Don Bassingthwaite - The Killing Song

A spell rose in Singe’s mind, and he lifted his hand, tracking the mad half-elf. He would only have one chance to catch him. He didn’t relish the idea of hand-to-hand fighting in the hold, and the spell had to be precise or he’d risk harming the kalashtar. He focused his concentration, pointed his fingers-then held back the spell at the last moment as sudden shouts of alarm erupted from outside the ship and Vennet leaped to throw a lever beside the hatch. With a groan of steel and wood, the loading ramp began to fold itself back into the ship and somewhere a bell rang. Singe felt a tremor pass through the airship, a surge of power from the elemental that drove it, and caught his breath. They were moving!

But he could still stop this. Vennet was still leaning against the frame of the slowly closing hatch, watching whatever was happening outside. His body was a perfect silhouette. Singe focused his concentration again …

“Aahyi-ksiksiksi-kladakla-”

The killing song was right in his ear. Singe sucked in his breath and jerked his head around. A hand shot up. Cold fingers grabbed his. Moon’s face looked back at him in the dim light-but the intelligence behind the pin-prick eyes was like nothing human or kalashtar Singe had ever seen.

“When the blue moon is full and bright, the servants will come to the master,” whispered Virikhad. “Dah’mir must succeed.”

Silver-white light flared around Moon’s fingers and agony tore through Singe’s hand. He yelled-he couldn’t have held it back-and against the glare of the light he saw Vennet spin around in surprise just as the hatch slammed shut. For a moment, the hold was in darkness. Moon’s hand fell away.

Then another light blossomed, an everbright lantern carelessly torn open in passing, and Vennet was rushing at him. “You!” he screamed. “Storm at dawn, how?”

Singe tried to lift his rapier but Moon’s weight had shifted on top of it. He tried to cast the spell that had been on his tongue only moments before, but his injured fingers couldn’t form the gestures. Vennet pounced on him, one hand squeezing around his throat before he could try to speak another. “Treachery! Murder!”

The other man’s weight bore Singe backward. His skull cracked against something-a crate, a barrel, the wall-and sparks flashed inside his head. A fist or maybe a foot drove into his belly, then Vennet straddled him, pinning one of Singe’s hands to the floor under his knee as he slammed his head back again, screaming all the while. “Mutiny! Mutiny, Singe! I know you did it! I know you turned my crew against me. When did you start? Was it back in Yrlag? I should have left you on the dock. But I was greedy, wasn’t I? Greedy!”

Singe tried to strike Vennet with his free hand. He punched. He clawed. He tore at Vennet’s pointed ear. Vennet just jerked his head away and punched him hard in the shoulder. Singe’s arm fell, numbed. He bucked at Vennet’s weight. The half-elf slammed his head back a third time, even harder. Sparks gave way to shadows as Singe’s vision swam from the impact and the madman’s grip around his throat.

“You’ve got no respect for authority, Singe. No respect for power. You think you’re clever, don’t you?” Vennet’s voice rose and broke into a screech. “I don’t have a Siberys mark? I’m blind and insane?”

A knee crushed into Singe’s chest. A hand slapped against his forehead and forced his head back. The hand that had been around his throat withdrew. Air rushed into Singe’s lungs. The shadows cleared from his vision-

— just as Vennet’s fingers dug into his face. Fire burned in his left eye and even though he howled at the pain, he could still hear a terrible wet, ripping noise. He sank back into shadows, although somehow he was dimly aware of Vennet staggering away from him and flinging something across the hold.

“Who’s blind, Singe?” Vennet demanded. “Who’s blind?”

He had a sensation of fingers twined in his hair dragging him to his feet, of being forced to walk, of tripping on stairs, of a sudden burst of cool air and wind. A woman’s shout of surprise. Dah’mir’s oil-smooth voice. Then someone pushed him and he was falling-

Biish roared again. The sword swept around in a flat arc, forcing both Natrac and Dandra back a pace. Dandra tried to slide forward again behind that swing, but Biish turned the blow around faster than she would have thought possible and she had to drop to avoid it. There was no parrying that heavy blade-it would shear right through her spear shaft!

Her move gave Natrac an opening, and he jumped in to slash at Biish’s side with his knife-hand. Biish grunted at the blow, but the knife just scraped on metal. Through the gash that it opened in Biish’s coat, Dandra caught the flash of a mail shirt. Biish punched out with his off-hand. Natrac dodged back, but another swing of Biish’s sword forced him back even further. For a moment, the hobgoblin’s back was to her. Natrac’s knife might not have been able to penetrate Biish’s mail shirt, but her spear could.

Before she could rise to strike, though, hands grabbed for her. She kicked, felt her boot strike something soft. The hold on her fell away, but the opportunity was lost-Biish and Natrac had turned in their deadly dance. More of the hobgoblin’s thugs closed around her. She swung her spear desperately, striking with point and shaft wherever she could. Closely pressed, there was no room for her dodge and no opportunity for her to concentrate even for the moment it would take to bring her powers to bear. For every goblin she struck down, two more seemed to appear. All she could do was fight and shout. “Adar! Adar!”

“Bhintava Adarani!” Suddenly two forms fought with her-the two Adaran humans she had rescued earlier! They carved through her attackers with hard precise blows, one wielding a pair of short curved blades, the other striking only with stiffened fingers. One of them met her eyes for an instant and grinned at her with a mouth bloodied by some earlier blow. Dandra clenched her teeth, shortened her grip on her spear, and renewed her attack, using the unexpected aid to fight her way closer to Natrac.

The half-orc and Biish still looked like they were dancing. Biish’s sword swung. Natrac dodged back, then slipped inside Biish’s guard to strike quickly, before darting away once more. The hobgoblin’s arms showed half a dozen nicks, but nothing that slowed him-it would take a lucky blow from Natrac’s knife-hand to pierce the chain shirt.

But only a single connecting strike from Biish’s heavy blade would bring Natrac down. And Natrac was tiring. He stumbled as he stepped back away from Biish. The ganglord saw his opening and let out another roar, raising his sword over his old rival. “Die, taat!”

“No!” cried Dandra. She thrust back a goblin’s feeble strike then drew in her will, focusing her power into a single thread of vayhatana to snatch the sword from Biish’s grasp before it could fall, even though in her gut, she knew it would be too late.

And it was-for Biish.

Natrac uncoiled from his feigned weakness like a bent sapling springing straight. With all the strength of his arm and shoulder behind it, his knife-hand punched up under Biish’s jaw. The blow snapped his toothy mouth closed, pinning lower jaw to upper. Biish’s eyes opened wide. His body stiffened.

Natrac planted his hand against the hobgoblin’s stunned face and jerked the knife free. A spasm shook Biish and he collapsed backward. His sword, untouched by Dandra’s power, fell from his grip to ring on the stones of the courtyard.

For a moment, the goblins and hobgoblins fighting around them froze in shocked disbelief. Then a hobgoblin who had been moving to attack Dandra shouted and fell back. More shouts rose on the air as panic spread through the courtyard, and suddenly, the gang members who had been fighting to breaking into the Gathering Light were fighting to escape.