Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #212

by TTA Press Authors

  * * * *

  They made camp in one of the caves. The moon had begun its climb over an hour ago. It would be full tonight. The winds laughed, this time reminding Tarrik of drunken soldiers at dice. Weyna had kept her peace since claiming she sensed a presence, except once, when she murmured that in the valleys they believed such laughter belonged to the gods, amused at the sufferings of those bound to this world.

  Tarrik considered these words. Gods could offer the gift of faith. Against the Aberrates, a sword and several rounds of bullets would preserve more lives. So let others believe in higher causes if they wished to. Tarrik was content with steel.

  And vengeance.

  He took another bite of his dried beef and stole a glance at Weyna. The girl had cocooned herself within his cloak, only her head peeking above the wool. Despite this, she continued shivering. Tarrik refused to build a fire though—flames would attract Aberrates to their location like moths.

  A crunching noise filled the cave. When Tarrik looked again, Weyna was eating her apple. Good. People who had their taste stolen often lost the will to eat. Perhaps some food in her system would settle her thoughts.

  Weyna lifted the apple for another bite. Paused. Then she sniffed the fruit. “It smells ... strong."

  Tarrik nodded. “When our bodies lose a sense others sharpen to compensate. Loss of taste will heighten your sense of smell."

  Weyna sniffed again. “I can almost taste it."

  There was a catch in her voice that left Tarrik bracing himself for more tears.

  Instead she changed the subject. “You fired something at the Tasters. What was it?"

  Tarrik slid his pistol free of the holster. “It's called a gun."

  "Where did you get it?"

  "Far to the west, on the island of Varril. It's the homeland of the Metal King, he who discovered the lost secrets to crafting Witch Metals. This gun is made with them."

  Weyna edged closer. “The Witch Metals are magical?"

  Tarrik shook his head. “They're crafted from other metals, from the earth, but forged into something stronger. My sword and knives are made from steel. Steel comes from iron, and so it's a Witch Metal. But these metals and weapons come from the art of science, not magic."

  "Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “My brother makes fun of me because I believe in magic. I think it created the Aberrates.” She hesitated. “What do you think?"

  Tarrik slipped his gun back into its holster. “In Varril they say the Witch Metals caused it, back in the ancient days. They claim weapons made of this stuff caused fiery explosions that changed men into Aberrates. Not that the truth makes much difference. A monster is a monster."

  Weyna sucked in a breath. “Maybe the presence I sensed was magical!” When Tarrik said nothing, the excitement drained from her features. “You really didn't sense it? Nothing at all?"

  "Nothing,” said Tarrik. He held no belief in magic, and no breed of Aberrate could touch a man's thoughts. The likeliest explanations were his earlier theories. “I sensed nothing at all."

  Weyna met his gaze. “I won't mention it again.” Moonlight glimmered in her eyes like a silver madness. “It's dangerous to wear your hat,” she said, tossing her apple core into the back of the cave. She shifted topics like nothing had happened. “People will think you're hiding big ears. They'll call you a Listener."

  "I'll take my chances."

  "Can I see you without it?"

  He wanted to say no, but the girl's emotions were stretched tighter than harp strings. And if she had gone mad, keeping her placated would be best. “If you must,” he said.

  "Let's go outside so I can see clearly,” she said. She had either missed or ignored his hint.

  Tarrik followed her into the night. Under the light of moon and stars he removed his hat. The winds stirred to life then, hissing like a band of hyenas. Weyna's eyes widened as she took in his white spiked hair and his scarred forehead. “You're him!” she said, her voice soft but sharp. “The Marked Huntsman.” She raised a hand towards the puckered X that split his brow.

  "Please don't touch me."

  Her hand flinched back. “I—I'm sorry."

  "I don't like being touched,” he told her curtly. He would not tolerate this girl who looked like Zaleen touching his scar, whatever her condition. He settled his hat back into place, pulling the brim over his scar. “And don't mention that name again. It draws attention like a flaming arrow."

  The girl hung her head. “I won't speak of it."

  The hurt in her voice ran deep, making Tarrik wonder if he had been too harsh with her. But saying more would lead to conversations he wished to leave unspoken. “We move with dawn's light, so you'd best get some sleep. I'll take first watch."

  Weyna took a step towards the cave. Looked back. “Aren't you coming?"

  "I like the fresh air."

  "Do you want your cloak?"

  "Use it as a blanket,” he answered.

  She shuffled her feet. “Thank you for saving me."

  Tarrik gave a brusque nod, watching her melt into the shadows. Then he sat and crossed his legs. He would be going sleepless tonight, so he did his best to get comfortable. With her sanity in question, Tarrik had no intention of letting the girl stand watch. Abandoning her would be easiest, but she had done nothing to bring this on herself. That said, getting sleep was proving itself a serious problem; for three days he had been tracking Olethia on very scarce rest.

  Tarrik laid his sword across his knees. Then he drew his pistol. From one of his pouches he removed a length of wire, which he inserted into the pistol's snout. Cleaning the weapon was a nightly routine—guns were imperfect things. When he caught up with Olethia, he would not be foiled by a night of laziness leading to a jammed compartment at a critical moment.

  Three years he had been hunting this Feeler, ever since Zaleen's death. Olethia had sliced the X into his forehead during the battle. Something to keep you pretty. Her words were scarred into his memory as surely as those nails had scarred his forehead. She could have killed him that night, but had grasped that living would be his greater punishment.

  From inside the cave Weyna interrupted his thoughts as she murmured in her dreams. The girl's introduction was an interesting development. A hierarchal system governed the Aberrates, with Tasters dwelling at the bottom, Feelers the top. Olethia had ordered those Tasters to kidnap the girl. Nothing else made sense. Of course, alerting them to Weyna's presence would have been enough. Besides the lure of another Feast of the Glutton, raping and afterwards masticating attractive humans was a favorite pastime of Tasters.

  But Olethia had wanted Tarrik to find the girl before this occurred—a chewed-up corpse would not reveal her likeness to Zaleen. It meant the Feeler had more planned. But what—

  Screams cut through the night. Tarrik scrambled to his feet, sword and pistol ready, before realizing that the screams issued from the cave. Swearing, he dashed inside and spotted Weyna, thrashing with the delirium of nightmares. He set his weapons down, grabbed her shoulder and shook it. “Wake up."

  She screamed louder. “No! Stay back!"

  "Wake up, damn you!” He slapped her hard across the face. Weyna bolted awake. Before she could scream again Tarrik's hand shot out and squeezed her cheeks hard.

  "Don't scream,” he said softly. “You'll attract Aberrates."

  Sweat dripped from her brow onto his gloved hand. Eyes wide, she nodded. Tarrik waited another few seconds before letting go. “Say nothing."

  In silence they waited several minutes. Outside the winds blew, wheezing like amused old men. At last Tarrik loosed a breath. This girl would be the death of him. He sheathed his sword, but kept the pistol in hand. Weyna's hands were shaking. Tarrik picked up the cloak she had discarded. “Dreams have no flesh,” he said, handing it back, “no bones or blood. They're shadows. We have monsters enough in this world.” He tapped his forehead. “Don't let them dwell here as well."

  Her hands stopped shaking. Her breathing calmed
. She swallowed before speaking. “It was like no dream I've ever had. It...” She bit on her lip.

  "Yes?"

  "Nothing,” she mumbled. “I promised not to talk about it."

  Tarrik ran a hand over his face. “The presence?"

  Weyna nodded, but this time her expression offered no defiance, just the frightened exhaustion of someone who wanted to go home.

  "Tell me about it."

  Weyna hesitated. “You're certain?"

  Tarrik chuckled. There was little to laugh about, but at least the amusement was his instead of the wind's. “We're not moving until daybreak, and I doubt sleep is in our future. Tell me about it."

  Weyna smiled. Her likeness to Zaleen struck him again, splitting him open like a tree hit by lightning. “I was in a cave,” she said. Tarrik kept his face a mask as her dream-tale unfolded. “The lighting was dim. There was water dripping. A man spoke my name, but he did it in here.” She touched her temple. “And there was pain in his voice, pain like I didn't know was possible."

  Her breathing turned heavy while she related the details. “I saw him in the corner. Covered under blankets and shadows. He asked us for help."

  "I was there too?"

  Weyna stared into the star-riddled night. “No,” she said after a time. “But he called for you as well."

  Despite himself, Tarrik had grown interested. “What does he need?"

  "We have to save him from the Sighter."

  Tarrik's grip tightened around his pistol. Sighters had killed his parents. “What Sighter?"

  "It appeared from nowhere. I just remember its eyes ... so big.” Fresh sweat soaked her brow. But she also continued shivering, so that she looked feverish. “It came toward me and I panicked."

  That must have been when she started screaming. “If the Sighter is there, then it's probably too late."

  "I suppose.” Doubt filled her voice. “The man ... he kept talking to me. I couldn't really understand him, because I was screaming. But I do remember one thing he said."

  "Oh?” With the story winding down Tarrik stood. “What's that?"

  "He mentioned a name ... Olethia."

  Tarrik froze. “Where did you hear that name?"

  "I told you. In the dream."

  Very deliberately he pulled back the trigger on his pistol, the click filling the cave like thunder. “Don't lie to me."

  Weyna scuttled back a few steps, teeth chattering with cold. “I'm not.” Her voice held a panicked note.

  She sounded sincere. But Tarrik had never spoken that name in her presence. Never. He realized then that he had cocked his gun. He needed to calm down. He needed to sleep.

  He lowered the gun, his thumb reaching for the trigger. “I believe you. Let's go over that dream again. Start from—” He stopped and his head whipped towards the outside like a startled deer.

  "What is it?"

  "Shh.” Tarrik closed his eyes, concentrating. Over the winds, which laughed in slow, broken chuckles, he heard several voices ... singing voices. No words accompanied them, but the melodies carried a language nonetheless, sweet notes bidding its audience listen ... and surrender.

  "Listeners,” he said grimly.

  "I don't hear anything."

  "You will.” Tarrik reached into one of his pouches and withdrew two gobs of wax. “Plug these into your ears."

  Weyna took them. “What about you?"

  "I only have one set.” He reached back to his belt, and this time unsheathed one of his knives. “Take this,” he said, pressing it into her palm. The singing drew closer, and a dullish expression filled Weyna's face. “And plug your damned ears."

  The girl did as ordered, and Tarrik led them into the night. Even in the open air the melodies surrounded them, and Tarrik was aware of their cloying presence ... stroking his mind like teasing fingers ... imploring him to listen.

  Tarrik clamped his jaw and escaped into memories:

  "Farewell, Tarrik."

  "You can't die."

  "No choice ... love you."

  As the spark faded from Zaleen's eyes, he clutched her dripping red hand, blocking out the pain gushing from his forehead. “I promise you Olethia will die. I promise."

  The singing grew to a crescendo. From above, three creatures leapt from an outstretched lip of rock, silhouettes against the moon.

  Tarrik fired, and the air filled with the smell of sulfur. One of the creatures stiffened, limbs jerking and contorting as it fell. When it crashed into the earth, the song weakened. Its two companions landed next to the broken form with feline ease. Cruel smiles lit their faces, and knives danced between their slender fingers. Tarrik slammed his pistol home, unsheathing his sword as the creatures spread out. Their massive ears fluttered, the frenetic pace announcing their eagerness.

  Then they attacked. Steel flickered and sparks leapt as Tarrik parried and countered, whirling between the attackers with grace equal to theirs. The ring of blades created counter-melodies to the perverted music issuing from the Listeners’ mouths, threatening to interrupt the rhythms of their song.

  Seconds later their melodies underwent a subtle alteration, as they suddenly turned into harmonies, providing accompaniment to the music of the steel. The modulated notes slid through Tarrik's consciousness, saturating it, wearing down his mind with tireless assaults. A knife slipped past his guard, drawing blood along his forearm. When he parried a second thrust the other creature attacked, and its streaking blade grazed his jaw.

  He needed to turn the tide, and fast.

  Suddenly the Listener nearest him reeled in surprise. Weyna followed after it, screaming as she pressed her advantage, moonlight glimmering along her knife as she swung with wild strokes. The fog gripping Tarrik's mind lessened, but before he could aid the girl the other Listener stepped into his path.

  Tarrik feinted high and plunged his sword through an exposed hip as it raised its knives to parry. Blood sprayed in all directions, and the limping creature unleashed the full force of its song. Melodies exploded with the force of cyclones, seeking to ensnare the hunter's mind, bind him to their cadences. Tarrik fought back with the last trick he had: he started singing.

  "Ooooooh, she bore that trait that all men hate, ‘cause my bonnie lass was an Aberrate. With that golden voice that she cast as bait, she lured me close then she sealed my fate..."

  Tarrik kept singing, pitching his voice in unending sharps and flats, just as Zaleen had taught him. His off-key rendition clashed with the Listener's melodies, causing its ears to flap like maddened butterflies. When its features creased with concentration, Tarrik belted out another tone-deaf verse, louder than before:

  "So I sit here as I drink my beer, regaling all the tale of my sweet lost dear. Just one last time I'd like to hear ... at least when she died I saw that fear!"

  The Listener's melody faltered. Tarrik lashed out. The creature's head parted from its shoulders in a blood-fountain that drenched his clothes. He whirled around to aid Weyna ... but she and the remaining Listener had vanished.

  Then from somewhere close a cooing filled the night. The sound wasn't meant for human ears, and as Tarrik's mind processed it, it scrambled his senses. For a few seconds he could taste metallic echoes bouncing off the rocks ... smell the red-wine scent of a voice shifting from tenor to soprano ... and for less than an eye-blink it seemed he could feel liquid-soft music, washing over his skin.

  Tarrik recognized this moment—the Song of the Siren, the music loosed before a feeding. With every shred of his will he pushed aside the jumbled stimuli and took off at a dead run. In the back of his thoughts he cursed Olethia; too much time had passed for the creatures to be drawn by Weyna's nightmare. This was her doing, the latest twist in her sadistic game.

  Up ahead he spotted a boulder-lined path, and he plunged along it, stumbling over pebbles and rocks. When the night suddenly fell silent—not even the winds offering amusement—all he could think of was Zaleen, and how he refused to let this happen again. Gasping, he reached the en
d of the path.

  It forked in opposite directions. He suppressed the scream bubbling up his throat to keep from alerting the Listener. But if he chose wrong it would make little difference. Nor could he waste time debating. He dashed off to the right.

  No. Go left.

  Tarrik fell to his hands and knees as he skidded to a stop. There had been a voice. In his mind. He was certain.

  Left you fool! Hurry!

  Tarrik dashed off in the other direction. Within seconds the path hooked and leveled onto a flat stretch of land.

  Then he saw them. They knelt beneath the twinkling stars, oblivious to his presence. The creature's lips were wrapped about one of her ears, sucking like a babe at its mother's teat, its own ears undulating in quivering waves. Weyna sat through it unmoving, unblinking, dull expression staring into nothingness.

  Tarrik hurled his remaining knife. The blade buried itself in the Listener's shoulder, and the creature jerked back from Weyna in surprise. From out of her ear uncoiled a long forked tongue, and as the Listener reached for its knives, a fresh song bubbled to its lips.

  Tarrik ran to meet it. As the first melodic notes filled the night a slim hand reached to the Listener's belt. Steel glimmered and the song stopped. The Listener stared in shock at one of its own blades, deep in its chest. Weyna twisted the steel and a backhand sent her sprawling. The Listener staggered to its feet before promptly collapsing back to its knees. Its large ears flapped a final time and it fell in a heap.

  Tarrik knelt beside Weyna. The winds awoke as he did, tittering like maidens. “Can you hear me?"

  She climbed to her feet, rubbing at her cheek. “Yes. The plugs slowed it down."

  Then she turned and kicked the Listener in its side, hard enough that a rib cracked. She kicked it again, the sound like a branch snapping in deepest winter.

  "I'm not food!"

  Weyna kicked it several more times before dropping to her knees. Then she yanked the knife from the Listener's chest and brought it down in two savage slashes. The steel clattered against the earth as she stood, and in her hands she gripped a pair of large ears. Pearls of blood dripped from their lobes and a morbid smile stretched across her lips.