Don Bassingthwaite - The Killing Song

“What for?”

“Winning fist fights.”

“There’s two ways to deal with challenges, Orshok,” Geth said. “Ignore them until they go away or face them. If Singe were here, he’d ignore this. But Singe isn’t here. I am.” He felt a savage smile spread across his face and didn’t resist it. “And if I’m going to fight beside the orcs in this horde-”

“Wait,” said Ekhaas. “You’re going to fight with the horde?” Amber eyes stared at him and wolf ears stood straight. “When did you decide this? You don’t even know who they’re fighting yet.”

The watching crowd had started chanting, eager for the battle. Geth could hear some of the orcs chanting his name in a rhythmic call. The sound of it, the feeling in the air of the camp, was like drinking two big tankards of the best ale. “All right then,” he shouted over it, “maybe I won’t fight with them, but Wolf and Rat, I’m not going to have them think I’m afraid to take on a challenge!”

He turned away from her, peeled off his vest and shirt, and threw them to Orshok. The druid snatched them out of the air and pulled Ekhaas away. Geth faced Kobus, stripped to the waist just as the orc was, and flexed. There was some approval from the crowd for his muscular build, but more for the numerous scars that crossed his hairy skin. Geth let them look for a moment, then reached down inside himself-and shifted.

The ancient ancestors of shifters had been humans and lycanthropes: werewolves, werebears, wereboars, and other shapechangers. Although shifters didn’t carry either the moon-mad curse of their lycanthrope ancestors or their ability to take on an animal shape, they had inherited from them uncanny agility, night vision sharp as a cat’s, and the ability to manifest other animal characteristics. Some shifters could grow a tiger’s claws. Others could manifest a wolf’s terrible bite or sharp senses.

To the watching crowd, Geth knew, his shifting looked like nothing more than a slight tensing of his muscles or a thickening of his already thick hair, a change in his stance, maybe a sharpening in the lines of his face. The murmur of approval died back. Kobus, maybe thinking he had an easy fight ahead, shouted and leaped forward with good speed for someone so large. His right fist swung around hard. Geth let him have the first punch without resisting.

The force of the blow that connected with Geth’s jaw knocked him reeling sideways. A sharp gasp rose from the crowd-a gasp that changed into a cheer as Geth stood straight, twisted his neck, and spat a little blood into the dust. “That’s it?” he roared. “That was your best?”

He threw himself at Kobus, the rush of near-invincibility that was his inheritance from his lycanthrope ancestors throbbing in his ears. He moved fast, spinning around Kobus in quick leaps and short bounds. He blocked what blows he could, let what he couldn’t fall against his shifting toughened skin, and gave back as good as he got. A flurry of blows to Kobus’s gut doubled him over for a moment. The orc swiped at him with a fist and Geth dropped to the ground, rolled, and came up behind him with a kick to the meaty part of his leg that left him limping. He spun and slammed his elbow into Kobus’s side just above his kidney, then drove a fist straight up under his chin as he twisted around in pain. Kobus wavered … then surged back and grabbed Geth by the throat in a crushing grip.

In spite of his shifting, dark spots danced in front of Geth’s eyes. He might have been tough, but Kobus was still stronger. He swung a fist. Kobus caught it in his free hand and held him away at armslength. The crowd might have been shouting encouragement, but Geth couldn’t be sure. His ears were starting to ring. He flailed with his other arm and grabbed for the hand around his neck, trying to force it free. Kobus just tensed his arm and squeezed harder. He smiled, showing his tusks again.

Geth’s lungs burned, but he smiled back, baring his sharp teeth. A growl forced its way from the back of his throat and he swung his feet off the ground. Supported by Kobus’s own rigid arms, he drew his legs up to his chest and snapped them out in a hard double kick straight into the orc’s surprised face.

Bone crunched. The hand around Geth’s throat tightened briefly, then relaxed. Kobus swayed and fell backward, dragging Geth over on top of him. The shifter fell across the orc’s massive chest, sucking air gratefully, then pushed himself free and rose to his feet.

The roar of the watching orcs almost knocked him down again. Orshok and Ekhaas rushed to him, just as Kobus’s friends rushed to him. Geth waved the druid and the duur’kala back, though, and let his shifting slip away. It took some of the pain Kobus had inflicted on him with it, but he knew he’d still be sore once the bruises really set in. He staggered over to look at Kobus. The big orc’s face was covered in the blood that ran from a split lip and a broken nose. One eye was already swelling shut, but the other was open and it rolled toward Geth. Kobus’s face twisted and his body started to shake. His arms rose and swept aside the friends who had been trying to tend to him.

“Geth! Watch out!” Orshok yelled.

Geth just stepped up closer to Kobus, reached down, grabbed one of his arms-and hauled the orc to his feet. Blood sprayed him as Kobus’s shaking finally erupted into laughter. Geth joined in and then they were slapping each other’s shoulders and back like old friends.

“Domad’ad,” said Kobus. “Domad’ad chuf.” He started to pull Geth off into the camp.

“Wait,” Geth told him, choking on his laughter. “Orshok, can you heal Kobus?”

“Krepis will do it,” said a new voice. “We need to have a talk now.”

“Batul!” Geth pulled away from Kobus. Batul stood with Orshok and Ekhaas, wrapped in a simple blanket, his white beard and hair wet, and his parchment-fine skin plumped and slick as if he had just emerged from a very long, very hot bath. All at once the infectious excitement of the horde camp and the easy peace of long travel seemed to vanish, replaced by the long suspended urgency of their mission. Geth pushed close to Batul.

“We have news!” he said. “Dah’mir serves a daelkyr called the Master of Silence imprisoned beneath the Bonetree mound, but he’s stirring. Dah’mir wants to turn kalashtar into servants of the daelkyr because he thinks their psionic powers-”

Batul held up a hand. “Calm down,” he said. “We know. Why do you think we’re all here?”

Geth stared at him in speechless shock, then glanced at Orshok and Ekhaas. Both of them shook their heads. Geth looked back at Batul. “What? But … how?”

The old druid smiled. “Let’s find somewhere quiet and tell each other our stories.”

Ekhaas was the one who told their story. She was a duur’kala after all, and even if she hadn’t been present for many of the events that unfolded since Geth and Orshok had last seen Batul, Geth had to admit that she recounted them better than he ever could have. She ended with their separation from the others outside Tzaryan Keep, with Singe and Dandra heading east toward Sharn to warn the kalashtar while they turned west to find Batul and the other Gatekeepers. “Except,” she concluded, “that it seems we didn’t need to.”

“But I’m glad you did,” said Batul. “If only because it’s been many years since I’ve heard a story told by a duur’kala of the Kech Volaar, and I thank you for the experience.” He sat back and looked up at the dark ceiling of the tent in which they sat, his good eye seeming to contemplate the shadows while his milky blind eye stared into deeper mysteries. “Aryd the Seeress is a figure from some of our oldest legends. I know only a few of them, but the Battle of Moths … I don’t recall ever hearing such a tale, though I have heard that the circle that once stood where the Bonetree mound stands was raised to commemorate a great battle.”