The Trap

“This,” said the Hunter, holding up the box I had given her, “is the trap.”

“That’s mine!” said Lilly.

The Hunter ignored her. “You,” she said to the Singer, “are the bait.”

“Please,” said the Singer. “You don’t understand. My voice… it doesn’t work very well on strangers. And especially not on people trying to kill me. They won’t walk straight into a pit of snakes.”

“They don’t have to,” said the Hunter. “They just have to walk into the smoke. They burn easily if you have some tender. Lots of smoke—extremely toxic.”

“What about tender?” asked the Old Lady. “Last I checked, sand doesn’t burn.”

The Hunter held up a handful of cigars.

Lilly gasped. “Do you know how expensive those are?”

“Do you know how close they are?” said the Hunter. In the waning sunlight, the nomads showed no signs of stopping. The eerie sound of their foreign chanting floated on the wind.

“How do we keep the smoke away from us?” said the Knight.

The Hunter pointed at the Wizard, standing a few feet away and watching the coming nomads. “You’ll start the fire and manage the breeze while we stand downwind. Then,” She looked at the Singer, “when they’re almost upon you… open the box, close your eyes, and hold your breath.” The Hunter spread her hands. The rest was obvious.

“Won’t we be affected by the song too,” I asked, remembering how strangely out of control I had felt when the first few notes had issued from the Singer’s perfect lips.

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“Some of us more than others,” muttered Lilly.

“We’ll stand as far away as we can,” said the Hunter. “Close enough to run to the Singer’s rescue should she need us.” The Singer looked terrified; the Hunter took her by the shoulder. “Gwen, I promise, I won’t let them hurt you.” Tears in her eyes, the Singer gave a small nod.

***

It was night when the nomads arrived, not running, but marching with grim purpose. The song filled the air.

My eyes watered even though I was a good hundred paces away. The Singer, standing atop a dune, looked like an angel, framed by stars, crowned by moonlight. The wind at her back swept her hair forward, across her shoulders. I wanted to run to her, to reach her before the nomads could taint her with their dirty hands and foul breath. I shoved my fingers deeper in my ears and took a few steps forward, unwillingly.

The nomads, practically drooling, began to run straight for the Singer. They didn’t slow until she opened the golden box, releasing sheets and sheets of moonlit smoke. Like an angry ghost, the white cloud descended upon the nomads. A cry of alarm went up. They clambered over each other, trying to escape the deadly mist. Then, the screaming began.

My head cleared as the tortured cries drowned out the Singer’s final notes. What I saw next was a kind of carnage that I knew I could never bring myself to write down in great detail. Suffice it to say that some of the nomads died immediately, coughing up blood. Those were the lucky ones. I saw one other shove a sword down his own throat, trying to carve out his burning lungs. At this point, I shut my eyes and just waited for the screams to stop.

When it did, I saw the Singer looking dumbfounded at the bodies that littered the dunes beneath her. She looked like some kind of evil queen, all the more so because she grinned and laughed with joy. “I did it!” she squealed. “I saved everyone!” Practically skipping, she left the bodies behind and strolled back toward the pilgrims.

Before she arrived, however, the Fool gave a strange anguished cry behind me. I turned to see the Old Lady lying in the sand, the Fool crouching beside her. When I reached her, I saw that she was dead.

> Dear Human, I have so much I wish to say. I shall attempt to limit myself to the thing that most excited me in that moment: although Asuana was one of the pilgrims not there by morlish design, seeing her in action almost convinced me that divine intervention must be at work. She might even make a better asset than some of the others who were there by design. Ironic. Being a priest, I took Asuana’s presence as evidence that the deities were looking favorably upon my people and the Nation of Night.

>

> Oh, and as for Madam Bela, the Scourge of Reindel, the Barber of Tanset… Good riddance.