Orphan's Song

by Gillian Bronte Adams

  A screech rang out.

  Amos halted, arms and back prickling. Halfway between a scream and a roar, the sound reverberated through the forest. Twisting spirals of leaves tumbled from shaking limbs. A large black bird burst from its perch in a tree a few yards away and winged skyward.

  The words of the Khelari from the Whistlin’ Waterfly filled his mind. A monster in Dwimdor Pass.

  The scream came again. He held his breath. Such a terrible rasping noise could never come from a human throat. It was followed by a cry of terror—this time, distinctly human. And close.

  “Birdie!” Amos barreled through the underbrush, following the echoing cry. Thorns tore at his legs, and his knee throbbed at every step. He whipped the dirk from its scabbard and clenched it in his fist.

  He must reach Birdie. The thought propelled him past the limits of endurance. Then the last repetitions of the scream trailed away into nothingness, and Amos staggered to a halt in a narrow rift between two cliff faces.

  Too late?

  “Birdie!” His voice bounced back at him from the surrounding cliffs, mocking, scornful, hopeless. “Where are ye, lass?”

  There was no reply.

  “Bloodwuthering blodknockers!”

  The patch of sky visible through the open ceiling of the gorge grew pale. A faint tinge of pink trickled across the gray expanse as night fled before the coming dawn. Amos threw his head back and filled his lungs with crisp air, then started walking once more.

  He would not rest until he found her, even if it meant wearing his feet to shreds and walking until his legs gave way beneath him.

  Clang.

  His booted foot struck something metal, and he looked down. His hand flew to his belt and ripped his dirk from its sheath. The Khelari Marshal, Carhartan, sprawled at his feet, legs crumpled beneath him, arms shielding his face. A puddle of blood, still glistening wet, pooled around his body.

  Amos studied the fallen man in silence, then seeing no sign of life, knelt over the still form of his enemy. A bleeding gash traversed the man’s face from his scalp, diagonally across his nose, to his right ear. Below his ear, a puckered brown scar, half hidden by his mail, marred the flesh of his neck.

  Amos traced the flaring lines with a finger. Looked almost like an old burn scar . . .

  The world suddenly shifted.

  He could still feel the roughness of the gorge beneath his feet and the cool morning breeze puffing against his cheek, but he beheld a distant place. Veiled in darkness, spattered with the dim light of torches, marred by the bodies of the fallen. He had not seen in it in many long years, but it haunted his dreams nonetheless.

  He could almost taste the smoke in the air.

  Rough wood scraped his palms. Flames licked at his fingertips.

  Distant shouts and screams—dying screams—filled his ears. A roar ripped from his throat. “Traitor!”

  Dark eyes opened wide, a cry frozen on his lips, the man scrambled away as Amos thrust the torch in his face.

  Oran Hamner.

  The Khelari groaned.

  Amos fell back, lungs heaving. Fury settled in his throat like a noose about his neck, threatening to strangle him. “Still alive? After all these years?” He dropped his dirk, snatched the limp form up, and shook him by the shoulders. “What of Birdie? What have ye done with her ye sneaking, treacherous ormahound?”

  Warm blood seeped onto his hands. With a jerk, he released the body and staggered to his feet. His boot clanked against his dirk. Slowly, he picked it up, staring in fascination at the red stain his fingers left on the gleaming blade. His hand shook as he raised the dirk over the Khelari soldier at his feet.

  “Twice accursed traitor, ye deserve t’ die.” He tensed to strike, breath hissing through clenched teeth. Death would be best. Not murder, merely an execution long delayed. He’d failed to kill Oran once, and it had resulted in sorrow. He couldn’t fail again.

  But his arm wouldn’t move. Looking down at the fallen soldier, he saw not the bearded Khelari, nor the traitor of that terrible night, but the young man he’d once called brother. He clenched his fist and thrust the image from his mind. “Ye deserve t’ die!”

  Still he could not strike. Even now, so many years later, he could not do the deed. Even now, he proved a failure.

  The dirk slipped from his quivering hand and clattered on the ground. Amos spun away, stomping about aimlessly, shouting incoherent words to the sky. Then he made his way back to Oran’s side.

  “By rights ye should have died long ago. I couldn’t slay ye then, an’ I can’t do it now, not in cold blood. But know this: if ye cause any more trouble fer my lass, I swear I’ll cut yer throat an’ rest easy doin’ it.”

  He collected his dirk and inspected the ground step by painstaking step. Red blood splattered the cliff face behind Oran . . . Carhartan. A twisted iron horseshoe peeked out from beneath a flat rock. Large brownish-red feathers scattered before a puff of wind.

  He caught one of the feathers and held it up to his eye. The markings were unfamiliar, but at least it was not the black feather of one of the Takhran’s spies. He released the feather and the wind blew it away.

  Flapping like a night moth with a broken wing, the feather rose and then dropped, landing atop a crimson mark on a distant boulder. It fluttered where it lay, like a hand beckoning him. Amos scoffed at the idea—flibbersticks and roughnash—still, he followed and bent over the stone to examine the mark.

  The air turned cold, and the earth seemed to tilt beneath his feet. He clutched at the boulder to keep from falling. A bloodstain in the shape of a four-toed clawed print marred the surface of the rock. He placed his hand inside the pad of the print and fingered the deep gouges left by the claws. Similar cuts scored the rock in several other places. And pressed into the bottom of one of the cuts, was a tattered scrap of light blue material.

  Amos dug it out of the scratch and clenched it in his fist. Birdie’s dress. He spun around, searching the gorge. “Birdie. Birdie!” He shouted her name again and again, until the cliffs took up the cry and carried it ahead of him. Then he began to run, staggering down the gorge.

  Always, he arrived too late.

  “Quiet, little Songkeeper.”

  Birdie pressed her palms to her aching head. Would the nightmare never end? The creature could talk, just like that strange cat back at the Sylvan Swan.

  Somehow, it was all bound to the melody.

  The creature must have heard her sing. Something about the song had led Carhartan to kidnap her. Whatever it was, it must have also driven the beast to attack Carhartan and take her captive. It was the only connection she could make. The only thing that made sense—as much sense as something so utterly insane could make. Assuming, of course, that the beast wasn’t just planning on having her for supper.

  “What do you want from me?” Her voice quavered despite her efforts to keep it steady.

  “Want from you?” The creature made an odd hissing sound. It took Birdie a moment to realize that it was laughing. “I have been searching for you for years, little Songkeeper.”

  Little Songkeeper—Carhartan had called her that. A chill crawled up her arms and questions tumbled from her lips. “What? Why search for me? Who are you? Why do you call me that?”

  “Because that is what you are. That is your gift.”

  “Gift?” Birdie set her jaw. “What do you know of it?” The melody had brought nothing but sorrow. It was no gift. It was a curse.

  A strain of music caught her ear. Fierce, wild, and free, the voice seemed to be coming from . . . the creature.

  She grasped at the thought. “Can you hear it?”

  The creature’s head drooped. “Nay, little Songkeeper, I cannot.”

  The melody vanished, and the last spark of energy seemed to drain from her limbs. Her legs sagged beneath her. The creature caught her with
a wing before she could fall. At the beast’s touch, terror coursed through her veins, and she scrambled beyond the reach of its beak and claws.

  “Please . . . please just let me go.” It didn’t matter where she went. So long as it was far beyond the reach of strange creatures and cursed melodies and fearsome Khelari soldiers.

  The creature folded its wings across its back. “I am not going to hurt you.”

  “Then let me leave.”

  “I cannot.”

  Birdie fought against the panic rising in her chest. To have escaped Carhartan, only to be captured by a monster. Would she never be free?

  “Birdie!”

  The familiar voice sent a burst of hope through her. “Amos?” She spun around and knelt on the cliff’s edge, peering down into the gorge. The peddler staggered into view around the bend, half running, half limping, hair streaming back from his face.

  Birdie dug her fingers into the ground, clenching a handful of earth in each fist. He had come. “Amos! Up here.”

  Amos stumbled to a stop and cast about in a circle, finally locating her on the cliff top. “Birdie? Are ye—blitherin’ barnacles!” Faster than Birdie could have imagined possible, he drew his dirk and brandished it aloft. “What d’ ye want, monster? Let the lass go free, or I swear by the Turnings, I’ll carve yer hide from yer bones an’ leave yer carcass fer the carrion birds.”

  The creature muttered something. It clacked its beak together, turned a piercing eye on Birdie, and motioned her forward with a sweep of its wing. “Is he your protector?”

  Birdie nodded slowly. The title certainly seemed to fit Amos.

  “Then I must take you to him,” the creature said. “Come.”

  It’s a trick, a voice inside her screamed. The beast meant to lure her within reach and kill her . . .

  She dismissed the thought. The creature was so much faster and stronger than her, it did not need to resort to trickery.

  Swallowing her fear, Birdie climbed onto the creature’s back, and the beast launched into the air and spiraled down into the gorge. As soon as the creature’s paws scraped earth, she jumped off, raced over to Amos, and flung her arms around his middle.

  His hands settled around her shoulders. Safe. Secure. Comforting.

  “You came,” she whispered. Everyone else had abandoned her, but Amos came.

  “O’ course I came. Couldn’t let anything happen t’ my wee lass, now could I?” He brushed the hair off her forehead and smiled, then his gaze flickered past her, and his expression hardened.

  Birdie twisted around and saw the creature seated behind her, wings furled at its sides. Not a threatening pose, but alert, every muscle taut and ready for action. “What is it, Amos?” she whispered.

  “A griffin—foul monster. Not t’ be trusted. Thought the Takhran had hunted them all down over twenty years ago.”

  “Is it so strange to you that one should have escaped the Takhran’s wrath? You of all people should know that is possible.” The griffin inclined his head. “My name is Gundhrold. I may be the last of my kindred, but that I yet draw breath is a living defiance against the Takhran, and in that I am satisfied. I will never stop fighting him.”

  Amos’s hand tightened on Birdie’s shoulder. “Look . . . I don’t know who exactly ye think I am, but ye’ve got the wrong man. I’m just a peddler, an’ we need t’ be on our—”

  “Do you think to keep your true identity hidden when any beast of sense can recognize that blade from half a league away?”

  “This blade was a gift from an old friend, an’ I don’t know what ye’re talkin’ about—”

  “Are you the Songkeeper’s Protector?” Gundhrold’s feather-tufted tail swished. “How came she to be in the hands of that villain?”

  “Look, beast.” Amos emphasized each word as if speaking to a dimwitted child. “There is no Songkeeper here. An’ I won’t waste any more o’ my time listenin’ t’ yer superstitious podboggle. Come lass, ’tis time we left.”

  He tugged at Birdie’s arm to draw her after him, but she resisted his pull, bewildered by what she had heard.

  “C’mon,” Amos said.

  “No, no. I don’t understand. Is this about that song?”

  “Not now, lass. ’Tis not safe—”

  “You are the Songkeeper,” Gundhrold said. “And I am sworn to protect you.”

  “Aye, ye’ve done a grand job o’ that so far, haven’t ye?” Amos jabbed a finger toward the griffin’s face. “She’s my lass, not yer precious Songkeeper, an’ I intend t’ keep her safe. From the Takhran, an’ ye, an’ all the rest o’ yer foolish friends!”

  They were in each other’s faces now, nose to beak, neither yielding an inch. Birdie shoved between them. “I don’t understand. Tell me what’s going on.”

  The peddler gripped her shoulders in both hands, bending over so that his face was level with hers. “I’m tryin’ t’ keep ye safe. Ye have t’ trust me. We have t’ get out o’ here. Get ye home.”

  Home. The word had a hollow sound. Birdie wrenched free of Amos’s grip. “What home? I don’t have one. I’m not going back to the Sylvan Swan. You can’t make me.”

  For a moment, Amos stood as if dumbstruck, mouth hanging open, head tilted to one side. “But what . . . o’ course not, lassie. I won’t take ye back t’ that wretched woman, ye have my word on it. I’ll take ye home. My home. My mother can look after ye.”

  Birdie searched his eyes for any hint of falsehood, scarce daring to believe he meant it.

  “On my honor, lass.” He clapped a hand over his chest. “I’ll take ye t’ my mother, and ye’ll have a home—a true home—at last.”

  The griffin clacked his beak in disapproval. “You cannot take the Songkeeper away. She was entrusted to my care and instruction. I am duty bound to—”

  “The last place I want her is under yer tutelage, ye fraudlin’ codger-headed beast! Ye would see her destroyed for yer petty song.”

  “And you would see the Song destroyed by your blindness!” Wings trailing along the ground, Gundhrold paced a circle around Amos. “You have become a far greater fool than I supposed. You have turned your back on the truth, denying all you once were, all that you once knew, willfully blinding yourself in the Takhran’s greatest delusion.”

  “I’m no dupe o’ the Takhran. He’s no friend o’ mine. Anyone who claims t’ know Amos McElhenny knows that.”

  Birdie’s hands tightened into fists. “Look!” She had to shout before the two stopped bickering and turned toward her. “What is this all about?” She faced Gundhrold. “Who entrusted me to your care? When? What do you know about me?”

  “Can’t ye see that he’s trying’ t’ manipulate ye?” Amos spun her back toward him. “Offerin’ ye information t’ draw ye in, so he can use ye. Just like Carhartan wanted to. Just like all o’ ’em will, once they find out. They won’t care about ye—just who they think ye are an’ what they think they can make ye. I warned ye, lass. Ye can’t trust anyone with yer secret.”

  His words struck home. She had been manipulated, used, forced to become what others expected of her for her entire life. But she had to understand what was going on. “Them? What them, Amos?”

  “Them. Him. The Takhran. Carhartan. Everyone. Ye can’t believe a word they say, an’ ye certainly can’t trust him—the lyin’ snake-tongued slumgullion!”

  “You realize I could slay you in an instant, peddler.” Gundhrold spoke behind Birdie. The echoes of his voice ran along the gorge walls, and Birdie’s skin tingled.

  It was the voice of a killer. Cold, hard, and deadly.

  She slowly turned around.

  “Aye, beast, ye could try.” Amos said. “But ye’d wind up with the point o’ me dirk protrudin’ from the back o’ yer empty skull.”

  The griffin growled and tensed to spring, his head hunched between his shoulder blades.r />
  “Stop. Please stop!” Birdie cried.

  Neither Amos nor Gundhrold acknowledged her. Another moment and it would come to blows, and Birdie had no doubt that Amos would be killed. Even with the protection of his armor, Carhartan had been unable to defeat the griffin, and Amos had none.

  She had to stop them. But what could she do?

  She could sing. The answer brought a shiver of fear. She recalled the effect the melody had on Carhartan. Cursed it might be, but it was the only chance she saw to prevent bloodshed, to at least buy a few moments . . .

  She searched within for the fountain of melody and began to sing.

  The first note struck the two belligerents dumb. By the time she had sung through the five notes twice, the atmosphere of anger had melted away. Amos moaned—the sort of sound a man might make if a blow knocked all the air from his lungs, but the griffin sat in silence as firm and unyielding as the gorge walls.

  Birdie opened her mouth to speak, but a horn call blazed through the gorge from the south, stifling her words. The echoes skittered around them, leaping off the cliffs, before continuing north down the gorge.

  Gundhrold surged to his feet. “The Khelari!”

  “Aye, by Turning, that cursed brute Carhartan must have awakened.” Amos glared at the griffin. “Pity ye didn’t slay him when ye had the chance, beastie.”

  The griffin snorted. “I noticed you didn’t kill him either, peddler. Lost your nerve?”

  Birdie clutched a hand to her throat. If Carhartan was still alive and had heard her singing, then it could only be a matter of time before he followed the sound and found her again. “What do we do?”

  The griffin shook out his wings. “He will know we are close.”

  “Aye,” Amos said. “But that horn call will do him no good ’less there are reinforcements nearby.”

  “Near enough. There is a company of Khelari working on the Takhran’s road just north of the gorge, scarce ten minutes away.”