West of Sky City, Malel, Tokoban
33rd day of the grand absence of the Great Star
They were running out of time. Every report that that Elaq sent to Listener Citla in Yalotlan, that she forwarded via runner, told him so.
The Sky City should not still be resisting: they’d cut off their water supply and they outnumbered the defenders. There was no relief coming. There was no way out. And yet still they fought, Tokob and Yaloh still allied, just, against them, marching out each dawn in their bright paint and hair charms, their brighter righteousness.
Pilos offered up a prayer to Singer and Setatmeh alike that they would surrender before dusk. They’d taken the Tokob holy cave on the first day of the attack and the city had to know that. People had been seen fleeing through a small gate in the upper western wall, so he’d stationed three pods out of sight around the flank of the hill; they’d captured the runners and dragged them back in ropes, paraded them within sight of the city. If the defenders could see that their efforts weren’t buying anyone time to get away – if they could see their own loved ones among the captives – surely that would break their resolve.
But still – thirsty, exhausted, with no hope and no reinforcements – they’d marched out at dawn to offer battle once more. Pilos had no choice but to accept it and to respect them for it. He wiped sweat from his face and knew, deep in his belly and balls, that they’d fight until they died, until there was no one left who could stand or lift a spear. It would be red slaughter before it was over and the number of slaves they’d reap for the Empire would be pitiful. Another failure for Enet to condemn.
‘The song will provide,’ he muttered to himself and, as if in answer, he noticed a figure waving its arms as it slogged uphill, wide of the battle, towards him.
Pilos frowned and then swore. It was Citla and two guards. But the Listener shouldn’t have come herself – she should have sent a message. Pilos jogged down the hill towards them, Feather Detta following.
‘The song, High Feather,’ Citla gasped, clutching her chest. She swayed on her feet and Pilos steadied her. She was clearly exhausted from the journey, but also from being away from the song. A Listener’s life was attuned deeply, almost entwined with, the song’s magic and the sustenance it provided. To be out from under it would be an exquisite agony, as if she’d had her heart torn out while still alive.
It meant that whatever news Citla had to impart must be of the utmost importance. ‘Tell me,’ Pilos said, and his voice was heavy with dread.
‘The song is broken, High Feather. Shattered, defiled. Not just its harmony but its meaning. The song is dying.’
It had taken hours for the runner to skirt the city and bring back Ilandeh after the Listener’s awful, horrifying news. Fortunately, as soon as Citla told the Whisper what had happened – how the song had shattered eleven days before and hadn’t recovered before she’d left its bounds – Ilandeh had cut to the heart of the matter.
‘What do you need, High Feather?’
‘Get back to the Singing City as fast as you can. And I mean fast. Find out what the fuck is going on. Use Councillor Yana and Elaq. I suspect Enet, but be thorough. Cast your net wide and find out what’s happening, then get word to me through the song if you can. And if you can manage it, keep the Singer safe.’
‘As the High Feather commands.’
‘Perhaps the Singer’s ascension is approaching,’ Feather Detta ventured and Pilos shivered.
‘Perhaps. Though what Citla described bears no resemblance to any ascension I’ve ever lived through.’ He looked to the Listener, who was slumped and grey.
‘No,’ she murmured. ‘Not ascension.’
‘And if it was, with Enet being Chosen, that would make her the most likely candidate to become the new Singer. And that fills me with even more fear.’ Eagle and macaw were uneasy at his admission, but it served to emphasise the seriousness of what had gone wrong.
‘I’ll find out what’s happening and then come back if we can’t speak through the song,’ Ilandeh promised. ‘You’ll have finished here by then – they can’t last much longer without water – so I’ll meet you on the road. As for Enet: want me to kill her?’
‘A bold offer, Flight, and I appreciate it. While it may come to that, for now just find out what she’s up to. Stay at my estate, not the barracks. You’ll be safer.’ He flicked a finger at the feather in her hair. ‘You’ll have to take the scarlet out. I’m sorry.’
Ilandeh’s face was neutral; she shrugged. ‘As the High Feather commands.’
He hesitated, knowing it was scandalous, but then untied one of the eagle feathers from the fan in his hair. ‘Wear this. It’ll guarantee you access in the Singing City.’
Detta’s mouth dropped open and Ilandeh’s cheeks reddened as she took it; her fingers trembled against his.
‘High Feather, my blood is—’
He cut her off with a gesture. ‘Gather your supplies and go. Now. All haste,’ he emphasised.
Ilandeh snapped out of her reverie, meeting his eyes. ‘Yes, High Feather. I won’t let you down. Under the song.’ She touched belly and throat, stared at him one last time, awed and afraid at the status she held between her fingers, and then she was gone.
‘Detta, this ends now. We’ll disengage at dusk as usual, wait for them to settle, and then throw everything we’ve got at those walls through the night until we’re in. Rotate the warriors at the walls for as long as you have to, but do not stop. I’d wanted to maximise the number of slaves we’d take, but that’s a secondary concern now. Just get them beaten.’
‘Yes, High Feather.’ Detta was shocked at what he’d heard, but he was an eagle and an officer. He touched belly and throat and raced away, calling Feathers and Coyotes to his side and issuing orders with crisp authority.
‘Citla, rest as long as you need to and then get yourself back into the song. It’s doing you no good being out here.’
The Listener nodded, weary and haunted, but she didn’t move and he let her be. It was halfway between highsun and dusk. Pilos sucked his teeth, tapping the club gently against his calf as he watched the sway and crimp of battle below. The Tokob had begun to understand the Melody’s tactics and replicate them on this side of the city. Reports said the Yaloh were learning to do the same in the east. Where before they’d fought in supported groups of thirty or so, now they strung out in lines three deep, like the Melody’s. It had made the fighting more intense. It had forced his warriors into a bloody, long-drawn affair that they had no time for.
Pilos swapped his club for a spear and shield. The slope was slippery and he picked his way down with care until he reached a flatter section where the lines strained and shoved at each other and the din of battle beat against his eardrums. A man peeled out of the rear rank with blood turning his face into a crimson mask. He staggered past Pilos without recognition, heading for the shamans. The High Feather took his place, rolling his shoulders and his neck, circling his wrists and breathing deep to prepare for the rotation into the front line.
He stepped into a gap between two warriors, slid beneath the strike of a spear and batted it upwards with his own. It shivered in the Tokob hands and Pilos followed up with a kick that sent his opponent staggering back into the warriors behind. The enemy’s lines were ragged, their instinct to break into small groups warring with the knowledge they’d be cut down if they did. This close up, they were neither one formation nor the other, and Pilos’s line exacted a terrible toll for their hesitation.
Only the sheer number of two tribes allied against him – and the fact that half his Melody was with Feather Atu securing Yalotlan – had held defeat at arm’s length this long. But they were fighting farmers and potters as often as warriors these days, and the lack of quality was beginning to tell.
Pilos jerked sideways as another spear came for his face then lanced his own back along its trajectory. This warrior was faster and sidestepped, her spear jabbing again, and then once more. Pilos slipped the first but the second caught him high up on the chest, juddering over the wooden plates and into the salt-cotton of his armour.
He twisted sideways so it slid on past, tearing through armour but not flesh, and then struck over the top, a downward blow that went into the top of her shoulder, not enough to reach the lung or even a big vessel, but it weakened her arm and she squawked and he used the opening to rush her, ramming his spear up under her armour into her hip. He was lucky, the blade missing the pelvic bone and sinking deep into meat instead. There was no squawk or scream this time; she grunted, guttural and low, animal-like, and Pilos ripped it back out. She fell. Another took her place.
Pilos grinned as his spear tip blocked the swings of an axe, too short to make ground against him. This one fought defensively, knowing he was outmatched and hoping the warriors to either side would come to his aid. They didn’t, too busy keeping themselves alive, and it wasn’t long before his shrill scream was added to the rest, splitting the air, an offering to glory.
Melody warriors could fight in line and individually, in small packs, in arrowhead shapes, in ambush and at night. The right formation for the right ground and the right enemy. Thousands of hours of practice made them the best killers the world had ever seen and they proved it now.
Word had spread that High Feather Pilos battled with them, and a chant started far down at one end of the line. A chant of praise, of might and majesty, glory and triumph. A chant to lift the heart while the song, the true song, was absent.
The ground underfoot was treacherous with blood and corpses, and Pilos slipped and went to one knee, pausing there for five heartbeats to suck in hot air before lurching back upright and engaging the next. Fighting for his rage and his honour and for the Empire. For the song, shattered though it might be.
But not gone. I will return to the Singing City and fix the song. I will do all that is necessary to restore the Singer to his glory and the song to peace. But first, we will claim this land, and when we build the pyramids and cap them with songstone, then will the Tokob goddess know true harmony. Then will she see glory and weep to be a part of it, reunited with the incandescence of the world spirit of which she is but a dull splinter.
Sucking in more air, Pilos joined his voice to that of his warriors, a bloody grin staining his face along with the slanting, late-day light.