“Children?” he snapped. “Is that what you think they are? You fool!” A hand shot free of the protective cloak and closed about the back of his neck; the Hunter’s skin was hot against his own. “Look at your precious children now. Share my vision and See!”
The power struck him like a hot iron, driving the breath from his body. For a moment he could see nothing but the hot sun, the blazing sun, whose killing light penetrated the fog and reflected from every surface. Then, element by element, he began to pick out details of the carnage. Bodies of children, wracked by coldfire. Only....
Only they weren’t really children.
He staggered toward the nearest clump of bodies, aware that Tarrant was moving with him. Heat lanced up through his arches as he walked on the sunlit ground, and it felt like his head was on fire. He knelt down by one of the bodies and stared at it in horror and amazement. What had seemed the body of a child was transformed through Tarrant’s vision into something twisted, something grotesque, a creature whom the years had tortured even while it played at childish games and believed itself to be truly young. The limbs were skeleton-thin, the torso so emaciated that ribs could be counted. Its joints were swollen with thick calcium deposits that must have made each movement a torment, and a yellow discoloration had begun to envelop one arm.
He staggered to another body, and another. Not all of them were as old as the first, but all stank of age and neglect. Cuts which had been left undressed had ulcerated, leaving one body a mass of open wounds. Cancer, untreated, had consumed a middle-aged woman. From one gashed leg he could smell the stink of gangrene, and another had broken his foot only to have it heal into a crooked, twisted mass.
Numbly he moved from body to body. Sorting through the carnage for understanding, for acceptance. A few of the fallen had been real children, but even those were in bad shape. Whatever Working had maintained the illusion that these poor creatures were children, it had also blinded them to their own infirmity. It had kept them drunk on the vitality of false youth even while age and infection ate away at their true bodies. Little wonder so few of them had survived to old age. Little wonder they had fallen upon their unlucky comrade with such savage glee. Once the concealing illusion had been stripped from her, she was a reminder to them of what they would themselves become. No wonder they feared and hated her. No wonder they killed.
Then the vision faded, and the ground was littered once more with the bodies of dead children. He lowered his head and shuddered, overcome by the awful power of what he had learned.
“We don’t want them following us,” the Hunter whispered hoarsely. His voice echoed with the pain of his exposure; how much longer could he go on like this? “You get the horses and see if you can find our supplies. I’ll see there’s no pursuit.”
“You’re going to kill them,” he whispered.
The Hunter said nothing.
“Some of them are real children, you know. And none of them understand what’s happening.”
“They’re all his,” The Hunter said sharply. Gesturing back toward the statue. “Do you want that behind us? Do you want to be hunted down again as soon as I turn my back?” He strode toward the wall of fog; it seemed to part at his approach. “I’m not arguing with you this time, priest. There’s a time and place for mercy. This isn’t it.”
He said it quietly but firmly. “Not the children, Gerald.”
For a moment the Hunter stared at him. Then, with a muttered curse, he strode into the wall of mist. The gray veil closed behind him, hiding him from their sight.
With effort, Damien rose to his feet. His body ached as though he had fought all night. He looked at Hesseth, at the small child huddled in her arms, and thought, At least we’ve saved one. What was her name, Jenseny? At least she was still a real child, he mused; Tarrant surely would have killed her otherwise.
So many deaths. So much destruction. What force was responsible for all this? He remembered the statue of Calesta and shivered. What was his motive?
“Come on,” he muttered. Trying not to think. Fighting not to feel. “Let’s find the goddamned horses.”
The horses were tired and edgy and not in the best of shape but they could walk, and right now that was all Damien cared about. Jenseny stared at the huge creatures in amazement as Hesseth and the priest gathered up what few stores they had left. Their food was untouched, as were their camping supplies, but many of the small items were missing. At least the weapons were still there, Damien thought. Thank God for that.
They led the horses to the edge of the island, where Tarrant was waiting. In silence he led them down the rocky slope, and out onto the water. Though he knew that what appeared to be part of the river was really a bridge, Damien had trouble getting the horses to brave the route a second time; in the end he had to blind the animals with strips of linen and force them to follow.
When they were across, Tarrant turned back toward the hidden bridge. His movements were stiff, Damien noted, and he sensed that the man was in no little pain. Thus far the thick mist had held, but if it thinned out even for a moment ... he shuddered to think of it.
Then the Hunter reached out his hand, and the water exploded. Pieces of wood and ice went flying up and downstream, and a tree trunk which had been near the bridge shattered into a thousand glassy fragments. Splinters of frozen wood rained down upon the party like hail.
“That should do it,” Tarrant said shortly, and he turned back to lead the party into the woods. Damien felt something tight in his gut loosen up just a little bit. If the Neocount had taken time out to destroy the bridge, that meant that he hadn’t killed everyone on the island. The real children were still alive.
Later, when he managed to pull up beside Tarrant, he whispered softly, “Thank you.”
The Hunter didn’t answer. But Damien knew that he heard.
They walked their horses into the forest. After a day and night in the cramped prison, Damien and Hesseth both needed the exercise. As for the girl, she was hard-pressed to match their pace, and at last her strength gave out. Damien called for Tarrant to stop, and together he and Hesseth lifted Jenseny’s limp form up onto the mare’s back. He could feel Tarrant’s eyes boring into his back, his rage at indulging such a delay. Tough luck, he thought, as he strapped her firmly into the saddle. Deal with it. But when they were done and had begun to move again, he did take a minute to let Tarrant know that the girl might have information they needed. It was only half the reason she was with them, but it was the half that Tarrant would care about. No doubt he had used up his limited quota of human compassion when he spared the children’s lives.
When they moved into the depths of the forest, where foliage conspired with the mist to shield the party from sunlight, Tarrant seemed to relax somewhat. Soon after, when the last of the dim light began to fade, he pushed the makeshift hood back from his head. The skin of his face was raw and crusted, and Jenseny—who had caught only a glimpse of him before—stiffened in her saddle and gasped. But Damien and Hesseth’s reaction (or lack of one) seemed to calm her, and after a moment she was slumped in her seat once again, dozing as they went.
“You’ll be all right?” Damien asked. Not really doubting it.
The Hunter nodded; a bit of singed skin fell from his temple. “True night falls for half an hour tomorrow; if I’m not whole by then, that will heal me.”
He stopped and turned and regarded Jenseny. The tired girl was sound asleep. “Does she really have information?” he challenged. “Something useful?”
Damien hesitated. “She might. And she seems to have Vision of some kind.” She knew I was a priest. Who knows what else she Saw? He looked sharply at Tarrant. “Why? Did you think I said that just to save her?”
Tarrant’s lips tightened, loosening bits of burned skin. It was hard to say if his expression was a smile or a sneer.
“I wouldn’t put it past you,” the Hunter muttered.
They made their camp long after midnight. Damien could no longer remember how
many miles they’d traveled, or how long they’d been moving. He remembered passing the thornbushes, Hesseth holding the girl tight against her while he drove back the branches with smoke, as he had seen the Terata do. They weren’t quite as efficient as the children had been, having had less practice, Tarrant’s horse was badly scratched going through. But it was almost a pleasure to Heal again, a kind of cleansing, and Damien took care to make sure he had cleaned the wound of poison before he used the forest’s earth-fae to knit it safely shut again.
Throughout it all the girl watched them. She was still wary of Damien, though her initial terror seemed to have subsided somewhat. Tarrant seemed to both fascinate and repel her. For his part the Hunter attempted to ignore her existence, and when he did look her way it was with great irritation, as if to say that his life had enough complications without a crazy child being dropped in the middle of it. Damien sensed that as soon as they were alone, or as soon as the girl was safely asleep, Tarrant was going to let him have it for bringing her.
But she could be useful, he thought to himself. She could have information. And behind that lay another thought, even more compelling. I just couldn’t leave her there.
By the time they made camp his whole body ached, and he thought that once he sat down he would surely never move again. For which reason he saw that the girl was down from her mount and working at unpacking the horses before he even tried it. They had lost a lot. Not the large items, the important ones, but all the hundred and one tiny items that he had packed against the day of their unexpected need. Oh, well. On a trip like this you prepared as best you could and then made do with the cards that fate dealt you. At least they had blankets and the crude tent which Hesseth had assembled. At least they had food.
When those were in place—and a fire had been started, and water gathered from the stream nearby to be heated over it, and the horses brushed down and hobbled for the night, and Jenseny huddled inside the tent for some much-needed sleep—he finally allowed himself to ease his weary flesh down to the ground and rest. Hardly a moment after he had done so, Tarrant sat down opposite him.
He met those eyes, so pale, so cold, without wondering what was in them. He knew.
The Hunter spoke first. “You don’t know who she is. You don’t know what she is. The danger of having her with us—”
“In this forest? What’s she going to do?” With a weary hand he wiped a crust of dirt from his forehead. He could taste the salt of sweat on his lips. “She’s a child, Hunter. A very tired, very frightened child. I want to get her out of this dismal place. When we get to the coastal cities, then we can talk about alternative plans.” He rubbed his hands one against the other; his fingernails were dirt-encrusted, his skin little better. “Not here. Not now. Not when I’m so tired I can barely think.”
“She’s not just a child and you know it. If she has Vision—of any kind—then she may have power. She knew you were a priest, Hesseth tells me. Don’t you realize what that implies?”
“I know. I know. But even if she were a full adept—”
“Not all adepts are sane,” Tarrant reminded him. “In fact, very few are. Even in a normal environment the pressures of such a life are almost beyond bearing, and here....” He shook his head. “And she is, as you say, a child. Unstable to start with, even more so under these circumstances. Who can say what goes on in the darker corridors of that brain, or how and when madness might manifest itself? You’re playing with fire here.”
“Then let’s just say I’m prepared to be burned.”
He could see the Hunter’s jawline tighten; reflected firelight burned in his eyes. “Maybe you are, Reverend Vryce. Brave and foolhardy man that you are. But I’m part of this expedition, too, and so is Mes Hesseth. And our mission here is far too important and dangerous for us to take chances like this—even to satisfy your nurturing instincts.” With a fluid motion he stood, and settled his cloak more comfortably about his shoulders. “Think about it.”
“You going somewhere?”
“I have business to attend to.”
“I’d have thought you killed enough for one night.”
The Hunter’s expression was frigid. “The currents will move in their course whether you choose to notice them or not. We’re far enough south that there’s a chance I can read them now, get some kind of bearing on the enemy. And I’d prefer not to Work too close to your guest, if that’s all right with you.”
Damien wondered just what it was about the tone of his voice that set him on edge. The words were certainly no more arrogant and condescending than Tarrant’s usual ripostes, but the tone was ... odd. Too subtle in its difference for him to pinpoint, but the difference was definitely there. For some reason it was unnerving.
“Yeah,” he managed. “Sure. Go ahead.”
As the Hunter left the camp he thought: He’s hiding something.
In the darkness of the forest, in a small clearing sheltered over by trees so thick that even the moonlight was dim, Gerald Tarrant stopped. He took a moment to gather himself, then whispered a Iezu name. As he had anticipated, no formal Summoning was necessary. Even as the last syllable left his lips the demon came to him, drawing its substance from the night.
“So,” Karril said. “You’ve decided?”
His mouth set tightly, the Hunter nodded.
The demon held out a hand to him. In his palm was cradled a tiny star, a bit of Worked light that glimmered and pulsed against his illusory flesh. “Kind of tasteless, given your preferences, but he said it was the best he could do without a physical ward to contain it. And I couldn’t have carried that back with me.”
“It’ll do,” the Hunter said shortly.
He held out his own hand to receive it. The tiny star moved from Karril’s palm to his own, shimmering brightly against the whiteness of his flesh.
“You want me to go?” the demon asked.
“I want you to stay.”
Slowly he closed his fingers over the thing. Power pulsed out from it, fanning out along the current. None of it went to the south, he noted, which was a good sign. Or at least a safe sign. He was still wary of a trap.
Slowly an image formed in the clearing before him. First the shape of a man imprinted itself upon the darkness: not quite as tall as Tarrant, not nearly as young. Then color spilled from its shoulders, became crimson robes. Silk, Tarrant noted, unadorned but finely woven. Jewelry glittered on age-weathered hands. A crown took shape above graying temples.
When the image was complete, it portrayed a man perhaps fifty years of age, light-skinned, mildly athletic. A man who had taken care of his flesh. The figure waited a moment before beginning to speak, perhaps to give Tarrant a moment in which to study it. Then it began.
“Greetings, Neocount of Merentha.” It bowed its head ever so slightly, a gesture of carefully measured respect. “My servant brings me word of your history and your exploits. May I say what a pleasure it is to have a man of your power come here.”
Tarrant said nothing, but his eyes betrayed his impatience.
“By now you are no doubt wondering whom and what you face. Permit me to enlighten you. My name is Iso Rashi, and I serve as Prince of this region. My parents came here some five hundred years ago as part of the Third Expedition. No doubt you know the fate of those ships. The warriors of the One God are fond of bragging of their exploits, but they aren’t quite so eloquent when it comes to their failures. Nearly one hundred men and women survived the slaughter of the Third Expedition, and made their way to the south. Their descendants are my subjects. Ours is a nation birthed in violence, and its currency is hate—for the cities of the north and for all they represent. I make no attempt to hide that fact, or to make apologies for it. We are what the followers of the One God have made us.
“I reach out to you now because I believe that you and I are much the same, Gerald Tarrant. And because there are so few others capable of claiming that distinction. I perceive in your power echoes of my own; I sense in your determina
tion and your ruthlessness the kind of drive that maintains this throne. And we have both conquered death. There is a very special distinction in that. Surely the scale of our lives is different than that of the common man. Surely our vision must be that much more ambitious.”
The figure paused; it reached out one hand toward Tarrant. “I’ve come to offer you an alliance. The undead allied to the undying. My demons have told me of your power; you’ve seen enough evidence of mine to judge it. Can you envision a more perfect match than this? Power allied to power, enough to shake a world.
“What’s in it for me, you ask? The chance to spare my nation what could be a devastating attack, and avoid a conflict that might kill one or both of us. The spirit of Death has a marked distaste for immortals, as you must surely know; I prefer not to tempt him. And for you, Neocount of Merentha? What price would be sufficient to turn you away from battle? What power could tempt you away from your isolation, after so many centuries?”
The figure smiled; the cold eyes gleamed. “I can make you a god.” it pronounced. “My people control the reins of faith in the north. I can put them at your disposal. You can conquer the north in an instant—a vengeful deity whose arrival makes the priesthood of the One quail in terror—or you can play a more subtle game. After a decade of careful propaganda, the Prophet could live again. Within two decades, he could be deified. Within a century....” He gestured broadly. “But I hardly have to describe to you what the power of the popular imagination can accomplish. Think about it, Neocount. The power of a god. The options of a deity. What will the patrons of Hell think of you then, when you raise yourself up out of their clutches forever?”
The figure paused; its arms fell back down to its sides. “That is the substance of my offer, Gerald Tarrant. A true alliance between self-declared immortals, as befits their power and purpose. My mission demands that I subjugate the north, but it doesn’t demand that I destroy it. There’s enough wealth in this region for two men like us, and I propose that we share it. As for any demons who might come between us, perhaps the Iezu ... the faeborn were created to be servants of man, and not his master. Servants are replaceable. Yours and mine.” He smiled coldly. “I think you understand me.”
When True Night Falls Page 36
