by Barb Hendee
It couldn’t end yet. They had to continue eastward.
Magiere stopped and half turned.
Brot’an, like the rest of them, wore a long cloth tied over his head, stretching down his back and overhanging his eyes, even at night. The light-toned muslin made his tan face look even darker. They still often traveled in early daylight or even in the later afternoons to escape the worst heat. Sleeping midday was necessary to take cover from the burning sun.
“What do you think?” she asked.
No one fully trusted Brot’an, but she depended on his judgment in scouting. He seemed to know exactly how long it would take to return to camp, no matter where they went.
“A bit farther, if you wish,” he answered. “From here, we would make it back to camp well before midday.”
Nodding, she turned onward around another hill instead of over it. A warm breeze blew across her face . . . and she froze.
She smelled blood—a thick scent—and turned her face into the breeze. Without thinking, she bolted upward for the top of the hill. Something more had been changing in her the farther east they went.
There had always been times when her senses sharpened. This had always come with the rise of her other half. But lately . . .
When she gained a vantage point, she pulled her falchion and froze, looking downward.
“Magiere!”
She heard Brot’an’s sure steps racing upward behind her, followed by Ghassan’s. When both joined her, they too looked down at the remnants of a massacre.
Magiere had almost known before she saw it. There had been other moments like this, not foresight but, well, maybe fore-sense. If Chap had been here, and thankfully he wasn’t, he might have known. Leesil and the others didn’t know about her growing ability, and she kept it that way.
Now hunger did widen her sight.
Bodies were strewn about at the hill’s back base, most with limbs flayed out where they’d dropped. As to the blood scent, Magiere’s sight widened further at the sight of torn-out throats.
One boy was short of manhood. Three others were children.
Four people in faded and semitattered robes and head wraps moved through the bodies. They rarely paused. One veiled woman knelt and hunched with her head nearly on the chest of a small body. The other three were men, two young and one with a steel gray beard.
Magiere rushed down without thinking.
Four more people peeked out around and over lower boulders where they had hidden. These looked panicked. One shouted out to the searchers, and a young man among them pulled a long, curved knife.
“Sa’alaam!” Ghassan called from behind.
Magiere had picked up enough common Sumanese to know he’d shouted the word for “peace,” but it struck her as a poor choice. How could these people be at peace among their dead with strangers suddenly descending on them? She swung wide from the boulders before reaching the gulley’s floor.
Brot’an was only an instant behind her. He ignored the men and studied the scene without reaction. Ghassan skidded to a stop with both hands up as he faced the men.
“Desert nomads,” Ghassan whispered. “Let me deal with them.”
When he stepped away, something else struck Magiere. The one word Ghassan had spoken stalled most of the survivors, but all of them watched him carefully as a second man pulled out a curved knife almost long enough to be a short sword. He barked something like a question.
Magiere couldn’t follow the man’s words. Even Brot’an frowned slightly, and his Sumanese was better than hers.
“A different dialect?” he murmured.
Magiere looked back to the bodies and began to count—eleven.
Ghassan talked quickly with the survivors, always keeping his hands out and visible. The two young men did most of the talking or questioning, while the stern and haggard old man listened and watched. The three women—one still bent over a body, one peering from around a boulder, and another clutching tightly an elder boy—were all silent.
Ghassan continued speaking to the men.
“What are they saying?” Magiere demanded. “What happened here?”
When he glanced at her, every muscle in his face looked tight.
“They say they were attacked before dawn,” Ghassan began, “by madmen . . . with the teeth of animals. They were too fast, too strong to fight, when they started to slaughter people and . . . eat them.”
Magiere’s brow furrowed in confusion with one quick glance at the nearest body, a man, probably in his twenties, though dried blood obscured his face.
“I do not think they understood at first,” Ghassan added, “that it was blood, not flesh, their attackers were after.”
That made sense to anyone with sense.
Too often, those who knew of the undead thought that everyone else did as well, as if such things were commonly known. In truth, the undead were few, rare, and that was their advantage.
Yes, Magiere had seen otherwise, but that didn’t count.
Sometimes they came because of her and what she was. In a large world, there were unlimited new places to hunt, filled with unwitting prey. And the cunning ones kept it that way, even killing off the reckless among their own kind.
She closed her eyes and didn’t listen as Ghassan struggled to learn more from the survivors. This time, the monsters had come in numbers, disregarding secrecy. Frenzy marked their starvation, and no undead needing to feed on life would willingly come to such desolate, lifeless places.
Magiere no longer doubted Ghassan’s reports from the new emperor.
Opening her eyes, she called out, “How many attacked them?”
Ghassan glanced back at her but didn’t answer. He returned to conversing with the two young men as the old one watched and listened to everything. Ghassan’s tone grew sharp and fast, and a young one answered him in kind.
“Ghassan, what are they saying?” Brot’an called out.
At that, the trio of men and even one woman looked at him.
Ghassan spun around, glaring. Who wouldn’t be angry in the face of all this? Magiere certainly was, but the domin rarely betrayed his thoughts, let alone his feelings.
“Answer Brot’an,” she told him.
“I am trying to gain information,” he said, his voice strained. “Something with a bit of sense, but they have little of that!”
This didn’t seem believable for the amount of back-and-forth between him and the others. Then again, she knew sages too often thought the learned—educated—were so much clearer and informed than anyone else.
She waited for his frustrations to get the better of him, and Ghassan took a long, tired breath as he stepped toward her.
“Forgive me. I am unsettled.” He paused an arm’s length away and lowered his voice barely above a whisper. “They say it happened quickly in the night. Some managed to run and hide. Any who stayed to fight were found dead. It happened very fast.”
“How many came at them?” Magiere asked.
“Six . . . to nine . . . or something in between.” He shook his head. “Too many different answers to be certain.”
She’d never known vampires to travel in numbers greater than three, and those were rare. They weren’t social creatures. Any undead disliked sharing territory, but out here . . .
“That is all,” Ghassan finished. “They cannot describe their attackers beyond ‘mad’ and ‘strong’ or ‘beasts in human form.’ And I think it unlikely they will let us help bury their dead.”
He stepped even closer to whisper softly. “We are lucky they feared attacking us upon sight, likely because we came near dawn. That may change. We should leave to return to camp and move it immediately.”
Magiere didn’t like that. She’d had to walk away from victims too many times. What she wanted most was to try to track the undead who had attacked here. If th
ey’d managed to get high enough in the rockier terrain, Brot’an might still track what she couldn’t smell or feel at a distance. But then her gaze shifted in looking over the domin’s shoulder.
The two younger men stood close to the elder, speaking quietly. And the gray-bearded old man watched Magiere and her companions without blinking.
“We leave now,” Brot’an said.
Magiere bit down the instinct to argue with him, and she still felt Ghassan held something back. Her only certainty was the proof of why Ghassan had brought them eastward.
She dreaded wiping away any doubts Leesil had left.
• • •
Chane stood on the deck of the Kestrel, watching the main pier of the docks below Chemarré.
On the previous night, Ore-Locks had led him, Chap, and two other stonewalkers to carry the two hidden orbs to the ship. By the time they arrived, all had been arranged exactly as Master Cinder-Shard had said.
The third orb—Ore-Locks’s orb—in the third chest was waiting in the ship’s hold.
Neither Chane nor Chap had liked the idea of leaving the orbs out of their sight, but it seemed better than trying to stow them in the one cabin they all shared.
Still, Chap was down in the hold for now, refusing to leave the orbs unguarded until the ship left port and they were out to sea.
The only thing delaying their departure was Ore-Locks.
Upon getting them settled aboard the Kestrel, he had claimed that he had several matters to attend to back in the seatt. Of course Chane understood this, as Ore-Locks was about to leave his current life behind and venture off on an extended journey with no set time to return. He must have duties and responsibilities among the stonewalkers. Or at least that was what Chane assumed . . . though he now grew anxious while waiting.
The vessel itself had been a pleasant surprise, roomy and clean, and their cabin sported two comfortable bunks. The captain had not appeared pleased at last-minute passengers, but he said nothing and was civil about all arrangements. Even Chane’s offer of coin for passage had been refused. It still seemed strange, even suspicious, that Cinder-Shard, master of the dwarves’ underworld, had such influence among the living, especially among nondwarves.
Movement at the pier’s landward end caught Chane’s attention—and there came Ore-Locks striding toward the ship.
Even with his face shadowed by the large hood of a traveler’s cloak, there was no mistaking him. Chane stepped out to head toward the ship’s ramp, where two sailors also stood waiting.
When Ore-Locks finally came up the ramp, he stopped and pushed his hood back, revealing dark red hair now hanging unbound over the shoulders of his iron-colored cloak. He no longer wore his caste’s black-scaled armor, though he still bore its twin battle daggers tucked into his wide belt. He was dressed plainly in brown breeches and a natural canvas shirt . . . beneath a burnt-orange, wool tabard.
In their previous journey together, Ore-Locks had donned that same vestment to disguise himself as a holy shirvêsh of Bedzâ’kenge, Feather-Tongue. Back then, he had also carried the traditional iron staff of that order, but not tonight.
Instead, he wore a sheathed sword on his left hip.
Shorter than Chane’s longsword, which was made of prized and mottled dwarven steel, Ore-Locks’s weapon was nearly twice as wide of blade. No, he had not brought the nonlethal staff—metal, wood, or otherwise—common to many shirvêsh orders. He had come prepared for battle and war, and he glanced down, following Chane’s stare.
“Not big enough?” he quipped.
He always had a dry, caustic manner if and when he showed humor at all.
“Not for you, certainly,” Chane answered.
Perhaps he felt something to which he had never become accustomed except with Wynn, and later with Shade. It was rare—no, unique—that he wanted company from anyone else. This long journey with Chap had been more difficult than he imagined, for as a natural enemy of the undead, Chap hated him. The majay-hì could not be blamed for that, based on what Chane was . . . and more, what he had once been before Wynn.
Chane offered his hand to Ore-Locks. Though the young stonewalker hesitated for an instant, he took it.
• • •
Khalidah had been furious upon returning to camp with Magiere and Brot’an that morning. Yet he kept his feigned air of concern as Magiere and Brot’an reported to Leesil and Wynn what they had encountered.
In truth, Khalidah had no concern over the survivors. The reckless slaughter was another matter.
Leesil listened to the news stoically, and, of course, the sage asked every question imaginable, including putting up a moment’s fuss over how to help the survivors. The half-blood said nothing.
When she exhausted her questions, a moment of silence followed. Magiere’s expression grew even more tense, as if what they had found and the repercussions were beginning to sink in. Looking at her face, Leesil came to life. He grasped her hand and dragged her off to the tent they shared with the sage. Wynn took a step after, paused, and then followed them.
Rest was short that day, and Khalidah roused everyone in the afternoon. They moved eastward, but as the sun touched the western horizon, he suggested they stop and set up a new base camp from which to explore this area.
While the others were busy with this, he excused himself to scout for water.
Once out of sight of the camp, he strode back into the foothills. His restraint against rage faltered. Dropping to a crouch, he jerked the medallion from inside his shirt and gripped it tightly.
Sau’ilahk!
A one-word answer took too long in coming.
What?
Where are you?
A moment of silence followed, and then . . .
We are camped a quarter league ahead of you to the east beneath a jagged foothill with an overhang.
Wait there.
He released the medallion before he could be questioned and rose to stride back toward the foothills’ edge above the open desert. When certain of not being seen, he paused again with fear feeding his rage.
He hoped his rage was justified and that his fears were unfounded.
A small buzz rose inside his mind . . . Ghassan was once again trying to pester and confuse him.
“Shut up, you little insect!” he hissed.
Concentrating, he allowed an immense tangle of signs, sigils, and symbols to appear over his sight, and he lifted himself on his will. His body rose just high enough that his passage would not stir a trail of dust and sand in his wake . . . as he shot through the dusk toward the east. It was not long before he spotted the landmark of craggy foothills with an overhang.
Touching down lightly, he banished all glowing symbols from his sight and broke into a run. As he rounded the hill below its overhang, the ghost girl with her severed throat stood in his way, watching him.
There in the camp beyond her was the necromancer still strapped to his wheeled litter. Ubâd was tilted upright, as if awaiting the arrival between his two corpse attendants. Nearby stood Sau’ilahk, arms folded, his pale skin still vivid in the twilight, though his blue-black hair nearly melded with the encroaching darkness.
Khalidah strode straight through the ghost girl, his gaze locked on Sau’ilahk.
He rarely used physical force, for he did not need to do so. There were so many better methods at his disposal. Yet now he could not stop himself. Grabbing the front of the false duke’s shirt, he shoved Sau’ilahk back into the rocky hillside.
Before the wraith-in-flesh even righted himself among the sliding stones, Khalidah shouted, “What are you playing at, you self-righteous priest?”
Sau’ilahk straightened to full height, cold and quiet in a returned glare, and Khalidah suddenly second-guessed his action.
The priest’s . . . the wraith’s body was dead, unlike his own, but it appeared to be qui
te physically strong, and Khalidah had no idea of what else Sau’ilahk might be capable.
“Do not touch me again,” Sau’ilahk warned in a threatening whisper. “And what are you talking about?”
Pressing down tangled fear and fury, Khalidah fought for calm.
“You know! I told you to leave hints . . . a bit of bait to keep Magiere here until the other orbs are brought. I did not tell you to slaughter a pack of vagrant nomads. And how did you convince them of greater numbers?” He pointed to Ubâd’s male servants. “Did you use them? Or has that dead necromancer created a few more ghosts?”
Sau’ilahk’s brow furrowed in confusion. He did not even glance at Ubâd. Then the ghost girl suddenly appeared between them.
“What is this?” she lashed out at Khalidah. “We have not changed our position since you contacted us the night before last.”
Khalidah stiffened. As angry as he was at the idea of Sau’ilahk’s giving in to an urge of excess, the alternative was worse, as he had no control over it.
“We have not moved,” Sau’ilahk added.
Khalidah turned away. After a moment, he related the scene of slaughter, still not truly believing the denials—the feigned ignorance—of his confederates. For if Sau’ilahk was not the culprit, and the story of the survivors was true in another way, then the ruse Khalidah had used to lead Magiere on was no longer a ruse.
Beloved was calling its servants.
This meant their god was on the verge of reawakening.
Choices now became few: dangerous, and worse.
Magiere might stop scouting for proof and turn to find Beloved if more random events spurred her on. If groups of the undead and their like were now truly scurrying to the east . . .
Khalidah was not ready for this. Three orbs were still not in his possession. His only controllable allies were this miscreant High Reverent One and a necromancer with no true life to lose. And both were as starved for revenge as he was.
None of them trusted one another. In life, Sau’ilahk had made no secret of how much he despised the Sâ’yminfiäl, the Masters of Frenzy or Eaters of Silence. The feeling had been mutual between the sects.