The Night Voice

by Barb Hendee

  “Will you be sailing onward?”

  “No, this is our last landfall,” Nellort answered. “We never go farther north than here.”

  Chane hesitated, and Chap grew anxious. They needed as quick a return as possible once the two orbs were recovered.

  “Why not?” Chane asked.

  The captain pointed ahead. “Winter’s coming. The sea will start to freeze for leagues out from shore. Only Northlander longboats travel where nothing but the ice shifts and flows . . . and can crush anything that can’t be dragged over the top of it.”

  Chap let out a hissing breath, though no one noticed. If only they had headed north at least half a moon earlier. Now they would have to find yet another ship . . . or rather wait for one to head up north this far.

  Chane nodded to the captain. “I need to hire a guide, sled, and dog team.”

  Chap turned a quick glare on Chane. Had the vampire bothered to ask him, he could have provided this information.

  “Well, White Hut’s the last stop up here,” Nellort said. “You might find a guide and team still willing to head out. You’d do best to look for a Northlander. Most speak passable Numanese, though you’d be wise to keep two eyes on any you hire.”

  Chane merely nodded.

  Then he commandeered a few men to assist him and went below while Chap remained on deck. Sailors were already stacking crates along the deck to off-load before the trading post’s skiffs arrived, and none looked his way. They had already grown accustomed to him not bothering anyone. By the time Chane returned with the two men, he had both his packs and hauled one empty chest. The sailors brought the other two, and Chap spotted the longboat skiffs coming closer. The captain put Chane and Chap on the smallest to be put ashore before the cargo was loaded.

  With two square sails furled to single cross poles on stout masts, the long boat felt narrow and wobbly compared to a Numan ship. It was still easily half the length of the vessel they had left. When the prow nudged to a halt on shore, Chap leaped out, clearing any water. Chane followed and then helped to off-load the chests.

  And there the two of them stood as the longboats went back out for cargo.

  Chap looked up at Chane with a quick rumble, as if to ask, “Now what?”

  Dropping to one knee, Chane dug through a pack and withdrew the rolled goat hide covered in letters and words Wynn had inked on it. Chane rolled out the hide.

  “How did you, Magiere, and Leesil hire a guide?” he asked.

  This method of speaking was slow, but it worked. Chap pawed out the answer.

  Main big hut. Ask.

  Chane looked toward White Hut. Even from a distance, both of them could see a plank over the door with unrecognizable characters. Black smoke rose from the haphazard chimney made from large bits of now-blackened bark. The rest of it was a dome of sod, as if it had been dug into or made into a large hillock.

  “There?” Chane asked.

  Chap huffed once for “yes” and began pawing at more words and letters. Chane again followed along.

  “How will I carry the chests?” he asked, and then peered along the shoreline. “Wait here.”

  Torches and two lanterns were enough for both of them to spot two boys skipping stones out into the ocean. Chane approached them and held out a coin, likely a Numan one. He pointed back to the chests near Chap, mimed the act of picking something up, and pointed to the large sod dome with the bark chimney.

  The boys exchanged a few words, the taller one smiled and reached for the coin, and Chane raised it out of reach. He twisted aside and extended his other arm toward the chests. The slightly shorter boy rolled his eyes and led the way.

  Neither balked at the sight of Chap, as they likely saw him as only a big sled dog. Most of those were descended in part from wolves. The boys each hefted a small empty chest, and Chane slung both packs over a shoulder as he grabbed up the third one by an end handle.

  All four made their way toward the main hut.

  Once inside the sod dome, the boys were paid, and they hurried back out.

  Though it was not cold inside, Chap shivered. Memories of everything that had happened the last time in the wastes rose up. On his previous visit, this place had been the beginning of a long nightmare.

  Oil lamps upon rough tables made a glimmering haze in the smoky room. Stools and a few benches surrounded these on the packed dirt floor between the long, faded plank counter atop barrels and the crude, clay fireplace in the back wall.

  The whole place was crowded.

  Perhaps thirty people, mostly men, all dressed in furs or thick hides, sat, stood, or shuffled about. More than a few sucked on pipes or sipped from steaming clay and wooden bowls or cups. Most wore their hair long, and it shimmered as if greased. All had darkly tanned skin for humans.

  The sight of every one of them made Chap cringe, for one that he saw only in memory was not present. Would he find . . . see that one—that body—when he went for the orbs?

  Chap quickly pushed this aside, not wishing to think of that name, let alone a face.

  No one looked much at him though many glanced sidelong at Chane, who looked out of place with his near-white skin and red-brown hair. A few glanced toward the place’s entrance as if the boys were still there. Perhaps Chane’s transaction in coin rather than trade with those two had drawn attention.

  Chap stepped forward, gauging the men at the tables. Chane followed a half step behind and let him take the lead here. Finally, Chap fixed on a lone man smoking a long-stemmed pipe and taking short sips from a dark clay mug.

  He was perhaps thirty years old, though he looked worn for that age, with a round face and thick black hair. He wore a shabby white fur around his shoulders. His boots were furred but well-worn. A heavy canvas pack was propped against the legs of his chair, immediately within reach. He was obviously used to being on the move.

  His hands were calloused and scarred.

  Chap dipped the man’s mind for any rising memories. At first, he saw nothing . . . except maybe an echo of himself. Then came an image of dogs running ahead of a sled.

  Chap huffed once for “yes,” and Chane stepped immediately ahead.

  “Pardon,” Chane said. “Do you speak Numanese?”

  The man looked up from his mug. “Some.”

  “I wish to hire a guide with a sled.”

  The man studied Chane’s face.

  Chap had known Chane back when his skin had not been quite so translucent. His eyes had once held more color too, a deeper brown as opposed to their light brown, almost clear appearance now. The longer he existed as an undead, the more these changes became apparent.

  Chane ignored the guide’s scrutiny and held up a pouch. “How much?” he asked, implying he already knew the man’s trade. The man set down his pipe and gestured to a chair across the table. Chane sat. Chap positioned himself at the table’s open side between the two.

  “I am Igaluk,” the man said. “How far inland do you travel?”

  Chap and Chane had discussed this at length while on the last ship.

  “Five days inland, southeast, and then five days back,” Chane answered.

  Again, the man studied him. “So you know exactly where you go?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why do you need a guide?”

  Chane’s expression didn’t flicker. “I do not. I need someone with a sled and dogs.” He paused long enough to drop the pouch on the table with an audible chitter of coins.

  Chap wrinkled his jowls, for that action and small noise would attract unwanted attention.

  “And someone who does not ask many questions,” Chane added.

  Igaluk shrugged. “I can take you.”

  When discussion turned to price and needed supplies, Chap turned his attention to the rest of the room in watching for undue attention by anyone present. One awkwa
rd moment pulled his attention back to the bartering.

  “Tomorrow . . . night?” Igaluk asked sharply.

  “Yes, as I said,” Chane countered. “Shortly past dusk.”

  This was followed by Chane’s familiar explanation of a “skin condition.” There was the added complication that he also required a thick canvas tent with an additional tarp over it, which went well beyond the normal. When traveling on ship or in civilization, protection from sunlight was not difficult. The wilderness was a different matter.

  These odd requirements made Igaluk’s dark brow wrinkle, though in the end he agreed.

  With a nod, Chane rose. “I will meet you here, outside, tomorrow after full darkness.”

  He turned toward the counter, and Chap followed. Chane then stopped to crouch as if picking something off the bottom of his boot. Glancing aside, he looked into Chap’s eyes.

  “I will purchase the tent myself,” he whispered. “Then we set camp away from this place. Once daylight comes, you must keep watch and make certain no one approaches . . . us.”

  The bizarre nature of their situation suddenly struck Chap. He was to spend the following day guarding an undead—the same as . . . the same one as his daughter.

  With no other choice, he huffed once. As Chane rose and stepped to the trading post’s counter, to acquire what he needed, Chap’s mind drifted to the nights ahead. He knew precisely where he had hidden the orbs of Water and Fire. Something else might still be there as well. For in hiding those, he had done something unforgivable.

  He had needed to take the body and mind of his last guide on that journey. Without hands of his own, there had been no other way to bury the orbs in secret. He now clung to that necessity—that justification—to do more and perhaps worse than was necessary.

  • • •

  Far to the south, Leesil crept along the nighttime sands of the Suman desert just below the foothills of the Sky-Cutter Range. They’d left Magiere, Wynn, and Brot’an back at camp at least half a league behind, as only he and Ghassan needed to reach a well the fallen domin claimed he knew of. They both carried two large, empty waterskins.

  Stealing water out here was more than thievery, worse than murder. It meant the deaths of many in taking something that so many needed to survive. They would both be killed if caught, and although Leesil knew they had no choice, he didn’t like this. He also didn’t like depending on anyone except Magiere or Chap . . . or even Wynn, sometimes.

  Worse, without Ghassan, he wouldn’t have known what to look for, and he still wasn’t certain. Wells were always hidden in some way as the most precious possession of a family, clan, or tribe. These peopled killed any but their own in order to get more if they ran out. Or at least that was what Ghassan had said. And yet the ex-domin knew where to find such, or at least where to look.

  “There,” Ghassan whispered, pointing over the rock crest behind which they crouched.

  Leesil looked carefully but spotted nothing.

  “That cluster of small stones,” Ghassan added. “See how three larger ones are on top . . . and would not be naturally? Someone put them there and kicked dust and dirt on them to hide any sign of the change.”

  Once Leesil saw this, he recognized it for what it was. He and Ghassan had been forced to steal from eight other wells along the journey. Somehow—though Leesil didn’t know how—their luck had held. The key to thievery was to know what you wanted, take it quickly, and then get out.

  Leesil didn’t hesitate.

  With one last look about, he vaulted the rock crest, scurried light-footed down the gradual slope, and then ran for the three stones and crouched low. After another look around, he began removing stones, finding only dirt beneath them. For an instant he even thought of using the cold-lamp crystal Wynn had loaned him.

  He wasn’t that desperate yet, for the light might give away their position.

  Carefully, he began spreading and probing the parched, dusty earth with his fingers. And there was something there. He felt a hard but flexing semi-smooth surface and brushed part of it clear. Though it was hard to see in the dark, this wasn’t the first time he’d touched that kind of hardened leather.

  Leesil found the edge of the thick, leather plate and flipped it quietly off to stare down into a black hole in the packed earth. There was no rope, bucket, or urn to lower. That would’ve made it easier for thieves. Or at least any who found this place and were unprepared.

  Leesil softly clicked his tongue three times. The domin rose from hiding beyond the crest and hurried toward him. Leesil began unwrapping the leather-braid rope from around his waist.

  Before he’d even finished, Ghassan bound the rope’s loose end to one waterskin’s loop handles. He then dropped a stone into the skin’s wide mouth to help it sink. Once Leesil finished unwrapping the rope’s other end, Ghassan dropped the skin into the hole.

  Leesil lowered the rope until its tension slackened for an instant and then let it sink.

  “Keep watch,” he whispered.

  He was well armed, and Ghassan had his own methods of defense. Between the two of them, they could probably handle six or seven men. The danger was in being caught by a larger number. And out here, any group they’d spotted had been larger than that. They’d hidden from all of them.

  In the desert, there were no stragglers or twos and threes. Larger numbers were the only way to survive.

  The skin quickly grew heavy and was hard to draw up. Ghassan assisted him, and once the first skin was out of the hole, he tied it shut below the handles with a leather thong. And the next—and the next—skin was lowered.

  Ghassan rose slightly and watched all around as each skin was dropped in. They both wore light, loose clothing, including dusky muslin over-robes and similar cloths bound around their heads to drape down their backs. This helped them blend into the landscape unless they moved suddenly.

  Leesil’s mind flowed backward as he felt the last skin reach the waterline.

  This journey already felt too long. They’d been delayed in the imperial city while Ghassan fussed over choices of supplies and necessities, particularly food that would last in the heat.

  They’d also purchased tents, blankets, lanterns, and oil, even though most of them carried a cold-lamp crystal. On the day of their departure, Ghassan had told them to meet him outside the city, and then he’d vanished. Upon arriving at the agreed meeting place, Leesil, Wynn, Magiere, and Brot’an ended up waiting longer than Leesil liked.

  When the ex-domin finally arrived, he was leading two camels. In a rush, they’d strapped the orb chests and supplies on the beasts and set off immediately after dark.

  Leesil had always wondered exactly how Ghassan procured those expensive pack animals, but he never asked. At least they hadn’t had to carry the chests and supplies themselves.

  The days that followed became monotonous amid the constant tension of trying to track something—without really knowing what—while not being seen or tracked themselves. And even when they’d gotten across the blistering sands and reached the foothills of the Sky-Cutter Range, there wasn’t much relief to be had.

  The heat, even after dusk in the shadow of the peaks, kept increasing the farther east they went. They slept at midday, avoiding exertion, and then again at midnight. This kept on until Leesil lost count of the days and nights. And even so, by Ghassan’s reckoning of the new emperor’s reports, they hadn’t gone far enough east to scout for anything.

  Along the seemingly endless slog, Leesil often wondered about Chap, his oldest friend, as well as Wayfarer and Osha among the elves. It still seemed madness that they’d split everyone up this way.

  Leesil hauled up the last filled waterskin. While he rewrapped the braided rope around his waist, Ghassan tied shut the last skin and checked the others. There was nothing left to do but take up two each and sneak away for the long trek back to camp.


  Leesil peered all around in the night. It appeared no one had seen or heard them . . . again.

  Ghassan started off, taking a few steps and looking back, but Leesil lingered looking—and listening—all ways in the dark.

  “Well?”

  The domin’s sharp whisper shook him into action, and he stepped off under the straining weight of two full waterskins. This was the ninth well they’d raided without being spotted or caught, and yet they weren’t even as far east as they needed to be.

  Leesil began wondering how long this much luck would last.

  • • •

  Chane jogged beside the rushing sled with Chap out ahead and Igaluk running behind with the dog team’s reins. In this way, the only weight the dogs pulled was that of the supplies, equipment, and empty chests loaded on the sled.

  The ground was frozen hard with enough crust and snow in most places for the sled. Winter up here came early, and the air was frigid.

  Chane wore multiple layers beneath his cloak and hood along with gloves and a heavy, furred coat. Though he did not feel the cold, he was still susceptible to it. Without a beating heart, there was a greater risk of freezing than for a living man. Once, on a journey into the eastern continent’s Pock Peaks, he had been careless.

  One of his hands had begun to freeze solid.

  He never forgot that night and remained vigilant. Four nights had passed, and halfway into the fifth, each night seemed colder than the last.

  A few times, Chap had changed course out ahead and altered their path. Each time, Chane instructed Igaluk to follow. If this seemed bizarre to the guide, he said nothing and had so far lived up to his bargain without unnecessary questions. But the days held even greater concerns for Chane.

  He ordered Igaluk not to enter his tent, citing a need for privacy. Chap had always been on watch just inside the tent’s entrance, but this gave Chane no ease—quite the opposite.

  Shade filled his thoughts in the moments before he could hold off dormancy no longer. The two of them had become trusted allies, even when separated from Wynn. And now, instead of her, he had an enemy who had hunted him more than once, lying within his tent and watching over him as he fell dormant and helpless each day.