The Night Voice (7 page)

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.

When Chane rose again, the nights were always the same.

Chap was still watching, as if never having gone to sleep, and Chane's thoughts turned to Wynn. He imagined her in the desert with the others—with Magiere—hunting for unknown undead. He shared that fear with no one here, and something more now plagued him in this fifth night.

He was hungry . . . again.

Chane had promised Wynn that, so long as he wished to remain in her company, he would never again feed on humans. Since then, he had fed on only animals, usually livestock. Then another change came, but he had not told her of this one.

In their search for the orb of Spirit, they had traveled to the keep of an isolated duchy without knowing what they would find. In a single night, they learned of an orb hidden in the keep's lower levels; the orb was being guarded and used by a wraith who was an old threat to Wynn.

The wraith, called Sau'ilahk, used that orb to transmogrify a young duke's body.

After a thousand years as an undead spirit like no other, Sau'ilahk regained flesh.

But only for one night.

Chane's only companion in the final hunt had been Shade. When they caught Sau'ilahk in the guise of the duke's flesh, the wraith struck down Shade, and Chane thought her dead. He lost control, pinned the man, bit through his neck, and bled him to death. He fed from a body possessed by a thousand-year-old spirit who had served the Ancient Enemy.

Since that night, he had felt only a twinge of hunger a few times.

Those quickly passed, and he had feared and then hoped this change might last. While on the sea voyage north, he had felt that twinge twice again. Perhaps it had lasted a little longer than before, but now . . .

It would not stop, and it was more than a twinge.

There was no livestock out here; there were only the dogs needed to retrieve the orbs.

Running beside the sled on this fifth night, he was too preoccupied, and Chap's sudden bark startled him. He did not see Chap halt out ahead until Igaluk pulled his team to a stop with a harsh exclamation.

Chane ignored the guide's barked demand and ran onward, dropping to one knee near Chap.

“Why have you stopped us?” he whispered. “Are we . . . there . . . here?”

Chap huffed twice for “no.”

Chane was lost for an instant, and as he was about to go for the talking hide, he understood.

“Somewhere nearby,” he whispered.

Chap huffed once and looked toward the sled.

Chane immediately got up and trotted back. He began digging out a pick and shovel they had procured in White Hut.

“What are you doing?” Igaluk asked, wrapping the reins on the sled's handle as he stepped closer.

“You will wait here,” Chane ordered.

Before the guide could respond, Chane slipped the shovel's handle through the end handles of two empty chests. He left the third chest in the sled and grabbed the shovel in the middle to lift both chests. Then he dug out the talking hide, stowed it under his coat, and took up the pickax as Igaluk stepped even closer.

“Why?” the guide demanded. “Where are you going?”

Chane ignored the questions. “I will be gone for a while, perhaps most of the night, but I will return. That is all you need to know. And you have our . . . my belongings as security for my return.”

Without waiting for more arguments, Chane turned and headed for where Chap stood waiting.

“Go on,” he ordered.

Chap started off, and Chane followed, focusing on nothing but Chap. He paid some attention to the night landscape around him, mostly as a way to ignore the hunger. A long while passed before Chap slowed to a halt, as
did Chane. When Chap still lingered, slowly looking about in the dark, Chane set down the chests strung on the shovel's handle. And still Chap hesitated.

• • •

“Are you lost?”

Chap snarled in answer for Chane's question. No—and yes—would have been the truth. He had purposefully taken a different path from when he had first hidden the orbs. It was not a matter of the guide seeing the hiding place that would never be used again. It was the orbs themselves that he wanted no one else to see . . . and perhaps a secret more personal.

Now that he had a moment to get his bearings, he knew where to go for his first stop, and he lunged off across the snow-crusted ground. Sometime later, he slowed to a trot, for he could
feel
what he sought. Then he realized that he heard only his own steps and slowed to look back.