Black Sun Rising (82 page)

Then: Her hunger enveloped him. Dark, unwholesome, utterly revolting—and focused, this time, in a way it hadn’t been before. He felt her mental fingers prying at the edges of Tarrant’s barrier, trying to Work it loose from his flesh. Though he didn’t doubt the Hunter’s skill, he knew that her tenacity went far beyond anything a sane mind might conjure—and he shivered to think of what would become of him if she managed to dismantle Tarrant’s Warding before the faesurge struck her.

Where’s your earthquake, Hunter?
He imagined all the things that might have gone wrong—Gerald Tarrant too weak to Work, the quake-wards too strong to be broken, some secondary defense system, hitherto unnoticed, coming into play—but nothing frightened him more than the simple fact that the earth might not move. Period. Even if all their planning had been perfect, even if Tarrant had succeeded in all he set out to do ... the nature of seismic activity was random, and all the Workings in the world wouldn’t make it otherwise. The odds had been in their favor, true—but what if odds weren’t enough? What if the earth betrayed them, and took its sweet time in responding?

Then I’m dead,
he thought darkly. Behind his back, his fingers played with the edges of his bracers. Thick leather, but soft; he unsnapped them. The Keeper’s thoughts burrowed inside his mind—like so many worms—but her attention was fixed on Tarrant’s Warding.

Keep Working,
he begged her silently.
just keep Working.
It seemed that time had slowed down for him, that something in the enemy’s assault had altered his temporal functioning; he was aware of long minutes passing as he pushed at the forward edge of his bracers, forcing the leather back through the ropes that bound his wrists. Buying himself additional slack, through that action. He told himself that he had to be ready, in case their plan failed. Had to be ready to free himself and move quickly. He tucked one thumb against his palm and tested his hand against his rope, seeing if he had gained enough slack to force his hand through. Coarse rope bit into his skin, but the fit was promising. One good jerk—and the loss of some skin—and he might be free. He gauged the distance between himself and the woman, reached out with his senses to Know the whereabouts of her servants—and then stopped himself, sickened by his carelessness, and forced himself not to Work. Not to Work at all. It seemed to him that hours had passed, that while he had been lost in the mechanics of bodily defense she had launched whole offensives against the structure of Tarrant’s Warding. And still the earth hadn’t moved. Had Tarrant managed to dispel the quake-wards, or was he still struggling with them? Was there still some hope that the adept might succeed, and trigger the surge they required?

And then she drew back from him, and the world spiraled out into her eyes. And he saw the anger there, and knew with dread certainty that she had sensed some hidden purpose in the barrier. Enough to stop her from Working.

Which meant that it was over. It was all over ... and they had lost.

“I think,” she said coldly, “we may try torture after all.”

He looked about himself, desperately, as his hands prepared to pull loose from their bonds. As he steeled himself to move, and move quickly, in a sudden bid for freedom. But then his eyes fell on the eastern wall, at the soft glow rising up from its base—and he flinched, as the meaning of that became clear. As the full measure of his vulnerability hit home.

Light. Gray light, rising in the east.

Dawn.

He was suddenly aware that the Dark Ones had left them, no doubt withdrawing to some protective recess deep within the earth. Tarrant was powerless now. If he hadn’t broken the quake-wards yet, he wasn’t going to. Not in time to help Damien. The priest’s last hope had died with the night.

“What is it?” she demanded. Sensing that something was amiss with him, not knowing what. She turned toward the eastern wall, back to Damien. “What new trick ...” Her eyes grew hard, and he heard her mutter something; a key? He felt a Knowing taking shape around him, felt it working to squeeze the information out of him, examining his link to the dawn, to Tarrant—

And then it struck. He saw it, for an instant, through her eyes—for one terrible instant, in which the whole world was ablaze. Power surged through the crystalline walls, dashed against the mirrored steps, cycloned fiercely about them. Earth-fae fresh from the depths of Erna, hot as the magma that spawned it. She screamed as it struck her, screamed in terror as it blasted its way into her, its power filling and then bursting each cell in her brain.

He threw himself back. The distance somehow seemed to sever the contact between them, and the terrible vision was gone—but her screaming went on, rising in pitch to a fevered shriek as the earth-power poured through her. He tried not to listen as he jerked hard at his bonds, fighting to free himself. The coarse rope cut into him as he tried to force his hand through it, drawing blood—but with that lubrication, and a near-dislocation of his thumb, he managed to pull one hand free. Burning suns swam in his vision, an afterimage from the fae; he blinked as though that could cool their glare and tried to see past them to locate an exit. The shrieking numbed his brain, made it all but impossible to think clearly. How had he come in? He had no hope of finding a true exit from the citadel, not in time; his only chance lay in getting himself underground, and in hoping that the coming quake was merciful to whatever space housed him. With luck he could find his way back to the entrance tunnel—which would lead him down to the plains, and relative safety....

He grabbed his sword as he ran, sweeping it up from the crystalline floor—now spattered with blood and vomit, therefore visible. He didn’t dare be unarmed, not now. Thank God mere steel was enough to dispatch the Dark Ones. He ran, trusting to blind instinct to guide him. Stumbling, as unseen steps trapped his feet, hitting one mirrored wall hard enough to shatter it. Where was the exit? Where was the passage down? He tried to remember all the turnings they had taken on the way in, tried to reason his way through the glassy labyrinth—and then he took his sword and slammed its pommel into an obstructing wall, hard. Crystal shivered into bits, revealing the dark mouth of a tunnel beyond.
Praise God
, he thought feverishly.
Please, let it be in time
. Bits of mirror crunched underfoot as he fought his way toward the entrance, slipping and sliding on the glassy fragments. And then the earthen wall was beside him, and his hand was upon it, and he was stumbling down into the depths—

And the earth convulsed, with force enough that he was thrown from his feet, headfirst into a hard dirt wall. Overhead the citadel tinkled, like a thousand wind chimes in a stormy sky—and then began to shatter, wall by wall, staircase by staircase, as the ground swelled up and broke beneath it. Huge chunks of crystal crashed to the earth behind him, sending fragments like spears down into the tunnel at his feet. Half-stunned, he forced himself to move again, to work his way down into the heart of the trembling earth. To his side, a wooden support snapped and came loose; chunks of rock and dirt hailed down on him as bits of crystal caromed into the depths.
Too close to the surface
, he thought, despairing.
Too close!
A shockwave threw him off his feet, and dirt rained down on him as he struggled to recover his balance.
Must get deeper
.... He struggled on blindly, not pausing to consider whether greater depth would really mean safety—not stopping to question whether any place could be truly safe, in such an utter upheaval.

It should only last seconds. Shouldn’t it?
What were the parameters of a quake like this, that had been decades in the making?

The tunnel grew dark about him, dawn’s dim light filtered through a rain of dirt and gravel that fell from its ceiling. He staggered down the length of it by feel, praying for enough time to save himself. But even as he did so he knew that if the quake had already begun, his time was just about up.

And then a support overhead broke loose, and swung down into him. It knocked him against the far wall, hard, leaving him stunned where he fell. The motion loosed a fresh avalanche of dirt and rock that rained on him as he struggled to right himself. All around him he could hear the tunnel collapsing, the roar of the earthquake as it raged through the planet’s crust. His hand clenched tightly about his sword grip as he struggled to his feet—as if that weapon could somehow protect him from the fury of the earth itself—but then the ground beneath him spasmed furiously, and the whole of the ceiling gave way at last. Pounds upon pounds of dirt and rock poured down upon him, battering him into the ground. He tried to fight free, but the torrent of earth overwhelmed him. Gasping for breath, he choked on dirt—and as he struggled to clear his lungs, something large and sharp struck him hard on the head. Driving him down, deep down, into the suffocating depths of Nature’s vengeance.

Light. Blinding. He shrank back from it—or tried to—but a strong hand had hold of him, long fingers entangled in his shirt. It jerked him up, forcing his mouth above the level of the earth. He gasped for breath, winced from the pain of the effort. Then his lungs spasmed suddenly, and he began to cough up the dirt that had filled them. Retching helplessly, as the strong hands continued to pull him out of his earthbound tomb.

The light faded slowly to a mere star, to a tiny lamp flame. By its glow he could see that the tunnel was mostly gone, and what little that remained was filled with dust. Even while he watched, a fresh trickle of gravel began to course down from what remained of the ceiling.

“Can you move?” Tarrant asked.

His limbs felt numb, but they responded. He nodded.

“Then let’s go. This place is death.”

The Hunter wrapped an arm about his shoulder—so cold, so very cold, who could ever have thought that the man’s chill could be so comforting?—and with his help, Damien somehow managed to make his way to open space. He paused there for a minute, shivering.

“Close?” Tarrant asked softly.

“Too close,” he whispered. A wave of sudden weakness washed over him; he let the Hunter support him. “Ciani,” he breathed. “Where—”

“Right ahead of us. With Hesseth. No one’s being left alone anymore till this is over.”

“Did she—” He was afraid to voice the words. Afraid of what a negative answer would mean. “Is she—”

“Whole? Recovered?” He shook his head, grimly. “Not yet. But this is just the beginning. If her assailant isn’t killed in a cavern collapse, I’ll hunt him down later. Now that his protector is dead, it should be easy enough.”

He looked up at him, sharply. “You know that?”

“She fed on me,” he answered quietly. “A channel like that works both ways, you know. Did you think I wouldn’t drink in her terror when she died? She owed me that much.”

He struggled to get his feet firmly beneath him. “Good meal, I hope.”

“Damned good meal,” the Hunter assured him. “Let’s move.”

Together they crept through the remains of the access tunnel, through passages made dangerously narrow by earthfall. At times they had to dig their way through, heaving aside rocks and mounds of earth to make enough room for a body to squeeze through.

“You came in this way?” Damien asked.

“It’s still collapsing, if that’s your question.” He grasped a fallen support beam and pulled; a narrow passage opened up to receive them. “Somewhat less violently, farther along. That’s where the women are.—But I wouldn’t like to be here when the next shock wave hits,” he added.

“I’m surprised it hasn’t yet.”

The Hunter looked at him; there was a faint smile on his lips. “That may be because I left some of the quake-wards intact. I Worked them to kick in again after the first tremors ended. They won’t hold long, of course, not without the rest of the series ... but every minute counts.”

“You’re very thorough.”

“I try to be.” He wiped dirt from his eyes with the back of a sleeve. Damien tried to do the same, and his hand came away from his face sticky with blood. The quantity of it unnerved him. “Much further?”

The Hunter glanced at him. “You’ll make it.”

He thought of the dawn light he had seen from the citadel. How much time had passed since then? What kind of safety was there for his dark companion, if the sun had risen? “What about you?”

He jerked loose a piece of splintered wood that blocked their path; dirt showered down in the narrow passageway. “I’m strong enough, if that’s the question.”

“I meant the sun.”

For a moment the Hunter was still. Damien thought he saw a muscle tense along his jaw, and the pale eyes narrowed. “Let’s deal with that problem when we get to it,” he said at last—and he heaved the broken timber from him, hard enough that it gouged the far wall.

“If you think—”

“Talk won’t make the sun set,” he said sharply. “And we’re still far from getting out of here. Look.” He pointed to the far side of the passageway, to a hole that yawned in the far wall. “Can you see it? In the currents. They’re stirring, underground. The ones that survived the first shockwave will be coming to the surface, where they imagine things are safer. Idiots! If they knew their science, they’d stay where they are, where the surface waves can’t reach—”