Chane wasted no time. “Wynn may be down in that battle.”
In alarm, Osha straightened back up and looked below.
“Wait and listen!” Chane rasped.
Osha’s head swiveled back.
“She is carrying a bottle I gave her,” Chane rushed on. “It contains a potion like no other. Find her, and if she falls, even from the worst of wounds, it might save her ... or anyone else.”
Osha’s eyes widened and then narrowed. “Now? You tell me this only now?”
Chane realized he should have said something about the potion itself before, but he had given Wynn the bottle only last night.
A sudden, bright flash rose to the north.
Chane instinctively looked toward it, even as he felt his skin tingle uncomfortably as if it were beginning to burn. Then he had to duck below the crevice’s edge, knowing what that light was. Ore-Locks rushed in to peer over the crevice’s edge. That light lingered for at least three breaths—and then everything turned to full night once more.
Wynn was still alive, at least for now.
“Enough delay!” Ore-Locks said.
Chane heard Osha running for his horse and sprang up to go after the elf. Ore-Locks grabbed his arm. Chane had to let hunger flush through him to tear out of that grip, and he scrambled up and over the crevice’s side.
“Wait!” he rasped.
Osha did not stop.
Chane rushed after to grab him, and Osha spun, whipping back his bow as if to strike with it.
“That liquid has another use!” Chane rasped.
Osha froze.
“It was made with white petals,” Chane hurried on, “from flowers that grow only in Lhoin’na lands ... and your homeland.”
Osha slowly lowered the bow as his large amber eyes widened.
Chane knew that Osha had seen such flowers.
“I touched one, once, briefly,” Chane said. “I barely rose again after a night and another day. The distilled liquid, such as on an arrow’s tip, would have finished me or anything like me. If need be, use it and do not hesitate.”
Osha stared blankly at him.
“Do you understand?” Chane demanded.
Osha backed away in unsteady steps. Without a word, he grabbed the saddle and swung up into it. The horse wheeled to charge off without the nudge of heels.
“Are you done?” Ore-Locks asked angrily.
Chane lingered an instant longer.
There were more than just undead down there in that battle. There were other dangers to Wynn—to all of them. By the sound of the battle’s prolonged chaos, Magiere had failed to lead off the undead. More than likely, she was as lost to her own hunger as anything else down there.
Chane had known such bloody euphoria.
Nothing anyone could have done then would have brought him out of that state.
“Get moving!” Ore-Locks ordered.
Chane looked toward where that flash had erupted in the dark. He then turned at a run for the crevice and the chests.
Leesil dropped and rolled again. Another long blade atop a thick haft struck close to his head. The clang deafened his left ear as rock chips struck his face. He barely heard Brot’an and the other—half-blinded—locatha still engaged.
Not once had Leesil gotten close enough to thrust a stiletto into the second one’s eye. He couldn’t get behind it, for its thick and long tail swung around at him every time he tried.
He came to his feet again, and everything got worse.
A third, hulking, scaled form came around the overhang’s far side.
This one didn’t carry any weapon, but it didn’t matter. Leesil was already winded from trying to stay alive long enough to kill something. That was his last thought as the second one swung hard with the butt of its sword-spear.
Leesil dodged, rolled again, and saw ...
Brot’an somehow got inside the first one’s swipe. He rammed a stiletto through its already maimed eye, driving deeper this time, but its clawed hand came down on his right shoulder. The stiletto’s hilt ripped out of Brot’an’s grip as he went down, and the creature’s head whipped up and back.
At this first one’s screech and thrashing, the second one looked toward it.
Leesil rushed in, hopped, and planted one foot on the second’s dangling spear haft. He was up at its face by the time it turned those black eyes back on him. He heard the third one closing in but didn’t dare look away. And he thrust his stiletto as hard as he could into the second locatha’s nearest eye, using every ounce of strength to drive the blade into its head.
Something struck his side.
His breath rushed out.
Everything flashed white before his eyes from pain, and he went numb in shock.
He couldn’t breathe as the world turned black.
Vertigo and pain took over.
He felt himself slammed sideways into something. The jar brought agony as he tumbled over and over. How many times before instinct came back? He clawed with his free hand at whatever hard surface he’d hit, though it seemed to take so long to stop himself. When he did stop, he fought for air as his sight slowly returned.
Everything was dark except for flickering red light upon stone. Something huge stepped between him and that light. Silhouetted in flashes and flickers, it hissed at him.
He heard—felt through the stone beneath him—heavy footfalls coming.
But all that Leesil could think was ... Where is my Magiere?
Pain, hunger, fury—there was nothing else.
Magiere barely heard the screams. Was the last one hers ... or from her last prey?
Another white face suddenly appeared before her.
It nearly glowed in her fully widened sight, and those eyes—irises—without color made hunger burn until its pain drove her again. She struck, not knowing with what or how.
As its jaws widened, exposing feral teeth and fangs, a heavy blade cleaved into its face.
Its skull split halfway through.
Blackened fluids welled and splattered across steel.
It went down, slipping from her sight, but there were always more.
Some were not pale, and she lashed out at the bristled head that appeared, its face like an animal’s overlying bones barely human. Hardened nails tore into its jaw, grated on bone beneath, and she thought she heard the sounds of screaming.
This meant nothing, and neither did her own pain, for the hunger ate any agony and fed upon it.
White light filled the dark sky as more screaming rose all around.
The sound tore at her ears and into the skull. The light hurt her eyes and skin. Even hunger couldn’t eat it away. Fright took its place.
Magiere thought of something ... something ... she’d forgotten.
The longer that light hurt her, the more its pain tried to make her remember.
Then it was gone, leaving only darkness for an instant. All around her, there were still shouts, snarls, sounds that could never be human. Compared to what she’d heard only moments ago, it all seemed as quiet as whispers.
The howling and snarls grew louder. Screams, shouts, and worse answered.
Magiere stared about at forms racing and charging and tearing at one another again. Some of them were true animals ... wolves but not.
And that light was gone, so where was Wynn?
Magiere remembered.
She’d lost herself and rushed into the slaughter that she’d started. Every undead in sight had turned on anything living, as if it felt her own hunger. What had she done? She should’ve led, lured, or driven them to the light of Wynn’s staff.
And that light had come and gone.
Magiere’s fragile awareness almost broke when she saw one majay-hì—and another and another—tear through the horde around her. There weren’t enough of them. Magiere spun, her body now in agony from every wound she’d taken, but she hacked and tore her way north out of the carnage.