Black Sun Rising (32 page)

They regarded their destination.

In the distance were trees. They began suddenly, a solid wall of brown and black and beige trunks jutting up from the half-frozen ground, overlaid by jagged branches and brown, dying leaves. The Forest. From their vantage point Senzei and Damien could see far into the distance, over the treetops to the mountains beyond. The Forest’s canopy stretched out for miles upon miles, a thick tangle of treetops and dead leaves and parasitic vines that smothered the entire region like some vast, rotting blanket. Here and there an evergreen peeked out, a hint of somber green struggling for sunlight. Yellow-green light washed over it all, sculpting the canopy with light and shadow so that it seemed like a second landscape, with hills and valleys and even meandering river beds all its own.

That was what caught their attention first, and held it for several long minutes. Then, when they had taken it in, their eyes traveled downward. Into the valley before them.

Where men were gathering.

They were camped just before the tree line, where the shallow earth had guaranteed that nothing but grass and simple brush would take root. Their encampments were crude and severe,
functional
rather than
comfortable,
and a sharp, ammoniac smell arose from the land they had claimed, as though some territorial beast had sprayed every tent in the place. There were several cabins—crudely built—and a structure that might have been meant to serve as outhouse, but otherwise the make-do shelters that dotted the landscape were transient structures of pole and canvas, unenduring. There were a few wooden frames with animal skins stretched across them, a few cooking fires, a single laundry line. And men. They were gathering at the foot of the hill, as though preparing to welcome the travelers-or challenge them. Damien glanced at Senzei, about to issue instructions—and then looked again, more closely, his eyes narrowing in concern. “You all right?”

Senzei managed a shrug. “I’ll live,” he muttered. And though that was all he said, they both understood what he meant; not
I’m sure I’ll survive this,
but rather,
I understand our priorities. We have to keep moving. Don’t stop for me.

With a brief nod of approval, Damien started down the hill. He made no move for his weapon, but Senzei knew from experience just how quickly he could get to it if need be. He wished he had half the priest’s skill at combat; if a fight broke out here, he’d probably wind up skewered before he could get his own blade halfway out of its scabbard.

Say it right,
he told himself.
It wouldn’t be a fight. Not with two against this many. That’s called a slaughter.

The two slowed their horses as the locals gathered around them, until they were brought to a full stop at the base of the hill. The locals were all men, for the most part hardy types in their prime, functionally dressed. All were possessed of that particular hard expression that said,
we don’t need strangers, or their questions. Justify your presence or get out of here, fast.

Damien rose up in his saddle; Senzei could feel the crowd tense. “We’re looking for someone,” the priest said. His voice was carried crisp and clear by the dry autumn air; a preacher’s voice, strong and unhesitating. “He would have come through just before dawn—a tall man, with a woman in tow.” He looked out over the sea of faces—neither hostile nor sympathetic, but coolly
unresponsive
—and added, “We’ll pay well for any information.”

There was a murmur at that, and several glares, passed between the men. One voice spoke up, openly hostile. “Yeah, we’ve seen one. A Lord of the Forest, that one. Came through like fire—untouchable, y‘know? We don’t look, we don’t ask. Them’s the rules.”

Damien looked toward the source of the voice. “Did he have a woman with him?”

The men looked at each other; it was clear they were debating whether or not to answer Damien. “Think so,” one said at last. “Across his saddle?” “Yeah,” another confirmed. “I saw it.”

A man who was close to the horses stepped forward and tried to put his hand on Damien’s mount, in warning. The horse, well-trained, backed tensely away.

“You understand,” he said to Damien. “We’re not supposed to notice that kind. It’s death to interfere with ‘em.”

“Interference is my business,” Damien assured him. “You know where he went?”

“Listen to me,” another said. He, too, stepped forward, divorcing himself from the crowd. A middle-aged man, silver-haired, with dark weathered skin and a workman’s hands. “Three or four times a year, His people come through here like that. And right behind them, often as not, a herd of men comes galloping along in hot pursuit. Brothers and fathers, husbands, lovers—sometimes hired swords that were paid to fight alongside them—all of them determined that
this
time,
this one
time, the Hunter won’t get what He wants.” His eyes narrowed as he regarded Damien. “You hear what I’m saying? Men just like you two, with questions just like yours. Armed to the teeth and ready for anything. They think. So they ride into the Forest with a curse against the Hunter on their lips ... and never come out again.
Never.
I’ve watched a dozen, two dozen go in ... and not a single one ever showed his face on the outside again, in all the years that I’ve been here.”

Damien looked at Senzei; there was something cold in the priest’s expression that hadn’t been there a moment before, as if some terrible thought had just occurred to him. It took Senzei a minute to realize what it was—and when he did, he felt his hands tighten involuntarily on his reins, his heart skip a beat inside his chest. Was Ciani to be hunted? It was a possibility that hadn’t occurred to either of them. But if she was alive, and vulnerable, and the Hunter got hold of her—

“Where’s he headed?” Damien demanded. He turned to the silver-haired man. “You seem to know what goes on here. Where’s he gone? How do we follow him?”

The man just stared at him like he’d lost his mind. And maybe he had. At last he said quietly, “There’s a fortress in the heart of the Forest; they say it’s black as obsidian, impossible to make out in the shadows—unless He
wants
you to see it. That’s where He stays, the Hunter, and never leaves, except to feed. They’ll have taken her there.”

Damien looked the men over. “Have any of you ever seen this place?”

“No one’s seen it,” a man answered quickly. “No one that ever lived to talk about it. You hear me? If you go in there searching for Him—for any reason—you’ll never come out again. Not with the woman, or without her. Ever.”

“The Hunter’s merciless,” someone muttered. And another urged, “Give it up, man.”

“The Hunter can take his Forest and shove it,” Damien said sharply. “How do we get to this black fortress of his?”

They were silent for a moment, stunned by the force of the blasphemy. At last the silver-haired man said, “All roads lead to the Hunter’s keep. Go in deep enough—so the shadows can herd you along—and you’ll get there, all right. Whether you
see
it or not is another thing. But there’s no way back, after that,” he warned them. “Not by any path a living man can follow.”

Damien looked toward the Forest. Where the trees parted somewhat there was a well-worn trail. As he watched, a pair of men on horseback broke free of the Forest’s confines and cantered over toward where their fellows were gathered.

“You go in there,” Damien challenged. “And you come out again.”

“Sometimes not,” someone muttered. Damien heard whispered curses. A rugged man in a black wool jacket said harshly, “That’s because there’s stuff in there that’s worth that kind of risk. Plants that don’t grow anywhere else, that sorcerors want—animals that mutate so fast, each generation has a different coat. There’s a pack of white wolves in that Forest, belongs to the Hunter himself—you kill enough of them to make a man’s coat from the skins, I can point you to a buyer who’ll pay a small fortune for it. Yeah, we’ll risk going in. Because we know the rules. Do as you like in the daytime ... but if you’re in the Forest after nightfall you’re His. Period. So we do it fast and clean. Mark ourselves a good trail. Get out before sunset.” He glanced nervously toward the leading edge of the Forest; a shudder seemed to pass through his frame. “Not as easy as it sounds,” he muttered. “Not when you can’t see the sun. Not when the place plays games with your mind.”

“All right,” Damien said; clearly he’d heard enough. He reached into his tunic front and drew out a small purse. He looked around, then threw it to the silver-haired man—who let it fall before him and made no move to pick it up.

“Save your money,” he said. “It’s one thing in the Hunter’s eyes to trade a little gossip—and quite another to sell His secrets for profit.” He glanced toward the fringe of the Forest and added soberly, “He reminds us of that distinction, every now and then.”

“Your choice,” Damien responded. He left the pouch lying where it was and began to ease his mount forward. Senzei moved to follow—but for a moment his legs wouldn’t move, and his hands were strangely numb. “Damien....” In his side the sharp pain had become an amorphous fire that throbbed in time with his heartbeat. “I can’t....”

The priest twisted in his saddle, studied his companion’s face. Senzei could imagine the things that were going through his mind:
He’s weak. City-born. Never suffered a serious wound in his life, and now this. But no one can do a Healing here without losing his soul to the Forest. And if we stop to rest, even for an hour, that might cost Ciani her life.

“I’m fine,” Senzei managed. And when Damien kept staring at him, he added, “Really.”

After a moment, Damien nodded. He turned back toward the Forest, and kneed his horse into motion once more. Gritting his teeth from the strain of it, Senzei managed to get his body to obey him. Slowly, his horse moved to follow Damien’s. And the third in line, behind him, took its accustomed place behind his.

You’ll be all right,
he told himself.
You will. It’s a question of mind over matter. You can’t afford to be sick, therefore you will get well. Right?

But mind over matter—or any other conscious control of the flesh—required the fae. And for the first time in his life, Senzei was beginning to understand what it meant to do without that.

There were seven of them now, and they lay along the northern crest of Morgot, staring hatefully at the distant shore. One was wounded. Three had died. Of the original band that had traveled to Jaggonath, only one remained—and if he acted as the leader of the backup team that had met them in Morgot, it was because he alone had been there since the start of it.

They had a sorceror!
one whispered angrily.

The leader answered quietly:
They are all sorcerors.

It was that bitch from the plains,
another interrupted.
If she hadn’t interfered—

You should have killed that sorceror-woman in Jaggonath,
one of the newcomers accused.
Then this wouldn’t have happened. None of it would have happened.

Yes,
the leader said quietly.
I agree.

I had other orders,
he answered simply.

But it was the same woman?
a newcomer demanded.
You’re sure of that

Yes. Very sure. The disguise was good, but her mind still tastes the same.
He licked his lips, remembering.
So good, these human souls.

They stared out across the water. At Mordreth. Toward the Forest.

Are we going in after them?
one asked nervously.

No need,
another whispered.
They will come out. They must come out. And we’ll kill them then, when they do.

One hissed angrily. Another clenched his hands into fists, as if readying himself for battle.

He added, in a hungry whisper:
She can serve as food, for the long journey home.