Crown Of Shadows Part 30

s.h.i.+t.

He turned away from them both, struggling to think it out clearly. The last thing he needed now was a trek to the Forest, least of all while the Patriarch and his soldiers were tearing the place apart. The last thing Tarrant needed now was a fresh exertion, when his newly healed flesh was still struggling with the transition from undeath to life. The last thing anyone here needed was to risk all that they had won for a handful of books-books, G.o.d d.a.m.n it! Even if those books were the key to humanity's future, and that of the Iezu. Even if those books might allow both species to return to the stars. G.o.d d.a.m.n it! Even if those books were the key to humanity's future, and that of the Iezu. Even if those books might allow both species to return to the stars.

s.h.i.+t.

He raised a hand to his head and rubbed his temples wearily. He didn't have a headache yet, but one was surely on the way. The body had to do something to protest such utter lunacy.

It's safe, right? Doors locked safe, right? Doors locked and warded. and warded. Books safely hidden. One quick visit Books safely hidden. One quick visit and and then it's then it's all all over. And Tarrant would go with or without him, that much was clear. Did Damien want that newborn soul running head-on into the Patriarch's troops without someone there to support him? Such a confrontation could well send him spiraling down into darkness again. And after all the time and effort he had put into saving the man, he could hardly allow that. Could he? over. And Tarrant would go with or without him, that much was clear. Did Damien want that newborn soul running head-on into the Patriarch's troops without someone there to support him? Such a confrontation could well send him spiraling down into darkness again. And after all the time and effort he had put into saving the man, he could hardly allow that. Could he?

"All right," he muttered. Sighing heavily. "What the h.e.l.l. Let's do it."

Tarrant nodded. "I thought you might feel that way." He sounded relieved, Damien thought. As well he should.

It could be worse. At least we don't have to get on a boat a boat again. again.

Shaitan rumbled in the distance.

Thirty-nine.

Calesta was gone.

At first Andrys tried to deny it. He told himself a hundred reasons why the demon might be unwilling to respond to him, or unable to respond to him, and he managed to half-believe one or two. But then, as hours pa.s.sed and his desperate entreaties brought no response, fear began to take hold. He fought the emotion off as long as he could, but now, hours later-days later, perhaps, who could judge time in this place?-certainty set in, and with it a dread so cold that he s.h.i.+vered inside his blood-spattered armor, not knowing how he could go on.

Calesta was gone, without question.

Andrys was on his own.

They were forging through a hostile Forest now, and every turn held new threats. More than once they were attacked by creatures that called the Forest their home, and if thus far those a.s.sailants were too few or too weak to pose any real danger, that was just the luck of the draw. The next time they were attacked it might be the white pack again... or worse.

More than half the horses had been lost in that battle, either killed or maimed or run off in terror. The tethers of those that fled had been burned through in some cases, cut through cleanly in others, as if somehow their fear had managed an equine Working and freed them. More likely it was the fears of their riders which had done exactly that. Before they left the battle site the Patriarch had led them in prayer for a few minutes, trying to focus their energies in a positive manner, but how much good was that going to do? In the back of all their minds was a new awareness of the power of the Forest's fae, and a growing fear that it would betray them. What happened to tethers could just as easily happen to explosives.

A good portion of the remaining horses were now carrying the wounded, with the result that all had to take their turn at walking. Andrys preferred it. His role as pathfinder required continued sensitivity to the Forest's fae, a terrifying immersion in its power; he used the act of walking as a focus for his sanity, the pain of his blistered feet as an anchor to the world of solid things. Though the Hunter was no longer actively mated to the Forest, yet his essence still permeated it, and if the younger Tarrant relaxed his guard even for an instant, the chill power of that corrupt soul would come pouring into him, drowning out the warmth of his living spirit and replacing it with something in its own dark image. Step by step he fought its influence, but despair was growing inside him. How long could he keep this up, without some kind of a.s.sistance? What hope did he have of coming out of this sane, if Calesta had truly abandoned him?

His only comfort lay in a black silk scarf, now wound about his waist beneath the armor. Her scarf. He still felt shame about stealing it from her and, in fact, had tried to bring himself to ask for it on at least three separate occasions, but each time his courage had failed him. Was he afraid she would withhold such a gift? That she would laugh at him for wanting it? Or was it that putting such a request into words would be as good as admitting that he lacked the strength within himself to succeed in this mission without such a token ? Now that scarf was his only comfort, and the sweat-soaked silk tugged at his waist with every movement, reminding him of the brief time they had spent together.

Hour after hour, mile by mile, they fought their way through the Hunter's domain. Even the plant life seemed determined to resist them now, and more than once they had to hack their way through a tangle of thorn bushes and tree limbs in order to move forward. It hadn't been like that before, Andrys noted. When they stopped for a meal and the ground began to stir beneath their feet, forcing them to move on, that was new, too. Clearly whatever power he had provided as the company's talisman was at an end, now that the Hunter was no longer in control here. And that was a terrifying thought indeed.

They broke march three more times to water the horses and see to their own bodily needs-always in rocky areas, where the underground scavengers couldn't reach them-and once to rest in short s.h.i.+fts, restless and fearful. Try as he might, Andrys couldn't sleep; he wondered how many could. These weren't soldiers, trained to pursue combat in the face of enervating exhaustion, but simple men and women whose concept of exertion before today was a short stint in a gym, followed by a hot bath and dinner. Not this.

His own strength was wearing thin from exhaustion, and his nerves, continually stretched to the breaking point, were beginning to give way at last. How much longer could he last?

Calesta, help me! I can't make it alone. I'm not strong enough. strong enough.

No answer.

Rats. There were rats. She could hear them scrabbling in the darkness, searching for food along the muddy floor. Periodically one would come up to her to see if she was food. Sharp teeth would nip her skin and she would kick out wildly, hysterically, and maybe she hurt it or maybe it just went away.For a while. They all came back.

Shedidn't know how long she had been in this place. It was long enough for her to have crawled along the length and breadth of her prison and explored with her fingers every inch of its surface. The walls were of roughly carved stone, wet with slime, and the muddy water that pooled on the floor was ankle-deep in places, barely a film in others. There was no sign of a door that she could make out,and as for door that she could make out,and as forthe soft lumps she landed on landed on as she moved, severalof which squirmed underfoot . . . she'd rather not know. as she moved, severalof which squirmed underfoot . . . she'd rather not know.

She was hungry now, so hungry that even her terror had weakened, and though her mouth was parched, she dared not drink from the water that was available, or even lick the moisture that clung to the wall by her side. She had wept until she had no more strength left with which to weep, and now she curled up in the dank puddle, s.h.i.+vering, andtried to accepther fate.

Oh, Andrys....

She'd only wanted to help him. She would have done anythingto accomplishthat, would willingly have acceptedanyfate in order to make his burden easier. But now she was here andhe was G.o.ds knew where and every time she dozed off from exhaustion, something sharp or slimy would crawl acrossher andshe would start slapping it awayhystericallybefore sleep had even fully released her- It was just anightmare, she told herself. Some nightmareshappened while you dreamed andsome happenedwhile you were awake, but they all ended sometime, right? She licked at her lips with a dry tongue, wondering how long she would last. Was this all the white man had wanted her for, to waste away in this foul pit without even knowing where she was? Was he feeding on her despair, or on some other part of her emotional substance? She wouldn't give him that pleasure,she decided. For as long as she had the strength to dream, she would relive memories of life, and of love. She would fantasize aboutAndrys Tarrant until his image was so set in her brain that even in her last moments,even while the rats andlizards gnawed at her dying flesh, her soul would still be joyful. Let that albino b.a.s.t.a.r.d feed on her love if he wanted to; it would probably give him heartburn.

Something stirred overhead, where there had been no motion during all her imprisonment. She sat up weakly, bracing herself against the slimy wall. There was a sc.r.a.ping noise andthen it seemed to her that something moved. There was a line of darkness forming that was less black than that which surrounded, dim andinsubstantial,but yes, it might even be calledlight. She blinked hard a.s.she stared at.i.t, not quite believing. less black than that which surrounded, dim andinsubstantial,but yes, it might even be calledlight. She blinked hard a.s.she stared at.i.t, not quite believing.

"Time to come out. " It was the white man's voice, no longer wholly human but a strange gurgling sound; she had trouble making out the words. Something came down from the darkness and splashed to the floor by her side. She reached out a tentative hand to see what it was, and felt a smooth wooden shaft pointing upward.A ladder He had lowered aladder "Up," he growled. "Now!"

Narilka hesitated. Whatever was waiting for her up that ladder could be even worse than her current misery,which she had almost come to terms with. She rememberedthe foul breath of his pack, the pain of their teeth in her flesh. No. Better the darkness than that.

When he saw that she wasn't moving, he howled in fury, a sound more animal than human. She heard scrabbling as his beasts ran toward him, and with a sick feeling in her heart she realized that the things she feared most might simply come down into the darkness and drag her out; her obstinacy would gain her nothing.Slowly, her hands shaking, she forced herself to climb. The creatures up ahead of her were growling, and the white man also. When her head cleared the opening, he reached out and grabbed her long hair, hauling her up by it. Stars of pain danced behind her eyes.

"I need you, " he hissed. His hand tangled in her muddy hair, savagely pulling her head back. "Don't fight me. I'll let them eat you if you do, you understand me? I'll hurt you!"

She didn't have the strength to nod. She couldn't summon the voice to answer.

Snarling, he dragged her away.

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 makes.h.i.+ft cairn. It seemed a waste of time to Andrys. Didn't the Church teach that dead flesh was only an empty sh.e.l.l? 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 h.e.l.l 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 d.a.m.ned 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 s.h.i.+mmered 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 gla.s.s, 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, d.a.m.n 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 s.p.a.ced out at regular intervals along the wall. There were a h.e.l.l 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 t.i.tle 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 b.e.s.t.i.a.l 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. 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 ident.i.ty. 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 s.h.i.+vered 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. 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.

s.h.i.+vering, Andrys fell to his knees. He could see Narilka up on the parapet, he could see the albino being hacked to pieces on the ground before him, but he couldn't connect to any of it. His human emotions had been devoured, and now only a ravenous darkness remained. Andrys Tarrant himself was lost, a mere whisper of human memory fading in the endless blackness; the Forest's fae was taking its place, claiming the body and soul that had fought it for so long. Currents of power roared through his flesh, until the sounds of the real world were drowned out by the thunder of it. Moonlight scoured his skin like acid as the power of the forest began to remake his flesh, molding it according to the patterns which Gerald Tarrant had established.

She was alive, he thought as the darkness claimed him. That was all that mattered. The Forest had given her what she needed and now it was time to pay the price for it.

Andri- The roots of the trees sucked at his vitality. The earth lapped at his living heat. He was spiraling down into death, but in the Forest death wasn't an end. Eternity beckoned, frigid and lightless.

Andri, talk to me. Please. Please.

A thousand voices chittered about him. Sounds of the living, they meant nothing to the creature he now was. But one voice echoed down into the darkness, and it made his soul s.h.i.+ver to hear it.

Andri!

A human memory stirred in the darkness. Some tiny spark deep inside him began to struggle. The voice drew him like a magnet, pulling him up through the darkness, up against the currents, up to the surface that was so very far away.

Please, wake up. Please, Andri.

The last wounded vestige of Andrys Tarrant reached for the sound of her voice with all the strength he had. Feeling the warmth of flesh on his body, of hands-of her herhands-touching him, drawing him back.

"Narilka?" he gasped.

She fell upon his chest, holding him, weeping. Where her tears touched him, the coldness faded from his flesh. Her voice was a balm that brought him back to the world of the living. The heat of her life burned him, but it was a welcome pain.

"I'm all right," he whispered. It took everything he had to move his arm, to lift it up, to place it around her shoulders. For a moment he just lay there, exhausted by the effort. The Forest was still alive in his soul, but its grip was weakening. Soon he would move again. Soon he would get to his feet. Every human act, even one as simple as walking, would reinforce his dominion over his own flesh.

"I love you." He whispered it into her hair, oblivious to the filth which caked it. In his eyes she was pure and beautiful. "Don't ever leave me."

The wolves were gone. Had they been mere illusions all along, which vanished when their maker died? Or had the animals simply turned and run, fearful of doing battle without a sorcerer by their side? From where he lay, he could see soldiers moving into the castle, searching the grounds, unpacking explosives. Soon the real work would begin. By dawn the Hunter's citadel would be rubble, and all the power that it conjured as a symbol of evil would be scattered to the winds. Too bad the Hunter himself hadn't been there....

He stiffened. A cold chill wafted up his spine. His arm about Narilka tightened.

"Andri?"

He struggled up to a sitting position. She helped him. Though the Forest's power no longer flowed freely through his soul, a fragile vestige yet remained. A hint of awareness that made his skin crawl, a whisper of ... what?

"What is it?" she asked him. "Tell me."

Slowly, her arm supporting him, he got to his feet. The act of breathing felt alien to him; his lungs ached as though they had gone unused for centuries. What was this new thing that he sensed, this threat that he couldn't put a name to? It was close, very close. He could taste it.

And then he knew. He stared at the castle, he sensed what was inside it, and he knew.

"Oh, my G.o.d," he whispered.

"Andri?" Her voice was soft, but he could sense the fear behind it. "What's wrong?"

Calesta wasn't here now, but Calesta wasn't needed. Memories returned of their own accord. Samiel. Betrise. Abechar. His own home castle, drenched in blood.

A dark strength filled him. The love that had warmed his soul gave way to hate.

"The Hunter's here," he whispered.

Forty.