The Night Voice (30 page)

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?

Another white face suddenly appeared before her.

It nearly glowed in her fully widened sight, and those eyes—irises—without color made hunger burn until its pain drove her again. She struck, not knowing with what or how.

As its jaws widened, exposing feral teeth and fangs, a heavy blade cleaved into its face.

Its skull split halfway through.

Blackened fluids welled and splattered across steel.

It went down, slipping from her sight, but there were always more.

Some were not pale, and she lashed out at the bristled head that appeared, its face like an animal's overlying bones barely human. Hardened nails tore into its jaw, grated on bone beneath, and she thought she heard the sounds of screaming.

This meant nothing, and neither did her own pain, for the hunger ate any agony and fed upon it.

White light filled the dark sky as more screaming rose all around.

The sound tore at her ears and into the skull. The light hurt her eyes and skin. Even hunger couldn't eat it away. Fright took its place.

Magiere thought of something . . . something . . . she'd forgotten.

The longer that light hurt her, the more its pain tried to make her remember.

Then it was gone, leaving only darkness for an instant. All around her, there were still shouts, snarls, sounds that could never be human. Compared to what she'd heard only moments ago, it all seemed as quiet as whispers.

The howling and snarls grew louder. Screams, shouts, and worse answered.

Magiere stared about at forms racing and charging and tearing at one another again. Some of them were true animals . . . wolves but not.

And that light was gone, so where was Wynn?

Magiere remembered.

She'd lost herself and rushed into the slaughter that she'd started. Every undead in sight had turned on anything living, as if it felt her own hunger. What had she done? She should've led, lured, or driven them to the light of Wynn's staff.

And that light had come and gone.

Magiere's fragile awareness almost broke when she saw one majay-hì—and another and another—tear through the horde around her. There weren't enough of them. Magiere spun, her body now in agony from every wound she'd taken, but she hacked and tore her way north out of the carnage.

She had to find Wynn and that light.

• • •

Wynn gripped her staff with both hands. She stood in the darkness, hidden now near the edge of the battle. Chap was still and silent beside her, likely at equal loss for what to do.

There was no place else they could go.

Running to some other vantage point would have only made it harder to close in when needed. They could only hope they wouldn't be spotted by anything in that chaos before they had to act.

Magiere had to be in there somewhere.

Wynn couldn't tell one thing from another in the dark amid those black silhouettes setting upon one another. She heard the packs of majay-hì, but they were not going to last long against so many.

“Where is she?” Wynn whispered.

Chap didn't answer, but something broke out of the masses in the dark. One form seemed to run toward them, and Wynn snatched the glasses dangling about her neck.

Whether that was Magiere or not, she would have to light her staff again. In spite of that weapon, she couldn't stop the fear.

—Think only of the staff's light . . . and be ready—

Chap's words were no comfort.

Wynn saw more night-shadow figures break from the battle and chase after that first one. When that one came even closer, she thought she was prepared. The first glimpse of a pale face, wild black hair and fully black eyes, and a hauberk darkened with stains made her sick and horrified.

Magiere slowed at the sight of Wynn and turned to face what followed her.

Wynn fought the urge to run to Magiere and raised the staff's crystal high.

And still, Chap didn't give the command.

More figures came rushing toward Magiere. All she did was raise up the falchion, gripping it in both hands, and stand there. Filthy hair and feral faces became clear to Wynn's eyes. She heard them now—their snarls, shrieks, or shouts—over the battle's noise as they raced toward that one lone figure standing in their path.

Magiere raised her blade higher.

Wynn pressed the glasses with their dark lenses over her eyes, not wanting to see what would happen, and . . .

—Now—

Chap bolted, putting some distance between himself and the impending light.

The words tore out of her mouth instead of flashing through her thoughts.

“Mên Rúhk el-När . . . mênajil il'Núr'u mên'Hkâ'ät!”

White light erupted from the staff's crystal and burned away the night above and around Wynn.

• • •

Light exploded behind Magiere. It felt like fire all over her exposed flesh, and yet it did not affect her otherwise. It did not even slow her down.