Clearly frustrated, she turned to the khrast. The female they knew from Morgot took over. “Our people call it the House of Storms, because when the human first came and built his citadel there were great storms that gathered there—lightning that filled the sky for months on end, thunder so loud it made speaking impossible. There are still more storms than there should be, in that region. No one knows why.”
“Who is this human?” Damien asked. “What’s he doing here?”
The khrast woman exchanged quick words with her elder, then explained, “They call him the One Who Binds. And other names, equally descriptive. He came here over a century ago and established himself in the region we call Lema. No rakh has ever seen him—but we can taste his human taint on the currents, and smell his stink along the eastern Canopy.”
“Over a century,” Ciani whispered.
“More than a single lifetime,” Tarrant agreed. And he explained to the rakh, “Avoiding death takes more than mere sorcery, among our kind. What we’re dealing with here is either an adept . . . or he’s made one hell of a Sacrifice.”
“Or both,” Damien said grimly.
The rakh spoke among themselves in quick, sharp syllables; no doubt considering how much they would tell the humans, and in what manner.
At last: “Bring her,” an elder ordered, and a lesser male sped from the circle to obey.
A few minutes later he returned, a small female in tow. Unlike all the others she was dressed in unpatterned cloth, and her fur was thin and matted. Her fearful, darting gaze made her seem more animal than any of the others—indeed, when judged against her standard, they seemed doubly human by contrast.
“This one came from the east many greatmonths ago,” the khrast woman explained. “She’s been sheltering with one of our southern tribes, here in the plains. Our hris sent for her last morning.”
The woman came nervously into their circle; Damien had the impression she was ready to bolt for cover at the first sign of danger. He felt driven to comfort her, to ease her terror—but he knew that he lacked the custom, the language, and the knowledge needed to do so. If she would even let a human that close to her, which was doubtful. He forced himself to stay where he was as she approached, and to say nothing to her—but he fumed at his own enforced impotence.
She knelt near the center of the circle, facing the tribal elders. A female addressed her gently. “You are from Lema,”
The girl hesitated, then nodded. Damien guessed that her English was poor.
“Tell us,” an elder male prompted. “Tell us, in human speech, what you saw there.”
She looked around the circle, seemed to notice the humans for the first time. She almost cried out—but the sound seemed to die on her lips, and though she started as though to flee the motion was cut short, aborted before it began. Damien glanced at Tarrant, saw his pale eyes focused in a Working. A Tranquilizing? No. Probably something more malevolent, that accomplished the same end. Anything that close to a Healing would be too out of character for him.
“I see . . . in Lema . . .” She drew in a deep, shaky breath; there was moisture under her eyes. “I see . . . my people are in fear. Many go to feed the hungry ones, disappear from family. Large years, it so. Many of those, eaters of souls. All hungry. Always hungry.” She shivered, and a gust of fear wafted over Damien; rakh emotion, tainting the earth-fae. “All rakh fear. All work in day, unnatural, live in sun to be free from fear. Is pain in day, sisst?—but safe. Yes? More safe than dark. They hunt in dark.”
“Tell us about the hungry ones.” Tarrant’s voice was low and even, filled with quiet power. Damien could almost see the link he had established with the terrified woman—perhaps because of his own link to the Hunter, quiescent though it was. He felt the adept’s mesmerism as though it were directed at him. As though the man’s knowledge of English was flowing into him, not the woman-and with it, the Hunter’s enforced calm.
“They came from the east,” she whispered. “In big ships, like the humans use. From across the Sea of Fire. Many, many years ago. There were few of them then. For a long time, there were few. They hunt like animals, in night. Some rakh die, but not many. Some rakh . . .” She hesitated, shivering as some particularly painful memory passed through her. “They eat rakh thoughts. They leave the body, eat the mind. Sometimes rakh hunt them like animals, kill them. But the hungry ones hide. Hide good. Come again, later. But always, before, there were few of them. In the past.”
She looked about the circle, studying her audience. Her eyes fixed on Tarrant for a long, silent moment, and suddenly Damien knew what manner of Working had quieted her. No: what manner of mesmerism made her seem so calm, while the Hunter drank in the sweet savor of her terror. Damien started forward instinctively, stopped himself only with great effort. There’s nothing you can do, he told himself bitterly. And: He needs it. He’s got to feed. If he doesn’t live off the fear he finds here, he’ll have to go out and inspire some of his own. And that’s even worse—isn’t it? But his soul ached to free her from that malignant bond, and only by reminding himself, Tarrant’s power is the only thing keeping her lucid, did he manage to keep himself from interfering.
Damn you, Hunter. For making us need you. Damn you for everything.
“Tell us about the human,” an elder prompted.
“I . . .” She hesitated, struggling with her fear. Damien didn’t dare look at Tarrant, for fear of seeing the pleasure that must light his eyes. He might kill him if he did. “I think . . . it was when the human came. That there were more of the eaters. Suddenly many more, and they begin to hunt in groups. Whole families of rakh disappear. I see . . . I see . . .” she shook her head in frustration, unable to find the proper word. “Rakh with no mind, rakh with half-mind, dead and damaged and wounded, so many. . . .” Her voice shook; her shoulders were trembling. “Lema is half dead, many try leaving, but the hungry ones hunt the borders. . . .”
“You escaped,” a female elder said gently.
She shook her head stiffly: yes. “Very few get out,” she whispered. “Very hard. No riding animals in Lema, like you have, must walk ... more than one day to walk that way, and in night they come....”
She lowered her face to her hands and shook; short gasping sounds that might have been rakhene weeping came from beneath the muffling fur.
After a brief consultation with the elders, the khrast-woman told the humans, “She can’t tell you any more than that, not even in our own tongue. All she has left are fragments of memory—and fear.”
“We understand.” Damien said quietly. He watched as Tarrant dissolved the bond between them—regretfully, it seemed—and waited until the male who had brought her to the circle escorted her out of it once more. Waited till she was safely out of hearing, so that their conference might cause her no further pain.
Then he challenged, “They’ve taken over a whole district.”
The khrast-woman’s amber eyes fixed on him. Her expression was alien, unreadable. “It would appear so,” she hissed softly.
“With the aid of a human. As protector? Servant? Probably the former, if he’s an adept.” He exhaled noisily. “No wonder you hate our kind so much.”
“This incident is the least of it,” she assured him.
Senzei spoke up, unaccustomed strength in his voice. “Look. You all want the same things we do. The death of these creatures. The fouling of their plans. If you would just let us go, let us do what we came to do—wouldn’t that help your people?” He hesitated. “Isn’t that what you want?”
“Is not easy, now,” the elder’s spokeswoman informed him. “Before, yes. Four humans, four horses, weapons, supplies, plans. You go east, and maybe die. Or maybe not. Maybe you kill the ones who eat rakh soul. But now. . . .” She paused meaningfully. “Is not enough, just humans go. Just be free. Four humans with two horses, half of supplies, few weapons. If you go now, like that, you die sure. You fail.” It was clear from her voice that the latter was what disturbed her. “You underst
and? My words enough good? Need translate?”
“No,” he said quietly. “We understand.”
“To make you free now, no more than this, is same as to kill you. Why not just kill? More easy, yes? And we keep supplies. But if humans go free—if humans go to kill Dark Ones—then rakh must help. And to help humans. . . .” She shivered dramatically.
It was Ciani who spoke. “You’ve already decided.”
She hesitated, then nodded. “We have decided.”
“And?” Damien pressed.
She looked at the khrast woman. Who told them, coolly, “You’ll need fresh mounts. We have xandu. You’ll need weapons. Ours are primitive by your standards, but they’ll spill blood readily enough. We have food and cloth to spare, and oil for your lamps.” She looked at Damien. And added, somewhat stiffly, “You’ll need a guide.”
He nodded his understanding. “A rakh.”
“A khrast. One who knows your people as well as ours—and the land itself, which few of our people travel. Someone to get you safely to the east, so you can do what you came to do . . . and liberate our people from this horror, as well as your own. That’s the deal,” she concluded. “Serve us as you serve yourselves—or die, and fail us both.”
“Not much of a choice,” he pointed out.
She grinned, displaying sharp teeth. “It wasn’t meant to be, human. So what do you say?”
He looked at his companions, saw in their eyes exactly what he expected. He nodded, and turned back to face the khrast woman.
“We accept,” he said. “Thank you.”
“This is debt,” an elder male warned him. “You come back here, tell what you see. Understand?”
“We do,” he assured him. “And we’ll do whatever we can, against these demons. I promise it.”
He looked around at the various khrast, saw the half-clad woman rubbing against a thickly maned male. Saw amber rakh-eyes, narrow and resentful, luminous with species hatred.
“So who’s the guide?” he asked.
“Who should it be?” the khrast-woman countered. “One who knows you better than any. One who’s seen you in the human lands, among your own kind. One who’s recently tolerated the combined stink of your species, so that her senses are numb to the reek of a few individuals.”
“In other words, you.”
Her thin nostrils flared. “Unless you have someone else in mind.”
From somewhere he dredged up a hint of a smile. “I wouldn’t presume.”
She turned to face the others of his party. “Is this acceptable?” One by one, they assented—Senzei with vigor, Ciani with relief, Gerald Tarrant with . . . hell, did he ever look agreeable? At least he nodded. But there was hatred burning just behind the surface of that carefully controlled facade, and Damien suspected he knew just how little it would take to fan it to a full-blown conflagration.
Not now, Hunter. Just hold out a little bit longer. Please. We’ll be out of here soon enough.
“I believe,” the rakh-woman said, “we have a bargain.”
The springbolt was a mess of battered wood and bent fixtures, and under normal circumstances he would simply have replaced it. But the nearest supply outlet was a good two hundred miles away, and so he took the damned thing apart, piece by piece, and filed and clipped and sanded—and prayed—and then put it carefully back together, in the hopes that it would work again.
The rakh-woman watched silently while he worked, still as a statue. Or a hunting animal, he thought. He flexed the loading pin once, twice, and was at last satisfied with its performance. The stock clipped into place with a reassuring snap. To his left he saw Senzei wiping down his sword blade, Ciani oiling their other remaining springbolt. That their weapons had finally been returned to them should have been cause for rejoicing—but instead it had driven home just how much they’d lost at the river, and how very unprepared they were going to be when they reached their enemy’s stronghold at last. As for Tarrant . . . he was off wherever adepts went to, when they wanted to Work in privacy. Or maybe he just didn’t like the company.
I still have the Fire. That’s something our enemy can’t possibly anticipate—and a power no single sorceror can negate. As long as we’re armed with that, there’s still a chance we might succeed in this.
—Albeit a slim one, he forced himself to add.
The special bolts were gone, along with the rest of his personal arsenal. For the tenth time that night, he tried not to resent that fact that it was his horse which was lost—along with his notes, his clothing, and all his special traveling gear. He had made a few replacement bolts, but hesitated to commit too much of the Fire to that one purpose; with only two springbolts between them, it was unlikely they were going to rely too heavily upon such ammunition.
With practiced care he braced the reassembled springbolt against his shoulder and pulled back on the trigger; the sharp crack of its mechanism assured him that it was, for the moment, in perfect working order. With a sigh of relief he lowered it. At least they had two of the powerful weapons left; things could have been much worse. He tried not to think about the loss of his horse as he wound back the tightened spring, forcing its lever up the length of the stock. And then he cursed, loudly and creatively, as the pulley system broke and the lever went flying forward.
“Problem?” the rakh-woman questioned.
“Damned draw system. The thing’ll fire—and I can cock it—but as for Cee and Zen . . .” He shook his head, his expression grim. There were no finely milled parts here to replace those which were damaged, nor even the kind of steel he would need to jerry-rig a replacement. Damn it to hell! What good would it do them to have the vulking thing in working order, if half their party couldn’t load it?
The rakh-woman reached out for the weapon; he let her take it. Her tufted ears pricked forward as she studied the half-open mechanism, her eyes as bright and curious as a cat’s. “What’s the problem?”
He indicated the cocking lever with a disgusted gesture and muttered, “Damn thing will only draw straight, now. Fine lot of good that does us! I suppose I could ease up on the pull . . . but it wouldn’t have much power then. Hell! I—”
She had curled one claw around the lever, and now she pulled it. Backward, in a motion as fluid and graceful as a dancer’s extension. Her layered sleeves and loose tabard hid whatever play of muscle and bone supported her as she drew the lever back, far back, all the way to its primed position. And locked it there. Effortlessly. And looked at him.
“Damn,” he whispered.
“Is that good enough?” Her expression was fierce. “Good enough for killing?” There was an edge of hunger in her tone so primal, so intense, that it seemed to fill the small tent; he felt something primitive deep within him spark to life in response, and quelled it forcibly.
“Oh, yes,” he assured her. His muscles ached in sympathy as he considered her strength. Considered her ferocity. “More than enough.”
And God help the creature that gets in your way, he added silently.
The Hunter stood alone on a gentle rise, black against black in the night. Staring into the distance as if somehow mere concentration could bridge the hundreds of miles between him and his object. And perhaps it could; Damien wouldn’t put anything past him, at this point.
He came to his side and waited there, silently, certain that Tarrant was aware of his presence. And after a moment the adept stirred, and drew in a deep breath. The first breath he had taken since Damien’s arrival.
“Things are going well?” The Hunter asked.
“Well enough. We lost a lot at the river . . . but how much that will cripple us remains to be seen. I meant to ask you—your maps—”
“Are probably in the Serpent by now.”
He drew in a slow breath. “I’m sorry.‘
“So am I. Very. They were priceless relics.
“I know collectors who would have killed for them.”
“I did,” the Hunter said coolly.
Damien loo
ked at him, bit back his first response. At last he offered, “You were hard to find.”
“I apologize for that. It was necessary for me to get away. Not from you,” he amended quickly. “From the rakh. They overwhelm the currents, making it impossible to Work cleanly. I needed to get clear of their influence.”
Damien looked toward the east, saw nothing but darkness. “You’re trying to Know the enemy?”
He affirmed it with a nod. “And trying to keep the enemy from Knowing us. The current flows east here, which means that our every intention is carried toward him. Like a scent of confrontation on the wind: easy to read, simple to interpret. I tried to Obscure it. Whether I’ve succeeded. . . .” He shrugged, somewhat stiffly. “Time will tell. I did what I could.”
Then he turned to face Damien, and the pale gray eyes fixed on him. Silver pools of limitless depth that sucked in all knowledge: for a moment Damien nearly staggered, made dizzy by the contact. Then the eyes were merely eyes again, and the channel between the two men subsided into quiescence once more.
“Why did you come here?” the adept asked.
He had considered many different approaches, a host of varied words and phrases that differed in degrees of diplomacy. But when the moment came, he chose the simplest of his repertoire—and the most straightforward. “I need to know what you are,” he said quietly.
“Ah,” he whispered. “That.”
“This trip is getting more dangerous each night. It’s difficult enough planning for four instead of one; I won’t pretend it comes easily to me, or that I like it. But it has to be done. And I can’t do it efficiently when I don’t even know what I’m traveling with. Already we’ve been in one situation when I didn’t know what the hell to do, to try to help you or just leave you alone ... I don’t like feeling helpless. And I did, back at the river. I don’t like traveling with ciphers, either—but you’re forcing me to do just that. And it makes everything that much harder for all of us.” He waited for a moment, hoping for a response; when he received none, he continued. “I think they could have killed you, back at the river. I don’t think you could have stopped them. Am I wrong? Centuries of life, more power than other men dare to dream of—and I think they could have ended it all with a single spearthrust. You tell me, Hunter—do I misjudge you?”