Voice of the Gods

block his path. At the end of the street he threw himself around the corner and ran.

A few streets later he realized he wasn’t being followed and the feeling of panic subsided. He stopped as his mind began to work again and he realized two things: Fareeh wouldn’t have sent Ranaan for help if he’d thought he could free himself alone. He must be outnumbered.

Of course he’s outnumbered. There were eight of them!

The hospice was several streets away. Fareeh couldn’t possibly hold eight sorcerers off long enough for Ranaan to return with help.

I should go back and help him, he thought.

Don’t be stupid. What can you do? Recite herb cures to them?

Indecision paralyzed him. Suddenly he realized he could hear voices behind him. Laughter. Crows of delight. He recognized the high-pitched voice of the fat man and shuddered.

Realizing he was standing right in the pool of light cast by a lamp he spun around, searching for a hiding place. The closest was the shallow alcove of a doorway. He dashed into it and pressed himself against the door- frame, trembling.

The voices grew louder. Words like “easy” and “pathetic” and “good work” reached him. Then one of the men told the others to shut up.

They quietened. Urgent discussion followed, then footsteps. Ranaan held his breath as the men strode toward his hiding place.

“Hurry up!”

The steps quickened. Two men ran past Ranaan. They disappeared down the end of the street. Other footsteps faded away as the men separated and headed in different directions.

Ranaan then listened to the sounds of the street: the tiny rustlings of what he hoped were animals, the faint voices of an argument somewhere inside the house he stood beside, the trickle of water or sewage somewhere below.

Caution and fear fought the need to discover Fareeh’s fate. Finally, certain that the attackers were gone, he emerged from the doorway. He crept along the wall to the corner and peered into the lane. There were too many shadowed places there for him to be sure no one waited for him. With heart hammering, he forced himself to step into the lane.

His breathing seemed unnaturally loud. He reached the protruding building and peered around it. The lane was dark, but as he stared at the ground he began to make out a man-sized shape.

Fareeh...

Swallowing hard, he slowly made his way toward the shape. It was definitely a man, and the vest was a Dreamweaver’s. Ranaan’s boots made a small, wet sound as he reached the figure. He looked down and saw that the ground glistened faintly, and he recognized the tangy smell in the air. Blood.

The risk that the attackers might return suddenly did not matter. He concentrated and managed to produce a spark of light. The sight of Fareeh’s blankly staring eyes, and the great red pool of blood spreading out from behind the man’s head, shocked Ranaan so badly the light flickered out. He could not breathe properly. He found he was gasping out words as he stared at his dead teacher’s face.

“No. Not Fareeh. It can’t be.”

Then a hand touched his shoulder lightly. Ranaan jumped and spun around, terror suddenly returning. A man stepped back. Ranaan hadn’t heard the stranger approach, hadn’t even noticed the light from the spark hovering above the stranger’s hand.

But the face of the stranger did not belong to one of the attackers. It was a strange face, but the expression on it was one of sympathy. The man glanced over his shoulder.

“Someone’s coming. You’d best come with me.”

Ranaan hesitated and turned back to Fareeh.

“Nothing can help him now. Leave him, or you’ll end up the same.”

Ranaan’s legs obeyed him reluctantly. The stranger grasped his arm and drew him to a door. They moved down a long corridor and entered another lane.

A maze of lanes and passages followed. Time passed. Ranaan’s awareness of their journey came and went. At one point he collected his thoughts enough to ask for his rescuer’s name.

“Amli.”

“You’re from Sennon, then?”

“The south.”

“Why are you helping me?”

“You need it. Where I come from people do not abandon their fellow mortals to thugs or killers, if they can help it.”

Ranaan winced. “He told me to run and get help.”

“Ah. Sorry. I did not mean you, I meant myself. You could not have saved your friend. Neither could I, I must admit. There were too many of them.”

“He knew it. He knew I couldn’t get back in time.”

“That is likely. It is also likely he sent you away to save your life.”

Ranaan shook his head. “I should return to the hospice. I should tell them what happened.”

Amli stopped and placed a hand on his arm. “Those thugs will be waiting for you there. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were waiting outside wherever it is you stay when you’re not at the hospice, too. You are a witness. Did you get a good look at them?”

“Yes.”

“Then you can’t go back. They won’t want to risk that you will identify them.”

Ranaan shuddered. “Do you think the patient we came to see wasn’t real? That it was an ambush?”

“Were you there to treat someone?”

“Yes. We had directions.”

Amli looked grim. “Possibly. The sooner I get you off the streets the better.”

They started walking again. Ranaan could not help picturing Fareeh’s body lying in the laneway, abandoned. He couldn’t think beyond that image. When Amli stopped and opened a door, Ranaan let himself be ushered into the bright room beyond.

A middle-aged woman rose to greet Amli. He introduced her as his wife. She hummed with concern at Amli’s story, guided Ranaan to a chair and pressed a mug into his hands. The drink within was unfamiliar and alcoholic, but it tasted sweet and brought a comforting warmth that soothed the ache inside enough so that he could think clearly again.

“Thank you,” he said belatedly. “Both of you.”

The couple smiled. “I’ll put some bedding together for you,” the woman said, then disappeared up a staircase.

Ranaan looked around the narrow room. A brazier burned to one side, and benches were arranged around it, hinting that people gathered here from time to time. He guessed that there was a bedroom or two upstairs. It was a small house, but clean and tidy.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

Amli filled another mug with the drink. “Nearly a year. I have a stall in the main market. We import spices and pottery.”

A few strange ornaments adorned the walls. They looked out of place. Some of the pots near the brazier were oddly shaped. He examined the mug he was drinking from. The potter’s mark on the base was a picture of one of these odd pots, with a star marked on the side.

A star. Ranaan felt his skin tingle as a possibility occurred to him. His eyes fell to Amli’s neck. Beneath the collar of his tunic was a silver chain - a heavy chain for a heavy pendant.

“You said you’re from the south?” Ranaan said.

“Yes.”

“You’re Pentadrians?”

Amli did not reply straightaway. He regarded Ranaan solemnly, then took the mug from him.

“Why would you think that?”

“You don’t hate Dreamweavers.”