Somebody ought to, and our odds don’t look good.
And then, just as the moon came up and sat on top of the hedgerow, the voice began again.
Oh hell… thought Nessilka.
Their guard’s head jerked up, and without a glance at them, he began to walk toward the command tent.
This is our chance! We can escape! We can get away! We…Yeah, no, I’m crawling toward the tent, aren’t I? Lovely.
The really obnoxious thing about this magic was how knowing what was happening to her didn’t change anything. She knew perfectly well that there wasn’t a conversation (oh but it was so close) that she’d never understand it (unless she got just a little bit closer, close enough to make out the words) that even if she did understand it (just a little closer) that it was coming from the throat of a deranged killer who’d destroyed an entire village, apparently as bait for a group of elves.
I wonder if they heard what she was actually saying before they died.
She tried to stand up, but the elves had hobbled her feet with such a short length of rope that crawling covered the ground more quickly. Murray shuffled along next to her.
“Sarge?” asked Blanchett, slow and puzzled, and Nessilka sank her teeth into her lower lip because she knew how hard it was for him to talk without the bear thinking for him but he was making it harder to hear the words and she could swear she almost got a full sentence that time, just about—
She put her arm in a gopher hole and went into it up to the shoulder. Murray crawled past her as she struggled to extricate herself. Then Blanchett went past with a very odd look on his face, except that he was going the wrong way—not toward the command tent at all, but veering off toward one of the other tents.
Nessilka managed to think: He’ll never get near the voice that way! Where is he going—oh, good thinking, Blanchett, good job—and then she found herself shushing her own thoughts, trying to listen to the voice that was almost there, just a little closer, just up to the back of the command tent now…
There were elves pushing up against the walls of the tent. One lifted his sword to cut through the fabric, and then the voice changed—Nessilka stifled a scream—and now it was the same as it had been in the church, now it was painful, now the conversation was a buzz that was going to pry the tiny bones of her ears loose and throw them like jacks inside the chamber of her skull…
Murray, a few yards ahead, sank down to his belly and tried to shield his ears as best he could with his arms tied together at the wrist.
I wonder if this is how those people died…
A mountain of flesh passed in front of her vision.
Something picked her up, one-handed, and tucked her against what felt like a wall of warty skin. Nessilka’s head was hurting terribly badly and if she could just hear what the voice was saying, the pain would stop, that must be what it was talking about, how to stop the headache, but still—what? Is something carrying me? How?
The creature reached down and grabbed Murray, too, and then began moving toward the tent. Nessilka approved of this, because it was getting her closer to the voice and it was moving much faster than she could.
Her captor came around the side of the tent, and Nessilka saw the girl.
She was standing a few feet from the front of the tent, and there was a ring of elves around her, all of them on their knees or curled on their sides, holding their heads. Finchbones had a crossbow and was struggling to raise it, but his hands were shaking so badly that he couldn’t even get it off the ground.
There was another creature there as well, like the one carrying Nessilka. It was holding a struggling Sings-to-Trees around the waist, and in its other arm—
She wasn’t going to forget that human’s face in a hurry. For one thing, he was still wearing her cloak.
The girl saw the wizard and snapped her mouth closed. “John!” she cried, dashing toward him.
Nessilka’s brain felt like a crumpled ball of paper suddenly smoothed flat. The elves gave a collective moan of relief. Finchbones lifted the crossbow and fumbled with the bolt.
The large creature set the wizard down hurriedly. Sings-to-Trees, hanging limply in the monster’s other arm, babbled something to it in Elvish.
The girl threw her arms around the wizard—John’s—neck and said, somewhat muffled, “I knew it would work. I knew they’d have to bring you back if there was nobody else to take care of me.”
Nessilka twisted her head and looked up at the creature holding her. Had it been immune to the noise?
It looked back down at her. It had a wide, froggy mouth and enormous eyes. It looked like a toad crossed with a bull crossed with a small hillside.
“Graw,” it said cheerfully.