The Night Voice

by Barb Hendee

  “I am . . . all right,” he managed. “Give me a moment.”

  Ore-Locks did, and Chane looked northward. Somewhere out there, Chuillyon had moved the others through Leesil’s planted branch to the sprout that the elder elf had left behind. Osha and Wayfarer and Shade had hidden away Magiere with that sprout, and Wynn was now there, still blind.

  In the cavern, after everything had ended, Chane had looked into her light brown eyes in her oval, olive-toned face. Perhaps she had known, for she turned away from him. He had felt broken inside in ways worse than wounded flesh, and there was no way to rid himself of that sorrow, for the dead could not weep.

  “Are you ready to move on?” Ore-Locks asked.

  Chane slowly rose up without answering.

  Chuillyon had done his best to describe where he had placed his sprout with the younger trio and Magiere. Finding that place would take only a little effort; reaching it might be more troublesome. With a final nod of agreement, Ore-Locks followed as Chane hurried down the last of the foothills below the peak.

  As they neared the open plain, they slowed to a pause without a word, looking out upon the carnage. Both of them could see well at night, Chane more so.

  Charred, torn, and dismembered bodies were strewn everywhere; some majay-hì and Lhoin’na lay among them. But as far as Chane could see, most of the horde was dead or scattered.

  He spotted a few still moving. He heard the occasional distant moan, cry, or wail. And once, a figure too dark for even him to clearly make out flitted as if running and stopping here and there among the fallen. At least once he heard a scream cut short.

  Ore-Locks did not move at these sights or sounds.

  Then they heard sooner than saw Shé’ith riders harrying stragglers in flight.

  Much as others might see all of this as Magiere’s doing, in part, Chane saw otherwise. At the sight of so many dead, he knew this level of frenzied slaughter among the horde itself would not have happened without her. She had ignited it, and as a result, the undead servants had turned upon the horde’s greater living numbers.

  Without this having happened, Wynn and anyone else out here would not have survived—even with her staff.

  “Enough,” Ore-Locks whispered. “I have seen enough.”

  So had Chane.

  They turned northward and drew their weapons quietly. Both remained watchful for the slightest sound or movement in the dark. It took a while to search out where the others hid. It was Ore-Locks who first spotted something in the dark, and pointed.

  Chane bolted at the sight of shimmering hair near the base of one foothill. He was still a hundred strides away when that one rose up, drew an arrow in a bow, and then froze. Chane slowed to a quick walk, so as not to startle Osha any further as he drew closer.

  Osha—cut and battered—looked stricken sick. Tracks of dried tears striped the grime and dust on his face. Chane could not find any words, though some small part of him envied those tears. Osha turned away into the foothills, and Chane followed with Ore-Locks.

  The first sign that they neared their destination was the spark of two crystal blue eyes in the moonlight. Shade wheeled, rushing down the deep hollow’s left side, and turned inward ahead of them. Among the huddled forms farther in near the steep back, Chuillyon was nearest and rose up.

  “We will wait until close to dawn,” he whispered, “before we try to regain the camp or contact any allies still out there.”

  Osha turned back without a word, likely returning to his place on watch.

  Chane agreed with waiting until close to dawn, so long as he had time to reach a tent. He looked upon the others present.

  Leesil and Chap sat to one side with Wynn to the other, all looking down and toward the hollow’s rear. Chane wanted to go to Wynn, though there was little space. Wayfarer was just beyond them, curled in, half lying, half leaning on one arm, and her head hung forward.

  The girl pressed a scrap of cloth around a snapped arrow shaft sticking up from a still form lying on the hollow’s most level spot.

  Magiere’s eyes were closed, her mouth barely parted. Black lines like veins ran through her pale face, neck, and arms as she lay in the remnants of her armor. The cloth Wayfarer held over the wound partway up Magiere’s right shoulder was stained dark as well.

  More than once, Chane had wanted to finish Magiere. Here and now it would have been so easy to do. Not even Chap or Leesil could have stopped him in time.

  But his hunger for vengeance had abandoned him.

  Ore-Locks pushed in at his shoulder. “Has she . . . Is she on her way to her ancestors?”

  Wynn lifted her head a little at that. “No, not yet, but the arrowhead was Chein’âs metal . . . and had been dipped—”

  “In the healing potion,” Chane finished.

  Osha had done as he had instructed.

  Wynn turned her head slightly at his voice. By the light of one dim cold-lamp crystal in her hand, he noticed that she looked better now than she had in the cavern, as if she were no longer in pain, but her eyes still focused on nothing.

  “Where is the rest of the potion?” he demanded. “Why have you not—”

  “I tried it,” Wynn said, “and gave what was left to the others, except Magiere.”

  Chane took a step, but Ore-Locks grabbed his arm. In hope, he almost ripped free of that grip. One word she had said made him freeze.

  Tried.

  Wynn looked away—looked at nothing—and the truth left Chane cold. The potion had done nothing to restore her sight.

  And now he did not care about anything else. She would never again read an old tome or map, scribble away in yet another journal, or wonder in awe at anything. She would never again look upon him in the way that no one else ever had.

  • • •

  Osha knelt on one knee with his bow in hand atop a low crest overlooking the plain below the mountain. He watched and listened for anything that might come too close in the dark so as to make certain the others were left in peace. He longed to comfort Wynn, to see to Wayfarer and Léshil in their worries and fears, but he could not.

  Now as opposed to being lost to herself, Magiere was lost within herself. Her two sides waged war upon each other because of his arrow. Even if one side won, there was still the poison he had delivered on a white metal tip. Since he could do even less for her than for the others, at least he could see they were left in peace this night.

  Yet even that was not the full truth.

  Osha could not face what he had done to Magiere. Neither could he wipe her black-veined face from his thoughts.

  • • •

  Lingering near his daughter, Shade, Chap was nearly overwhelmed by too much pressing down upon him as he watched Osha walk away. So much had happened to the three youngest ones, though his daughter had somehow survived and kept Wayfarer out of the battle as much as possible. Even a father’s pride in a daughter left him knotted inside; he had little to do with who she had become.

  There was nothing he could do for Wayfarer as they waited for the sun and to see whether Magiere survived.

  He looked to Shade, almost too black to see in the dark. At least with her, he could now speak almost as easily as with Wynn. They shared much of the small sage’s voice, words, and memories.

  —I must go— . . . —Signal me if anything happens—

  Shade huffed once, and Chap loped downslope, heading after Osha. Still, he could not stop thinking of much more. Had all of this happened before?

  No, not all of it, not Magiere.

  The Ancient Enemy, il’Samar, Beloved, the Night Voice, had waged war a thousand years ago. But had this simply happened again and again before that? Only Magiere had been different this time from what Chap had learned, and of course those with her, including himself.

  The Enemy had made the Children to recover its tools—the o
rbs, the anchors—each time it arose again. But this time it had made and used Magiere for that purpose. Had it seen in her, its child, a true escape rather than decimating what its kin had created? To it, the world and Existence were a prison.

  Chap had now helped to enslave it again, a final time. What else could he or any of them have done? But it had cost much to do so.

  Wynn might never see again. Magiere might not survive. If not, a part of Leesil would die with her, and a part of Chap as well.

  Brot’an was gone, and though Chap could not help some relief in that, how it had happened left him suspicious. In what he had gathered from the memories and words of those who were there, the last strike of the assassin’s blade should have killed anyone instantly. Yet Ghassan had seized Brot’an’s head, and then both had died as Leesil struck.

  Or had that been Ghassan il’Sänke at all? In flesh perhaps, but what else? Had the specter truly died in the imperial capital, or had it only let its enemies think so?

  Too many losses, not all in death, left Chap desperate.

  When Chuillyon had first brought their small group out of the mountain, he had tried several times to reach Magiere’s thoughts. What he had found in her was like what had been left in the guide he had possessed in the northern wastes.

  There was nothing inside Magiere, not a single thought to be reached.

  The longer she lingered, the worse the end would be for everyone. Chap could not save himself or Leesil from that. But he needed to save someone . . . anyone.

  As he neared where Osha knelt on one knee facing out toward the plain, he could tell that his approach had already been heard and identified. If not, the young an’Cróan would have turned upon any potential threat.

  Osha remained facing out into the night, even when Chap was three steps away.

  And what could Chap possibly say? Certainly not that Osha’s act had been necessary and the only choice. Osha already knew this.

  —Hard choices . . . are . . . hard . . . to live . . . with—

  Osha did not move or look back.

  —You . . . did not . . . choose . . . alone—

  Osha’s head lowered slightly, but Chap could not tell if he had heard a sigh or a hiss escaping through clenched teeth.

  “I had the final choice . . . to act!” Osha rasped too much like Chane.

  Chap hesitated. So much had been broken or ruined for Osha.

  From the Chein’âs tearing him from his place among the Anmaglâhk to Brot’an’s coldhearted training in their exile as traitors, and now to possibly killing a respected friend.

  Of course, Osha alone was not wholly responsible, not even for using the potion Chane had given him. In fury fed by so many undead around Magiere, Chap knew even he might have been the one to finish her—or she him. Osha’s action had given them both a hair-thin chance to survive.

  But that choice had cost Osha too much, and therein lay yet more guilt for Chap.

  —And we . . . live . . . because . . . you did . . . act—

  Osha glared back over his shoulder.

  —Go to . . . the others— . . . —They . . . suffer . . . too— . . . —I will . . . watch . . . here—

  Among all other losses, had the young an’Cróan lost respect for majay-hì, the guardians of his lost homeland? Then again, perhaps it was only Chap whom Osha no longer held in awe.

  Without a word, the young one rose, strode back into the foothills, and left Chap with only his discomforting thoughts of Magiere.

  By dawn, there might be one less of those who had unwittingly come to stop the end of Existence itself.

  • • •

  Leesil sat with his arms wrapped around his knees as he stared unblinking at his still, silent, and marred wife.

  As badly off as Magiere was, they’d decided not to remove the end of Osha’s arrow from her yet. Wayfarer kept applying scraps of cloth torn off her own clothes to control the blood leaking around the embedded arrow. Those scraps came away stained in black, like the fluids of an undead, instead of red. This went on and on so long that Leesil didn’t know how much of the night had passed.

  If Magiere didn’t awaken by dawn, he feared she never would.

  He never should’ve let her come here. He should’ve just done this without her, no matter how she’d have fought him. It didn’t matter what she had or hadn’t done, horde or not, undead or not. There could have been another way, even if he couldn’t think of it right now.

  The sound of approaching footsteps reached him, but he didn’t look back. The steps halted, and he heard Chuillyon rise to meet whoever had come.

  “No change,” the tall elf whispered.

  Leesil heard Wynn shift at that, but he didn’t look at her either. Likely Chane still crouched behind her. Leesil knew he should feel awful for what had happened to Wynn, but here and now all of his fear was only for his wife.

  Wayfarer looked up and beyond him, shook her head once, and he knew Osha must have come back. Still, Leesil couldn’t take his eyes off Magiere’s marred face. He’d had enough, no matter the risk.

  “Move aside,” he ordered.

  Wayfarer looked his way, and her large green eyes filled with panic by the dim cold-lamp crystal left near Magiere.

  “Do not,” the girl pleaded. “Please! She might not—”

  “Get out of the way,” Leesil warned.

  “Do not be foolish!” Ore-Locks said. “Whatever the potion on the arrowhead, it is already in her. Bleeding will only weaken her more in fighting it.”

  Leesil reached out and grabbed Wayfarer’s arm. In the last instant, he eased his grip but still firmly pulled her away.

  “Please wait,” Wynn insisted. “At least until you see some sign, before you risk making things worse.”

  Ignoring Wynn, Leesil pushed Wayfarer off behind, knelt at Magiere’s side, and flattened one hand around the base of the arrow’s snapped shaft. Someone behind him—Osha or Chuillyon or maybe even Ore-Locks—took a step.

  He didn’t think about whom to trust to not get in his way. There was only one person who hadn’t shown interest in that.

  “Chane,” Leesil said without looking, “keep them back.”

  Another breath passed before he heard Chane rise.

  “What? Don’t do this!” Wynn begged. “She is too weak.”

  Whether that was for him or Chane, Leesil didn’t care. He only hoped that what little of Magiere remained could still fight to do what was needed. There had to be enough of the dhampir left to close that wound before she bled out.

  He gripped the stub of the arrow’s shaft with his other hand.

  • • •

  Night came again outside the tent, though a cold-lamp crystal glowed faintly between the bedrolls inside. Next to that were a waterskin, a small cup carved from a goat’s horn, and a bit of oiled cloth holding jerked goat’s meat and shriveled figs.

  Magiere hadn’t touched anything but the water.

  Outside, she could hear Leesil still pacing.

  The voices of the others in the camp were too muted to hear clearly. There was also the soft crackle of the campfire, its light flickering against the tent’s canvas, except when Leesil’s pacing blocked the light, time and again. Sitting there, looking at her own arms, Magiere couldn’t bear to have anyone see her, even in the dark, for while her body had nearly healed already, she knew theirs had not.

  She’d taken as many wounds as any of them, probably more. Though Wynn had shared out the last of Chane’s healing potion among the others, there hadn’t been much to go around. Some would need much more time before the physical marks of what they’d been through finally faded.

  Magiere continued looking at her arms.

  Closed cuts barely showed at all. There were only hints of yellowing in her pale skin where there had once been bruises from blunt force. Even those wo
uld vanish in another day—two at the most.

  Not so for any of the others. Not for what she’d put them through. And she didn’t even remember what Osha had done.

  Magiere pulled down on the jerkin’s collar, one that wasn’t hers and had been scavenged from somewhere after her own clothing had been cut off her. She lowered her eyes to see the wound—or now scar—from Osha’s arrow.

  She kept staring, for she’d never seen any scar on her own flesh.

  When she’d first awoken two nights ago, she hadn’t even known what had happened. She’d simply looked upward into Leesil’s panicked, wide, amber eyes, not even sure whom she saw. Hanging over her, he’d suddenly twisted away and shouted—or screamed.

  “Chap! She’s awake!”

  The following moments were still vague in memory.

  Something had nearly shredded the tent in trying to get in. A huge furred form nearly knocked Leesil aside in its rush. Large unblinking crystal blue eyes, sparked by some nearby light, gazed down at her over a long and narrow muzzle. And that face dropped too close, too fast, in snuffling at her.

  Magiere remembered sucking a breath in sudden panic.

  She knew she was awake only when she’d felt something as if inside her thoughts. It was still, silent, and as watchful at those blue eyes staring at her.

  Chap almost collapsed atop her as his eyes closed.

  She heard his sigh and, even though she’d finally recognized him and Leesil, this wasn’t the end of it. Someone else was trying to get into the tent.

  “Please wait. Let me.”

  That rasp of words sounded familiar.

  Leesil straightened up, then turned away where he knelt, and she’d realized he was gripping her right arm. He didn’t let go even as he reached out somewhere beyond her sight. Chap shifted away a little to her other side as someone else crawled into view down near her covered legs. Leesil guided that one’s small hand to contact with her right shin beneath the blanket.

  “Easy,” Leesil said to the newcomer. “You’re right at her feet.”

  The visitor, smaller than he was, pushed back a draping hood.