The Night Voice

by Barb Hendee

  Chap yipped, shut his eyes, and back-peddled as light exploded from the cart’s front, illuminating the tunnel ahead for a long distance. Chane shielded his eyes as well and glanced down.

  “My crystal would not provide enough light to travel safely at high speed, and we will be moving swiftly with Ore-Locks or me at the pump. Prepare yourself.”

  Chap grew sick to his stomach as he eyed the cart.

  • • •

  Nights—and days—slipped away, and in the permanent darkness below the range, Chane could only count them by when he fell dormant.

  Now, as he once again took his shift at the pump, he listened to the creaking and clattering of the cart.

  The pump cart was filled with gear and supplies, stowed or lashed. Chap barely had room to curl up behind Chane’s feet. Ore-Locks knelt at the front of the cart, peering ahead, perhaps looking for anything that might obstruct the tracks.

  “Try to sleep,” Chane said to him.

  “Soon,” Ore-Locks answered, without looking back.

  Chane pumped by night, and Ore-Locks by day. And while the living did not need to sleep a whole night, Chane had no choice but to sleep for the whole day, even here beneath the earth.

  There were brief times when Chap grew too sick to ride and took to loping along beside the cart.

  That was frustrating to Chane and Ore-Locks, who had to slow down in order not to leave Chap behind. However, Chane understood Chap’s need, though did not comment on it.

  The same journey the last time—the first time—had been hard on Shade as well. The majay-hì were not suited to living without sunlight and fresh air for so many days in a row, unlike an undead and a dwarf. The only thing Chane could do was to press onward as hard as he could while awake and when Chap could tolerate the ride.

  They stopped for brief periods so Ore-Locks and Chap could eat or to gather water from trickling cracks in the tunnel wall. In this way, they reserved the water in their stowed flasks.

  After a while, the monotony of stone walls racing by began to take its toll, even upon Chane. He missed the moon, stars, and open sky. Only Ore-Locks seemed unaffected and able to recognize—remember—familiar points in the tunnel that Chane did not.

  Tonight, Ore-Locks suddenly rose and raised a hand, still watching ahead. “Ease off. We are approaching the cave-in.”

  Chane released the pump and grabbed the brake lever, prepared to apply pressure. And when Ore-Locks began lowering his hand, Chane did so—and more each time the dwarf’s hand lowered yet again. Until the cart finally squealed to a halt. Chane found himself staring ahead at something he had almost forgotten.

  Another empty cart sat on the tracks ahead. On their first visit, when they had come back out of the seatt, they had found a second pump cart as if someone had followed them. Chane had never learned who. As a result, they had taken that cart—as it was positioned on the track behind their own—to make their way out of the range and Bäalâle Seatt.

  In fact, it was the cart in which they now traveled.

  Now, beyond the other abandoned cart, was a mass of rubble and stones blocking the tunnel from floor to ceiling. At its top near the tunnel’s ceiling was a small hole that he and Ore-Locks had dug to pull Wynn and Shade through.

  The thought of Wynn and Shade filled Chane with sudden loneliness.

  Chap hopped down and hobbled past the first cart to nose about the rubble. Then he looked back.

  “The hole up top runs all the way through,” Chane said.

  Even his rasp carried loudly under the mountain’s silence. He and Ore-Locks set to unloading the cart, and that reminded all of them that there was more than they could carry in one trip. Bäalâle was still a good walk away.

  “If you wish,” Ore-Locks said, setting the final chest before the cave-in, “I can take you straight through the rubble myself.”

  Chane balked at the thought of being pulled straight through stone again. “I think not.”

  Shrugging, Ore-Locks hefted one of the chests. “Suit yourself. You and Chap get started yourselves. I will bring everything else through, as it would take too long to do so through the hole . . . and the chests would not likely fit.”

  Chap growled, stepping in on Ore-Locks.

  Ore-Locks rolled his eyes. “He is talking in my head again. He does not like leaving any of the chests unguarded on one side or the other.”

  Chane could not disagree. “I will go through first,” he told Chap. “You will come through last. One or both of us will be on guard as Ore-Locks moves the chests and other supplies. Is that acceptable?”

  Chap was silent for an instant and then huffed once.

  As the youngest of the stonewalkers, Ore-Locks did not yet have the ability to take the living with him through stone and earth. He could take the dead—the undead—or anything else nonliving. And this gave Chane a notion for the rest of the journey through the seatt, though Ore-Locks might not care for it, and Chap certainly would not.

  Without hesitation, Ore-Locks hefted the first chest and stepped forward, walking to . . . into the packed rubble. While carrying his heavy burden, he turned sideways so that his shoulder touched stone first. The color of dirt and stone flowed into his shoulder, down his arm and side, and up his neck until it flowed into the chest as well as he passed out of sight.

  Chap gave a slight shiver as he watched this, and then Chane began to climb. He left everything behind except for Welstiel’s pack. It did not take him long to scramble up to the hole. There, he pushed the pack in front of himself as he crawled in. Making his way through the narrow opening was slow going, and he thought it a good thing he had gone first, as he had to reach over or above his pack several times and dig with his hands. This would leave Chap with a somewhat smoother route.

  Finally, as he emerged out the other side, he found Ore-Locks waiting, the chest at his feet.

  “Go,” Chane said as his body slid downward over the rubble.

  Once again, Ore-Locks passed into the packed dirt and stone. Chane was still brushing himself off and reslinging his packs when the dwarf came back through carrying the chest with the orb of Water, several sacks of food, and a large flask of water. This continued until everything had been moved through the packed rubble.

  Looking up, Chane listened.

  Chap’s more flexible body must have made his pass easier than Chane’s, and only moments passed before his gray head poked out the top of the hole and he scrambled down.

  Then came the next suggestion.

  “We are close,” Chane began, “but far enough that we will use too much effort if not time in moving everything in multiple trips.” He looked to Ore-Locks, knowing Chap would argue again. “Could you find the seatt from here . . . through?”

  Ore-Locks peered up the tunnel, though without the cart’s massive crystal, the light of Chane’s smaller one did not reach far.

  “Perhaps,” Ore-Locks finally answered. “And yes, if so, it would be quicker in moving all this. At least to the exit.”

  And then, of course, Chap began to rumble.

  “I will be walking with you,” Chane answered back.

  “Wait,” Ore-Locks cut in, “that means more trips for me.”

  Chane said nothing, for there was nothing more to say.

  Ore-Locks scowled. “Very well. But carry what you can and move on.”

  Chane hoisted his packs, one chest, and whatever he could manage. Of course there was nothing that Chap could carry.

  • • •

  Chap struggled not to flinch when they began coming upon the remains of thick bones along the way. Large dead crystals in the walls grew closer and closer to one another as skeletal remains grew more numerous, until he saw one dwarf piled on top of another. In places, piles of rubble partially filled the tunnel, half burying the long dead.

  There were times that he
wondered if they had all died trying to escape. Or had some of those within Bäalâle turned on one another before the end? Then the air slowly changed. Perhaps it shifted slightly, and the echoes of their footfalls did not carry within the tunnel in quite the same way. He was not surprised when they emerged into what must have been the tram station at the tunnel’s far end. Of course, there were no trams here; they had all been abandoned centuries ago at the range’s northern side.

  Chap and Chane briefly looked upon the empty, dust-coated stone platforms before seeking an exit. Rather than the multiple tunnels leading from the stations at Dhredze Seatt, here only one huge archway led into a tunnel straight ahead. Upon stepping through the arch, he was unprepared for the sight that awaited him and nearly ignored the waiting pile of supplies that Ore-Locks had already transported. Once again, an orb had been left unguarded for a short while, but there seemed little way to avoid this while attempting to transport everything.

  And . . . this place appeared utterly deserted.

  The word “vast” did not begin to describe the massive sculpted cavern. It could have held a sizable village, perhaps a whole town. Padding slowly forward past the piled supplies, Chap looked around in awe, both with fear and wonder.

  At this depth, he was standing in an architectural impossibility. Enormous crumbling columns some fifteen or more yards in diameter held the remnants of curving stairwells on their exteriors. Walkways ran around the walls at multiple levels. Broken landings at certain points showed where causeways had once spanned between the columns. Only three of eight columns were still fully erect, reaching to the high ceiling more than fifty yards above. And that dome had massive cracks in it, judging by what little light from Chane’s cold-lamp crystal could reach the heights.

  Chap stepped farther in past the rubble of a great stairway. Perhaps it had led to levels above connected to the tiers of walkways. And he looked across the floor . . .

  The bodies appeared more preserved in here. Skeletal remains of thick bones were half covered in remnants of decaying armor with corroded blades exposed through rotted sheaths. One still wore an ax on his back, and a tarnished thôrhk lay among the shattered bones of his neck. Another skeleton, perhaps a female, lay a few paces ahead. Her bones still bore a ring with a dark stone and a necklace of metal loops.

  Chap was nearly overwhelmed by the loss and sorrow that filled this silent place. The scale of death was too much to absorb. From what Wynn had told him, Bäalâle had been infiltrated by one or more of the triad of the Sâ’yminfiäl—the “Masters of Frenzy.” Those sorcerers had driven the seatt into madness as they used the orb of Earth to burrow in beneath this place.

  At a heavy footfall behind, Chap whirled with all hackles stiffening, but it was only Ore-Locks with the last of their supplies. The young stonewalker said nothing as he looked about.

  Chap could see Ore-Locks was equally affected, though this was not the first time for him.

  Familiarity would never take away the implied horror and madness within this silent place.

  “We need to pass through here and out the other side,” Chane said.

  Ore-Locks did not move, did not appear to hear, and looked left for one of the great openings into this central place.

  “Do you think they will come . . . again?” he whispered.

  Chap tensed, fully wary, but without understanding, he looked up.

  Chane watched Ore-Locks. “Who?”

  “Gí’uyllæ . . . the all-eaters.”

  Chap knew that word from Wynn. In the bowels of this place were immense winged reptiles that ate anything, including stone, and spat fire. And they were called by other names in other cultures, such as “weürms,” “thuvanan,” “ta’nêni” . . . “dragons.”

  “I do not think so, even if they are aware of us,” Chane answered with less certainty than Chap preferred. “They gave the orb of Earth into your safekeeping, and they know you as the blood defendant of the one who stood with their ancestor in the fall of this place.”

  Chap hoped Chane was right.

  With a shaky breath, Ore-Locks turned to the pile of supplies and chests. “How far to the exit?”

  “Not far by what il’Sänke told me,” Chane answered, pointing across the way to one tunnel. “When he entered from that side, he spent days searching caved-in paths and dead ends to find a way in, but he explained clearly how we can use that tunnel to get out.”

  “So that passage leads directly to an exit?”

  “Not quite,” Chane answered. “Chap and I will have a good deal of rubble to cross on one side of the passage, and the exit comes out beneath a boulder. As to the supplies and chests, you will have to again bring most of them through stone.”

  Ore-Locks nodded, and his gaze wandered for three breaths before he answered. “And what do we do once we are out?”

  This much Chap already knew.

  “We wait,” Chane said, “and we watch. We would never find the others on our own, so Wynn and I . . . and Chap arranged a signal. We will be able to see it at a great distance at night.”

  Ore-Locks did not reply at first. He looked about, up and around, his expression turning more grim by the moment.

  “Then let us leave this place quickly,” he said.

  Chap could not agree more as he huffed once.

  • • •

  Wynn was exhausted as she pressed westward with her companions along the desert edge of the foothills. The previous night, Ghassan informed her that Chane and Chap were closer, though he was uncertain how close they were to Bäalâle.

  How many days and nights had they been doing this?

  Putting aside hunting for undead to trek westward was not the relief she’d expected. Hopefully, Chane, Chap, and the others would make it out of Bäalâle by the time she got close.

  There was so much they needed to discuss.

  She put one foot before the other, pushing forward.

  There was also a great need for the supplies Chane and Chap had agreed to bring.

  She was tired of figs and smoke-dried meats. No matter how much Ghassan spiced and recooked them in sparse water, they were . . . horrible. At that thought, she looked at him out in the lead.

  “Are we closer?” she asked.

  With a frustrated sigh, he answered, “Always.”

  Wynn looked back beyond Chuillyon, forced to lead the camels, and beyond Brot’an watching over their “prisoner.” Leesil and Magiere followed last, though there was a time Magiere would have been first going anywhere.

  Magiere looked back, walking sideways to do so. Wynn waited for Leesil to grab Magiere’s arm and pull her around again . . . and again.

  Wynn worried what might happen with Magiere once they all returned eastward.

  After the night of the ghul, Magiere had changed. She listened, was coherent, and no longer grew angry at not tracking undead. She had also reverted to a state Wynn had not seen in years.

  Magiere was too much like she’d been when they had left the an’Cróan lands in search of the first orb. She was having dreams again . . . hearing that voice again. The dreams had become less frequent the farther west they traveled, but this thought brought no relief either.

  Wynn was sickened with fright every nightfall, especially when she didn’t see an answering “light” out in the dark. This time, the sun hadn’t even dipped fully below the western horizon when she stopped.

  “Ghassan, get out your looking glass.”

  He turned in a sharp stop, lifted the front of his hood, and stared at her.

  “It is not even dusk yet,” he argued. “They will not see a sage crystal in—”

  “Then I’ll use the staff!”

  “No!” Ghassan returned. “Even if they see, it is too bright and might—”

  “We are far enough that anyone—anything—heading east will not see it.”
r />   At the snuffling of camels, and their smell, Wynn half turned to find Chuillyon watching her. Brot’an closed in.

  “Don’t start,” she warned before he could say anything. “I’m doing this, and I’ll do it again after full dark, if need be.”

  Brot’an looked ahead and merely nodded once.

  “Leesil,” Wynn called, “get up here.”

  He already had his cloak stripped off when he approached, and Wynn tugged the sheath off her staff to expose the long sun crystal atop it.

  “Everyone look away,” Wynn warned. “I am the only one with glasses. Leesil, grip the staff above my hands so you have a reference point . . . without looking.”

  Sighing, Leesil did so with his free hand. Wynn didn’t check if the others were ready as she focused. Ghassan stepped back past her in assembling his leather and lenses into the looking glass. As dusk deepened, Leesil whipped his cloak up over the sun crystal.

  Wynn no longer even needed to speak the phrases aloud; she needed only to think them, and she held the dark glasses up over her eyes.

  . . . Mênajil il’Núr’u mên’Hkâ’ät.

  As those final words flashed through her mind, the sharp and sudden light cleared the pure blackness from her glasses, even with the crystal shrouded by Leesil’s cloak.

  “Now,” she commanded.

  Three times, Leesil whipped his cloak off and then back over the sun crystal, and then Wynn let the crystal go out. She dropped the glasses to let them dangle on their cord around her neck.

  “Anything?” she asked, looking back to Ghassan.

  After a long pause, he answered, “No.”

  Wynn turned on Leesil. “Again,” she ordered.

  And again she lit the staff, and again he flashed it three times.

  Wynn didn’t ask again as she watched Ghassan stare ahead through the looking glass. She wasn’t even aware of counting tense breaths until she hit seven. Closing her eyes and slumping, she didn’t look at Leesil and halfheartedly mumbled, “Again.”

  “Wait,” Ghassan said.