Darkwell - Douglas Niles [47]
"Don't faint, don't… faint!" He chanted the words desperately to himself, struggling to retain consciousness, and finally the haze in his mind began to dissipate. Nevertheless, he held tightly to the rock for several minutes until he finally felt ready to proceed.
In this way, he worked himself up the cliff, moving with great deliberation, taking care not to strike his wound on anything. Occasionally he wouldn't be able to find purchase for his good foot, and at such times Daryth lifted himself solely by the strength of his arms and shoulders, holding his position with one hand until he reached through the darkness to find another hold.
As he climbed, he felt the horror that had cloaked him dissipate. The prickling of his scalp lessened, and finally he was left with a sense of being alone in the night. Not a friendly night, to be sure, but only the night.
Did he spend minutes, or hours, finishing his climb on the wall? The Calishite had no idea, though the time seemed to drag on for a half a lifetime. He could have climbed fifty feet or five hundred. The whole nightmarish ascent blurred together in a collage of pain, endurance, despair, and determination.
But at last he reached the top. He sensed immediately, as he crawled onto the flat surface above a sheer face of granite, that no more cliff lay before him. He felt the wind on his face, and it carried the strong odor of forest rot. Gasping in relief, he pulled himself away from the brink and found the stump of an old tree to lean against.
He sat facing outward, toward the cliff. It took him several minutes to convince himself that even a monster of supernatural ability would not be able to scramble up that face. Only something equipped with hands, or wings, could make such a climb.
He looked toward the sky and saw nothing but vast and inky blackness. How much longer could this night last? Wearily he pulled Cat's-Claw from its sheath, using the faint illumination of the blade to look around.
Isolated trunks of the dead forest stood arrayed around him, as if the wood had crept toward the precipice to look over the edge. Large broken pieces of rock lay upon the ground, and these were covered with a phosphoresence that caught the light of his weapon and amplified it. The patches of reflective fungus gave the tiny clearing a friendly, welcoming aura.
And then, between two of the tree trunks, at the limits of his vision but unquestionably atop the precipice with him, he saw the two yellow eyes, still unblinking, and coming closer.
* * * * *
"Where's Daryth?"
Tristan, standing lonely guard duty over the little camp, spun in surprise as Robyn emerged from the darkness. He had assumed she slept.
The Sword of Cymrych Hugh still leaned against the rock, casting its light around their small camp. Tristan worried about the possibility of the dim light giving their position away, but somehow this night had seemed too dark, too black to face without some form of illumination. He wondered if it was cowardice that caused him to leave the sword out as a light.
"He… went off into the night." Tristan didn't want to confess that he had sent his companion away. "We had an argument. He got angry."
Robyn didn't look surprised, just concerned. Tristan felt a need to talk to her, but he didn't know what to say. How could he make her understand?
"We fought about you," he blurted suddenly.
"Oh?"
"He can't forgive the way I hurt you. I understand that – believe me, I can't forgive myself." Tristan groped for words to continue, to keep her looking at him, talking to him. "Daryth…" But he couldn't bring himself to tell her of the Calishite's love.
"You fought, and then you sent him away?" The words were cool and accusing.
"No!" The denial was instinctive, and he immediately regretted it. "Yes… I did."
"What's become of the man I loved?" Robyn seemed honestly puzzled. "Why do you do such things? You have friends, followers, people who love you and wish to help you! And one by one you drive us away!"
"I didn't wish that! I was bewitched by something,