When True Night Falls (42 page)

Vines strangling trees. Then vines in shreds, white sap dripping from their ravaged ends. Then black things that scuttled up and down the tree trunks, carrying bits of vine and spongy leaves in their mouth. Then larger things, spiderlike, that ate those. Rodents that fed on the spiders. They weren’t intermingled, as natural species would have been, but existed in waves so populous that each new life-form devastated the forest anew, leaving a wasteland of dead trees and shriveled vines and bones. So very many bones. They littered the ground like dead leaves in autumn. Piles so thick that they cracked beneath the horses’ hooves with every step. The smell of decay, of rotting flesh, was so overwhelming in places that Damien wrapped a strip of cloth over his nose and mouth and Worked it to act as a barrier. Hesseth looked so nauseous that he offered to do the same for her, and to his surprise she accepted. Whatever Tarrant did to deal with the smell was private and undiscernible, but Damien was sure he did something. The Hunter was too fastidious a man to put up with that kind of stink for long.

And then, at last, they were back at the river. It was wider now, and the water gleamed as it rippled over a rocky bed. Damien started forward toward it, meaning to gather some river water for their dinner, but Tarrant’s hand on his arm stopped him.

“What is it?”

“The pattern of this region. Think about it. One species takes root, then overbreeds and destroys the environment. So another is introduced which establishes balance for a while, until it, too, overbreeds. And then another. And another.”

It took him a minute to realize what the Hunter was driving at. “You think someone
evolved
those life-forms?”

“Nature is infinitely complex, Reverend Vryce. Who knows that better than I? A natural ecosystem is a delicately balanced creation, with all sorts of checks and balances that are continuously evolving in tandem. Nothing like this. The simplicity of it, and the waste ... I sense a human hand behind it. Very inexperienced, limited in understanding, perhaps overwhelmed by its failure to control. Because in order to establish a new species properly, you have to make sure it comes equipped with counterspecies: predators, parasites, diseases, degraders. That wasn’t done here. Such power, without understanding the consequences of applying it. No wonder there was such destruction.”

“Each life-form had its own territory,” Hesseth pointed out.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps instead each life-form was created at some central point, and then allowed to spread. The vines first, and then the animals that fed on them. Predators for them, when they were out of control. And again. Each species spreading out from that central point, like waves across the region. So that as we travel—”

“We’re heading toward that center,” Damien said suddenly.

The Hunter nodded. “That, and we’re due for the next creation. The last was rodents, and large ones. Anything feeding on them would also be a threat to humankind, and thus to their creators.”

“Insects could kill them off,” Hesseth offered. “Or even diseases. Those wouldn’t have to endanger humans.”

“Correct. And I would have used the latter, if this were my game. But whoever’s playing God with this ecosystem lacks that kind of subtlety. So what would be a safe killer, from our sorcerer’s point of view? Another small creature? Too inefficient. Something large? Too dangerous. Perhaps something large but rooted down, so that it isn’t free to roam. Then it could be avoided. But you can’t just scatter these killers at random, can you? The animals would learn to avoid them. They would have to be in hiding, and concentrated some place where all the animals would have to go....”

He studied the ground for a moment, then bent down and picked up a rock. It was flat, Damien noted, very thin, and about the size of his hand. With a flick of his wrist he launched it out toward the water. It hit the surface hard near the shore and then skipped several times, and was swallowed by the fog before they could see it sink.

“Very neat,” Damien said. “But I don’t see how—”

The water erupted. From beneath the spot where the stone first struck the surface something burst upward in a spurt of foam. It was green, and glistening, and it whipped about wildly in search of the cause of the commotion. Damien saw green leaves and slender tendrils, with something sharp and white at their center. Hungry. God. He could
feel
the hunger, could feel it freezing his limbs, making him unable to fight, unable to struggle....

He shook his head violently and forced himself to turn away. It wasn’t easy. After a moment the noise subsided. After another moment the feeling of helplessness did also. He turned back to the water, saw nothing but smooth ripples on its surface.

“Good God,” he whispered. “What was that?”

“Our sorcerer’s last gambit, I assume. What will happen when this one goes out of control is anyone’s guess. Fortunately, the next creation will probably be a river creature also. It should mean easier traveling for a while.”

“If you’re right,” Hesseth said, “if this is all the work of humans ... then how far are we from them? Can you guess that?”

“Pretty close, I would imagine. How many more steps in the food chain ladder are possible before something decides it likes the taste of human flesh? I think we should be very careful from now on,” he warned. “These things are getting larger each time, and far more dangerous. In the end it may not be the humans here who are the greatest threat, but these creations.”

“You still can’t Know anything about the humans here?” Damien asked.

The Hunter turned cold eyes on him. “I can’t. I’ve tried. It’s as if they disappeared.”

“Or were eaten?” Hesseth offered.

“I’d have sensed that,” he responded shortly.

Be careful
. That was what Damien thought as they rode along the shoreline and looked for a place to camp. Be careful. As if they hadn’t been before. As if the Hunter had to tell them a thing like that.

They searched for a safer campsite along the rocky shore.

“Damien. Damien. Get up.”

The whisper invaded his dreams. It took him a minute to realize whose it was, and why it sounded so urgent.

“
Damien
. Wake up. Please.”

Then he understood. The dream shattered into a thousand fragments. Sleep was gone in an instant.

“What is it?” he croaked, sitting up. His throat was dry. “What?”

He saw that Hesseth was armed. “Someone’s coming,” she whispered. Her ears were flattened against her head and her fur was bristling. “I can smell them.”

As he quickly got to his feet, he looked for cover, someplace safe to shoot from. But they had chosen this spot because it was out of the forest but far enough from the river, and not for its martial features. He damned himself—and Tarrant—for that shortsightedness.

“Where?” he whispered.

She nodded toward the south. And hesitated.

“Many,” she breathed at last.

Damn. Damn. Damn
. He chose an outcropping behind them which offered limited cover. No way to hide the horses. No time to obliterate the camp. He motioned for her to crouch down beside him, behind the low ridge.

He could hear them now. Rustling. Voices. An odd mixture of caution and carelessness, low voices and heavy footfall. And damn, there were a lot of them. You couldn’t make that kind of noise with only a handful.

They came closer, moving from up the south, and then their direction shifted. West. That meant they were encircling the camp. The voices were silent now, wary of being heard by their quarry.

So they knew where the camp was, and most likely knew what they were hunting. Damn. In another few minutes he and Hesseth would be surrounded, and then there would be no way out but through the river. Could they sneak away quickly enough, going far enough north that they escaped the deadly circle ... but no, that meant leaving the horses behind along with all their supplies. And there was no way they could travel all the miles they had to with neither mounts nor gear.

He felt desperation grab hold of him—that, and a cold calculation, as he realized where their only chance lay. He reached out for Hesseth, met her eyes, nodded toward the horses.
We grab them
, his expression said,
and run for it
. North. They could stay by the river—but not too close—where the terrain would allow a horse to gallop, and maybe they could just break out of this. They’d make noise all right, lots of it, but no human feet could outrun a horse. It was a long shot, to be sure .. but he figured it was the only chance they had.

But as he sprinted forward toward his mount the vines at the edge of the forest parted, and he knew that it was too late; if they were coming into the open, it meant that the camp was already surrounded. There was no time to get back behind the ridge now, for what little shelter it provided. And besides, if he did that, he’d be revealing Hesseth’s position. Let her have a chance.

Heart pounding, he braced his weapon against his shoulder and waited for the enemy to reveal itself.

The first thing he saw was a face. A horrible visage, with slashes of red above and below distorted human features. He was so on edge that it took him a minute to realize what it was. Beside it another appeared, equally grotesque, crudely painted. They were the faces of his childhood nightmares, the masks that his unconscious mind had assigned to demons of the night long before he had actually seen anyone. And masks they were, in a very real sense. He watched in amazement as more and more armed figures came out of the woods, until the campsite was surrounded. They were fierce, these warriors who wore the demon-masks; their dirty bodies were painted with the colors of blood and death, and bones were tied to their weapons. Their wooden spears and crude arrows were all stained brown or black about the tip, and Damien had no doubt that it was blood of many kills which had seeped down into the wood.

He should have moved before they were in position. Or gone back to Hesseth. He should have done
something.

But he couldn’t. He just stared.

They were
children.

More then twenty of them surrounded the camp now; he didn’t dare turn his head to count. Few stood higher than his chest. At least a handful were small enough that they couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old at the most, and the rest seemed little older. Though it was hard to make out their shapes between the grotesque masks they wore and the leather vests and breeches which had been similarly painted, Damien would have wagered that not more than one or two of them had reached their teens yet.

How bizarre. How utterly, horribly bizarre.

They were all armed, and though their weapons were crudely made they were undoubtedly effective. As they came slowly into the clearing, Damien realized that he had only two choices. He could try to cut them down, using his size, his strength, and his experience as an advantage to counteract their numbers. Or he could surrender, bide his time until Tarrant returned. The latter went against his every instinct, and he found himself bracing for battle, calculating just how and when he should move against so many ... but they were children. Children! How would it feel, to cut down those tiny bodies? Could he do it? Suddenly he wasn’t so sure. His hands, clasped about the weapon, trembled slightly.

Prodded from her hiding place, Hesseth joined him. He heard her growling low in her throat as she scanned the crowd surrounding them, as unhappy as he was about the choices.

“Who are you?” he demanded of them. “What do you want?”

It was a lean boy—one of the tallest—who responded. “You come with us. Now. Put down your weapons and come—”

“Or we kill you,” another one interrupted. She was a tiny thing, with bedraggled bits of blonde hair hanging down about her shoulders.

“Do it fast,” the lean boy commanded.

Damien looked at Hesseth, and saw in her eyes a reflection of his own inner turmoil. Perhaps a moment ago he could have pretended that they weren’t human, could have managed to close his eyes and mow them down with sword and with sorcery ... but not now. Not now that they’d spoken. All his human instinct cried out against it. Children were to be protected, not murdered.

If they had moved against him, he could have fought. If they had threatened his life. If they had seemed so angry or irrational that he thought they might kill him outright rather than take him prisoner. If ... anything.

But they didn’t. And they weren’t.

He lowered his weapon. The children waited. He looked at Hesseth—her ears were still flat against her head and she was hissing softly, but she nodded—and he laid the weapon down. And stepped back. It was little more than a gesture; between his strength and Hesseth’s claws they were far from helpless in this crowd. But it seemed to be what the masked children wanted.