The Killing Song

EPILOGUE

The harsh light of morning reflected off the snow. There were no shadows; light just made more light-icy blue in the dimples of footsteps, white where it flashed on the ice crystals drifting in the air. Geth could recall a spot, high up on the walls that loomed above, where it had once been possible to stand on such a morning and look out for leagues across clear sky, perfect snow, and frozen forest.

Once, the shifter thought, but not now. He reached up, pulled the furry cap from his head, and bared his teeth. His breath streamed away into the Karrnathi winter.

There was a memorial taking place within the walls of Narath, marking ten years to the day that the town had burned and its people had died. Geth didn’t want to be at the memorial. He’d slipped into the town late last night and slipped out again early. The room he’d found had been in an inn he didn’t know, but he didn’t know most of the buildings in the town-almost all of them had been built within the last ten years. The innkeeper was no one he knew either. Like its buildings, much of Narath’s population had been there less than ten years, arriving as the town grew back into itself.

It was hard to avoid signs of the massacre, though. The town and its people might seem new, but the people of Karrnath had old memories. Shrines in the town held heaped skulls and walls of stacked bones. Every old building showed charred timbers. Every new building had a bit of burned wood fixed like a talisman above the door. In many places, the scorch marks of a raging fire still stained the town’s walls. And there were monuments. Statues. Pillars. Markers. Stone. Rough wood. Dedicated to victims. Dedicated to heroes.

Geth had expected a plaque fixed to the wall. He hadn’t expected a whole bronze statue. Raised up on a plinth, a muscular man stood in a pose of heroic defense, his thick hair curling like a lion’s mane, his eyes fixed defiantly into the distance. In one hand, he held a heavy sword. With the other, he gripped the severed head of an Aundairian raider.

Had the sculptor known or was it just an ironic coincidence?

Wreaths of flowers had been laid in memorial at the base of the plinth in some earlier ceremony, laid carefully around the dedication plaque to leave it clear.

Coron Balich. Defender of Narath, true son of Karrnath. Betrayed by a coward. Died a hero, Olarune 4, 989 YK. May his sacrifice inspire generations.

Geth dropped to his knees in the snow and closed his eyes. In his memory, Coron leaped forward to meet the charging raiders and was brutally hamstrung. In his memory, one of the raiders grabbed a handful of Coron’s black curls, jerked his head back, and raised a heavy knife. In his memory, Geth charged without thinking.

The knife had fallen before Geth could reach Coron, but at least his killer had died. So had four other raiders-but not the one who swung a heavy club. Geth had woken to an aching head, snow red with blood and a sky black with smoke. The raiders were gone. Narath had fallen and screams came from the burning town.

Snow crunched under approaching feet. The approaching footfalls stopped for a long moment, then crunched forward again to stop at Geth’s side.

“I thought you might come here,” said Singe.

Geth glance up. The wizard was bundled in a Karrnathi-style coat topped off with a thick cloak. A dark hat with a wide brim was pulled well down, hiding his face and much of his blond hair, while his chin and the whiskers on it were hidden by a heavy scarf. Neither hat nor scarf could hide the black patch that covered his left eye, though. Geth let out a slow breath and stood up.

“Did you know about the statue?” he asked.

“I haven’t seen it before, but I’d heard about it, yes,” Singe said. “It was only erected a few years ago. It got some tempers up in the Blademarks. The lords of Deneith thought that erecting a memorial in front of a dung gate-” His hand rose and flicked toward a rusty, filth encrusted grate set into the wall a short distance away “-wasn’t dignified, even if it was just for a rank and file mercenary. The elders of Narath insisted that the memorial stand where Coron fell. Eventually the crown of Karrnath became involved, and the elders won.”

He looked over the statue. “Coron has become quite the local hero. I don’t know what he would have thought of it himself, considering he wasn’t the only one who died defending the gate. Robrand and I found both him and Bikk that day.”

“Bikk wasn’t Karrnathi,” said Geth.

The wizard glanced at him and added. “The struggle messed up the snow. The more I think about it, the more I wonder if what Robrand and I really understood what we saw.”

“You saw right,” Geth told him bluntly. “There were three men defending the gate. Coron and Bikk died. I ran away.” Singe tilted his head and narrowed his eye.

“Ekhaas,” he said, “told Dandra that Wrath wouldn’t bear the touch of a coward.”

Geth growled. “Ekhaas told me that I didn’t understand honor.”

Singe’s eyebrows rose. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” He turned away from Coron’s statue.

Singe caught his arm. “Geth, what happened here? You’re the only one who knows the whole story. I spent years hating you because I blamed you for a massacre.”

Geth shook off the wizard’s hand. “So did I,” he said.

Singe sighed. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?” he asked.

Geth didn’t answer him.

Singe shook his head. “All right then.” He reached into a pocket, brought out a silver flask, and twisted the top off it. “To our friends,” he said, raising it. He drank and held the flask out.

Geth took it and raised it first to Singe, then to Coron’s statue. “To other people’s heroes,” he said.