Crown Of Shadows Part 23

The mayor met them at the city gate-an impromptu structure which had been hastily erected in order for there to be somewhere to hold such a ceremony-and showered them with verbal honor. Saviors of the north, he called them. Saints of the One G.o.d. But despite his surface enthusiasm, Andrys had the distinct impression that the man kept looking back over his shoulder, as if expecting something to creep up behind him at any moment.

It's the ghost of Mordreth, Zefila whispered to him. It took him a minute to place the name, but when he did so he nodded solemnly that yes, he understood. Mordreth was a town just across the Serpent, on the very border of the Forest, which had once hosted a similarly organized effort to destroy the Hunter's realm. In retribution, the town had been destroyed in a single night: man, woman and child; their pets and their flocks; and even the buildings that housed them, reduced to dead meat and rubble in one night of vengeance. It was little wonder that the mayor seemed so nervous, with such a reminder of the Hunter's power only miles away. Given the circ.u.mstances, it was almost surprising that the troops had been welcomed at all. Zefila whispered to him. It took him a minute to place the name, but when he did so he nodded solemnly that yes, he understood. Mordreth was a town just across the Serpent, on the very border of the Forest, which had once hosted a similarly organized effort to destroy the Hunter's realm. In retribution, the town had been destroyed in a single night: man, woman and child; their pets and their flocks; and even the buildings that housed them, reduced to dead meat and rubble in one night of vengeance. It was little wonder that the mayor seemed so nervous, with such a reminder of the Hunter's power only miles away. Given the circ.u.mstances, it was almost surprising that the troops had been welcomed at all.

They were given rooms, and food, and offered supplies; the Patriarch accepted it all. He was pressed into holding an impromptu service in the local church, which had to be moved to the city square to accommodate all the people who came. Andrys knew enough about Church theosophy to recognize that as the man stood there, the center of attention for thousands of worshipers, he was in fact shaping the fae through their faith, weaving additional power for use in this venture. Why can't they just do it openly? Why can't they just do it openly? he wondered. he wondered. Calla stone a stone. Calla stone a stone. But by the end of the service even he could feel the force of what had been conjured, and for once that night he retired without doubt, without fear, drifting softly into a realm where even the nightmares were gentle. But by the end of the service even he could feel the force of what had been conjured, and for once that night he retired without doubt, without fear, drifting softly into a realm where even the nightmares were gentle.

Would that it had lasted!

In the morning they set sail for Mordreth. Across the choppy waters of the Serpent (was the Hunter sending a storm to hara.s.s them?), past the dark bulk of Morgot (what enemies might emerge from that secret port?) into the muddy waters of Mordreth's harbor. This time there were no warm welcomes awaiting them, no crowds to shower them with honor, not even a low-level official or two to make sure that they followed local port custom. Their own agent met them at the pier, along with the four Church-folk he had brought with him. Other than that, the harbor was practically deserted.

"They're afraid," he told the Patriarch, and Andrys thought, Who can blame them? Who can blame them?

Through a nearly deserted town they rode, and the sky added its own silent comment by drizzling rain down on them. Many of Mordreth's inhabitants had left the town in fear for their lives, and those that remained dared not even look upon the pa.s.sing troops, for fear that the Hunter would read his own meaning into such behavior and exact a terrible vengeance. Nevertheless, there were signs that life-and hope-had not been totally extinguished. A shutter creaking open as they pa.s.sed, so that frightened eyes might gaze through the opening. A curtain pulled aside to reveal shadowed faces. It seemed to Andrys that once or twice he could hear muttered words-fragments of a prayer, it seemed-but he was at a loss to identify its source, or even explain how the sound had reached him.

"This is the face of our enemy," the Patriarch p.r.o.nounced, when they had all gathered at the far edge of town to hear his words. His arm swept toward the south, encompa.s.sing the town they had just pa.s.sed through. "This is what we've come to fight. Can any man see what we have seen and doubt the inevitability of such a battle? Can any of you bear to stand back and do nothing and watch this influence spread, household by household, city by city, until the entire eastern realm scurries like frightened animals at the mere mention of the Hunter's name? Until your husbands and your wives and your children cower in shadows at the slightest hint of his presence? We will cleanse this land forever," he p.r.o.nounced. "Not only to destroy an unclean thing which G.o.d Himself abhors, but to restore the spirits of our fellow men. It is the souls of humankind that we do battle for," he told them, and the winds of the fae etched that message into their brains so powerfully that it seemed the fate of the entire world was at issue in this one campaign.

They rode northward for several hours, until at last, atop a low rise, Zefila called a halt. In the distance it was just possible to see the gra.s.slands give way to a tightly wooded expanse, and Andrys felt his soul clench up at the sight of it. For a long time they stood there, gazing down at the enemy's domain, and no one spoke a word. The air seemed to be thicker coming from that direction, and colder, and it carried a scent that was markedly unpleasant, of blood and illness and flesh gone to rot. One man was sickened enough by it that he went off to the rear of the company to vomit; Andrys could hear his heaving off to the left somewhere as he struggled to gather his own courage, and he wished desperately that he could sneak away and steal a drink. But there'd be no more ale now and no more wine until this matter was finished, he knew that. In a realm where one's every fear would be given wings and teeth and the hunger to kill, drunkenness was too volatile a weakness.

They made camp there, within sight of their enemy's domain. Amidst the wreckage of former encampments, now abandoned by the hunters and foragers who had erected them, they unpacked tents and bedrolls so new that price tags still dangled from the ends of many, and advertising leaflets fluttered to the gra.s.s as packs of foodstuffs were wrenched open. They would spend the night here and then move with the sun, letting that ultimate enemy of night light their way into h.e.l.l's domain. Not that the light would actually help them much beneath that canopy, Zefila observed, studying it with a fa.r.s.eer, but the symbolism was important.

Symbolism.

It was in the name of symbolism that he unpacked his armor late that day. It was in the name of symbolism that he would be expected to wear it now, so that the troops might become accustomed to him in his new role. It was in the name of symbolism that he would be introduced to them anew, not as a visitor from a foreign realm, but as one who held the key to the Hunter's domain: flesh of the Hunter's flesh, blood of his blood.

One of the men had been sent in to help him, and at last it was he who took up the heavy breastplate and fitted it around Andrys' torso, over his shirt. The youngest Tarrant shut his eyes and trembled, not only for what the moment represented in a military sense, but for the memories that were suddenly awakened. Her hands, soft upon the steel, gentle against his flesh. Her eyes, so deep and dark that a man could drown in them. Lost forever now. He felt a wetness come to one eye and wiped it away quickly, hoping that the man who was adorning him didn't see it. He had to be strong now, that was part of his new image. Part of his new persona. new persona. Andrys Tarrant, a leader of men ... he almost laughed aloud. Was there ever a greater contradiction than that one? How Samiel would have roared with outraged laughter to hear it! Andrys Tarrant, a leader of men ... he almost laughed aloud. Was there ever a greater contradiction than that one? How Samiel would have roared with outraged laughter to hear it!

And then hands were guiding him and the man was telling him that all was finished, and he found himself stepping out of the tent, being led by a stranger's touch toward the place where his fellow warriors awaited, where the Patriarch awaited....

Where his fate awaited.

The Patriarch stood at the crown of the mount, with the men and women who served him ranged in a half-circle beneath. Andrys came to the Patriarch's side and bowed formally, acutely aware of how much each gesture mattered now. They had schooled him well on the journey here, and he went through each move like a seasoned dancer, sensing the power of his performance. Eighty-seven men and women-for they had left none in Mordreth-gazed upon the image that he projected, and their response shimmered in the unseen currents, creating a reality more powerful than any one man could manifest on his own. The fae here was so volatile, it was said, that a man's dreams took on reality before they were even completed; what power did that give to the joint dreams of a hundred, when their minds were all fixed on a single focus?

Him.

He looked like the Prophet now, as much as any living man could. His hair had been cut straight across the bottom, in the Prophet's chosen style, and though it wasn't quite long enough for the illusion to be perfect, it was d.a.m.ned close. His armor was the same as that in the mural which overhung the sanctuary in Jaggonath, down to the finest detail, and the clothing he wore beneath it was likewise identical. He was an image out of history, a creature of living legend, and as the waves of reaction rose up from the small crowd, he could feel it like a dull heat on his face. G.o.d, it was hard to breathe. He pulled at his collar to loosen it, but that didn't help much. The constriction was internal.

He stood there as the Patriarch explained to them all just what the link was between Andrys Tarrant and the Hunter. He tried not to flush with shame as several of his companion warriors nodded knowingly, as if to say yes, we knew he wasn't one of us, this at least explains why he's here. yes, we knew he wasn't one of us, this at least explains why he's here. Had he proven himself so unworthy in the past few days that such an explanation was required ? As the Patriarch detailed the role that he would play, as the sun set in golden splendor behind him, Andrys heard few of the words. He was alone again, alone among aliens, and the one person who might have brought him comfort was a hundred miles behind him now, in another world. Had he proven himself so unworthy in the past few days that such an explanation was required ? As the Patriarch detailed the role that he would play, as the sun set in golden splendor behind him, Andrys heard few of the words. He was alone again, alone among aliens, and the one person who might have brought him comfort was a hundred miles behind him now, in another world.

The Forest will recognize this man as its own, the Holy Father explained. the Holy Father explained. It will let him pa.s.s through unhindered, and every man that belongs to him will likewise be protected. Therefore every one of you must swear fealty to him, here and now, so that the relationship is clearly established. It will let him pa.s.s through unhindered, and every man that belongs to him will likewise be protected. Therefore every one of you must swear fealty to him, here and now, so that the relationship is clearly established.

They came to him one by one, then, to kneel before him and clasp their hands between his own. The words of oathtaking left his lips automatically, and he hardly heard them. Because as each man and woman knelt before him, as they repeated the ritual oath that the Patriarch had designed, the fae that coursed about them began to take on a new texture. He could feel it as he spoke, and the hair along the nape of his neck began to rise as if something loathsome were stroking him. It took everything he had not to draw back from them, to stand his ground and force the ritual words to his lips as if nothing whatsoever were wrong. After five of the oaths had been taken, it seemed to him that the loathsome something something had somehow gained entrance to his brain, so that its presence seemed more intense when he struggled to think clearly. Panic welled up inside him, all the more intense because no one surrounding him seemed to be aware that anything was wrong. had somehow gained entrance to his brain, so that its presence seemed more intense when he struggled to think clearly. Panic welled up inside him, all the more intense because no one surrounding him seemed to be aware that anything was wrong.

Then, as the tenth oath was completed, it suddenly became clear to him what was happening.

The vows which these people were reciting had been carefully crafted for the occasion in much the same way that other prayers-and the Law of the Church itself-had been crafted in the past. Emotive phrases had been designed to evoke specific images, so that the fae might be imprinted with the Church's will. And it was working, all too well. The volatile fae at the edge of the Forest was quick to acknowledge the Church's chosen imagery, and to set it upon the flesh which served as its focus. As soldier after soldier knelt before Andrys, acknowledging him as the Hunter's kin, he could feel that fae pounding at him, driving the image home. He could feel bits of his ident.i.ty tearing loose, and like a drowning man whose strength is failing him, he sensed the vast emptiness beneath him, which wanted only a moment's acquiescence to swallow him whole.

He panicked then, and if the Patriarch hadn't been by his side, he might have turned and run. But either the Holy Father sensed the turmoil in him, or his visions had given him warning; he came up behind Andrys and put a hand firmly upon his shoulder. Just that. The simple touch reminded him of everything that had driven him here, of the horror that his life had become, of his commitment to the Church and to these people who served it. Trembling, he stood his ground. Another man knelt before him, and then a woman, and then two men. Each oath sp.a.w.ned a new tidal wave of power that slammed into him, leaving him so breathless it was all he could do to mouth the words of acceptance which had been a.s.signed to him, not hearing them, just struggling to survive. He was seeing visions now, vile hallucinations that would no doubt have pleased the Hunter, images of blood and death and violence so extreme that it seemed impossible anyone could have witnessed them. Were these Gerald Tarrant's memories, or some nameless, less precise horror? He shivered as they poured into him, struggling to hold onto his sanity. Twenty oaths. Thirty. The line seemed endless, and as each new soldier knelt before him, he wanted to scream at them, he wanted to turn and run, he wanted to be anywhere but here, doing anything but this....

And then there was a familiar touch in his mind, and the visions shifted. Only for a moment, but the moment was enough. Calesta's touch, sure and effective, rekindled the hatred that was his only remaining strength. Visions of blood gave way to visions of his family's slaughter; dreams of violence gave way to the hunger for vengeance. He clung to the moment's offering as a lifeline, and somehow forced the required words past his lips time and time again: I accept the dedication of your life to mine, I acknowledge you as an extension of my will, I swear unto you protection against all harm.... I accept the dedication of your life to mine, I acknowledge you as an extension of my will, I swear unto you protection against all harm.... He gasped as the cold malignance of the Hunter's presence surged through his flesh, and felt the Patriarch's grip tighten on his shoulder. He gasped as the cold malignance of the Hunter's presence surged through his flesh, and felt the Patriarch's grip tighten on his shoulder. Oh, G.o.d, he prayed, if you're really out there, if you give a d.a.m.n, help me! Oh, G.o.d, he prayed, if you're really out there, if you give a d.a.m.n, help me! But the G.o.d of Earth wasn't known for interference in such affairs, and His holy representative, for all his good intentions, had no idea what manner of power he had conjured with this ritual. But the G.o.d of Earth wasn't known for interference in such affairs, and His holy representative, for all his good intentions, had no idea what manner of power he had conjured with this ritual.

And then it was over. The last man retreated a respectful distance from the mound, giving Andrys room to breathe at last. Shivering violently, the young man prayed that he would be allowed to withdraw soon. Surely it was in all their best interests that his terror not be made manifest before the troops! But then there was a stirring by his side, and the Patriarch himself stood before him. The clear blue eyes met his for a minute and he felt himself pierced through by their intensity. Then, with a nod, the Holy Father slowly lowered himself to one knee and offered up his own hands for oathtaking.

No! Andrys wanted to scream. I'm unclean now! Can't you see that? I'm unclean now! Can't you see that? But the Patriarch's gaze was steady, and his hands didn't waver from their position. At last, trembling, Andrys took up the required pose. "For this one occasion," the Patriarch's oath began. "In this single set of circ.u.mstances." He had chosen his words carefully, but Andrys could barely hear them. The cold grip of the Forest was squeezing his heart, and terror surged within his veins. What if the creature who received this oath was no longer entirely Andrys Tarrant, but some half-made being that was even now being reWorked by the Forest's currents? He understood why the Patriarch felt that even he must be fully a part of their deceit, but wasn't the risk just too high? But the Patriarch's gaze was steady, and his hands didn't waver from their position. At last, trembling, Andrys took up the required pose. "For this one occasion," the Patriarch's oath began. "In this single set of circ.u.mstances." He had chosen his words carefully, but Andrys could barely hear them. The cold grip of the Forest was squeezing his heart, and terror surged within his veins. What if the creature who received this oath was no longer entirely Andrys Tarrant, but some half-made being that was even now being reWorked by the Forest's currents? He understood why the Patriarch felt that even he must be fully a part of their deceit, but wasn't the risk just too high?

Don't do it! he wanted to yell. Save yourself, your people need you! Save yourself, your people need you!

And then it was truly over, all of it. Finally. Dazed, he listened to the closing rites, watching as the golden Corelight took precedence over the clean white light of the sun. The latter was wholly gone now, and the first stage of night was descending. Soon the demons of the night would come out in force, and if they didn't acknowledge Andrys in his chosen role- Don't think about that, he thought desperately. Knowing, in the core of his soul, that the unclean essence of the Hunter was inside him now, and that any hungry demonling with eyes could see it. he thought desperately. Knowing, in the core of his soul, that the unclean essence of the Hunter was inside him now, and that any hungry demonling with eyes could see it. Oh, G.o.d. Oh, G.o.d. He had thought that it might drive him mad to pretend to be the Hunter; what would it do to him if the Forest's fae transformed him utterly, making him into a copy of that d.a.m.ned soul in truth? What would his Church allies do then-struggle to save him, to salvage his soul, or condemn him to the same fate as his forebear? He had thought that it might drive him mad to pretend to be the Hunter; what would it do to him if the Forest's fae transformed him utterly, making him into a copy of that d.a.m.ned soul in truth? What would his Church allies do then-struggle to save him, to salvage his soul, or condemn him to the same fate as his forebear?

He suddenly felt trapped, and was desperately glad that the tents had already been erected; as soon as this nightmare scene was over, he could take refuge in the limited privacy of his a.s.signed canvas quarters. The thought of that privacy was all that sustained him as the last prayers were said, the last evocations recited....

He walked. He wanted to run, but that would only alert the others, and then they would follow him. He walked to the tent that had been a.s.signed to him-a private tent, in deference to his new position of authority-and carefully ducked in beneath the flap. His heart was pounding so loudly he was amazed they couldn't hear it, but maybe their minds were on other things. Maybe in the face of what was coming tomorrow they had little time to spare for worrying about the mental health of their chosen figurehead.

His pack was lying beside his bedroll; he dropped to his knees beside it and struggled to open it, his hands shaking as he attacked its ties and clasps. Soon, Soon, he promised himself. he promised himself. Soon. Soon. Thinking of what was inside and the peace that it would bring, he could barely manage the patience required to get the d.a.m.n thing opened. Then the top flap was open at last and he spilled his possessions out onto the ground, all of them in a pile. With feverish hands he sorted through the pile, having no concern for any item other than the one he sought. Buried, it eluded his searching fingers for long, painful minutes. He drew in a deep breath and started again, this time moving each item to a new pile as he searched beneath it. Clothing, first aid, toiletries ... It wasn't there. Thinking of what was inside and the peace that it would bring, he could barely manage the patience required to get the d.a.m.n thing opened. Then the top flap was open at last and he spilled his possessions out onto the ground, all of them in a pile. With feverish hands he sorted through the pile, having no concern for any item other than the one he sought. Buried, it eluded his searching fingers for long, painful minutes. He drew in a deep breath and started again, this time moving each item to a new pile as he searched beneath it. Clothing, first aid, toiletries ... It wasn't there. No, No, he thought. Not daring to believe it. He searched through the pile again, this time less neatly, and when he was done the interior of the tent was littered with his possessions. Still the small bottle eluded him. He began a desperate search through the pack itself, forcing shaking fingers down into its deepest pockets, squeezing the lining to see if anything had fallen down into it, madly searching even the straps- he thought. Not daring to believe it. He searched through the pile again, this time less neatly, and when he was done the interior of the tent was littered with his possessions. Still the small bottle eluded him. He began a desperate search through the pack itself, forcing shaking fingers down into its deepest pockets, squeezing the lining to see if anything had fallen down into it, madly searching even the straps- "Looking for something?"

The voice stopped him cold. The straps of the pack fell from his numbed fingers as he looked up from the ground to his visitor's face, scanning robes that were all too familiar. G.o.d, please, G.o.d, please, he prayed, he prayed, spare me this humiliation. spare me this humiliation. But no simple prayer was going to make the Patriarch go away, no matter how heartfelt it was. But no simple prayer was going to make the Patriarch go away, no matter how heartfelt it was.

"I removed the drugs from your pack en route to Mordreth," the Holy Father said quietly, "and I gave them to the Serpent. I a.s.sume that's what you're looking for?" When Andrys didn't answer, he nodded slightly as if reading confirmation into his pained expression. "What you did with your life before this point is your own business, Mer Tarrant, but now you no longer live for yourself. You live for all of us. And I will not have my Church's dreams compromised by a handful of pills, or by your willingness to parade your addictions in front of my people."

Shame rose to his face in a hot flush; he tried to stammer some kind of protest, but couldn't get the words out. Had the Patriarch known all along what Andrys carried with him? Was it a vision that had betrayed him, or some more human source? "I wouldn't-" he began. Then shame caught in his throat, and even those words failed him. "You don't understand," he whispered.

"I understand enough to see what would happen to my people if they perceived such weakness in you. Before tonight it might have meant little, but now, after all their vows ... you have a responsibility, Mer Tarrant, and it's my job to see that you live up to it. Painful though that might be."

He hung his head, and thus didn't see what the Patriarch was doing as the wool robes shifted. He didn't see what the Patriarch removed from his pocket, not until the man cast it down in front of him.

A bottle.

"It's from Jaggonath," With numb fingers Andrys picked it up; the velvet black pills of a blackout fix tumbled one over another as he turned it in his hand, incredulous. "The founding fathers of that city, in their wisdom, declared that no man should ever have the right to burden others with his intoxication. They ordered that all mind-altering drugs be combined with a paralytic, so that the user must suffer its effects in the privacy of his own soul." He gestured down toward the bottle. "If you perceive such a desperate need for comfort that you would be willing to risk a period of paralysis, then here it is. You may do whatever you like in private, so long as you remember that your public life is no longer your own."

Lowering his head in shame, he whispered, "You don't understand."

"As one who has lived in the public eye for almost fifty years, I do do understand," His tone was bitter, unforgiving. "I understand more than you know." He paused for a moment; his condemnation was like a gust of hot wind, that made Andrys' face flush even redder. "I won't have this mission compromised by a moment of weakness, Mer Tarrant-not yours, not mine. Remember that." understand," His tone was bitter, unforgiving. "I understand more than you know." He paused for a moment; his condemnation was like a gust of hot wind, that made Andrys' face flush even redder. "I won't have this mission compromised by a moment of weakness, Mer Tarrant-not yours, not mine. Remember that."

He left the tent as silently as he had come, but something of his condemnation seemed to remain behind him: Andrys could feel it as he turned the bottle over and over in his hand, hungering desperately to open it and swallow its precious contents, but knowing in the tortured depths of his heart that there would be no place and no time safe enough to do so until this campaign was over. Then even that vestige of the Holy Father's presence faded, and he was alone at last. Just him and the bottle. Just him and the night.

Just him, and the Hunter in his soul.

Thirty-three.

"We're WHAT?"

"Going west," the Hunter repeated, in a voice that was so maddeningly calm Damien wanted to choke the life out of him. "Toward the pa.s.s that lies near the Forest. You remember, we discussed it last night."

"I know, I just ..." He shook his head, torn between anger and amazement. "Just like that? You woke up and decided that we'd wasted the last ten hours, time to pick a new direction?"

"Not at all," Tarrant said coolly. "The decision was made long before that."

"You mean you lied to me."

"I regret that it was necessary."

He almost hit him. Really. Even though it wouldn't do any good. Even though the Hunter could Work the earth-fae and stop him faster than he could carry through the blow. It would feel that good just to try it. Only the look in those pale, cold eyes kept him from moving. The utter calm in them, and the unshakable certainty. Before those things he quailed.

"Think about it," Tarrant urged. "Our enemy has the power to read what's in our hearts. Which means that we can have no secrets from him. Unless he doesn't bother to look for secrets. Unless he thinks he knows all there is to know."

"So, in other words, you set me up. You told me we were going east when you never intended to, so that Calesta would believe it." His hands had curled into fists of their own accord; he forced himself to open them. "And what made you so sure he would look into my heart, and not yours? Wasn't that a h.e.l.l of a risk to take?"

The pale eyes, golden in the Corelight, glittered with disarming intensity. "We already know he's not watching us every minute. What else explains the Locatings I worked in Seth? The one I conjured while we were in flight was masked by an illusion meant to mislead us, but the one before that wasn't. Such trivial games were of no concern to him when he thought he had us cornered. He has a war to fight, remember." He nodded west, toward the distant Forest. "No doubt he's anxious to focus on it."

With a hot flush Damien remembered their flight through Seth, and his own angry cries. Dammit, man, you're going the wrong way! Remember the map? Dammit, man, you're going the wrong way! Remember the map? He hadn't noticed that the two images Tarrant had conjured didn't match up. He had trusted in the Hunter's power.... He hadn't noticed that the two images Tarrant had conjured didn't match up. He had trusted in the Hunter's power....

"In the face of Iezu illusion," Tarrant said, answering his thoughts, "even my own Workings must be suspect."

"How do you know he's reading my mind?" he demanded. "What if you're his source?"

"Unlikely. Of the two of us, I would be more likely to recognize signs of his interference. With you ..." He hesitated. "No offense, Vryce, but you're hardly well versed in demon recognition."

"He could fool you if he tried."

"But he'd have to work much harder at it. And I'm willing to bet that the Iezu, like men, prefer the path of least resistance."

"Yeah, but can we be sure of that?"

"No," he admitted. "It's a gamble. A last-ditch effort in a game where Calesta controls most of the pieces. I'm sorry I had to plan it alone, but sharing my fears with you would have meant sacrificing the effectiveness of the feint. And seeing how little we have going for us without it ..." He shrugged. "I apologize, Vryce. You deserved better."

"No." He sighed heavily and raised up a hand to rub his temples. "Don't. You were right, as usual. Let's just hope it worked." He glanced toward the east, where the mountain cleft beckoned. "So what happens now?"

"If Calesta's paying attention to us right now, then he'll a.s.sign his local p.a.w.ns to direct pursuit. But I don't think he is. I think that he's arrogant enough-and distracted enough-to believe that his current arrangements are sufficient."

"But we can't really know that, any more than we can know what his next move will be."

"There are four dozen men waiting for us right now at Gastine Pa.s.s," he said calmly. "That much is without question. a.s.suming my understanding of the situation is correct, I estimate two hours before Calesta realizes something is wrong, as that's how long it would have taken us to reach his little trap. At that point it will be too late for anyone from there to catch up with us. He'll have to make new plans, focusing on the western route."

"And then what? If he can motivate that many to come after us ..." Four dozen! G.o.d in Heaven! Four dozen! G.o.d in Heaven! "You said yourself that the towns bordering on the Forest would be ready and willing to protect their turf. What makes that region any safer for us?" "You said yourself that the towns bordering on the Forest would be ready and willing to protect their turf. What makes that region any safer for us?"

"Time, Vryce. Time." With a jerk he tightened the strap securing his horse's saddle. "He can give them all the dreams he wants, but few men will rise up out of bed at that instant to fight his battles. I'm willing to bet he can't muster a lynch mob until morning, and by then we should be far beyond their reach."

"Gerald." He put a hand to the saddle of his own horse. "It's more than a hundred miles to the pa.s.s from here. That's a h.e.l.l of a ride in one night, even for horses that are endurance trained. Do you really think these two are going to make it?"

"All they have to do is get us there." His black cloak fluttered in the evening breeze as he mounted, like a vast pair of wings. "As for their endurance ... I did what had to be done to a.s.sure that." He brought his animal about so that it faced their distant goal. "And no complaints from you this time. Two horses are a small enough sacrifice, if their expiration puts us ahead of the enemy."

Hand trembling slightly, Damien touched his horse's flank. He could feel no change in the animal's substance, but that didn't mean that nothing had been altered. How little effort would it take to refigure its equine biochemistry so that the beast devoured itself for energy, ignoring all signs of exhaustion? How many vital systems had the Hunter reWorked, so that the processes which would normally kill the beast were circ.u.mvented, redirected, thwarted? He felt sick as he swung himself up to his accustomed seat. He felt as if death itself were poised there between his legs, wanting only the proper hour to make its true aspect known. But what other option was there?

"No complaints," he muttered. Swinging his own horse around, so that they faced the looming Ridge. "I promise."

Full-out gallop: the rhythm of death.

He wondered if Calesta could hear it.

Hour melding into hour, knees aching as he gripped the animal beneath him. A short stop to dig food out of his pack, then hurried mouthfuls swallowed while riding. Trying not to feel sick over the decay that was taking place beneath him, only telling himself over and over that there was no choice. If they didn't make the western pa.s.s by morning, then Calesta would have the whole day to mobilize the valley folk against them.

Innocent blood on his sword, now wiped clean from all but his soul....

Two horses are a small enough sacrifice....

G.o.d help him, what had he become?

Closer and closer to the great ridge they rode, until its shadow blocked out the moon setting behind them, leaving only Casca's crescent to light their way. It was a vast mountain range, barren and forbidding, and its stark silhouette was as unlike the gentle rolling hills of the south as the cracked frozen surface of a glacier was unlike a cool mountain stream. A steep oceanic ridge birthed when this continent was at the floor of the ocean, it cut across the land like an immense wall, protecting the fertile human settlements from the winds and the poisons of the regions beyond. It was said there were similar mountains to the north, scoring the land in parallel welts like claw marks, but most were submerged in a frozen sea, and none but the Earth-ship had ever seen them. One was enough, as far as Damien was concerned.

They rode through its foothills-if that word could be applied to such a place-where the earth began its steep slope upward. The towns which had been built in this region were far to the south of them, cl.u.s.tered along the river that coursed down the valley's center. And for good reason, Damien noted. There was a tem blor as they approached the ridge, and the cascade of sharp-edged rocks that came plummeting down the steep slope were an eloquent warning to any would-be traveler. Yet it was worth the risk for them, he thought, if it kept other people away. In this land where any human soul might be controlled by their enemy, isolation was a prerequisite for survival.

Mile after mile beat numbly into Damien's flesh, his horse's skin like fire between his legs, beneath his hands. G.o.d alone knew what was happening inside it, as the miles pounded underfoot one by one. Once he started to rein up to feed them, but Tarrant waved angrily for him to continue. Not necessary, Not necessary, his expression seemed to say. Or perhaps instead, No point. His heart cold, Damien obeyed. This ride would echo in his dreams for years to come, he knew, but not half so loudly as the ones he would have if they failed to get through the western pa.s.s before dawn. his expression seemed to say. Or perhaps instead, No point. His heart cold, Damien obeyed. This ride would echo in his dreams for years to come, he knew, but not half so loudly as the ones he would have if they failed to get through the western pa.s.s before dawn.

Two horses is a small price....

What's the third route to Shaitan's valley? he had asked Tarrant, when the two pulled up briefly so that Damien might relieve himself. he had asked Tarrant, when the two pulled up briefly so that Damien might relieve himself.

A tunnel from beneath my keep, that exits there.

From the Forest? Damien had asked, surprised. Damien had asked, surprised.

The Hunter nodded. I built it years ago, against the possibility that someday a human army might attack the keep itself. If I were to need an escape route, it stood to reason that it should be to a place where men would fear to follow. An unlikely event at best, but I pride myself on being prepared. I built it years ago, against the possibility that someday a human army might attack the keep itself. If I were to need an escape route, it stood to reason that it should be to a place where men would fear to follow. An unlikely event at best, but I pride myself on being prepared.

There was an army in the Forest now. What would happen if Jahanna fell? Would it affect Tarrant's power, or only his mood?

None of that matters now, Damien told himself. Damien told himself. Nothing matters but Calesta's death. Nothing matters but Calesta's death.

He hoped, as they rode, that the Hunter shared his sentiment.

"There it is."

They pulled up beside one another on a flat stretch of ground. Beneath them the horses had gone past sweat, past blood-flecked foam, to a state so painful and degraded that Damien flinched to note its symptoms. They were truly members of the living dead now, who wanted only Tarrant's approval to fall to the ground and expire. Damien hoped for their sake that the moment came soon.

Black Ridge Pa.s.s wasn't like its eastern sister in scope or configuration, but it promised a tolerable climb. A past earthquake had rent the ridge almost to its base, and time and weather had worked at the flaw, carving a u-shaped saddle into its slope. The approach was a steep climb, but not so impossible that horses couldn't manage it. He glanced down at his mount and shuddered. Or whatever horses have become. Or whatever horses have become.

Then Tarrant kicked his own mount into motion, and Damien had no choice but to follow. The fact that the Hunter made no attempt to Divine their odds of success, or to otherwise See what lay ahead, was a chilling reminder of their enemy's Iezu capacity. If there were some kind of ambush here, Tarrant knew they would never see it; no Working of his, no matter how well refined, could change that fact.

Trust to his planning, Damien told himself. Trust to Damien told himself. Trust to his understanding of the enemy. his understanding of the enemy. But even as his mount's trembling feet bit into the harsh mountain slope, he couldn't help but remember what Tarrant had said before. It was a gamble. No more than that. And if Calesta had foreseen their latest move ... Damien flinched as they climbed, half-expecting an arrow in the back at any moment. But none came. They were up a hundred feet above the valley floor, then two hundred, and still no one and nothing came at them. Four hundred. Eight. Still they climbed in safety, so far that Damien finally loosened his death grip on his weapon long enough to b.u.t.ton the collar of his jacket closed. The wind this high up was fierce, sweeping as it did across the face of the ridge for hundreds of miles without obstacle, and every hundred feet the travelers gained in alt.i.tude cost them a few degrees of subjective heat. By the time they were high enough to see the whole valley spread out beneath them, Damien's teeth were chattering, and not wholly from fear. The sky above glittered with starlight, but despite that warning the horizon was still dark. They had some time left, then ... but not much. But even as his mount's trembling feet bit into the harsh mountain slope, he couldn't help but remember what Tarrant had said before. It was a gamble. No more than that. And if Calesta had foreseen their latest move ... Damien flinched as they climbed, half-expecting an arrow in the back at any moment. But none came. They were up a hundred feet above the valley floor, then two hundred, and still no one and nothing came at them. Four hundred. Eight. Still they climbed in safety, so far that Damien finally loosened his death grip on his weapon long enough to b.u.t.ton the collar of his jacket closed. The wind this high up was fierce, sweeping as it did across the face of the ridge for hundreds of miles without obstacle, and every hundred feet the travelers gained in alt.i.tude cost them a few degrees of subjective heat. By the time they were high enough to see the whole valley spread out beneath them, Damien's teeth were chattering, and not wholly from fear. The sky above glittered with starlight, but despite that warning the horizon was still dark. They had some time left, then ... but not much.

And then, with a lurch, Damien's dying steed managed to gain the coveted ground at the end of the climb. The pa.s.s itself was a narrow pa.s.sage that cut through the ridge at an angle, with crumbled rock and a thin film of ice underfoot; the horses stumbled as they negotiated it, while Damien fought not to look up at the two peaks that flanked them, snow-clad sentinels that reared up ghost-pale in the moonlight at either side.

Suddenly, without warning, Tarrant's horse went down. The Hunter barely got clear of it before it began to convulse, horrific spasms coursing through its body in waves. Damien froze for a moment, horrified by the sight, and then quickly dismounted. It was not a moment too soon. Blood streaming from its nose and mouth, the animal that had faced death to bring him here went down on its knees, then screamed in terror and joined its fellow in dying. The sight of its suffering was too much for Damien. "Kill them!" he yelled at Tarrant. "You started this, d.a.m.n you, you finish it!"