If we knew how they trapped Tarrant we might understand them better. We might understand them enough.
With effort he forced himself away from that train of thought and turned his attention back to his companion. Animal-alert, she was scanning the brush around their camp for any sign of movement.
“How’s your Working?” he asked her.
She shrugged. “As humans would say, I Called. Last night, when the moons passed overhead and the tidal power was strong. If the Lost Ones are anywhere within hearing, they’ll come to us—or we’ll go to them. Either way, we’ll meet.” She shook her head slowly, as her eyes scanned the white-shrouded land encircling their camp. “There’s no saying how, of course. Or when.”
“Or if?”
Again she shrugged.
“Is that how Zen called you to us?”
“Very similar. In my case I read his message directly, and decided to respond to it. But the result is much the same. If this attempt succeeds, my call will fix on a Lost One whose path might cross our own—if such is available—and the currents will shift in response, to maximize the odds of our meeting. If the Lost One is conscious of the currents she may be aware of that process. I was. If not . . .” She raised her hands, palms open, suggestively.
“You say she.”
The corner of her mouth twisted upward in a slight smile. “They are rakh,” she pointed out. “If they have anything similar to a Worker, it will be a female. Our men generally lack the . . . time for such pursuits.”
“And the interest?”
“Their interests are quite limited,” she agreed. She looked him over, top to bottom; it was an appraising glance, clearly meant to assess the features of his manhood. “But they do have their uses,” she told him finally.
“It’s nice to be good for something,” he said dryly.
“I meant rakh men,” she corrected. “Who knows what humans are good for?”
She stood, in one fluid movement that belied the discomfort of her previous posture. And threw the springbolt to him so that he caught it in his lap.
“Your turn to stand guard,” she told him. “I’m going to try to get some sleep.”
Then she looked over to where their mounts were tethered, and her whole body suddenly tensed. Eyes narrowed, her attention focused on . . . what? What special signs were visible to her rakhene senses, that went unnoticed by his human sight?
“Watch the xandu,” she said quietly. “If anything happens . . . it seems to be focusing on them. Watch them carefully.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But I don’t like the feel of it.” She shook her head slowly. “I don’t like the feel of it at all.”
Nightmares. Of Tarrant and conflagration, and the two combined. Of pain, bright and molten, that shot through the brain like burning spears. And fear—so primal, so intense, that they shook from the force of it long after their bodies had awakened, their minds still vibrating with otherworld terror.
Nightmares. Identical. Every time he and Ciani shut their eyes, every time they tried to rest. The same dreams for both of them. But only for both of them. Neither their rakhene guide nor the animals were bothered. It seemed that only humans could dream such dreams . . . or perhaps, only those who had established a blood-link with the Hunter.
And it was Ciani who first voiced the fear. Or was it a hope?
“I don’t think he’s dead,” she whispered.
Riding. Endless miles of snow-shrouded earth. And questions that needed to be asked, no matter how painful the answers might be.
“What happened between you two?” he asked Ciani. He spoke softly, but even he could hear the strain in his voice. How could he keep his tone light when his spirit was anything but?
The ice underfoot crunched beneath the horses’ hooves, broke beneath the xandu’s toenails. It made for a complex rhythm, not unpleasing.
“You really want to know?” she asked him.
“I think I should.”
White ground, snow-shrouded trees. The creaking, tinkling sound of limbs overburdened with ice. Periodically a bough would crack loose and fall to the path before them, scattering snow in its wake. The worst of the storm had passed to the east of the mountains, but it would be long before the destruction truly ended.
“He apprenticed me,” she said quietly.
He felt something tight and cold coiling inside him, forced it to loosen its death-grip on his heart. She was desperate for sorcery, in any form. It would have been worth the price. . . .
“Anything else?” he asked stiffly.
And she answered gently: “Isn’t that enough?”
There was no more intimate link in the world than that. A true apprenticeship would color one’s development for the rest of one’s life—long after the training period itself ended. Even if her memory was returned to her now, all her Workings would bear the Hunter’s mark. His taint.
The woman I loved will never come back now. Even if her memories are restored to her, she’ll be ... different. Darker. That taint will always be there.
And the part that hurt most was not that it had happened. It was knowing that she didn’t care—knowing that the very aspects of the Hunter which made him so abhorrent to Damien were little more than items of curiosity to her. Never before had the gap between them seemed so wide, so utterly impassable. Never before had he so clearly understood its nature.
“And you?” she asked him. “What was there between the two of you?”
He shut his eyes and told her, “I bled for him.”
Even now, I bleed.
It was Hesseth’s warning cry that woke him up. He came to with the reflexes born of a decade of living with danger—fully awake, fully armed, and half free of the blankets that bound him before he even paused to take in his surroundings. Domina’s light filled the camp, which meant it was near midnight; the full orb of Erna’s largest moon made it easy to locate the source of the disturbance, to see—
The xandu. They seemed to have gone mad, were striking out at everything in their vicinity. Pale manes flying, sharp horn tips stained with blood. He could see where one of the horses had gone down, and the other was straining at its tethers, trying to get as far away from the maddened animals as possible. The fallen horse was lying still, and blood pooled thickly about its chest; nevertheless the nearer xandu impaled it once—twice—again with its horns, as if maddened by its refusal to fight back.
Hesseth was drawing near the creatures, as if intending to calm them. “Stay back!” he ordered. The maddened squealing of the animals made it hard for him to make himself heard. “Back!” She glared at him but at last gave ground, springbolt braced against her shoulder. As he approached the horses, she scanned the surrounding woods quickly for danger. A good move. The screams of the animals were deafening; anything that hadn’t known they were in this part of the mountains sure as hell knew it now.
His practiced eye picked out details of the fight, and he struggled to make some sense of it. The horses seemed terrified, but no more than was reasonable under the circumstances; any attempt on their part to break free seemed to be survival-motivated. And it seemed that one of the xandu—the louder one—was fighting to defend its flesh, rather than struggling for freedom. That left only one out of four to be causing the trouble, and with only three riders to be carried—
He swung his sword in a powerful moulinet, stepping in quickly on the downstroke. Gleaming horns passed within inches of his chest even as the steel blade struck leather and parted it, and he jumped back quickly. The xandu reared back in rage, as if intending to crush him—but when it realized that it was free it turned about and bolted from the camp, almost toppling itself in its mad rush for freedom.
Hesseth looked at the other animals, then at him. “Follow?” she asked.
He glanced at the remaining animals—somewhat calmer, but still agitated—and nodded curtly. “But we don’t separate, under any circumstances. And we don’t leave
without our gear. For all we know this is some new gambit to split us up . . . or to separate us from our possessions. We’ve got good light; there’ll be a visible trail. Let’s pack it fast and move.”
“It could be a trap,” Ciani said. Her voice trembling, ever so slightly.
“It could be,” he agreed. “And we’re going to be damned careful because of that.” He nodded in the direction the xandu had fled mere seconds before. “But if we don’t find out what the hell happened here—and why—it may happen again, later. And that would leave us with too few mounts. Not to mention no answers.”
They broke camp quickly. Within minutes their possessions were bundled onto the three remaining animals, pack straps carefully tightened. It took longer to affix the saddles, as the animals were still highly nervous; Damien had to spare a precious moment to do a Calming, in order that they might be mounted.
Then he knelt by the side of the fallen animal and took its measure. A large, ragged hole had gouged it through one side; the froth that formed on its lips as it struggled to breathe was stained deep red. He put down his sword long enough to draw a knife from his belt, and with one quick motion sliced across the animal’s neck. Quickly, and deeply. There was no struggle, no cry, only a gush of blood that stained his blade and the surrounding snow crimson as the animal died.
He caught Ciani’s eyes on him as grabbed the reins of Tarrant’s horse—the only true horse remaining—and mounted. “Carotid artery,” he muttered. “Kills almost instantly.”
He gestured to his two companions, assigning them positions behind him. “You in the middle,” he told Ciani, “and stay there. Because if you get picked off . . .” Then there’s no point in any of this, he finished silently. Her grim nod said she understood, and she pulled in behind him. Followed by Hesseth, and then—
Into the woods. Ice-laden branches creaking as they passed, miniature avalanches spilling to the ground before and after them. Damien had his springbolt out, braced against his shoulder in a one-handed grip. He could fire it that way if he had to, with his other hand tight on the reins. Not for the first time he wished for his own mount, that had drowned in the river. That animal could have been guided by his knees alone, leaving both his hands free for battle . . . but it was dead and gone now, and wishing for it was no use to anyone. This was what he had to work with, and at least it was a proper horse.—And probably a damned good one, given that Gerald Tarrant had raised it.
The trail was easy to see but hard to follow, a furrow gouged into the snow that wheeled erratically between the rocks and trees as if the xandu itself had no idea where it was going. And maybe it didn’t. Maybe some Working had stung it on the ass—so to speak—and it was fleeing blindly, with no particular destination in mind. Which was marginally reassuring. If the xandu was supposed to lead them into ambush it would probably be following a more direct course, one designed to bring them in at the right angle, at the right time, and in the right frame of mind.
He shouldered his springbolt and aimed at the treetops ahead, watching for motion. But unlike the trees of the Forbidden Forest these had been stripped of their mass by the coming of winter; moonlight clearly illuminated a canopy bereft of life, that offered neither threat nor cover.
And then they came upon it. In a clearing, spacious and well-lit by moonlight. Damien heard his horse’s hooves break through ice as he approached, felt the cold spray of water about his ankles. A stream, frozen over by winter’s chill. He warned the others with a wave of his hand, heard them fording it carefully. The xandu was before him, and it snorted as if in rage—but its eyes were fixed on nothingness, its hot gaze utterly empty. It seemed to be struggling—but with what, Damien couldn’t say. It was almost as if some unseen rope was pulling it backward, while all its brute instinct urged it to flee; animal flesh versus some unseen power, with the latter slowly winning. There was foam on its lip, speckled with red, and when it struck the ground with its front feet Damien could see that it had sprained an ankle, or worse. He glanced back worriedly at the other xandu . . . but whatever madness had claimed this one, it did not extend to the others. It was almost as if whatever power had focussed in on it was content to claim one animal and leave them the rest. A truly chilling concept.
Then the xandu staggered backward, and the ground gave way beneath its feet. First the area directly beneath it, then the ground surrounding—as if the earth itself had lost all support and was falling in on itself. It screamed and struck out blindly—but there was no solid footing, not within reach, and as the ground opened up it fell, limbs flailing, into the lightless hole beneath.
And then a scream pierced the night. One scream, utterly horrible. It was pain and fear and confusion combined, the dying scream of a soul drowning in terror. Damien’s skin crawled to hear it, and he had to pull back on his reins to hold his mount steady. Beside him he could hear the others doing likewise, and he glanced at them briefly to see how they were doing. Hesseth’s eyes were scanning the clearing with fevered urgency, her hand tight on the springbolt’s stock. Ciani’s face was white, but her sword was drawn; fear hadn’t immobilized her. Good.
And then: silence. Utter silence, unbroken by anything save the ragged breathing of their three mounts.
After a moment Damien slid from his saddle; his boots sank deeply into the snow as his horse snorted anxiously, concerned. Ciani’s eyes met his, and she seemed about to say something—and then simply nodded and took his reins from his hand.
He walked forward slowly, utterly cautious. Long sword probing the ground ahead, testing for weakness. The snow was deep here, which made for uncertain footing, but he made certain of each step before he committed himself to the next one; he couldn’t afford to be off-balance, not for a moment.
He could hear sound now, from the place where the xandu had fallen. A soft scraping sound, like that of cloth against snow. Or flesh? Something about it made his skin crawl. Inch by inch, he worked his way to the place where the earth had given way.
—And stared down into a massive pit, splattered with blood. There were wooden stakes set in the bottom, a good six feet long, perhaps two feet apart from each other. Easily as thick as a man’s arm, but narrowing to a slender point. The sharpened tips pointed upward, as neatly arrayed as soldiers in formation; waiting for some animal to fall through the earth and impale itself, with such utter finality that struggle was meaningless.
And in the center of the pit, their xandu. Or rather, the collection of meat and hide that had once been a xandu. Now, blood-splattered, it was barely the shell of its former self, a mere parody of life; its rainbow horns, coated with blood, were stripped not only of beauty but purpose, and its flesh was so ruptured by its brutal impalement that it was hard to imagine its owner running free on the ground above only moments before.
A hunting call, Damien thought. That’s what got it. Something needed food, and its hunger Worked the fae. He stared down at the trap and corrected himself. Not something—someone.
“Damien?” It was Ciani.
“Come look,” he murmured. “Carefully.”
Something was moving in the depths of the pit, between those sharpened stakes. Something that dipped in and out of shadow, its form utterly elusive. And then another one. They were clearly mammalian, though something about their skin reminded Damien of a slug. Then one of them looked up at him. He was dimly aware of details: a long tail, hairless, like a rat’s. Immense pale eyes, filmed with a thick mucus. Hands shaped like the human extremity, but with fingers that seemed stretched to twice their accustomed length, that twined like nervous serpents as their owner looked up at him.
Not skin, no. Fur, short and close-lying. Ears flattened down against the skull, but a small tuft was still visible at their tips. And in those eyes . . . a hint of amber?
He looked up as Ciani and Hesseth came up beside him, their horses tethered to trees far behind them. “What is it?” Ciani asked, as she came to the edge of the pit. But his eyes were on the khrast-woman. She came t
o where the earth had caved in, and gazed at the tableau below—and then drew back, hissing, her claws unsheathing as she braced herself for conflict. Her ears had flattened, in self-defense, and there was no mistaking the shape. Or the resemblance.
“It’s the rakh,” he told her. “The Lost Ones.”
There were five of the creatures in all. The sight of their dead-white eyes and altered limbs made Damien’s skin crawl, but he managed to bury his revulsion deep inside him. Jelly eyes, tentacle fingers ... he looked at Hesseth, saw her body go taut with hostility. A reaction to the scent of the strangers, no doubt—an instinctive response to the right-but-not-right odor of their presence.
“Hesseth.” He hissed the name softly, and as a result it sounded truly rakhene. He waited until she looked at him before he spoke again. “You can’t follow your instinct here. You can’t. It’s fine for territorial conflict, but it won’t get us where we’re going.” The eyes were gleaming with feral hostility. “Hesseth. You understand me?”
After a moment, she nodded. Stiffly. A shudder seemed to pass through her flesh, as though pain had suddenly racked it. Her lips drew back from her teeth and she hissed: a warning. But then her ears seem to relax somewhat, and they lifted slightly. The fire in her eyes became a mere smolder. Her claws sheathed—halfway.
“Human tricks,” she hissed.
He nodded grimly. “It’s the name of the game right now.”
Beneath them, four of the five misshapen rakh crouched tensely, waiting for them to make a move. The fifth had gone forward to the xandu carcass, and was beginning to carve it up into manageable chunks with a crude obsidian blade; but even she was wary, and she cast frequent glances at the travelers standing above her to make sure that they were keeping their distance.
She. Four of them were female. The fifth was male, but nearly as slight of build as his companions. A lesser male, Damien guessed, who had adopted a female role in order to get access to food. He hoped for all their sakes that the male was firmly ensconced in his new role; that way, they might get through this meeting with no need for macho heroics.
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