Orphan's Song

by Gillian Bronte Adams

  She staggered up, wincing at her aching muscles. They had ridden long into the night, halting at last as the stars faded in the eastern sky. Tauros’s golden orb now hung above the horizon. She could scarce have slept for more than a couple of hours.

  Carhartan saddled the gray horse, his back toward her, posture as rigid as an iron pole. He moved with precision, each action measured to a clipped rhythm of strict efficiency. Fleeting thoughts of escape while Carhartan was preoccupied drifted through her mind, but she could not get far on foot, nor was there anywhere to go if she did.

  Carhartan gave the girth a final yank and then turned toward her, spurs jingling. “Eat. We leave soon.” His hand jerked, and Birdie barely had time to catch the hunk of bread he tossed her before he clanked away.

  When she finished, Carhartan led the gray horse over. She shrank from his touch as he hoisted her up and then mounted in front, the saddle shifting under his weight. Carhartan spurred the horse forward, and the jostling began once more in her precarious position on the beast’s hindquarters.

  Cool dawn shriveled into the glaring heat of the afternoon and then melted into the brilliant orange of sunset, distant mountains silhouetted black against the horizon. Green hills and grassy downs slept beneath the cover of a dark forest. The dusty road vanished into the trackless wilderness where leaf-laden branches blotted out Tauros’s setting light and intertwining pricknettles barred the way.

  Carhartan proceeded without faltering.

  On all sides, mist-shrouded trees rose to support the dark canopy above, limp foliage dangling from wrinkled branches adorned with graybeard moss. A sweet, musty scent permeated the air. Rotting leaves squelched beneath the iron-shod weight of the horse’s hooves.

  A splatter of color drew Birdie’s gaze to the ground. Dragon’s tongue sprawled in the loam, pale-green, heart-shaped leaves with blood-red centers slouching at the ends of crawling vines as thick as her wrist.

  The dense quiet gnawed at her. She had to do something—anything—to break the silence. “Where are we?”

  “Dunfaen Forest.”

  Carhartan had actually answered—that was something. Perhaps he would tell her more. The forest’s name sounded familiar. At the inn, she had often snuck away to listen to the travelers spin wild yarns around the common room fire. Hidden in a corner, she’d dreamt of distant lands and adventures, until Madame’s hand descended on her ear, dragging her back to work.

  From what she remembered, few travelers passed through Dunfaen Forest, preferring to take the long road around rather than the uncertain route over the mountains and through the pathless woods. But of what lay beyond the forest, she had only heard vague rumors. Of the northlands, of tribes enslaved, of fear and the whispered name of the Takhran.

  “Sir …” She forced her voice to be steady. “Where are you taking me?”

  But he did not answer and silence engulfed her once more, leaving her to the torture of her own imagination. Her head throbbed from the repetitive assault of questions. But no matter how far her thoughts took her, somehow, they always turned back to the Song in the end. The cursed melody was to blame for what had happened—her capture and Master Dalton’s death.

  She saw again the innkeeper slumped against the wall, blood soaking his white apron, and a tear trickled down her cheeks.

  Dangerous, that’s what the Song was. Amos was right. It was a curse.

  The horse lurched up a steep incline, forcing Birdie to cling to Carhartan’s waist to keep from slipping backward. Exhaustion folded its arms around her. Her eyelids drooped.

  “G’on, ye stubborn bit o’ lettuce-mouthed dredged-up pond scum.” Amos brought the end of the rope across Balaam’s hindquarters and threw in another kick just for good measure. The donkey grunted and responded with a jarring burst of speed.

  By Turning, it was working! He would catch them. Amos knew it in his heart, believed it in his soul. Nothing could keep him from rescuing Birdie from Artair’s fate.

  “Hyah! Get on—”

  The world flipped upside down.

  He shot forward off the donkey’s back and hurtled toward the ground. He tried to twist around, to bring an arm or shoulder up to break his fall, but there was no time before he crashed and the air bust from his lungs.

  A crushing weight landed on top of him, driving him into the ground, squeezing the life from his body. Balaam. Amos fought to breathe, to move, to stay awake, but his vision blurred, and the world slipped away.

  Amos groaned and dug his fingers into the ground, straining against the weight of the fallen donkey on his right leg. Grunting with exertion, he managed to crawl forward a few inches, transferring the pressure from his knee to his calf. He kicked at Balaam with his free foot. “C’mon! Get up, ye earth-shatterin’ lump o’ charbottle.”

  Balaam struggled to rise, but fell back before Amos could free his leg. Pain blazed through his knee. He had . . . to get . . . free. Shoving his elbows into the ground, he dragged himself forward, inch by inch, biting his lip until he tasted blood. At last, only his ankle lay beneath the donkey.

  One final effort and he dragged himself free.

  Amos lay on his back, gasping, searching for the strength to rise. A few feet away, he saw the small petra burrow that had been the cause of their fall. He shuddered—nasty little creatures, petras, with their bright green eyes, leathery wings, tiny sharp teeth and inconveniently placed burrows.

  Tugging his feathered cap down on his head, he forced himself to sit. A searing burst of pain speared his knee, and he swallowed a cry. He tugged the broad sash from his waist and wound it around the already swollen joint, tying it off with a skillful knot.

  He cast a baleful eye at the donkey thrashing about on the ground with the rope twisted about his legs. “Easy there, lad. I’ll get ye out.” Amos yanked the rope free, and Balaam staggered to his feet.

  Now it was his turn. Amos levered upward with the assistance of a cooperative tree near at hand and took an experimental step. A stab of pain warned him to be careful, but the wounded limb supported his weight. Setting his teeth to endure, he limped over to Balaam and ran his hands down the donkey’s legs, searching for injuries. The donkey’s right foreleg bent at an unnatural angle at the knee. It was hot to the touch and already so swollen that the skin felt stretched and hard.

  “Blithering barnacles.” No way the beast could travel now. He removed Balaam’s rope halter and tucked it under one arm. “Sorry, laddie. Afraid ’twas just a wee bit too much fer ye.”

  The donkey nuzzled Amos’s sleeve. He jerked his arm away. “G’on with ye. Get out o’ here!” He brought his hand down on Balaam’s rump, and the donkey lumbered off into the night.

  Poor beastie deserved a better fate. Amos watched as the gray figure dwindled in the distance. “Mind ye don’t get eaten by wolves!” He turned away. “Daft—that’s what I am. Talkin’ to a donkey? Simply daft. Forget it, Amos. Ye’ve got t’ find Birdie, so stop standin’ around like a mournin’ duck an’ get on with it.”

  Stirred to action by his own words, Amos tucked the rope in his belt, hoping it would prove useful when he caught up with Carhartan.

  And he would catch up.

  Even if he had to walk all the way to Serrin Vroi.

  His hand struck his sheath in passing and it bounced against his leg. Empty. A shimmer in the soil drew his gaze, and he shuffled over to snatch the dirk up. The blade gleamed like moonlight reflecting off the surface of a woodland pool.

  He returned the dirk to his scabbard, blade whispering against the leather as he did so. Setting his jaw, Amos faced north, into the darkness of Dunfaen Forest and took a deep breath. “I’m comin’ Birdie.”

  11

  Birdie jolted awake, gasping for breath. She lay still, gazing upward, listening to the night. Tauros still slumbered. Stars blinked softly through shredded wisps of cloud. Her gaze plunged through the f
orest to the horse, hobbled and staked to a tree, coat shining pale blue in the moonlight. The saddle and leather armor were perched on a rock beside the horse, bridle laid across the seat.

  There was no sign of Carhartan.

  Birdie inched to her feet, peering into shadows beneath the eclipsing tree limbs. Still nothing. She scarce dared believe her good fortune. Was he really gone? She tiptoed forward a few steps and then froze in place.

  Sibilant whispers drifted toward her from the shadows beneath the trees to her left—two voices. The louder voice sounded like Carhartan, though she couldn’t discern what was said, nor identify the second speaker. Had another Khelari arrived during the night?

  She took a deep breath, hoping to calm her trembling limbs. She could not hope to escape two of them. It would be better to wait for Amos to—

  No! She clenched her fists. It was high time she admit the truth. Amos would not come. If she wished to be free, she would have to escape on her own.

  She crept forward another step.

  The horse’s head sprang up, and the beast snorted.

  A shout split the sleepy silence, followed by heavy footsteps and a ragged voice cursing. Birdie fled, clutching her skirts to her knees to grant her legs free movement.

  The horse was not yet saddled—should give her a few minutes head start.

  A root snagged her foot, sending her sprawling into a patch of dragon’s tongue at the base of a tall, black cliff. She scrambled upright on the squelching, swaying bed, slapping aside the wet leaves that clung to her arms and legs, and then tore off through the woods away from the cliff.

  She didn’t know where she was going, and she didn’t care. Her only thought was to put as much distance between herself and Carhartan as she could. So long as her back was set to Madame and Hardale and the two terrors, it didn’t matter where she wound up. She had nowhere to go, nothing to do, but run.

  So she ran.

  Until her lungs ached with each heaving breath, and her legs trembled with each step, and she was forced to skid to a halt, doubled over, hands resting on her knees as she fought to breathe. Her hair hung in damp cords about her face. Sweat dripped into her eyes. She dashed it away, and as soon as her gasping breaths slowed to manageable puffs, she began to walk.

  She picked her way along the clearest path she could find through the thick underbrush, while the night marched past in rhythm with the measured tread of her feet.

  Then she saw it.

  And all hope vanished.

  Silhouetted in a gap through the trees, a tall, black cliff stabbed toward the sky.

  No . . .

  Birdie’s legs quivered, threatening to give way beneath her. She clutched a nearby zoar tree for support, resting her forehead against the smooth trunk. It was the same cliff she had seen earlier, after slipping on the patch of dragon’s tongue. Somehow . . . someway . . . she had run in a circle. She was no farther from Carhartan than when she started.

  The woods seemed to press in about her. Dark trunks stood like sentinels stationed on either side to keep her from escaping. Grasping boughs snagged her hair and limbs, as if the forest itself conspired with Carhartan.

  Iron shod hooves rattled somewhere to her left.

  Carhartan screamed her name.

  Birdie tore away from the trees and dashed parallel to the hindering cliff, ducking branches and scrabbling over fallen boulders. Ahead, a broad gash carved down the cliff face. She sprinted toward it and stumbled to a stop, skree shifting beneath her feet, at the entrance to a yawning gorge that melted into blackness.

  Drumming hooves behind.

  Birdie sucked in a deep breath and dashed headlong into the gorge. Splintered rocks snagged her bare toes. Pricknettles stabbed her feet. Her lungs ached and a stitch burned her side.

  Hoof beats jerked to a stop at the gorge entrance.

  She froze midstride. A long moment of agonized waiting, stifling shuddering breaths, then the hooves clattered down the gorge.

  Down the rough path she raced, arms and legs flying. Silence was no longer an issue. All that mattered was speed. Already the hooves drew nearer. The horse’s heavy breathing puffed on her heels, and she could hear the bit clanking against its teeth as its head moved in stride.

  Her gaze darted around the gorge. Scrubby bushes armed with thorns crawled up the side of the cliffs. Jagged walls of rock stretched toward the stars on either side.

  The horse skidded to a stop, cutting her off. A hand caught her arm and yanked her from the ground.

  “No!” Birdie shrieked. She planted a solid kick in the horse’s belly and it shied away from her attack. An oath broke from Carhartan’s lips as he lurched to stay in the saddle. One of his gauntlets came loose in her grasp and she fell, landing on her back with an aching thud.

  Carhartan clutched his right arm to his chest, the hand missing at the wrist. His gauntlet clanked to the ground beside Birdie’s head, and she screamed as it rolled toward her, stopping with the open end facing her.

  Empty.

  Carhartan swung down from the saddle. Gasping for breath, Birdie scrambled away. Her back struck something hard, and she felt the cold rock of the gorge wall against her palms. She rose, pressing herself against the cliff, as he strode toward her.

  Distorted as a mountain crumbling to dust, the black melody burst into her mind. Hopeless it seemed, despairing, yet filled with malice. Then soaring above the darkness, the five notes arose in her heart. The Song quelled the misshapen tune with beauty. Surging higher and higher, until it filled the gorge, shielding her with light.

  Trapped without hope, Birdie did the only thing she could. She lifted her head, closed her eyes, and sang the cursed melody.

  Loud and clear, her song rose like the first drop of spring sunlight after a long gray winter. Carhartan, before so tall and terrible, seemed to shrink. She was suddenly aware that she did not sing alone. Hundreds of voices harmonized with her. Some deep and slow, a hollow echo from the depths of the earth; others light and airy like the whisper of butterfly wings fluttering through crystal skies.

  While the other voices repeated the same five notes, her own lips breathed forth a complete melody of pure and radiant light. She reveled in the beauty of the Song and the rippling dance of the undulating notes that poured from her heart.

  A hideous metallic shiiinnngg broke through her reverie, and she glanced down to find herself staring at the crimson tip of Carhartan’s sword. The melody faltered on her tongue and faded away.

  Carhartan’s face twisted in hatred, but there was fear in his eyes. “Silence, little Songkeeper.”

  The warmth fled from her cheeks, but anger burned within, heating her tongue to action. “You are afraid. That’s why you threaten me. You’re afraid of the song I sing—”

  A stinging blow landed on her mouth. Her head snapped back, striking the gorge wall.

  “Filthy little vermin!” Carhartan spat at her feet and struck again.

  Specks of light flared across her vision through the tears swimming in her eyes. Carhartan drew his fist back a third time, and she raised her arms to protect her head.

  A horrible screech rang out, bouncing off the walls of the gorge to sound forth again and again. Carhartan stumbled back, and Birdie slumped to the ground, her head spinning. Through blurred eyes, she saw Carhartan assume a defensive posture as he circled, gazing into the night sky.

  All was silent.

  At last, Carhartan relaxed and lowered his blade. He took a step toward her.

  Birdie struggled to rise.

  The screech tore through the gorge again, then a massive shadow plummeted from the sky and tore the helmet from Carhartan’s head.

  Carhartan yelled and stabbed over his shoulder. With a roar, the creature snatched the sword from Carhartan’s hand, snapped the steel like a dry twig, and flung the broken pieces aside. Carhartan
launched himself at the beast, and the two tumbled to the ground.

  Birdie forced herself to rise on trembling limbs and circled the fighting pair until she was in the middle of the gorge again. Scarcely daring to breathe, she backed away. She watched as the creature fought its way to the top. Pinning Carhartan with dagger-like claws, the creature loosed a ferocious roar and drew its head back to strike.

  Birdie’s heel struck a rock and she fell. The creature looked up and met her gaze. In an instant, she sprang to her feet and raced away, but it was already too late. She knew that. The creature had seen her.

  The dull throb of beating wings overwhelmed the thudding of her feet. She staggered on, weaving from side to side. Something swiped her legs out from beneath her, and she fell onto a muscled body covered in feathers. She managed to twist around and throw her arms about the creature’s neck before it shot into the air.

  A scream rose in her throat, but the burst of speed forced her to bury her face in the beast’s feathers and hold on with all her might lest she fall. Maybe that was the creature’s plan—to drop her from a height and feast on her remains.

  Thump. The creature landed, and the jolt threw her from its back. She scrambled to her feet atop a cliff with a drop-off behind her. Trapped again, with nowhere to run.

  The creature stalked toward her. It was a massive beast, built like an enormous cat with a face that was somehow both bird-like and cat-like at the same time. Reddish-brown feathers covered its head, chest, and wings, while the rest of the beast’s body was clad in tawny fur.

  Slowly, she stretched out her hands, palms toward the beast. “Please . . . please don’t hurt me.”

  The creature lowered its head. A voice, like a rumbling growl, came from its open beak. “Quiet, little Songkeeper.”

  12

  Plunging farther into the woods with each painful step, Amos pressed onward, eyes fixed on the ground. A line of disturbed leaves was the only trail he had to follow—he could only hope it was Carhartan’s. He had heard tales of the legendary hunters of the Vituain Desert who could track their quarry across the shifting sands for weeks without losing either the trail or the scent. Pity he’d never learned the trick.