Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [155]
They rode through its foothills—if that word could be applied to such a place—where the earth began its steep slope upward. The towns which had been built in this region were far to the south of them, clustered along the river that coursed down the valley’s center. And for good reason, Damien noted. There was a tem blor as they approached the ridge, and the cascade of sharp-edged rocks that came plummeting down the steep slope were an eloquent warning to any would-be traveler. Yet it was worth the risk for them, he thought, if it kept other people away. In this land where any human soul might be controlled by their enemy, isolation was a prerequisite for survival.
Mile after mile beat numbly into Damien’s flesh, his horse’s skin like fire between his legs, beneath his hands. God alone knew what was happening inside it, as the miles pounded underfoot one by one. Once he started to rein up to feed them, but Tarrant waved angrily for him to continue. Not necessary, his expression seemed to say. Or perhaps instead, No point. His heart cold, Damien obeyed. This ride would echo in his dreams for years to come, he knew, but not half so loudly as the ones he would have if they failed to get through the western pass before dawn.
Two horses is a small price....
What’s the third route to Shaitan’s valley? he had asked Tarrant, when the two pulled up briefly so that Damien might relieve himself.
A tunnel from beneath my keep, that exits there.
From the Forest? Damien had asked, surprised.
The Hunter nodded. I built it years ago, against the possibility that someday a human army might attack the keep itself. If I were to need an escape route, it stood to reason that it should be to a place where men would fear to follow. An unlikely event at best, but I pride myself on being prepared.
There was an army in the Forest now. What would happen if Jahanna fell? Would it affect Tarrant’s power, or only his mood?
None of that matters now, Damien told himself. Nothing matters but Calesta’s death.
He hoped, as they rode, that the Hunter shared his sentiment.
“There it is.”
They pulled up beside one another on a flat stretch of ground. Beneath them the horses had gone past sweat, past blood-flecked foam, to a state so painful and degraded that Damien flinched to note its symptoms. They were truly members of the living dead now, who wanted only Tarrant’s approval to fall to the ground and expire. Damien hoped for their sake that the moment came soon.
Black Ridge Pass wasn’t like its eastern sister in scope or configuration, but it promised a tolerable climb. A past earthquake had rent the ridge almost to its base, and time and weather had worked at the flaw, carving a u-shaped saddle into its slope. The approach was a steep climb, but not so impossible that horses couldn’t manage it. He glanced down at his mount and shuddered. Or whatever horses have become.
Then Tarrant kicked his own mount into motion, and Damien had no choice but to follow. The fact that the Hunter made no attempt to Divine their odds of success, or to otherwise See what lay ahead, was a chilling reminder of their enemy’s Iezu capacity. If there were some kind of ambush here, Tarrant knew they would never see it; no Working of his, no matter how well refined, could change that fact.
Trust to his planning, Damien told himself. Trust to his understanding of the enemy. But even as his mount’s trembling feet bit into the harsh mountain slope, he couldn’t help but remember what Tarrant had said before. It was a gamble. No more than that. And if Calesta had foreseen their latest move ... Damien