The Night Voice

by Barb Hendee

  “Can you get to that one and turn him our way?” he asked.

  “We do not have time! We must get through the mountain while the others distract the guards.”

  In all his life, Chane had rarely begged for anything. “Please. For Wynn.”

  Ore-Locks scowled, grumbled with a breathy exhale, and did something Chane had never seen before. He sank like a rock dropped into a pond and vanished under the mountainside.

  Chane rushed to the crevice’s lower end. He crouched, rigid and tense, waiting to see where the young stonewalker would reappear as he watched Osha’s horse charge onward with the Shé’ith.

  A distant clank of steel rolled downslope through the night.

  Chane spun and looked upward through the dark as his panic rose another notch.

  Leesil and the others had already engaged the guards.

  • • •

  Leesil crept after Brot’an, and then both of them flattened against the slope as they neared a place where he finally spotted the craggy overhang above. He heard Ghassan behind him.

  Brot’an finally stopped, as did Leesil.

  There was no more cover the rest of the way up. If there had been any, it had all been cleared away, likely for a defensible position.

  Brot’an’s head turned, as if looking back, though Leesil could not see the scarred face within the dark hood. Brot’an curled his fingers to pinch something between the first two, and Leesil heard a stiletto slide out into that hand.

  Brot’an went utterly still, his face still unseen in the pit of his hood.

  Leesil understood and quietly unlashed his left punching blade. At that, Brot’an’s other hand slipped behind his back where he half lay on his side. That hand came back into sight, gripping a white metal, hooked bone knife.

  They had to close the last distance at a run.

  Leesil carefully levered up on one arm for a better look.

  A hulkish form, as tall as Brot’an, dressed only in a waist-wrap, trudged toward the deeper dark below the overhang. It stopped, turned to face down the mountainside, and a nearby pole torch exposed it.

  Leesil stared, not understanding what he saw. Ghassan drew a sharp breath behind him.

  “Locatha,” the domin whispered.

  Leesil didn’t know what that meant as he continued taking in the sight of the huge guard.

  A hairless, scaled head with pure black eyes above its protruding muzzle looked down the mountainside. Whether it could see the battle below, Leesil couldn’t tell.

  Its shoulders, broader than a man’s, were covered in glistening scales larger than the ones on its head. Those plates ran up its thick-based neck. In one hand, it steadied a double-thick spear’s shaft, but the blade atop that was the size of a short sword, at least.

  “You know of these creatures?” Brot’an whispered without looking back.

  Ghassan was slow in answering. “They are hard to kill and possess limited mental function. Both are useful qualities in a guard.”

  Leesil didn’t bother to ask how the domin knew this.

  “My skills are of minimal use on such minds,” Ghassan went on. “Take out their eyes first, if you can. Their hides are difficult to penetrate.”

  The last of that was obvious as Leesil clenched his jaw. They hadn’t even gained access, and now this? The best option he saw was to keep the guards distracted while Chane and Ore-Locks snuck in the chests. And then what?

  “Draw and divert,” Brot’an whispered, again without looking back. “Kill after.”

  And how were they to do the latter? The largest weapons between them were Leesil’s punching blades. He wouldn’t know until too late if one of those could penetrate an armored hide deeply enough. Just the same, he pulled the other blade, and after one more breath . . .

  Leesil sprang up at a run, hoping to take advantage through surprise. He heard Brot’an right behind him as they raced to close the distance before being spotted.

  • • •

  Wynn grew frantic where she crouched, watching the battle below. But no matter what she could make out in the dark, she saw no sign of Magiere.

  Had Magiere lost herself completely in facing so many undead? She was supposed to have led them into the reach of the sun crystal’s light.

  Wynn almost stopped breathing. She watched as racing, screaming, and growling silhouettes down there threw themselves at one another. Now and then, some were briefly exposed by scattered firelight, and what she saw was best forgotten. Then she heard the howling and quickly rose up.

  Chuillyon had brought majay-hì packs as planned, along with Vreuvillä . . . and Wayfarer . . . and Shade. Wynn forced herself to stay put. She desperately hoped Chuillyon had also been able to move Osha and the Shé’ith.

  —Come . . . find me . . . and bring light!—

  Wynn whirled around too quickly and almost fell, looking for Chap. He had to be here—somewhere—for him to speak to her like only she could hear in her mind.

  But she didn’t see him anywhere.

  She ran down a ways, looking northward. Had he gone with the packs into the battle?

  —Come now . . . with the staff—

  Again, Wynn looked everywhere and still didn’t spot him. How was he doing this? Where was he? Had something changed, gone wrong?

  —Wynn!—

  Panic nearly overwhelmed her, and she looked to the battle again. Magiere was down there somewhere, and possibly Wayfarer and Shade as well with the pack. There was nothing she could do for them except ignite the staff.

  It wasn’t time for that yet. Such an act might only cause more chaos and reveal her too soon.

  Wynn took off, running northward along the base of the foothills. She hoped she could find Chap before something else spotted her.

  • • •

  Chap swerved away from another sword strike by the second animated corpse. He passed halfway through another ghost before realizing too late, and an icy chill shot through his bones.

  Everywhere he turned, there were more glimmering, translucent forms having come for him out of the dark. And the first overmuscled corpse guard was rising up again. With both already dead, killing one of them seemed impossible. There were too many spirits as well.

  He had to get to Ubâd.

  The necromancer controlled all of the dead present, whether dead or undead himself. But there was no clear path to that still and silent robed body erect upon the tilted litter.

  Then . . . brilliant, white light exploded from behind Chap. For an instant, he could see nothing as he went white-blind. He heard the ghost girl’s screaming wail. The sound faded, as if growing distant, as his eyes adjusted.

  Wynn had come! She had ignited her staff.

  Chap saw one of the dead men turn toward the light’s source.

  The spirits all around Chap wavered, some vanishing like vapor in a breeze under the glare. But not that one dead guard and likely not the other.

  He had only one choice. To save Wynn, he had to abandon her for the only target that mattered.

  Chap lunged around the dead guard in his way, racing for the litter. With each paw-strike upon the parched ground and stone, he called upon the Elements of Existence without time to stop and root himself in them.

  From Earth beneath him, Air around him, Water within him, and his heat for Fire, he mingled these with his Spirit. He could only hope this worked. It was not until the last running paw-strike that he felt himself begin to burn.

  This time, Wynn would not have mantic sight to see the blue-white phosphorescent vapors that rose like flames to flicker across his form.

  He leaped.

  His forepaws struck Ubâd’s chest and bound arms. The litter rocked wildly backward, and Chap nearly tumbled off.

  Ubâd would call his servants here to his aid and forget about Wynn.

 
; Chap tore at the dusty robe to get his claws into the necromancer’s dead flesh. He did not think of a guard’s blade coming down on his back. He forgot any of the spirits fighting to remain outside Wynn’s light and come for him. He thought only to feel the elements within him.

  Ubâd’s corpse began to quiver as if awakening.

  The stench of burning flesh rose around Chap, though he saw no smoke.

  The necromancer’s withered, crossed hands began to wither even more, until the skin appeared to cinch in tight around the bones. Black fluids leaked out around the eyeless mask as the body became still. Even then Chap did not hear how quiet everything had become, except for the distant sounds of the battle.

  He raised his head.

  Everything was dark again. Not one spirit remained in sight, not even the girl. When he looked back, both dead guards lay on the ground. The nearest was facedown within arm’s reach of the litter, a sword still gripped in his outstretched hand.

  And there was Wynn three strides to his right.

  She turned about with the staff still held at the ready, though the crystal was darkened now, as if she too could not believe all the spirits were gone.

  Chap again noticed the sounds of the battle in the distance below the foothills.

  Wynn was here, but Magiere was not with her. Wynn had ignited the staff in the night, and its light—and its location—would have been seen everywhere, even by the Enemy’s forces.

  Chap leaped off the litter and bolted past Wynn.—Run . . . away from here . . . now!—

  • • •

  Leesil had barely raised his right winged blade in charging the first locatha in sight. Its short-sword-like blade atop that double-thick spear shaft slammed down on his own weapon.

  Impact raised a sharp clang in the night. His knees buckled as Brot’an ran past him.

  How could this scaled hulk move so fast?

  He lost sight of Brot’an and only heard a racing scrape of metal. As he slashed his blade aside and couldn’t get from under the pole-sword, he saw the master assassin duck around the locatha.

  It was so big that Brot’an vanished completely.

  That thing swiped backward with a clawed or taloned hand at the master assassin—and the hand was big enough to grab a head in its grip. There wasn’t a mark on the monster that Leesil could see.

  Brot’an’s blade had done nothing to it, and Leesil hesitated too long.

  When he spotted its tail, everything happened too fast.

  Ghassan hadn’t said anything about a tail.

  The locatha tried to twist with its swipe at Brot’an, and its long tail lashed the same way behind it. The tail never connected with anything.

  Brot’an’s left arm appeared suddenly and wrapped across the scaled hulk’s broad neck.

  His cowl-shrouded face rose above the reptilian guard’s right shoulder, and his right hand flashed out, across, and then back. Something glinted red-yellow in the torchlight as it tore back the other way above the locatha’s extended muzzle.

  Brot’an’s hooked bone knife ripped through its right, black-orb eye.

  Its maw widened in shock as it let go of its sword-spear. The spear’s blade slid off Leesil’s winged one. Long and sharp teeth in those widened jaws were like those of no serpent or snake he’d ever seen, and its rasping hiss tore at his ears.

  Leesil hesitated as he saw another one charge out of the darkness under the overhang. He rammed his right winged blade into its sheath and pulled the stiletto up his left sleeve.

  Ghassan had been right, and Brot’an had exposed the only way to kill one of these things.

  Leesil had to get close—too close—to do it, and if he died instead, even Chane might not finish what they’d started.

  • • •

  Still staring below, Chane spun at a heavy footfall behind him and reached for his dwarven longsword. He did not need to pull the mottled steel.

  Ore-Locks stepped past the chests toward him, glowering. Chane said nothing and turned back, looking everywhere.

  Over a roll in the slope below, someone appeared on horseback. When the animal jolted to a stop, the rider dropped and came running with a bow in hand. Before the man crouched upon the crevice’s right lip, Chane already knew Ore-Locks had succeeded.

  Osha’s face was obscured by the dark, but he panted in exertion as he looked down upon Chane.

  “What?” he asked. “I must get below!”

  Chane wasted no time. “Wynn may be down in that battle.”

  In alarm, Osha straightened back up and looked below.

  “Wait and listen!” Chane rasped.

  Osha’s head swiveled back.

  “She is carrying a bottle I gave her,” Chane rushed on. “It contains a potion like no other. Find her, and if she falls, even from the worst of wounds, it might save her . . . or anyone else.”

  Osha’s eyes widened and then narrowed. “Now? You tell me this only now?”

  Chane realized he should have said something about the potion itself before, but he had given Wynn the bottle only last night.

  A sudden, bright flash rose to the north.

  Chane instinctively looked toward it, even as he felt his skin tingle uncomfortably as if it were beginning to burn. Then he had to duck below the crevice’s edge, knowing what that light was. Ore-Locks rushed in to peer over the crevice’s edge. That light lingered for at least three breaths—and then everything turned to full night once more.

  Wynn was still alive, at least for now.

  “Enough delay!” Ore-Locks said.

  Chane heard Osha running for his horse and sprang up to go after the elf. Ore-Locks grabbed his arm. Chane had to let hunger flush through him to tear out of that grip, and he scrambled up and over the crevice’s side.

  “Wait!” he rasped.

  Osha did not stop.

  Chane rushed after to grab him, and Osha spun, whipping back his bow as if to strike with it.

  “That liquid has another use!” Chane rasped.

  Osha froze.

  “It was made with white petals,” Chane hurried on, “from flowers that grow only in Lhoin’na lands . . . and your homeland.”

  Osha slowly lowered the bow as his large amber eyes widened.

  Chane knew that Osha had seen such flowers.

  “I touched one, once, briefly,” Chane said. “I barely rose again after a night and another day. The distilled liquid, such as on an arrow’s tip, would have finished me or anything like me. If need be, use it and do not hesitate.”

  Osha stared blankly at him.

  “Do you understand?” Chane demanded.

  Osha backed away in unsteady steps. Without a word, he grabbed the saddle and swung up into it. The horse wheeled to charge off without the nudge of heels.

  “Are you done?” Ore-Locks asked angrily.

  Chane lingered an instant longer.

  There were more than just undead down there in that battle. There were other dangers to Wynn—to all of them. By the sound of the battle’s prolonged chaos, Magiere had failed to lead off the undead. More than likely, she was as lost to her own hunger as anything else down there.

  Chane had known such bloody euphoria.

  Nothing anyone could have done then would have brought him out of that state.

  “Get moving!” Ore-Locks ordered.

  Chane looked toward where that flash had erupted in the dark. He then turned at a run for the crevice and the chests.

  • • •

  Leesil dropped and rolled again. Another long blade atop a thick haft struck close to his head. The clang deafened his left ear as rock chips struck his face. He barely heard Brot’an and the other—half-blinded—locatha still engaged.

  Not once had Leesil gotten close enough to thrust a stiletto into the second one’s eye. He couldn
’t get behind it, for its thick and long tail swung around at him every time he tried.

  He came to his feet again, and everything got worse.

  A third, hulking, scaled form came around the overhang’s far side.

  This one didn’t carry any weapon, but it didn’t matter. Leesil was already winded from trying to stay alive long enough to kill something. That was his last thought as the second one swung hard with the butt of its sword-spear.

  Leesil dodged, rolled again, and saw . . .

  Brot’an somehow got inside the first one’s swipe. He rammed a stiletto through its already maimed eye, driving deeper this time, but its clawed hand came down on his right shoulder. The stiletto’s hilt ripped out of Brot’an’s grip as he went down, and the creature’s head whipped up and back.

  At this first one’s screech and thrashing, the second one looked toward it.

  Leesil rushed in, hopped, and planted one foot on the second’s dangling spear haft. He was up at its face by the time it turned those black eyes back on him. He heard the third one closing in but didn’t dare look away. And he thrust his stiletto as hard as he could into the second locatha’s nearest eye, using every ounce of strength to drive the blade into its head.

  Something struck his side.

  His breath rushed out.

  Everything flashed white before his eyes from pain, and he went numb in shock.

  He couldn’t breathe as the world turned black.

  Vertigo and pain took over.

  He felt himself slammed sideways into something. The jar brought agony as he tumbled over and over. How many times before instinct came back? He clawed with his free hand at whatever hard surface he’d hit, though it seemed to take so long to stop himself. When he did stop, he fought for air as his sight slowly returned.

  Everything was dark except for flickering red light upon stone. Something huge stepped between him and that light. Silhouetted in flashes and flickers, it hissed at him.

  He heard—felt through the stone beneath him—heavy footfalls coming.

  But all that Leesil could think was . . . Where is my Magiere?

  • • •

  Pain, hunger, fury—there was nothing else.

  Magiere barely heard the screams. Was the last one hers . . . or from her last prey?