Cry of the night bird

Previously: Freelance historian Esmiralda and her companions--Merrick, a member of the Ministry of Human Preservation (MOHP), Broo-Fang Tane, an Optimist Monk, and Seymuhr, a brutish but somewhat dim-witted warrior called the Skullsquasher, have received a final clue in their search for the undead witch Abilene, who once served the ancient pirate Harfigorn. They follow the Trail of the Dead to uproot her evil, once and for all, and are now planning their assault on the witch's lair. Their stealthy approach is foiled and they find themselves best from all sides...

Merrick held his staff level with his shoulders, stretched out like a horizontal battering ram. His cry of fear and rage and desperation echoed through the valley. His staff tore off the heads of the disgusting creatures in his way or split through the rotting skulls like they were made of oatmeal. I slipped on the residue of those horrid, once dead creatures, my stomach contorting like a trapped hare. All around, I saw reaching arms, gnarled fingers and snarling faces under blank, dripping eyes. The smell of death was so thick and foul I could taste the dirt and rot. I hacked, gagged, slipped and hacked again.

A bony hand grabbed me from behind and I shrieked, but then the night was pierced by the shrill cry of the night bird and the thing was lifted away and tossed among its shuffling counterparts. I paused only long enough to glimpse the sleek shape of the gigantic bird, its talons dripping with gore, as it soared overhead and then dove back into the melee.

We made slow progress, but soon the wall of the mountain was ahead of us. The black opening beckoned, a chill rift in the ancient stone. Wind that I could not otherwise feel howled about its opening--it had to be wind, didn't it? What else would it be? I fought back that panic. Steady yourself, woman, I chided myself. You'll be better protected once you're in the cavern, with your stout friends near you and less space for these creatures to grab you. Only a few more feet...

Broo Fang Tane was already there. His eyes were wide, gloved fists coated with mottled flesh and spikes of bone. His tunic was torn and he arms scraped, but he seemed otherwise unharmed. A smaller shape shuffled forth--it might have been a child, or a woman of Irfish blood--and reached for him with long, sharp fingernails, but Tane's heel burst its skull and sent it tumbling.

Seymurh was nearby. The flung bodies told that tale. They were hurled from his maces like mangled fruit from a catapult, propelled from the force of maces wielded by his prodigious strength. He was singing, I think. That, or he had something stuck in his throat. It was difficult to tell. He grinned as he parted the wall of the undying with a mighty swipe that sent broken bodies sprawling. He wasn't breathing hard and his mail appeared intact. Sweat ran from his bald head. He looked like a child at play.

We huddled at the entrance, our backs pressed together. Seymuhr and Merrick faced what was left of the horde. Tane and were positioned on either side. My lungs were on fire and my arms ached. I didn't think I could hold my knife or sword upright.

"That thinned their ranks a bit," Merrick said between gasps. "It appears there is a limit to them."

"And to me," I responded. "I...don't know how much longer I can hold on."

"You may not have to," Merrick said. "See? They hesitate. They hold back."

Indeed, the remaining creatures swayed in place, but did not advance to force us into the cavern. It was as if some wall we could not see held them where they were. They reached out, their ruined voices emitted tortured sounds, but they came no closer.

Seymuhr flicked the last remnants of torn flesh from his maces. "Perhaps the dead can still learn."

"Let's hope," I panted. "There may be hope for you yet." He chuckled at that and I marveled at my sudden ability to joke in the face of gruesome death.

We inched toward the opening in the mountain and still the creatures did not advance. I wondered, then, if we had misinterpreted their actions. Did they know fear? Perhaps the horrors that lay in the darkness beyond took root even in their wasted, rotten brains? What hope did we have, then, if the black power of the mountain witch was such that it tainted the souls of...the soulless?

Suddenly, my own feet felt like lead. I didn't want to move, either. My companions crept into the cold darkness and I reluctantly followed. The wind howled anew, but again I felt no breeze.

The slow, dark journey

Previously: Freelance historian Esmiralda and her companions--Merrick, a member of the Ministry of Human Preservation (MOHP), Broo-Fang Tane, an Optimist Monk, and Seymuhr, a brutish but somewhat dim-witted warrior called the Skullsquasher, have received a final clue in their search for the undead witch Abilene, who once served the ancient pirate Harfigorn. They follow the Trail of the Dead to uproot her evil, once and for all, and are now planning their assault on the witch's lair...

Suddenly, we were alone. Broo-Fang Tane had melted into the shadows nearly as quickly as we had decided on our course of action. I could still see Seymuhr's squat, lumbering form as he crept down into the gloom. He had a mace in either hand, although they had been darkened with dirt to conceal them. I wondered, briefly, if that precaution was necessary: did the undead things lurking below us care about such things? Would they pounce on shiny objects like bored kittens? I doubted it. Soon, he was lost to view, as well.

Merrick tapped my shoulder and gave me a grim smile and a shrug. I bowed with a sweep of my hand in a universal "after you" gesture. We both clipped from our hiding place at the same time, however, me with a short knife clutched under a fold in my shirt and he with both hands on his staff. He held it at the ready, not like a walking stick. The sounds gurgling from ravaged throats surrounded us and my eyes stung with the stench of rotting bodies. I had thought my time with Seymuhr had killed any sense of smell, but apparently it had not. I lifted my shirt up over my nose, but that thin barrier didn't help.

We felt a sudden gust as a huge shape glided over our heads. We both looked up and I nearly shouted in surprise. A huge bird soared gracefully above us, circling the valley as if on the hunt. Baram, I suspected, under the grip of her woodland magic. We were fortunate to find such an ally.

We made our way through the shifting shadows, contorting our bodies to stay out of reach of the grasping dead and careful not to stumble into their path. Abilene had her grotesque sentries placed well. We had to take frequent stops and make an occasional backtrack as we made our way to the dark opening at the base of the valley. Sweat soaked through my shirt, my throat was dry and a maddening itch had started just above my left eye, but I was too scared to scratch it. I felt that every step would be our undoing, every extra movement would give us away. I felt the weight of my traveling stone resting between my breasts, a cool stone that offered escape should things go badly. We moved so slowly I feared the dawn would come and reveal us. My knees ached from the effort of our slow, careful journey.

Down near the base we heard a soft thump and a muffled curse, followed by the rattle of loose rock. Merrick and I froze. My breath caught in my throat. I could feel my heart jumping like an ensnared rabbit. Around us the dead things halted and stayed in place for a few long seconds, swaying like reeds. I looked wildly at Merrick, who grimaced at me in return. Where were Seymuhr and Tane? How close were they? We were achingly far from the bottom of the hill, surrounded by the decaying creatures that Abilene's vile magic and brought back to sad form of life. A desperate glance confirmed my fears: we where in the center of the bowl. We would have to fight our way out, whether we went forward, back, east or west.

A growl close to my ear made me yelp and ended our stealthy attack. As one, the shambling things lurched in our direction. I grabbed the knife in my left hand and pulled my sword.

"Bones of Barnok! We are discovered!" I shouted. Merrick cursed and, with a glance over his shoulder beckoned me to follow him. He held his staff horizontally in front of him as he charged, howling with fury and fear. I jumped into his wake. The sounds of battle filled the air: Seymuhr, laying waste with his heavy maces, Tane's bizarre, high-pitched staccato cries and, overhead, the sharp piercing scream of the nightbird.

I could find no voice. I lowered my head and ran in Merrick's shadow.