SongWeaver Read online

  SongWeaver

  By Derek Moreland

  Cover Illustration by Derrick Fleece

  For Matt Phillips.

  Sully to my Mike, Ted to my Marshall, Silent Bob to my Jay. I’ll miss you forever.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Part 1: A Bunch of Dead Shifters

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part 2: Trial of Blood

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part Three: Attack the Darkness

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Part 4

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Part 5: Here Be Monsters

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Part 6: Revelation Rag

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Part 7: The Temptation of Tanith Ven

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Acknowledgements

  Hoo boy. This took a while.

  I first conceived the overarching story for Songweaver when I was in high school. I wish I could tell you I remember the exact point of inspiration, but that little nugget has been lost with time. Suffice to say, I’ve been living with Ven snarking around in my head for the better part of two decades. Now, I finally get to show him to the world. I hope you find him as entertaining as I do.

  There are a few people I need to thank, because this book wouldn’t exist without their support, time, and kind words. First and foremost, my wife, Sara. I can’t tell you how many nights I spent locked away from her, trying to put words on paper. Her support of all my weird little projects--the novel, the comics, the podcasts--has meant the world to me. I love you, babe.

  My buddy, Caleb, who didn’t want any kind of acknowledgement, is getting a big huge “thank you” here in print anyway. Dude let me write most of part four in his apartment when I didn’t have anywhere else to go, and read and commented on every single draft of this bastard with enthusiasm and without complaint. I literally would have never finished if he hadn’t put in the time and effort to guide me as a writer. You’re the best, man. I can never repay you, not really.

  Shalah Smith was the first person outside of my inner circle to read the manuscript for this. If I have a “first fan,” it’s her. Thank you so much for the kind words and encouragement. I hope it’s as good as you remember. And while I’m at it, thanks go to my brother Josh Moreland, who has read pretty much everything I’ve ever written. You’re an inspiration.

  And yeah, it’s a cliche, but thank you for picking this up. I’m sure every author lives with the same bowel-clenching terror that no one will read their work… and you, you’ve decided to give me a shot. Thank you so much.

  Part 1: A Bunch of Dead Shifters

  Chapter 1

  Werewolves are the worst, Tanith Ven thought, as he crouched in a thicket of tangled shrubbery. He focused on his breathing, keeping it slow and regular. He took in the strong pine-green scent of earth around him, smelled the calm aquamarine of rain on the wind. Tonight the sky was clear, but his nose told him that tomorrow would see a downpour.

  He checked the wind’s direction with a wetted talon to the air. His pebbled, prehensile tail gave an involuntary thrash low against the ground, as though it was restless, untethered. He trained his eyes on the craggy, foreboding hillocks a few scant meters before him. It’s not easy hunting a hunter. Let alone a pack of them. But hey, I’ve kept them off my scent. So far, anyway.

  He strained his ears for the slightest noise, took in another long breath, and checked his position against the breeze. The brush he'd chosen to hide in was thick but unobtrusive, and tall enough to conceal his limber frame up to his head’s knobbed horns in a crouch. But that wouldn't matter much if he couldn't stay upwind.

  Ending this tonight. Getting paid. Getting a beer. Getting several beers. He ran an absent-minded tongue over his lip ridge at that thought and shifted, trying to worry out the cramp in his leg without disturbing the greenery. The leaves gave a quiet rustle of protest, then stilled. He'd hunched down there, tensed up and coiled like a dwarven springshot, for over an hour. It was well past High Moonlight; the pack should be returning to their den.

  Soon.

  Ven checked his automatic crossbow by feel, again; again, he decided to leave the safety on. There was no need to get panicky. Not yet, anyway. For a half moment he wished that he'd had a drink before coming out, something to settle his nerves, to have something on his stomach, instead of holding off for afterwards. But that was a fool's thought, and he knew it. Whiskey, mead, beer… anything on his breath would have carried on his scent like a lit beacon. What he needed now was to concentrate on the task at hand.

  To Wait.

  Until….

  The stillness of the night was shattered by a deep, bellowed howl. It was close, closer than Ven had realized it would be before he noticed them. He bit back a silent curse for letting the pack get so close, gripped his crossbow tighter, and muttered an empty prayer to blessed Lath'shia that they haven’t caught his scent. He let his eyes fall from the hillocks down to the moonlit pool of the surrounding shade, tracking the source of the howl, spying through the translucent covering of leaves. Trying to determine if his discretion had been moot. Trying to determine if he'd been discovered.

  A group of sleek black figures, heavier and wider and taller than any normal beast, were bounding up the moors to the hillocks, their leader baying at the pregnant, icy moon that hung in the sky. By that same moonlight Ven could count them all, streaked with gore along snout and paw, their teeth and talons dark, slick, and oily. The pack was jubilant, lush from their latest savagery. Not one had their guard up. Ven swallowed a sigh of relief along with the angry bile rising hot in his throat over the thought of their wanton barbarity, ran a caressing talon over the bow’s trigger, and followed them with his eyes. He had determined the pack's hidden entrance was on this side of the cliffs; all the usual signs, the spoor and trails of ichor and the rest, pointed to this spot. But if the Shifters were smart, they may have set up a double-blind to throw off trackers....

  The leader sprung up the hillock, following the natural curve of the outcropping, until he slipped into an almost invisible crack along the side. A sliver that no doubt led to a much larger den. Ven allowed a satisfied grin to slide across his beak and waited for the rest of the pack to follow their leader. Then he ran forward, loping towards the hillock, ducking his head low as he moved. He held his crossbow relaxed but ready before him, his gray-green tunic fitted tight to his muscled, lithe form.

  All right. I've made it this far.

  Showtime.

  He tracked up to the split in the rocks the Shifters had passed through. Once he had positioned himself at the mouth, Ven pulled the belt on the leather satchel that hung from the sling on his shoulder and reached in. He rummaged by feel among the contents and thought, for a desperate moment, that he'd left the damn thing back at the inn… but finally, he pulled out a small metal sphere that shown rough and dull in the moon’s cascading light. It had a couple of grooves and
a switch that slid between them carved around the circumference. With a talon, Ven slid his specially-treated ocular enhancement goggles into place over his eyes, flipped the switch on the sphere to its highest position, and tossed it into the cave's gullet. It made a soft ping! as it fell against the stone inside.

  After a breath, a bolt of seething white light exploded out of the earthen crack and spilled out into the night. It looked as though the sun had risen inside the hillock's cave.

  Ven’s grin widened. He had violated the manufacturer’s warranty by upping the device’s phosphorus content, breaking the safety switch and fiddling with the timer, but cold hell, had it worked. He waited another moment as the light dimmed to a level that wouldn't force his own insuppressible change, and dropped into the cavern's entrance. If he'd been thinking about it, he would have been proud to note he wasn't all that thirsty anymore.

  *

  Crazed howls had shrunk to screams and whimpers by the time Ven reached the pack. The creatures were writhing, bodies twisted with pain, on the dirt and muddy clay of the cavern's floor. They were still drenched in their victims’ offal, and still dappled in patches of thick, coarse hair. But every creature in the place had been transmogrified back to their native species; moreover, the change had been forced against their will, which made the process much more agonizing. That thought that gave Ven no small measure of satisfaction. And if he’d calculated everything correctly, it also gave him an edge.

  The dwarven Mine-Lighter lay a few feet from him, still shining so brilliantly that Ven might have been blinded if he hadn't worn his protective goggles. It layered the cave walls in a lie of iridescent alabaster white, and Ven grimaced at the olfactory assault that threatened to overwhelm him as he entered. The cave stank like an abattoir; greasy, raw, ruby-red sour meat and death, thin white sweat and urine, and salt pallid yellow from the sick that was overcoming this quarry now. He blocked the stench with an effort, breathing through his beaked mouth as he surveyed the room with affected arrogance. His crossbow rested loose but readied on his shoulder, and his trained senses probed for signs of a counter-attack underneath his guise of ostentatious aloofness. For the moment, anyway, he had the upper hand. Ven flourished a scroll from his satchel with his free talon, and cleared his throat with a showman’s flourish.

  “Hello! Hi. Can everyone understand me?” He gave an exaggerated look around the room, playing to an audience that hadn’t quite registered his presence. Not that any of these animals would appreciate the joke. “I assume you all speak Elvish Common?” he continued. The anguished cries, quieted, then stilled. Some of the pack even whimpered in assent. After a suitable pause for dramatic effect, Ven continued.

  “Yeah, good. I thought so. Okay.” He looked down at the parchment again for effect, then lifted his head and intoned in a bored voice, “This pack has been found guilty of Hunting Without a License and Reckless Endangerment of a Lesser Species, as well as Formation of a Clan slash Brotherhood slash Union without proper consent of blah, blah, blah, hey look, this one's resisting arrest.”

  Ven dropped the crossbow from his shoulder and fired without looking up from the parchment. The bolt pierced the nearest Shifter in the chest, the fletching blossoming from its breast like a corpse’s boutineer. It screamed once, more from surprise than pain, and slumped, dead, to the floor.

  “What was that?” a ragged voice choked out from the back of the cave. Another Shifter, a hideous, twisted orc—probably the leader, Ven thought, pretty sure the contract said the leader's an orc or something—who was all needled teeth, glaring eyes, and sallow ashen skin, was trying to stand. It raked its own ragged talons into the cave's rocky wall as it forced itself upright, glaring through the pain at Ven. “You killed him, why did you kill Witherfang? How...?”

  “'Witherfang'? Seriously?” Ven snorted. These losers actually changed their names to sound more wolvish. Now I feel like I'm doing them a favor. He pushed the thought aside as more than a little unprofessional, and continued.

  “The how,” he said, taking a step toward the rising wolf-orc-thing, “is silver-tipped stakes carved from yew trees. Wasn't sure if the wood would work by itself, see, and I'm not taking any chances with you guys.” With a casual swing of his arm he shot another Shifter, a gnome in shredded farmer's overalls, growling deep in its throat as it dragged itself along the floor towards Ven’s leg. “The why of it... ” he took a moment to stake a third, this one an emaciated faun with eyes like dinner plates. “You guys are making this way too easy. Anyway, the why of it is twofold. One: you're a group of murderous, bloodthirsty animals who've preyed on gnomish children and elderly, who've terrified an entire village, for sport.” He took another step forward, swinging his bow across his body to stake the fourth, this one curled up in a corner, pale arms curled over its hirsute head and face, trying to escape the piercing light. “And two: because I have a piece of paper that says I get a hell of a lot of gold for bringing you in, and it wasn't terribly particular on whether you were dead or alive when I did so.”

  “Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrargoyle!” The were-orc bellowed, and jumped. It sudden strength and speed were unimaginable to Ven in its weakened state, and for a moment, he was caught off guard. Then he pushed back against the grimy floor with his heel for space, fell into a crouch with his crossbow angled up, and emptied the magazine into its chest. The bolts drilled into the creature with a sickening series of thuds. The orc crashed into him, already dead but carried forward by its momentum, staggering Ven under its weight. He let out a groan as he fell to the floor under its bulk.

  Ven found he was glad that he'd put the rest of them down before this one got ballsy and attacked, otherwise this could have been embarrassing. Or, potentially, fatal. May have overplayed the macho act a tad, this time.

  Still, it had been a successful evening. The worst part was the waiting. The killing? That was still lamentably easy.

  Ven shoved the pack's leader off with a resigned grunt, crouched beside it, and picked up its right hand. He flipped it over, palm up. There, embedded in the skin, was the scarred and shredded insignia of the Cracktooth Clan. He pulled out a silver knife and began to slice through the creature's wrist.

  “You sounded disappointed there, buddy,” he muttered as he worked. “I’d have thought a gargoyle would at least be, like, a novelty.”

  Chapter 2

  “You are full of goatshit!”

  Ven paced the office of his goblin Handler the night after, seething. It wasn’t a very satisfying pace, as the office was very small, which only added to his sour mood.

  He'd come in as soon as the sun had set with a bag full of severed hands, a splash or three of whiskey in his throat, and a smile on his face. The latter had fallen away as soon as the goblin had tallied his earnings. A grimace of red rage had settled comfortably in its absence.

  “Four hundred?!” Ven sputtered. “The contract was for a grand!”

  “Yes, Mr. Tanith,” the little creature said in that maddening, even voice. He was speaking Gloobeec, of course. All goblins spoke Elvish Common, but almost always used their native tongue when conducting business. Ven wasn't fluent in this area’s dialect; he'd spent years around the creatures, but that had been much further south. He could manage, and he made the effort as a sign of respect. But it irked him.

  “You have,” the goblin continued, “already reminded me of this. Loathe as I am to repeat myself, I will again reiterate to you that the one thousand piece bounty was the quoted price for all six members of the rogue Cracktooth offshoot. And as I already know you can count, I'm sure you'll agree that there are only five hands in this bag that I dearly wish you would remove from my desk.” The goblin poked the blood soaked haversack with a hooked digit and let out a sigh of what could almost be described as pleasant disgust. “It’s staining my blotter.”

  “You can get a new one,” Ven said through a gritted beak. Anger was making him testy, mouthy. Short-sighted. He took a long, slow breath, trying to even out his temper;
he paused, resting a talon on the back of the chair facing his Handler. He wasn’t managing this well. He had to stay cold. If I ever want another job from this officious little prick, anyway. “And for please, call me Ven. Mr. Ven if you can so desire,” he added with what he hoped was a polite smile. “Tanith is no family name.”

  “The fact remains,” the goblin continued, ignoring Ven, “the total bounty for the pack as you have presented it tallies to four hundred pieces. Had you captured the shifter pack's chief...”

  “But. I. Did,” Ven growled. Breathing wasn't working. His calm eroded steadily with each quiet exhalation. He resumed his short, sharp patrol of the office, irritation making his feet restless. He swallowed, tried again. “Sir. I already tell you. The damn thing tried jump to me even after am to force a transformation.”

  “Yes, that was clever, by the by,” the goblin’s lip curdled upwards into something that wasn’t quite a smile of his own. “Ingenious, even. I can see why the offices in the Known Lands are so enamored of you. However,” he sighed, feigning dismay, “I'm afraid that the pack's leader was, in fact, not among them when you collected your bounty last night.”

  Lathshia's mourning, Ven cursed silently. This bastard was getting to him. “How? How you know I did no invalidate the leader? How you know I no just miss a… debtor?” Ven grimaced at that. It was not the word he’d been groping for, but he hoped the context translated. “And what it matter?” he continued. “I can clean up last one this moon night. I just need bit of... ”

  “You may have been the golden child in Gedeva,” the goblin said, and though the tone of voice never changed, the menace in the office became a touch more palpable. “But your reputation will do you no favors here in Ay'ladii. And relying on it will only get you killed.”

  All right, Ven thought. The digs at his old life, his time with the elves; even with the goblins who had taken him in before that, was getting tiresome. He opened his beak to say so when the handler interrupted him.