The Night Voice

Book 11: Noble Dead

by Barb Hendee, J.C. Hendee

Genres: Fantasy; Dark Fantasy; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

The New York Times bestselling authors of First and Last Sorcerer present the final breathtaking chapter in their epic Noble Dead saga....

With much relief, Magiere, Leesil, and Chap prepare to hide the last two of the powerful orbs. Once this last great task is completed, Magiere can take Leesil home to a life of peace.

Then, rumors reach them that a horde of undead creatures, slaughtering everything in their wake, are gathering in the far east regions of the Suman desert. This gathering could only be caused by the Ancient Enemy awakening.

With no other choice, Magiere tells Leesil they cannot go home yet. They must go to the desert and seek to learn if the rumors are true . . . and if so, face an awakening evil: The Night Voice.

Release date: January 5, 2016

Publisher: Ace

Print pages: 432

Sample

By Barb and J. C. Hendee

Title Page

Copyright

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

Light, salt-laden winds blew in over the evening ocean, where an aging man with white-blond hair sat leaning against the bare base of a tree. His hair might have once been even closer to white, and it now showed darker streaks, making it more white-gray than white-blond.

Only a few noises reached him from the little seaside town a short walk inland. He never looked back and only stared out over the water, as if he already knew every sound that he heard.

A pale glimmer like an old worn road of light ran from the shore beyond his outstretched legs and tall boots to the horizon, where the sun had sunk beyond sight and the ocean. He was quiet and still, for he was not truly looking for anything out there. Lost elsewhere in thought, perhaps he didn’t hear ever-so-soft footfalls among the trees. If he did, he didn’t show it. More likely, he knew those sounds as well as those of the town.

The dark, small form was lighter of foot than almost anyone else.

“So . . . where’s that husband of yours?” he asked wryly without stirring.

The short one among the deeper dark of the trees halted with a sigh.

“Oh, Father!” she whispered in exasperation. “One day, I will sneak up on you.”

He laughed, though it was a tired sound. “Not in this life, my little wild one.”

When she stepped nearer out of the trees, she was no more than a shadow, indistinct in a long robe and deep cowl. The closer she came, the more the light showed her sage’s robe of deep forest green. That in itself was strange, since no known order of sages wore that color.

Inside the cowl’s depths, twilight might have sparked a more brilliant, verdant green in her large, almond-shaped eyes. Those eyes were not unlike his, though his were the more traditional amber of their people. She slowed to a stop a few steps off and behind on his right, and he still stared out across the waters.

“I came as soon as I received your message,” the daughter said softly, taking another step. “You did not go with Mother . . . to see her.”

“No point,” her father answered with a slight shake of his head. “She’s already gone by now, and so your mother was enough.”

Silence lingered briefly.

“You did not want to go?” she asked.

“Of course I did!”

Finally, he glanced away from the light upon the water, but he still didn’t look up at her. She felt his sadness, for she shared it for the one who had passed away. Too short a life had ended, even for a human woman, an old friend to them all.

The daughter looked closely at her father’s sad and coldly angry profile. Even in the dark, she saw the lines of age on his face.

“At least she was happy again, for a while,” he added. “I’ll give him that, and she deserved it.”

Another long silence, and then . . .

“She was your friend as well as Mother’s,” the daughter insisted. “You should have gone. I would have, but I thought to come here first.”

At first, he didn’t answer. “Your mother needed to go alone this time,” he said quietly. “It’s the last time. And you don’t know everything . . . about how it might end.”

CHAPTER ONE

Ghassan il’Sänke was powerless to stop the motion of his legs. He strode down the darkened streets of Samau’a Gaulb, the main port city of il’Dha’ab Najuum, the imperial city of the Suman Empire. Trying to exert his will for perhaps the hundredth time, he screamed out with his thoughts, for even his voice was not his to command.

Stop!

As always, it had no effect.

Trapped, he was merely a passenger . . . a prisoner within his own flesh taken over by a thousand-year-old specter.

Khalidah now ruled his flesh.

Ghassan’s body walked past people on the street who barely glanced his way. To them, he would appear mundane. Beneath the hood of a faded open-front robe, his short chocolate-colored hair with flecks of silver was in disarray. Strands dangled to his thick brows above eyes separated by a straight but overly prominent nose. Though he had once worn the midnight blue robe of a sage in the order of Metaology, now his borrowed clothing—a dusky linen shirt and drab pantaloons—was no different from that of a common street vendor.

His body turned into a side alley. His head swiveled as he—as Khalidah—looked around.

Spotting several barrels halfway down the shadowed alley, he went and crouched down beside them. His left hand reached inside his shirt, and his fingers gripped the chain of a medallion, which he drew out. Panic—no, terror—flooded him, and he screamed out again.

No!

“Buzz, you little brain fly,” Khalidah whispered with the domin’s own voice, and then came the command, cutting like a knife in only thought. Be silent!

Everything before Ghassan’s mind’s eye went black with pain. He felt the specter squeeze the medallion and focus his will to make the connection to the one other who carried such a medallion. All Ghassan could do was listen.

My prince . . . my emperor, are you there?

Ghassan heard the answer, another cruelty of awareness dealt by his captor.

Yes, Ghassan. I am here.

Ghassan’s impotence smothered his pain in despair; he was trapped in the prison of his own mind and unable to protect his prince.

The former imperial prince, Ounyal’am, had been elevated to emperor pending his coronation. Still, and as always, he trusted very few people. He trusted Ghassan almost absolutely, and Ghassan had taught him long ago how to use the medallion so they could communicate in the secrecy of thought from a distance.

Ounyal’am was likely in his private chambers, believing he conversed with his mentor. Instead, he touched thoughts with the thousand-year-old specter of the first sorcerer to walk the world.

Ghassan struggled for one instant of control over his flesh—and he failed again against the will of Khalidah. He would have wept in the dark if he could have as his prince—his emperor-to-be—asked . . .

Is all well, domin?

• • •

Gripping the medallion, Khalidah exerted more of his will to suppress Ghassan il’Sänke. That it took a little effort surprised him, but only for a passing thought. Of any body he had ever inhabited, he had never been forced to work at all to keep its original inhabitant trapped.

Still, taking il’Sänke had been a great blessing, for the renegade domin possessed the trust—the friendship—of the emperor-to-be. And he answered back while still allowing the domin to hear.

Yes, my emperor . . . simply busy. And what of you?

Ounyal’am’s answer took a moment.

Funeral arrangements for my father have been finalized. The palace is overrun with nobles and royals. I did not think court plots would ever become so thick . . . and open.

Khalidah had seen the result of the impending funeral in the city as well. Many areas had become overcrowded. Temporary housing had grown scarce.

And your coronation plans . . . and wedding? he ventured.

Another moment’s hesitation passed. Both progress, but there has been some upheaval since I announced my chosen bride.

Well, the young fool should have expected that. A’ish’ah, daughter of the general and emir Mansoor, was too cripplingly shy to fit the role of first empress. Worse, the most powerful families of the empire had all vied to place their own daughters at the side of Ounyal’am. His announcement must have come as quite a slap to their faces.

Of course there would be a backlash.

Khalidah had no interest in whomever Ounyal’am married and had asked only because il’Sänke would have. The new emperor’s trust must be maintained as a potential resource. Now it was time to press on to matters of more interest.

After recent events, Khalidah began, have restrictions on movement out of the city been eased?

Yes, as other matters have taken precedence.

Have any reports of concern come from other parts of the empire, perhaps from the eastern desert?

No . . . why? Is there something to be concerned about?

With a quick twinge, Khalidah grew cautious. Had he gone too far—been too specific—in his questions?

Like the captain of your private guard, I have always feared an assassination attempt. More so now before your pending coronation. Your death is the only way left for others to wrest authority over the empire. I protect you from without as your bodyguards protect you within the palace walls.

Yes . . . yes, of course. But no, I have not received reports of interest since my father’s death.

Very good. And then Khalidah considered another ploy, to keep Ounyal’am not only ever dependent but also useful. But too little news can be a warning. An empire that is suddenly quiet is one to watch closely for the slightest oddity. I will be in contact again soon . . . my emperor.

Good night, Ghassan.

The medallion cooled in Khalidah’s grip as he rose, dropped it inside his shirt, and strode toward the alley’s open end. It was time to return to Ghassan il’Sänke’s hidden “sanctuary” shielded from all senses by the ensorcellments of the domin’s eradicated sect. There hid a collection of people equally useful.

Magiere, the dhampir, rested in secret with her half-elven mate, Leesil. There was also a young foreign sage, Wynn Hygeorht, and her own companion, Chane Andraso, a vampire. Then there were two elven males, one young and naive, and the other elderly, able, and disturbingly with a mind that seemed impenetrable so far. There was a mixed-blood girl who was more baggage than anything. But the worst were the two nonhuman, nonelven creatures among the others.

The pair of majay-hì—Fay-descended wolves—had yet to sense Khalidah, likely because of the living flesh he inhabited. He had seen their kind begin to appear near the end of the war a thousand years ago.

Still, Khalidah almost could not believe his twisted fortune and thought it was not all luck. In the end, it was a great opportunity.

This group had attempted to kill him, and that unto itself was amusing. They believed they had succeeded, never suspecting that he had fled his previous host before death for the flesh of Ghassan il’Sänke. Even if they ever doubted his destruction, he was in the last possible host they would think vulnerable to “the specter.”

Khalidah felt il’Sänke thrash against his greater will, which was all the more satisfying. Of course, he should not chuckle to himself while walking the streets. It would look odd.

The domin’s assembled group had to be controlled—guided—in their task of gathering his god’s greatest treasures: the anchors of creation.

One each for the five metaphysical elements, they were now merely called “orbs.” These powerful devices had been created more than a thousand years ago by a god with too many names.

Fáhmon, the Foe or Enemy . . . Kêravägh, the Nightfallen . . . Keiron, the Black One . . . in’Sa’umar . . . the words in the dark . . . il’Samar, the Night Voice . . .

No, perhaps not names but titles. Even more had come and gone to be forgotten by most, but he remembered them all. And the last held the false affection of a slave’s eternal fear of his master.

Hkàbêv . . . Loved One . . . Beloved.

That title made him burn inside. Even true love betrayed countless times could become hatred equally passionate.

Centuries ago, Beloved had lost a great war upon the world and retreated into a hidden and dark dormancy. Now this god had awakened, calling its servants—slaves—to regather its prime tools, the “orbs.”

Khalidah clenched his hands—il’Sänke’s hands—as he quickened his pace. He would bring the orbs to Beloved . . . but not as his god wished.

Now deep into the capital’s east side, he turned down a dark, lampless side street past three shabby buildings and stopped before the fourth’s crooked door. Its once-turquoise paint was pale and peeling. So many cracks had spread over so many years of heat and dry wind that they were visible in the dark.

In this decrepit tenement’s top floor was a set of hidden rooms where il’Sänke had given sanctuary to Magiere and the others. The place had been ensorcelled by the domin’s sect of sorcerers among the metaologers of the Guild of Sagecraft’s Suman branch. The same sect had kept Khalidah imprisoned for more than a century before he escaped and killed all but Ghassan il’Sänke. They had a few other such places throughout the capital and even in other cities of the empire. If he chose to walk up to the top floor, at the end of its passage he would face the phantasm of a window—that was actually a secret door.

Though the window appeared and felt quite real, the scant number of people who knew the truth might explain it as an illusion. Khalidah knew this was not the case, as there was no “illusion” to be dismissed. A phantasm lived—became real—to the senses of whomever it affected. And all were affected when the passage’s end came into their awareness, their sight, or even just their touch, should that place be too dark at night to see clearly. Only several small pebbles ensorcelled by the sect allowed a bearer to experience, touch, and open the door that was hidden there.

Khalidah remained in the street, staring at the crooked, bleached, and peeling front door. With a blink, he slipped into a cutway between the buildings and entered the alley behind the tenement. In another blink, the dark behind his eyelids filled with lines of spreading light.

A double square, formed in sigils, symbols, and signs, burned brightly; then came a triangle within the square and another triangle inverted within the first. As his eyes—il’Sänke’s eyes—winked open, his incantation in thought finished faster than a catch of breath.

Khalidah’s hearing magnified instantly.

A few blocks away, he heard a scratchy-voiced woman berating a monger for trying to cheat her over a jar of olives. Though distant, many footfalls, mewling mules, goats, and haggling and bargaining accosted his heightened hearing. He shut all of this out, and then heard a thundering buzz nearby.

A fly swarmed too near him.

With a flash of a fingertip, he killed it without looking, but what he could not hear irritated him even more. Yes, he heard voices and movements inside the lowly tenement, but he heard nothing from the hidden rooms at the end of the top floor. The ensorcellment upon the sanctuary was stronger than expected.

“Ah me, my dear domin,” he whispered aloud, though it was not necessary for il’Sänke to hear him. “Such great effort and yet for nothing.”

Khalidah exerted his will, broke through, and, tilting up one ear, he heard . . .

• • •

“Chap, where’s the last of our cheese?” Wynn asked, digging into a small canvas sack. “Did you eat it? All of it?”

Chap glanced over without lifting his head from his forepaws and watched Wynn invert the sack and shake it to see if anything fell out. She was dressed in a loose shirt and pants, having left her midnight blue sage’s robe crumpled on her bedroll. Wispy light brown hair, still uncombed, hung around her pretty oval face.

“Well, did you?” Wynn pressed, dropping the sack.

He knew what she saw when she looked at him: an overly tall wolf with silver-gray fur and crystalline blue eyes, the ears and muzzle just a little long for its kind. That was because he was not a wolf.

Chap did not bother answering.

Eight people and two majay-hì, he being one of them, had been living on top of one another in two rooms for days and nights on end, and this state of affairs was taking its toll. They were safe for the moment but trapped in hiding. Their current quarters had passed from feeling overcrowded to outright stifling.

There was little enough comfort these days so, yes, he had eaten the cheese.

If there had been any more, he would have eaten that too!

Chap surveyed his surroundings for the . . . uncountable time.

Shelves lined three walls of the main room, all filled with scrolls, books, plank-bound sheaves, and other academic paraphernalia. This was no surprise in a place once a hideaway for a sect of renegade metaologer sages who had resurrected the forbidden practice of sorcery.

Cold lamps provided light, and one rested on a round table surrounded by three chairs with high backs of finely finished near-black wood intricately carved in wild see-through patterns. The lamps’ ornate brass bases were filled with alchemical fluids producing mild heat to keep the crystals lit.

The right side of the main room’s back half, just beyond a folding partition, was covered in large, vibrantly patterned floor cushions. Farther right was a doorless archway into another room with two beds. Fringed carpets defined various areas throughout the place.

For two or three people, all of this would have been a welcome luxury. For eight people and two majay-hì, it was cramped, cluttered, and becoming unbearable. There were also packs and sacks filled with personal belongings everywhere . . . aside from two large chests in the bedchamber.

“Chap, answer me!” Wynn insisted.

“Oh, leave him alone,” Magiere growled. “We can buy more cheese.”

Chap’s gaze shifted to her standing in the bedchamber’s opening. Just behind her, Leesil was fussing with something unseen.

Magiere was tall and slender with smooth skin pale to the point of seeming white. Her long black hair hung loose, but the lamps here did not provide enough light to spark the bloodred tint in her tresses. She wore the tan pantaloons favored by the Suman people and a blue sleeveless tunic. These were a stark contrast to her usual studded-leather armor and dark canvas pants.

“Don’t snap at Wynn,” Leesil admonished her, as if more tension were needed. “If Chap’s been rooting around like a hog again, I’d call him out.”

Magiere half turned on her husband but apparently bit back whatever retort came to mind.

It was an excuse for another bit of petty bickering after being stuffed away in hiding for too long.

Chap rumbled with a twitch of jowls but did not lift his head.

Leesil was only slightly taller than his wife. His coloring was the sharper contrast. White-blond hair, amber irises, tan skin, and slightly elongated ears betrayed his mother’s people, the an’Cróan—“[Those] of the Blood”—or the elves of the eastern continent. His father had been human. Leesil too wore tan pantaloons, but his tunic was a shade of burnt-orange.

And as to the others present . . .

Wayfarer, a sixteen-year-old girl three-quarters an’Cróan, sat in one high-backed chair at the table, mending a torn blanket. Unlike Leesil’s, her hair was a rich brown, and in any direct light, her eyes were a shade of green. Chap was fond of her and, shy and quiet as she was, she clung to him the most, though she had come to look upon Magiere and Leesil almost as new parents, or at least as accepted authority figures.

Osha, a young full-blooded an’Cróan with the height as well as the white-blond hair of his people, sat across from the girl, fletching an arrow. He had proven himself an exceptional archer, though how he had come by that skill was not a subject to raise with him. Vigilant in guarding all with him, he caused little trouble, with one exception: he was obsessed with Wynn.

Any feelings Wynn had for him, she did not show. That situation bore watching, considering Wayfarer’s mixed feelings for Osha. And if that was not bad enough . . .

Chane Andraso—a Noble Dead, a vampire—stood near Wynn, as dour and sullen as always. Though he was barely tolerated by anyone here besides her, they had all been given little choice in tolerating his presence. He resembled a young nobleman, with red-brown hair and with skin nearly as pale as Magiere’s. His white shirt, dark pants, and high boots were well made, if well-worn. And he, like Osha, was obsessed with Wynn.

Chap’s gaze shifted slightly right, and he failed to suppress a snarl. Sitting cross-legged on the floor below the one window at the back left of the room was Brot’an—Brot’ân’duivé, “the Dog in the Dark.” That aging elven master assassin was one of Chap’s greater concerns.

Coarse white-blond hair with strands of darkening gray hung over his peaked ears and down his back beneath his hood. Lines crinkled the corners of his mouth and his large amber-irised eyes, which rarely looked at anything specific but always saw everything. The feature of the man that stood out the most, if someone drew near enough to look into his hood, were four pale scars—as if from claws—upon his deeply tanned face. Those ran at an angle from the midpoint of his forehead to break his left feathery eyebrow and then skip over his right eye to finish across his cheekbone.

Brot’an claimed to be protecting Magiere, but Chap knew better. Brot’an always had an agenda and would place it over the lives of anyone if a choice had to be made. He had proven this more than once.

Needless to say, Chap was in a very foul mood.

He might hate Chane for what he was, but he hated Brot’an for who he was.

As Chap’s eyes continued drifting—to the cramped room’s one other occupant—his feelings grew more complicated. The other tall but charcoal black majay-hì lay on the floor beside Wynn, where the troublesome sage still knelt with the upturned cheese sack.

Chap’s own daughter, Shade, refused to acknowledge his existence for the most part. She was not without good reason, but tonight he chose not to think about that. Instead, he swallowed down his pain and turned his attention back to Wynn, speaking directly into her mind as he could do only with her.

Now that our host has stepped out for a while, perhaps it is time to talk . . . of something other than cheese.

Wynn slapped the sack onto the floor and turned toward him with an angry frown. But the frown faded, and she did not argue, only letting out a tired sigh. Their “host,” Ghassan il’Sänke, had gone out on an errand, and time without his company was rare.

She nodded. “Yes . . . we should.”

“Should what?” Magiere asked, and then looked to Chap, knowing something had passed between the two.

Chap often spoke to Magiere, Leesil, and Wayfarer by calling up words out of their own memories—something Wynn quaintly called “memory-words.” How he communicated with Wynn was not based on pulling up broken, spoken phrases. She was the only one to whom he could speak directly in thought—after she had fouled up a thaumaturgical ritual while journeying with him in the past.

“What’s he babbling into your head now?” Leesil asked, pushing out of the bedchamber and past Magiere.

“We should settle some important things while Ghassan is away,” Wynn said to the two of them.

All annoyance faded from Magiere’s pale face. “I don’t know what. Unless you’ve come up with an idea for a hiding place we haven’t already discounted.”

Wynn shook her head, and Chap let out a long exhale.

They were not hidden away in this place by choice.

Several years ago, the four of them had found themselves embroiled in a desperate search for five “orbs” or “anchors.” Some believed the Ancient Enemy had wielded these devices a thousand years ago in its war on the world. Servants of the Enemy had hidden them centuries ago when the war had ended. The Enemy’s living and undead minions had now begun surfacing to seek the devices for their master or perhaps just for themselves.

The orbs could never be allowed to fall into such hands and had to be rehidden.

The first two that Magiere had located were those of Water and Fire. Chap alone had hidden those far up in the icy northern wastes of this continent. Wynn, Shade, and Chane had located the orb of Earth, and Chane had taken it to the dwarves’ “stonewalkers,” so that it might be safely hidden away in the underworld of their people’s honored dead. More recently, Spirit and Air had been recovered, and both of those orbs were now in chests inside this bedchamber.

This was the problem Chap and the others faced.

Wynn pushed tiredly up to her feet. “I agree with Wayfarer’s suggestion that we take the orb of Spirit to the lands of the Lhoin’na. That is at least . . . something.”

Yes, it was. The Lhoin’na—“(Those) of the Glade”—were the elves of this continent. No undead could walk into their lands because of the influence of Chârmun, the great golden tree in their vast forest, who was thought by some to be the first life of the world. As the anchor of Spirit seemed most useful to the undead—as a possible tool—Wayfarer’s suggestion had been considered seriously.

Magiere did not want either orb out of her sight. She was waiting for a plan for the orb of Air before any action was taken. Chap had another dilemma, one he could not speak of to anyone, not even to Wynn.

When he had been up north, burying the orbs of Water and Fire, he had sensed something inside them: the presence of the Fay—or rather that a singular Fay presence might be trapped inside each orb.

The Fay were the source of all Existence. He had been part of them, it, the one and the many, before choosing to be born into the body of a majay-hì pup and later walk his current path.

Now that he was in the presence of the two final orbs, he longed to privately test one of them. Would he be able to commune with the Fay as a whole, or even with the single Fay imprisoned inside any one orb? The physical proximity of both orbs taunted him, but trapped here with the others, he never had a private enough moment. He might never find that moment until Magiere decided it was time to move the orbs from this sanctuary.

Wynn faced Magiere. “If I can’t come up with something soon, do you have any ideas?”

“Maybe . . . something.”

At this from Magiere, for the first time all day and night, Chap’s mind went blank. He stared at her, waiting.

• • •

Magiere was frustrated by their failure to think of a suitable hiding place for the orb of Air, though in truth, she wasn’t overly concerned. The orb was in their possession, and that mattered the most. All five had been found, three safely rehidden, and there was a plan for the orb of Spirit. She and those she loved were in one piece and still breathing.

All in all, everything could’ve been worse.

Yes, Leesil had been somewhat snippy, but even he’d seemed more at ease in the past half-moon. The end was in sight, and once they’d hidden the last two orbs, they could go home. That was all he’d ever wanted.

Glancing around the room, Magiere realized everyone was watching her. “I could take the orb of Air out to sea and drop it at a depth where it could never be recovered.”

<