Black Sun Rising (55 page)

The springbolt was a mess of battered wood and bent fixtures, and under normal circumstances he would simply have replaced it. But the nearest supply outlet was a good two hundred miles away, and so he took the damned thing apart, piece by piece, and filed and clipped and sanded—and prayed—and then put it carefully back together, in the hopes that it would work again.

The rakh-woman watched silently while he worked, still as a statue.
Or a hunting animal,
he thought. He flexed the loading pin once, twice, and was at last satisfied with its performance. The stock clipped into place with a reassuring snap. To his left he saw Senzei wiping down his sword blade, Ciani oiling their other remaining springbolt. That their weapons had finally been returned to them should have been cause for rejoicing—but instead it had driven home just how much they’d lost at the river, and how very unprepared they were going to be when they reached their enemy’s stronghold at last. As for Tarrant ... he was off wherever adepts went to, when they wanted to Work in privacy. Or maybe he just didn’t like the company.

—
Albeit a slim one,
he forced himself to add.

The special bolts were gone, along with the rest of his personal arsenal. For the tenth time that night, he tried not to resent that fact that it was his horse which was lost—along with his notes, his clothing, and all his special traveling gear. He had made a few replacement bolts, but hesitated to commit too much of the Fire to that one purpose; with only two springbolts between them, it was unlikely they were going to rely too heavily upon such ammunition.

With practiced care he braced the reassembled springbolt against his shoulder and pulled back on the trigger; the sharp crack of its mechanism assured him that it was, for the moment, in perfect working order. With a sigh of relief he lowered it. At least they had two of the powerful weapons left; things could have been much worse. He tried not to think about the loss of his horse as he wound back the tightened spring, forcing its lever up the length of the stock. And then he cursed, loudly and creatively, as the pulley system broke and the lever went flying forward.

“Problem?” the rakh-woman questioned.

“Damned draw system. The thing’ll fire—and I can cock it—but as for Cee and Zen ...” He shook his head, his expression grim. There were no finely milled parts here to replace those which were damaged, nor even the kind of steel he would need to jerry-rig a replacement. Damn it to hell! What good would it do them to have the vulking thing in working order, if half their party couldn’t load it?

The rakh-woman reached out for the weapon; he let her take it. Her tufted ears pricked forward as she studied the half-open mechanism, her eyes as bright and curious as a cat’s. “What’s the problem?”

He indicated the cocking lever with a disgusted gesture and muttered, “Damn thing will only draw straight, now. Fine lot of good that does us! I suppose I could ease up on the pull ... but it wouldn’t have much power then. Hell! I—”

She had curled one claw around the lever, and now she pulled it. Backward, in a motion as fluid and graceful as a dancer’s extension. Her layered sleeves and loose tabard hid whatever play of muscle and bone supported her as she drew the lever back, far back, all the way to its primed position. And locked it there. Effortlessly. And looked at him.

“Damn,” he whispered.

“Is that good enough?” Her expression was fierce. “Good enough for killing?” There was an edge of hunger in her tone so primal, so intense, that it seemed to fill the small tent; he felt something primitive deep within him spark to life in response, and quelled it forcibly.

“Oh, yes,” he assured her. His muscles ached in sympathy as he considered her strength. Considered her ferocity. “More than enough.”

And God help the creature that gets in your way,
he added silently.

The Hunter stood alone on a gentle rise, black against black in the night. Staring into the distance as if somehow mere concentration could bridge the hundreds of miles between him and his object. And perhaps it could; Damien wouldn’t put anything past him, at this point.

He came to his side and waited there, silently, certain that Tarrant was aware of his presence. And after a moment the adept stirred, and drew in a deep breath. The first breath he had taken since Damien’s arrival.

“Things are going well?” The Hunter asked.

“Well enough. We lost a lot at the river ... but how much that will cripple us remains to be seen. I meant to ask you—your maps—”

“Are probably in the Serpent by now.”

He drew in a slow breath. “I’m sorry.‘

“So am I. Very. They were priceless relics.

“I know collectors who would have killed for them.”

“I did,” the Hunter said coolly.

Damien looked at him, bit back his first response. At last he offered, “You were hard to find.”

“I apologize for that. It was necessary for me to get away. Not from you,” he amended quickly. “From the rakh. They overwhelm the currents, making it impossible to Work cleanly. I needed to get clear of their influence.”

Damien looked toward the east, saw nothing but darkness. “You’re trying to Know the enemy?”

He affirmed it with a nod. “And trying to keep the enemy from Knowing us. The current flows east here, which means that our every intention is carried toward him. Like a scent of confrontation on the wind: easy to read, simple to interpret. I tried to Obscure it. Whether I’ve succeeded....” He shrugged, somewhat stiffly. “Time will tell. I did what I could.”

Then he turned to face Damien, and the pale gray eyes fixed on him. Silver pools of limitless depth that sucked in all knowledge: for a moment Damien nearly staggered, made dizzy by the contact. Then the eyes were merely eyes again, and the channel between the two men subsided into quiescence once more.

“Why did you come here?” the adept asked.

He had considered many different approaches, a host of varied words and phrases that differed in degrees of diplomacy. But when the moment came, he chose the simplest of his repertoire—and the most straightforward. “I need to know what you are,” he said quietly.

“Ah,” he whispered. “That.”

“This trip is getting more dangerous each night. It’s difficult enough planning for four instead of one; I won’t pretend it comes easily to me, or that I like it. But it has to be done. And I can’t do it efficiently when I don’t even know what I’m traveling with. Already we’ve been in one situation when I didn’t know what the hell to do, to try to help you or just leave you alone ... I don’t like feeling helpless. And I did, back at the river. I don’t like traveling with ciphers, either—but you’re forcing me to do just that. And it makes everything that much harder for all of us.” He waited for a moment, hoping for a response; when he received none, he continued. “I think they could have killed you, back at the river. I don’t think you could have stopped them. Am I wrong? Centuries of life, more power than other men dare to dream of—and I think they could have ended it all with a single spearthrust. You tell me, Hunter—do I misjudge you?”

The adept’s eyes narrowed somewhat; the memory of that night clearly disturbed him. “If I’d had only myself to consider, they could never have taken me. But being indebted to the lady, and therefore you ...” he hesitated. “Complicates things.”

“We’ve got a job to do, together. You and I may not like that fact, but we’ve both chosen to accept it. I’ve done my share to make that partnership work—you know that, Hunter. Now it’s your turn.”

Tarrant’s voice was low but tense. “You’re asking to know my weaknesses.”

“I’m asking
what you are.
Is that so unreasonable? What manner of man—or creature—we’re traveling with. Damn it, man, I’m tired of guessing! Tired of hoping that we won’t get caught up in some situation where my ignorance might really cost us. I might have been able to help you, back at the river—but how was I to know what you needed? What really might bind your power, as opposed to what they
thought
might bind it? The closer we get to our enemy, the more powerful he looks. Some day very soon we’re going to face the bastard head-on, and you may have to count on one of us for support. God help us then, if all we have to go on then is my guesswork. You want to bank your life on that?”

The Hunter looked at him. Cold eyes, and an even colder expression; his words slid forth like ice. “A man doesn’t explain his vulnerabilities to one who intends to destroy him.”

Damien drew in a sharp breath, held it for a minute. Exhaled it, slowly. “I never said that.”

A faint smile—or almost-smile—softened the Hunter’s expression. “Do you really think you can hide that from me? After what’s passed between us? I know what your intentions are.”

“Not here,” Damien said firmly. “Not now. Not while we’re traveling together. I can’t answer for what happens later, after we leave the rakhlands—but for now, the four of us have to function as a unit. I accept it. Can’t you read the truth in that?”

“And afterward?” the adept asked softly.

“What do you want me to say?” Damien snapped. “That I approve of what you are? That it’s in my nature to sit back and watch while women are slaughtered for your amusement? I swore I’d be your undoing long before I met you. But that vow belongs to another time and place—another world entirely. The rules are different here. And if we both want to get home, we’d damn well better cooperate. After that ... I imagine you know how to take care of yourself once you’re back in the Forest. Do you really think mere words can change that?”

For a moment, Tarrant just stared at him. It was impossible to read what was in those eyes or to otherwise taste of the tenor of his intentions; he had put up a thorough block on all levels, and the mask was firmly in place.

“Bluntness is one of your few redeeming traits,” he observed at last. “Sometimes irritating ... but never unenlightening.” The wind gusted suddenly, flattening the grass about their feet. Somewhere in the distance, a predator-bird screeched its hunger. “You ask what I am—as though there’s a simple answer. As though I haven’t spent centuries exploring that very issue.” He turned away so that Damien might not see his expression; his words addressed the night. “Ten centuries ago, I sacrificed my humanity to seal a bargain. There are forces in this world so evil that they have no name, so all-encompassing that no single image can contain them. And I spoke to them across a channel etched in my family’s blood.
Keep me alive,
I said to them,
and I will serve your purpose. I’ll take whatever form that requires, adapt my flesh to suit your will—you may have it all, except for my soul. That alone remains my own.
And they responded—not with words, but with transformation. I became something other than the man I was, a creature whose hungers and instincts served that darker will. And that compact has sustained me ever since.

“What are the rules of my existence? I learned them one by one. Like an actor who finds himself on an unfamiliar stage, mouthing lines he doesn’t know in a play he’s never read, I felt my way through the centuries. Did you think it was different? Did you imagine that when I made my sacrifice, someone handed me a guidebook and said, ‘Here, these are the new rules. Make sure you follow them.’ Sorry to disappoint you, priest.” He chuckled coldly. “I live. I hunger. I find things that will feed the hunger and learn to procure them. In the beginning my knowledge was crude, and I found crude answers: blood. Violence. The convulsions of dying flesh. As my understanding grew more sophisticated, so did my appetite.—But the old things will still sustain me,” he warned. “Human blood alone will do that if nothing else is available. Does that answer your question?”

“You were a vampire.”

“For a time. When I first changed. Before I discovered that there were other options. A pitiful half-life, that ... and gross physical assault has never appealed to me. I find the delicate pleasures of psychological manipulation much more ... satisfying. As for the power that keeps me alive ... call it an amalgamation of those forces which on Earth were mere negatives—but which have real substance here, and a potential for power than Earth never dreamed of.
Cold,
which is the absence of heat.
Darkness,
which is the absence of light.
Death,
which is the absence of life. Those forces comprise my being—they keep me alive—they determine my strengths and my weaknesses, my hungers, even my manner of thinking. As for how that power manifests itself ...” He paused. “I take on whatever form inspires fear in those around me.”

“As you did in Morgot.”

“As I do even now.”

Damien stiffened.

“The lady knows that I can mimic the creatures that attacked her, make her relive that pain any time it pleases me. That’s fear enough, don’t you think? With Mer Reese the matter is much more subtle. Say that I embody the power he hungers for, the temptation to cast aside everything he values and plunge into darkness—and the fear that he will do so only to come up with empty hands, and a soul seared raw by evil.”