The Killing Song: The Dragon Below Book III

by Don Bassingthwaite

There was dried blood on the stairs. Singe felt sure that most of it was his. There was also a lingering odor of rotting flesh below deck, and he remembered the sounds of violence as Vennet murdered one of Biish’s people before the ship rose from the Gathering Light. He had a feeling that whatever role Biish and his gang had been meant to play in the kidnap of the kalashtar, it had not been what Biish had expected.

  There was another odor below deck as well, though. It was rank and foul, and Singe had once smelled the same odor on boarding a ship that had been used by slavers. Sweat. Excrement. The stench of people left shackled and unable to fend for themselves.

  The everbright lantern that Vennet had opened in the hold of Mayret’s Envy remained unshuttered. Singe saw all of the kalashtar turn their heads as he and Dah’mir entered. They still sat or stood or lay where Singe had last seen them. The only shackles that they bore were shackles of the mind.

  Dah’mir spread his wings and flapped up to settle on top of a familiar metal box. Kalashtar eyes followed him. He ignored them. “You know what’s in here,” he said to Singe. “You’re going to use them.”

  The bracers. The binding stones. Singe’s throat constricted. “No,” he croaked.

  His defiance seemed to amuse Dah’mir. The heron let out a hissing little laugh. “You don’t have a choice,” he said. His acid-green eyes focused on Singe. “Put the bracers on my master’s servants.”

  Singe tried to resist the command, but it was like trying to hold back waves with a castle of sand. Dah’mir’s will washed over his. He stepped forward and, as Dah’mir shifted aside, opened the metal box. The nestled bracers within shone up at him, gold plates and wires, pale crystals—and the dark blue-black beauty of the Khyber shards that Taruuzh of Dhakaan had fashioned into prisons for psionic minds so many millennia ago.

  “Pick one up,” urged Dah’mir and he did. Dah’mir nodded his head toward one of the kalashtar. “Her first,” he said.

  The kalashtar he indicated was an old woman with a face that might have been stern if it hadn’t been slack from Dah’mir’s control. Singe thought he recognized her from Dandra’s description of the kalashtar elders—Shelsatori. His hands trembling, he approached her.

  “Find her psicrystal first,” said Dah’mir. “I believe she wears it around her neck.”

  He found the crystal. It was blue and beautiful and it seemed to glow with a softness that Shelsatori lacked. It was set in a fine cage of silver, much as Dandra’s psicrystal had been set in a cage of bronze. He wondered if Shelsatori’s crystal had a name.

  It didn’t matter. His fingers pried open the cage and extracted the crystal at Dah’mir’s direction, then inserted it into the empty setting above the binding stone on the bracer.

  “Now,” Dah’mir said, “place the bracer on her arm.”

  Singe clenched his teeth and fought Dah’mir’s control, but it did him no more good than it had the first time. He watched his hands lift Shelsatori’s arm and slide the twisted gold of the bracer onto it.

  He felt her body stiffen and, for an instant, saw her eyes focus on him. There was such a depth of loss and agony in them that he couldn’t help crying out. Then that moment of alertness was gone and she sank back into an unresisting trance. Singe let her arm drop and waited for her to rise as a mad servant of the Master of Silence.

  Nothing happened. He looked at Dah’mir. “It didn’t work,” he said. “You’ve failed.”

  Dah’mir reared back suddenly, spreading his wings for balance, and one of his feet raked across Singe’s cheek. The wizard fell with a cry, but Dah’mir just settled back to his perch. “I didn’t fail,” he hissed. “In the presence of my master, she will wake.” He folded his wings and glared at Singe with hard eyes. “Now—finish what you have begun. A bracer for every kalashtar here, and when we reach the mound you will see the results of what you have done.”

  Singe touched the bloody lines on his cheek. “Not what I’ve done,” he said stubbornly. “What you’ve made me do.”

  “A difference,” Dah’mir said, “that means nothing to me.”

  His will fell over Singe again.

  For all his defiance and for all that he knew it was not his own will that moved his hands, Singe was still the one who felt the kalashtar stiffen as the binding stone caught their mind and exchanged it with the mind of their psicrystal. He was the one who fastened Dah’mir’s bracers around their arms. He was the one, he knew, who condemned them to madness.

  By the sixth bracer, Singe’s eye was wet with barely suppressed tears. By the tenth, his hands were shaking in spite of Dah’mir’s control. By the thirteenth, he was numb. He wasn’t even certain that Dah’mir still controlled him. Finding a psicrystal, placing it in the bracer, placing the bracer on an arm had become a routine. The passing of a kalashtar under his fingers became just another rip in his soul.

  He’d killed people. He was a mercenary. But doing this, he felt like a murderer.

  He picked up the final bracer in the metal box and turned to the last kalashtar at the very back of the hold.

  Moon.

  “Ah, yes,” said Dah’mir. “I remember him. You left him for us at the arena, unconscious and half-mad already. Very convenient. What happened to him?”

  Singe glared at him over his shoulder. “Keeper take you, Dah’mir.” He bent over Moon. “I hope you’re still in there, Virikhad,” he said under his breath. “And I hope this hurts even more the second time.”

  Moon wore his psicrystal in a leather bracer wrapped around his left arm. Singe reached for it—and as he did, a voice trickled into his head through kesh.

  Take out the binding stone.

  Singe froze for an instant and looked at Moon’s face. His eyes were as vacant as those of all the kalashtar had been, yet there was no denying the presence of the voice in his head—though he could certainly deny its request. Virikhad! So you are still there. His fingers closed on Moon’s psicrystal and ripped it from its setting. What’s wrong? Are you trapped in there? Don’t ask me to help you! He stopped. Maybe I should tell Dah’mir about you.

  You wouldn’t gain anything. Virikhad’s voice was cold but calm. He would only see an ally.

  And how do you know that?

  Because he doesn’t know what he has created, Virikhad said. A part of his power is in us. He can’t shut us out. We can exert some influence on him, pushing his ideas in the direction we want. A sneer entered his voice. Did you think he changed his plan of when to use the bracers on a whim?

  You did that? Singe’s eyes narrowed. Wait—Who’s we?

  Virikhad didn’t answer. The time is coming, Singe. Dah’mir had to succeed in Sharn, but he’ll fail here. Take the binding stone out of my bracer. I promise you, Dah’mir won’t notice. Only do it quickly!

  Why? Singe asked, but he didn’t get an answer to that question either.

  “Master!” Vennet’s frantic voice echoed down from above. “The Bonetree mound is in sight, but we’re not going to be alone when we get there.”

  “What?” Singe glanced back in time to see Dah’mir’s feathered form stiffen. “Vennet, what’s happening? Vennet?” There was no response from Vennet, just the sound of boots racing back to the helm. Dah’mir glared at Singe. “Hurry! Finish with that one!”

  Singe looked down at Moon again. Take the binding stone out of the bracer, Virikhad said. Dah’mir will fail—and I’ll even give you Munchaned back.

  The sensation of kesh fell away. Singe ground his teeth together—and made his decision. If you’re lying, Virikhad, he thought, I swear I’ll come back from the dead to hunt you down.

  It was the work of a moment to pull the binding stone from its delicate setting and slip it into a pouch on his belt at the same time as he placed Moon’s psicrystal into the bracer. Then he put the bracer onto the young kalashtar.

  Moon stiffened just as all the others had. Virikhad’s influence? Singe turned to face Dah’mir. “It’s done,” he said. He didn’t need to feign the bitter rage he felt.
He might have saved Moon, but who could tell what would happen to the other sixteen kalashtar?

  “Good. Now get back up to the deck. Quickly!”

  It was tempting to move slowly on the stairs if only to inconvenience Dah’mir. Once again, the heron stalked awkwardly in his wake, driving him onward with prods from his sharp beak. Every jab just stirred greater anger in Singe and he might have stopped and refused to move—he might even have tested just how tough a dragon in heron form was—if he hadn’t wanted to know as badly as Dah’mir what was happening at the mound.

  The answer was obvious as soon as he reached the deck and peered over the side.

  They were coming up fast on the Bonetree mound. Approached from ground level or along the river that ran nearby, the mound was an astounding sight, rising proud and massive from the flatness around it. From above, though, it just looked like a wart on the land—a wart painted angry red by the setting sun.

  Spread out before it were hundreds of small shapes milling around in chaos. The raking light of the sun struck sparks from the blades of weapons shaken in the direction of the airship and Singe could just catch the faint whisper of war cries.

  “Twelve moons!” he gasped.

  “Orcs!” Vennet shouted from the helm. “Orcs, master! We can’t land!”

  Dah’mir settled onto the rail close to Singe and glared down as if he were able to see every detail of the distant warriors. “Gatekeepers! How could they have—” His head came up and his acid-green eyes turned on Singe. “There was always one of you missing, wasn’t there?” he said in a hiss. “Geth was never in Sharn!”

  Singe gave him an angry grin. “Aye!” he said. “But he’s probably down there!”

  “He won’t be for much longer.” Dah’mir’s voice rose. “Vennet, keep the ship high while I deal with this.” He gave Singe another look and his eyes narrowed. “And kill our guest before he causes trouble. We have enough distractions now.”

  Singe’s gut rose.

  “But master—” Vennet began in protest.

  “Just do it, Vennet!” Dah’mir screamed—and flung himself over the rail.

  CHAPTER

  22

  His small dark form dropped rapidly, falling away from and behind the airship.

  Then abruptly he was no longer small. A dragon’s form cut the air and a dragon’s powerful wings scooped at the wind. In just a few wing beats, Dah’mir caught up to the speeding airship, then surged ahead of her as the deck tilted and Vennet guided the ship higher into the sky. A roar burst from Dah’mir and he dived at the orcs before the Bonetree mound.

  Singe couldn’t tear himself away from the terrible spectacle that unfolded below. The light of dusk that struck Dah’mir’s blackened copper scales turned him into a massive bolt of dark, unholy flame. The milling chaos of the orcs seemed to come together into order at the sight of the danger falling from above. Clumps of warriors condensed out of the madness, each standing firm. Dah’mir’s wings dipped and he turned, angling toward the largest concentration of the warriors, a massive cluster that stood before the entrance to the mound. Arrows rose in a small dark cloud to meet him, but the dragon ignored them.

  His massive jaws opened and a gout of acid poured out to wash through the heart of the cluster as Dah’mir swept overhead. His wings tilted again, and he soared up once more—and in his wake, orc warriors turned on smoking ground and unleashed another volley of arrows. Around them, other orcs that must have been druids lowered their hunda sticks.

  “Yes!” Singe shouted. “Yes!” When Dah’mir had revealed himself during the first battle before the Bonetree mound, he’d caught everyone by surprise. This time, the orcs were ready with Gatekeeper magic to turn aside his acid. Other magic shimmered as well. The air seemed to fold, and half a dozen eagles burst out of nowhere to pursue the dragon—gigantic eagles with wingspans of easily ten paces. Roaring in fury at an easy victory denied, Dah’mir whirled in the air. His jaws snapped at one eagle, caught it, and shook like a dog shaking a rat, then let the limp body drop to the ground below. He dived to make another pass at the orc warriors.

  But Singe wasn’t the only one watching the battle. A scream of outrage near the stern of the airship dragged him back. He spun around.

  Vennet stood at the ship’s helm, pushing the ship in a wide upward spiral though he leaned to see what was going on below. Singe’s movement brought his head up. For a moment, the two men stared at each other—then Singe reached inside himself and drew up one of the last spells remaining to him. Hot words of magic sprang from his tongue and his fingers flicked toward Vennet.

  Quick as he was, Vennet was quicker and he had the entire airship to use as a weapon. Before the spell could take shape, the half-elf howled and spun the wheel.

  The deck pitched hard to the side. Singe’s feet slid under him and he went staggering. Half-formed sparks scorched his hands as his concentration broke and his spell faltered and faded. Vennet spun the wheel back. Singe rolled the other way, almost falling this time. The loss of his eye made it hard to compensate for the rocking of the deck. His fingers scraped across wood as he tried to regain his balance.

  Vennet’s laugh made a sound like breaking glass, another harsh sound in the assault on Singe’s ears. Dah’mir’s bellows. The screeches of the Gatekeepers’ summoned eagles as they died. Distant shouts from the orcs. A closer roaring of flame as the elemental bound to Mayret’s Envy burned with furious joy at the airship’s wild tossing and speeding ascent. Vennet’s hands tightened on the wheel and his eyes narrowed in concentration.

  Singe knew something of the way airships were controlled. The real control wasn’t in how the wheel was turned—the wheel was just a prop, a remnant of more conventional waterborne ships. True control lay in the captain’s touch on the wheel and in his command of the elemental bound into the ring around the ship’s belly.

  And at Vennet’s silent command, the elemental hissed and crackled like fire in an alchemist’s furnace. The angle of the ship’s climb became steeper and with it the angle of the deck. Singe clenched his teeth. No point wasting precious magic. He pushed off from the deck and dashed at Vennet, running with the cant of the deck instead of trying to fight it.

  Vennet’s laughter turned into a curse. He pulled one hand from the wheel and thrust it at Singe. “Sweep him off my ship!” he commanded.

  Singe was ready for the blast of wind this time. He threw himself to the side, out of the gale’s path, and felt only a swirling breeze as he rolled back to his feet and leaped at Vennet. The half-elf tried to draw his cutlass, but Singe hit him before he even had his free hand on the weapon’s hilt, carrying him backward and slamming him to the deck.

  Vennet’s other hand jerked from the wheel as Singe tore him away. Obedient to the half-elf’s last command, however, the ship continued to climb. Both Singe and Vennet tumbled toward the ship’s stern. Vennet shouted and tried to tear himself away, but Singe held onto him, punching at him as best he could. The smell of rot was thick around Vennet, though, and the foul pus that oozed from his broken skin made it slick. Vennet jabbed a fist at his blind side and slid free as Singe’s grasp weakened for a moment.

  But Singe had what he wanted. His hand was on the hilt of his rapier where it hung from Vennet’s waist, and as Vennet pulled away, the motion drew the blade from the scabbard. Singe staggered, found his balance, and thrust.

  The point of the blade opened a long red gash along the side of Vennet’s left forearm before he could reach the wheel. The mad man gasped and recoiled, then his face twisted and he drew his cutlass. Metal rang on metal as he caught Singe’s next attack and turned it aside.

  Singe fought with a frenzy that came on him like a second fever. He could already feel his strength fading, sapped by hunger and captivity. He needed to make every blow count.

  But Vennet’s blows were frenzied too. His heavy, chopping attacks had no grace or dexterity, but they had the strength of madness behind them. Vennet threw himself into the fight with
ferocity. Spittle ran from the corner of his mouth and streaked across his cheek. He swung his cutlass hard, aiming for Singe’s blind side, and Singe had to turn and turn again to escape him. He got his left side against the rail for protection, but Vennet had the better of him now. The ship’s wheel forgotten, the half-elf forced him step by step up the sloping deck toward the bow.

  A roar broke out somewhere below them, so loud and angry that both men glanced over the side for an instant, swords still crossed. Singe was shocked to see how high the airship had flown. The sweep of the Shadow Marches lay spread out before them.

  Dah’mir had finally noticed their uncontrolled ascent, however. Wings straining, acid-green eyes bright in the gathering dusk, he climbed after them. “Vennet! Bring the ship down!”

  Singe swung back to Vennet, ready for a renewed attack—and froze. The other man was staring past him with a look of alarm replacing the rage on his face. Singe twisted, looking over his shoulder to see what he was staring at.

  The kalashtar had come onto the deck. They stood before the hatch that led below, eerily silent. Their stares, though still blank, were no longer turned toward Dah’mir. Instead, they turned to the young kalashtar who stood at their head. Moon—or Virikhad. Pinprick eyes met Singe’s.

  “What are they doing here?” Vennet choked. His free hand grabbed for Singe’s arm. “What have you done?”

  Silver-white light flared near the stern. Both Singe and Vennet turned toward it and Singe’s hollow gut wrenched. Before the airship’s helm stood Medala, gaunter than ever, her gray hair wilder. Her pupils were the same pinpricks of black as Moon’s.

  He and Dandra might have guessed that she was still alive, but actually seeing Medala again was like a blow. Fear burst inside Singe, and he acted on reflex, flinging out a hand and shouting a word of magic. Flames leaped from his hand in a searing blast.

  Medala simply winked out in another silver-white flash. The magical fire washed over the helm and the wood of the wheel flared and burned, charring away in a heartbeat—