Black Sun Rising (30 page)

They moved. Suddenly. Not toward him, as he had expected. Nor toward the strange woman, or even Ciani. Away. Their legs splattered with the blood of their fallen comrades, their feet treading on bits of bone ... they ran. Bolted like animals into the brush. Damien moved to follow ... and then stopped and drew in a deep breath. He fought the urge to look down at his arm and looked instead at the woman. She was still there, but the power surrounding her had faded; whatever she was, she was no longer Working.

He turned back toward the clearing, heart pounding. Toward a tableau that was as chilling as the one which he had just witnessed. Senzei lay on the ground, half-stunned, his stomach and side drenched in blood; barely two feet away lay the body of the creature who must have gotten to him, now decapitated. There was another such creature on the far side of the tableau, similarly dispatched. Whatever else Tarrant’s sword might be, it was efficient enough in battle. But as for the man himself....

He stood in the center of the clearing, eyes blazing in hatred and defiance. In his right hand he still held the sword, and its chill glow made his pale flesh look like something long dead. And in his other arm ... Ciani lay there, limp and unmoving, her one visible hand as white and as bloodless as ivory. Where he pressed her against him there was blood, and it trickled down from under her hair to his shirt sleeve as though binding them together. For an instant it was as if Damien could See the very power that linked them, and he stiffened as he recognized its nature. Hating, as he had never hated before.

“You bastard!” he hissed. “You were one of them all the time!”

The rage in Tarrant’s eyes was like a black fire, that sucked the very heat from Damien’s soul. “Don’t be a fool!” he whispered fiercely. The words came hard, as though he were struggling for speech. “You don’t understand. You can’t understand.”

“You did what they did,” he said. Seeing the flow of power between them, sensing the new emptiness inside her. “You took her memories. Deny it!”

Tarrant shut his eyes for an instant, as if struggling with something inside himself. Damien gauged the distance between them, Ciani’s position, his own fading strength—and then the moment was gone, and the black gaze was fixed on him again. Shadowed, as if in pain.

“I became what she feared the most,” the man whispered. “Because that’s what I am.” He spoke the words as if he didn’t quite believe them himself, and as he looked down at Ciani he seemed to shudder. Senzei, behind him, began to stir weakly—and the look that Tarrant shot at him told Damien that not all of the man’s wounds had been imposed by the enemy.

“Tried to stop him,” Senzei gasped. “Tried....”

Slowly, Damien sheathed his sword. Pain pierced through his arm like fire, but he gritted his teeth and managed to ignore it. Ever aware of the hot blood that was dripping from his wounded arm, he snapped open the pouch affixed to his belt. Inside it, in a carefully padded interior, two special flasks lay side by side. One was silver, and now held most of the Church’s precious Fire—the Patriarch’s gift. The other, its original vial, was glass; if he threw it hard enough it would shatter on contact, and the moisture still clinging to its inner surface should be enough to bum the life from any night born demon.

“Don’t be a fool!” Tarrant hissed. He seemed to draw back—but whether in fear or in preparation for a Working, Damien couldn’t say.

“You claiming power over this as well?” He drew it out—and even as little moisture as remained in the fragile vial was enough to send beams of golden light lancing through the clearing. Tarrant breathed in sharply in pain as they struck him, but made no effort to escape them.

“You idiot ... do you really think you can hurt me with that? I can blast the ground beneath your feet faster than you can move—or the air between us, before you can take a breath.”

“Give me Ciani,” Damien said coldly.

Tarrant winced. Seemed to be struggling within himself. At last he whispered, hoarsely, “You can’t help her now.”

“Give her to me!”

If he didn’t throw the flask then, it was because of the expression that came over the man’s face: so human, so strangely tormented, that for a moment he was too shaken to attack.

Tarrant’s voice was hoarse. “I vowed once that I would never hurt this woman. But when that woman’s Working hit, with the full force of the tidal fae behind it ... it awakened a hunger too intense. I
feed
on vulnerability, priest—and she was too close. Too helpless.
I lost control.”

“So much for your precious vow,” Damien growled.

Something flickered in those lightless eyes that was not rage or hatred. Pain? “The true cost of that is beyond your comprehension,” he whispered.

Damien took a step forward. The clearing spun dizzily about him.
“Give her to me,”
he demanded.

Tarrant shook his head, slowly. “You can’t help her,” he said. “Not without killing me.”

His fingers tightened on the flask. “Then we’ll just have to try that, won’t we?”

The Hunter tensed. He raised his sword overhead, a gesture more of display than of active aggression—and if Damien hesitated for an instant, it was in the hope that the man would let go of Ciani before he attacked. So that she would be out of danger. But then the blazing sword was suddenly thrust point downward into the earth, deep into the dirt between them—

And earth-fae met earth-fae in an explosion that rocked the entire ridge. The ground erupted toward Damien, a wall of dirt and shattered stone that hit him like a tidal wave. He was knocked to the ground with stunning force, half buried by the clumps of earth and gravel and rotting wood that the explosion had thrown at him. With a moan he tried to move, but the effort was too much; he tried to close his hand, to see if he still held the precious vial, but his fingers were numb and packed in earth, helpless to move. He made one last effort to get himself up, or at least to dislodge some portion of the debris that covered him ... but it was too much, or else the blood loss was too much, or all of it was too much combined. He slid down slowly into darkness—and even the curse that might have accompanied his passing was muffled by the earth, and went unheard.

Dirt. Clogging
his nostrils. Dirt filling his mouth and throat, mud-wet with blood. Pounds upon pounds of it, covering him over like grave-filling, burying him alive. He struggles, coughs, tries to take in air. Fights to free himself from the monstrous weight that pins him down—tries to turn over, or sit up, or even just raise up an arm, any sign of life—but the earth clings to him like an incubus, mud-fingers gripping his clothing, pulling him down. ...

“Damien!”

“Damien, you hit me once more, I’ll give it to you good. You understand me? Damien!”

He drew in a deep breath, slowly. No dirt. The hundreds of fingers became dozens, became ten. He opened one eye—the other seemed to be swollen shut—and studied a hazy outline that might or might not be Senzei.

“Thank the gods,” the sorceror muttered. “You all right?”

It seemed that the words had miles to travel before they got to his mouth. “I ...” He coughed heavily, and the dirt-filled mucus that clogged his throat loosened; the words came easier. “I think so. Where’s Ciani?”

“Gone.” Senzei’s face was coming into focus now—pale, bruised, hollowed by misery. “He took her.”

“Where?” He tried to sit up. Pain lanced through all his limbs and his head—especially his head—with such searing force that he fell back, gasping. “Where, Zen?”

“Take it easy.” There was another hand, now, smaller and gentler, and it laid a cool cloth against his brow. Damien snatched it away.

“Where,
Zen?”

He hesitated. “The Forest is my guess. As good as any. She said he went north—”

He managed to get his other eye open; a second Senzei swam hazily in his vision. “Who said that?”

“The woman.”

“The one who ...” He floundered for words.

“Yeah. That one.”

“Merciful God.” He raised up a hand to rub his temple, but the touch of flesh against flesh burned him like acid. “What happened, Zen? Tell me.”

The sorceror reached out and took his hand, and gently put it down by his side. “Take a deep breath first.” Damien started to protest, then obeyed. He coughed raggedly. “Again.” The next one went down a bit easier. He took a few more voluntarily, until the flow of air seemed a bit more reliable.

Then he forced both eyes open and took a look around. It was a small room, windowless; Senzei was standing by the bed on one side, a plain, middle-aged woman was seated on the other. An older man in more formal clothing stood at the foot of the bed, scowling in disapproval. After seeing that Damien was both conscious and coherent, the latter figure stalked out.

“Tell me,” the priest whispered.

“After Tarrant—” Senzei drew in a shaky breath. “There was an explosion. Most of it went your way, I think. It must have knocked you out. It hit me, too, but not nearly as hard. I thought I saw a figure picking its way over the mounds of earth ... it must have been him. I couldn’t see Ciani. No details. I passed out. No idea how long. When I came to again ...” He bit his lower lip, remembering. “There was something on top of you. Feeding. The woman was pulling it back, twisting its neck so it would let go ... it had scaled wings, and a tongue like a snake, and its mouth was dripping with blood ... she snapped its head off. Just like that. And threw it over the edge, harbor-side. Then she ... she dug the dirt out of your mouth, so you could breathe. And she took something out of her clothing and rubbed it on your arm, where the wound was. She did some other things—I couldn’t see clearly, I was barely conscious myself—and then she stood, and this ... some kind of animal came to her, walking like a horse but it looked like something else, and it had two long horns, like rainbow glass....” He closed his eyes, remembering; his voice sank to a whisper. “I asked, where did he go? For a moment, she didn’t acknowledge me. Then she looked out toward the northlands, and pointed there. ”Forest,“ she said. ”Where men devour men.“ He coughed heavily. ”Then she mounted and rode off. I tried to get to you, so I could help—but I couldn’t. I couldn’t move. The pain was so bad ... I thought I was dying. Then the sun rose, and they came to help.“

“They?”

“From the inn. They’d heard the explosion.” He glanced at the woman, then away. His voice was bitter. “They waited till dawn before they went outside. Afraid for their precious skins. So we lay there without help till then. The sun rose, and they came outside and got us. They did what they could for our wounds. They gave us blood. You were delirious. It’s been hours....”

Damien tried to sit up. The room swirled around him, and blood pounded hotly in his temples ... and he tried it again. And again. On the third try, he succeeded.

“We need to go,” he muttered.

Senzei nodded. No questions about why, or where. He understood. “You’re in bad shape,” he warned.

“How bad?”

“The doctor said you’d be out for days.”

“So much for that diagnosis. What else?”

“Blood loss, concussion, possible internal damage—he wasn’t sure on that last one, might have thrown it in just to cover all the bases. The wound in your arm seems to be closing up all right—whatever she put on it seems to have kept it from getting infected—but all the stitches in the world won’t keep it from opening up if you use it too much. And you’re bruised like all hell.”

“That’s par for the course,” he said. “What about you?”

Senzei hesitated. “Took a thrust in one side. Pretty ugly, very bloody, but nothing vital was hit. Or so it seems. Hurts like hell—but that goes without saying. The doctor said not to exert myself until it heals.”

Damien noted the stiffness with which he moved, the thickness about his middle where bandages were no doubt layered. “She didn’t do anything for you? The woman, I mean.”

Senzei looked away. “No,” he said softly. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot since it happened. At this point I’m not even sure she meant to save our lives. I mean, the timing was certainly fortunate, but it seems like a chancy way to enter a fight. I think she meant it as a kind of ... test, maybe. To see what we would do. I think ... she helped you because you tried to save her. Because that was your first instinct, when her Working hit.”

“So what was yours?” Damien asked quietly.

Senzei bit his lip. Shook his head. “Let’s not discuss it, all right? Few of us are as perfect as we’d like to be.”