Child of a Dead God

by Barb Hendee

  “There is more writing on these walls,” he said. “Wynn believes it was all written by this creature, who does not remember that the words are hers . . . and more of her kind once existed here, at least two others.”

  “What is she feeding on?” Magiere asked.

  “Nothing could live up . . .” Sgäile began, then lifted his eyes angrily. “Is feeding?”

  Leesil tucked in close to Magiere. “I doubt she fed on those anmaglâhk we found—by the way she mangled them. But we’ve never encountered a physical undead that didn’t need to feed, somehow, on the living.”

  Magiere caught Leesil’s worried glance. Had he noticed her shaking again or some other sign? She wasn’t about to let Sgäile know what she’d suffered in his land, so she had no way to tell Leesil what she felt now. Yes, something in this place was sustaining Li’kän.

  “Perhaps the same thing Welstiel hoped to find,” Magiere said.

  “Are we near it?” Leesil asked.

  “Maybe,” she replied. “I’ll take the lead with Chap. Leesil, you and Sgäile keep that creature ahead of—”

  “Not yet,” Sgäile cut in. “I have questions.”

  “You?” Leesil hissed. “You have questions!”

  Sgäile’s eyes stayed fixed upon Magiere. “That creature is not the only one who stalled amid bloodlust. You halted in midswing . . . why?”

  Magiere didn’t know. She had felt suddenly weak, as if her strength had drained away for an instant.

  She shook her head. “I just felt heavy, tired, and then it passed.”

  “That was not the only response you shared with the white woman,” Sgäile said.

  Magiere instinctively warmed with anger. Before Leesil could snap again, Sgäile went on.

  “She echoed your fury. What connection lies between you?”

  “What else would you expect?” Magiere spit back. “It’s undead. I was born to kill it. And it’s not going to just stand there waiting for me to take its head. There’s nothing between her and—”

  “No,” Sgäile snapped, his voice barely above a whisper. "When she stopped and slipped into delirium . . . even then her expression echoed yours.”

  Leesil lurched forward, but Sgäile raised one finger at him.

  “I know what I saw,” he warned; then he walked away with a last hard glance at Magiere as he called out, “Osha, prepare to move on.”

  Magiere didn’t know what to think about Sgäile’s veiled accusation. Any denial of her strange reaction to Li’kän, or the other way around, would be a lie.

  “Come on,” Leesil whispered. “Let’s finish this and get out of here.”

  Li’kän curled her lips back as Magiere walked past.

  “Move!” Magiere hissed back.

  She headed off along the bookcases, trying to clear her head. Her hunger had waned, and it was barely enough to keep her night sight widened. But the longing was still strong, and it pulled her onward.

  Magiere did not get far. They all stopped short at the chamber’s far end, facing nothing but a wall of ancient stone blocks. Or that was how it seemed.

  A long and rusted iron beam stretched across the wall’s length, resting in stone cradles, like a door’s bar. And while the stone blocks overlapped in construction, Magiere spotted one seam at the wall’s center that ran straight from top to bottom.

  Leesil traced the seam with his fingers, from the floor up to the beam as thick as a man’s thigh. Twin doors built of mortared stone blocked their way, and Magiere couldn’t imagine what hinged mechanism might possibly support them.

  The pull inside Magiere told her to pass through these stone doors, to hurry beyond them. But why were they barred from the outside? And how could she and her companions lift the enormous beam, let alone open this massive portal?

  Leesil slid sharply away along the wall, his hands dropping to his sheathed blades, and Magiere half-turned, reaching for her falchion.

  Li’kän stepped silently up to the doors.

  The undead pressed her smooth cheek to the beam’s metal, as if listening for something beyond. Then her eyes rolled up. Her small mouth began working again, mumbling mutely.

  Chap watched Li’kän slip into another semiconscious state. He reached out again to catch memories surfacing in the undead’s mind.

  He saw only darkness—but he heard the low, distant hiss again, like a whisper—or was it more like a fire’s crackle? The sound sped up, buzzing furiously like leaves or insect wings. Chap lost his concentration as Magiere whispered.

  “It’s here . . . behind the wall . . . these doors. I can feel it.”

  Something shifted in the dark within Li’kän.

  Chap almost missed it. Not a memory, but an awareness. Did Li’kän feel him inside her mind? He panicked and began to pull out—too late.

  Something cold struck at him from the dark of Li’kän’s mind. It thrashed about inside his thoughts, trying to find him and coil about him . . . and it took hold.

  Chap’s yelp echoed in his own ears.

  “Stop it!” Leesil growled. “Stay out of that thing’s head.”

  “Wynn, what’s wrong?” Magiere shouted.

  Chap thrashed wildly, struggling to get free.

  The chamber and door walls cleared before his eyes. The only thing holding him was Leesil’s hands about his shoulders. Chap settled, still shivering within.

  Magiere crouched behind Wynn. The sage sat crumpled upon the floor, one hand over her mouth. She shook uncontrollably as she stared wide-eyed at Chap.

  “What . . . was that?” Wynn whispered. “That buzz from Li’kän’s thoughts?”

  She had heard it as well—but that should not be possible.

  Chap could not think of a reason. She only heard him because a taint of wild magic let her hear when he communed with his kin, the Fay. He had learned to use this to speak to and through her. But somehow, as he was rooting about in the undead’s mind, she had heard the same sound as he had. It made no sense.

  “What happened?” Magiere demanded.

  Chap blinked twice, jowls twitching.

  It . . . something . . . sensed me, he said to Wynn, and she echoed his words with effort. Something inside Li’kän knew I was there . . . and wanted me out.

  “You all right?” Leesil asked.

  No, he was not. Chap remembered an unfamiliar voice in the dark that had whispered to Welstiel and to Ubâd. He had little doubt it was the same voice in Magiere’s dreams. Now Li’kän was mumbling voicelessly to herself—or to something only she could hear.

  And Wynn had heard it as well.

  Somewhere in this old fortification—among the centuries of records or buried in Li’kän’s fragmented mind—might lie an answer. But all Chap could think of now was a “presence” that toyed with undead, manipulated Magiere’s dreams, and perhaps held sway over ancient Li’kän.

  The “night voice,” that ancient enemy of many names, Ubâd’s sacred il’Samar . . .

  It wanted Magiere to have the artifact her half-brother desired.

  Chap did not want Magiere to go any further—but he did not realize that the feeling was more than just anxiety for Magiere. Not until she rose, jerked out her falchion, and glared back the way they had come.

  Magiere’s black irises expanded. She bolted back toward the passage entrance as Chap cut loose with a rolling howl.

  “Undeads!” Leesil shouted, pulling both silvery winged blades.

  A white flash passed Chap before he overtook Leesil and Sgäile.

  Li’kän left everyone behind as she raced after Magiere.

  Chap heard Osha and Wynn scrambling to follow as he ran after the white woman. If other undead had come here, and Magiere found them first, on which side would Li’kän stand?

  • . . .

  Chane followed Welstiel along the castle’s pillared wide corridor and the feral monks clambered in behind him, anxiously sniffing about. He followed suit and caught a thin scent, barely noticeable. It reminded him of old,
rancid seed oil, but where had he smelled this before?

  Welstiel’s eyes glittered with anticipation. He kept onward in silence, until they all passed through a tall archway shaped like the outer gates and front doors. Straight ahead, a wide stone stairway led to upper floors, and to the left and right, narrower passages stretched into the dark.

  One feral screamed.

  Chane whirled, backing away as he pulled his longsword. A shadow shot out between the hunkering monk’s shoulder blades and arced into the chamber’s upper air.

  “Spread out!” Welstiel shouted, pulling his own blade.

  Chane turned circles as the monks scattered, snarling and crying out, but he kept his eyes on the shadow above—like a pair of wings gliding on a wind, though no breeze flowed through the dark chamber.

  “From the walls!” Welstiel shouted.

  Chane spun away toward the foot of the wide stairs. Another shadow stalked in, low to the floor, coming from the archway, a silhouette of black paws stretching up to four narrow legs. As it drew closer, a head and long snout took shape.

  A wolf. In two quick steps, it leaped at Chane.

  He flinched, unable to dodge away, and it passed straight through his chest.

  Chane stumbled as deep cold flooded his torso.

  “They cannot damage you!” Welstiel called out. “They are only ghosts!”

  “No,” Chane rasped, clutching his chest. “They are something else.”

  Ferals thrashed about, clawing and screeching, as the shadows assaulted them. Welstiel swung his sword, and steel rippled through a shadow bird’s flapping wing. But the translucent creature flew higher, unfaltering. Welstiel flung his pack aside.

  Chane did the same but peered upward uncertainly. Steel had no effect upon these things.

  The two younger monks lost all control, their twisted faces frantic as they slashed at empty air. Jakeb looked even less coherent, though he was silent. Only Sabel and Sethè remained calm and pulled weapons—her knife and his iron cudgel.

  Cold pain spiked between Chane’s shoulder blades.

  He choked as a shadow darted out of his chest. It flew upward, but this time he clearly saw the shape of its head and tail—a raven.

  An eerie howl filled the chamber.

  Chane quickly scanned about for either shadow wolf, but the howl had come from somewhere more distant. Its dying echo rolled from the narrow passage to the chamber’s left side. Yellow-orange light glimmered in the dark therein, and another shadow wolf bolted out of the narrow opening.

  No, this one was silver-coated, and Chane recognized Chap.

  The dog barreled into the room like a beast gone mad. And directly behind him came the blur of a white figure. Glistening black hair whipped about her naked body. Her wild, slanted eyes glinted.

  Chap charged straight at Welstiel, and his howl twisted into raging snarls. A startled Welstiel barely ducked out of the dog’s way.

  “Assist me!” Welstiel ordered.

  Chap wheeled about, charging again, and Jakeb threw himself in the dog’s path. Chap snapped and slashed at the monk with fangs and claws, trying to get past. Chane looked back to the naked undead.

  Her smooth, perfect face filled with confusion, until one young monk rushed her with hooked fingers. Before the monk landed a grip, she snatched him by the throat, flinging him away one-handed.

  The young feral spun head over heels, until his body slammed into the chamber’s side wall. He slid down to the floor in a twitching, broken heap, and then ceased moving at all.

  Chane turned his eyes back on the woman—this illusory frail thing.

  This was one of Welstiel’s “old ones.”

  She could destroy them all effortlessly. Before Chane could look for a way out, another figure emerged from the narrow passage.

  Magiere’s eyes were black amid the yellow light behind her. She skidded to a stop with her falchion drawn.

  Chane’s throat tightened at the sight of that blade, but her attention was not fixed on him. Her eyes widened, unblinking, as they locked on Welstiel.

  Leesil emerged behind Magiere, wearing a glowing amulet upon his chest. A tall blond elf in a dark tunic came next.

  Escape was no longer an option.

  Chane readied himself for an onslaught, not knowing who would come at him first.

  Chap was still harrying Jakeb, trying to get past to Welstiel, and only three other monks remained on their feet.

  “Chane!”

  He twisted toward the familiar feminine voice.

  Chane froze, staring at Wynn.

  A second elf, taller than the first, stood at the passage’s arch with his arm wrapped protectively around her. She leaned into the young elf, her cheek pressed against him, and the cold lamp crystal in her hand illuminated her round, olive-toned face. Her small mouth opened halfway at the sight of him, and she clutched the elf’s cloak.

  Chane went hollow inside.

  And that emptiness filled with rage. It built on a desire to tear the elf’s arm from its shoulder socket and rip his throat out—anything to take that offensive hold off of Wynn. He almost dropped his sword to free both his hands.

  Sabel hissed as she rushed around Chane, straight toward Wynn. He could not grab her in time. Leesil charged out, shining blades in his fists, their outer edges running like wings down his forearms.

  Chane snarled, ready to kill the half-blood or jerk Sabel back, whichever of them he caught first.

  Sabel swerved, and swung for Leesil’s face with her knife.

  Wynn pressed against Osha, her emotions in a tangle.

  Welstiel was here. How was this possible? And he was surrounded by robed figures casting about and screaming at shadow ravens and wolves. She had seen their tabards before and recognized them—the Sluzhobnék Sútzits, the Servants of Compassion. But they were horrible, twisted and savage. Her heart sickened at their pale skin, colorless eyes, and the misshapen teeth in their snarling mouths.

  Only Li’kän stood staring about, as if lost.

  And Chane . . .

  Wynn cried out his name before thinking. Truth struck her like poison or sudden illness.

  Chane had come with Welstiel . . . to get the orb.

  Chap ripped into one robed undead, tearing the back of its calf, and then charged straight at Welstiel with his muzzle dripping black fluids. The silver-haired monk was too fast and twisted about, back-fisting Chap and driving him off. Chap’s voice shouted in Wynn’s mind.

  Get Magiere away! She must reach the orb first . . . before Welstiel!

  Wynn ducked from under Osha’s arm, shouting as she reached for Li’kän.

  “Magiere, go! You must find it now!”

  Aside from Magiere, Li’kän was the only one who might know how to get through the stone doors. Wynn’s fingers closed on Li’kän’s chill skin, and the undead half-turned.