Black Sun Rising (49 page)

“Hells!” he heard Ciani whisper as she realized what was happening. A rumbling filled the air around them—which meant an earthquake, very close and very bad. Damn it! Not now! The rock overhead began to tremble visibly, and he could feel his horse shift its weight nervously, responding to signals half-sensed, half-felt, from the ground beneath its feet. He tightened his hands on the reins, spasmodically—but there was nothing he could do, absolutely nothing. They were utterly at the mercy of Nature, and she was known for her ruthlessness. He tried to urge his horse a step closer to the cliff face, but either the animal didn’t like that strategy or it was so far gone in its own mounting terror that it simply didn’t acknowledge the command. He decided he would be safer on his own two feet and began to dismount. Suddenly the cliff wall overhead split, with a sound like thunder, and segments of rock the size of a man’s head crashed to the path right before them. The horse reared back, squealing in terror, and nearly crushed Damien against the jagged wall behind them. He didn’t dare let go lest the animal trample him, but nor did he have a secure hold on its saddle; as falling rocks pelted them like hailstones he struggled to stay in control, tried to calm the beast. But all his practiced words and signs could do nothing to lessen its terror. Maybe it could sense from him just how dangerous their position was. Maybe the fae had taken his own fear and injected that into the animal, so that it must deal with human terror along with its own. Or maybe the tremendous surge of earth-fae that had blinded Gerald Tarrant was capable of amplifying all their reactions so that logical decisions were drowned out in a deluge of primal fright.

Something struck Damien. Hard. Sharp rock cut deeply into his skull, as though he had struck the wall—or the wall had struck him. He felt something massive come down onto him, crushing him against his saddle, driving both him and the horse to the ground. Only the ground wasn’t there anymore. His horse’s feet struck wildly at where the ledge should have been and found only emptiness. The flawed rock had crumbled—and they were tumbling downward, the two of them, blood pouring down into Damien’s eyes as the river rushed up hungrily to meet them. He felt darkness closing in on him and fought it, fought it back with everything in him that hungered for life—because to lose consciousness now was to die, plain and simple. Head pounding in pain, hands shaking, he somehow managed to yank his foot out of its stirrup and twist himself so that when the animal landed he wouldn’t be beneath it. They struck with a force that sent water flying high up onto the cavern walls. The horse screamed in pain as it landed, began flailing out wildly. Rock rained down like hail about them as Damien struggled to get out of range of the animal’s hooves. Then the current grabbed him and he went under; ice-cold water filled his mouth as the river’s angry force slammed him against rock—once, twice, again. He reached out for anything to serve as anchor, to fight against the current, but his fingers met only slick rock and slid off, leaving him to the mercy of the water. Dimly he was aware that the current had dragged him down deep, very deep, and was taking him out into the middle of the river. His lungs already throbbed with pain, and he had to struggle not to try to breathe as he tried to determine which way was up. But all was chaos about him, a churning hell of icy water and rock that had neither direction nor order. He felt one shoulder strike bottom with a force that nearly drove the last air out of his lungs, and for one desperate moment he thought that he might Work to save himself—but the ground was still trembling, and the rumble of the earthquake still sounded even below the water, which meant that a Working meant death. Absolutely. Only a fool would even try it.

Or a dead man.

He gathered himself, knowing with one portion of his mind that he was about to be fried to a crisp—and knowing with another that if he did nothing he would certainly die. The river was too strong to fight. He needed air. Blood-red stars exploded before his eyes as his lungs began to convulse spasmodically, but he kept his throat closed as he gathered himself for a Working. The cold of the water had numbed him with a chill that was strangely warm. Was this what dying was? Time, now. Grasp the power—

And then something jerked him, hard. The stale air burst from his lungs and before he could stop himself he breathed in; water poured into him, drowning out his life. But something had taken hold of his harness, was dragging him back. Stars were swimming in his vision as he reached out toward the source of the movement. A strong arm grasped him, hand to wrist, and held. He was yanked upward—and he broke the surface gasping, water pouring out of his nose and mouth as he retched helplessly, dragged above the level of the river’s surf by a grip even colder than the water, colder than the river and the freezing wind and all his fear combined. He stumbled as he was pulled through the icy current. The grip on his wrist was so steady it could have been made of solid rock; the hand that drew him upward was the center of his universe, the only thing he saw as the red stars slowly receded into blackness, as his lungs finally acknowledged the presence of air and drew it in, aching from the effort.

He looked up, saw Tarrant’s visage highlighted by moonlight. The man’s expression was strained, his hair plastered down about his face like wet seaweed. But despite the whitewater current that threatened to drag them both under again, his grip was like steel as he drew Damien up, inch by inch, until he was safely above the level of the water. The priest gasped for breath, tried to mouth something useful. Like,
Thank you
. Or,
Thank God
. Or perhaps,
What took you so damned long?
But it took too much effort just to breathe; he had to settle for gasping like a beached fish as the tall man held him, while the current swept hungrily about their knees.

“It’s over,” the Hunter told him. “That one, anyway.” By which he meant, of course, the first shock wave. With a quake of that intensity, there could be several. Many. It could go on for days. “We need to move.”

He managed to nod, felt his head explode with raw pain. Something red ran down into his left eye. “Zen—Ciani—” He managed to twist so that he could see back the way he had come, toward the figures that still clung to that precarious ledge. He caught the glint of moonlight on Ciani’s hair, recognized Senzei’s lanky frame. Both safe, then. Thank God. The figures were hazy, masked by a distance that was greater than he had expected; the river must have swept him far downstream before Tarrant had managed to save him. He counted the horses—or tried to, the dark figures bled into each other at this distance—and it seemed to him that one was missing. But whose? And with what equipment? Their lives might well depend on the answer to that.

And then he sensed Tarrant’s stillness, and looked down. At the river about them. At the three figures who stood in it, knee-high in the swirling water. All were human, in general form—and anything but human, in the details of their features. Golden eyes stared out of faces that were insulated in matching fur, and tufted ears swung forward to test the breeze, as a cat’s might. He was aware of thick manes that covered both the shoulders and chests of the creatures, and trinkets of metal and shell that had been knotted into them. Aware most of all of the weapons they were holding, sharp-tipped spears that were aimed at the humans’ midsections with obviously hostile intent. Hatred glimmered in the golden eyes, far more intense than anything the moment should warrant. It was the hatred of an entire people, that had been festering for decades. The hatred of an entire species, for Damien’s own.

As for Tarrant ... he was staring at the spearpoint directed at him with an expression that was half bemusement—was someone daring to threaten him?—and half something darker. Anger? Fear? Would the Hunter die if his heart were pierced?
A knife through the heart is as fatal to an adept as it is to anyone else
, he had said. And with the earth-fae still surging in the quake’s deadly aftermath, he didn’t dare Work to save himself. For one dizzying instant Damien thought that this was indeed what Gerald Tarrant would look like when facing his own mortality. When facing the fact that in one moment all the work of centuries might be thrown away, and a single spear-stroke commit his soul to the hell he had been determined to avoid.

Then the Hunter looked at him—and something that was almost a smile passed across the man’s lips. Something that was almost humor glittered in his eyes.

“I do believe,” he said quietly, “that we have found the rakh.”

The demon Calesta took form slowly, like blood congealing in open air. The scent of the river still clung to him, and it clashed with the musty closeness of the Citadel’s confines until at last the former was abolished, freshwater breezes choked out of existence by the cloying sweetness of the Master of Lema’s favorite incense.

“You found them,” came the whisper.

The demon bowed.

“Tell me.”

“There are four: the woman, an adept, and two others. The adept is the most dangerous.”

“Of course.” Hunger was an echo behind the words. “Also the most satisfying. Their purpose?”

“To kill you. And, en route, your servants. As well as any other hungry thing foolish enough to cross their path.”

“An ambitious plan.”

“It is the priest’s. He dominates.”

“And the adept?”

“He endures.”

A chuckle sounded. “You’ll take care of them, yes? It’s so easy, with that kind. You’ll read what’s in their hearts, and know what to do. As always.”

The demon bowed.

“Spare the adept, of course. And the woman. Weaken them if you can, by all means, bring them as near to death as you like—but bring them to me intact. I ... hunger for them.”

The demon’s voice was a hiss, a low screech, the sound of metal on metal. “I understand.”

“As for the others ... it’s no concern of mine whether they live or die. Do what pleases you, Calesta—provided their power is neutralized. You have such marvelous instincts regarding these things. And they’re coming here, yes? Marching here right into our hands. How very convenient.”

“The adept, my lord, is sun-sensitive.”

The One Who Binds stiffened. And nodded, slowly. Anticipation, like a drug, coursed through veins that had been jaded by time; the thought of conquest surged through ancient flesh like orgasm.

“That’s sweet news indeed,” came the whisper. “And power enough, for any who know how to use it. He was a fool to come here! And the woman—more than a fool, that one. I had her once. I will have her again. And when I am one ... you, Calesta, may have what remains. Serve me well, and I promise it.”

The demon bowed. The hint of a smile played across its obsidian visage; the mirrored eyes flashed hunger.

“As you command,” it hissed.

For a moment, no one made a sound. The tension was eloquent enough, with its accompanying kinesthetic signals: a rakhene hand tightening on a spear haft. A rakhene body testing the river bottom for stability, preparing to thrust. Rakhene eyes filled with a terrible hatred, that looked simultaneously upon the present moment and a horrifying past: the attempted obliteration of an entire intelligent species. In the shadow of such a holocaust there was nothing to say, no way to say it. Attempts to bargain would have been an insult. Pleas for mercy would have seemed a joke. Man’s own actions had provided him with a far more ruthless enemy than anything the fae might invent.