“I know where I’m going. Don’t interfere.” The griffin padded off, broken wing still trailing the ground, leaving Amos racking his brain for a suitable insult for the . . . the . . . insufferable beast.
Try as he might, he couldn’t find an insult harsh enough to satisfy his ire or sharp enough to truly ruffle the catbird’s feathers. Another reason to dislike the griffin. Amos added it to his mental tally. So far the list covered a variety of annoyances from the catbird’s repulsive eating habits—critters gulped down raw with much smacking, spattering, and cracking of bones—to his incessant need to be in control.
Boggswoggle! Was it so unreasonable to want to know where they were going?
He huffed a sigh and started after the griffin, adjusting the sword belt at his waist as he went. He took care to avoid touching the hilt. The weapon was wrapped in the tattered remnants of his cloak, but Amos had witnessed too many accidents in years past to risk direct contact with the sword.
“We must hasten, Hawkness!” Gundhrold called back. “Pray reserve your dawdling for a more opportune time. The storm is building. It will worsen ere nightfall. We must seek shelter while we may.”
With a grunt, Amos jogged after the griffin, clutching a hand to his side. The wound was mostly healed, though it had a tendency to flare at the worst possible times. But right now, the wind did seem to be picking up, and he’d heard enough tales of the desert storms to know that they would not wish to be caught out in the open when it did.
Bilgewater! Why was the beast always right?
“Well done, beastie.” Amos spat a glob of sand out of his mouth and brushed at his worn overcoat and trousers. Sand fell away in waves, though the worst of it seemed embedded in the fabric itself and in the skin beneath. “Hundreds o’ miles o’ desert, an’ ye manage t’ pick the one section with only a wee rock outcropping t’ shelter beneath. Brilliant, aye, just brilliant.”
Gundhrold shook like a dog, releasing a cloud of sand into the air.
“Oi!” Amos swung his hands in front of his face, scattering the cloud. “Careful, beast.” He set his back to the outcrop, swiped the sand from his eyes, and peered out at the desert stretching endlessly before his feet, quiet and still now that the fury of the sand storm had passed. Almost too quiet.
The griffin sniffed and flapped his good wing, stirring up a final poof of dust. “I am responsible for choosing our path, peddler. The landscape is no fault of mine. None of the other outcroppings were remotely near our route. A route which I believe you insisted be short, swift, and to the point.”
Indeed he had.
Given the past four weeks of fair weather and swift winds, the pirates should be nearing the southern tip of Leira on their way to the island of Langoria. In rounding the tip, their vessel would come within a few miles of shore, giving Amos his best hope of somehow intercepting the ship and rescuing Birdie. He was still a wee bit fuzzy on the details.
But once the Langorians passed the tip …
“Coming, peddler?” Gundhrold stalked out from beneath the shelter of the outcrop without a backward glance. “I believe the Songkeeper is waiting.”
Amos gritted his teeth and strode after him. Once again, he’d been left staring, without the faintest inkling of a cutting response. He must be losing his grip. It was growing downright tiresome.
“Hawkness!”
The griffin’s roar startled him out of his pained reverie. He stumbled back and smashed into the rocks behind. Just in time. A spear thwacked into the sand at his feet and stuck there, quivering.
His hand brushed Artair’s sword as he reached for his dirk. Out in the sand about fifteen yards away, the griffin faced off with three figures in dark armor—Khelari. Amos’s blood boiled at the sight. Seemed their shadows had caught up with them at last.
But only three?
Acting on instinct, Amos flung himself to the side, rolled away from the outcropping—straining his wounded side—and came up in a fighting position, dirk drawn. A second spear clattered off the rock face where he had been standing a moment before.
The remaining two Khelari emerged around the side of the outcrop, spears in hand. Bloodwuthering blodknockers! The dirk might be Amos’s favorite weapon, but it did have its limitations. No denying that. Limitations that included fully armored men with spears.
“Surrender, Hawkness!” the first soldier called as they inched nearer. “Give it up. You can’t escape now.”
Up close, they seemed a ragged pair. Rusted mail, tattered leathers, dented helms. Not quite the level of spit and polish Amos expected from the Takhran’s everywhere victorious army. Maybe conquering the known world was turning out to be more difficult than the Takhran had anticipated.
The first soldier halted a few paces away and rocked back on his heels, puffing out his chest. “Takhran’s got quite the bounty on your head, boyo. Wouldn’t care to be standing in your shoes. You see, he didn’t exactly specify whether he wanted the rest of you along with the head or not, and the Hawkness’s killers, well, they’ll go down in history. What do you think, Royd?”
The second Khelari—Royd—scratched his grizzled beard with a gauntleted hand. “I say we save on transportation costs and just bring the head. Less painful for him, less trouble for us, Takhran’s happy either way.”
Less trouble?
Pair of crook-pated moldwarps.
Amos spun into the attack, slamming his dirk at the open face of Royd’s helmet. The man was a moldwarp, no doubt about that, but he had been trained for battle. Sudden as the attack came, he flung up his spear and deflected the blow, barely.
Amos allowed the force of the deflection to carry him past Royd to where the first spear still stood upright in the ground. He plucked it up and spun to face the two Khelari, dirk in one hand, spear held in a one-handed thrusting grip in the other.
The soldiers circled warily, alternately jabbing with their spears and shuffling back whenever he responded with a move of his own. Maintaining their distance—a smart move. It proved his reputation was still good for something. But the first soldier kept pressing farther and farther to the right—another smart move.
If the soldier got behind him …
Amos spun and threw his dirk at the soldier’s head. A hasty throw and a longshot. It bounced harmlessly off his helm, but the soldier stumbled back. Before he could recover, Amos sprang on him and rammed the spear through a gap in the man’s armor.
A scream burst from the soldier’s throat, and he collapsed like a felled zoar tree, landing with such force that Amos’s spear snapped, leaving him holding the broken haft.
Movement caught the corner of his eye.
Amos twisted around in time to parry Royd’s thrust with the broken spear. He retreated, wielding the haft one handed, as one might a sword. His fingers found the wrappings covering Artair’s blade. If ever there was an excuse to handle the weapon, this was it.
But somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to do it.
He forced his hand away from the hilt.
The Khelari’s spear slammed into the broken haft. It flew out of Amos’s hand and clattered against the outcrop. A swipe of the spear knocked his legs out from under him, throwing him to the ground. He struck his head, hard. Darkness blurred the edge of his vision, and cold metal bit into his throat, preventing him from rising.
Royd sneered at him, breath wheezing through clenched teeth. “I expected more from the great Hawkness! Growing slow in your old age, pappy? You’d better hope—”
A roar drowned the rest of the Khelari’s words. Something huge and tawny rammed into Royd, knocking him out of the way. Screams stabbed Amos’s ears and then suddenly cut off, replaced by the heavy, snuffling breaths of the beast.
Crookneedles! Saved by Gundhrold again. The griffin was making quite the unhealthy habit out of this. He’d never hear the end of it now. Stifling a groan, Amos sat up
and found himself looking into a pair of dark brown, almond-shaped eyes set in an even darker face.
He groped for his dirk.
One of the Saari, the desert dwellers.
“Steady now, pappy. I have no interest in hurting you.” The Saari flashed a quick smile and brought the tip of a spear to his forehead in salute. “Don’t tax yourself. I will help your friend.” In a whirl of flying braids and animal hide, the warrior spun around and dashed away, shouting, “Inali! I swear, if you don’t get out here, I will …”
The rest of the warrior’s threat lapsed into the strange, guttural language of the desert, leaving Amos in ignorance of the unknown Inali’s imminent fate.
He staggered to his feet in time to see his rescuer leap into the fray, mounted on the back of a lion. A lion! No mistaking the beast, with that tawny fur and mountainous mane, and teeth as large as daggers. He’d heard tales that the Saari rode such beasts into battle, but never imagined to see it. In truth, it was a tad disappointing. Next to Gundhrold, the beast looked small, though still massive compared to its rider, who nearly disappeared in the thicket of mane.
With a wild cry, the Saari dove from the lion’s back and hit the ground running, spear in hand. The lion pounced on the nearest Khelari, driving him to the ground, and the Saari dispatched him with a well-placed blow.
In a few moments, the Saari and Gundhrold had felled the last of the Khelari and stood among the corpses, panting.
“Skilled, isn’t she?
Amos nearly dropped his dirk at the unexpected voice. A young Saari warrior stood beside him, skin the dull bronze of the desert. He clutched the upright shaft of his spear in two hands, point buried in the sand, cheek pressed against the haft. Hair the color and consistency of dried earth hung in knotted strands to his shoulders, interwoven with clay beads. A pair of spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose.
Unusual that, in a warrior.
“What d’ ye …” Amos’s voice trailed away.
A lioness padded over and flopped at the young man’s feet to lick her paws. He didn’t seem to notice, just pointed toward the distant Saari warrior now speaking to Gundhrold. “Sym. She’s quite a fighter.”
She …
Amos’s brain began to catch up. His rescuer was a woman, he could see that now. Young too, like the warrior at his side. She wore her dark hair bound behind her head in intricate braids and was clad in a sleeveless tunic that looked to be made from lion’s skin.
“But how …”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the young man tuck a roll of parchment into the satchel he wore over one shoulder, then straighten and throw his head back. “I am Dah Inali, brother to Sa Itera, wife of Matlal Quahtli.”
From the way he uttered the names, Amos had no doubt they meant something important. But he was a wee bit rusty on current desert happenings. He seized the young man’s hand and shook it. “I’m . . . Hawkness.”
“Hawkness?” Inali blinked. His left eye twitched, revealing a thin scar carved down across his eyebrow. “I have heard of you.”
“Figures,” Amos muttered and limped over to retrieve his dirk. There were problems with having a reputation like his. Folks either wanted your hide or wanted your help to save theirs. There was never any happy, indifferent middle ground.
“Who hasn’t heard of the great exploits of Hawkness?” A hoarse, woman’s voice spoke behind him. His rescuer stood with Gundhrold at her side and the male lion at her heels. She was even smaller than he’d imagined—her head barely reached his shoulder. But if he’d learned anything from the Creegnan brothers, Jirkar and Nisus—fighting dwarves of the Whyndburg Mountains—it was that size had no bearing on skill.
“And to think I called you pappy!” Still clutching her spear, she crossed her arms over her chest and glanced him up and down. Bilges, but she was a bold one. “I have heard tell no one bandies insults with Hawkness and lives.”
Gundhrold sniffed. “Rumors.”
Amos grinned at the beast’s discomfiture. “Aye, but truth is oft stranger than rumor. Don’t worry though, I’ll let it slide. Just this once.”
“I see.” She snapped the spear out to the side in salute. “I am Sym Yandel. The great one tells me you seek the aid of my people in a matter of urgency?”
Amos cocked an eyebrow at Gundhrold, but the griffin merely preened his neck feathers with his beak. Well then …
“Aye, we seek the aid o’ yer people.”
Inali slowly shook his head. “It is not our way to aid strangers, but these are dangerous times. We may all have need of aid in the near future. And what man who claims to oppose the Takhran could refuse aid to Hawkness?”
Sym whipped her spear back over her shoulder and slid it beside two other spears in a long quiver strapped to her back. “You travel in the company of a lord of the desert. What choice do we have? You are both welcome to the hospitality of my people. The Matlal will hear your plea. I will escort you to him.”
3
The acrid scent of danger filled the air, overwhelming the tang of salt water, rotting fish, even stinking pirate. Paused on the top rung of the hatchway ladder, Ky took a long whiff and blinked to allow his eyes to adjust to daylight. During his years in the Underground, he had gotten pretty good at sniffing out trouble.
And this—whatever this was—did not bode well.
Fjordair yanked the chain connected to the manacles on his wrists. “Ahtesh!”
It didn’t take a scholar in the Langorian tongue to understand the pirate’s meaning or the significance of the hand straying to his belt full of daggers. With a sigh, Ky scrambled out of the hatchway, giving Birdie room to climb up behind.
Pirates lined the deck, some lounging against the rails, others hanging haphazard from the rigging, all faces turned toward the hatch. They might not possess the rigid discipline of the dark soldiers, but that didn’t make them any less dangerous. Ky shifted beneath the weight of so many eyes focused on him and moistened his dry lips with his tongue.
Fjordair jerked him forward and the surrounding pirates shuffled aside, clearing an opening to the raised stern deck where the massive bulk of Lord Rhudashka loomed beside the helmsman. Over his shoulder, Ky caught a glimpse of Birdie’s white face.
“Ah, little Naian!” Lord Rhudashka stepped forward, jowls stretched in a smile that looked more like a grimace. Maybe he’d gotten a whiff of the stink from the hold on their clothes. “We are . . . honored . . . to have you in our company. You have decided, yes?” The pirate lord rubbed his hands together, rings flashing on his fingers. “You will become my Naian, my Songkeeper?”
Birdie did not reply.
Ten seconds . . . then fifteen …
Ky studied the wood grains in the deck planking. Better that than meet Birdie’s gaze and see the decision in her eyes—or worse, let her see the fear in his. No matter what she chose, it wasn’t likely to end well for him, and he could still feel the cold edge of Fjordair’s blade against his cheek.
Slicing into his skin.
He shuddered.
Sure Rhudashka had promised to protect him if she agreed to help, but the way Ky saw it, he was expendable. Birdie didn’t need his help with her magical song, so the pirates couldn’t much care whether he lived or died. He was just in the way.
The feeling was uncomfortably familiar.
“I …” Birdie’s voice broke, and he couldn’t help peeking over at her. She looked so small and pale standing before the vast crimson girth of the pirate lord. “I . . . I can’t.”
A knife sliced across Ky’s cheek.
He gasped at the pain.
Warm blood dripped down his neck and soaked his collar. Fjordair seized him by the hair and dragged him beneath one arm. He gagged at the stench of unwashed pirate, then caught his breath as the tip of the knife trailed across his right eyelid. A tremor clutched his limbs. C
old panic rooted in his stomach.
He closed his eyes and fought the urge to be sick.
Couldn’t she have just agreed?
Birdie shouted something, but her voice seemed to come from far away. He couldn’t make out the words. Whatever she said just seemed to rile Fjordair. The pirate jerked and the knife gouged a line across Ky’s temple.
He uttered a cry and clamped his teeth around the sound. It couldn’t end like this. Not now. Not after promising Meli he would return.
He would keep his promise.
“Stop!”
Small hands seized his own. He forced his eyes open. Birdie stood between him and the other pirates, head thrown back, dark hair floating in the cross-breezes of the sea wind. Tears glistened on her cheeks.
She spoke to the pirate lord without turning. “Please, Lord Rhudashka, don’t hurt him. It’s not that I won’t. I just can’t. I don’t know how to do what you want.” There were no tears in her voice. She sounded hard, almost brittle. “I’m no true Songkeeper.”
The pirate lord’s face darkened and a space cleared around him as the other pirates shuffled back. “Ah, little Naian, such power hindered by such ignorance. The way of the Naian can only be learned through pain. You claim you know not how. You must learn. Suffering will teach you.”
Ky found it hard to swallow. He had to do something . . . speak up . . . protect her . . . somehow. But nothing he said would make them heed his demands. Except for the whole carve-his-face-into-bits incident, they’d practically ignored him this entire time.
Not that he was complaining.
Better a pawn than the prize.
“Don’t kill him,” Rhudashka said. “Not yet.”
Wait . . .
Before Ky completely processed the words, Fjordair shoved him. He landed hard on his knees and buckled forward, slamming his forehead into the side of the ship. A booted foot crashed into his side. The air escaped his lungs in a groan.
“What are you doing?” Birdie cried. “Leave him alone!”
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