Crown of Shadows (64 page)

The flat Forest earth gave way to rocky ground, to the gentle slope of hills, to the steep incline of a mountainside. That was a good sign, the Patriarch told them. Vryce’s notes made it clear that the Hunter’s keep was in the mountains, therefore they were headed in the right direction.

Then there came a point at which the horses could no longer manage the steep climb, and had to be left behind. Given the choice between staying with them or making the climb with their company, the wounded chose to struggle onward. Andrys didn’t blame them. In a place this hostile, where the darkness might erupt with new dangers at any moment, a handful of wounded men and women wouldn’t stand a chance by themselves.

The dead were unloaded and buried in a makeshift cairn. It seemed a waste of time to Andrys. Didn’t the Church teach that dead flesh was only an empty shell? Wouldn’t their companions want them to hurry on their way, rather than risk a delay to attend to such a meaningless ritual? But once more, the Patriarch insisted. To leave the dead unhonored now would “poison too many futures,” he said. Whatever the hell that meant.

They climbed. Bearing their supplies upon their backs, foodstuffs and explosives lashed side by side. Upward they climbed, higher and higher, tramping out a switchback path along the rocky slope. At times the way was so steep that they had to cling to the very vines which meant to hinder them, and men who failed to get a handhold slid back two steps for every one they gained. Andry’s wounds burned like fire, but he was willing to bet that was nothing compared to the Patriarch’s own pain, or that of the other wounded soldiers. The currents had become so powerful that he could hear them now without even trying; their roar drowned out all other sounds, making speech impossible. So strong was the pull on his flesh that he had to fight step by step not to be dragged down to the earth, where its power—and Gerald Tarrant‘s—could drown him. How much longer could he hold on?

At last the ground leveled out a bit. Andrys leaned against a tree to catch his breath, then jerked back violently as a serpent hissed mere inches from his face. Did this damned place never let up? One by one his companions joined him, and though none dared to say it, clearly all hoped that the worst of the climb was over. They were carrying not only their supplies and their weapons, but a share of the equipment which had been on the horses, and that load on their backs made every step hurt tenfold.

Now, he sensed, the enemy was near. Whatever dark power had been trying to stop them, whatever creature now sat at the heart of the Forest and wove black webs of hate to entrap the living, it was here, right before them. He could taste its presence in his mouth, bitter and repulsive. He could smell it on the wind, a stink so foul that several men and women had wrapped scarves about their noses and mouths in the desperate hope of keeping it out. He could hear it echoing in his brain, a presence so unclean that the Hunter’s own power seemed pristine by comparison.

There was a ridge ahead of them that blocked their view. Zefila sent out scouts to explore. From where he waited, Andrys could see them tense up as they rounded the natural barrier. At last, after what seemed like an endless wait, the men returned and signaled for the others to join them. Andrys and Zefila went first, with the Patriarch limping behind them. They came to the end of the ridge and crept around it—

And stopped. And stared.

Ahead of them, looming up into the night itself, was a castle. The trees which cloaked so much of the Forest gave way in this place, and Andrys could see it clearly by the light of Prima’s crescent. It was a black structure, gleaming black, with a surface that might have been made of rippling water, so did it seem to move when the light shimmered over it. He heard the others gasp as they came around the turn, but their surprise couldn’t possibly equal his own. Nor could they feel the horror that he did, gazing upon the citadel that his undead ancestor had built.

It was Merentha Castle. His own home keep, down to the last finely worked detail. Cast in black volcanic glass, a mockery of the home which had sheltered him. There, in that window, Samiel had watched for him; there, in that doorway, Betrise had scowled. There, in that courtyard... he started toward it, drawn by his own horror. Would that be the same as well, down to the last black flagstone?

“Tarrant!” Zefila grabbed him from behind, nearly jerking him off his feet as she pulled him roughly backward. “Stay with us, damn it!”

Silently, wary, they entered the courtyard. There were bodies all over the place. Human bodies, half-devoured and now rotting. Mounds of horseflesh in similar condition. Soldiers prodded a few just to make sure they were really dead, then fanned out, springbolts at the ready. Where was the danger? Andrys could feel it, but he couldn’t define it. Something was waiting for them. Where?

“There’s no one here,” a woman dared.

“Make sure of it,” Zefila ordered. She nodded toward a pair of men, who started toward the building—

And white shapes appeared along the wall of the courtyard, where moments ago there had been nothing. Of course, Andrys thought darkly. A simple Obscuring, the most basic of all Workings. In a war defined by sorcery, they should have expected it.

The white animals—identical to those which had attacked them earlier—were spaced out at regular intervals along the wall. There were a hell of a lot of them, Andrys noted grimly. But they would have to come down from the wall and cross a good part of the courtyard to get to them. With enough springbolts and a good dose of luck the soldiers might just survive this.

As if in response to that very thought another figure appeared. This one was human, and as it moved to the edge of a parapet it pulled another figure with it. A shaft of moonlight fell across them, illuminating a ghastly albino visage above, a pale and a hollowed face beneath—

Andrys’ heart nearly stopped beating as he realized who it was the albino held as hostage. The whole world seemed to stop for a moment, frozen in that single instant of horror.

“Church-man!” The albino cried out the title in defiance, but it seemed to Andrys that there was a tremor of fear in his voice. “I have your girl! Do you see?” He shoved her forward, into the moonlight, his other hand holding a knife to her throat. “Back off now with all your men, or I’ll cut her throat right in front of you!”

He could see her clearly now, her terrified eyes pleading with him. The albino held her by the hair with one hand, and he jerked at it as he snarled, “I’m waiting.” Andrys saw her wince from pain, but she made no sound. No doubt the albino, like his master, would take pleasure in her cries.

It had to be an illusion, he thought desperately, some kind of evil Working. Narilka couldn’t be here. Could she?

As if sensing his thoughts, the white man pressed his blade into the throat of his prisoner; a jewel of red welled up at its point. “Tell him,” he hissed.

“Andrys.” Her voice was weak, but not nearly as fearful as he would have expected. “Please.”

“You see?” the albino demanded. “Do you need to hear more?”

He looked back at the Patriarch in panic. The Holy Father’s expression was grim, but he shook his head. Some vision had clearly shown him that this was not the time for him to wield his power. Which meant that Andrys was on his own. He looked about desperately for Zefila, but she wasn’t about to interfere without some signal from the Patriarch.

“Leave this place now,” the albino growled. “Or her blood will be on your hands.”

Why wasn’t the man attacking them? His pack was in position. There were enough of the beasts to paint the courtyard red with blood. Did he fear that here, in the heart of the Hunter’s realm, Andrys could tap into his ancestor’s power? Did he imagine that open battle might tip the scale and turn Andrys into an enemy he couldn’t defeat? With sudden inspiration, the younger Tarrant realized just how intense the man’s fear of the Hunter still was. And the reality of his own helplessness was all the more painful for being contrasted against the albino’s expectations.

His soul knotted in anguish, he looked up at Narilka. How helpless she seemed, that fragile body bent back to meet the knife! Fragile unless you knew her inner strength, fragile unless you had seen her defend herself, fragile unless you’d heard stories of the men who had taken her for a victim, only to be taught otherwise....

He looked into her eyes then, and he knew. He saw the message that was in them, and he understood.

“Your choice,” the albino snarled, in a voice so bestial it was barely comprehensible.

Give me a chance,
her dark eyes begged. Not trembling with fear, but with another kind of tension. Just one chance.

He saw the albino’s knife arm tense; the moment of choice was at hand. There was only one thing he could think of that would give her a chance, only one distraction that would work. Though his soul quailed at the mere thought of it, he dared not hesitate. He had failed her in so many ways in the past... he would not do so again.

He opened himself to the Forest. Not slowly, not carefully, but all at once, casting aside the defenses he had nurtured during their march, ready to die if that was what it took to save her. And power came welling up inside him with stunning force. Not any force of his own conjuring but a dark power, a cold power, that bore a hated signature. Undead, unclean, Gerald Tarrant’s essence coursed through his blood in a flood tide, tearing loose the last fragile moorings of his human identity. Spreading through his flesh like a poison, remaking every organ, every cell, wrapping icy fingers about his soul and squeezing, squeezing—

With a gasp he opened his eyes. The ground was alive with silver light. The moonlight shivered with music. The walls of the castle glowed with a power that was centuries in the making, his to use at will. But he didn’t need it. It was enough that the essence of Gerald Tarrant looked out through his eyes; it was enough that the man’s power and ruthless confidence echoed in his voice.

“Release her,
”
he commanded.

The albino’s eyes went wide with shock. Or was it terror? Andrys saw him flinch as he realized just what manner of power his adversary had summoned, and in that moment his hand wavered ever so slightly as it held the knife—

Narilka moved. Reaching up to grab his knife arm with both of her hands, kicking out behind her as she pulled herself forward and down, struggling to keep the blade from her throat as she forced him over her body. The move was so unexpected that he was thrown utterly off balance. Levered forward over her back, he slammed into the edge of the parapet. The knife clattered down to the courtyard as he grabbed for the edge of the low stone wall with his free hand; his other remained tangled in her hair, and for a moment it seemed as if he might use that as a lifeline to pull himself to safety. But she rammed the heel of her hand into his face hard, so hard that Andrys could hear bone crack; he lost his grip on the edge of the wall and began to slide. For one chilling moment it seemed that he might drag her down with him, but she braced herself against the wall with all the strength she had left and was rewarded a second later when the handful of hair still wrapped about his hand finally tore loose. Down he plummeted, twisting as he fell, and when he struck the hard flagstones beneath, the soldiers were ready for him.