Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [192]
At last—finally!—the slope leveled off. The cracked surface of Shaitan gave way to the jagged monuments of her valley bed, and then—just when it seemed to Damien that he couldn’t climb down another foot—to level ground. They stopped ever so briefly to take another sip of water, and Damien pressed a bit of food into Tarrant’s hand, but he didn’t want to stop even long enough to make sure that the adept ate it. There were shadows of the dead here, hungry for the pain of the living, and without Tarrant’s help he knew he didn’t stand a chance against them. He chewed his own portion as they started forward again, and prayed that Tarrant’s body still remembered how to digest such solid nourishment.
Moving as quickly as they could, they made their way across the valley floor. The mists were thinner in this place and few shadows even noticed them. The very closeness of the ridge—so near that they could make out a few malformed trees on its flank—lent them a last burst of strength, past the point when their bodies might normally have failed them. Just this one last hike, Damien promised himself, and then it’s all over. You can make camp on the ridge somewhere and get some real sleep, and tomorrow you can head back andstart your life over. The thought of untroubled sleep was so enticing that for a moment he could think of nothing else, that sweet physical surrender as darkness and peace closed in around him, the sure caress of dreams. . . . He looked up sharply at Karril, who refused to meet his eyes. Shit. I guess we all have to eat, right?
By the time they finally reached the far side of the valley, the sun was well overhead, and the Core also. Their light had been so wholly eclipsed by Shaitan’s ash-cloud that an eerie pseudo-night had fallen across the valley, blood red shadows sculpting rocky promon tories in sharp relief. Tarrant was still walking, although his pace and his posture warned that his newfound strength was near to giving out. But they were going to make it, Damien thought feverishly. They were really going to make it.
Sleep. It beckoned to him from the slope up ahead, from that place where the mists of the valley gave way to the cold winds of the Ridge. That place where no lava could reach them, no demons would follow them, nothing and no one would disturb their peace. It seemed almost heaven compared to their recent travels, and he struggled toward it with all the energy he could muster. How long now since they had last rested, or eaten a real meal, or even paused to get their bearings? Incredibly, Tarrant kept going, and Damien didn’t want to know whether the man’s strength was genuinely improving or whether it was simply desperation that drove him. Some things were better left unquestioned.
And then they were there at last, high enough on the rocky slope to be safe. Damien remained standing just long enough to wrestle his pack off his back and remove his sword harness, then fell to the earth in exhaustion, Tarrant doing the same by his side. Never mind that the ground was sharp and uneven, and their flesh was bruised from the day’s events. He was alive. Tarrant was alive! And as for the few threats remaining ...
“I’ll keep watch,” the Iezu promised, and he nodded. Good. Yes. That would do it.
We made it, he thought. Numbed by the concept. We really made it. We’re going to live.
And then sheer exhaustion closed in around him and