"Singing for the Enemy" by R. A. Gale

R. A. Gale

The round stone hut was the sturdiest building in the entire Skartish village. I knew because I had explored it for several hours in the dark, trying to wedge my fingers in between stones, tearing at mortar, and digging in the hard-packed dirt floor for some way of escaping from underneath. No windows, no openings in the walls, save for the one occupied by a thick wooden door reinforced with iron bands. The other buildings in the compound were rickety structures of bamboo and balsa-wood built upon stilts, spindly-legged like spiders, or else nestled within the embrace of the huge hardwood trees that grew in wild profusion in the Skartish jungles. I had caught glimpses of them last night, but, of course, they had thrown me in here instead.

I suppose, in a roundabout way, I could consider it to be a compliment.

I'd be lying if I said that it was an honor.

When the gray fingers of dawn light crept in around the door, I was forced to concede defeat for the time being. There would be no escape this day and part of me was secretly relieved. My head throbbed and my ribs ached from the drumming they had taken. I gingerly touched a lump under my hair and winced as pain shot through my skull.

Ah well, I was still alive, at least.

The problem was I didn't know how long that would last.

Perhaps they meant to starve me to death. Strong bars of sunlight outlined the door, indicating advanced day, but nobody had come to check on me. The darkness within was close and smothering. I thought wistfully of cool breezes to warm my heated cheeks, or, even better, of swift-flowing rivers in the Astarian mountains, threading the land like gossamer strands. I licked my cracked lips again and swallowed what little moisture I had in my mouth to ease my parched throat.

Perhaps, in a little while, I would bang on the door and ask for some water. But I knew, as I thought it, that I would never do it. No, much better that the Skartish forget about me. Dying like this was surely preferable to whatever other tortures they had in mind for the likes of me. It was ironic that they had found me now that I was unlikely to be a threat to them.

A long rasp sounded from outside, grating my ears. A thump and a thud, and the door swung open inwards. Harsh sunlight flooded in, sending painful sparks across my vision. My eyes teared and squeezed shut; I cowered away, raising my hands to shield myself.

No. I was a noblewoman of Astaria and I would not be found shrinking against the stones and groveling in the dirt in front of some Skartish. I sat up, ignoring the stabbing pain in my side, and forced my eyes open. Mercifully, someone stood in the doorway, watching me and incidentally, blocking much of the light. I could not tell much about the person; the features were shadowed and the outline blurred by golden sun and my own watery eyes.

"Sing." The voice was female, but deep and cool like still silent pools in the twilight of thick forests.

A choked sound of astonishment, a blend of sob and gasp, escaped me.

"Sing." She did not move from the doorway, but I made out the masses of black hair that flowed unbound over her shoulders, the carriage that was both graceful and erect, the folded arms and the long sleeveless dress that fell straight and lightly to her ankles. The dress would be boldly patterned, I knew, remembering the colorful cottons and linens in the bazaars of the South.

"You, who are the War Bard of Astaria. Sing."

I found my voice finally. It cracked as I spoke. "Sing? Look to the cawing crow for a sweeter song than to me." I did not explain that I was no longer War Bard of Astaria. It would not have mattered to the Skartish. I had already done them enough damage on the battlefield during my service in that capacity.

The woman came in, just a little closer, bringing with her the cloying scent of hair-oil and perfume. I breathed through my mouth. The heavy scent of Southern flowers always made me sneeze.

"Do you know who I am?"

I peered at her, making out bronzed skin and high cheekbones and dark eyes. There was something around her neck, a string of beads with a pendant in the center, a round pendant with lines radiating out from it...

Then I remembered. She'd been there last night, aristocratic face expressionless under the ceremonial head-dress, bare arms folded over her silk-clothed breasts, shadows and firelight flickering over her as she stood on the platform. Just watching, not moving while the rest of the Skartish kicked and hit and spat upon the hated War Bard of Astaria, down to the littlest child who had lost a father in the war and the oldest grandmother who had seen too many sons fall.

Never mind that most of the deaths were long before my time.

"Yes, I know you," I said, flatly. "You are terkina." Singer, in old Skartish.

Her lip curled up, in a half-sneer and a half-smile that was not pleasant. "So, you do know something of your art's history. Sing, then, or else you will get no food or water."

I fought down the stupid Astarian pride that wanted to tell her exactly what she could do with her stinking Skartish water and putrid Skartish food. If I wanted to escape, I needed my strength.

I licked my lips. Songs flowed through my head; Freyan battle arias and Aidenian war songs—probably not good choices. I settled on a pastoral ditty about shepherds shearing and sang it through a mouth that felt as though it had been stuffed with cotton. It was badly done, and my singing master at the Bardic College would have been cowering under his desk in tears had he heard it. Truth to tell, I had not much heart for it. Pastoral ditties had never been my passion, and other things like impending prolonged torture and death were more on my mind than singing well.

The terkina snorted when the cracked, quavering performance came to an end. "So, this is what they teach in Astaria." The contempt in her tone stung me. "I expected better. Perhaps tomorrow then."

She left before I could say a word. The door slammed shut and was locked and bolted behind her.

There was no food or water that day. In the gloom of that night, I forced myself up and stood on tip-toes to touch the conical ceiling again, just in case. It was still made of strong wood. I'd been hoping for thatch.

My voice was no better the next day. The terkina snorted again and left without a word. There was still no food, still no water. That night, instead of scratching at the ground to make some sort of escape tunnel (though how I would hide my efforts, I didn't know), I brooded on what the morrow would bring.

The terkina barely entered the hut when I sang "The March of the Stone Men" at her. It was well-suited to my cracking voice. She stopped in mid-step, frozen. A fierce joy swelled in me. I had not lost the power yet, even in my weakened state.

My triumph was fleeting. The next moment, she swayed and moved forward. I had no time to duck as her hand cracked against my face. I forced myself to stay still, to unclench my hands and grin at her. "Better?" I ignored the stinging in my cheek.

She looked down at me, her breath coming in short gasps, her eyes narrowed into slits. Would she hit me again? But we both knew that I had won this skirmish.

She turned on her heel and left.

Later that day, a guard thrust a bowl of tepid water and a loaf of stale bread at me. I dined on wine and roast pheasant that night, the sweetness of victory and the remnants of the bardic power searing through my veins.

The next day she brought two guards with her, each sweating in leather armor and bearing a spear. She stood in the middle of my hut and wrinkled her nose. "You smell like a dog in its vomit."

My tunic and pants were torn and dirty from the past week's rough wear, and my skin had collected a layer of grime. "You try living as I have in the past week and see how good you smell," I invited.

She bent down and looked into my face. Her breath smelled of cooking spices; of saffron and cinnamon. She picked up my braid between two fingers. "As red as Skartish blood spilled by your kind," she said. How dramatic. I held my tongue and forbore to point out that my hair was an entirely different shade of red from that of blood. And that the Skartish had spilled their fair share of Astarian blood.

The terkina dropped my braid, slinging it into my face as she did so. It lashed across my cheek.

"Get up." She turned away.

I didn't move.

She turned back, glared at me. "Didn't you hear me?"

"I'm not playing any more of your games." I leaned back against the sun-warmed stone and folded my arms across my chest.

She looked at one of the guards and jerked her head towards me.

I caught his ankle as he aimed a kick at my ribs, and heaved. Curses filled the air as he crashed. I launched myself over him and dove for the open door. A hand grabbed my braid just as I reached it and jerked me back. A blow to the head sent me sprawling to the ground. My vision darkened. Dimly, I was aware of voices and various bits of me being poked and hit. I lay, gasping, waiting for the dizziness to clear.

Rough hands hauled me up, threw me back against the wall, away from the door.

"Fool," the terkina hissed in my ear. "If it weren't for me, they would have stoned you in the Lawbreaker's Pit long since. Get up, War Bard of Astaria."

I doubted her reasons for keeping me alive were any kinder.

"Do you think your people will come for you?" she asked. "You are so safely hidden that they would have to have eagles spying for them in order to find you. The rest of your life, you spend at my whim, do you hear?"

I made a strangled sound. She interpreted it as distress and her face grew haughtier, her nose higher and her lips thinner in contempt.

Let her think me a coward. Let her think I whimpered instead of forcing down my laughter. The Astarian army come for me? No, not after I had been thrown out of the Duke's camp without horse or sword, to wander in hostile territory and make my own way home.

I'd just chosen the wrong direction, that's all.

She drew back. The guard who had tried to kick me poked me in the ribs with the butt of his spear. "Get up, paleface," he grunted. "Show the terkina respect."

I scrambled up. My muscles protested this ill-use, but I lifted my head high. Being a palefaced Astarian, I was taller than the terkina, taller than the guards even. I saw that she did not like having to look up at me, but did not want to reverse her order.

"Sing," she said and her voice was harsh with an edge of anger. It grated upon my trained ears and marred the otherwise unbroken beauty of her voice.

I looked down at her, at her face and figure and saw in it all that I hated about Skaris. The lush, almost indecent profusion of flowers and leaves and growing things was mirrored in the curves of her figure. The harsh sun rays that had mercilessly burned my own skin had caressed hers to a smooth bronze. The patterns of her dress reminded me of the poisonous snakes that hung from the trees like vines, and the carnivorous flowers, bright and bold to behold, but giving off a nauseating stench.

So I sang of Astaria, of its open meadows and bright streams, of its cool springs and flaming autumns. The guards stared at me—the scar-faced one I had attacked with open hostility; the other one, clean-shaven, still a boy, tense like a skittish colt.

Would my power work though I was only one and they were three?

Subtly, I wove my own phrases into the song, keeping the shape, but changing a syllable here, tweaking a sound there. I looked at the boy, his hands clenched about the spear and he stared back with eyes that were glazed like a frightened deer's. He was already half-paralyzed. Too easy. And he reminded me too much of my own young drummers and pipers.

The terkina I could not take on.

I looked at Scarface as I sang, and now I was singing to him. I sang to his eyes, darkening them with folds of velvet words. I sang to his bones, calling them to dance. I sang to his heart to race with my song and his gut to uncoil within him.

Scarface's breath came fast and shallow. Beads of sweat broke out upon a face that had yellowed to a sickly hue. His eyes widened, the whites bulging, the pupils dilating. He was mine, his body obedient to my song, in thrall to my voice

Quick movement in my periphery. A long note to break my spell. Scarface shuddered and drew in a long deep breath as the pressures upon his body eased.

Did they think to so easily defeat her who had been War Bard?

I took the note, and used it, adding it to my own song, negating its effect. She changed pitch, dropped, and I changed, too, using her voice to enhance my spell upon Scarface. He doubled over, clutching his stomach.

The terkina's voice soared. I was right behind her like a falcon after its prey. Her voice dropped and rolled, mine sprang right behind her. She was quick with her changes, but I was quicker. She was losing Scarface, and I was winning...

A spear-butt jabbed into my side. Pain flared up, breaking my concentration, almost knocking me into darkness. Hands threw me down and quickly withdrew. I shook my head, blinked and scrambled away. Footsteps sounded, but not towards me. The door rasped open, then slammed shut. They were gone.

That night I crooned to the walls, the locked door, even the roof. But they resisted me, and I was too weak to press my demands upon them, with the thirst ravaging my throat and the pain pulsing within. Even in my prime, I would've been hard-pressed to move the things of the earth. I needed strength and healing and quiet.

I knew I would not get them. For tomorrow would come the terkina.

"Sing."

I did not know whether it was night or day, whether I slept or woke. Her voice haunted me. It erupted in the darkness with a burst of torchlight that stung my eyes. It whispered in the suffocating heat when the very stones of the hut were hot to the touch and the warm darkness was as close as that of a womb. It came with the shower of ice-cold water that left me sodden and gasping for breath. It came cutting through the wild ululations and deep drumbeats of Skartish celebrations.

And I sang. If I did not, there would be no water—and I needed water. There would be no food—and I needed that, too. If I did not, there would be light in my eyes and feet in my ribs and the jangle of bronze cymbals in my ears.

If I sang, they would feed me—a little—and leave me alone, until the next time.

I hated her, but still I sang, through pounding headaches and flaring pain, forcing music through lungs that wheezed like old bellows, up my parched throat and through my dry mouth in which my tongue lay dying like a beached leviathan. Through lips that were dried and peeled.

And I sang for fear.

For in the darkness of black night and the blindness of harsh light, her voice whispered of things meant only for my ears.

Of being left mute, my tongue cut out. Of the fingers that played harp and pipe broken and sliced.

Of serving her all the days of my wretched life that way.

I would not let her take the music and the song that was my life. And so I performed like a talking parrot, a puppet jerked on strings.

I sang.

And in those few moments of lucidity when I neither slept an exhausted sleep or lived a waking nightmare, I plotted.

She came in the afternoon, by herself. She left the door open, and the men who guarded me day and night did not shut it behind her.

Standing in the middle of the hut, looking down at me, she said, "Your performance last night"—was it only just last night? I wondered, remembering it as though it happened to someone else, long ago—"was the worst I have ever heard. You self-styled Astarian War Bards are not worthy of the art or the name. Charlatans." She spat on the floor, a quick violent movement whose vulgarity surprised me. I had not expected it from her, but then, it appeared I had underestimated her contempt for me.

I did not mention that I was the only War Bard Astaria had had for many centuries and that the Skartish army had put a high price on my head—higher than that on the Duke's, even.

She was ranting now, her voice fading in and out in my ears. Something about my lack of pitch and timbre, of butchering the Ice Song and the Lament of the Sun. I watched her face in wonder, her mouth moving and spittle flying, the muscles of her face rippling and distorting.

Something told me that I rubbed her the wrong way.

"There is no use keeping you alive any longer, War Bard," she finished, eyes gleaming, chest heaving.

I pushed myself up to sit higher. "Do you need the blood-price on my head so badly, terkina?" I asked sweetly.

Her look was disdainful. She tossed back her hair and sang.

She had a lovely voice, the voice Night would have, dark and soft and velvety at times, chill and high and silver like starlight at others. It was both wistful and melancholy, but with a hint of knife-edge steel in it.

It was a lay of death, inviting my eyes to darken in sweet slumber, while it pressed its cold sharpness in my gut.

The terkina's eyes were focused on a point above my head, her arms upraised, the slender paleness of her throat revealed as she tilted her head up to some unseen god. A swift foot behind the kneecap would've brought her down.

Except there were guards in the doorway, watching me. Their hands were tight upon spears half-raised to throw. They would probably kill me the instant I tried something.

That was better than falling asleep with a silly smile on my face while my body burst open like an overripe fruit.

I hummed quietly, a low monotonous droning that nudged at the death spell. A poke here and a prod there, just enough to ease the leaden weights upon my eyelids and lift the darkness in my mind. My insides had begun to ache in response and I stilled them with a song, louder this time.

The terkina stiffened and looked down at me. The guards nearly tripped over themselves in their haste to squeeze through the doorway. She flipped a hand up at them, not turning her head. They paused, uncertain, uneasy.

She bent down to whisper in my ear, her hair brushing my cheek and bringing to my nostrils a strong scent of jasmine and empress-of-the-night. I held my breath.

"You have claws still, do you? Let's see what you can do."

She drew back and gestured the guards out. They shuffled their feet, but they obeyed. One of them gave me a fierce look of warning.

Her first attack came quickly, sending me back against the wall, hands clapped over my ears. A high sharp note, like a glass shard. I tempered it with lower notes, and threw in a discordant minor, for good measure. She stumbled, off-balance, and I pursed my dry lips. A whistle this time, a jaunty tune that had her dancing in place, while I pushed myself up against the wall to stand on wobbly legs

She had big broad feet, like paddles. That heartened me, somewhat. I no longer felt gawky and overgrown. I was Freya, the great War Bard of old, facing legions of demons. I was Aiden the Stormbringer, raising winds and whipping waters into a frenzy.

I was Elinor, who had performed before kings and dukes, and brought armies of men to their knees, and I was not going to be beaten by some trumped-up, half-penny village songstress!

I threw notes at her, sharp and cold like a rain of icicles. She sang something hot and dark to melt them. I turned my song into a paean of fire, bright and burning, crackling and consuming. She slipped a buffeting wind into her music. I stood swaying like a sapling, but still planted in the earth. I had ridden horses and fought with swords. I knew about balance. A little wind like that wouldn't move me.

It might her. I took her wind and curved it and sent it slinging back like an arrow. She bent out of its way and it went flying out. We both paused for a deep breath at the same time.

Sudden sharp cries broke in from the outside. A wild keening arose, and the pounding of drums. The deep familiar notes of a war-horn cut through the cacophony. I smiled.

The door to my hut slammed shut. The terkina's head jerked towards it.

"An Astarian attack," I said, watching her.

Her eyes rolled, and her teeth bared. "I'll see you dead before they rescue you."

"You're going to have to work for it," I said lightly. Her renewed attack punched me in the stomach, but I held still, weaving another spell. A moment later, her eyes widened and her hands flew to her throat as though invisible bands tightened it. The sound that emerged from her throat was not pretty, but it hit the right pitch and the strangle-hold ceased.

We tested each other. Whose was the highest note? Or the lowest? Who could hold a note longer? My body hummed and jarred but I knew its limits and was careful to not let her get too close. I blocked out the sounds of the world outside the hut.

I watched her constantly, her expressions and the shifting of her muscles. I could tell that she was keeping half an ear out for what was happening outside. They were her people, after all.

But she could not keep her focus. She, who had taunted me for not rising above pain and thirst, above exhaustion and hunger, to perform at my best, could not keep focused.

She was a house divided.

An anguished cry, abruptly cut off, came from outside the door. Her head jerked around, her mouth automatically forming the notes to a song of pain. I ignored the stabbing in my head and lunged forward to kick her feet from under her. She went down with a gasp, saying, "Cheat," as all the breath went out of her.

I sang notes to muzzle and darken, to bind and hold. I could have killed her, with a swift snap of the neck. I looked down and saw her sprawled on the floor, unable to rise as though a heavy weight pressed upon her back, and saw only her helplessness.

I did not hate her anymore. She had taught me to sing through anything, even if it was not her intention.

I stepped over her and went to the door. The bar had been dropped on the other side, but I sang to the metal with a force and determination I had never before approached the things of the earth with. I had defeated the terkina, a practitioner of a potent songcraft that was centuries old, of which the Astarian equivalent was a younger bastard brother, a mere spin-off, and I was not about to let a barred door deny me escape! I sang, and the metal—pliable, willing substance that it was!—bent and curved with a slight groan.

I pushed the door open and walked out, shutting it behind me.

A summer rain, fast and furious, fell from the grayed skies above. Dark shapes ran through it, mounted men and fleeing women. Metal rang and voices screamed. The battle raged on the outskirts.

There was no body, throat cut, bleeding scarlet into the rain, by the hut. No evidence of my diversion. The masters at the Bardic College had not been amused when their students added ventriloquism to their skills, but it had served me in good stead.

I wondered how long it would take the terkina to discover my trick.

I ran for the jungles, away from the battle, away from the camp. I doubted that the Duke had planned this attack to rescue me—I doubted he even knew, or cared where I was. After all, I had dared to protest his actions. But I kissed my hand in the direction of the skirmish, anyway. He had saved me, after all. Of course, he wouldn't be pleased if he discovered that.

I wouldn't tell him, and I doubted the terkina would either.

I marveled at the thick canopy above me. My ears were full of the sound of water, drumming upon the tree-tops, gushing down in waterfalls and rivulets in the mud, and swelling tiny steams into raging torrents. I stood under a convenient gap, catching rain drops in my cupped hands as they slid, fat and slow, off the wet leaves. I put my hands to my lips, tasting the coolness, feeling it slide down my throat. Laughing, I lifted up my face, while water splattered upon my cheeks and in my open mouth.

It isn't a bad place, this, when the burning sun hides behind the rain clouds. I would not wish to live here forever, but I can travel in it.

I think I will go east, to Inlinka. There will be little chance of running into the Duke there. And I have heard that there are not so many insects there as there are in Skaris.

This time, I will make sure to pick the right direction.

R. A. Gale lives in Vermont where she writes in between chasing the two-year-old, playing with the baby, procrastinating and letting the house fall into a state of disrepair. Her long-suffering husband puts up with all of this.

Cover: "Dragon & the Raven"

Original Art - 12" x 9" colored pencil illustration on Strathmore Artagain fiber-enhanced paper.

Specializing in colored pencil works on fiber-enhanced paper, more of the work of Michelle J.A. McIntyre can be found on her webpage, < www.fantasyrealmcreations.com >. She creates a variety of fantasy art subject matter including dragons, unicorns, gryphons, fairies, and centaurs.

Singing for the Enemy

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