Geoffrey frowned. “How come you seeking alms at midnight?”
“Why, I cannot sleep for the pangs of hunger in my belly.” The old fellow tottered, pleading, “Only a bit of bread!”
“Aye, of course!” Alain leaped to brace him up—just as Gregory’s voice wafted to him. “Beware, Alain! He is the Biasd Bheulach in its most dangerous guise!”
The old man whirled with a snarl, the hidden hand whipping out of his tunic to reveal a single six-inch claw that plunged toward Alain’s ribs.
Reflex took over and Alain whirled aside, left arm coming up to block the blow—and the huge claw slashed through cloth and skin. Blood flowed, staining the sleeve even as Geoffrey lunged. His sword pierced the old man’s arm—old no longer, for he swelled even as he turned, mouth wide in a screech that pierced their brains—then suddenly stopped, though his jaws still stretched wide. His beard and hair were dark again, his body muscular, arm wrenching away from the blade and his huge claw slashing at Geoffrey.
Alain shouted even as he drew and lunged. His sword pierced the monster’s shoulder; its mouth went even wider in agony, presumably emitting a shriek that went unheard. Then it turned away, crashing back into the woods. Only a few steps, and its screech tore through their heads again.
Prince and knight fell to their knees, dropping their swords and clapping their hands over their ears. When the screech had faded with distance, they uncovered tentatively, then lowered their hands with a sigh. Geoffrey asked, “You damped its voice with a counter-wave, did you not?”
“Even so,” Gregory said with a voice like the breeze in the leaves. “The tone would have beaten upon your eardrums if his shrieking had not canceled it.”
Alain frowned. “I must be associating with wizards too often. I almost understood that.”
“You are quite able to understand wave mechanics,” Geoffrey assured him, “but the study will not of itself lend you magic.”
“Nonetheless,” Gregory’s voice breathed from his trance, “there is much you can do with it.”
“You may teach it to me another time,” Alain said in a strained voice. He turned, showing Gregory the bloody sleeve. “For now, wizard, I would appreciate your skill in medicine.”
Gregory’s eyes slowly widened. His hands trembled as his pulse rate began to increase and all his body’s systems to accelerate. At last he stood up, came to Alain’s side, and glared down at the wound.
“What does he, Geoffrey?” Alain asked through gritted teeth.
“He searches your blood for poisons,” Geoffrey answered.
Alain gasped with pain.
“That is the flesh beginning to knit itself together.” Geoffrey smiled. “He must have found that the wound is clean—that, or countered the poisons.”
“There was only one,” Gregory said, “like to a snake’s venom. I broke the carbon chains apart, though, and rendered the substance harmless.” He released Alain’s arm. “There will be a small scar for some days. Shall I mend the sleeve, too?”
Alain stared down at the angry red welt on his skin. “No, thank you, Gregory. I think mending my hide will do.”
“Then sit by the fire and speak of soothing things.” Geoffrey suited the action to the word, then looked up in irritation. “Can that fellow not make less noise?”
“He has lost the fight, my friend,” Alain said, smiling as he sat, “the fight, and his prey as well. Let us allow him the solace of venting his wrath upon the air.”
“The air, aye. My ear, perhaps not.” Geoffrey winced at a particularly loud howl. “The water boils. Shall you take that tea you wanted?”
“More than ever. What is the herb?”
“Chamomile, if we are to have any hope of sleep.” Geoffrey poured powder into two cups, then added boiling water.
“Dare we sleep?” Alain asked, frowning. “Might not the Biasd Bheulach come upon us again?”
“It will not attack.” Gregory resumed his seat, folding his legs. “It seeks easy game, not three men guarding one another’s backs and ready to fight. If it can lure one of us off, though, it will.”
“I am not about to leave the camp with that racket going on!”
“Then sleep,” Geoffrey advised, “or at the least, lie down and think of pleasant things.”
A horrendous scream made the tree trunks ring. Alain shuddered. “What thought could be so pleasant as to shield me from that pandemonium?”
“Cordelia,” Geoffrey said succinctly.
Alain sat still for a moment, head cocked to one side. Then he sipped his tea and nodded. “I shall essay it.”
Whether or not they really slept was debatable—but the two men did indeed lie down, though they tossed and turned from time to time, while Gregory brooded over the campsite like an enigmatic statue in his trance.
As the sky paled with the approach of dawn, the Biasd Bheulach’s screams lessened until, with the first ray of sunlight, they ceased. Alain sat up, somewhat pale and definitely rumpled, but stoically silent. It was Geoffrey who pushed himself to his knees, groaning, “I feel as though I had not slept a wink!”
“Most likely you did not,” Alain sympathized. He turned to their sentry. “Join the waking world again, Gregory.”
Minutes passed; only people used to Gregory’s trances would have noticed the flutter of the eyelids, the twitching fingers, the deepening breaths. Since Alain and Geoffrey did, it wasn’t quite so much of a surprise when he lifted his head and said, “Let us break our fast.”
“I shall brew herbs.” Geoffrey knelt to toss kindling on the coals and blow them to flame under the camp kettle. Alain took out journeybread and salt beef.
Over breakfast, they discussed the events of the night. They all agreed the Biasd Bheulach’s screeches had taken on a definite note of frustration shortly before dawn and that the scream of terror that had brought Geoffrey and Alain upright, hands on their hilts, had indeed been its last real try at discomfiting them. So agreed, they drowned the campfire, buried the coals, saddled their horses, and set off along the forest trail.
“Are such spirits as these usually so persistent, Gregory?” Alain asked.
“They are,” the scholar replied. “In truth, they are known to haunt a place until they have slain someone. Only then do they move on to seek new prey.”
Alain shook his head, scowling. “Does that mean . . . since its cries have ceased . . .”
“Oh, no,” Gregory assured him. “ ’Tis only seen or heard at night. No, dawn sends it to hide.” He was silent a minute or two, then said, “Mind you, that does not mean it did not slay anyone last night—but there is no particular reason to believe that it did.”
“No, other than a hundred shrieks that could have been the death cry of any creature, human or animal!” Geoffrey said. “Still, I do not think it slew a hundred in one night.”
“Have there always been so many murderous spirits in this land?” Alain asked.
“Not dwelling so closely together.” Gregory frowned. “Indeed, this is a most unusual concentration.”
“I would suspect enemy action,” Geoffrey said, “but we have no reason to think there is an enemy nearby.”
“Other than a most strange mist that leaves ogres behind when it lifts, no,” Alain said. “I cannot help thinking that a bit unusual.”
“What do you suspect?” Geoffrey challenged him. “Someone like Ari the music-rock maker, only considerably more sinister?”
Alain turned to stare at him. “What a horrible notion! And how well it fits!”
Geoffrey returned the stare, taken aback. Then he frowned and started to say something—when Gregory let out a keening cry of distress.