The Night Parade

by Scott Ciencin

  Blood-soaked tendons stretched to the consistency of strings for a large pink harp, while hard muscle coalesced to form a lute near the base of the monster’s incredible bulk. A long, thin appendage shot from beneath its layers of fat that had been its jaw, with holes suddenly appearing to mark it as a wind instrument. The host of smaller, equally inhuman creatures stopped and turned, their mad, chattering sounds dropping away in anticipation.

  “Lucius!” Myrmeen shouted.

  The mage was already gesturing, his hands stretched before him. The sound of thunder roared in the confined space and a flash of lightning burst from Lucius’s hands. The light was so intense that it nearly blinded those gathered above the hold. The fleshy harp and lute were destroyed by a deadly bolt of bluish red light, and the monster wailed in agony, odd music accompanying its screams.

  Myrmeen suddenly felt drowsy and saw her companions exhibiting signs that the effect was not limited to her. “Lucius,” she screamed, “again! Kill it before—”

  A geyser of water burst through the hull beneath the monster, revealing a horrible rip in the craft’s shell. The music stopped suddenly as the creature was blasted upward by the force of the water. The ship tilted, and two of the smaller monstrosities vaulted out of the hold. Then the door crashed downward, shaken by the motions that had knocked all but Shandower from their feet. The deckhand who had been with the group turned and ran.

  The first creature looked as if it had been sewn together from the bloody remains of corpses on a battlefield. It squatted on four arms, each poised in a different direction, and had a thick, ball-like torso. Its head drooped and peeked out from between the cage of arms. The monstrosity beside it was female, with overly large arms that hung to the floor and tiny hands growing from every part of her body, including the hollows where her eyes should have been. The first creature spoke:

  “The crew, the guards at the shore, they were meant to be our feast, our payment for enduring this awful journey. We hunger. Vizier Bellophat promised us sustenance.”

  “Feast on this,” Shandower said as he ran his glowing hand through the monster’s fatty torso, its body collapsing. The woman with too many hands drew back, her hands suddenly detaching from her body, falling to the floor, and racing toward the assassin. The probing fingers closed over the startled killer, their razor-sharp nails biting into his flesh. Reisz drew his sword and buried it in the skull of the woman who had spawned the hands.

  “Idiot,” she said, gore running down her scalp as the flaps of her head sealed around the weapon. She drew Reisz close and kissed him full on the mouth as a new set of hands began to manifest on her body.

  Suddenly, Shandower pushed himself forward and plunged his glowing blue gauntlet between her shoulder blades. The multitude of hands fell away as the woman collapsed. Reisz did not try to retrieve his weapon.

  “We have to get out of here,” Shandower said in alarm, awakened from his bloodlust to embrace the reality of their imminent deaths. The group raced through the corridors leading to the stairway, then climbed to the main deck as the ship pitched to one side. Myrmeen prayed that the monsters in the hold would be trapped there, drowning before they could escape.

  Ord greeted them at the top of the stairs. “The men who had been floating, they fell!”

  Lucius nodded. “I had to release that spell.”

  “They mostly jumped overboard. Before that, one of them lost his grip, then floated out into the sky.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Myrmeen said impatiently. “We have to get back to our boat.”

  The craft they had rented to take them to the derelicts was anchored near the ships that had helped them stage their ambush, its rotting appearance making it look like another corpse in the graveyard of boats. All but Lucius leapt over the edge into the icy waters. The mage remained, gathering his will, and sent another blast of energy straight down, into the hold. The ship buckled and he was thrown free into the waters. Myrmeen swam to his side, rescuing him from drowning, as he had been left weak and trembling after using his power. Behind them, the black ship was in flames, Lucius’s second bolt of energy sparking the conflagration.

  They made it back to their boat, disturbed by the sight of a small craft embarking from the harbor. As they sailed into the night, Myrmeen prayed that they would avoid the members of the corrupt merchant company. Averting her gaze from the smaller vessel, she watched as the black ship containing its cargo of monsters went under, one end pointing out of the waters until it was sucked down by its own weight, disappearing beneath the surface without a hint that it had been there at all.

  Krystin had been ordered to wait at the inn. Naturally, she was now more than a mile from that location, on her way to visit a shopkeeper named Caleb Sharr. Sharr had always been generous in supplying a scrap of food when she had needed it the most, or a bit of sage advice when she desired it the least. Nevertheless, she loved the grizzled, middle-aged man and had missed talking to him. She knew that soon she would leave Calimport forever, and she wanted him to know that she was well. He often had called himself an old fool where she was concerned and she would not have had him any other way.

  The Lhal woman, on the other hand, had been particularly cold and distant tonight, her thoughts even farther away than the storm she had heard engulfing some part of the desert. The rains gathered on the outskirts of the city like a skulking thief waiting for the right moment to enter Calimport and strike.

  Krystin turned her thoughts from the storm and recalled her conversation with Myrmeen in detail. The woman had explained the dangerous nature of the operation they were undertaking tonight and said that, despite Krystin’s training, the girl was not yet ready for a mission with such a high degree of danger.

  “In other words, I still can’t be trusted,” Krystin had said, to which Myrmeen had no reply. The woman had left her side, an icy breeze marking where she had stood. Seconds later, Ord had joined Krystin.

  “In other words,” he had whispered in his sly voice, “that woman has no idea who you are.”

  Krystin had turned to him, her anger dissolving the moment she saw the perfect blue of his eyes. “Who am I?”

  “Someone very special,” he had said softly, caressing her arm. “And someone who had best be here when we return.”

  “Now you’re giving me orders?”

  “No. But I can see that you’ll be out wandering tonight, and if you didn’t return, I would miss you.”

  Her lips had opened slightly and she had felt her hands tremble at his touch. She waited for him to kiss her, but instead he had backed away, his own sadness gathering over him like the clouds she had seen on the horizon.

  “Nothing I do gets past you,” she had said. “I like that, Ord. I like that very much.”

  He had smiled and left to join the others, but his smile had been cloaked in sadness, his words, even at their most seductive, laced with a texture that was bittersweet. He was not dealing with the loss of his parents, she knew, and the forces inside him one day would tear loose and destroy him if he did not accept the grief and allow himself to heal. She wondered if there were any way she could help him, or if she even should try.

  One thing was certain, he had been correct in his assumption that she would not stay locked up in the inn, waiting for Myrmeen’s return. She now was within a city block of Caleb Sharr’s market house and her heart was filled with excitement at the thought of seeing him.

  Krystin turned the final corner and stopped dead. The shop was gone. For a moment she gazed about, familiarizing herself with the streets and various landmarks. She needed to make absolutely certain that she had not taken a wrong turn and ended up someplace other than where she wished to be. There had been no mistake. She was on Heridon Way, but the shop where she had found shelter was gone. There was no evidence that it ever had been there to start with. In a daze, Krystin wandered the street, occasionally stopping to ask other shopkeepers if they knew Caleb Sharr. When she asked if they had ever tasted the succulen
t meats that he prepared for his special clients, basted in spices from faraway lands that no one but he could procure, they treated her as if she were insane.

  Krystin felt a sudden shortness of breath. For a moment the world seemed to spin, and she grabbed hold of a stranger’s arm. The man shrugged her off with a casual curse. He shoved her to the ground, where she was ignored by the dozens of men and women who briskly walked past her. Their downcast eyes carefully avoided the skinny fourteen-year-old with dark hair and beautiful, practically unique eyes. Suddenly, Krystin realized that she was shrinking back, heading for the shadows of an alleyway. She bolted to her feet and thrust herself into the crowd, avoiding the places where the Night Parade moved freely. A chill passed through her as she felt a drop of rain strike her shoulder, then she realized that it was a tear that she had shed.

  There was no storm; there had been no storm.

  Thunder rolled in the distance.

  There was one person who would remember Caleb Sharr: Melaine, a fellow hunter for the Night Parade, a girl who was a year younger than Krystin. Melaine had been Krystin’s responsibility on several occasions when she had made mistakes. Krystin had put herself at risk to prevent their keepers’ wrath from falling upon the girl. She wondered why she had not thought of Melaine earlier; they could have rescued her, taken her away from the life of horror that she had known practically from birth.

  Of course, there was a danger that Krystin would fail, that the keepers would capture her again. The creature that had served as her master had been named Byrne. For a moment she was curious to learn if he had been the old man whose face had come to her in flashes of memory.

  Why do you even have to ask these questions? she wondered. You remember Byrne. He had scorpions for arms and snakes for teeth. His tail had been wrapped around your tender throat a thousand times and his eyes held the secrets of twilight, the end of humanity, the beginning of something new and repulsive.

  That was not entirely true, she reminded herself. Sometimes he was human. He even appeared handsome and kind. Did he change, or did he create illusions? It did not matter. He was one of the nightmare people; that was all that was important. He would die with the rest of them.

  An hour later, she arrived at the estate where she had been housed for the better part of her childhood. The building was deserted, overrun by weeds that clung to the sides of the two-story building. She stared at the estate in shock.

  Not possible, she thought. This is not the way I remember it. The iron gate surrounding the estate had been rusted shut, and she was forced to climb over it. The dogs that had prowled the grounds were silent. Deep down, a part of her knew that she had heard the barking of Byrne’s hounds for the last time. The estate had changed to an impossible degree. She had been here less than a month earlier, just before the desert raiders had taken her from the streets that had been her home after she had left the estate.

  She heard a rustling behind her. Krystin spun and drew one of the daggers Myrmeen had begrudgingly allowed her to keep. When she saw the figure standing before her, she lowered the knife immediately.

  “Malach Byrne is dead,” the child said in a singsong voice, her head tilted to one side, her body as thin and drained as a wilting flower. “Malach Byrne is my Daddy, and Malach Byrne is dead.”

  “Melaine,” Krystin whispered in shock.

  “Daddy’s dead, Daddy’s dead,” Melaine sang. She stopped suddenly when she saw Krystin, a gasp of terror choking off her words as if hands had closed about her throat and were strangling her into eternal silence. The child was dressed in rags. She carried something in her hands that appeared to be the scalp of a man. Long, stringy hair was woven between her pale fingers.

  “Melaine, what’s happened?” Krystin said.

  “Who are you?” Melaine spat, clutching the black, hairy object to her breast as if it were a toy she had played with in her childhood. Her eyes were the pale gray Krystin had remembered, her features plain, her small nose upturned.

  “Don’t you recognize me?”

  Melaine backed away, her small, bare foot catching on the root of a large tree. She fell back, the impact knocking the wind from her. Krystin rushed to her side and placed her hands on Melaine’s arms. The young girl tried desperately to wriggle out of Krystin’s embrace, but she was weak and malnourished, her flesh mottled with bruises and sores.

  “Melaine, it’s Krystin. I’m your friend.”

  “Daddy’s men will find you. They’ll hurt you. They won’t let you touch me, they won’t!”

  Krystin tried to hold back her tears, but she could not restrain the racking sobs that escaped her. “Melaine, we’ve been friends all our lives, please!”

  “Daddy’s men will find you. Daddy’s dead, but his men will find you. They can’t find me. I’m too smart for them. They want to take me away in a cart, like they did him. They want to bury me in the ground, or burn me. I know, I’ve seen. I followed them. I watched them. I know what they are. I know what they want to do with me!”

  “Melaine, please, don’t you know me?”

  The straw-haired girl stopped wailing long enough to look into Krystin’s face. Sanity briefly flickered in her eyes, then the light of reason faded and her head came up suddenly, her teeth snapping like those of a ravenous animal. Krystin let her go and flung herself back to avoid the attack. Melaine sprang to her feet with unexpected grace and ran off, singing, “I don’t know you, I never did, I never will. I only know Daddy, and Daddy’s dead, but before they burned him, I took his hair, and soon, and soon …”

  Her voice trailed off, and Melaine quickly vanished into the night. Krystin sat for a long time and allowed herself to cry for the friend she had lost. Finally she could cry no longer. Her strength drained from her, Krystin returned to the gates, managed to drag herself over the top, and began the long walk back to the inn.

  Along the way, she felt drawn to a certain house at the end of a deserted street. Candles burned within the house. A party was in progress. Krystin heard people laughing. She stole close to the window, then looked inside. The man she had been looking for was dancing with his wife while several of his friends laughed and applauded.

  “Impossible,” she whispered. He should have been dead.

  She remembered finding this man for the Night Parade. He had been insanely jealous and suffered from an all-consuming fear of losing his wife to another man. A handful of human-looking creatures had attached themselves to him like leeches wearing the faces and forms of newfound friends. In this capacity, they had manufactured lies about his wife’s infidelities and told him that they could not turn away while his wife made a fool of him. He had murdered his wife, then himself, and the Night Parade had feasted upon his anguish.

  Krystin returned to the inn without allowing herself any further detours. She arrived ten minutes before the Harpers returned, quiet and shaken after their escape from the harbor authorities. Only Ord sensed her distress, and when he tried to find out why she was upset, she pushed him away.

  The next day, Myrmeen woke Krystin and insisted that the child share morningfeast with the others. Krystin moaned and complained that she was not hungry and only wanted to be left to herself, to sleep.

  “There’s nothing planned for today,” Myrmeen told her. “Why don’t we spend it together?”

  “Yes,” Krystin said dully. “I suppose.”

  She had spent the night in a deep, dreamless sleep. The visions that had been troubling her waking hours did not intrude. All she wanted was to return to that blissful state of oblivion, but she knew from Myrmeen’s tone that the woman would not be put off. Myrmeen was making another one of her concentrated efforts to play mother to Krystin. The girl knew that Myrmeen’s pleasant smile was forced, her words carefully rehearsed. Nevertheless, she did as Myrmeen requested. They spent the morning touring the markets, with Lucius maintaining his invisibility and watching them at a comfortable distance.

  They stopped before a merchant selling clothing from the ea
stern nations and Myrmeen said, “I had a scarf like this once.” She ran her hand across a brilliantly colored length of cloth that displayed a beautiful golden dragon. A sigh of disappointment sounded from her. “Unfortunately, our gold is running low, not something I’m used to dealing with.”

  “Like abstinence?” Krystin said. The words had surprised Krystin. She had no idea why she had said them.

  Myrmeen’s pleasant mood faded. “You have quite a mouth on you, you know that?”

  Krystin shrugged. She had wished that Myrmeen would simply talk to her rather than at her. Their conversation consisted of sporadic bursts of speech followed by lengthy, unbearable stretches of silence. In the marketplace, with so many people noisily haggling over prices, Krystin could not evaluate the quality of the silence between Myrmeen’s words. She needed something to think about, something to take her mind from the startling revelations of the previous night. Arguments with Myrmeen had become a normal, almost comfortable way to spend her day.

  “What is your problem?” Myrmeen spat.

  “You are,” Krystin said without thinking.

  Myrmeen grabbed her arm and fought down her impulse to slap the girl with the back of her hand. “By the gods, you’re lucky we’re in public, the way you speak to me.”

  “You want to hit me? Go ahead. I don’t care. I’ve been beaten by the best of them. There’s nothing you can threaten me with that’s going to make me care. You don’t know anything about me. You haven’t even asked. I had a life before we met—a terrible one, but a life. My life.”