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By Root 1424 0

all his war-dreams had been leading up to? He reached over to his lamp and cracked open the hood slightly, letting a faint light into the room. God in Heaven. Was there really a man like that, whose mere presence could disarm the Forest’s defenses ? If so ... He breathed in deeply, trying to accept the implications. The Church had lost its Great War when its armies turned against the Forest; that cursed land was more powerful than mere human troops could ever hope to be. But if there were a key to that realm, a way of entering and traveling through it without setting off its defensive sorceries ... then they might indeed make it to the heart of the Hunter’s domain, and make war with him outright. They might then destroy the tyrant who had dominated that land for centuries, and thus free the human lands of his predations forever.

As spokesman for the One God’s Church, the Patriarch knew the power of symbols all too well, and this one reverberated in his soul with stunning force. A symbolic victory over the Forest’s prince would affect the fae in a way that generations of sorcerers could never manage, winning a far greater battle in the long run. It wouldn’t be necessary for men to make war against the Forest itself, or even try to contain it; that was the mistake the Patriarch’s predecessors had made, which had resulted in the Church’s greatest defeat. No, if they made war against the symbol of the Forest, by attacking its demonic monarch, and if they won, the planet itself would be their ally.

It could be done, he thought. Numbed by the concept. It could really be done.

For a moment he shut his eyes and prayed, opening himself up to the wisdom of his God. If this is foolishness, he begged, then tell me now. Could there possibly be a man like the one he saw in his dream, who so resembled the Hunter in outer aspect that he might pretend to be him, and lead Church troops to victory? It would take more than mere physical resemblance, the Patriarch suspected. What kind of man would be able to take on the Hunter’s persona—become him, in essence—and still serve the Church’s purpose in attacking his stronghold?

He’d have to be crazy, he thought. And if he wasn’t crazy to start with, he sure as hell would be by the time it was over.

With a sigh, he forced himself to lay back down. What were the odds that someone like that could be found, even if he existed? A million to one, if that. It was a dream, nothing more. Not a vision this time. Just a dream, like other men had. Just that.

But the image wouldn’t leave him. And even when he forced himself to shut his eyes—even as sleep shuttered his restless brain once more—he couldn’t help but imagine what it might mean to his Church if this dream, like so many others, proved true.

Seventeen

He ate a big meal at the end of the day, just as Karril had advised. It was hard for him. His appetite had faded long ago, and it went against all his best instincts to load himself up just at the moment when danger was beckoning most strongly. But if he couldn’t trust Karril then he figured the whole game was lost anyway, so what the hell.

He rented a small room in one of the poorer neighborhoods, using Church credit for the deposit. Having given the better part of his remaining cash to his previous landlady, he had no other option. He winced at the thought of the Patriarch hearing about it, but then, if the Holy Father heard about this incident at all, Damien would be in such deep shit anyway that a little bit of cash more or less would hardly matter. If the Patriarch found out that he was traveling with demons now, and knew what he planned to do ... he didn’t like to think about that possibility.

In the small, dingy room, by the light of a single lamp, he lay back on the worn coverlet of the bed and tried to relax. Beside him lay his sword, its leather-wrapped grip reassuringly familiar in the gloom. Outside the window Casca was setting, and the Core had yet to rise. True night would come soon, whether he was ready or not. He dreaded what kind of power Karril might be conjuring, that