Maybe Ky had done more damage to the lion’s throat than he’d thought?
Shivering with the pain in his chest, the blood-dampened jacket clinging to his skin, he sheathed the sword and cast about for his sling instead. There! He snatched it up from the ground and fitted a sling-bullet into the pouch. Getting off a clean shot wouldn’t be easy. Not with the way the two beasts were thrashing about. But a sling-bullet could dent armor from more than two hundred yards away. Surely even a monster’s skull wouldn’t be immune to its force.
The beastkeeper’s shrill whistle rang out again, and Ky twisted to let off a hasty shot in his direction. He knew the moment that it left his sling that it would miss. Didn’t bother looking, just loaded another sling-bullet and spun back to Gundhrold’s fight. The griffin and the monster were well beyond the outskirts of the camp now, crashing through the shrubby underbrush that peppered the valley floor.
Jogging toward them, Ky started the swing looping as he waited for an opportunity. It came sooner than he expected. With a muffled roar, Gundhrold flung the beast back, still clenching the snake’s head in his jaws. Muscles stood out like cords along his neck and shoulder, and his wings beat the air. There was a horrible ripping sound as the snake head separated from the rest of the body and the griffin rolled over backward with the sudden loss of opposing force. The thick column of the snake’s neck went limp, and the beast hunkered down low, both remaining heads focused on the griffin struggling back to his feet. Ky took a step closer, tightening the loops of his sling, and the lion flicked its ears in his direction, then raised its head to roar at him.
An opening.
He let fly, yelling through the pain that tore through the claw marks on his chest. It would strike true. He felt it in the snap of the sling and the way the loose end whipped around behind him. Didn’t wait to see it hit. Reloaded on the run and slung again, and again, and then came to a stop at last, breathing hard. A spray of blood had blossomed between the lion’s eyes. The beast faltered, and the lion’s head drooped while the goat’s head swung to face him. But before it could take a step, Gundhrold’s claws sank into its spine, hauling it back on its haunches and baring its neck for his beak.
The monster collapsed in a heap. The griffin emerged from the tangle of limbs, chest heaving in great, gasping breaths. His narrowed eyes slid past Ky, and he let out a roar that shivered in Ky’s veins. A startled exclamation rang out behind. Footsteps raced away. Ky lurched around to see the redheaded boy fleeing back toward the camp, now a good hundred yards away. He felt in his pouch for a sling-bullet, then let his sling trail limp.
It didn’t matter now.
At the edge of the camp, a score or so of soldiers clustered, moonlight and firelight glinting off their armor. Whether they’d been drawn by the alarm or by the sounds of the fight made no difference. They were here. And they were ready. Crossbow cranks creaked and swords hissed from sheaths, the sounds unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet following the fight.
“Gundhrold . . .” Ky rasped.
“I see it, youngling.” The griffin limped to stand in front of him. His limbs trembled and blood gleamed wet against his fur, but his stance was firm. “There are too many for us. We will be overwhelmed.”
“Really?” Ky winced and pressed a hand to the wounds on his chest. He pulled it away sticky with blood. “But we were doing so well.”
At least Meli was safe, back at the cave. For all her faults, Slack would look out for the young ones. Birdie too, if she and the other runners made it back from this ill-fated mission. Anger flared within him, strong enough to drive away the haze of pain, if only for an instant. This was all his fault. He had led them here. Slack had been right from the beginning.
The Underground would have been better without him.
A command rang out, and the soldiers raised their crossbows. The swordsmen still hung back—waiting for the volley, Ky realized. Or maybe they were just a bit wary of the griffin who had managed to take down one of their fearsome monsters. But it wouldn’t help either of them now. Nothing left to do but square his shoulders, stare that line of death in the face, and grin. Grin like the idjit he was.
It had been a good run.
“The light.” The griffin hissed in his ear. “Ready your sling. Take out the light.”
Ky’s hands moved before his mind finished processing the command, selecting a sling-bullet from his pouch and fitting it into his sling, then starting it looping before he had even found his target. The light. A firepot flamed in the space between them and the line of soldiers. That must be what Gundhrold meant.
He dashed off a stone just as the command came to fire, and for once he had no idea if it would strike. The next second seemed to last a lifetime. He took off at Gundhrold’s side, expecting in the next breath to feel the bite of a bolt in his spine. The light blinked out in a shower of sparks. A chorus of bowstrings twanged.
17
Deep within, the camp stirred as the alarm spread, but the area surrounding the slave pen remained strangely quiet. Forgotten in the commotion. Perhaps with the imminent end of the siege evident in the cracking walls and the fighting within the fortress, slaves were regarded as less important. Birdie set her teeth and swung the axe again, hacking through another few strands of cords and loosening one of the poles. One of the runners had scaled the cage and hung by his knees, sawing at the cords that bound the poles at the top. The cords were tarred with some substance that made them strangely difficult to cut and meant that the brute force of her axe was more effective than a knife.
A dark melody intruded upon her thoughts.
“Get down!” Birdie dropped flat beside the other two runners. The climber was stuck, unable to come down without drawing attention. He pressed himself flat against the cage top, and Birdie held her breath until her chest ached as the measured tread of a Khelari watchman came nearer, nearer, nearer . . . and then passed by.
She waited until his melody dwindled and then hastened back to work. Within the cage, the slaves had begun to gather round, and she heard the rumble of their anxiety and their anger as from a distance. They were right to fear. Time galloped onward, and each second that they tarried increased their chances of discovery. Already this had taken too long.
With a snap, the cord parted, and the pole wobbled and fell. She caught it and shuffled it aside. Three down. Only a few more to go, and then the opening would be wide enough.
“Leave us be.” A hand shot through the bars and seized her collar, dragging her close to a burly, bearded face. The man babbled in her ear, his hot, rank breath flooding her senses. “We don’t want to die. They’ll send us to the graves. To the graves.”
Someone in the cage shoved the speaker aside, breaking his grip on her. But his unease clung to her, like a spider’s web. Shaking off the fear, Birdie bent to her work beside the other three runners. Soon, three more poles lay at their feet. She pulled back, gauging the distance. Barely room enough for one to pass at a time. Wouldn’t be enough. Biting back the urge to hurry, hurry, hurry, she willed her hands steady and turned to the next pole.
Somewhere in the camp, a goat bleated.
The sound made her blood run cold, because it was a far stranger and more menacing sound than any ordinary goat bleat had a right to be. “A chimera . . .” The whisper fell from her lips before she could halt it. She locked eyes with the nearest slave. His eyes were huge, wild with terror, and a wordless cry spilled from his lips. That’s when the rush broke. Like a stampeding herd, the slaves shoved and pushed and squeezed their way through, half falling over one another in their haste. She caught the cry of a girl being trampled and dove into the fray. It was a tumult of flying elbows and fingers like claws and the thick scent of sweat and fear. And she was swept away by it, too small to force her way through to the girl. Too small to do anything to stop it.
Berating herself for a fool, she stumbled free of the melee. What had she expected? A slow, orderly departure with everyone falling into line an
d waiting their turn? Not even the travelers at the Sylvan Swan had been so polite—and they had only been waiting for a turn at the ale barrel or stew pot.
Breathless, she seized the nearest runner. “Get out in front! Lead them to the others.”
But the ones who were free were already scattering, mad with fear and hope and the promise of freedom. Within the cage, a wild hysteria seized control. The slaves tore at one another and slammed against the bars, desperate to get out. She cast a panicked glance around. Somehow, the ruckus had not yet been noticed—no doubt thanks to Ky and whatever trouble he had stirred up—but unless the slaves settled and followed her, it was unlikely to last long.
She waded into the throng. “Be still. We have to get out of here. You must follow me.” But she might as well have tried to stop the tide for all they heeded her.
A chorus of discordant music slammed into her, brought her to a lurching halt. From seemingly nowhere, three slavekeepers charged into the fray, lashing out with their whips. Birdie’s ears rang with the snap of the leather across bare flesh and the screams of the injured. Instantly, the flow outside the cage reversed, slaves cringing away from the whips and scrambling to get back inside, while the remaining slaves within still pushed to get out, to be free.
The onslaught slammed Birdie against the side of the cage. She seized the bars and held on, watching helplessly the utter wreck and ruin of their mission. Slaves scattered. Runners lost in the scuffle. Gull’s half of the team broke cover and came up at a run in a vain attempt to help restore order that only added to the confusion. Ky was missing, maybe captured. And she was trapped here, with more Khelari sure to arrive any moment.
Was this what it meant to seek to do good?
The tip of a whip snapped across her shoulder, and she instinctively ducked her head to shield her eyes, peeking back over her arm to see a wildly grinning, wrinkled face. It belonged to a bent and crooked man, shuffling along with a sort of lurching half step that aligned with the strange rhythm of his distorted melody. Birdie shoved away from the cage and found herself standing face to face with him. Up close, lines of crooked bones were evident throughout his body. A deep cleft split his chin, his grin twisted his entire face, and his eyes were sunk in deep hollows. He chuckled and let the whip fly again, forcing a cry from a woman beside Birdie. Revulsion churned within her for this broken creature who was even more twisted within than without, but the Song whispered her name, and she felt the echoes of the melody resonate like a voice in her head.
You are all broken, Songkeeper . . .
But not beyond repair.
Urged by the Song, she reluctantly began to sing the notes of the man’s melody. Broken, filthy notes that formed an incomplete melody reeking of squalor, hatred, and hardship. She felt tainted even giving it voice.
At the sound, the slavekeeper’s eyes burned with hatred, and he let out an animal-like growl of rage and snapped the whip at her. Mind consumed by the melody, she felt the burn of the lash as if from a distance. Louder, she sang the notes again, this time weaving the brokenness into the great melody, until both ugliness and filthiness were swept away by that vast, unfathomable beauty, swallowed up and made whole, and the two became one.
The slavekeeper came to a lurching halt, and his whip arm fell to his side. The savage grin slipped from his face. His head cocked forward as if tracing the echo of something he had once heard. Birdie felt that she stood upon an island in the midst of that swirling sea of slaves and slavekeepers jostling on all sides, and yet in this moment there was nothing but her and this man and the Song.
Now sing . . . sing to set the captives free.
With the command blazing through her, she turned from the slavekeeper and his whip, seized the bars of the cage, and gave voice to the Song. It seemed the world fell silent. Like a river of light, the great melody swept through her, and she felt the shock of it in her hands as it coursed through the bars and blazed across the cords. Broken strands fell away. The cage shuddered and then collapsed, blown outward by the force of the music so that the slaves within were unharmed.
In the Song’s wake, the silence was all but deafening. Huddled within the wreckage, the slaves gaped at her. She twisted around, unsteady on her feet. The slavekeepers’ melodies rang with horror and shock. Not one of the runners would meet her gaze.
At her feet, the axe.
She bent, and the world dipped with her, spinning a moment before it resumed its normal course. Her fingers wrapped around the axe haft, and it steadied her as she arose. “Come with me.” Her voice rang out in the quiet.
And to her astonishment, they came—not all, but most, stumbling after her, a filthy, bloodstained crew. She led them past the unmoving slavekeepers, and there was a part of her—the part that rang still with the echoes of the Song—that hearkened to their melodies and hoped someday these twisted men would find peace.
Then the first melody cut out in a gargling cry.
Birdie spun around in time to see the crooked slavekeeper fall in a spray of blood, skull broken beneath the force of one of the poles that had formed the cage. A burly slave sneered down at the body at his feet and purposefully trod across him.
“No!”
Her cry came too late to save the other two. A chorus of blows rang out, and then their melodies dwindled and were gone, and their moment of passing rang with such emptiness that it made Birdie want to be sick. She knew that it was dangerous to linger, knew that she needed to move on to lead the slaves to safety, but the determination that had borne her thus far seemed to have gone from her limbs.
“Oi!” Ky staggered up alongside, sword in one hand, sling in the other. He was a mess of smeared blood and dirt. “What are you lot waiting for? There’s no time. We got to move. Now!” He seized her hand, but she snatched it away.
“Where’s Gundhrold?”
Shame flashed across his face. “He stayed behind.” Hollow words. He wouldn’t meet her gaze. A sick feeling stirred the pit of her stomach. “Look, I’m sorry.” Impatient words now, tinged with fear. “This is all my fault. My mess. But we got to go. He wants us to.” Ky reached out again, but she knocked his hand away.
He drew back, jaw clenched.
She wasn’t sure which one of them was more surprised at the force of her fury. But he was right. This was his mess. He had brought them here, dreamed up this mission, and then abandoned them in the middle of it.
“Come on.” Ky took off in a lurching run to lead the mass of released slaves, brandishing his sword like a general marshaling his troops. “We’re moving out!” And whether it was the sword or his tone or simply the need for someone to take charge, they fell into line at his heels and stumbled off without a backward look.
But Birdie had to look back. Not one but two of the fearsome three-headed monsters—chimeras—charged toward them along the outskirts of the camp. The last time she had encountered them had been in the Pit. On the night that Amos fell. The sight of them now was enough to summon to mind the horror and the sorrow of that night and blend it with the terror of this one, until the cumulative weight was overwhelming.
Close upon the heels of the beasts surged a roiling mob of soldiers, a score of them clad in battered armor and stained clothing, the dregs of the army left behind to tend the camp. Weapons gleamed in their fists. Swords and spears and crossbows.
And swooping and diving in the space between, the griffin.
•••
“Keep up!” Ky’s hoarse shout rang out over the line of runners and slaves toiling up the slope with the valley a gray and formless thing below them. As one, they surged onward, heads down, backs hunched, lungs gasping in pained breaths. Birdie brought up the rear, running though every thread of her being longed to stand at Gundhrold’s side. Running though the shouts of the pursuit echoed with a nearness that made the clamor of the siege and the wail of thousands of voices screaming and dying seem a vague and distant thing. Running though the axe thudded against her shoulder with each stride, beggi
ng to be wielded, and the blaze of the Song within was a fire that demanded to be unleashed.
The melodies of the Khelari and the two beasts howled at her heels, spurring her on, wailing of misery and death, misery and death, misery . . . and death. She glanced back. They were gaining on her, a hateful tide almost within reach. And what then? Their intentions blazed through their melodies with a strength that stole her breath. They would slaughter one and all. They were consumed by bloodlust, fueled by the roar of battle, enraged by the mindless fervor of the two beasts.
The chimeras sprang up the slope with all the agility of their goat blood and the speed of the lion and the sinuous grace of the snake. Gundhrold’s wheeling attacks were the only thing holding them back. He was a storm. A whirlwind. Soaring in on widespread wings, dodging spurts of flame, winging beneath the striking snake head, darting in to stab or claw and then lunging away out of the reach of horns or tooth or fang.
It was enough. Barely. The runners and rescued slaves continued climbing, and the Khelari’s rush was impeded by the griffin’s worrying of the beasts. But Gundhrold could not last for long against the two of them. Birdie could hear the desperation in his melody, the sense of looming failure, of muscles stretched beyond their limit, heart pounding so hard it shook in its cage, wings stiffening against the knowledge of imminent defeat. And then a wild determination to stop them here, whatever the cost. His melody changed, softened into a prayer for strength, for peace, and for rest in the land beyond the dawn . . .
“Gundhrold . . .” Birdie spun around, axe settling into her hands. “Gundhrold!”
Song of Leira Page 20