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.