Black Sun Rising

by C. S. Friedman

  And then the shape moved close enough to become visible. Human in its general form, but strangely hunched over; Damien raised his springbolt to eye level as he watched it stagger toward them. The shadowed form resolved into a true human shape, and as it entered the outer boundary of the Fire’s light it was possible to see that it staggered in exhaustion, and perhaps in pain. It came closer and lifted its head, its eyes half shut against the pain of so much light after the darkness of the road.

  Ciani.

  Senzei felt his heart skip a beat, and adrenaline poured into his bloodstream like a tidal wave: from fear, from joy, from concern for her life. She was a mere shadow of her former self, dressed in tattered remnants of her traveling attire. Blood pooled beneath her bare feet as she came to a stop, swaying weakly, and she shielded her eyes with her hand so that she might see them against the Fire’s glare. A whisper barely escaped her lips, too fragile a sound to cross the distance between them. A name, perhaps. A plea. There were bruises about her face and arms, and long scratch marks on one side of her face. She seemed to have lost half her weight overnight, and most of her color with it.

  “Thank god,” she whispered. “I heard the horses. . . .” Tears choked her voice and she took a step forward—then fell, her legs too weak to support her. Tears poured down her face. “Damien—Senzei—my god, I can’t believe I’ve found you. . . .”

  The sense of shock which had frozen Senzei’s limbs released him at last. With a cry of joy he slid off his horse-and his wound stabbed into him like fire, like a blade of molten steel, but what did that matter? They had found her!—and he ran toward her as best he could, his legs weak and shaking and stiff from hours in the saddle—

  And something whizzed past his ear. A bolt of light—a spear of fire—a searing bullet, that left the air hot where it passed. He barely had time to recognize what it was, what it must be, before it struck her. The glowing bolt hit her square in the chest, slightly right of center: through the heart. With a scream, she ceased reaching for him and clutched at the projectile—so close, she had been so close, he had almost touched her!—but it was buried deep within her flesh, and she couldn’t pull it out. And then, without warning, she ignited. The whole of her body went up in an instant, like dry leaves sparked by heat lightning. Senzei cried out as he shielded his eyes against the glare of her burning, fell to his knees as the pyre roared up before him. Tongues of Fire licked at the canopy far overhead, and small black shapes fell—screaming, smoking—onto the road. Only slowly did it sink into him what had happened. Only slowly did it sink in what Damien had done. And why.

  As the Fire died down at last—leaving no bones to mark the place where Ciani had stood, nor even any ash, only a faint smell of sulfur—he looked up to where Damien sat, one hand on the reins of Senzei’s horse and the other still bracing the springbolt against his shoulder.

  “How?” he gasped. His whole body was shaking. “How did you know?”

  The priest’s expression was grim, his face deeply lined. It seemed he had aged a decade in the past few hours. “She wouldn’t come into the light,” he said. “Ciani would have known that the Fire meant safety for her, and come to it at any cost. She invoked my god, not hers. She called you by your formal name—which she’s never done before, at least not in my presence. Do you want more?”

  “But you weren’t sure!” he exclaimed. “You couldn’t possibly be sure! And what if you were wrong?”

  “But I wasn’t, was I?” His face was like stone, his tone implacable. “You’d better learn this now, Zen. Some of the things that the darkness spawns can take on any form they like. They read your fears from the fae that surrounds you and design whatever image they need to break through your defenses. And you only get one chance to recognize them, one chance to react. If you’re wrong—or if you hesitate, even for an instant—they’ll do worse then kill you.” He looked off into the darkness; Senzei thought he saw him shiver. “Compared to some of what I’ve seen, death would be a mercy.”

  The Fire had died down. Senzei stared at where it had been, heartbeat pounding loudly in his ears. Why did it suddenly seem so hot? Had the Fire somehow affected his perception, so that even after it was gone something inside him continued to burn? He felt overwhelmed. He wanted to cry out, I can’t make it! I’m out of strength! How can I do anything to save her, like this?

  Damien said nothing, allowing Senzei the time to pull himself together. Then, suddenly, he stiffened. In a voice that was quiet but firm, he ordered, “Mount up. Now.”

  Senzei looked at him, saw him reloading the springbolt. The priest’s eyes were turned to the west, his gaze fixed on something in the distance. “Mount up!” he hissed.

  Shaking, Senzei obeyed. Pain speared through his side as he slid into the saddle and he thought, I can’t do this again. If I get down again, I won’t be able to get up.

  And there was peace in that thought. A dark kind of peace, in knowing that soon all fighting might be over.

  He took the reins of his horse from Damien and followed the priest’s gaze, slightly ahead and to the left of the road. There were two points of light that winked at them out of the darkness, set a yard or so above the ground. Bright crimson, like blood.

  “Let’s move,” Damien muttered.

  They rode. At first slowly, watching the lights as they went. Then more quickly, when they saw that the crimson sparks were keeping pace with them. Soon after, another pair of lights joined the first. Then a third.

  Eyes, Senzei thought, reflecting the Firelight. Gods help us.

  They broke into a fevered gallop.

  The eyes stayed with them.

  There were more and more of them now, too many to count. They would flash bright as stars as their owners turned to assess their prey, then become invisible a moment later as the beasts turned their attention to the ground underfoot, or the Forest ahead. Whatever manner of creature they were, they were swift and seemingly tireless. Try as they might, the travelers couldn’t lose them. Senzei heard Damien curse under his breath, knew that he hated to drive the horses this hard for any length of time—but no matter how fast they rode, the gleaming eyes managed to keep pace with them.

  Finally Damien slowed, and Senzei did the same. His horse was covered with sweat, and it shivered as the chill night air gusted over it. He was suddenly acutely aware of how desperately they needed these animals, of how little good it would do them to get where they were going—even to rescue Ciani—if they had to walk back through this place. We wouldn’t last an hour.

  Damien lifted his springshot to eye level and cursed, “Damn them!”

  “What?”

  “They’re just beyond firing range. Exactly the right distance. Damn! It means they’re either hellishly lucky . . .”

  He lowered his weapon. “Or experienced,” he said quietly.

  Senzei whispered, “Or intelligent.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Let’s hope not,” he said at last.

  Something stepped out into the road.

  It looked like a wolf, at first—an unusually large wolf, with bleached white fur and blazing red eyes. But there were differences. In its paws, which were splayed out like human hands. In its jaws, which were broader and more powerful than even a wolf’s should be. And in its bearing, which hinted at more than mere hunger: a subtle malevolence, not at all bestial.

  It moved to the center of the road and stood there, as if challenging them to ride over it.

  Damien moved. His mount, responsive to his needs, broke into a sudden gallop. Despite his misgivings Senzei followed suit. The priest charged directly at the wolflike beast, as if daring it to stand its ground. But its only response was a low snarl and a twitch of its lips: a mockery of human laughter.

  Then, when he was almost upon the beast, Damien veered off toward the right. Off the path. The move sent them toward the river, and their horses were forced to make their way through thicker and thicker brush. Damien’s mount stumbled once but managed to st
ay on its feet. After they had ridden parallel to the river for some distance the priest turned west again; Senzei realized that he was hoping to circle around the pack, and regain the road. But as they went farther west, they saw that the eyes were already there, waiting for them. Arrayed at an angle that seemed just a shade too calculated, as though they meant for the pair of them to reach the road at one particular point.

  Herding us, Senzei despaired. Evidently the same thought had occurred to Damien; with sudden determination he pulled his sword free of its sheath and made ready to hack his way through their line. Senzei clutched his springshot to his chest and tried to pray. He wondered if Damien was praying as well—and whether the priest thought his prayers would be answered, or used them only to discipline his mind.

  They broke from the trees, back onto the road. At least a dozen animals were arrayed before them, red eyes gleaming hotly; each of them was clearly capable of taking a man and a horse to the ground, and enjoying the fight.

  And then Damien pulled up short, and motioned for Senzei to do the same. Confused, he did so.

  In the middle of the road, poised tensely before them, was a man.

  He was thin and lanky, with hair the same bleached color as the animals’ fur and skin that was nearly as white. He had red eyes that reflected the Firelight like crimson jewels. His skin was thin, translucent—so much so that it was possible to see the veins throb in his neck, deep blue veins running down into a white silk collar. He wore a white shirt and sleeveless jacket, white leggings, white leather boots. As if he, being albino, would only wear such animal produce as came from beasts that shared his affliction.

  He smiled, displaying needle-sharp teeth. One of the beasts moved to his side; its claws flexed as it waited.

  Too many, he despaired. How can we fight that many?

  Apparently, Damien thought the same thing. He didn’t sheathe his sword, but he lowered it. With his other hand he reached into his pocket, and drew out the golden earth-disk.

  The man grinned, a bestial expression. In a voice that was half hiss, half laughter, he challenged Damien: “You claim to be a servant of the Hunter?”

  “I’m looking for one of his people.”

  “Then you’re brave, sun-man. Or stupid. Or both.” He squinted toward the Fire. “Put that thing away.”

  Damien hesitated. “Light a torch,” he ordered. It took Senzei a moment to realize that he was talking to him. He fumbled in one of his packs for a brush torch and matches. Finally he found them. And managed to get the thing lit. His hands, and therefore the light, shook badly.

  Damien slid the crystal flask out of his belt and into the neck of his shirt. The Firelight faded, replaced by Senzei’s flickering orange flame.

  “Much better.” More of the beasts had come onto the road; Senzei could feel his horse trembling, anxious to flee the smell of danger. “It hurts the eyes.”

  “I’m looking for Gerald Tarrant,” Damien told him.

  “Yes. He knows that.”

  “You know where he is?”

  The thin man shrugged. “In the keep. The Hunter’s warren. Where he belongs.”

  “And the woman he had with him?”

  The red eyes sparkled. “I don’t keep track of the Hunter’s women.”

  Damien tensed; for a minute Senzei thought that his rage would get the better of him and he would attack the man. He looked at the two dozen animals waiting to take them, and despair filled him. Prepare to die, he thought, and he gripped his weapon even more tightly.

  But Damien didn’t attack. Instead he said coldly, “You’ll take us to him.”

  Something flashed in the albino’s eyes. Irritation? Anger? One of the white wolves growled. But then he answered, in a voice as smooth as silk, “It is what I came to do.”

  He looked to the south, where the road behind them was swallowed up by darkness. For a moment it seemed that his eyes gave off a light of their own, a crimson far more brilliant than mere reflection could account for. He whispered something into the air—a Working? —and then waited. After a moment, a pounding could be heard in the distance. Rhythmic. Familiar. Horses’ hooves? Senzei wished that Damien was facing him, so that he might read his expression. But the priest refused to be distracted, and kept his eyes fixed on the albino sorceror. When a horse broke into their circle of light and galloped past them, he didn’t turn. Not even Senzei’s horrified gasp was enough to bring him about, although his body went rigid in anticipation when he heard it.

  It was their horse. The one they had left behind, the one that Damien had killed. Now it was drained of all its color as surely as it had been drained of life. Thin rivers of blue coursed down its hide where red blood once had spilled. Its eyes were empty, unfocused, its expression unresponsive. And from its belly—

  Senzei fought the urge to gag, succeeded only because there was nothing left in him to bring up. Or no strength left in him to vomit. Out of the horse’s belly hung the tail ends of the worm-creatures, which writhed from side to side as their forward halves, buried within the beast, sought out choice morsels of horse flesh.

  The white man swung himself up onto the ghastly animal. One of the worm-ends, responding to his proximity, wrapped itself around his ankle—and then snapped back suddenly, as if burned. After a moment, it shuddered and went limp. The rider grinned.

  “Since you will not be driven,” he hissed, “then you must be led. Yes?” He kneed the gruesome mount into motion, one hand tangled in its death-bleached mane. “Follow me.”

  And he laughed softly—a silken, malevolent sound. “I believe the Hunter is expecting you.”

  Twenty-five

  I’m going to kill him, Damien thought.

  It wasn’t anyone in particular that he meant, so much as a general desire to strike out at the source of his frustration. The Hunter would serve. So would the courteously arrogant Gerald Tarrant. Even this albino henchman of the Hunter would do nicely—although if it came down to trying to unhorse him in combat, Damien didn’t know if he could bring himself to kill the same animal twice.

  But he was checked in his rage by a single thought, which echoed in his soul with unaccustomed power. Ciani. She was still alive. He sensed it. If he gave in to his fury, and by doing so caused her to suffer more . . . no. It was unthinkable. Alone, he could have risked such action. God knows, his sword had gotten him out of worse situations than this. But now he was traveling with others and was responsible for their well-being. It was an unaccustomed burden, and sometimes it chafed as sorely as manacles. It would have been far, far easier to deal with this situation if he were alone.

  But let’s be honest, shall we? If it wasn’t for the others you wouldn’t be here in the first place.

  He twisted back in his saddle to take a look at Senzei, who was following somewhat behind him. The man was flushed with fever, and the bruise on his forehead shone livid purple in the flickering torchlight. His hand on the reins trembled slightly—not from fear, Damien suspected, so much as from weakness. He looked bad, in the ways that Damien had come to recognize as life-threatening. He should never have let him come this far. But what other choices had they had, realistically speaking? Should Senzei have remained behind in Morgot so that the rakh-creatures could make a second attempt to kill him? Or stopped for a rest in mid-Forest, in the hope that a doctor would just happen by? Damien wished he dared to Heal his companion, or even do a Numbing. That was the most frustrating part of all of this: riding through a land of such incredible raw power, and being unable to Work it to save the ones he cared about. But he remembered Senzei on the roof of the hotel in Kale, trying to throw himself over the edge in order to embrace something he later described as a “black sun.” If the current had been that bad there, then Working it this close to the center of the whirlpool would be tantamount to suicide.

  I’d do it, Damien thought grimly. If I thought I could Heal him before it got me, I’d do it in a second.

  They reached the base of yet another steep incline;
Damien felt his horse shudder in exhaustion. And for the first time all night he felt a touch of true despair. All of his assorted skills couldn’t save them if his mount gave out; they might free Ciani and even manage to heal Senzei, but without horses they would never make it out of the Forest alive.

  The trail switchbacked several times, growing steeper and steeper as they went. They were near the mountains, then. Perhaps even among them; it was impossible to gain any sense of their true position with the canopy overhead, and the endless exhausting miles behind them. He patted his horse firmly on the neck and heard it nicker in response. They had been through worse together. They would get through this. Senzei’s mount, on the other hand, was city-trained; Damien wondered how much longer it would last.

  And then they came around a turn and it was there before them: a soaring edifice of black volcanic glass that broke through the canopy high above and laid bare the night sky beyond it. Prima’s silver-blue crescent crowned the central tower like a halo, and cold moonlight shivered down the glassy stone walls like gleaming mercury, caught in the streaks and whorls of the obsidian brickwork. It was surreal. Breathtakingly beautiful. And, to Damien, disturbingly familiar.

  Where had he seen it before? He tried to pin down the memory, but nothing would come. Maybe it wasn’t the castle itself that he remembered. Maybe just something like it.

  Something like the Hunter’s keep?

  They rode into the courtyard and for a moment simply sat still on their horses, stunned by what was before them. The volcanic glass of the castle’s facade reflected their torchlight back in pools and arcs that shimmered across the brickwork like living things. Finials rose like tiny black flames from the tips of sweeping arches, and a tracery of fine black stone guarded narrow windows that reached up toward the moonlight. Revivalist, Damien observed. The pinnacle of that style. And for the first time in his life, he understood what the allure of the period must have been.