Black Sun Rising (76 page)

He dragged the body back from the flames, tried to wipe some of the sweat from his eyes so that he could see. There was blood on his sleeve; his, or Tarrant’s? It no longer seemed to matter. He was dimly aware of blisters all along his palm, from where he had grasped the body. His sword-hand, too—damn, that was careless!

“They’re coming!” Hesseth hissed.

He took up his sword in his right hand, wincing as his burned palm closed about the rough grip. And saw Ciani throw a length of cloth about the body—Tarrant’s cloak?—so that when they wanted to move it they might do so safely.

And then they came. In numbers, as he had feared. Not a trained guard, but six of the soul-eating creatures who inhabited this underground lair. They were only the first wave, no doubt, the ones who had been closest to the fire when the enemy spotted their activity; there would be others to follow, dozens more, better armed and far more dangerous. But for now, these were enough.

The heat of the fire blazed across his back as he turned to face his attackers. A bolt shot past his head, from Ciani, but she had fired from too far back; it missed its intended target and struck the wall, wooden shaft splintering from the impact. Hesseth had picked up the other springbolt and she fired it point-blank into the gut of one of the creatures; even as it pierced his abdomen and came out through his back he grabbed at the weapon, long claws scoring her arm as he fought to claim it. A second bolt whistled past Damien’s ear, and this one struck; a shot to the arm that began to smolder in the pale flesh. Only two of the creatures were armed, but though they bore sizable swords they used them clumsily, like men unaccustomed to armed combat. As Damien engaged the first, trying to keep his back close enough to the fire that none would circle behind him, he wondered what manner of contact was required for their most deadly mode of attack. Mere touch? Bodily penetration? He parried his opponent’s sword down to the stone floor and slammed his foot down on it, hard; the cheap steel snapped with a crack, and the momentum of it made the creature stagger off-balance, into his own waiting blade. He wrenched the steel from between the creature’s ribs and swung about just in time to duck a blow that was coming at him from the side; it cut his arm, but not deeply, and he moved to take control of their interplay. Where the hell was the pierced one? He saw Hesseth struggling hand-to-hand with an attacker, was dimly aware that one was burning, one had gone off after Ciani, and he could account for two ... that left a creature missing, as well as one of his own party. He prayed fervently that the pierced one knew how to take care of himself; the thought of trying to find a way out of these caverns without him was terrifying indeed.

He heard a sudden scream from somewhere behind him—it didn’t sound like one of his companions—and the smashing of a heavy object into a metal grate. The screaming became a shrieking as flesh began to sizzle, as the creature Ciani had forced into the fire roasted in its core.

Good for her.
He parried a cut that was meant to decapitate him and managed to get his back against a wall. One, two, three accounted for ... there was still one missing, by his reckoning. Gone for help? That was bad. He saw Hesseth go down, her assailant on top of her, and knew with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach what manner of attack was taking place. But there was no way he could help her, not with sharp steel thrusting at his gut from one side and sharp claws threatening his face from the other. He brought his own blade around two-handed, forcing the thrust aside—and kicked out at his other attacker, taking him right in the kneecap. Whatever manner of flesh they wore, it was as fragile in that joint as its human counterpart; the creature went down, howling, and it was no hard work to follow through with a second sharp kick, into the face. Bone snapped and blood gushed and he was down for good—and then Damien’s other opponent left himself open along one side of his rib cage and he was down, too, blood spurting from a gaping wound in his side.

He looked about, saw nothing but blood and dead flesh about him. He stepped over one of the bodies and ran to where Hesseth lay, her assailant only now coming to his feet by her side. Her eyes were dilated, glazed, like the empty stare of a fish stranded on dry land. Her attacker’s glee made it quite clear what manner of exchange had taken place between them, and the eyes that gazed out from that death-white pallor were so like Hesseth’s in shape and expression that Damien felt fresh horror take hold of him as he raised his sword to strike—

—and light blazed past him as a Fire-laden bolt hit home, piercing the creature’s eye and driving deep into his brain. He screamed and fell back; dark blood gushed from the socket, and other less wholesome fluids as well. With a twitching motion he fell, and as the Fire began to consume his brain the whole of his body shuddered, ripples of pain coursing through his flesh as he soundlessly mouthed screams of agony.

Ciani came to where Hesseth lay and helped her up; dazed, the rakh-woman seemed uncertain as to where she was, or exactly what had happened. Then she saw the body of her assailant, and memory returned to her. All of it. As Ciani helped her to her feet, she whimpered softly in terror.

“The Lost One—” Damien began. But before he could finish Ciani directed his attention upward, to the wall of the cavern just over its entranceway. There, clinging to the jagged stone surface, the pierced one displayed the body of the last attacker to them proudly. It hung by one ankle, which was wrapped in the cave-rakh’s prehensile tail. Its throat had been torn out. When he saw that they had witnessed his kill, the Lost One released the body; it fell to the floor like a bag of wet cement, bones snapping as it struck. The cave-rakh then climbed down, serpentine fingers taking purchase in the tiniest of crevices, tail grasping at convenient stone protrusions for support.

Damien looked about, and counted the bodies. Six. All accounted for—but there’d be more, soon enough. “Let’s get out of here,” he muttered. He went back to where Tarrant’s body lay, now covered in the folds of his cloak, and hefted the weight of it up to his shoulder. It was impossible to tell if any life was left in that limp form, but at least the heat of it had cooled somewhat. Time enough later to analyze its condition.

They ran. As well as they could, considering Hesseth’s wounds and Damien’s burden. The rakh-woman turned back once or twice briefly as if to Work, but whether she had the strength to do so effectively was something Damien couldn’t begin to guess at. He held his own wounded arm tightly against him as he wended his way through the demons’ labyrinth, hoping that no blood was dripping to the floor—because if they left a trail that distinct, all the Workings in the world couldn’t hide it.

At last they came to the narrow tunnel that had been their entrance into this area. Ciani, who had caught up Tarrant’s possessions in her flight, now threw down a long silk tunic to cover the rough stone bottom and crawled through. Tarrant’s sword went with her, now safely sheathed. Hesseth followed, her bright blood staining the folded silk as she crawled over it. Then the pierced one. By now Damien though he could hear the faint sounds of pursuit from the area they had just left. He lowered Tarrant’s body down from his shoulder—still warm, still bleeding, still utterly lifeless—and, with great effort, managed to get it far enough into the tunnel that the pierced one could pull it through. The cloak Ciani had wrapped around it kept the broken flesh from tearing on the sharp formations, but he could see at the end of the tunnel where dark blood, seeping through the wool, had stained the stone beneath. Quickly Damien divested himself of his weapons and passed them through the narrow space, then balled up Tarrant’s bloodstained tunic and threw that after it. Then, somewhat awkwardly, he began to back himself into the passageway. Voices sounded from a nearby corridor as he forced himself through the narrow space. As his feet reached the other side he felt hands close about his ankles, meaning to pull him through—but he kicked them off and halted midway, fumbling in the darkness for the two stalagmites he had broken earlier.

The earth-fae was weak here, but this Working was a minor one; it took only seconds for him to use that force to bind the two slender spires back in place, so that the passage was once more impassable. Then he thrust out his feet behind him and let his companions grab hold and pull; stone edges scraped his sides as the neck of the tunnel finally let him pass, and he was through—not a second too soon. Even as he dropped below the lip of the tunnel he saw a flash of light coming from its opposite end, and clearly heard voices from the adjoining room.

They crouched there, hearts pounding, and waited. Hesseth had Obscured their path, but how well? Had they made it through without leaving a telltale path of blood behind them, or a more subtle trail of sweat and scent that the demon-creatures might follow? It was because Damien had considered that possible that he had risked a few precious seconds to Work the two stone pinnacles back in place. Now, as best they could make out, it appeared to be that move which turned the trick. The creatures stared down the tunnel for some time, evidently considering it a viable exit from the area. But it was clear that no man-sized being could have made it through that space and left the formations intact, and so at last they moved on.

“They’ll be back,” Ciani whispered. “They don’t understand how we got away, but their master will.”

“That’ll take time,” he whispered back, hoarsely. “First, we bind up these wounds so we don’t leave a trail of blood behind us.” He nodded toward Hesseth—whose golden fur was scored with at least a dozen deep, bloody gashes—and indicated his own injured arm. “Then we get as far from this place as we can, preferably high up enough to work a good Obscuring. If that’s possible. Then ...” He felt fresh pain wash over him, and the weakness of exhaustion. How deep was his wound? How much blood had he lost? “We see what we rescued,” he whispered. “We see if Gerald Tarrant still exists. We see if he can help us.”

“And then?” Ciani asked.

From somewhere, he dredged up a grin. Or at least, the hint of one. It hurt his face.

“Then the real work starts,” he told her.

“Calesta!” The voice rang out imperiously, echoing in rage. “Calesta! Attend me, now!”

Slowly the demon’s form congealed, drawing its substance from the nearby shadows; when the figure was solid enough to bow, it did so. “My Master commands.”

“They took him, Calesta. Out of the fire! You said he would burn there forever. You said they would never come—never!—that they would let him burn. And I believed you.
I believed you!”

“You commanded me to look into his heart,” the demon responded.
“I
did that. You told me to read his weaknesses. I did that. You bade me devise a way of binding him to your purpose, so that he would be helpless to free himself. I did that also. As for the others, you said,
Leave them to me
....”

“They came for him, Calesta! How? They were miles from here when last I Knew them—miles! I—”

“They were never there,” the demon said coolly.

Blood drained from the enraged face, turning it a ghastly white. “What? What does that mean?”

“It means that you were wrong. It means that your Knowing was misdirected. It means that these humans anticipated you, and made false replicas of themselves to draw your attention.”

The word came, a whisper: “Simulacra.”

The demon bowed its head.

“Why didn’t you see it happening? Why didn’t you warn me?”

“I serve,” the demon answered. “I obey. Those were the parameters you set when you first Conjured me. Had you ordered me to inspect the strangers, I would have done so. You didn’t.”

“So you stayed in the caverns, to feed on the adept’s pain—”

“I never fed on the adept. I’ve never fed on any of your victims.” The faceted eyes glittered maliciously. “I think perhaps you mistake my nature.”

Pacing: quickly, angrily, to the window and back again. “I must have him back. You understand that? Him, and the woman. And I want no room for error this time—none at all. You hear me, Calesta? We work out the best way to go after them, and—”

“That won’t be necessary,” the demon interrupted.

“Meaning what?”

The demon chuckled. “You need only wait. They’ll come here by themselves.”

The pacing stopped. The tone was one of suspicion. “You’re sure of that?”

“Their nature demands it.”

“After
me?
Not after the woman’s assailant?”

“They understand now that the two are linked. They recognize you as the stronger force. The priest will insist that they deal with you first. And the adept will demand your death—or worse—for what you did to him.” The demon paused. “Do you require more than that?”

“No,” came the answer. “That’s enough.” The voice grew harsh. “They’re coming here? Good. Then we’ll be ready. That’s an order, Calesta. You understand? Watch them. Neutralize them. Take them prisoner. No taking chances, this time. Nothing fancy. Just bind them and bring them to me.
To me.
I’ll deal with them.”