The Killing Song

CHAPTER 3

Geth’s, shoulders ached from the exertion of paddling. It was a good ache, though. It warmed him from the inside, just as the sweat on his skin cooled him from the outside. Everything was in balance. The quiet dip and splash of his paddle, in rhythm with Orshok and Ekhaas’s, was a soft echo to the sounds of unseen marsh birds and animals stirring in the gathering dusk. Only the steady passing of the reedy banks marked their progress across the smooth surface of the river, cutting against the slow, strong current. Neither shifter, nor orc, nor hobgoblin spoke.

Zarash’ak, where they had acquired the small boat, was three nights travel behind them. The camp of the Fat Tusk tribe was, according to Orshok, still a night ahead. Geth’s mind drifted, at ease.

When they’d first separated from Singe, Dandra, and the others at Tzaryan Keep, he’d had found it difficult to sleep at night. He hadn’t been the only one. The message they carried was urgent. News of Dah’mir’s schemes, of the daelkyr-remembered in Ekhaas’s stories as the Master of Silence-imprisoned beneath the mound of the Bonetree clan, had to reach Orshok’s old master, Batul. The druids of the Gatekeeper sect had to be warned of the ancient evil that was reaching out for new power.

As the wastes of Droaam and then the swamps of the Shadow Marches passed beneath their feet, though, the rhythm of travel had blunted that frantic edge. They could only go so fast and no faster. Both Ekhaas and Orshok knew magic that could speed their journey and they used it, but even magic had limits. They’d fallen into a cycle of traveling hard from the late afternoon until just after dawn-all three of them could see as well at night as at day-then sleeping just enough to refresh themselves before rising and continuing on.

It was a pattern Geth remembered from his own years of wandering after he had fled the massacre at Narath and before he’d found haven in Bull Hollow. One morning as he’d taken the first watch of the day, he’d watched the rising sun chase the moons of Therendor and Dravago over the horizon and had thought back to Bull Hollow. To Adolan. What had begun as a mission of vengeance for the devastation of the village and the death of his friend at the hands of the Bonetree hunters had turned into something much larger. Confronting a dragon. Thwarting a daelkyr. It made Geth feel strangely small by comparison.

He’d wondered what Adolan would have thought of it all. He probably would have been pleased, though Geth wasn’t sure what would have pleased him more: that Geth was fighting the twisted, unnatural enemies of his ancient sect or that Geth had fought a more personal battle and confronted his own past. That Dandra, Singe, and his other allies knew now what had happened at Narath, that the terrible slaughter of a town and his old Blademarks company had been his fault.

Days and nights had passed since that morning, and Geth still didn’t have an answer.

Singe and Dandra still don’t know everything, Adolan, he thought, digging his paddle into the water once more. And Tiger’s blood, I’m fighting a dragon and a daelkyr! Who wouldn’t be scared?

There was no answer, of course, but the old collar of rune-carved black stones that had once belonged to Adolan slid around his neck with a reassuring weight.

And then turned shockingly cold.

Geth sat up straight, rocking the boat and nearly dropping his paddle. Kneeling in the center of the boat, Ekhaas grabbed for the sides and cursed. “Khaavolaar! What are you doing?” The hobgoblin twisted around to glare at him with amber eyes, a scowl on her flattened face. “Are you trying to turn us over?”

“Adolan’s collar-” Geth grunted and reached up to touch the stones. The collar was an artifact of the Gatekeepers. It had shielded him from the mental powers of Dah’mir and the hideous mind flayers in service to the Master of Silence and given him warning of danger. If it had grown cold …

To his surprise, the stones were once again warm under his fingers.

“Well?” asked Ekhaas. Her voice was both smooth and coarse at the same time, like cedar smoke, and when she wasn’t feeling patient, it could carry a vicious sting.

Geth let his hand fall. “Nothing,” he said, and wondered if it had been his imagination.

The hunting call of a marsh cat rose and fell in the twilight, and this time it was Orshok, in the boat’s bow, who sat up. The young orc tucked his paddle under one arm-Geth swore and plunged his paddle back into water to try and hold their position against the current-and raised folded hands to his wide mouth, letting out a trill of birdsong. The hunting cat answered and Orshok’s eyes went wide beneath his heavy brow.

“Ring of Siberys!” he exclaimed and snatched up his paddle again. “Geth, steer us for that leaning tree up ahead.”

Geth didn’t need further directions. Along the riverbank, a bulky figure had risen beside the tree Orshok had indicated. As they drew closer, Geth recognized the figure with surprise. It was Krepis, another orc of the Fat Tusk tribe and Batul’s elder student. He looked much the same as he had the last time Geth had seen him-big even for an orc, wearing a necklace of crocodile teeth and carrying a heavy spear-except for the long red stripes that had been painted above and below each eye. They gave him an angry look, as if he was staring in perpetual, wide-eyed rage.

Beneath the paint, however, he looked pleased to see them, though he glanced at Ekhaas with some mistrust. He stepped down into the shallows as the boat glided up, and grasped the side near Orshok, holding the boat easily against the pull of the river. Orshok asked something in the guttural tones of Orc, probably trying to find out what Krepis was doing there, Geth guessed. Krepis answered in the same language. Ekhaas’s tufted, wolf-like ears stood up as she listened. Orc, Geth knew, was just one of half a dozen languages that she spoke, but Orshok and Krepis might have been speaking gibberish for all that he could understand them.

At least for all that he could understand them on his own. He stretched a hand down and let it rest on the hilt of the ancient Dhakaani sword that was lashed to his pack in the bottom of the boat. He’d carried the sword out of the ghostly fortress of Jhegesh Dol and with it had wounded Dah’mir. Only recently, in the caves beneath Taruuzh Kraat, had he discovered that it was even more than it seemed. Its name was Wrath-Aaram in Goblin-and it was a sword of Dhakaani heroes, forged by the same legendary Dhakaani daashor who had created the binding stones. As if the visit to those caves and the tomb of its creator had roused the sword from long slumber, he’d found that it also had powers previously hidden. In Taruuzh Kraat, he’d learned that holding the sword allowed him to understand Goblin and the vile speech spoken by creatures of Khyber. Experimentation in their travels had revealed that Wrath let him understand other languages known to the hobgoblins of the lost Empire of Dhakaan-including Orc.

The instant his fingers closed around Wrath’s hilt, Krepis’s words were clear in his ears. “-waiting here for three days. Batul had a vision that you would come.”

“But why here?” Orshok asked. He looked vaguely troubled. “Why not at Fat Tusk?”

Krepis grunted. “Because we’re not gathering at Fat Tusk. There’s a lesser river just past here. Turn up it and go until you reach a sandbank. I’ll meet you there.” He looked at Geth, gave him a hideous smile, and switched out of Orc to greet him. “See you good, Geth!” he said with a thick accent. “You bring big fights with you!”

Geth straightened up and let go of Wrath. “Good to see you too, Krepis.”

The orc heaved against the boat and sent them sliding back into the open river, then climbed back up onto the bank and disappeared into the undergrowth. Orshok slid his paddle into the water once more and looked over his shoulder. “Were you listening?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Ekhaas.

“Yes,” said Geth, putting his paddle into the water and pressing against the current. Now that he was looking for it, he could see the smaller river Krepis had told them to follow. “But I didn’t hear everything. Who’s gathering and what are those stripes on Krepis’s face?”

“They’re horde marks,” Orshok answered, his voice tight. “They mean that he’s taken an oath of war.”

They found the sandbank and Krepis. Geth was startled to see that they were far from the first to land there. More than a dozen boats-some small like theirs, others larger-were beached on the sand and still more had been dragged higher up the riverbank. Orshok started to ask Krepis about the boats, but the other orc just shook his head and said, “Come.”

They followed him along a well-worn trail, the meager packs that had seen them across Droaam and the Shadow Marches on their backs. Geth carried his great gauntlet in a bundle as there seemed little point in donning the armored sleeve in the company of friends, but he made a point of buckling on Wrath so he could reach the sword easily if he needed its abilities.

Away from the river, the ground made a slow rise, becoming slightly drier and a little firmer underfoot. The area was thick with bushy ferns, their leaves half-furled against the night, and shaded by a few trees with smooth bark and gnarled branches. Geth spotted a sentry reclining among the branches of one, tracking them with a stout bow until Krepis raised a hand and made a sign in greeting. The sentry relaxed and waved them ahead.

The shifter heard the camp before he saw it, a dull roar of activity familiar from any number of campaigns during the Last War. The rising path reached a crest and the camp spread out before them, filling a vast depression in the landscape with tents and huts and cookfires and the forms of hundreds of orcs. Krepis spread his arms wide. “The horde of Angry Eyes!” he said with pride. “Come. We find Batul.”

He led them down the interior slope of the depression and into the camp. In spite of its size, Geth realized, the depression wasn’t actually very deep-three long strides carried him from the top of the slope to its bottom. The ground within the depression was noticeably drier than that outside it, even though it clearly sat somewhat lower. Among the tents and huts, he could also make out the shapes of tall standing stones. He recognized them as markers erected by ancient Gatekeepers. “What is this place?” he asked Orshok.

“The Sharvat Vvaraak,” said young druid. “The Mirror of Vvaraak, the dragon who taught the first Gatekeepers. It’s been a sacred gathering place for thousands of years.”

Ekhaas kicked at the dirt. “This doesn’t look like a mirror to me.”

“Legend says that if you dig down, you’ll find a sheet of glass covering the Sharvat from side to side.”

Geth saw Ekhaas’s eyes light up. The hobgoblin was a duur’kala, or dirge-singer. Even through their short acquaintance, he’d discovered that one sure way of getting her attention was to mention a story or legend she hadn’t heard before. “I don’t think this is a good time to start digging,” he told her.

They were already among the temporary shelters of the camp. Every orc they saw wore the same red stripes as Krepis. Geth could guess at the reasoning behind the face paint; by adopting it, the orcs left behind any symbols of their individual tribes and took on a new, temporary identity as part of the horde. He knew members of Blademarks companies who did much the same thing. Robrand d’Deneith, his and Singe’s commander in the Frostbrand company, had insisted that once someone joined the Frostbrand, old loyalties to nation be left behind.

Any resemblance between the orc horde and a Blademarks company ended there however. The mood in the camp was festive. Around great fires, orcs and a small number of half-orcs ate and drank, sang and danced, and played wild music on crude instruments-a broken rhythm of drums played out of sequence, accompanied by reed flutes and bone rattles. The sound was infectious, and Geth found himself nodding along with it as they walked. A fight broke out ahead of them, turned into a brawl, then settled down before they had passed as the participants clapped each other on the back and went in search of something to eat. The smells of gaeth’ad drifted from more than one kettle, each producing a slightly different aroma as individual gaeth’ad masters brewed up their own version of the potent tea.

Krepis said something to Orshok in Orc, and Geth was too pre-occupied in staring around to put his hand to Wrath in time to listen in. Krepis left them and went striding off toward the center of the camp where a larger structure rose high. Orshok turned to Geth and Ekhaas. “The Gatekeepers are holding council in the sweat lodge,” he said. “Krepis will fetch Batul.” His eyes were shining and his face was flushed. Any worry he’d shown on learning of the horde was gone, washed away by a rising excitement. “Kuv! This is incredible.”

“Who do you think they’ve gathered to fight?” Geth asked.

“I don’t know, but if the Gatekeepers are in charge, it’s got to be serious. A horde hasn’t gathered under the Gatekeepers for three generations. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“What about the raid on the Bonetree mound? We had three dozen orc warriors with us, and they came from different tribes.”

“That was only a raid. Look how many warriors are here!”

Geth had to agree-there were easily a few hundred warriors milling around the camp. It was an impressive sight, and he could feel the fever of it exciting him as well. Ekhaas, on the other hand, was looking at the activities in the camp with some interest, but also disdain.

“Where are the ranks?” she demanded. “How can you tell who’s in charge? Who’s looking after supply chains and rationing?”

“An orc horde wages war differently than a goblinoid army,” Orshok told her, but Ekhaas barely seemed to hear him. Her face had flushed dark as she realized that there were both male and female orcs laughing and fighting around the fires.

“Khaavolaar! Your units aren’t segregated? How does that affect discipline?”

Geth snorted. “I don’t know about discipline, Ekhaas, but I’d say it’s doing great things for morale.” He watched as a tent that a man and woman had just ducked into began to shake vigorously.

Ekhaas’s face turned a shade darker and her ears lay flat.

Word must have spread of their arrival in the camp, because people began to drift past them, then to stop openly and stare. Soon they were murmuring to one another and pointing. At first Geth thought it was because he and Ekhaas were the only non-orcs in the camp. He’d gotten used to being the only shifter present in almost any situation long ago. He squatted down to wait for Batul and would have ignored the crowd if Orshok hadn’t leaned close and whispered, “They’re talking about you.”

“I know,” he said.

“Orshok is right,” said Ekhaas. “Listen to them.”

Geth looked up. The crowds had gotten larger and closer, and there was no denying that he was the one everyone was looking at. His eyebrows rose and he put a hand on Wrath. Murmurs rushed at him.

“-led the raid that wiped out the Bonetree clan.”

“They say he killed two mind flayers and five chuul in the battle.”

“I heard he killed a dragon!”

“Is that the sword he carried out of Jhegesh Dol? By Garu’s eye, I’ll fight at his side!”

He jerked his hand away from the sword in surprise. “Grandfather Rat, what is this?” he muttered to Orshok and Ekhaas.

“I think you’ve acquired a reputation in the Shadow Marches,” said Ekhaas.

“I’m no hero.” He started to turn away.

Ekhaas slapped him across the back of his head, a swift action that brought shocked silence down on the orcs who saw. Geth whirled on her, but she bent down and thrust her face at his. “You live in Narath,” she said, “when Narath is nothing to these people. They know Jhegesh Dol. They know the raid on the Bonetree clan. You carry a sword of heroes-act like a hero!” She straightened up. “Hoor gat wee’taat kaz leshitaa sa’feh. There’s none so cowardly as a hero who will not accept glory.”

Geth blinked, then glanced at Orshok. The young druid thrust his tusks forward. “I’m proud to stand with you.”

The shifter looked out at the staring crowd and gave a slow nod to the orc who had said he’d fight beside him. The warrior looked surprised for a moment, then smiled broadly. He grabbed a wooden cup from a companion, brought it forward and thrust it at Geth. “Tag domad’ad chuf!”

“You’re invited to drink with him and his friends any time,” Orshok translated.

A warm feeling, a sensation of acceptance he hadn’t really felt since Bull Hollow, spread through Geth’s belly. He rose, took the cup, and raised it to the orc, then to all of the orcs who had gathered. “Hit them hard!” he shouted and swallowed the contents of the cup in a gulp. The liquid within was some kind of ale, bitter and warm, but far from the worst he’d ever had. A cheer went up. A cheer for him.

And what, Geth thought happily, do you think about that, Ado?