Black Sun Rising

by C. S. Friedman

  “Close enough,” Damien muttered. “We’ll put in some practice time when we get out of here.” Not if, Senzei noted; when. The man’s confidence was unbelievable. “You’ve got a blade on the barrel tip and some heavy brass on the shoulder piece; if anything comes in close, use it. If something’s coming at you, don’t even try to reload; it’s a fifty pound draw, you’d have to wind it back, and that takes too long.” He took the weapon from Senzei and forced it back to a cocked position with a single draw; the pulley mechanism meant to ease such a procedure spun silently below, as if in protest of his strength. “And here’s the special ammo.” He pulled a bolt out of his forward pocket—and whistled softly. “Look at that, will you?”

  The bolt’s shaft was glowing. A soft light, that would have been all but invisible in the daytime—but with the darkness of the Forest looming up before them, and God knows what waiting there in the shadows . . . the effect of the Fire was clearly visible. A glow from within the heart of the shaft, resonating against the impermeable wax surface as if it chafed at its imprisonment.

  “Gods of Erna,” Senzei whispered.

  “This power was bound by the Church, for Church purposes.” Damien slipped two bolts into the loading chamber, saw that they were settled properly. “Please have the decency not to invoke other gods while using it.”

  Senzei started to force a smile—then realized that Damien was deadly serious. He nodded and managed to take the weapon back. It was a heavy piece, almost more than he could lift. He didn’t remember that being the case when they had bought it. He must be losing strength rapidly. . . .

  “All right, then.” Damien’s voice was grim. “Now listen: if you see Tarrant, if you have an opening, you shoot to kill. No questions, no conversation. Got it?”

  “What kills that kind?”

  “Go for the heart. There’s leeway for error that way; leave the fancy targets to me.” He glanced at Senzei. “You ready?”

  He wasn’t, he never would be—but he nodded, all the same. No other answer was possible.

  With a last grim glance at the dying sun—now half-lost behind the horizon’s edge, powerless to aid them—Damien turned his horse toward the narrow path and led them into the Forest.

  And night closed over them. Close-set trees, their upper branches intertwined, formed a thick canopy overhead that was reinforced by vines and dead foliage and gods alone knew what else, until no more than a mere hint of sunlight was capable of seeping through. By the time they had gone a few hundred yards into the Forest the road ahead of them was already lost in shadows, indistinguishable from the woods beyond. Senzei glanced back the way they had come and saw no more than a faint carmine glow at the place where the road left the Forest: the last vestige of sunlight, rapidly dying. But even that vision seemed to waver as though viewed through running water, or flawed glass. And though he could make out the road’s starting point—barely—it was impossible for him to focus on it. He wondered if even now they had lost the option of turning back. Would that part of the road still be there if they wanted to use it?

  “Dark fae,” Damien muttered. “Makes sense.”

  “What’s that?”

  He indicated the trees that loomed over them, the thick canopy of vegetation overhead. “No direct sunlight ever reaches the ground here,” he whispered. “Think of what that means! Have you ever watched during the true night, how quickly the dark fae moves out into the open, how powerful it gets even in that limited time? A very hungry, very volatile power, that tends to manifest man’s darker urges. But here—imagine this place in the summer, when those branches are thick with leaves . . . my God! Morning, even high noon . . . no light would ever touch the ground then. The dark fae would live on, oblivious to sunrise, and it would grow, and it would manifest—”

  “Damien.”

  The priest twisted around to look at him; his horse nickered softly.

  “If there’s no sunlight here,” Senzei said slowly, “or very little, anyway....”

  He could see Damien’s hand tighten on the springbolt’s grip. He thought he heard him curse.

  “So Tarrant didn’t have to stop,” he whispered. “Damn him! We should have guessed that.” He reached into the pouch at his side and drew out the Patriarch’s crystal vial; in the gloom of the artificial night it glowed twice as brightly as before: a star in the measureless gloom. “We have a light, at least.” His voice was grim as he affixed the vial to his saddle. “And one the Hunter won’t like. That’s something, anyway.” But his voice was far from optimistic. Was he thinking what Senzei was—that with a whole day’s head start on them, Tarrant might have delivered Ciani to her destination already?

  They rode. Not slowly, as they might have done if Ciani were with them. Not cautiously, by any measure. Ahead of them the light of the Fire etched out details of their road in sharp relief—and their horses’ hooves pounded quickly past, as the mounts choose the most solid ground with certain instinct. No doubt there were dangers out there for which they should be watching—but the need to reach Ciani as quickly as possible, to make up for the time lost in Morgot, overwhelmed any need for caution.

  Senzei hungered for his Sight. He wanted to see the road ahead as it really was: dark earth seething with the violet hues of the nightfae, delicate tendrils of that hungry power reaching out like fingers to grasp at the horse’s hooves . . . and then curling back, burning up, turning to mist as the Fire’s light struck it. Or perhaps withdrawing into some secret place, to venture forth again when the threat had passed. Maybe somewhere in the distance, unseen, Senzei’s fears were already sculpting the dark fae, manifesting his uncertainty. How ancient the power must be here—and how sensitive, how deadly! He longed to see it on its own terms, to do battle with it directly. And for a moment—just a moment—the key to a Knowing was on his lips. He tasted the words . . . and then bit them back, forcing himself to swallow them. The currents had nearly dragged him under in Kale; here, in the Forest itself, he would be swept away to his death before he knew what hit him. And while even that might have tempted him once—to taste such power, even for an instant!—he had Ciani to think of. He hungered to cast himself into the black sun, drink in its power—but for now, it would have to rise without him.

  The path they followed became less and less defined, a mere hint of direction as opposed to the well-worn road they had started out on. The light of the Fire fanned out before him, illuminating the road ahead. Despite the fact that no threats were visible, Senzei began to feel a prickling along the back of his neck. As if someone—or something—were watching. He glanced behind them as best he could, saw only darkness. The feeling persisted. Not watching, exactly. Anticipating. Waiting.

  Instinctively he began to key a Knowing—and though he stopped himself after a single phrase, those few sounds were enough to unlock a fearsome Working. Currents of earth-fae roared past his ears like a flood; the force of it nearly knocked him from his saddle. He had to hold on for dear life as the currents battered him, enveloped him, attempted to drag him under . . . it was so deep, so very deep! How could there be so much power in one place? He tried to cry out—in panic, in warning, in an attempt to banish his Knowing—but the current was too strong, and too swift for him. In the instant it took him to focus on a portion of the fae, that portion swept past and was gone. And what replaced it was new and hungry, untamable, a force as inexorable as the tides or the winds, as powerful as a newborn tornado....

  He managed to cry out. Somehow. Damien twisted back to look at him, his right hand raising the springbolt to firing position, thumbing off the safety catch—and then something black and sinuous launched itself from a shadowed tree trunk, directly at him. He must have heard it coming—or seen its flight reflected in Senzei’s eyes—for he turned back even as its claws reached out for him and discharged the loaded weapon point-blank into its gut. Senzei felt the bolt strike home as if the flesh it tore through was his own, and he cried out in agony as the Fire began to consume him. Striking o
ut at Damien in primal fury—and then being struck across the base of the skull with the brass butt of the springbolt, claws tearing loose from horse and saddle and spinning, spinning, down into the raging current....

  “There are more!” he gasped. The bulk of his voice was lost in the flood; he prayed that Damien could hear him. The wounded beast was writhing in pain on the ground before them, and Senzei had to fight not to share its convulsions. Had to fight not to share its descent into death, as the Fire at last consumed it. “Others!” he managed. He fought against the pounding of the current and managed to bring up one arm. To point. He whispered the key to an Unseeing, desperately, as he fought to bring his own weapon up. To find enough strength to hold it, and pull the safety free.

  He did so.

  Just in time.

  They came from the woods, silent and smooth as shadow. Their souls sang loudly of hunger and of hate, chords of death that reverberated along the current, making Senzei’s blood run cold. He braced the springbolt against his shoulder, praying for the strength to fire it. They had come up from the rear, which meant that Senzei had to turn to face them; Damien was behind him. All that was before him was the unmanned horse, rearing up in terror—or trying to, the reins didn’t quite allow it—and four dark, sleek shapes with eyes that burned purple and breath that stank of hate. He muttered the Unseeing once, twice, again, as he waited for them to come close enough that he could be certain of hitting his target. The roar of the flood subsided somewhat—enough that he could hear Damien shouting instructions, not enough that he could make them out. The hand that was holding the barrel shook slightly—from fear or weakness? —as he centered his sights on the leader of the pack, directly between its eyes. And fired. He heard the sharp snap of the springshot’s release, saw a spark of light shoot out from the barrel, heard the crack of bone as it struck home, a sudden burst of brilliance as the Fire took root in its victim . . . he forced himself not to watch, not to think, just to turn and aim again and listen for the click that meant the second bolt was safely engaged . . . and fire. Not as clean a shot as his first, but it struck one creature solidly in its hindquarter and sent it off screaming into the woods. That was two. He reached to his pocket for another pair of bolts, suddenly remembered Damien saying something about not reloading—and then one of the beasts was on him, claws digging into his horse’s flank, purple eyes burning with hunger. Without even thinking he rammed the point of the weapon into its face and felt the blade bite into flesh, the cold wash of its nightborn blood as it gushed out blackly over his hand. He fought not to vomit. His horse bucked, panicked by its pain, and for a moment it took everything he had not to fall off. When he at last got it to stand still again, he saw that the reins of the third horse had been snapped off from his saddle; dizzily he looked around, trying to see where it had gone.

  “Back off!” Damien barked. The voice gave him a sense of direction, and purpose; he forced his mount a step backward, then two. In that two of the beasts were struggling with the riderless horse not far from where they stood, Senzei’s mount was happy to move as ordered. It surprised him for a moment that it didn’t just turn and run, overwhelmed by the experience. But Erna had bred its equines for transportation in some of the most dangerous parts of the human lands; any beast that gave way to blind fear would have been weeded out of the breeding stock long ago.

  Damien pulled up beside him; his springbolt was cocked and raised and splattered with black blood. He aimed quickly and fired at the nearest of the creatures. The screaming horse reared up, nearly getting itself in the way of the shot—but then the bolt drove home in a sleek black throat, and one of the attackers was down.

  Before he could turn to fire at the next one, the terrified horse kicked out; its tripart hoof took the last beast in the head, and sent it flying backward into a nearby tree. There was a sharp crack as it hit, and when its body struck the ground it was twisted oddly, and all its limbs were still.

  Senzei reached out to catch the bridle of the free horse—too far, too hard, pain lanced through his side, forced him back in a sudden spasm of agony. The animal reared up, blood running from its legs and a wound in its neck, and then took off into the depths of the Forest, screaming in rage and pain. Senzei gasped, and held tightly to his saddle. The pain was like fire in his veins, the whole world was spinning about him . . . but at least the currents were invisible again. Powerless to claim him. Thank the gods for that.

  “You okay?” Damien whispered. Senzei tried to find his voice, tried to make his mouth form words—and then a sudden screaming split the night to the west of them, a sound of equine terror and agony that came from just beyond the reach of their Firelight.

  Wordlessly, Damien reloaded for both of them. There were long scratch marks across his knuckles, and crimson blood had welled up there in thick, parallel lines. He didn’t even glance at it. With a nod toward the source of the screaming he eased his mount westward between the trees, springbolt braced against his shoulder. Senzei followed suit. Wondering if the path would be there when they tried to get back to it. Wondering if they would last long enough to try.

  Barely a hundred yards forward, their Firelight driving back the shadows, they saw where the horse had fallen. A heavy steel trap had snapped shut on its ankle, breaking through the flesh to crack the bone beneath. Blood gushed out on the ground as it struggled to right itself. Senzei heard Damien curse the trappers under his breath as he moved forward toward it—and this time it was the sorceror who stopped him, with a touch of his springbolt barrel to the priest’s nearer shoulder.

  There were things coming out of the ground. Wormlike things, dark and sinuous. They came in response to the horse’s heat, or its blood, or its screaming. They came, and they fed. Slick black worms as wide as a man’s wrist, with a circle of viciously pointed teeth at the forward end. They lunged for the warm flesh and hooked themselves onto it, then began to burrow in. Half a dozen at least, that fixed themselves onto the horse’s belly and began to work their way toward the soft inner organs.

  Senzei felt the bile rise up at last, and this time he couldn’t fight it. He leaned over to the far side of his mount and vomited helplessly onto the ground—aware, even as he did so, that the warm fluid might attract the very things that revolted him. When he looked up again Damien was taking aim at the writhing horse. There was a look on his face more grim, more terrible, than anything Senzei had ever seen there. He waited until the horse lay still for a moment, exhausted by its struggles, and then he fired. The bolt lodged in the horse’s neck, seemingly in well-padded flesh. Then the animal moved again—the shaft of the bolt broke off—and a river of blood gushed out of its neck, spurting in time to its heartbeat.

  “Carotid artery,” he muttered. “Once that’s opened up, they’re quick to die.” He wiped one hand across his brow, smearing blood on his face. “He was carrying the extra supplies, right? Nothing vital. Nothing we have to risk . . . that for.”

  “No.” Senzei’s voice was a hoarse, shaken whisper. “Nothing.”

  “All right, then.” The horse’s screams were dying down; the gurgle of blood was audible. Damien wheeled his mount around, hands dripping blood on the reins. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  They bandaged their wounds while on horseback, and did what they could for their mounts from the same position. Damien thought it might have been body heat that had attracted the worm-things, and the horses’ thick hooves would insulate against that better than their own thin-soled boots. Nevertheless they kept moving as well as they could, even as they wound the lengths of gauze around their damaged hands. Senzei felt a warm trickle run down his side also but said nothing; this was neither the time nor the place to stop and examine his wound.

  Twenty-four hours ago. It felt like days—years—another lifetime. He thought of Damien, traveling from city to city through regions of such desolation that even traders feared to go there, braving realms that had been given over to the products of man’s worst nightmares . . . an
d for the first time he understood just what that meant. To choose to do that kind of thing over and over again, without even a fellow traveler to back one up, to stand guard while one slept . . . he couldn’t imagine it. Couldn’t imagine why one would choose such a life. Couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be filled with such a faith, that when your god wanted you to go on such a trip you did so, with no thought for the dangers of the terrain you were facing.

  And their god gives them nothing in return. No special favors. No easy miracles. Nothing but a single dream, which may never be fulfilled.

  They rode. Damien observed the foliage—or some other equally subtle sign—and announced there was probably a river running just east of them. Which was good, he explained. Fewer faeborn things would come from that direction. And once the sun rose the river would mean safe refuge, should they need it.

  If it ever rises again, Senzei thought. If we live long enough to see it happen.

  They rode as fast as they dared, taking into account the stamina of the horses. Damien was very clear on that: to wear out their mounts in pursuit of Ciani so that they were left on foot in this haunted wilderness was as good as committing all three of them to death. The Fire cast a light just far enough ahead that if the road suddenly ended, or was blocked by some faeborn antagonist, they would have just enough time to pull up before riding smack into it. Barely.

  Thus it was that Damien’s nerves were trigger-taut, and he pulled back on his reins the minute he saw a flicker of movement reflecting back at him from the endless tunnel that was their road. Senzei, some yards back, managed to follow suit without running into him—mostly because his mount had picked up on the fact that it was supposed to be doing whatever Damien’s horse did. Side by side they paused in the center of the barren path, trying to make out moving forms in the lightless shadows. Between their legs the horses stirred anxiously, no doubt remembering the clawed creatures that had come running out of the woods mere minutes—or hours?—ago.