Dominion

by C. S. Friedman

  Hot power seared his soul—nightmare energies bursting up from the ground to engulf him—followed by a cold so intense that it froze the blood in his undead veins. It was a dark and terrible power, an amalgam of earth-fae and dark fae such as Tarrant had never known before, utterly unstable in nature. A whirlwind of power began to take shape around him, metaphysical forces manifesting on the physical plane. Winds began to whip about him with cyclonic force, and within seconds he was trapped in a cocoon of flying debris, splinters of wood and shards of stone scoring his flesh as they were driven past him.

  And the Forest’s hunger poured into him. It was not a human hunger, nor anything a sane man would recognize, but something far more primal: a driving environmental need that arose from the land itself. This was the soul of the Forest, this mad, insatiable emptiness that was driven to absorb every human soul within its borders, hungry to drink in every source of vital energy that came within its reach. And now Tarrant had invited it into his soul. Shards of dead men’s memories flashed before his eyes as the storm ripped his soul to pieces, tearing loose bits of his past history so that they might be digested. A few shattered fragments of the woman’s memories flashed by him as well—he had not had time to banish them—but the Forest did not care whose they were. Its hunger was mindless and indiscriminating.

  His legs lost all their strength and collapsed beneath him, but the pain as his knees struck the ground was a distant thing, peripheral to the war that was taking place within his own body. The fae was twisting each cell of his body into a new configuration, burning away the biological codes that safeguarded his physical identity and replacing them with patterns that reflected its own warped essence. Tarrant doubled over in agony as his internal organs began to pull loose from their moorings, and he could feel his bones warp and crack as they were forced into a new and terrible template. Just as Amoril’s had been.

  But he was not Amoril.

  In the small part of Tarrant’s brain that could still think clearly, he knew what he had to do. And he also knew just how dangerous it would be, and what would happen to him if he failed. Amoril’s mutation was but a pale shadow by comparison.

  But he had not given over his soul to darkness four centuries ago and destroyed all that he once held dear only to become a mindless beast now.

  Opening his soul wide—dismantling all the defenses that would normally protect him—he embraced the fae.

  Power rushed into his soul and he welcomed it, wrapping the force of his will around it even as he drew it deeper into himself. It complied hungrily, eager to consume him. He could sense the boundaries of his physical identity giving way, and for a moment raw panic welled up inside him. This was where Amoril had faltered, when his own fear had unmanned him. But Tarrant was not that weak, nor would he allow himself to be distracted, even by the dissolution of his own body. He had wrestled with demons in the past, waged war against jealous gods, and once—long ago—bargained with forces so dark in nature, so utterly toxic in their essence, that no living creature could stand before them. And he had survived all that. He was still here. He’d be damned now if he’d let a simple patch of woodland defeat him, fae or no fae.

  You are mine, he thought fiercely. As he began to force his own imprint upon the fae, to mold it into a form of his choosing. For a moment the two powers were deadlocked against one another, as he pitted all the force of his human intellect against the Forest’s raw strength… and then, at last, he felt it begin to yield. It was only a flicker of weakness at first, but that was all he needed; he pressed forward with all the strength he could muster, struggling to impress his will upon the invading power… to make it his. Fresh pain shot through his flesh as his body began to reshape itself once more, returning to its original form, but it was the pain of victory, and he embraced it gladly.

  And then, at last, it was all over.

  He found that he was hunched over on the ground, much as Amoril had been during his own transformation. As he checked out his limbs to make sure they were all in their proper form—they were—he tried not to think about how close he had just come to sharing the albino’s fate.

  The winds were gone now, and only a circle of fallen debris bore witness to the storm of energy that had so recently surrounded him. His sword was on the ground nearby; he must have drawn it during his struggle. The coldfire blade flickered weakly now, its power drained. He picked it up and rose unsteadily to his feet. His legs were weak but they were functional, and all his body parts seemed to be moving as they should. Good enough. He could still feel the Forest’s presence in the back of his mind, a hunger simmering just below the threshold of his consciousness, but for the moment it was no longer a threat to him.

  Satisfied, he resheathed his sword.

  Looking around, he realized that the Forest felt different to him now. Less chaotic. More alive. For a moment he stood still, trying to put his finger on exactly what had changed. When he finally realized what it was, he drew in a sharp breath. The trees had not been altered, nor the beasts that lurked the shadows, nor even the currents of fae at his feet… but he had.

  He could sense the heartbeat of the Forest now, an amalgam of living energies that throbbed just below the threshold of consciousness, binding all creatures within its borders to a single purpose. He sensed the nightmare-born energy that flowed through the earth like blood, and the vast network of metaphysical veins that channeled them. And it seemed to him that he could sense every creature within the Forest as well—fleshborn and faeborn, living and undead—though it was hard to pick out any one entity from the chaos of data.

  And he could sense the woman.

  She was thirsty. So thirsty. She had found a source of water and was cupping her hand to bring mouthfuls of it up to her lips, but the thirst was rooted deep in her damaged flesh and had more to with lost blood and exhaustion than with simple dryness. Nevertheless he could taste her pleasure as she drank, and even the flicker of hope that she allowed herself, having found such refreshment. A dim hope, but she wielded it like a shield to ward off the fear that might otherwise make it impossible for her to continue. Such a strong soul.

  When she began to move again he was aware of her as the Forest was aware of her, through the thousands of living creatures that were impacted by her presence. He could feel the weight of her foot pressing down against insects in the earth, the warmth of her body brushing against trees, the stirring of leaves in response to her breath. And then there was her fear. Waves of it rippling out into the night, washing over him in a sweet black tide. He shut his eyes to savor the sensation, and he could sense predators stirring in the shadows that surrounded him, responding to his arousal. Then he opened his eyes and placed his hand on a nearby tree branch, and it, too, responded to him; the bark running down one side of it contracted, and it curled back on itself like a snake.

  Hunt with me, the Forest seemed to whisper. Feed us both.

  He was not so drunk on the moment that he forgot the danger he was in. What the Forest had failed to accomplish in a direct contest of strength it might still manage by seduction. Its nature demanded that it subsume all creatures within its boundaries, and if he gave it the right opening it might yet succeed.

  But some temptations were not meant to be resisted.

  He stood silently for a moment, considering his options. Then, with a short nod, he began to move through the woods once more, heading toward his prey.

  The beasts of the Forest followed.

  * * *

  Blood.

  Hot.

  Pounding in her head.

  Her skull felt as though it had been split open. Maybe it had been. Maybe she had died and gone to Heaven. Or Hell. Either one would be fine by her right now. Anywhere other than where she had just been.

  For a moment she just lay motionless on the ground, unwilling to open her eyes and resume the nightmare. But her head was on fire and her chest was growing tighter with every breath, and she knew that she had to start moving again if s
he was to have any hope of survival.

  With a groan she lifted her face from the slime-covered ground, blinking as she tried to get her bearings. The moon was still bright overhead, so not much time had passed. That was a good thing, wasn’t it? There was a throbbing pain in her arm where the wolf had managed to bite her, but the limb responded as it should, so nothing new had been broken, and there wasn’t any sign of blood trickling out from under her bracer. Also good.

  Why was she still alive?

  She looked about for her sword. It was lying on the ground a few yards away from her. The lead wolf must have fled after she’d wounded it, dragging it just that far before it had fallen free of him. If the rest of the pack had followed him, that would explain why she was still alive. She crawled over to the sword, and used it to steady herself while she regained her feet. As she stood upright she swayed slightly, and for a moment her eyes refused to focus. She had been wounded often enough in her life to recognize the cause of her lightheadedness; somewhere inside her body her lifeblood was leaking out. If she did not find a healer soon to repair her internal injuries, she was not going to make it.

  She forced herself to begin walking again. Her feet were numb and she stumbled often, but staying here was simply not an option. She had to keep moving. As fast as she could, as far as she could. Every minute counted now.

  God of Earth and Erna, help me stay on my feet. Just for another few hours.

  But she had only managed to go a short distance when suddenly her foot slipped out from under her. The torch went flying from her grasp as she stuck out her hands in front of her, trying to break her fall. She hit the ground with bone-jarring force, her left knee slamming into solid rock. Ice-cold liquid splashed across her face, shocking against the feverish heat of her skin. Somewhere in the distance, the torch hissed and expired.

  For a moment it was all she could do to catch her breath and make sure that no new bones were broken. Only then did the significance of her situation hit home.

  Water.

  As her eyes adjusted to the moonlight, she saw that she had fallen in a shallow pool, from which streamers of water stretched out like glistening tendrils along the ground. Thirst welled up inside her at the sight of it, but the thought of drinking anything from the ground here made her stomach turn. God alone knew what manner of noxious parasites it might contain. But the droplets of water trickling down her sweat-streaked face reminded her of just how long it had been since she had last tasted food or water, and how long it might be before she had another opportunity to do so.

  If you don’t have the strength to make it to a healer, she told herself, you’re doomed anyway.

  Leaning down, she cupped her hand to bring some of the water to her lips. It tasted odd but not overtly foul, and after a moment’s hesitation she began to drink in earnest. The cold water soothed the parched membranes of her throat and eased the fever in her flesh. Finally, feeling the weight of the ice-cold fluid building in her stomach, she forced herself to stop, knowing the risk of overindulgence.

  The water had cleared her head somewhat, and she studied the pool surrounding her. It had been disturbed by her motion, so that it was hard for her to see if it had any sort of natural current; after a moment she picked up a fallen leaf from the ground nearby and placed it on the water’s surface. It bobbed about randomly for a few seconds, then slowly but surely began to move away from her. Watching it, she felt the shadow of despair lift ever so slightly from her soul. A current implied gravity, direction… and hope. Assuming this tiny stream did not disappear into the earth, it might eventually lead her out of here.

  A wolf howled in the distance.

  Panicked, she jerked her head around to look for the source of the sound, but nothing was visible behind her save moonlight and shadows. She struggled to her feet as quickly as she could, but her bruised knee was loath to support her. Her torch had fallen into the deepest part of the pool and was thoroughly soaked, so she didn’t waste time trying to retrieve it. If the wolf wasn’t aware of her presence yet she might still have a chance, but only if she moved quickly.

  But then another wolf howled. And another. Their cries were eerie, ghostly sounds that made her skin crawl. Were these the same animals she had fought before? Or something new that the Forest had conjured? She began to move along the side of the stream as quickly as she could, but she was limping badly now, and each time her left foot hit the ground it sent red-hot knives of pain shooting through her knee. She struggled to think past it, to keep focused on her objective. Keep your eye on the water. Don’t lose sight of it! Keep moving…

  Suddenly she heard an animal moving through the Forest to her right, crashing noisily through the underbrush. A few seconds later there was one on her left as well. Apparently they had picked up her trail, and intended to surround her. At her current pace she didn’t stand a chance of escaping them.

  Gritting her teeth, she started to run. A stumbling trot was the best she could do, but it was better than walking. Once or twice her foot caught a low-hanging branch or vine and she had the crazy delusion that the Forest was trying to trip her. But she managed to jump over most of the obstacles, and tear herself loose from the rest, so she kept going. Running as an animal would run, drawing upon those reserves of strength which are stored on the threshold of death, which only terror can access.

  As prey would run.

  Suddenly then she realized that all the movement she was hearing was now coming from her left; to her right there was only silence. Apparently the pack had abandoned its attempt to surround her and was closing ranks. Which meant that now she had a chance—albeit a slim one—to escape them.

  Channeling all her energy into one last desperate burst of speed, she turned away from her pursuers and sprinted in the direction they had abandoned—

  And stopped.

  Breathless, heart pounding, she knew with visceral certainty that something was wrong, but for a moment she could not give it a name. When the revelation finally came, it chilled her to the bone.

  She glanced down at the water beside her—still barely more than a trickle of moisture among the rocks—and then at the empty blackness of the Forest that flanked the stream bed. The water was her lifeline; if she left it behind she would have no hope of finding her way out of this place. The wolves had given her an opening that would require she leave the water behind; if she stood her ground, the pack would soon be upon her.

  They were herding her.

  She realized that she had only two choices left: she could leave the moonlight and the water behind and flee like helpless prey through the darkness—the outcome they clearly desired—or she could make her stand here, dying as a knight of the Church was meant to die, and deny them their final triumph.

  Not a real choice at all.

  A strange calm came over her as she looked around for the most defensible position. The longer she could hold out, she told herself, the more of the beasts she would be able to dispatch to hell on her way out. But the trees weren’t as densely packed here as they had been at the site of her last battle, and there was no convenient cluster of them to use for cover. Finally she saw a place where thick black vines had established a webwork between two trunks. It wasn’t a solid barrier by any means, but she knew from tripping over such vines just how strong they could be. At least they would slow down anything coming at her from that direction.

  It was the best she was going to be able to do.

  Facing in the direction of her pursuers, her back to the tenuous barrier, she flexed her hand around the grip of her sword, drew in as deep a breath as her bruised lungs would allow, and prepared to face her final battle. God, grant that I may serve Your holy purpose to the end…

  Then—suddenly—the howling stopped. She held her breath, listening for any other sounds of pursuit, but all was silent now. Whatever had been crashing through the Forest in pursuit of her was no longer moving.

  Shifting her weight uneasily from one foot to the other, she caugh
t her ankle on one of the vines and tried to shake it loose. But it was caught on her greave and would not come off. With a wary glance at the shadowy tree line head of her, she reached down with her sword to cut herself loose—

  —but her arm would not move freely. Then something took hold of her other ankle. And her left arm. And her chest. By the time she realized what was happening there were vines all over her, gripping her body like steel bands. She knew that she could not pull free of so many at once, and that her only hope was to cut her way out, but her sword arm was so entangled that she could not get it free. Panic flared in her gut as she felt one of the vines wrap itself around her head, but try as she might she could not shake it loose.

  And then something stepped out of the Forest’s shadows that was not a wolf, and it stood in the moonlight before her.

  A man.

  He was tall and thin, with delicate features and skin so pale that in the moonlight he seemed to be carved from alabaster. His shoulder-length hair would probably have glowed a warm golden-brown beneath the sun, but in Domina’s cold light it was an eerie, ashen hue, and the halo of moonlight that crowned it lent to his entire face an unnatural luminescence. And he was clean. Unnaturally clean. His midnight blue surcote did not have so much as a speck of dirt on it. Even his boots looked spotless, though the ground beneath his feet was a muddy mess, and the hilt of his sword gleamed brightly in the moonlight. Suddenly she felt acutely aware of her own degraded state, mud-splattered and sweat-stained and probably reeking from all the vile slime she had been crawling through. It made his fastidiousness seem doubly unnatural.

  His pale eyes fixed on her with an intensity that transfixed her, much as the gaze of a cobra might transfix its prey. It was impossible for her to look away.

  “Who are you?” she whispered hoarsely.

  His eyes were cold—so cold!—human in form but without a trace of humanity in their depths. She saw him glance down at her sword, and a strange expression crossed his face. Was he a creature of the fae, sensitive to the aura of faith that clung to the blessed steel? She tried to raise the weapon up so that she could protect herself with it, but the effort was hopeless. A fly in a spider’s web had more freedom of movement than she did right now.