at Orshok, anguish and giddy relief pummeling him. “He’s not dead, is he?”

  “No.”

  “Medala had him.” Geth looked up at Batul. “Medala had all of them! She still has her powers and your magic can’t stop her. She’s manipulating the entire horde, even the Gatekeepers—”

  Batul slammed the butt of his hunda stick into the ground, his good eye blazing. “I knew that, you idiot! Word of Vvaraak, didn’t you think I knew that? If you’d gone along with her, if you’d waited to speak to me some other time—any other time—this might not have happened!” He gestured around them.

  “Geth! Batul!” Ekhaas came charging out of the trees, her sword drawn, and pulled up short at the sight of the carnage. Her eyes went wide, and her ears stood up tall. “Khaavolaar!”

  Geth felt very small and very ashamed, felt guilty for surviving a fight that shouldn’t have happened. Wouldn’t have happened if he’d held himself back. “They lured me away. It was a trap.”

  Ekhaas pressed her lips together. “I guessed as much when I realized Hona’s curiosity was too intense to be natural. Medala used my arrogance against me.” She nodded toward Batul. “He found me before I could find you again, though, and I told him what we’d discovered—and he told me what he already knew.”

  She actually looked humbled too. Batul growled a curse under his breath. “And neither of you considered that allowing me to remain largely under Medala’s control for the moment might give you more insight later? You’re both fools.” He sighed and his anger seemed to draw back. He closed his eyes wearily, then looked back at them. “I have to return to the ceremony of the horde before the spell that brought me here ends—and before Medala realizes that I’m not entirely under her power. You two will have to leave. She’s backed you into a corner.”

  “Medala spoke through Orshok,” said Geth. “She said kill or be killed, she’d still have what she wanted.”

  Batul nodded. “If you died, you’d be out of her way. If you lived, you’d face the rage of the horde for killing friends and oath-brothers. The bodies would have been found, though now Orshok will wake and raise the alarm. Even when you flee, you’ll be reviled, a fallen hero.”

  The words turned like a knife in Geth’s belly. A reviled hero. He’d felt that way before. The loss of what he had enjoyed again, however briefly, stung. His head dropped—and he stared into Kobus’s split face.

  Orshok lay unconscious before him. Pog’s body grew cold. They had died at his hands—but also because Medala had sent them against him like tokens in a game. The sting of loss turned into fiery anger. He raised his head, teeth clenched. “Medala’s still up to something. We can’t just run!”

  An idea flashed in Batul’s eye. “Do you think you could run ahead of the horde—all the way to the Bonetree mound?”

  Geth stared at him, but Ekhaas’s ears twitched in understanding. “If she’s going to do something unexpected, she’s likely to do it there. We can scout ahead.”

  “And if you need us, we’ll be there. We can do that.” Geth bent down and snatched Wrath up from the ground. “But we’ll need guidance. I don’t know the way to mound from here.”

  Batul hesitated for a moment, then his hands went to his neck and pulled an amulet from beneath his shirt. “I think this may be what has enabled me to hold back Medala’s influence,” he said, “but your need is greater than mine now. Run north tonight, then lie on the ground at dawn, and it will show you the way.”

  Geth knew the amulet. When he’d carried Wrath out of the ghostly fortress of Jhegesh Dol, he’d also carried out the amulet, and Batul had recognized it immediately as a lost artifact of the Gatekeepers. There was a dragon’s scale encased within it, a relic of the legendary Vvaraak. Geth drew a sharp breath. “Batul, I can’t take that!”

  The old druid looked at him sharply and for a moment, Geth had the eerie feeling he was staring at him not with his good eye, but with the eye that was milky and blind. “You will take it,” Batul said with confidence and a wry smile, “and when the time is right, you will bring it back and wake me from sleep. I see this.” He started to lift the amulet over his head.

  Geth stopped him. “Wait. Do you see anything else?” He licked his lips. “Do you see Dandra and Singe?”

  Batul shook his head. “No—but there are many things that I don’t see.” The orc drew a deep breath, then pulled off the amulet and put it in Geth’s hands. Almost at once, his good eye blinked and a struggle crossed his face. “Run now,” he whispered. He turned and stumbled toward the nearest large tree—and passed straight into its trunk. Druid magic shimmered like starlight on the bark for a moment before fading. Geth clenched his fingers around the amulet.

  North put the trees between them and the majority of the horde, though none of the warriors were looking in their direction. Less than two fingerwidths of the sun remained above the horizon, and the attention of the frenzied horde was entirely on the druids who stood and shouted on the rim of the Sharvat Vvaraak.

  Geth and Ekhaas ran hard and silent through the gathering gloom. The land rose into a ridge and they climbed it. Geth’s leg still ached a little, but Ekhaas’s songs had healed it enough that he could run without too much discomfort and had lent him a little extra speed as well. She herself wore magical boots that could have allowed her to run as fast as a horse, though she slowed just enough to let him keep pace with her.

  They knew the exact moment when the sun set and night fell because the noise of the horde—almost a constant roar—vanished into silence. An instant later, individual voices rose into the star-flecked sky. The senior Gatekeepers were chanting, invoking the power of nature in unison. Geth paused and looked back.

  Last night, he’d listened at a campfire as
an old orc warrior with more scars than face had explained what would happen when the horde was ready to march. “The horde comes together, and all the warriors receive horde marks as a symbol that we’ve left our tribes behind and march as one. When the horde marches, we leave everything but our weapons in the camp as a symbol that Eberron provides all we need to sustain ourselves.” The warrior’s hideous face had looked around the circle of his audience. “But there’s one more symbol, a sign we make so that our enemies know we have already left our lives behind and are willing to die to defeat them—”

  The voices of the druids cracked and broke, and a new chorus of hissing, crackling voices seemed to answer them. Flames burst up from the Sharvat Vvaraak, a dozen pillars that climbed into the sky then collapsed back down, filling the flat basin with fire and the night with new light. Shapes danced in the inferno—the shapes of fire elementals summoned by the druids. The camp upon the sacred Sharvat and everything that had been left in it burned, severing the ties of the warriors to the lives they had left.

  A roar rose up from the horde that drowned out even the crackling voices of the elementals. Against the glare of the massive fire, Geth could see dark figures begin to swarm across the land. The horde of Angry Eyes was on the move.

  “Khaavolaar,” said Ekhaas. “That’s a sight you only see once in a life. It’s like an entire town is burning.”

  A growl rose into Geth’s throat. “When a town burns, it’s bigger,” he said. “Come on.” He turned away from the flames and moved on up the ridge, once again running away, once again reviled and hated because he hadn’t been able to hold himself back.

  Except this time he ran with a purpose. With every stride, Wrath bounced at his side, Adolan’s collar jumped around his neck, Batul’s amulet thumped against his chest—and the Bonetree mound drew a little closer.