Degra settled Vetrick Bonewatcher into his sleep furs. Despite the fact that he was feverish, her mentor was shivering. As he lay heavily down, he pulled one of the thicker skins over himself.

With a soft chitter, Bite hopped from the Pandita’s oracle shelf to Degra’s shoulder. When no chastisement was forthcoming, he crept down Degra’s arm, and hesitantly bounded closer to the old Kobold. He sniffed Vetrik’s forehead solemnly.

Vetrick ignored the spotted ferret, focusing on Degra. “My Unsui,” his voice was soft, “The Mala do not agree with me; they still seek a cure for illness, and fear that any who carry it will endanger our people. I suspect that any who leave Sharpscale territory will not be welcomed back.”

Beside them, Bite preened his already pristine whiskers, and made a soft bark.

Degra nodded. “Time for one of the people to share news and music with the world outside.” She tried to keep her tone light, her words optimistic. If Vetrick thought that help could be found from the softskins, then it was so. The cold that settled in her belly gave the lie to her attempt at a cheerful manner.”

Vetrick’s eyes were closed, his breath shallow. He was already asleep.

Bite gave a worried chirp.

Nodding briskly, Degra ducked through the hanging sort of curtain to rummage quickly through her belongings. She also grabbed the small pouch that held her Kalimba. She balanced it in both hands as her talons quickly plinked out a melody.

She hadn’t played in a while, but it would have to do. Quickly grabbing an oversized brimmed hat, as inadequate protection from the surface glare, she took a deep breath, looking over the rest of her spartan possessions.

Bite twitched his tail and chirruped.

“I am not stalling.” She started to say.

He shook his head and put his paws over his eyes.

“Much.” She finished.

Kimba, hat and a few other items went into a poorly made pack; and over that she pulled a shortish cape that had once been a cloak. It had been longer, but after Bite had chewed holes in it, the poor thing had to be rather severely trimmed. It was enough to cover the pack, which was all she needed it for.

Get out. Get going. Get to the Stone Keep.

Derga kept her daggers sheathed, and her head high as she made her way to the upper levels. She had thought it wise to use the tradesmen and suppliers’ staircases but she noted a distinct and unpleasant smell as she wound her way up from the depths. Passing by a normally unused storage room, she felt her gut roil. The smell was almost charnel.

Then she passed by the open doorway.

The first thing she registered was feet. Rows of feet; with few of her tribesmen wearing any shoes or footwear. Her brain wanted to say that this was just a row of people laying down. But there were layers. Feet on top of feet. And the smell. And no one here was breathing.

They were rotting.

Quickly she made a circle over her heart “Bowl bless me” she muttered softly. This couldn’t be right. It couldn’t

Footsteps from ahead. Heavy and there were the sounds of grunting and something scraping. She backed away, stooping to be less visible as she hid near the stairway she had so recently emerged from.

“I don’t have time for this.” A low voice grumbled. “Dead is dead, and these should be on a pyre under the stars not piled like ale casks in the ground”

Slowly the front wheel of a wheelbarrow came into view. Two of her kinsmen were pushing it, one to each of the handles, and clearly the awkwardness of the situation was making them irritable. Pilled onto it were bodies. Arms and legs dangled. Some of them were very small. Some of them were visibly old, the skin that had hung loose and wasted in life discolored and withered in death.

Pandita Vetrick had said the curse sought out the old, the infirm and the young.

“Mala Shadowchaser should send someone for herbs or a healer.” Grumbled the one on the right.

Degra stayed where she was, recognizing the large kobold by her height and girth. Her birthname was SmallClaw, ironic now that she was one of the most physically imposing of the warriors. She had the reputation of being not that clever, but Degra had known SmallClaw for years; they were from the same hatching.

SmallClaw was anything but slow or stupid and she was also fanatically loyal to Brug Steelbelly, the Mala of war. Degra suspected there was a reason behind SmallClaw’s continuing to use her nest name but had never been able to figure it out.

The other, only slightly less imposing individual grabbed a small limp body from the wheelbarrow and trudged into the room placing it atop the pile, continuing a row; the third row of bodies.

He muttered under his breath. “line them up, line them up.” Sourly he added “It’s not like they would care.” He shrugged. Derga didn’t recognize him, but suspected he was from an older hatching, and she didn’t know many of them will unless she had met them in training or schooling.

The two worked quickly, finishing the third row of bodies and creating a fourth row; quite jagged and irregular now that it was this high.

Degra retreated back to a corner of the stairs, staying slightly below the level of the floor, making sure she was out of sight or notice of the two of them. With a wheelbarrow they wouldn’t be using stairs, of that she was certain.

The sound of the pair grumbling and departing, task done, didn’t really register with her. she was still trying to understand why the bodies of kin would be treated this way.

She was just realizing that she should be moving and going when ahead of her came more sounds. For a usually unused passage, this one was certainly seeing a lot of traffic today.

Bite patted her on the ear. An unusually quiet action for the normally more verbal ferret. Responding to his oblivious caution, she shrank down lower. He was shivering, but not growling. Someone he was wary of.

The soft sound of whispers, and the tinging of music became audible as the graceful figure approached, ornamented tail swinging back and forth, an odd counterpoint as she walked. The swings were wide, and decorative metal bands near the tip of her tail made an intermittent counterpoint to the soft whispers and the sounds.

Music.

She recognized the music as she noted the distinctive spiral patterns on the Strophion the slender kobold wore tightly across her chest. Most in the caves didn’t bother with a cloak or cape, so it was usually easy to see the affiliations or rank of any clan member.

Kvegok Cairnbuilder, that was her name. All Derga knew of her was that she was a powerful Mala of some kind. Usually the accomplishment name of a Mala would give some clue to their talents, but Derga was not familiar with her, other than that Pandita Vettrick was always very polite and formal when referring to her. That usually meant that the person was someone he disliked, but who was powerful, and not to be made into an enemy without much consideration.

Kvegok was playing a Mimbira as she walked. Unlike Degra’s small Kimba, it had two rows of keys and a much wider range of octaves. The murmur of whatever she was whispering, the intermittent clink of her tail-rings against the stone and the dual melody of the softly played Mimbira combined to send shivers through Derga as though she was standing near a large fire. But it was not quite heat that she felt.

Bite coiled around Derga’s neck, burrowing his face into his tail, still shivering silently.

Heat rose from the room where the bodies of the tribesman lay. Derga could see the shimmers of heat. The effect distorted her view of the feet. The bodies, she reminded herself. Watching from a distance she could almost imagine the waves were forming patterns. Waving, like the deep rivers below the lands of the kin. Swirls and circles.

Faces.

Degra blinked.

Faces with open mouths. Shimmers that were motions, hands waving.

Kvegok Cairnbuilder was a Listener? No, that didn’t sound right. A true listener like Vettrick was rare. Why wouldn’t she have said something? The tribe would have gained honor with another so skilled and so young.

The scales on the back of Degra’s neck tensed.

Kvegok was younger than Vettrick. Were she to be known as a Listener, she would be expected to be subordinate to him, simply by virtue of his greater age and experience.

Kvegok’s music slowed, the tempo of her tail-thumps becoming softer, but more insistent. The waves, the magic, the very spirits of Degra’s people seemed to be gathered together, like one would gather strands of leather. It looked to Degra as if they struggled, arms waving, mouths open in soundless cries.

The only sound came from Kvegok’s music, and her soft hissing song. The strands of struggling spirit were bound, were coalesced, coming together, shrinking, and somehow thickening. Smaller, tighter, twisting slowly around as her talons slowed on the Mimbira.

Colors slowly became visible, the reds and browns of the scales of the people. Black and green glints of their eyes reduced to flecks of color.

With a loud thump, something fell to the ground.

A large stone, shimmering with color, about the size of two hearts lay at Kvegok’s feet.

Kvegock Cairnbuilder.

Degra silently held her muzzle closed and tried very hard not to be violently sick.