“Talk to them,” he urged Hesseth. “See if they understand you.”
For a moment, she seemed incapable of speaking. Then, quickly, she barked out a few sharp phonemes. It was obviously taking great effort for her to speak at all, much less in a civil manner. The lone male looked up at her, his alien face utterly unreadable. After a moment he stepped back to where his companions stood, his tentacular fingers wrapped tightly about the base of his blade.
“Try hello,” Damien prompted.
She shot him a searing glance, then turned back to the Lost Ones. And rasped out some other sounds, that sounded like a cross between a command and an invective.
This time they reacted. The male glanced at his companions, then handed his knife to one of them. And dropped back into the shadows that veiled the back of the pit, and from there into darkness.
“Not good,” Damien muttered. “Gone back for reinforcements?”
“How bad can it be?” Ciani asked. “We’re armed, and it would take them time to climb from the pit—”
“No need to. You saw what they did to the xandu.” His expression was grim. “Their enemies come to them.”
Ciani turned to Hesseth. “What did you say to them?”
“What had to be said,” she answered sharply. “With words, since they lack all the other signs.”
Damien looked down at the agitated foursome and realized, suddenly, just how much of a barrier there was to communication. Their alien physique would certainly alter their body language, and it was clear that they lacked the right scents . . . that left only words, and words were a poor second in rakhene communication. No wonder Hesseth was edgy.
That, and her instinct. God give her strength to override it ... and the desire.
They waited. In silence, the nervous pawing and snorting of their mounts the only sound within hearing. Damien shifted his weight cautiously, as the wet snow began to invade one boot; otherwise, there was no movement.
And then the shadows in the back of the pit stirred to life, and several figures emerged from it. The lesser male. Two others, like him. And a figure nearly twice their height, a male who was clearly decades past his prime. His fur hung in patches on wrinkled skin, folds of loose flesh hanging from his bones like an oversized tunic. His skin was pierced: not merely in one place, or a dozen, but all over the surface of his body. Thorns, sharpened twigs, thin blades whittled from bone, pins carved from precious stone, all those had been thrust through the soft folds of skin to serve as a gruesome adornment. A thin shaft of shell, clearly precious, had been thrust through one cheek, and tiny beads dangled from its larger end; delicate needles of carved jet had been passed through the skin of his penis. It made Damien’s skin itch just to look at him.
The pierced male addressed them—and there was no mistaking his authority, even without a common tongue between them. It surrounded him like an aura; it seeped forth from him, like blood from his manifold wounds.
Without consulting the humans, Hesseth answered. She had no time to translate before the next question came, or the one after that; the ghastly figure voiced his challenges too quickly, and she dared not hesitate in answering. But though he understood none of the words and even less of the kinesthetics, Damien grasped what was happening. Who are you? the pierced rakh was asking. What are you? Why are you here? He wondered what Hesseth considered suitable answers to be—and wished that it were possible for her to confer with him before she answered.
Watch it, he told himself. She’s smarter than you give her credit for, and she knows her people better than you ever will. He studied the pierced rakh as he spoke, and he shivered in sympathy. What was his position in the social hierarchy, and why was he . . . like that? Damien had seen no equivalent among the plains rakh that he might compare it to. He envied his ancestors, whose knowledge-base had encompassed an entire planet with thousands of diverse cultures; how much easier this would have been for them, with so many different examples of primitive behavior to draw on!
At last the pierced one gestured shortly. There was a scurrying sound behind him, in the shadows. Then footsteps. Then the slow scraping of metal on rock as something was dragged out of the shadows. And into the open, where they might see it.
Tarrant’s sword.
It was every bit as brilliant as he remembered it, and every bit as malevolent. Its vivid unlight filled the pit’s interior with disarming color, turning human skin a pasty white and the Lost One’s skin an even less wholesome color—and yet it did nothing to dispel the shadows that ranged close behind it, or to otherwise illuminate the scene. The darkness that had gathered beneath the lip of the pit seemed to draw fresh life from the sword’s presence and became even blacker. The shadows became sharper-edged, unyielding. A cold wind swept upward from where the Lost Ones stood, and Damien shivered as it touched him—not wholly because of the temperature.
The pierced one spoke to them. It was a short question, harshly voiced. Hesseth turned to them to translate.
“He asks, is this yours?”
Damien drew in a deep breath, glanced toward Ciani. But her eyes—and her attention—were fixed on the sword. On what it meant, that the sword was here.
“Tell him . . . that it belongs to one of my people. One of my blood-kin,” he chanced.
He thought he saw her nod slightly in approval as she translated. It was clear that the Lost Ones’ dialect differed greatly from her own—which was only to be expected, given their isolation—but there seemed to be enough common ground that the pierced one understood her.
“Ask him where he found it,” Damien said quietly.
She did.
“He says, far south of here. Many one-walks. His people . . . sensed that it was there and went to investigate.” She hesitated. “The language is very different, I’m not sure of that one. Perhaps, heard it?”
“Ask if there was a body nearby when they found it.”
It all centered on that. He wished he knew what answer it was that he wanted to hear.
“He says, no.”
Beside him, he felt Ciani stiffen. He forced himself to speak again, to keep his voice even.
“Or anywhere near it?”
She asked, and the pierced one answered. “No.”
“Did you find any part of a body? Or . . . personal equipment?”
She conversed at length with the pierced rakh; it seemed they were defining terms. At last she turned back to Damien, and told him, “Nothing. Only the sword. No a sign of how it had gotten there.”
“That means he’s alive,” Ciani whispered.
“Or was, when they took him,” Damien corrected.
Hesseth looked at them sharply. “Can you be sure?”
He shook his head. “No. But it’s only logical. If their only concern was to kill him, they would have left the body where it fell. Or whatever remained of it. If they wanted the kind of power you can conjure from a corpse—or needed his flesh for some symbolic purpose—can you think of anything more powerful, or more personal to him, that that?” He indicated the sword. “Even if they killed him and then got rid of the body, they would have included the sword in their plans. Would have had to, to keep his spirit from wielding further influence. But if all they wanted was him, alive . . . what would it matter that his weapon of choice was left behind? It only meant that much less danger for them.”
Hesseth’s tongue tip touched the edges of her teeth as she considered that. Ran over them, lightly. It was a ferocious expression.
The pierced one spoke again; clearly some sort of command. Hesseth stiffened, and barked back a sharp response.
The pierced one snarled. The rakh in the pit tensed, as though readying themselves for battle.
“What was that?” Damien demanded.
“He says that if this is a thing of your blood-kin, then it’s now yours. You must come and take it.”
He looked at the glowing blade, felt something inside his gut go ice-cold at the thought of touching it. “Okay,” he said q
uietly. “That’s fair enough.”
“He means . . .” She floundered for the proper English words to describe it. “That is . . . he challenges you to come get it.”
And suddenly he understood. Understood all the levels of status that were involved, all the crucial posturing. And the risk.
Their females hunt for food. Their males hunt for status.—And the more dangerous the prey, the better.
“All right,” he said at last. He began to move toward the edge of the pit, looking for a way down. And hoped he was guessing right about their customs.
“Unarmed,” Hesseth added.
He looked up at her and said sharply, “What?”
“Unarmed,” she repeated. “He said that. Actually, naked of threat is what he said.”
He looked at the pierced one. And something in him darkened—some part that had had its fill of tact and diplomacy and was very near the breaking point.
“Tell I’ll be happy to disarm,” he said coldly. “Provided he removes his teeth and claws.”
“They have no claws.”
“Then translate the rest.”
She looked at him somewhat oddly, then did so. The pierced one snarled but otherwise said nothing.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” the priest told her.
“Damien—” Ciani began. She hesitated, then whispered, “Be careful.”
From somewhere he dredged up a hint of a smile; it cracked ice crystals from his beard, that had set in a harder line. “I think we’re past that point.”
He found a place where the nearest stake was several feet distant from the wall of the pit, and lowered himself down. But the seemingly firm earth crumbled to bits beneath his fingertips and he was forced to drop the last few feet, landing unceremoniously on his side as the icy ground refused him purchase.
The Lost Ones watched.
He gained his feet quickly, noting for future reference that the ground down here offered little traction. Undoubtedly the snow drained into this area when it melted, only to freeze again come nightfall. He made his way carefully between the sharpened stakes, noting that their bases were set deep into the ice; a permanent hunting site, then, or at least semipermanent. Coarse wood caught at the wool of his coat as he passed; sometimes he had to press the stakes aside in order to squeeze his bulk between them.
Couldn’t draw a sword in here even if I wanted to. He passed by the carcass of the xandu, felt a momentary pang of loss at seeing such an elegant creature reduced to formless carrion. And then he was clear of the deep-rooted spears and opposite the Lost Ones. They seemed larger from up close than they had from the ground above, and their smell was rank and musty, the reek of enclosed spaces. He could see now that their fur was edged with green, as if some species of mold had adopted them as its habitat; rosettes of pale gray marked the shoulder of one and muddy brown the haunches of another. Those growths added their own smell to that of their hosts, the odor of mildew and decay. In addition it seemed that some of the pierced one’s ornaments were olfactory in nature; the sharp smell of pine needles and the pungence of musk drifted about his person like fog, a miasma of adornment.
He came as close as he could to his challenger and postured himself opposite the creature. Though the Lost One was taller he was also considerably thinner, and he lacked Damien’s layers of insulating wool and fur. Though he tried to provide an imposing presence, he was no match for the priest’s hefty bulk—and his ritual hostility was nothing compared to the potential for violence that lurked beneath the priest’s carefully controlled facade, waiting for its first excuse to surface.
“You make one wrong move,” Damien growled, “and I’ll cut your vulking head off.—Don’t translate that,” he warned.
“No chance of it,” Hesseth assured him.
The pierced one hissed angrily, but made no move to harm the priest. Instead he stepped aside, so that the sword behind him was visible. The malevolent power of it blasted Damien in the face like an arctic wind; it took everything he had not to react visibly, so that the Lost Ones wouldn’t know his weakness. With a cold, tight clenching in the pit of his stomach he went to where the sword lay. And regarded it. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the Lost Ones were keeping their distance from him—they were—and then reached down to where it lay, and closed his hand about the grip
—and pain exploded in his hand, like spears of ice thrust suddenly into his flesh. He could feel all the warmth in his arm coursing down toward his hand, through it, drawn out to feed that hungry steel. He gritted his teeth and raised the weapon up, his fingers numb from the searing cold of it—but he held on, despite the pain, despite the panic that was rising up inside him. The Hunter feeds on fear, he told himself. His weapons would be Worked to inspire it. He fought the panic down, forced his fingers to stay wrapped about the leather-bound grip even as the killing power flowed into his flesh—his lungs—his heart. He had submitted to Tarrant’s coldfire once, and this felt much the same—a hundred times more powerful, a thousand times more terrifying, but its nature was clearly similar. He closed his eyes and remembered that ordeal, used it to fortify himself as the power filled him, remade him—tested him, against some dark and terrible template—and then withdrew, until the pain became bearable. Somewhat. Until the cold, though still piercing, was no longer a direct threat to his survival.
He turned to the Lost Ones, fingers still wrapped tightly about the sword’s grip. His hand was still numb from the cold of it, but the blade seemed to have a life of its own; he had no doubt that if he had to wield it, he could.
And it will drink in life, like its owner does. It will drink in the terror of the wounded. . . .
The pierced one spoke. His tone was challenging.
“He says, that thing has killed many.”
Yes, Damien thought. He noted the rope still wrapped about its quillons, which they had used to drag it here. And the only reason it didn’t kill me just now is my link to Tarrant. The sword knows its own.
“It belongs to my blood-kin,” he repeated. The weight of it was like ice in his hand, but he refused the temptation to put it down.
The pierced one spoke again.
“He says, it eats souls.”
Damien drew in a deep breath, forced himself to think before answering. “Tell him . . . that we came to kill an eater of souls. An eater of rakhene souls. Tell him . . . sometimes it takes power of the same sort to kill one like that.”
He could see them react as Hesseth translated. He waited. Dark power flowed up his arm, wrapped itself around the circuitry of his brain. Kill, it whispered. Kill, and be done with them.
He shifted his grip on it and tried to block out its message. Tendrils of malevolence continued to seep into his brain, but he refused to acknowledge them.
“There is only one eater of souls here,” Hesseth translated for them. “In the . . .” she hesitated. “I think he means, the House of Storms.”
“What did he say, exactly?”
“I’m not sure. Their speech is so different. . . .”
“Then don’t try to translate the concept—just give me the words.
Her brow furrowed tightly as she considered. “The place of . . . blue lightning?”
“Blue lightning?”
“I’m not sure. I—”
“Blue lightning?”
“I think that’s the word. Why?” she demanded. “Is it so significant?”
He was remembering the sky over Jaggonath, when the earthquake struck. The blinding spears that had shot up from the earth, filling the heavens with light. So much like nature’s lightning, only a hundred times more intense. And, of course, silver-blue—earth-fae blue—as opposed to nature’s white.
He tried to recall what it was that Hesseth had described, back at her people’s encampment. Lightning, she’d said, that filled the sky for months on end. Thunder so loud it made speaking impossible.
That’s what it was. That’s what the storms were. Not real lightning at all. Power
; bound power.
My God, the implications. . . .
“Tell him what we need,” he ordered. He could hear his voice shaking as he spoke, tried to steady it. So much seemed to depend upon a display of strength, with these people. “Ask him if he’ll help us.”
An overload, firing heavenward. But an overload of what? There are no earthquakes in this region. And the currents here are so weak.... It was hard to think clearly with the power of the Hunter’s sword chilling his brain. Even so, he sensed that he had glimpsed the last piece of the puzzle. Finally. He had only to see where it fit into the whole picture, and then they would know where to strike. . . .
Tarrant would have understood it. Then he corrected himself, grimly: Tarrant still may.
“He’ll lead us,” Hesseth told them. “As far as the . . . region of no, is the phrase.”
“Forbidden zone?” Ciani offered.
“I don’t know. What he says . . . it’s not a concept I’m familiar with.”
“Can we get from there to the House of Storms?” Damien asked. “To the tunnels underneath them? That’s all that matters.”
“He says . . . that region is a place of dying. The tunnels beneath the House of Storms are filled with dying. Those are the . . . the places of no.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“Taboo,” Damien guessed. “As any dwelling place would be, once demons moved in.” He looked at the pierced one. “Tell him yes. Tell him that’s what we want. What we need.”
He looked to the dirt wall behind the Lost Ones, to the tunnel mouth that waited there. Somewhere at the far end was their human enemy. Ciani’s assailant. And—just possibly—Gerald Tarrant.
“That’s our entrance,” he whispered.
Thirty-nine
The winter wind howled across the eastern flatlands, flinging snow across everyone and everything in its path. It was a bitter wind, fresh from the arctic regions, and the moisture it had picked up while crossing the Tri-Lakes area and the Serpent made it doubly vicious. There was nothing to do but find shelter from the storm and stay there, and the various inhabitants of eastern Lema had done just that. The local rakh huddled in their tents, gathered tightly about their fires, and waited for the storm to pass. Flatland browsers were packed tightly in their caves and their tunnels, yawning as the first waves of hibernation dulled their minds with drowsiness. Even winter’s predators had taken shelter, and they paced restlessly in their cramped hiding places as they waited for the worst of the storm to pass, so that they could follow the trails made by their prey in the smooth, white snow.