And then he was slammed back, hard. The breath left his lungs in a short burst and he was gasping, swallowing the rock dust that his motion had dislodged. He was aware that he no longer held Tarrant’s wrist, but it was hard to say just where his arm was; that whole side of him was numb with cold, unfeeling.
He managed to get his eyes open. The first thing he saw was that half the ledge was gone; Tarrant’s blast must have weakened it enough that it finally gave way. Then he looked up and saw Tarrant. The man’s face was white, utterly colorless, and his eyes were flushed red. But he was conscious. Safe. Alive, in a manner of speaking.
“That was a very foolish thing to do,” the Hunter gasped. The hand that held the sword was shaking; he seemed to lack the strength to sheathe it. “Very foolish,” he whispered.
“Yeah.” Damien wiped the dust from his eyes. The feeling was coming back into his arm, but not as fast as he would have liked. Not with dawn coming. “I had a good teacher.”
And then he saw a faint smile on Tarrant’s face—only a flicker, but a smile nonetheless—and he knew deep down inside that they were going to be okay. Both of them.
“Can you climb?” he asked. Flexing his frozen arm. It would move now, though it was still stiff. He didn’t like to think about how close he had come to losing more than an arm. He could still feel the chill power of the Worked steel, even from a distance. “It’s not too far to the top.”
The Hunter looked up. Damien thought he saw him shudder.
“Not much choice, is there?”
“You could always transform yourself.”
Instead of parrying with a dry retort, Tarrant leaned back against the granite wall and shut his eyes.
God in Heaven. He’s in bad shape. Damien tried to gauge the rock above them—no easy feat at that angle—and wondered if he could get them both up to the top. Probably so, he decided. But not before dawn. Already the sky was lightening in the east, which meant they had, what? Half an hour? Not long enough, he thought, assessing the rock face above them. Not nearly long enough.
He turned to find Tarrant’s eyes also turned toward the east. “I guess it’s time to climb,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Looks like it. Up or down?”
“Up.” He didn’t even look at the rock face before committing himself. “There’s no shelter down there. I checked.”
“And above?”
“One can only hope,” he whispered.
He moved to sheathe the coldfire blade—and almost dropped it, his hand losing strength as it struck against the edge of the ledge. Damien grabbed for it quickly, and for a moment he almost lost his balance. But compared to some of what he’d climbed, a two-foot ledge was practically a luxury accommodation; he managed to keep three points on the rock while he closed his hand about the icy grip, and after a moment he regained his security. He straightened up slowly, caught his breath, and eased the long sword into Tarrant’s scabbard.
“Try to hold onto that thing, will you?”
The Hunter managed a faint smile. “I promise.”
“You going to make it?”
He glanced again at the east, and this time Damien did see him shiver. “I have to, don’t I?”
Damien pulled a knife from his belt and tore a ragged strip from the bottom of his shirt. Then two more. When he knotted them together, they made a strip some eight feet long; it was far from ideal, but it would have to do. “On your belt,” he ordered, handing one end to Tarrant. The other end he affixed to his own. It was good linen, tough fabric, and it might make the difference if one of them slipped.
If he slips, he corrected himself. It would take all his skill to cling to the rock face if the weight of a grown man suddenly jerked him back; how well could Tarrant, so obviously wounded, manage such a feat?
They started to climb. The rising sun at least gave them some measure of light, so that Damien was able to pick out a reasonably workable course. Tarrant climbed well enough, but his hands were shaking from weakness; how long would he be able to keep it up? Damien tried not to look at the sky as they struggled upward, but he couldn’t help but notice that the bumps and crevices surrounding him were becoming more and more visible.
Then there was a crumbling ledge and a slip and Damien grabbed his companion, flattening him back against the rock. He could feel Tarrant’s growing weakness through the contact, and it frightened him. How badly had the earth-fae hurt him? How long would it take him to heal? He hauled him up to the next step, helped the pale hands grasp hold of a helpful protrusion. Would he heal? The next few yards were easy enough. He was beginning to think they would make it. The sky was blue now, and the stars of the rim were no longer visible. They fought for another yard, then another. His hands were bleeding, and Tarrant’s own were scraped raw. One more little bit....
And then they were over, they had made it, they pulled themselves up onto the coarse dirt of the mountain’s face and lay there for a minute in sheer exhaustion. Damien rolled up onto one elbow and studied his companion. Tarrant didn’t look good. He didn’t look good at all.
“We need shelter,” he told him. “You tell me where to go, I’ll get you there. But I can’t find it myself.” When Tarrant didn’t move, he whispered fiercely, “We’ve only got maybe half an hour left!”
“Less than that,” the Hunter gasped. “Far less than that.” He made a move as if to rise up, but clearly lacked the strength. Damien hooked an arm about his shoulder and helped him. With effort, he got him to his feet. It seemed to take forever.
“Can you See?” Damien asked. “Can you find something?”
The Hunter nodded weakly. Damien supported him as he studied the surrounding terrain, as he tried to read structure into the black earth and scraggly foliage that surrounded them. “There,” he whispered at last. Pointing east. “Something that way.”
Together they struggled toward the east. Occasionally Tarrant would study the ground again and then point in a new direction. Damien took him where he wanted to go. If he stopped to think about things, it would probably terrify him how very weak Tarrant had become. He could no longer even stand alone, much less manage the exertion necessary to forge forward across the rough terrain.
Has he finally pushed himself too far? Damien wondered. What if this is beyond his healing?
The Hunter fell to his knees; it took Damien a moment to realize that he’d done it deliberately. “There,” he whispered. Pointing to a shallow depression in the earth, where a thornbush was rooted.
Damien knelt by the depression. The bush made it impossible for him to see the bottom, so he grasped it by the base and pulled it forcibly from the ground. He could feel the thorns pierce his hand as he wrenched it loose, but that was just too bad. He didn’t have the time to be more careful.
What was revealed when the last of the roots pulled loose was a hole some two feet in diameter, like that an animal might make. He pushed at the edge of it with his hand, and then, when he saw what it was, repositioned himself so he could kick at it. The earth gave way beneath his feet, tumbling down into darkness. He could feel cool air beneath his face as he finally hit rock at one edge, then another. Animals might have used this hole, but they sure as hell didn’t make it; Tarrant had found the opening to a natural cavern.
With care he lowered the Neocount’s body down into blackness. The pale skin was already reddened from contact with dawn’s early light, the eyes swollen and bloodshot. He hoped it wasn’t too late. When Tarrant’s body had fallen through, he followed it, lowering himself down into the cavern’s depths.
It was a drop of perhaps twelve feet. He managed to avoid landing on his companion, which was an accomplishment all on its own. Tarrant lay limp and unconscious, and for all he knew might have been dead. Time enough later to figure that out. He dragged his body away from the opening, until sunlight no longer shone directly on him. The cavern was floored with mud, and by the time he found a dark nook to serve as shelter they were both covered in it. But darkness meant safe
ty. That was all that mattered, right?
He unclasped Tarrant’s cloak and managed to get it off him, then used it to cover his body like a blanket. The Hunter’s skin was cold, utterly unlifelike, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad sign. He took care that the man’s hands and face were safely covered, then leaned back at last and drew in a deep breath. Another. Something cold and scared finally unknotted in his gut. Even the pain in his arm began to subside.
They’d be all right. They’d find Hesseth when night fell, and Damien would Heal the living, and ... they’d be all right. The worst was over.
Secure in the darkness of their muddy haven, Damien Vryce slept.
Twenty-one
The Hunter didn’t awaken at dusk. Even though the cave was black, even though the sun outside had long since set behind the mountains, still his body did not stir. Damien tried the taste of blood to bring him back—not a hard thing to supply, as his hands were scored with scratches and puncture wounds—but even that didn’t work. He tried not to worry. He had seen the Hunter recover from worse—that is, from what he assumed was worse—and somewhere deep inside he did have faith that the man was going to make it, that it was just some idiosyncracy of his alive-but-not-alive flesh that had kept him asleep this long. He extinguished the tiny fire he had lit inside the cave, just in case total darkness was what the man needed. How did he heal himself, anyway? He had already said that the Workings he used were unlike those of a true Healing. What manner of power did he require? And did he have the strength to conjure it? Those were the thoughts that ran through Damien’s mind as he waited in the inky blackness, listening to the trickle of rain aboveground and the occasional rustling of insects. What was it the Hunter had said to him? I have no power over fire, or light, or life. Did the earth-fae count as fire? Did the images of magmal heat and searing light that accompanied its surge the night before reflect its true essence, or was that just a visual trapping which his own human mind applied?
Damn it, Hunter, wake up. We’ve got work to do.
Coreset passed. He knew because he climbed up to check on it, using the linen strip he’d knotted together for their dangerous ascent. It had taken him a good half hour to get it into place; dark caverns were far easier to drop down into than they were to climb out of. But he’d had nothing to do with the daylight hours besides collect firewood, look for food, and arrange for an easier way out of the cave. And pray, of course. So very hard. So many times.
God, there’s so much wrong in this land. So much pain and grief and suffering I don’t know where to start. I never felt like I was overwhelmed before, but this time I do. Give me strength, please. Renew my faith in this mission. Help me protect my companions, because without them I am nothing. The evil in this land is too vast, too firmly entrenched, for a single man to defeat it.
After Coreset, at last, the Hunter stirred. The first thing Damien heard was a moan from underneath the cloak. He was up in an instant, and managed to feel his way over to where the Neocount lay. There was the rustling of fabric as the Hunter freed himself, then a long, laborious breath.
“You all right?” Damien asked.
“I’ve been better,” the Hunter whispered. Hoarsely. Weakly.
“If you need blood—”
“Not from you,” he said quickly. Then added, “Not tonight, anyway. I’ll make it.”
The shadows stirred as Tarrant struggled to his feet. “What time is it?” he managed.
“I don’t know. The Core set a while ago.”
“Ah,” he said. “The darkness. Of course.”
He walked over to where the linen strip hung. He seemed to have no trouble seeing in the dark, but his step sounded unsteady. Hesitant. “I’m not sure I can do this.”
And that said it all. Because on any other night the Hunter could simply have changed form and flown out, or crawled out, or whatever else it took to get up there. To be trapped in his human flesh ... that meant that he was far from healed. Not a good sign at all.
“Here,” Damien said. “I’ll help you.”
He felt his way over to where the Hunter stood. He’d had plenty of time to explore the small space during the day, so the darkness was only a small hindrance. He cupped his hands and braced himself, fighting for traction in the mud. When he was steady, he felt a cold hand on his shoulder, and the instep of a muddy boot slipped into his grip. He held it tightly as the Neocount stepped up, trying to time his support with the man’s rise so that together they might gain as much height as possible. It wasn’t quite enough to get him to the opening, but when he had gotten a secure grip on the linen strip Damien shifted his position and pushed him higher. There was a scrabbling on the dirt above then, and the weight was gone.
He stopped a minute to catch his breath, then climbed up himself.
The Hunter was standing to one side of the hole, waiting. As Damien gained the top, he saw him looking about, taking in the lay of the land. Damien wondered how much he remembered from the night before.
“Where’s our rakh friend?” Tarrant asked. His voice was raspy and harsh, as though his throat had been wounded. And perhaps it had. Who could say what damage the wild fae had caused, when it burned its way through his flesh?
“Gone east through the gap.” Damien brushed at the mud on his breeches. A useless gesture. His whole body was encrusted with dark brown muck, and the only thing that made it tolerable was the fact that Tarrant was likewise covered. It shouldn’t have pleased him that the man was dirty, but it did. It seemed so ... well, human.
“And our pursuers?”
The Neocount’s words startled him. He doesn’t know, he realized. He doesn’t remember. “You stopped them,” he said shortly. “You brought the wall down right on their heads. Even if others try to follow us, you made the gap impassable. They’d have to climb the mountain to find our trail again.”
He considered that. “I remember ... planning that,” he said at last. “I remember ... fear. And fire. And climbing—that dimly, as though it were a dream. No more.”
“You tapped into the earth-fae after the quake. Not right after, but soon enough. It almost killed you.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I can see that.”
“You going to be all right?”
“Nothing’s damaged that won’t heal. It will take time, though, and—” He stopped himself, but not before Damien had finished the thought in his own mind. Fresh food, he thought. Fear. Blood. Human suffering.
“We should regroup first,” Tarrant said quietly.
“Yeah. I thought we should parallel the gap as long as possible, since that’s the way she went. It’d be hard to work a Locating for her on this side of the crest.”
The Hunter nodded. “The ridge most likely divides the current. Once we cross that, it should be easy.”
“Can you walk that far?”
“I’m standing, aren’t I?”
“But if your strength—”
“Did you bring the horses?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Then I have no alternative, have I? Strength or no strength.”
Damien bit back a sharp rejoinder. He should be glad that Tarrant was irritating him once more. It showed the man was recovering.
“This way, all right?” He started across the rocky ground.
“One moment.”
He stopped, and then after a second turned back. The Hunter was standing with his eyes shut, his brow furrowed as if in intense concentration. One hand was on the hilt of his sword, and though the powerful blade had not been drawn it clearly served as a necessary reassurance.
Cool silver flame spurted up from the ground around his feet. Not with its usual force, but still cold enough to chill the air around him. The unfire licked at his flesh with silver-blue tongues, conjured flames twining about his flesh until the whole of his body was immersed in it. A chill wind swept over Damien, and the scent of winter ice.
And then the flame was gone. A thin frost rimmed the Hunter’s body,
that shivered free of him when he moved. Fine white ice crystals cascaded to the ground, along with something else. Something brown. It took him a moment to recognize it.
Damn your vanity, he thought, as the Hunter nodded his readyness and began to walk. There was no mud on him now, nor any sign of dirt or blood. What little moonlight there was gleamed on smooth silk and on spotless hair, perfectly arranged. Even the man’s leather boots were clean. Why did I know you’d do that?
“Come on,” he said. Brushing back his own sweat-slicked hair. “Let’s find Hesseth.”
They found the rakh-woman’s camp soon after midnight. The gap hadn’t taken her far, but it had taken her there safely; she and the two horses were gathered around a minimal campfire about a half-mile from the crevasse’s eastern end.
Two horses. That meant fewer supplies, missing maps, and one less animal to ride. Damien wondered which of the two remaining saddles would best allow him to ride double with Hesseth; his groin had no desire to repeat last night’s experience. Of course it would be Hesseth and him together, and Tarrant would ride alone; he never questioned that. He couldn’t picture the aristocratic sorcerer sharing his saddle with anyone, even if it would be the most practical distribution of weight. Some things you just didn’t ask.
There was a bandage on her arm, he noticed as they came into the small camp, and a patch of smelly ointment on her mare’s flank. Thank God the animal hadn’t bolted when it was hit. Tarrant’s black mount seemed unharmed and unflustered. I guess if you come from the Hunter’s Forest, Damien mused, even a place like this looks good.