The Killing Song: The Dragon Below Book III (37 page)

Hanamelk, looking tired and disheveled, stood with his hand on the statue that stood in the center of the courtyard. The statue’s crystal eyes glowed a thin, haunting blue. A misty tendril of the same color leaped from Hanamelk to Nevchaned—and from Nevchaned to Selkatari at the doors of the Gathering Light, and from Selkatari to a man Dandra
didn’t know but who stood with his eyes on her, and from him to another kalashtar, and from her to yet another.

And from all of them, tendrils reached out to her.

Hanamelk’s voice echoed in her mind, words spoken at the speed of thought.
We know what you did for us. Use our strength as your own
.

Glance, recognition, and words took less than a moment. Dandra lifted herself, looked up again—and this time reached out to Singe with ease.
Vayhatana
wrapped his body. His fall slowed and stopped. For a moment, he floated in the sky, midway between the towers of Sharn and the Thronehold spectacle still unfolding high above, then Dandra drew him carefully down to the courtyard before the Gathering Light.

As his body came closer, the strength lent to her by the other kalashtar faded, until it was her power alone that supported him. The loss of their strength left her feeling as weak as she had ever felt, but the joy that filled her made up for it. Singe lay stiff within the cocoon of
vayhatana
, but she could sense his movements. He was alive—but it wasn’t until he drifted down into the light that spilled from the Gathering Light that she realized something was wrong.

The hair that fell into the light was blond, but touched with red. The clothes were none she had ever seen before. And the face—pale with terror—that came into view wasn’t that of a human man, but of a half-elf woman!

Natrac’s eyes opened wide and he choked out, “Benti?”

The carefully spun
vayhatana
vanished, spilling the woman the last few paces onto the stone of the courtyard. Dandra lifted her face to the sky, desperately seeking the rising spark that was
Mayret’s Envy
.

But the night was full of sparks as the final spectacle of Thronehold burst into a colorful rain of fire. Across Sharn cheers and applause rose like the wings of a hundred thousand birds.

In Fan Adar, one voice rose in a wail of loss and fury.

  
T
hin lines of smoke rose in the south. Dusk was approaching and the sinking sun’s light rendered the smoke pale, turning the lines into bright scratches against the southern sky. Geth thought that if he strained his eyes, he could even make out the dying fires that gave rise to the nearest lines of smoke and the dark forms that lay scattered around them. He knew that was his imagination. The flat places of the Shadow Marches were deceiving. It was too easy to see what he wanted to see and too tempting to believe it, almost as if some vast impersonal force lurked just beneath the waterlogged ground, ready to trick the unwary traveler.

He twisted and looked to the east. The blue moon of Rhaan was already a handspan above the horizon. Its changing face was still a few slivers short of a perfect circle. Two more nights, he thought. Two more nights and on the following day, Rhaan would rise full, cresting the horizon just as the sun sank.

He ducked his head. The sky vanished, replaced by the thick leaves and branches of the tree he had climbed—the highest point for any distance around. He crawled carefully back to the gnarled trunk, then half-clambered, half-slid out of the canopy and down to the ground. “Less than a night’s travel behind us,” he said.

“Khaavolaar.”
Ekhaas’s ears pressed back as she kicked dirt over the remains of their own tiny fire. “They’re still gaining on us. This is madness.”

“If anyone knows madness, it’s Medala. She’s probably driving the horde faster than they’d normally run. The Gatekeepers are likely using their magic too.”

Geth picked up his sword belt and buckled Wrath around his waist, then swung what passed for his pack—a waterskin bundled inside a blanket, all of the gear that he had carried when they fled the Sharvat Vvaraak—over his shoulder.

Neither of them spoke the words that Geth knew both of them were thinking: if the horde of Angry Eyes was less than a night’s travel behind them and gaining ground, this might be the last night they ran ahead of the orcs.

After six nights of running, of rising before dusk and stumbling to a stop well after dawn, of enduring whatever obstacles the Shadow Marches had thrown into their path, a small part of him was almost ready to turn and face the horde. He wouldn’t have a chance, but he’d go down with a fight, sword and gauntlet taking as many orcs as he could with him.

And who would those orcs be? Allies against the Master of Silence. Gatekeepers. Friends like Orshok and Batul—like Kobus and Pog.

They weren’t his enemies. He couldn’t fight them. But if he and Ekhaas could reach the Bonetree mound before them, maybe they could figure out what Medala wanted with the horde and find a way to free them.

Two more nights of running. They only needed to stay ahead of the horde. He grunted and raised his head.

Ekhaas was looking at him, her amber eyes steady. “Tonight I’ll sing you the story of Mazaan Kuun and the Hundred Elves. You’ll find inspiration in it.”

Geth groaned. “Does Wrath figure in this story too?”

“It is a story of the name of Kuun,” said Ekhaas as if there could be no other answer.

“Does Mazaan Kuun die?”

“No, but the elves do.”

“Well, that’s something at least.” Geth stalked ahead of her into the tall clumps of stiff grass that had surrounded their day’s resting place.

He didn’t need to check their path—he saw it stretched out ahead of them, though not so much in his head as in his heart,
placed there by the Gatekeeper amulet Batul had entrusted to him. As the old druid had instructed him, he’d lain on the ground every morning at dawn and the amulet had shown him the way they needed to go. The closer they got to the Bonetree mound, the more landmarks Geth thought he recognized in the distance from his first visit there, but he continued to use the amulet. Its guidance was so vivid and reliable that Geth had taken to placing snares along the route ahead each morning before returning to their chosen campsite. For four of the last five nights, that strategy had earned them their next day’s food without costing them any time spent hunting.

That night, the first snare was empty. Geth stooped to retrieve the braided grass cord he’d used to fashion the snare—and paused, taking a closer look at it. There was blood, still moist and sticky, on the cord. He straightened up with a hiss. “Grandfather Rat. This snare’s been stripped.”

“You mean whatever it caught escaped?” asked Ekhaas, peering over his shoulder.

“I mean it’s been stripped. Whatever it caught has been taken, and animals don’t reset snares.” He tore the cord free and flung it away into the grass.

The second snare he’d set had also been stripped. He studied it and the ground around it for several long moments before rising. “I don’t like this,” he said. “Whoever was here left no tracks behind. If they’re that good, they must know we’re here.”

“I didn’t see anyone during my watch,” said Ekhaas.

“Neither did I.” There was a third snare a short distance ahead. He motioned for Ekhaas to remain silent, then crept forward cautiously, taking care to remain well down among the grass.

His first glimpse of the snare made him blink and look again to make certain he wasn’t seeing something that wasn’t really there. The view didn’t change. “Rat!” he breathed.

Caught in the snare was one of the fat grass rats that had formed most of their diet for the last several days. Carefully laid out in front of the snare were two more, possibly taken from the other snares.

There were also three rabbits, a small heap of some blushing
red fruit, two flat loaves of golden
ashi
bread, and two swollen skins, their surfaces wet with water.

“If we were in Darguun among the Marguul clans of the Seawall Mountains, I’d say that this was a peace offering,” Ekhaas whispered in Geth’s ear. “You know more about the Marches than I do. Who would do something like this and why?”

Geth’s eyes were on the waterskins. Designs had been painted onto the leather in bold, primitive swoops and shapes. He’d seen designs like that before. His teeth ground together. “Bonetree hunters,” he said.

Ekhaas cursed and reached for the hilt of her sword. Geth grabbed her hand and held it motionless.

Beyond the heap of food, a thick clump of the tall grass shook, paused, then shook again. A moment later, a man stood up from behind it and walked forward. He was lean, with muscles that stood out like knotted ropes across his body. He wore breeches and a vest of leather. Tattoos covered his arms, spines of bone pierced his ears, and Geth knew his guess at the source of the food had been right. The man was a Bonetree hunter.

But he was also unarmed. Although he didn’t look at their hiding place, Geth had a feeling the hunter knew exactly where they were. Squatting down on the far side of the food, he took up one of the loaves of bread and bit into it. The hunter swallowed the bread, replaced the loaf, then picked up one of the skins, drank from it, and replaced it as well. He ate a piece of the fruit in a single bite, juice dribbling down his chin. He spat out the pit, wiped the juice away, and sat back.

“The food is good, weretouched,” he said. The words were thickly accented but clear—the hunter could have made himself understood in any city of the Five Nations. “It is for you. Will you speak with me?”

A growl rose in Geth’s throat.

The hunter’s expression didn’t change, nor did the tone of his voice, but his jaw tightened. “I understand. You know I wouldn’t face you alone.” He raised his voice slightly and spoke a word in the language of the Bonetree clan.
“Prashenis.”

All around them, the grass rustled as hunters rose from
their hiding places. Behind the squatting man, a pair of hunters stepped forward, while two more—one of them barely more than a girl—stood up less than three paces to either side of Geth and Ekhaas. Both stood still for a moment, letting the shifter and the hobgoblin inspect them, then moved to join the others beyond the squatting hunter.

“You have my honor that there are no more of us here,” the first hunter said. He turned to look directly at them. “My name is Breff. I am huntmaster of the Bonetree clan. Will you speak with me now?”

Geth said nothing. He knew the man’s name. Ashi had spoken it. Seeing him and the other hunters, brought back memories. Cold memories of the first raid on the Bonetree mound and the battle to free Singe and Dandra. Hot, angry memories of the attack on Bull Hollow by Bonetree hunters in the company of the hideous four-armed creatures called dolgrims that served the dark powers of Siberys. He hadn’t stayed to see the aftermath of that attack—he, Singe, and Dandra had drawn the hunters and the dolgrims after them into the wilderness to spare the hamlet—but he’d seen more than enough.

A Bonetree hunter had cut down Adolan. Geth had killed him in retaliation, but to face Bonetree hunters across a
peace
offering was too much!

The continued silence brought a flush to Breff’s tanned face. “Weretouched, I want to talk to you! I know you were among those who took Ashi away. I know you were the one who struck down the Revered.”

The Revered—their name for Dah’mir. Geth still didn’t speak or move. The other hunters were beginning to look angry. Breff paused for a moment, then stood up sharply, his teeth bared. “Talk to me, weretouched, or you strike my honor!”

Geth’s growl rolled back in his throat and became a roar. “What honor do you have?” he said. Ekhaas hissed in frustration, snatched her hand free, and brought it up under his jaw, snapping his teeth closed on the words. Before he could stop her, the
duur’kala
had risen.

“The weretouched is too angry to speak,” she said. “He wants
to know why the huntmaster of the Bonetree greets him with food and talk instead of with a sword.”

The words were stinging, delivered with a dismissive harshness. Geth choked in alarm and braced for Breff to rush them in a fury at the insult. The hunter, however, just stiffened. “He and I have met blood for blood, hobgoblin,” he answered with dignity. “I know that he has
rond e reis
—he is fierce and tough. I greet him with talk instead of a sword only because fighting each other gives strength to the enemy we share.”

It was too much. “What enemy?” shouted Geth, leaping up. “What enemy could we have in common, you Khyber-worshiping murderer?”

He would have lunged forward, but Ekhaas flung up an arm, holding him back. The four hunters standing behind Breff grabbed for their weapons. Geth wasn’t sure they’d understood what he’d said, but it was clear they understood his actions.

Breff also held up an arm, and the hunters froze. Breff met Geth’s gaze. “The Bonetree clan no longer serves the Dragon Below,” he said. “The Revered … Dah’mir—” his face twisted and he seemed to spit the name “—turned his face from us. The enemy we share is the one who stole his favor from us, the one who pursues you with the orcs. We’ve seen her among the horde. I know that she’s stolen their favor from you just as she stole Dah’mir’s from us.”