I raise my voice a bit. “Ay, I just…”

  Olive spares me another look, harder now. “Now, Darin.”

  That gets my back up. Olive Paper may be next in line to rule Hollow, but Hollow’s a long way off, and ent where I’m from in any event. I put my hands on my hips, and she turns to me fully, smelling of rising irritation. Olive was always bossy, but it’s different now, like she doesn’t want to seem weak in front of her brothers, and I ent got patience for that.

  “I think what the son of Arlen means,” Rojvah cuts in loudly, breaking the tension and drawing all eyes her way, “is that his skills—and mine—might be put to better use than messenger service.” She touches the choker at her throat, a hora jewel that can amplify her singing like the little warded coin on my pipes. “Perhaps we need not fight at all. Why let the alagai approach us at a time of their advantage, and not ours?”

  Olive looks down her nose at Rojvah. “Because too many alagai escaped the Deliverer’s Purge, and I will suffer them in our lands no longer. I mean to eradicate them, not play them a lullaby.”

  “Idiot,” Selen mutters. She doesn’t contradict Olive, but I can smell that she wants to.

  I see hurt surprise on Rojvah’s face, and that’s the last straw. I take the pipes off my belt and shake them in Olive’s face. “That all this is to you? A lullaby? Your mam made you read all those histories of the war, and you din’t learn a rippin’ thing?”

  Olive definitely doesn’t like that. Mentioning the duchess is a last resort with dealing with Olive. As apt to set her off as it is to slap her out of acting the fool.

  Can’t help it, though. Rojvah and Arick’s da is a bit of a hero of mine. Like my da, Rojer Halfgrip, the Fiddle Wizard, brought back a magic folk thought lost. Halfgrip figured out how to charm demons with his music, and wrote spellsongs other musicians could learn that gave them power to drive demons off, lure them in, or escape their notice entirely.

  The final battles of the demon war were waged on many fronts, but the tales all agree the losses would have been far worse without Halfgrip’s spellsongs.

  “Ent sayin’ we shouldn’t hit ’em,” I tell Olive, leaving out that I ent sayin’ we should, either. “But Rojvah and I can do a lot more to keep the demons where we want ’em than asking the Cutters to tiptoe.”

  Olive wants to argue, but I’m not telling her anything she doesn’t already know. She’s just never needed to work my pipes into a battle plan before. She glances at Ashia instead.

  The Sharum’ting Ka smells proud, as if Olive has passed some sort of test. “That is indeed how it was done in the war, cousin. And today.”

  Olive turns back and meets my eyes. “Sel?” she says over a shoulder. “Mind going to tell your da to ready the Cutters, and keep them quiet?”

  Selen snorts, and I can smell her amusement. “Ay, he’ll love that, getting orders from his teenage daughter.”

  “I know the feeling.” Olive flashes a smile at me. “But we could all do with a lesson in humility now and again.”

  * * *

  —

  My hands are sweaty as I reach for my pipes. I turn slippery and give them a flick to clear the moisture, then raise the instrument to my lips.

  But my heart is pounding, and my chest feels tight. Maybe I had a moment of sack standing up to Olive Paper, but deep down, I know I ent ready for this.

  I hesitate, trying to force my breathing to slow to a natural rhythm.

  Behind me, Rojvah shifts. It isn’t just my reputation at stake here, it is hers, as well. The longer I delay, the worse we both look. But Rojvah doesn’t smell impatient.

  Arick does. I can scent the emotions tearing at him. He wants to be out with the warriors, wants to prove himself to Majah, Sharum’ting, and Cutter alike, but he won’t leave his sister unprotected.

  “Fear is only wind, Darin am’Bales,” Rojvah says too quietly for others to hear. “Let it slide off you.”

  The image is a calming one. I keep my hands firm, but let the rest of my body go slippery, imagining fear as a physical thing that cannot take hold of me.

  And then I begin to play.

  Slowly at first, like I’m testing the reeds, letting their resonance grow. The desert is quiet at night, and the sound carries far, even before I begin to manipulate the wards on the pipes to activate the hora and amplify the music.

  I fill the night with sound, projecting it everywhere, enveloping the demons stalking the sands. Rojvah adds her voice to my playing, offering a soft harmony at first, weaving in and out of my melody as she touches the choker at her throat, activating sound wards of her own.

  We dominate the night air now, and I imagine the stalking demons, putting myself in their tracks. Stay hidden, I tell them with my pipes. Your prey will flee if you move.

  Rojvah reinforces the command with her harmonies, growing in strength and complexity to match my melody. Our music intertwines, as intimate as any embrace.

  I catch Olive’s eye, giving her a nod.

  Olive turns to Gared. “Take your Cutters out, General. Find the enemy and be ready to attack on my command.”

  Gared gives a signal, and the Cutters comply, taking their warded woodcutting tools out into the naked night. “Cutters know this game well as any. But I ent going anywhere.”

  Olive raises an eyebrow. “I thought this was settled, General.”

  “You want to give the orders, the Cutters will follow,” Gared says. “But ent a corespawned thing you can say to get me to let you, Selen, and Darin out of my sight with demons at the wards.”

  Selen snickers. “Mum says Da’s stubborn as a rock demon about things like this.”

  The general crosses his arms. “Even your mum’s right once in a while.”

  Olive mashes her lips together, but she doesn’t smell angry. Quite the contrary. “All right.” She rolls the shield off her shoulder and lifts her spear. “Let’s go.”

  Uncle Gared doesn’t look happy at that, but those giant weapons come off his back, and he follows, towering over even tall Olive and Selen. “Demons will come out of the spell once the fighting starts, but it takes a few seconds for them to shake it off. Don’t waste ’em.”

  Ashia’s warriors slip short stabbing spears of warded glass from their backs. Each is three feet long, with threads on the end to screw together into a longer weapon. They keep them separate, leaving their shields on their backs. And then they do something unexpected.

  They start to sing.

  Ashia herself begins, weaving her song around ours like Micha did in the demon tunnels. But then all two hundred of her warriors raise their voices, joining in the song. Resonance wards on their armor glow softly, picking up their sisters’ song and keeping it tight even as they separate to search for targets.

  It ent easy. Music fills my senses, and even I have trouble spotting individual demons, but I know they’re out there. If someone steps on one and causes a ruckus, it could break the whole spell.

  Be still, my pipes appeal to their animal instincts. Be silent. Wait. Layered into that, I add a whine, rising in pitch, that winds coreling muscles like a spring. Rojvah and the Sharum’ting pick up on the change, filling the cold air with tension.

  “Can’t see a corespawned thing,” Gared says. “Gonna need to jump ’em.”

  They are out of sight now, but I have my senses trained on Olive, Selen, and Uncle Gared.

  “Ay,” Olive agrees. “Now, Darin.”

  I break the tension in my music with an explosive burst of notes, made exponentially more powerful by Rojvah and our chorus of Sharum’ting. Shocked corelings leap straight up in a spray of sand. It would be funny, if they weren’t here to kill us.

  The fighters strike quickly, before the demons can collect themselves. Some score quick, decisive kills, but not everyone is lucky enough to be in position. Some strike glancing blows, but demon magic heals them quick. Anything that ent a quick kill or severed limb only buys you a couple minutes unless you can finish the job.

  Most of the demons were hiding out of range from axes and spears. I hear wet thumps as Hollow archers pepper the next rank with warded crank bow bolts that sizzle as they continue to work their violent magic in the wounds.

  But the sands have come alive with corelings, and the carnage shakes them free of my spell. They swarm like ants, charging with such ferocity I’m scared our lines’ll be overrun.

  Even now, I can drive them back. Folk are impressed by my little magic tricks, but it’s only when I’m at my pipes that I truly feel powerful. Folk think it’s the corelings I’m charming, because they don’t have my night eyes. Truer is I’m charming the magic in the air around them, imparting my will onto it, same as drawin’ a ward.

  With a simple series of notes, amplified by the chorus, I could send the demons scrabbling back on their heels to turn and flee into the night.

  But Olive wants to fight.

  Deep down, I know she’s right. We have power, and an obligation to use it to protect others, like our parents did in the war. But in my coward’s heart, I am glad of the safety of the camp’s wards as I change tune, drawing the demons in. They charge headlong, slavering through rows of sharp teeth.

  Olive and the fighters give ground slowly, holding steady right before the wards. At the last moment, Olive signals and they all take a step back, letting the demons slam hard into the wardnet, filling the night with bright lines of magic. They flatten against the impenetrable net, stunned, and before they fall back, the warriors have struck again, scoring another brutal round of killing.

  But still the sands crawl with demons, swarming in from what seems like every direction.

  This ent a random encounter. It’s a bushwhack.

  Again I shift tone, driving the demons back on their heels.

  “I see it too, Darin,” I hear Olive growl, when I keep it up too long. “Stick to the plan.”

  I stop playing, and the demons stumble, unsure of their footing as they attempt to shake off the effects of the spell.

  “Now!” Olive’s command is amplified by Micha’s magic choker, and carries all around the encampment.

  There’s a tung! sound Hollow crank bows make that hangs in the air like a stink. Fifty of them fire, and it feels like being grabbed and shaken.

  It’s made worse as Olive leads the charge of hundreds of screaming warriors. They slam into the disoriented demons, and I hear every grunt and shriek. The crack of breaking bones and the pop of punctured organs.

  Mam would wash my mouth with soap if I ever said some of the awful things our warriors scream as they strike. Already I feel like I might sick up from trying to sort it all out. As the rush of magic takes them, it’s going to get worse.

  Our advantage is short-lived. Already, some of the corelings injured but not killed in the first round are staggering back to their feet, even as more skitter in from the darkness.

  I lift my pipes before the chaos can overwhelm me, seeking that special clarity that comes when I play. Inside the music, I can create my own space and ignore the maelstrom of sensory input around me.

  I begin The Battle of Cutter’s Hollow, another of Halfgrip’s famous spellsongs—this one designed for melee combat. I can hide in its rhythms, imposing them on the wildness of combat. My sick stomach fades away with the rest of the din.

  The Sharum’ting chorus, unfamiliar with the Northern music, does not join me. Instead, the Cutters stop shouting curses, voices deep and resonant as they join the song in concert with the swinging of axes, sledges, and mattocks.

  The Battle of Cutter’s Hollow doesn’t stop the demons’ attack, but it keeps them on the back foot, like tryin’ to fight with a headache that makes you dizzy. The giant Cutters take full advantage, cleaving into demons like they’re clearing a stand of trees.

  Arick has moved in front of us, staring hungrily at the magic flashing up the weapon handles of the fighters. That feedback makes them stronger, faster, tougher. It heals injuries and fills the recipient with the same wild energy that drives the corelings. A little makes you feel invincible. A lot makes you act like a demon, yourself.

  Wasn’t long ago Arick got drunk on that magic and tried to kill me. Wasn’t in his right mind, but he did it, and we all know it can happen again.

  That what’s holding him back with us? Arick is usually the first to a fight. Hiding behind the wards was cowardice, to hear him tell it.

  I can usually scent what folk are feeling, but with Arick it’s like trying to figure out a soup recipe by licking the spoon. He glances back at us, eyes flicking to my pipes, and for a moment I smell longing.

  I think I understand. Arick never loved music, but his father was Rojer rippin’ Halfgrip, a Jongleur legend. In Krasia a man is expected to take after his father, and Arick was trained on the kamanj—the Krasian version of his father’s famous fiddle—since birth.

  But the morning after Arick first picked up a weapon and tasted feedback magic, he smashed his kamanj and threw it into the sands. He dedicated himself to the spear, only to find himself a pawn of Alagai Ka in our struggle. Does he want back what he cast aside?

  The longing scent is gone a moment later, overpowered by the smell of suffering and self-loathing. Arick’s Jongleur training lets him put any mask he wishes over his face, but he can’t fool me. Arick is drowning in a bog. He needs help, but what can I give him?

  The battle lines have merged now, and it is down to close fighting, where the demons have the advantage in numbers, speed, and agility. The voices of the Cutters begin to falter, as the song is compromised by labored breath and the screams of the injured and dying.

  I’ve been sitting all this time, legs crossed, lost in the music. Now I get to my feet, wrapping myself in my Cloak of Unsight. Arick notices the movement and looks back at me.

  I put on a mask of my own, hiding my fear as I grin and pull up my hood, then lead us out past the wards.

  Arick and Rojvah have cloaks of their own, a subtle magic that makes demon eyes slide off us like water off a duck. Long as we don’t make any sudden moves, we can walk right up to a demon, and it won’t know we’re there.

  We move through the battle, seeking out places where fighting is thickest or people are down. Rojvah and I can’t cover the whole camp with our music, but in a smaller sphere, we can still exert our will over the corelings enough to turn the tide of battle.

  Arick keeps close, resisting the urge to join the battle fully, but anytime a demon wanders too close, he puts his spear to work, killing before the creature even knows he is there. His heart beats more rapidly as magic floods him, but Arick hums along with his sister, keeping his breath controlled.

  The tide begins to thin, and I think we are holding, when a scrabbling sound echoes through my feet from the direction of the camp.

  I look back, tracing it to the center of our portable wardnet, near where the animals are hitched. The ground explodes upward as the armored snout of a clay demon bursts free. More pour out of the gap, and I see one leap for Dusk Runner.

  “Olive! The camp!” I scream as I drop my pipes and run.

  * * *

  —

  I can’t punch through a goldwood door like Olive, or turn demons to ash by drawing a ward in the air like Mam, but I’m fast. Boy makes a rabbit look like a turtle, Grandda used to say.

  I suck in, making myself denser, tougher, and heavier as I leap. The clay demon’s long claws have just begun to dig into Dusk Runner’s flanks when I tackle it away. My horse’s scream cuts through me, but I can hear his pulse, and know the damage ent serious.

  I drive us to the ground, trying to wrestle my way into a hold on its back, away from its natural weapons. Clay demon claws are long and hard, perfect for tunneling and climbing. Their armored foreheads, ending in a sharp beak with incredible crushing power, can batter through a stone wall.

  Quick as I am, I’m not quick enough to stop the snapping demon from catching my forearm in its jaws. They begin to squeeze, even as the demon uses the hold to twist and bring its talons into play. I may be tougher when I suck in, but I ent fool enough to test it. I turn slippery, popping from its grip like a muddy eel. I give the demon a second to orient, then I set off running.

  More demons pour from the tunnel, scattering through the camp looking for prey. There’s more than livestock to get their attention. Achman and his merchants are khaffit and women, both denied the spear. They run for emergency ward circles stationed around the camp, but one of Achman’s sons, younger’n me, stumbles, and a demon bears down on him.

  “Ay!” I shout at the demon, altering course to come between it and the boy. Once I have its attention I’m runnin’ again, now with two demons on my tail.

  I skid under carts and over piles of supplies, dashing into empty tents and then slipping out through the seams in another direction once I’m out of sight.

  None of it much helps. The clay demons have my spoor and ent fooled by quick direction changes. What they can’t climb over or under, they ram right through, splintering wood and tearing canvas.

  More demons pick up the chase. I’m relieved to see most folk make it to succor in the emergency circles, but I’m starting to worry. Demons are coming at me from all around now, and it’s all I can do just to keep from being cored. My pipes and cloak ent much good when I’m running around, but if I stop, the demons will have me before I have time to use them.

  “Ay, Darin!” There’s a loud CLANG! and I turn to see Uncle Gared waving his weapons in the air. “This way!” He stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Olive, Selen, and a wall of axes and spears. I hear Rojvah singing, laying something akin to a Cloak of Unsight over the fighters.

  I’m light as a feather when I go slippery, and leap from cart to cart, landing on the ground in a tumble and rolling to my feet as I charge our lines, a shattering of clay demons right behind me. I drop and skid right between the general’s legs as he puts his great warded axe to work, splitting a clay demon’s skull.