What did he hunger for? If his life were to be rendered down to one ultimate statement of purpose, if the energy that kept him fighting were to be attributed to one driving force, what would it be?
To know, when I died, that my descendants would inherit Earth’s dream. To know that my children’s children would possess the stars. To believe that I’ve changed the world that much.
Then: Nice thought, he reflected dryly. You need to stay in one place long enough to have children, if you want all that.
They were driven through a good part of the rakhene camp, to a modest tent some distance from the center of things. In response to a barked command the tent’s owner came forth from its confines, ducking in order to pass through the minimal opening. He was a slender rakh, maneless, and not dressed for company; he hurriedly wrapped a patterned robe about him as he emerged, allowing one brief flash of a minimal loinskirt adorning a thin, lanky body.
The warrior-rakh’s mane-beads rattled as he issued a command, the hair about his shoulders rising so that considerable bulk was added to his already sizable frame. Looking at the two of them, it was hard to imagine them being from the same species. As the thin rakh protested—weakly—Damien thought he caught sight of a small ruff of fur about the neck that might be the remnants of a mane. Or the undeveloped promise of one? Male, then, most likely, and either young or poorly formed. Such a creature would rank low in any animal hierarchy.
And—let’s be honest—among humans, too. Would I have gotten half as far as I did without the physical capacity to back up my intentions?
Clearly resentful, the rakh finally relented. As he ducked back into the tent to collect a few treasured belongings his back was rigid with resentment, and his teeth were bared in a whispered hiss—but all that was gone when he faced the maned one, defiance giving way to the power of a pecking order he lacked the strength—and courage—to challenge.
Prodded by spear-point, the party was forced into the small tent. All but Tarrant, who paused by the door flap and turned east, to look at the sky. Dark gray, Damien noted; still somber in tone, but no longer lightless. There was perhaps half an hour left.
“You stay here,” he said sharply. “I’m going hunting.”
The maned one stiffened as he tried to withdraw, and blocked his way with the shaft of a spear. “You all stay here until we release you,” he said sharply. The rakhene accent made his words hard to decipher, but his intentions were clear. His fur bristled stiffly, mane ornaments jingling like wind chimes. “You understand? You go in, with others.”
A spear was leveled, poised to strike through Tarrant’s heart at a moment’s notice. Damien tensed—and wished he had his sword, his springbolt, even a heavy rock—but with a tight knot building in his gut he realized he was more weaponless than he had ever been in his life. Tarrant had damned well better know what he was doing—because three unarmed humans against eight of these sturdy rakh wouldn’t even buy him a moment’s time. Not when every weapon was already leveled against them.
In answer to the rakh, Tarrant simply stared. Something in his expression warned Damien to look away . . . but fascination overrode that instinct, and he watched as the pale gray eyes seemed to take on a light of their own. An unnatural light, that seared one’s vision but offered no real illumination: coldfire. For a moment even the rakh were fascinated, and though no weapon was lowered it was clear that, for the moment, no one would strike. Like animals led to the slaughter, Damien thought grimly, mesmerized by a flash of sunlight on the butcher’s knife blade. Then, suddenly, the lead rakh cried out. His body convulsed in wavelike spasms, which rippled through his flesh with almost audible force. A cry escaped his lips—pain and terror and fury all combined, a wordless screech of agony that made Damien’s flesh crawl—a sound so like the death cry of Tarrant’s last kill that for a moment it was almost as though they were down in the canyon, listening to that cry again. And then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. The rakh’s body fell to the ground, spasmed once, and then was still. Thick blood, blue-black, stained the fur about its mouth, oozed from the eyes and ears. And its groin. Damien felt his own testicles draw up in cold dread as he forced himself to look away, tried not to consider what manner of internal damage might give birth to such a seepage.
For several seconds the remaining rakh were too stunned to move. Damien wondered if they had even seen human-style sorcery before, or if this kind of killing had been made doubly horrible by their ignorance of the power that caused it. Either way, it was now clear to them that Tarrant was a force to be reckoned with. Damien could see their fear and their anger warring with hierarchical instinct, hatred and awe comprising a volatile mixture in their half-bestial, half-human brains.
“Any other objections?” Tarrant asked quietly.
If there were, no one dared to voice them.
Coldfire flared about the adept’s form, close enough to Damien that he could feel its flame—a thousand times colder than mere ice, or winter’s chill—lick his flesh. Then the man’s body was suddenly gone, and in its place a glorious hunting bird rose from the ground. Black this time, with feathers that gleamed like shards of obsidian and claws that glittered like garnets. It was a powerful form, and one clearly designed to impress the rakh; they backed away as the glistening wings beat hard above them, and a thick smell that might have been fear rose from the place where they stood.
Damien saw Ciani slip her hand into Senzei’s, saw the man squeeze it tightly in reassurance. And he felt something inside himself tighten as if in loss, to see her turning to another man. Jealousy? That isn’t rational, he told himself. Certainly not with Zen. But he wondered in that moment if he had ever known so close a friendship as the two of them shared—or if he could ever establish one, for as long as he kept moving. That simple contact—so slight, yet so eloquent—was years in the making.
He forced his thoughts back onto their circumstances, and forced his gaze to follow theirs, to the fallen rakh’s body. Already it had begun to decompose, as if the flesh itself was anxious to decay. As they watched, deep purple carrion larvae crawled in the body’s shadowed contours. He looked up at Tarrant and shivered, despite himself. Guessed at the death-hunger which must burn inside the man, to foster a power of that nature. So carefully controlled. So masked, by that elegant facade.
Thank God he’s on our side, he thought.
And then added, with grim honesty: For now.
It was light outside when the delegation came to them, and the three humans winced as they exchanged the close darkness of their prison-tent for the searing light of day. All about them the camp was still; the few figures that moved about did so with obvious reluctance, doing their chores quickly and then disappearing once more into the shadowy confines of a patchwork tent. Occasionally, several children would scamper out into the open. Then the sharp cry of an adult would ring out, and the youngsters would disappear again, into their parents’ dark haven. Clearly, the rakh were nocturnal creatures.
“You come,” an aged female announced. Her fur was yellow-white, stripped of its color by her many years, or perhaps by stress. The khrast female was with her, as was a male of that group. There were several others as well, but their attitude made it clear that they were subservient; Damien focused his attention on the dominant threesome.
They were led through the camp to a large and ornate tent near its center. The older rakh hissed a few short words into the doorway and received an equally short response. She stood aside and beckoned for the humans to enter. From the doorway wafted a familiar odor, animal musk tinged with a vinegar scent. Fear? Damien ducked within—
—and saw a tableau of mourning, a sorrow so passionate that despite its alien form the full force of it was communicated, and set his priest’s soul vibrating in sympathy. He glanced around the tent as Ciani and Senzei entered behind him, noted ornaments draped in soot-blackened cloth, tapestries turned to the wall, rugs rolled up to reveal dry, dead earth. A woman knelt in the center of the room,
and she looked up as Damien studied her; her fur was caked with thick black mud in what was obviously mourning-custom, and her eyes were red-rimmed from sleeplessness. By her side, on a plain woven mat, the figure of a maned male lay still. But for his shallow breathing, one might have assumed him to be dead. But for his open eyes, that gazed out into nothingness, one might have thought him asleep.
Damien’s first instinct was that they had brought him here to Heal—and then he realized that these people knew nothing of his vocation, and must therefore have some other purpose. He looked at the khrast female for explanation—and saw a measureless anger fill her eyes. It was not directed at him.
The older rakh muttered something to him, hissed phonemes and whispered gutturals; the khrast woman translated. “She says, do you see, this one has been emptied. Totally. In humans there are many parts of thinking, so that when they eat your thoughts maybe only one part of the soul is consumed; the rest remains, and can function. But when they eat from the rakh, all is one: one brain, one soul, one heart. One meal, for the eaters. Everything is gone, but life.”
“When did it happen?” Damien asked.
The khrast questioned the older woman briefly, then answered, “Five nights ago. He was on watch, by the river. The next watch found him . . . like this.”
He felt Ciani close behind him, felt her fear like a palpable thing between them. And her fascination. So: the demons that had consumed her memory had struck here, too. Fresh from the human lands, they had stopped off for a snack on their way to . . . wherever.
He looked into the male’s eyes—empty, so empty!—and wondered how many others there were. Empty bodies strewn along the path of these demons, marking the way to their homeland. God in heaven, how long had this thing been going on? How much more suffering would they discover, as they came ever closer to its demonic source?
“We came to kill them,” he told her. “We have reason to believe that when they die, their victims may recover. Whether that will hold true for your people, as well as for ours. . . .” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. The rakh might seem alien to him, but they were certainly intelligent enough to realize what was at stake here: not only Ciani’s health, Ciani’s recovery, but that of their own people. And ultimately, the safety of their species.
“This is your purpose?” the older woman asked.
“It is.”
“This is reason you come here?”
“Our only reason,” Ciani assured her.
“And Mer Tarrant’s, as well,” Senzei added.
She considered that. She considered each of them, in turn—and her face shadowed briefly as she considered their absent companion. At last she indicated the soulless body that lay before them, and demanded, “You help this.”
Damien hesistated. “If we kill these demons, he may heal. But we can only do that if you let us go free.”
“And your . . . friend,” she said coldly. “The one who kills rakh. Speak of him.”
“Tarrant’s a weapon,” Damien answered sharply. “He can turn the fae against these creatures, better than any of us. If you want these demons killed, this man freed . . .” he indicated the body on the mat. “Then we need him. We four must work together.”
She hissed softly, but made no other response. Clearly, Damien’s answer was not to her liking.
“We think,” she said at last. Harshly. “We talk, to rakh hris. Own kind.” She looked to the younger woman, who explained, “Your fate is no longer in the hands of our fighting males. No longer subject to their temper. That is, for as long as you behave as you should . . . there’ll be no harm done to you. You understand? Not to you, or your possessions. If you behave.”
“We understand,” Ciani said quietly.
“When does the killer return?”
It took him a moment to realize whom she meant. “Tarrant?” He hesitated. “Maybe this afternoon—maybe not until tonight.” He wondered just how much the woman knew about them. Whether she knew that Tarrant could be killed by sunlight, a fact he was trying to obscure. “Certainly no later than that.”
“You come then,” the older rakh commanded. “We talk, all rakh and human four. Together.”
She looked at the body on the mat—at the mud-covered figure mourning by its side—and whispered, “There is maybe something here we hate, even more than you.”
Thirty-three
“Our purpose in coming here,” Gerald Tarrant said, “is to kill one demon, and free our companion. Nothing more.”
Damien had known him long enough to sense the fury that lay behind those words, but the Hunter masked it well. There was no way for his rakhene audience to know how close he was to killing them all, how much it infuriated him to negotiate with them like this, bargaining for freedom rather than simply claiming it. Damien didn’t doubt for a minute that the man’s tainted soul would much rather rend their flesh and spirit and leave their camp a shattered ruin, for the audacity of having interfered with him. And he blessed whatever remnants of honor still existed in the man, for forcing him to follow a gentler course.
At least they were according him—and his party—some small measure of respect. His display of murderous sorcery seemed to have earned not only their fear but a grudging deference; now, when the humans were herded about they were no longer treated like animals, more like . . . loaded weapons, he decided. And yes—that’s exactly what Tarrant was. Loaded, cocked, and itching to fire.
With one half of his mind he listened to the adept describe their travels to date, a version that he diplomatically edited to suit their current purpose. With the other half he studied their audience. A good portion of the village must be gathered here tonight, ranged around them in concentric ranks so numerous that the outermost rakh were beyond the reach of the firelight; only the occasional flash of green eyes betrayed their presence at the edge of the gathering. In the center, grouped about the bonfire, were the humans and their rakhene judges: elders, a handful of heavily maned males, and of course the seven biligual khrast. A gathering so disparate that it was hard to imagine them coming to any manner of agreement, least of all on a matter as complex as this one.
Then: Not complex at all, he thought grimly. They want us dead. Period. We’re fighting to earn the right to live. The fact that we’re using words rather than weapons doesn’t make it any less of a battle.
Quietly, he tried to shift his weight into a more comfortable position. The ground was rocky, and the rakhene clothing they had given him did little to cushion him from its assault. He stopped himself from cursing the shortcomings of his hosts, decided to be grateful that they had accorded him even this much hospitality. His personal possessions were God alone knew where, swept downriver along with his horse. His only clothes had been those on his person when he arrived, soaked through and nearly frozen solid. Once the rakhene elders had decided they were going to wait for Tarrant’s return, they had outfitted him as best they could . . . and it was hardly their fault that none of the rakh were of his stature. The largest garment that could be procured—a kimonolike robe decorated with colorful pictoglyphs—fell several inches short of covering his chest, and ultimately it had to be combined with with an underrobe and female tabard to do its job. He must have looked extremely odd, judged by their custom . . . but that was still an improvement over displaying his bare chest to the winds. Not to mention exhibiting his relative hairlessness in a tribe where such a quality was associated with females and runt males.
Holding all those layers in place was his thick leather belt, which he refused to relinquish even for a moment. He hadn’t dared to check on its contents for some time after their capture—he was afraid that if the rakh observed how much he valued it they might take it away from him, as they had his sword—but as soon as the humans had been left to their own devices he had unlaced its closure, and drawn out the two precious containers. Both were still intact—thank God!—though neither was wholly undamaged. The silver flask had a dent in one side, which spoke of some severe
impact; the crystal flask, still glowing with the pure golden light of the Fire, had developed a jagged flaw that followed the line of its engraved surface pattern, but was still apparently airtight enough to safeguard the few drops of moisture remaining within it. Relief was so strong in him when he saw that the Fire was safe, he could taste it in his mouth. God help them all if that most precious weapon were ever lost.
Tarrant had finished with his narration now, and there was no way to tell whether it had fallen on sympathetic ears or not. The rakhene faces were unreadable.
“You came to kill one demon,” an elder female challenged them.
It was Damien who spoke. “We came to see to it that one demon dies, in order for our friend to be freed. As for the rest of them . . .” he hesitated. What was it they wanted to hear? What words would buy his party safe passage? “I think we would all rather see them dead than feeding on the living. Wouldn’t you? But whether that’s something we four can accomplish remains to be seen.”
The high-ranking rakh whispered among themselves in their native tongue, an occasional English word thrown in—usually mispronounced—to clarify a given point. Damien noted that one of the khrast women was nearly naked now, her few minimal garments adorning rather than concealing full, heavy breasts, dark nipples, rounded hips and thighs. She fidgeted restlessly as she listened to the proceedings, unable to concentrate on any one focus for more than a minute or two. Periodically her eyes would wander over to one of the inner circle’s males, and fix on him with candid hunger. In heat? Damien wondered. The thought was oddly disquieting.
“There is more than demons in our east,” an elder female announced at last. “There is a human also.”
Across the circle, he saw Senzei stiffen. His own heart doubled its pace excitedly as this new information hit home.
“What manner of human?” he asked her. “Where?”
It was clear that she lacked the words she needed to answer his question efficiently. “In Lema,” she offered. “Which is place most east, before water. In the place of storms. Assst!”
Black Sun Rising Page 37
