“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 they’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?