Don Bassingthwaite - The Killing Song

“Better? Maybe not better.” The young man’s twisted lips seemed to slip and curl up into a sneer. “But it’s somewhere only I can take you.”

“Dah’mir,” Ashi said. “You said you knew where to find Dah’mir!”

Singe’s breath hissed between his teeth. “Moon, we want to get away from danger, not go running toward it. Even if we didn’t, we wouldn’t take you. This isn’t a game.”

“You do want to find him, though, don’t you?” Moon met his gaze. “Are you going to wait to see if the seers locate him? I know where he is right now. And I know this isn’t a game. Didn’t I just save Tetkashtai?”

His grip tightened on Dandra’s hand. She tore it free of his fingers. “Dandra,” she said sharply, “not Tetkashtai.”

He kept his eyes on Singe. “What will it be? I can show you where Dah’mir is-or you can run back to the Gathering Light and hide.”

Singe looked at Moon, his eyes narrow. They needed to find Dah’mir, but he wasn’t at all certain that he trusted or even believed Moon. Something was very wrong with him. Singe might have believed that the kalashtar had developed a young man’s love for Dandra, but his sudden devotion was bordering on obsession.

And yet he offered them a chance to locate Dah’mir. How could they pass that over? They didn’t need to confront the dragon-they couldn’t hope to confront him-but maybe they could get some idea of what he was doing.

The wizard glanced at Dandra. Her face was drawn taut and he could see the same questions in her eyes. He raised an eyebrow. She hesitated-then nodded. Singe looked to Ashi, and she nodded as well. He turned back to Moon. “How is it you know where he is?”

Moon’s grin showed his teeth. “Fan Adar is boring. As soon as I’m allowed, I’m leaving it for good, but I’ve already gone places in Sharn that kalashtar don’t normally go. Nevchaned would choke if he knew. I’ve seen Dah’mir’s herons in only two places. Overlook is one of them.”

“And the other?”

“Will you go if I tell you?”

Singe nodded.

Moon’s eyes glittered, and he almost shivered with excitement. “Malleon’s Gate,” he said. “There’s a place they go to roost on the edge of the old city. Now come!”

He grabbed for Dandra’s hand again, but she managed to elude his grasp, stepping to stand beside Singe. Moon’s smiled faltered, and his face hardened with jealous rage. “As you wish,” he said tightly and turned to continue on down the stairs. “Follow me. There’s a lift near here that will take us down to the lower city.”

“I don’t like this,” Dandra murmured.

“Neither do I,” said Singe. He started after the young kalashtar. “But if Moon’s thinking of turning on us, we’ll be ready for him. That power he used on Mithas-is there any way to defend against it?”

“Hit him before he can hit you.” Dandra stared at Moon. “We shouldn’t be doing this. We should get him back to Nevchaned. Something is wrong-”

“Hush!” said Ashi. “Listen!” She pointed at Moon.

The noise on the lower street came up the stairs like smoke, growing louder as they descended. It took a moment for Singe to pick out the noise that Ashi was hearing. When he did, though, a shiver crawled slowly up his spine. Beside him, Dandra tensed.

Moon was humming absently, his lips shaping soft words. It could have been the happy tune of a young man setting off on an adventure-except that it wasn’t.

“Aahyi-ksiksiksi-kladakla-yahaahyi-”

As the four figures moved off and down toward the lower street, Vennet raised his hat and brushed aside the rack of scarves that had hidden him in one of the stair-side stalls. Singe’s call to this kalashtar named Moon had been all the warning there’d been-the shock of the wizard’s familiar voice had nearly brought Vennet around with his cutlass drawn. It had taken tremendous self-control to dodge to the side of the stairs and spy on his enemies instead. Some might have said it was luck that they’d stopped within earshot of his hiding place too, but Vennet knew better. He’d called on the wind that blew along the stairs, commanding it to strengthen and stay their progress. And now he knew not only that their enemies had followed them to Sharn, but what they intended to do.

“Clever, clever,” he whispered to himself. Dah’mir had advised him to learn and learn he had.

Standing in the shadows behind the stall, Biish stirred and spoke. “Friends of yours, Storm?”

“Oh, yes. Old friends. The kinds of friends you’re always happy to see again.” His hands tightened convulsively.

“Who was this Dah’mir they talked about?” Biish grunted.

“That’s not your concern.” Vennet watched Singe, Dandra, and Ashi vanish into the crowd. He’d noticed the children of the Adaran neighborhood harassing Dah’mir’s herons and wondered at it-now it was clear that it was some clever ruse to mask their enemies’ presence in Sharn.

How much did they know? How much had they told the kalashtar? If they were still just looking for Dah’mir, they couldn’t know everything. They had managed to elude the watching herons, though, and they might actually uncover his and Dah’mir’s hiding place. They could be dangerous, although it didn’t seem like the young kalashtar could present much of a threat-he was clearly insane.

Dah’mir had to be warned of their approach, though. Vennet focused on the burning heat that crossed his back and invoked the power of his dragonmark. “Hear me, winds! I command you!” He paused, listening for a response, and frowned when there was none. He concentrated harder. “Hear me!”

The answer came on the whistle of the breeze and in the murmur of the crowd on the street below. What would you have us do?

“Go to my master. Tell him our enemies approach. Tell him to open his jaws to receive them. Go!”

The voice of the wind faded back into whistles and murmurs. Biish stared at him. “What are you babbling about, Storm?”

“Nothing you need to know about.” Vennet’s hands clenched once more. Something in the neck of the stallkeeper, an old woman who had found objections to him hiding among her wares, gave way with a crunch. Vennet let her drop-her dying breath had already joined the wind, and there wasn’t anyone to hide from anymore. He stepped out of the stall. “Your people will need to be alert tonight, Biish. The kalashtar may have been warned to expect something.”

The hobgoblin sneered. “I saw nothing. They make no preparations. The attack will be daring, but it won’t fail.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Vennet adjusted his hat, plucked a handsome red scarf from a rack, and stuffed it in his pocket. “Now, would you like to join me on a little hunt? It will get your blood up for tonight. I believe you’ve just seen our quarry.” He sauntered down the stairs, dreaming of the praise Dah’mir would heap on him for this bit of cleverness.

The camp in the Sharvat Vvaraak stood empty. The horde of Angry Eyes had assembled beyond the Sharvat’s northeastern slope, on the side of the holy site that faced the distant Bonetree mound. Warriors carried their weapons and perhaps a small pack, but nothing else. Everything else-tents, supplies, food, possessions-had been left in the now-silent camp. The senior Gatekeepers clustered on the rim of the Sharvat above the horde, one among them shouting words of blessing and wisdom: “And Vvaraak said, ‘Let rage be your weapon and anger your armor. Let Eberron feed you. Leave behind the things of this world when you go to fight what is not of this world-trust in nature and you will defeat the unnatural!’”

The voices of hundreds of orcs rose in a wild roar. In pockets among the horde, the answering cries were nearly bestial-they came from warriors who had embraced the teachings with such fervor that they would fight naked, armed only with fists or whatever makeshift weapons they might seize on the battleground. Everywhere, the sounds of drums and flutes and bone rattles rose, a climax to the weird music that had filled the camp. The frenzy of the horde had reached its pitch. Every orc watched the descending eye of the sun. When it closed in sunset, the frenzy would break. The horde would be let loose. The Angry Eyes would march.