Nightlord: Sunset (77 page)

A hungry, devouring emptiness.  This was no beast; this was a demon.

It felt my spell and knew I had found it.  Without a sound or a signal, it leaped from its tree and was off and running as though in a hurry to get back to Hell.

It was going to go anyway, but I’d send it on a faster route.

“Bronze!” I shouted as I ran toward it, following the tendril-touch I locked onto it.  I didn’t even try to drain it; there was nothing there
to
drain.  I didn’t want to find out what happened when I opened up a feeding channel to a piece of vacuum.

As I ran after it, I found I was faster, although not by much.

Can I kill it, boss?

If I get close enough to kill it at all, it will be with you,
I reassured Firebrand.

Hot damn!

Bronze caught up with me as I was trying to catch up to the demon; I didn’t slow down, but swung into the saddle and pointed with Firebrand—which burst into low flames, rippling in the wind of Bronze’s run.

She kicked up her hooves and we really began to gain on it.

My first thought upon seeing it was we were chasing a black lion.  As we got closer and the trees began to thin out a little, it resolved into something that looked more like a cross between a Rottweiler and a lion; it had a mane of tentacles behind its head and a tail that looked like it might make a good club.  It was large for a dog, small for a lion; it was strong enough to kill, but small enough to be stealthy.

It knew we were almost on it.

I don’t know how it turned like that.  One instant it was running away full-tilt, the next instant it was charging us at the same speed.  It leaped like a missile and I tried to cut it in half with Firebrand; I did not succeed, although I did score a solid hit.  It lost one foreleg and a chunk of that shoulder.  But it carried on into me, sweeping me from the saddle like a fullback into a tight end.  I went down and it landed on me.

A good forward view, now:  I saw the muzzle of a dog filled with teeth like a cat’s, only sharper.  They locked into my shoulder and held.  The tentacles, meanwhile, were all whipping forward; each had a stinger of some sort on the end of it.  A dozen small cuts appeared in no time at all and more were on the way.  They stung, much like the bite—but I wasn’t alive at the moment.  Sure, I was damaged; pain tells you something is wrong.  But that’s all it was—a damage notification and a bit bothersome, nothing more.

I reached up with my left hand—the one with Firebrand was attached to the bitten shoulder—and I stuck a thumb into one slit-pupiled eye.  Hard.  Hard enough to rupture it and give me a good grip on the side of its head.

It didn’t like this at all; it opened its mouth to roar at me and that was a mistake.  With my arm thus loosed, I reversed my grip and shoved Firebrand into the Thing’s until the point came out the opposite side.  Firebrand demonstrated how dragons prefer to kill things.  I felt the heat even in the hilt.

The Thing exploded on top of me, its innards turned to a cloud of high-pressure steam.  Chunks exploded outward and started to burn.  I was slammed into the ground by the explosion.  I jerked myself out of the dented ground and rolled, trying to put myself out, while Firebrand did its best to help me.

When the fires were out and I was standing again, I noticed my clothes were a mess—as usual—and that several of my cuts hadn’t healed.  The smaller ones, from the stingers, were healing very slowly, while the bite was still aching and deep.  I took that for a bad sign.

Well, it was a demon, after all.

I hunted down those rabbits and poured blood into the wounds; it helped some, but looked like it would take a couple of cows.  Supernatural venom, maybe?  Magical poison?  Spiritual corruption?

So I flushed out the wound as best I could with more blood.  Then I mounted up and headed back to the
gata.
  Utai met me as I came into camp; I noticed there were two sentries on different wagons, now; both looked nervous.

“Did you do it?” she asked.  “Is it dead?”

“Oh, yes,” I assured her.  Firebrand practically radiated smugness.  “Most definitely dead and gone.  But it was a nasty fight and I’d like a change of clothes, if you can.  I hate it when my enemies explode in flames.  At least,” I amended, dismounting, “when I’m under them at the time.”

Sorry about that, boss.

It’s okay.  It’s not the burns I’m worried about.  You did great.

Well… thanks, boss.  I appreciate that.

“You’re hurt?” she asked, looking me over.

“Yes.  That was not a normal beast, but a demon of some sort.”

“Was that not obvious?  It did appear in Mama’s wagon.  Come into my wagon and I’ll see what I can do.”

Now she tells me.  Come to think of it, yes, it should have been obvious, if I’d thought about it.

Still, I didn’t see anything she could do for my wounds, but I’ve been wrong before.  What was on her mind?  Bandages?  Antiseptic?  An herbal poultice for the undead guy?  Don’t make me laugh.

Inside, she insisted I lie down.  She got my shirt—excuse me, “my burned and shredded rag”—off me and began examining my lacerations and punctures.  Her fingers were delicate and warm.

“You washed these?” she asked, fetching a mirror and reflecting lamplight into the wounds.

“Yes.  The blood seemed to help.”

“I suppose it would.  The one in your shoulder is deep, but they all seem to be healing.  I think you’ll live.”

“I think so, too.  I just wonder how long it will take for these to go away.”

She smiled.  “Will you stay with us for tonight and tomorrow, until we may judge your mortal survival with more surety?”

I smiled back.  “Do I owe you anything for that?”

“Owe?  No.  But you know I have the Sight.”

“Yes,” I agreed.  Her smile went away and she grew more serious.

“I see a… a time when things will be in doubt.  A pivotal place for me.  Your thread runs strong through it.  I do not know if it for good or ill, but I would have you think kindly on me.”

“I’ll do my best to keep from doing anything unpleasant,” I assured her.  She smiled a little again.

“Then let us say… you are welcome here.  Not nightlords. 
You
.”

I couldn’t have felt more warmly pleased if she’d tickled me.

Sunrise
was an ugly thing.  I sweated, I groaned, I had the living daylights wrung out of me.  Demons are
bad
for my health.  And when the sunrise was done with me, the sharp, stabbing pain in my shoulder wasn’t.  If this was partially healed, I was profoundly glad I’d poured blood into it.  The lesser cuts were painful too, but almost completely healed; they felt about as bad as beestings.

Utai had insisted on bandaging me when it was obvious sunrise was going to get there before I healed up.  I was glad she did; I could
feel
the shoulder bleeding.

I could have gotten up and walked, but I really didn’t want to.

The
gata
, meanwhile, was busily breaking camp and rolling out.  I got to see none of it; the windows were no larger than my head and set much too high, even if Utai hadn’t shuttered them and covered them with cloths—sunlight, you know.  Instead, I got to lie quietly and try to not think about the stabbing pain in my shoulder.  I took the opportunity to work a few spells into my shoulder and on each of my little cuts.

Utai came in with a bowl; we were rolling, but only at a walking pace.  Still, she did it gracefully.  Years of practice, I should think.  The bowl held herbs, most of which I did not recognize.  She gave me few leaves to chew; the rest she prepared as an infusion into cloth bandages.

“Wha’ am I chewin’?” I asked.  Whatever it was, it tasted terrible.  At least my sense of taste seemed recovered.

“It promotes clotting.”  While it was informative, it was not an answer to the question I asked.  I decided I probably didn’t want to know.

Utai worked with the herbs for a while, then prepared a fresh bandage for my shoulder.  The exchange was painful; moving at all was painful.  I didn’t bleed much when the old one came away; that was a good sign.  The new bandage was much more comfortable; something in there was a painkiller, I think.  She also insisted on a sponge bath.  I didn’t argue, mainly because it had been a very bad sunrise.  I’ve smelled worse, but not by much.  I felt a lot cleaner afterward.

When she was done with me, she sat back and regarded her work.

“Tonight you should recover.  I have left word that any fresh meat we obtain…”

I nodded.  “Thank you.”

She bit her lip for a moment, then said, “They know.”

I was startled.  But why should I be?  They have legends, they saw me, they know what I did—surely they know what I am?  What else could I be?

“I thought they already did,” I replied.  “Does this change anything?”

Utai settled herself more comfortably.  I sensed a long story, and I wasn’t feeling well.

“We do not… like… the bargains with the nightlords.  It is not our way to be allied with any but our own kind.  Yet we are wanderers.  People welcome us with one hand, while the other holds a knife.  You, too, are a wanderer; in that sense… you are much like us, although not
of
us.

“Who else would we trust?  Who else would you trust?  We know you can slay us, yet we do not fear it; nor do we bow down before you.  We work with you, not for you, as we bend to the storm that brings rain for a farmer’s fields.  Dangerous and terrible, yet still a part of all things.”

“I found that the people beyond the Eastrange knew of the nightlords, too.”

“Do they?” Utai asked.  “I was not able to speak much with them.”

“Yes.  They consider nightlords to be lesser gods, or powerful spirits that have physical forms.  I don’t much care for being bowed down before.”

“Then you are safe here,” she answered, smiling.  “We will respect you, but not serve you.  You are an honored guest.”

“That’s fair.  And a guest among you should be polite and helpful to his hosts, not so?”

“Precisely.”

“All right.  I can live with that.  So how is everyone else in the
gata
going to take this?  Or, how
are
they taking it?”

She frowned in thought and put her chin in one hand.  “They are… excited, yes.  And a trifle fearful.  And grateful, too, that you have rid us of the thing.  There will be no unpleasantness, but your welcome… is not warm.  My influence is not so powerful as it might be, for this is not my
gata.
”

“I understand.  I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“That will help.”

“In the meanwhile, where’s Bronze?”

Utai chuckled and rose fluidly to her feet; oh yes, she’d spent a lot of time in rocking wagons.  She opened the door and stood aside.  Bronze was perhaps six feet behind the wagon, following it.  She tossed her head when she saw me and I waved back at her with my good arm.  Utai shut the door again and reseated herself.

“Thank you,” I said.  “Now, where are we going?”

“Northward.  We avoided a large force of men farther south; we wish to continue to do so.  Loyalists to the Hand are combing the south for you.”

I felt a chill.

“For me?”

“Who else?”

“No, no!  I mean, are they looking for
me
or are they looking for a nightlord?”

Utai looked blank for a second, then her face cleared.  “Ah!  Something of both; they have a description of you, but no one that knows you by sight.  I think.  They have been arresting all those who match your look; the Hand holds them until sunset.”

“That’s it?”

“Outdoors.”

“Oh.”  Yes, that would tend to flush me out; a sudden smoking and blistering would be a bad thing—followed by a lot of bad things, mostly in the guts, I’d imagine.

“You are actually quite fortunate,” she continued.  “They ask not about your steed.  Perhaps they think you would abandon it to hide yourself.”

“Bronze is rather distinctive,” I agreed, “but I’m not losing her if I can help it.”

“Of course.  Now, will you take food?”

“Sure,” I answered, and sat up.  It hurt to move that shoulder, but I didn’t feel weak anymore.  Utai stuffed cushions behind me while scolding me for moving around, then departed the wagon to fetch something.  I hoped it wasn’t more soup; the wagon needed springs.

It wasn’t soup; she brought back smoked meat, some hard bread, and some odd-looking vegetables—they reminded me of carrots, only more pinkish than orange.  It was good enough for me; beggars can’t be choosers.  I wolfed it down, one-handed, and Utai kept a goblet of watered wine close by.  Only when I’d cleaned the whole serving board did I stop.

“I have a lot to heal,” I explained.

“You are also terribly thin,” she observed.  “I will bring you more.”

“Okay.”  It’s a measure of my condition that I didn’t argue.  She went out and fetched back more to eat; I kept at it for a while.  When I was done, I felt terribly tired; she kissed my forehead and took the serving board away.  I scrunched down in the cushions to try and nap.