When I finally stopped, I had no idea how long I’d been singing. It might have been a few long moments. It might have been hours. An eerie silence fell across the vast field. Not a single Sellari stood between my countrymen and the far tree line.
But there came no feeling of relief or triumph. The desire for vengeance still surged inside me. That’s when I learned the hardest truth about vengeance: it had no logical end, served no real purpose, except perhaps to delay grief. Vengeance was just an inversion of loss; or maybe its cowardly cousin.
But it did have consequences.
Though I’d survived its singing, the song had done something to me. I knew it when the first Mor congratulated me. I didn’t feel happy that this fellow would return to his family. Instead, I wondered and worried whether I’d saved a Mor who would bugger his son or beat his wife or ignore a daughter who only sought his approval. The cynicism ran deep, painful. It sickened me. And I instinctively knew that the only relief I’d find for this new pessimism was to continue singing the song.
Dear absent gods, give me someone to hate.
That prayer seemed to find an answer. Two hundred strides away, at the long tree line of poplar, hundreds of fresh Sellari emerged, striding purposefully toward us. In their midst, four Anglan draft horses pulled a broad flatbed wagon bearing a spherical object two strides in diameter.
I felt an eager smile creep onto my face, and I began to close the distance between myself and this new crop. To their credit, the second-wave Sellari came on bravely, as though they hadn’t seen how I’d sung down those whose bodies I now trod on in my haste. I wanted to be closer this time. I wanted to watch them suffer as they went down.
Sea-crossing bastards killed my father. Forced ma and sa to . . . Inveterae filth, I will shatter the bones inside you. No, that is too good an end. I will find the point of resonance in your shank-given race and will make it your misery, show you the end of your women and children, their slow despair. I will break your hearts before tearing away your flesh.
With that, I rushed forward. I could hear the sound of running steps trying to keep pace with me—the Shoarden men assigned to keep me safe. But I cared none for that. When I was five solid strides from the Sellari, so that I could see the lines in their faces, I began to sing the shout-song again. I lent it a new intention, infusing it with the menace of hopelessness, like the sound of a screaming parent when she finds her child dead by her own hand. I knew such a sound from many years ago—that memory came back with a vengeance of its own.
I watched, eager to see the look in their eyes as they felt that deep ache before I broke their bodies.
But nothing happened. None paused or flinched or grimaced. They just kept coming on in the face of my song.
I was nearly upon them when I realized why.
This new brigade was dressed like Sellari, carried the same slender arcing sword. They’d even painted the same black band around their eyes. But they weren’t Sellari. They strode with the swagger of mercenaries who lived for the opportunity to kill. Their grip and motion with their blades made it clearer still. They were not tense or overeager. A frightening casual readiness marked them. These were Holadai, fortune-swords. My Sellari song was useless against them.
More than that, each next note became more painful to sing. I tried to modulate the song, switch modalities, shift its intention, but nothing helped. And I watched in a kind of stupor as one of the Holadai reared back and threw a heavy hammer at me. I saw it come, and knew the aim was true. But stunned by the deception of this mercenary force, I couldn’t move. The iron hammer hit me hard in the chest, where I felt ribs crack.
It knocked the wind from my lungs and drove me to my knees. Two pair of boots came into view, swords swinging casually. I saw them rise up out of my field of vision, and sensed they’d soon end my pain.
Then a flurry of footsteps rushed in around me. The clash of steel rang sharply against the sky. A Mor fell dead beside me, as did a Holadai. Then a spray of something warm and sticky caught me in the face. I fought to take a breath, but still could not. Around me more of my countrymen fell hard to the cold ground, as Holadai grunted and fought through their own wounds.
When at last I gasped a painful stuttering breath, I took in the coppery smell of blood. I grew blind with rage, and pushed myself to my feet. I fixed my eyes on this new enemy and summoned a different song. When I let it go, the air shivered with the harsh sound of it. The rasping noise tore at everything, shrieking through the minds and bodies of the Holadai.
As they began to drop, new forms took their place. My song caught in my throat to see that these replacements were a mix of Sellari and Holadai Shoarden. They wore menacing grins as they rushed toward me.
Fine trickery, you damned wharf-whores!
A stabbing pain fired in my thigh. I looked down to see an arrow protruding from my trousers. Around me, my Shoarden men were falling in alarming numbers. Frustration mounted inside me. I staggered backward a few paces. Another arrow caught me in the shoulder. This one I reached up and ripped out, feeling its barbs pull at my flesh.
The number of Sellari and Holadai became overwhelming. I didn’t know how to help myself or my countrymen. But I had to do something.
