Crown of Shadows - C. S. Friedman [210]
To his surprise it was the Hunter who responded. “Andrys Tarrant.” Was that a tremor of fear in his voice? “Last living descendant of my family line.”
“You killed them!” the newcomer cried hoarsely. His hand on the springbolt was shaking; the dried blood on his face was streaked with sweat. “God damn you to Hell for it.” He reached up with his left hand to wipe away what might have been a tear, or maybe just a drop of sweat, then quickly returned it to the barrel of his weapon. “I don’t know who you are,” he snapped at Damien, “and I don’t care. But I’ve got two bolts loaded and so help me God, if you don’t move out of my way, one of them’s for you.”
There was nowhere to run to. No way to Work a defense. One slender wooden shaft was all it would take, to pierce a heart that had only just started to beat again. In this strange new world they were in, there was no way to stop it.
God, don’t let it end like this. Please. Give him a chance to come back to You.
The Hunter’s manner gave no sign of his desperation, but Damien knew him well enough to hear it in his voice.“It’s over,” Tarrant said quietly. “You’ve won.”
“Shut up!” the man shouted. He raised the weapon higher, and cursed as he confirmed the fouled sightline along the barrel. In a voice that edged on hysteria, he shouted at Damien, “Move!”
“The Forest is dead,” Gerald persisted. His voice was low and even; Damien could sense the monumental self-control required to keep it that way. “That’s what you came to do, isn’t it? The Forest and its current master are dead, and its past master....” He let the sentence trail off into eloquent silence, as if daring his enemy to complete it. “Isn’t that what you wanted, Andrys? To destroy all my work, so that I would have nothing left?” How much did he know about the man from past Knowings, Damien wondered, how much could he read in the currents now, how much was he guessing? His very life depended on those skills. “You won. It’s over. Go back to your life.”
“I have no life, you son of a bitch.” The man’s voice was shaking. “Not while you’re alive.”
The finger on the trigger tensed. Damien’s muscles were ready to move, wound taut as the steel springs inside that killing weapon.
“Calesta is dead,” Gerald Tarrant said quietly.
The newcomer’s face went white. He reeled slightly as if struck, and his finger moved a precious inch or two back from the trigger.
“You bound yourself to him,” Gerald pressed. “Didn’t you? What did he promise you? Forgetfulness? Purging? An orgy of vengeance?” He paused. “Did he tell you what the cost of that would be? Did he tell you that you would lose your soul if you served him?”
“That doesn’t matter,” he whispered.
“He was my enemy long before you were involved.” Damien could see the newcomer flinch as each word hit home, forcing him to reconsider a relationship he had clearly taken for granted until this moment. “Did you know that? He’d use any tool that was available to accomplish his ends. Even my own flesh and blood. Or did you think when he offered his power to you that it was only for your benefit?” He shook his head sharply, tensely. His whole body was poised like that of an animal about to bolt for cover, or launch itself at its prey. “He lived for pain and pain alone. Not only mine, but yours. Killing me wouldn’t be enough for him, not unless I knew in my last dying moment that he had also destroyed those things I valued most. The Forest. The Church. And now you.”
“You value me?” He spat the words out in disbelief, almost unable to voice them. “What kind of bullshit is that? How stupid do you think I am?”
“You’re my own flesh and blood,” the Hunter said icily. “Not the proudest member of my line, certainly not the strongest, but right now you’re all that’s left. When he claims your soul, he will debase a history that stretches back nearly a thousand years.” The pale eyes were an icy flame that chilled whatever they gazed upon.