Black Sun Rising

  “There.” He set the finished product before him. It looked little different than the other bolts, and Senzei had to fight to keep himself from Working his sight to see if there was indeed a difference. The change would be visible enough when molecules of the Fire, seeping through the dry wood, reached the surface of the shaft. Maybe.

  “You think it’ll work?”

  “I think it can’t hurt to try. A few dozen drops of Fire at risk . . . and if it works, it gives us one hell of an arsenal.” He looked up at Senzei—and for an instant, just an instant, the sorceror thought he saw a flicker of fear in the priest’s eyes. He felt his own throat tighten, knowing what it must take to cause such a thing.

  You’re the brave one, Damien. If you give in . . . I don’t know if I can handle it.

  “You okay?” the priest said quietly.

  He met his eyes. And managed to shrug. “I’ll be all right.”

  “There’s nearly two hours of daylight left. We should reach the Forest’s border by then. He can’t be too far ahead of us. If we can find a physical trail—”

  “And what if we can’t?”

  Damien forced his knife into the center of another shaft. The wood snapped apart with a sharp crack, into two nearly equal halves.

  “Then I’ll have to Work to find one,” he said quietly. “Won’t I?”

  Mordreth. It was a mining town, a gold rush town, a trapper’s camp . . . and all the worst elements of those things combined, with none of their redeeming features. It was a transitory camp somehow made permanent by sheer persistence on the shoreline, by the need for its dismal bars and rat-trap inns and cheap entertainment halls, as well as the manpower that was its most precious commodity. But if the inhabitants of Mordreth had any hunger for beauty, they clearly indulged it elsewhere. The place was gray: muddy gray along the water, dirty gray in the streets, weathered gray about the houses. The only color that existed in the town was in a few garish signs, a tattered line of pennants, and occasionally the undergarments that the whores wore as they gathered in the brothel windows, beckoning to passing strangers.

  Damien and Senzei rode through the muddy streets at a rapid pace; the horses seemed as anxious as they were to get through the town quickly. The place had an aura of entrapment about it—as if by staying too long within its borders, one might lose the will to leave. By the time they reached the far side of the dingy settlement Senzei was shivering—and not from the cold.

  “You really want to leave our supplies here?” he asked.

  Damien shook his head grimly but said nothing.

  They rode through a long stretch of flatlands, the only vegetation sparse patches of dead grass that reminded them how very close at hand winter was. The ground was hard, nearly frozen. Which was something to be grateful for, Damien pointed out; in another season, it might have been mud.

  Senzei was beginning to understand why he had never traveled.

  A few miles later they came upon the first signs of human life. A scrap of cloth, lying in a clump of dead grass. The shards of a packing crate, long since dismembered. A circle of stones, blackened by fire, and beside it the marks of a recent encampment. Damien glanced at the latter once but gave it no more notice; their quarry would not be camping.

  They rode on. The sun dropped lower and lower in the west, the colors of dusk adding their own special tenor to that sullen, swollen star. Greenish-yellow light spilled across the landscape: skies before a storm. It was becoming easier to spot the artifacts on the ground around them now, outlined as they were by vivid black shadows. They came to a low rise, then another. And another. Shallow rises became rolling hills: the vanguard of a mountain range. How far north had they come?

  Senzei watched it all pass by, clutching himself against the chill of nightfall. The pain in his side was growing worse and worse, each jolt of the horse on the uneven ground driving spears of fire deep into his flesh. He tried to ignore it, tried to overcome the faintness that threatened to overwhelm him, the grayness that had fogged all but the very center of his field of vision. Because they couldn’t afford to slow down, not for him. Slowing down meant losing Ciani. Taking time to heal now is as good as committing her to death, he told himself. And so he clung unsteadily to the saddle beneath him, and somehow managed to keep riding.

  And then they came to it. Damien first, topping a particularly high rise. He pulled up suddenly, to the confusion of his mount. Senzei followed suit. The extra horse snorted in alarm and tried to break away, but their own two mounts were calm enough and a sharp jerk on the reins of the third served to discipline him for the moment.

  They regarded their destination.

  In the distance were trees. They began suddenly, a solid wall of brown and black and beige trunks jutting up from the half-frozen ground, overlaid by jagged branches and brown, dying leaves. The Forest. From their vantage point Senzei and Damien could see far into the distance, over the treetops to the mountains beyond. The Forest’s canopy stretched out for miles upon miles, a thick tangle of treetops and dead leaves and parasitic vines that smothered the entire region like some vast, rotting blanket. Here and there an evergreen peeked out, a hint of somber green struggling for sunlight. Yellow-green light washed over it all, sculpting the canopy with light and shadow so that it seemed like a second landscape, with hills and valleys and even meandering river beds all its own.

  That was what caught their attention first, and held it for several long minutes. Then, when they had taken it in, their eyes traveled downward. Into the valley before them.

  Where men were gathering.

  They were camped just before the tree line, where the shallow earth had guaranteed that nothing but grass and simple brush would take root. Their encampments were crude and severe, functional rather than comfortable, and a sharp, ammoniac smell arose from the land they had claimed, as though some territorial beast had sprayed every tent in the place. There were several cabins—crudely built—and a structure that might have been meant to serve as outhouse, but otherwise the make-do shelters that dotted the landscape were transient structures of pole and canvas, unenduring. There were a few wooden frames with animal skins stretched across them, a few cooking fires, a single laundry line. And men. They were gathering at the foot of the hill, as though preparing to welcome the travelers-or challenge them. Damien glanced at Senzei, about to issue instructions—and then looked again, more closely, his eyes narrowing in concern. “You all right?”

  Senzei managed a shrug. “I’ll live,” he muttered. And though that was all he said, they both understood what he meant; not I’m sure I’ll survive this, but rather, I understand our priorities. We have to keep moving. Don’t stop for me.

  With a brief nod of approval, Damien started down the hill. He made no move for his weapon, but Senzei knew from experience just how quickly he could get to it if need be. He wished he had half the priest’s skill at combat; if a fight broke out here, he’d probably wind up skewered before he could get his own blade halfway out of its scabbard.

  Say it right, he told himself. It wouldn’t be a fight. Not with two against this many. That’s called a slaughter.

  The two slowed their horses as the locals gathered around them, until they were brought to a full stop at the base of the hill. The locals were all men, for the most part hardy types in their prime, functionally dressed. All were possessed of that particular hard expression that said, we don’t need strangers, or their questions. Justify your presence or get out of here, fast.

  Damien rose up in his saddle; Senzei could feel the crowd tense. “We’re looking for someone,” the priest said. His voice was carried crisp and clear by the dry autumn air; a preacher’s voice, strong and unhesitating. “He would have come through just before dawn—a tall man, with a woman in tow.” He looked out over the sea of faces—neither hostile nor sympathetic, but coolly unresponsive—and added, “We’ll pay well for any information.”

  There was a murmur at that, and several glares, passed between the men. On
e voice spoke up, openly hostile. “Yeah, we’ve seen one. A Lord of the Forest, that one. Came through like fire—untouchable, y‘know? We don’t look, we don’t ask. Them’s the rules.”

  Damien looked toward the source of the voice. “Did he have a woman with him?”

  The men looked at each other; it was clear they were debating whether or not to answer Damien. “Think so,” one said at last. “Across his saddle?” “Yeah,” another confirmed. “I saw it.”

  A man who was close to the horses stepped forward and tried to put his hand on Damien’s mount, in warning. The horse, well-trained, backed tensely away.

  “You understand,” he said to Damien. “We’re not supposed to notice that kind. It’s death to interfere with ‘em.”

  “Interference is my business,” Damien assured him. “You know where he went?”

  “Listen to me,” another said. He, too, stepped forward, divorcing himself from the crowd. A middle-aged man, silver-haired, with dark weathered skin and a workman’s hands. “Three or four times a year, His people come through here like that. And right behind them, often as not, a herd of men comes galloping along in hot pursuit. Brothers and fathers, husbands, lovers—sometimes hired swords that were paid to fight alongside them—all of them determined that this time, this one time, the Hunter won’t get what He wants.” His eyes narrowed as he regarded Damien. “You hear what I’m saying? Men just like you two, with questions just like yours. Armed to the teeth and ready for anything. They think. So they ride into the Forest with a curse against the Hunter on their lips ... and never come out again. Never. I’ve watched a dozen, two dozen go in ... and not a single one ever showed his face on the outside again, in all the years that I’ve been here.”

  Damien looked at Senzei; there was something cold in the priest’s expression that hadn’t been there a moment before, as if some terrible thought had just occurred to him. It took Senzei a minute to realize what it was—and when he did, he felt his hands tighten involuntarily on his reins, his heart skip a beat inside his chest. Was Ciani to be hunted? It was a possibility that hadn’t occurred to either of them. But if she was alive, and vulnerable, and the Hunter got hold of her—

  “Where’s he headed?” Damien demanded. He turned to the silver-haired man. “You seem to know what goes on here. Where’s he gone? How do we follow him?”

  The man just stared at him like he’d lost his mind. And maybe he had. At last he said quietly, “There’s a fortress in the heart of the Forest; they say it’s black as obsidian, impossible to make out in the shadows—unless He wants you to see it. That’s where He stays, the Hunter, and never leaves, except to feed. They’ll have taken her there.”

  Damien looked the men over. “Have any of you ever seen this place?”

  “No one’s seen it,” a man answered quickly. “No one that ever lived to talk about it. You hear me? If you go in there searching for Him—for any reason—you’ll never come out again. Not with the woman, or without her. Ever.”

  “The Hunter’s merciless,” someone muttered. And another urged, “Give it up, man.”

  “The Hunter can take his Forest and shove it,” Damien said sharply. “How do we get to this black fortress of his?”

  They were silent for a moment, stunned by the force of the blasphemy. At last the silver-haired man said, “All roads lead to the Hunter’s keep. Go in deep enough—so the shadows can herd you along—and you’ll get there, all right. Whether you see it or not is another thing. But there’s no way back, after that,” he warned them. “Not by any path a living man can follow.”

  Damien looked toward the Forest. Where the trees parted somewhat there was a well-worn trail. As he watched, a pair of men on horseback broke free of the Forest’s confines and cantered over toward where their fellows were gathered.

  “You go in there,” Damien challenged. “And you come out again.”

  “Sometimes not,” someone muttered. Damien heard whispered curses. A rugged man in a black wool jacket said harshly, “That’s because there’s stuff in there that’s worth that kind of risk. Plants that don’t grow anywhere else, that sorcerors want—animals that mutate so fast, each generation has a different coat. There’s a pack of white wolves in that Forest, belongs to the Hunter himself—you kill enough of them to make a man’s coat from the skins, I can point you to a buyer who’ll pay a small fortune for it. Yeah, we’ll risk going in. Because we know the rules. Do as you like in the daytime . . . but if you’re in the Forest after nightfall you’re His. Period. So we do it fast and clean. Mark ourselves a good trail. Get out before sunset.” He glanced nervously toward the leading edge of the Forest; a shudder seemed to pass through his frame. “Not as easy as it sounds,” he muttered. “Not when you can’t see the sun. Not when the place plays games with your mind.”

  “All right,” Damien said; clearly he’d heard enough. He reached into his tunic front and drew out a small purse. He looked around, then threw it to the silver-haired man—who let it fall before him and made no move to pick it up.

  “Save your money,” he said. “It’s one thing in the Hunter’s eyes to trade a little gossip—and quite another to sell His secrets for profit.” He glanced toward the fringe of the Forest and added soberly, “He reminds us of that distinction, every now and then.”

  “Your choice,” Damien responded. He left the pouch lying where it was and began to ease his mount forward. Senzei moved to follow—but for a moment his legs wouldn’t move, and his hands were strangely numb. “Damien. . . .” In his side the sharp pain had become an amorphous fire that throbbed in time with his heartbeat. “I can’t....”

  The priest twisted in his saddle, studied his companion’s face. Senzei could imagine the things that were going through his mind: He’s weak. City-born. Never suffered a serious wound in his life, and now this. But no one can do a Healing here without losing his soul to the Forest. And if we stop to rest, even for an hour, that might cost Ciani her life.

  “I’m fine,” Senzei managed. And when Damien kept staring at him, he added, “Really.”

  After a moment, Damien nodded. He turned back toward the Forest, and kneed his horse into motion once more. Gritting his teeth from the strain of it, Senzei managed to get his body to obey him. Slowly, his horse moved to follow Damien’s. And the third in line, behind him, took its accustomed place behind his.

  You’ll be all right, he told himself. You will. It’s a question of mind over matter. You can’t afford to be sick, therefore you will get well. Right?

  But mind over matter—or any other conscious control of the flesh—required the fae. And for the first time in his life, Senzei was beginning to understand what it meant to do without that.

  Twenty-three

  There were seven of them now, and they lay along the northern crest of Morgot, staring hatefully at the distant shore. One was wounded. Three had died. Of the original band that had traveled to Jaggonath, only one remained—and if he acted as the leader of the backup team that had met them in Morgot, it was because he alone had been there since the start of it.

  They had a sorceror! one whispered angrily.

  The leader answered quietly: They are all sorcerors.

  You know what I mean. That one—

  It was that bitch from the plains, another interrupted. If she hadn’t interfered—

  You should have killed that sorceror-woman in Jaggonath, one of the newcomers accused. Then this wouldn’t have happened. None of it would have happened.

  Yes, the leader said quietly. I agree.

  So why didn’t you?

  I had other orders, he answered simply.

  But it was the same woman? a newcomer demanded. You’re sure of that

  Yes. Very sure. The disguise was good, but her mind still tastes the same. He licked his lips, remembering. So good, these human souls.

  They stared out across the water. At Mordreth. Toward the Forest.

  Are we going in after them? one asked nervously.

  No
need, another whispered. They will come out. They must come out. And we’ll kill them then, when they do.

  And if the plains bitch interferes again?

  One hissed angrily. Another clenched his hands into fists, as if readying himself for battle.

  The plains bitch is gone. She refused to enter the Forest. I saw her arrange passage to the rakhlands; by now, she must be within the Canopy. I say . . . we deal with the humans when they leave the Forest. And kill the plainswoman later, when we pass through her own camp.

  He added, in a hungry whisper: She can serve as food, for the long journey home.

  Twenty-four

  Just before they reached the tree line, Damien signaled for Senzei to stop. He had seen to it that they each were carrying a springbolt, disassembled. Now he removed his from its worn leather saddlepack and motioned for Senzei to do the same.

  With quick, efficient motions he assembled both their weapons. Senzei’s was brand new, a gleaming, polished weapon that had been purchased for the journey. Damien’s was an older model, heavier about the grip, whose well-worn finish and blood-stained shaft spoke of much use, not all of it at projectile distance.

  “Ever use one of these?” he asked Senzei.

  “Arcade sports.” He said it apologetically—as if somewhere in his citybound upbringing he should have seen fit to practice on live targets.

  “Same theory. Heavier weapon.” He eased his horse over, close enough that he could point to details. “It’ll hold two bolts; keep it loaded at all times. There’s the safety; make sure it’s on if the weapon’s cocked—which it will be, at all times.” He watched while Senzei hefted it up to eye level, left hand forward to hold the barrel ready. “Try it,” he directed. “That tree.”

  He sighted carefully, and pulled the trigger. There was a snap as the upper spring was released, and the metal-tipped bolt shot out from the barrel. Straight toward the tree and almost into its bark; but it missed by an inch and whistled past the target, into the Forest’s darkness.