The Killing Song: The Dragon Below Book III (40 page)

Geth’s throat knotted. Maybe this wasn’t the right time. Maybe he
had
been wrong. Batul’s hunda stick thrust forward again—

Whatever spell he intended to call down was never spoken. The shriek of rage that shattered the air silenced the entire horde. Geth, Ekhaas, Batul, and every Gatekeeper gathered around them turned. Even the elementals grew still.

Between legs and past bodies, Geth could just see Medala’s painted tent. There were bodies on the ground. The Bonetree hunters had cut a bloody path through the orcs. Their swords and knives dripped and their clothes were stained with crimson. Breff had just cut down a druid who had dared step in his way.
The orc’s body still twitched, cleaved from breast to belly. The huntmaster hadn’t moved quickly enough, though. The flap of the tent had been torn back. Medala stood in the gap, gaunt as a fever. Power surrounded her. Not a power that Geth could see, but one that he could feel in the back of his mind.

A crystalline ringing, a clashing cascade of sword blades, a broken rhythm. Words that were not words rose from the hollow of his belly, fighting to escape his unwilling throat.
Aahyi-ksiksiksi-kladakla-yahaahyi—

Breff howled and leaped for Medala. Tag, Medi, and Bado moved to Medala’s side like wolves flanking their prey. Ahron went low, her long knife flashing.

The kalashtar’s face twisted. The song that plucked at Geth’s mind seemed to pulse—Breff and his adult hunters convulsed and stumbled. Medi and Bado fell, their mouths opening and closing uselessly. Tag dropped to his knees, body wracked with the effort of drawing breath. Geth knew what they were feeling. Medala had done this to him once. It had been as if he’d suddenly forgotten how to breathe, and it had taken all he had just to suck air into his lungs.

But Breff’s eyes were fixed on Medala. He thrust himself at her in single-minded determination. One step. Two steps … He pitched forward onto his face. The tip of his sword hit the ground at her feet.

Ahron froze for an instant and stared—then threw herself at Medala with screaming ferocity. Medala’s harsh gaze flicked to her. Silver-white light flashed.

Blood burst through Ahron’s skin, so much blood that it hung like mist in the air. Her scream rose to a thin shriek, then vanished entirely, and she collapsed as if her bones had lost the strength to support her. The bloody bundle that had been a girl didn’t move again.

Without saying a word, Medala stepped over Breff’s unconscious form and Ahron’s ragged remains. The other hunters toppled to the ground, succumbing to her power, and she swept past them. Gatekeepers moved back out of her way like courtiers before a queen as she advanced.

She stopped beside Orshok, opposite Batul, and looked down at the shifter and the hobgoblin. “Too late,” she said.
She looked up at Batul. “Kill the traitors, then prepare for the battle. He’ll be here soon.”

The song in Geth’s head shimmered with her words. Batul bent his head. “Your counsel is good, Medala.”

“Batul!” Geth groaned.

Medala laughed, a brittle sound that almost matched the song of her power. “They’re mine, Geth. They believe what I tell them and do what they think is right. If you hadn’t resisted me, you could still be a hero among them, ready to bring down a dragon instead of dying like a pig in a mudhole.”

He glared at her and bared his teeth. “Better mud than mad!”

She laughed again. “Soon you’ll be dead, Geth, and I’ll be more powerful than you can imagine. Dah’mir has no idea what he created.”

Batul barked a command in Orc. Geth heard it through Wrath. “Morak! Uta! Have the elementals bind him and bring him close!”

Before Geth could struggle, the elementals surged back into motion. Arms of mud wrapped him and Ekhaas like stone. Geth tried to heave against them but couldn’t break the grasp. Ekhaas drew breath to sing out a spell, and a tendril of mud slapped over her mouth. The elementals pushed them both forward to Batul. The old Gatekeeper knelt down on the edge of the mudhole. His good eye was narrow.

“A tomb of stone waits for you,” he said, “but you will not carry the treasures of my sect into death.” He reached out and seized the amulet, ready to tear it from Geth’s neck.

The instant that his fingers closed on the ancient talisman, his body tensed. Both of his eyes opened wide and in the milky depths of his blind eye, Geth thought he saw something stir. The shifter’s breath caught. So did the druid’s. He blinked and his eyes met Geth’s.

His good eye was clear but determined. “You wake me, my friend,” he whispered. “The time is right.”

Sharp pain burned around Geth’s neck as Batul wrenched on the amulet, snapping the cord that held it. Still kneeling, the orc held the amulet high.
“Vvaraak, Scaled Teacher,”
he shouted,
“show truth to your disciples!”

Something in the world … shifted. For an instant, Geth felt very small, like a child in the presence of an incredibly old, incredibly wise grandparent. A gust of wind came welling up out of the south. He smelled flowers and a hint of rotting vegetation. He heard the trill of a songbird, strangely mingled with the hunting cry of an eagle.

All around him, Gatekeepers groaned. Medala shrieked, clutching at her head and the weird crystalline song that had haunted his mind vanished. He twisted his neck around to stare at the kalashtar.

Her eyes were wide, though the pupils were tiny dark holes. Her fingers scraped slowly down from her temples to her cheeks, leaving long red scratches behind—then once again, she laughed. “You’ve freed them!” she said. “You’ve freed them, but you can’t shield them. They will be mine again!”

Geth felt like his heart was ready to stop. Medala’s face creased in concentration. The song of her power crept back into Geth’s head. It swelled into a chorus.

And vanished. Medala’s mouth dropped open. Her eyes lifted to the sky, focused on something far in the distance. “No!” she gasped.

Geth turned back to stare beyond Batul. Over the Gatekeeper’s shoulder, Rhaan shone like a blue pearl above the eastern horizon. There was something else in the eastern sky, though: a speck of brightness moving fast toward them.

“He comes,” said Medala. Her voice was harsh as the edge of a broken knife. Geth looked at her again, his skin scraping in the grasp of the elementals as he turned. Medala’s face was pale, her eyes blazing. Her lips were drawn back. She glared at Geth and Batul. “Darkness take you, then! Fight for me or fight for your lives, you will still fight—and I will still take what is mine!”

Silver-white light flared, and when it faded, Medala was gone.

The voices of the Gatekeepers swirled up around Geth. Some seemed angry. Most just seemed confused. Batul’s voice rose over them all. “Be quiet!” he shouted.
“Be quiet!
Don’t worry about her! Brothers and sisters, stay close. Morak and Uta, dismiss your creatures and help me get these two out. Someone
spread word among the warriors—battle is on us!”

The old druid was still on his knees, the amulet of Vvaraak in one hand. He stretched the other out to Geth, as the elementals melted back into the mud. “Ring of Siberys,” he said. “Well done, Geth. You brought the amulet at the perfect time.”

Geth could only stare at him for a moment until he found words. “The perfect time?” he choked. “Batul, Dah’mir’s coming!”

There wasn’t much comfort in Batul’s grin.
“Dagga,”
he said, “but this was the right time.” The hands of other druids came down to help Geth out of the mud. The shifter slithered up onto solid land like an eel, and Batul leaned over him. “Medala was right. The amulet was able to break her power, but Gatekeeper magic isn’t able to block it. If you’d brought the amulet to me and I had used it any earlier, she would only have bent us to her will again.”

Ekhaas was hauled up out of the mudhole. She dropped down next to Geth, sputtering and wiping mud from her face, but her ears stood high and her eyes were bright. “But with Dah’mir coming, she couldn’t have fought a battle on two fronts,” she said. “She had to decide who she would fight.
Khaavolaar.”

Batul nodded. “Your mind is quick,
duur’kala.”

Geth looked away from both of them to a figure waiting nearby—waiting and visibly trembling. Orshok took a step toward him, then hesitated. “I tried to kill you, Geth,” he said. His voice broke.

“Twice,” Geth said. “But it wasn’t you, Orshok. It was Medala.” He climbed to his feet and held his fist out. “She’ll pay.”

Orshok thrust out his tusks and stepped forward to punch his fist against Geth’s.
“Kuv dagga,”
he said. “For Kobus, Pog, and the others.” He looked up at Geth and grabbed him in an embrace that sent mud squirting out from Geth’s clothes. “Word of Vvaraak, if I’d killed you, Geth, I would have killed myself when I realized what I’d done.”

“Tak
, Orshok.” Geth slapped his arm against the young druid’s back. “I’m glad you didn’t have to.”

A hunda stick rapped against his shoulders. “Don’t get too used to living,” Batul said. “This isn’t over. Orshok, find Patchaka. I want you to stand with her and her warband during the battle.”

Orshok pulled away from Geth and started to protest, but Batul growled at him. “Obey your teacher! This is an honor, Orshok!”

The young druid didn’t look happy, but he snatched up his hunda stick and went jogging off. Geth looked around. The carefully set lines of the horde were in disarray, though younger druids like Orshok were slowly beating the orc chieftains and warlords back into position. Closer at hand, the senior Gatekeepers were clustered together, praying and girding themselves for battle. Geth turned to look up at the speck of brightness moving out of the east. It was considerably closer now and he could make out a sleek dark shape surrounded by a ring of fire.

“Rat!” he said. “That’s not Dah’mir! It’s an airship!”

“If Medala thought it was Dah’mir, I’m inclined to believe her,” said Batul. “I suspect Dah’mir is on board.”

“But why would Dah’mir need …?” Geth clenched his teeth and answered his own question. “He went to Sharn to capture kalashtar. Medala said he would succeed there. He’s got his captives on the airship.” He looked down at Batul. “Is there anyway for you to get me up there? If we can free Dah’mir’s captives, we can put an end to this.”

Batul shook his head. “Freeing kalashtar won’t end this, Geth. Stopping Dah’mir won’t end it. There’s only one way to end it.” He held out his hunda stick and pointed.

At the dark entrance in the side of the Bonetree mound. Geth growled.

“The Master of Silence,” he said. “That’s why you sent Orshok away. You’re going to fight the Master of Silence.”

“The seals on his prison must be renewed or his influence will continue.” Batul lowered his stick and leaned on it, looking even older than he was. “The younger Gatekeepers and the horde will try to hold back Dah’mir. The elder Gatekeepers will face the Master.”

“And what do we do?” asked Ekhaas.

Batul looked up at her. “It’s your decision,” he said, “but Gatekeeper and Dhakaani worked together to defeat the daelkyr. I would welcome you both.”

Ekhaas’s ears flicked forward. “Try to keep me away.”

Geth lifted his face toward the airship. Something pulled him toward her. Anyone on board was almost certainly in dire danger. He felt like he should try to help them, but Batul was right. The greatest danger was the Master of Silence. He looked toward the Gatekeepers who had remained nearby. Praying and girding themselves for battle, yes, but possibly for their last battle. Geth squeezed his hand tight around Wrath’s hilt.

“I’m with you,” he said. “What about Medala?”

Batul shook his head again. “I don’t know. If any of what she said is true, she’ll go after Dah’mir. More than that, I couldn’t say—”

A shout interrupted him. A handful of orc warriors dragged forward four limp forms. The Bonetree hunters. “They live!” called the lead warrior. Batul glanced at Geth.

Geth looked at Breff’s unconscious face, then growled, “Get them off the battlefield. Leave them somewhere safe to recover.”

“Breff won’t thank you for that,” said Ekhaas. “His honor—”

Geth snapped his teeth at her. “I’ve had enough of honor!” He turned to Batul. “I’m ready for blood.”

  
H
e’d passed through fever and delirium. At times he’d been surrounded by friends, and at other times by enemies. Occasionally, he’d been surrounded by family, which was almost as bad as being surrounded by enemies. He’d run through the vineyards of his youth in the sun, studied by lantern light in the libraries of Wynarn, trained for the Blademarks in the rain under Robrand d’Deneith’s gaze. He’d watched Narath burn, over and over again.

There had been fire. Always fire.

Sometimes he’d seen the deck of a ship with Vennet d’Lyrandar at the helm, singing lustily to a sky that curved above them with no end, while Dah’mir perched in his heron shape on a rail, utterly unmoving. Whenever he saw the ship, the dream had always seemed to end in the same way: a vague memory of Vennet grappling with a half-elf woman, then picking her up and throwing her over the side of the ship.