When True Night Falls (72 page)

“Nothing lives here but the trees,” the girl said from behind them. “And one animal that eats them. That’s what he told me.”

“Immune,” Tarrant mused, “to whatever force the Prince created to safeguard this land. If we understood why those two species lived, perhaps we would know how to safeguard ourselves.” He caressed the tree’s smooth bark slowly, as if searching for something, but at last with a soft curse turned away. Obviously he could uncover no clue in the tree itself.

They resumed walking. Deeper and deeper into the Wasting, until the darkness swallowed up the hills behind them and they were left walking on a blackened stone sea without any land in sight. Cold stone ripples passed beneath their boots, frozen wavelets, rigid whirlpools. The hard ground made their ankles ache and the constant need to study it as they walked—lest some crack or crevice surprise them—made Damien’s head pound.

Then the texture of the earth beneath their feet changed, from the smooth flow of its southern border to a more broken, scrambled ground. After some discussion they decided to cross it rather than turn aside. But the footing was bad and the rocks were sharp and when they stumbled—which they did often—the rock fragments cut their knees and their hands, scoring deep into clothing and flesh alike. When they were finally on the other side of the broken region, they had to stop to clean and bind up their various wounds, and Hesseth brought out her healing ointment for all of them to use. It was bad enough that Damien thought perhaps he should dare a Healing, but when he looked up to get Tarrant’s opinion on the matter, he saw the man staring toward the west, brow furrowed, as if he feared that some tendril of the Prince’s power might be reaching out to them and was struggling to turn it aside. So with a shiver he simply rose up and shouldered his pack anew, aware that the aches and pains of their recent trial would be small enough suffering compared to what their enemy would put them through, if one careless Healing should draw his attention.

Two hours. Three. They stopped often, favoring Jenseny’s young legs, but though her face was white and strained and a red trickle seeped from under the bandage on her knees, she never complained. Afraid that they would leave her behind, Damien thought. Afraid that if she became a burden they would no longer want her with them. To see a child live in fear like that tore at his heart, and more than once he reached out a comforting hand to pat her shoulder or stroke her hair or offer her a steadying arm as they climbed up the slope of a cracked black wavelet.

And then they saw the bones.

They didn’t recognize them at first. The ghostly white trees were so ubiquitous that at first they thought the small white things on the ground were related to them; seedlings, perhaps, or root ends, or maybe random branches that had broken off and fallen. But as they drew closer, they could make out the edge of a rib cage etched in moonlight, fine white needles that had once been fingers, the staring sockets of an empty skull.

Bones. Animal bones. A whole skeleton, nearly undamaged. Damien knelt down by it and carefully tilted its jaw. Scavenger, he judged. No doubt it had wandered into this land in search of carrion, then had fallen prey to ... what? He looked up at Tarrant.

“No sign of sorcery,” the adept whispered. He, too, knelt down by the small tiny skeleton and studied it. “Nor any sign of violent death,” he said at last. He passed a hand over it, eyes shut, and breathed in deeply. “Nor the scent of fear, or even its memory.”

Damien breathed in sharply. “That’s not good news.”

The Hunter’s eyes opened. “No,” he agreed.

“Can you Know it?”

“Of course.” The pale eyes glittered. “The question is, is it worth the risk?”

Damien looked over at Hesseth. She nodded ever so slightly; her expression was strained. “Go ahead,” he told Tarrant. Feeling his hand rise involuntarily to his sword grip as he voiced the words, an instinctive acknowledgment of the danger involved.

The Hunter closed his hand about the small skull, as if its texture might communicate some special message. For a moment he shut his eyes to close out distractions, then opened them again. His eyes were black.

“It came in search of food,” he told them, “because it had found none in the surrounding lands. It wandered a long time on the black plain, searching for a promising scent. It found none. Nor was there any overt danger,” he added. “At last, exhausted, it lay down to sleep. And died.”

“Just that?” Damien demanded.

The pale eyes met his. “Just that.”

“And no sorcery?”

The Hunter shook his head.

“Shit.”

“Probably starved to death,” Hesseth offered. But she didn’t sound like she believed it.

“The Prince didn’t want it to live,” the child whispered. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

“Disease?” Hesseth offered.

The Hunter considered—perhaps Worked—and then shook his head. No.

Damien balled his hands in frustration, longing for something to hit. Any kind of solid threat, that he could strike out at. “So it died, all right? Maybe naturally. It was tired, it was hungry, sometimes animals just die.”

“You don’t believe that,” the Hunter said quietly.

“So what now?” Hesseth demanded. “Now there are bones. Does that change anything?” She stared defiantly at the two men. “We know that the Wasting kills. We know most animals can’t survive here. Is it such a surprise that there are bones?”

Damien knew her well enough to hear the edge of fear in her voice, and therefore he kept his voice carefully even as he responded, to calm her. “You’re right, of course. There’s no point in wasting time here.” He looked up at Tarrant. “Unless you think there’s something more we can learn from it.”

The adept shook his head.

They continued onward, silent and uneasy. Their footsteps grated on the coarse stone as they walked, and it seemed to Damien that a man many miles away might hear it. A soldier, waiting in ambush ... he banished that thought, with effort. They had no way of knowing if the Prince had detected them, had sent out his men to intercept them. Hadn’t Jenseny said that the Prince could enable his people to enter the black desert safely? It was something Damien tried not to think about. The flat plain with its lack of cover was less than an ideal battlefield, and he dreaded the thought of the Prince’s servants confronting them there.

Nothing we can do except keep up the Obscurings and be ready to fight,
he thought grimly.

There were more bones scattered throughout the black land, many more. Most of the skeletons they passed were whole, but some were missing a tail or a leg, and one was missing its skull. One had been broken apart, its pieces scattered across a good half-acre. Two were nestled together as if in peaceful sleep. That last was especially eerie, and as Tarrant dared another Knowing Damien prayed that it would net him some kind of explanation that would help them avoid a similar fate. But like the first, these two had died peacefully, and their remains offered no useful information.

And then there was the human skeleton.

Unlike the animals it was clothed, in wisps of cloth that clung to its bones like weeds. There was a knife by its side, a can by its hip, the rusted remains of a belt buckle lying between its ribs. There were bits and pieces of other things as well, but they were so rotted and wind-torn and faded that it was impossible to make out what they were, or what purpose they had originally served.

Damien knelt down near the skull and examined it. Male, he decided, and he checked the pelvis to make sure. Yes, definitely male. Its owner had died leaning up against a cluster of trees and had fallen in between them; in the moonlight it was hard to distinguish bone from branches, and the ribs which splayed out about one tree base were nearly indistinguishable from the tangle of roots surrounding it.

He drew in a deep breath and felt himself tremble. Maybe up until that point he had thought they were safe. Maybe he had convinced himself that the Wasting had the power to claim smaller lives, but that men—intelligent men, wary men—were immune. Now that illusion shattered, and he was left standing naked and vulnerable before whatever strange force the Prince had conjured.

Then the Hunter said, in a low whisper, “The stars are out.”

He looked up sharply at the sky. The stars were indeed out, a sprinkling of them overhead and a solid bank along the horizon. That meant that Corerise was less than three hours away, which meant, in turn, that the sun would rise soon. Too soon.

“You have to go.”

The Hunter nodded.

“Where? Do you know?”

“The land is riddled with cracks and crevices, and there should be empty spaces beneath the surface. I should be able to find safe shelter nearby.”

Damien looked up at him. He was remembering the night in the rakhlands when Tarrant had left them and had not returned. The night the enemy had taken him prisoner. “Be careful.”

He nodded. “Will you camp here?”

He looked down at the skeleton and shivered. “No. Not here. We’ll go south a while more, get away from ...
this.”
He hesitated, embarrassed by his own discomfort. “It doesn’t make sense, I know—”

A faint smile creased the Hunter’s lips. “I understand.”

He didn’t transform right away, but first crafted a careful Obscuring. A complex Obscuring, that must hide the awesome power of a shapechange. Only when it was done did he let the earth-fae claim him, and remake him, and give him the shape he needed to seek out a daylight shelter. Only then.

With a sigh Damien loosened his sword in his scabbard, ready to deal with any wraiths who might use these last few minutes of night to check out the strangers wandering through their realm. The faeborn would be hungry, in a place like this. Hungry and desperate. He didn’t look forward to dealing with them.

“Come on,” he muttered. “Let’s find a good campsite and call it a night.”

The weight of the night on his shoulders, Damien led his party onward.

Fire. Rising up out of the bowels of the earth, licking the walls of the cavern. Rising up into the canyons of the ceiling, lost in its whorls and crevices. Heat shimmering in the firelight, distorting outlines, distorting forms. A man’s arm, shackled to an iron bar. An icy sword, blazing with silver power. A man
—
or a demon who had once been a man
—
confined to the fires of Hell while still alive, consumed by the unearthly flames even as he struggles to heal himself....

He tries to crawl forward, but the heat is too great to bear. Tries to reach out to this devil incarnate
—
his enemy, his companion
—
but the fire melts his flesh even as he struggles forward, and he knows that the moment is lost, the battle is over, the Enemy has won....

Laughing.
...

Damien awakened suddenly, his face hot with sweat, his whole body trembling. For a moment he could hardly gather his thoughts, or even remember where he was. It was as if each concept was mired in glue, and he had to slowly pry it loose before the next one would come.

When he had worked out that much, he shut his eyes and drew in a deep breath, exhausted. How much effort it took to think! His every fiber cried out for him to abandon the exercise, to drift in the shadows of ignorance, to rest ... but he had traveled enough and experienced enough to recognize the danger in that, and so he fought it. His whole body shook as he struggled to remember who he was, where he was, what he was supposed to be doing. Every thought was a battle. It was as if some vital connection in his brain had been severed, or at least weakened; the simplest facts refused to come to him. Panic began to rise up inside him, and his pulse pounded like a drumbeat inside his head. What was wrong? What had happened? What had he been doing when it started? He sensed that the last question was vital to his survival, that he had to place himself in time and purpose immediately, because if he didn‘t—

If he didn‘t—

What?

He could feel the sweat trickling down his neck, cold now as it soaked into his collar. Where was he? What was he supposed to be doing? He struggled for a context. Images came to him, drifting in and out of the shadows like disembodied wraiths. He and Hesseth and the child ... camping in the Wasting ... tent erected, food shared ... dawn’s light bright over the hard earth ... first watch established....

He gasped as it hit him. Suddenly, with the force of a blow.

The child and the rakh-woman had gone to sleep, huddled in a nest of blankets. He had leaned his back against a tree and set himself to guard them, a process so familiar that it was now second nature to him. If any danger should approach, he would be armed and ready. He felt himself relax into the familiar watch-state, sleepless, alert....

And he had dreamed.

Fear knifed into him, cold and sharp. Never in all his years had he fallen asleep while on guard. Not even when he was traveling alone, when the only permissible sleep was garnered in restless snatches, too short to measure. Not even when exhaustion was a dead weight on his chest and he could barely keep his eyes open a moment longer—and yet he did, he did it because he had to, because you couldn’t travel in this world without keeping your wits about you, there were too many things all too happy to feed on a sleeping man.