Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [205]
“Narilka?” he gasped.
She fell upon his chest, holding him, weeping. Where her tears touched him, the coldness faded from his flesh. Her voice was a balm that brought him back to the world of the living. The heat of her life burned him, but it was a welcome pain.
“I’m all right,” he whispered. It took everything he had to move his arm, to lift it up, to place it around her shoulders. For a moment he just lay there, exhausted by the effort. The Forest was still alive in his soul, but its grip was weakening. Soon he would move again. Soon he would get to his feet. Every human act, even one as simple as walking, would reinforce his dominion over his own flesh.
“I love you.” He whispered it into her hair, oblivious to the filth which caked it. In his eyes she was pure and beautiful. “Don’t ever leave me.”
The wolves were gone. Had they been mere illusions all along, which vanished when their maker died? Or had the animals simply turned and run, fearful of doing battle without a sorcerer by their side? From where he lay, he could see soldiers moving into the castle, searching the grounds, unpacking explosives. Soon the real work would begin. By dawn the Hunter’s citadel would be rubble, and all the power that it conjured as a symbol of evil would be scattered to the winds. Too bad the Hunter himself hadn’t been there....
He stiffened. A cold chill wafted up his spine. His arm about Narilka tightened.
“Andri?”
He struggled up to a sitting position. She helped him. Though the Forest’s power no longer flowed freely through his soul, a fragile vestige yet remained. A hint of awareness that made his skin crawl, a whisper of ... what?
“What is it?” she asked him. “Tell me.”
Slowly, her arm supporting him, he got to his feet. The act of breathing felt alien to him; his lungs ached as though they had gone unused for centuries. What was this new thing that he sensed, this threat that he couldn’t put a name to? It was close, very close. He could taste it.
And then he knew. He stared at the castle, he sensed what was inside it, and he knew.
“Oh, my God,” he whispered.
“Andri?” Her voice was soft, but he could sense the fear behind it. “What’s wrong?”
Calesta wasn’t here now, but Calesta wasn’t needed. Memories returned of their own accord. Samiel. Betrise. Abechar. His own home castle, drenched in blood.
A dark strength filled him. The love that had warmed his soul gave way to hate.
“The Hunter’s here,” he whispered.
Forty
The tunnel seemed to go on forever. Maybe it did, Damien thought. Maybe this was the true Hell, and they would spend the rest of eternity trudging through this stifling darkness, heading toward a destination that didn’t even exist. If so, it would serve Tarrant right.
But it was hard to be angry at a man who was so clearly having a hard time of it. His battered mortal flesh needed mortal things to heal itself—food and water in quantity, safety from stress, adequate sleep—and on this trip it wasn’t likely to get any of them. He knew what the Hunter had been capable of, but what were the limits of this living man who walked by his side? He couldn’t begin to guess. Yet despite the flush which bore witness to painful exertion, and the increasing stiffness of his stride, Tarrant refused to slow down for any reason. That was the old Hunter, Damien knew. He only hoped the new one was up to past standards.
When they slowed down for a moment to dig out a portion of their dwindling supplies, or stopped completely—miracle of miracles—to relieve themselves of meals long since processed, Damien took a moment to study his companion. Tarrant was limping now, and the manner in which he walked hinted at blisters near the breaking point, but despite that obvious pain his spirit was unflagging. Whatever the Iezu mother had taken from him, it wasn’t affecting either courage or endurance. What kind of child had the Hunter’s soul given birth to, that would now walk the land with a mind of its own and the ability to orchestrate detailed illusions? He