Part 25 (2/2)

But the Hunter shook his head, dismissing the thought. ”Without an artificial structure? The channel between us isn't strong enough for that. That's why I used dreams.”

The words were out before he could stop them. ”Then make it stronger.”

Slowly the Hunter looked up at him. Those chill eyes were black now, bottomless, as dark and cold as the fires of Shaitan were bright and hot. ”And could you live with that?” he demanded. ”Knowing what I am, understanding what such a channel would do to the two of us? Could you live with yourself, knowing that a part of me was in your soul, and would be until one of us died?”

”Gerald.” He said it quietly, very quietly, knowing there was more power in such a tone than in rage. ”I knew when we came here that we probably weren't getting out of this mess alive. So what are we really talking about? A day or two? I'll deal.”

Tarrant turned away from him. Maybe the channel between them was already stronger than he thought, or perhaps Damien simply knew him well enough to guess at what he was feeling; he could feel the sharp bite of hunger as if it were his own, the desperate need not only to feed, but to heal. Damien reached out and grasped the man's arm, as if somehow that would lend his words more power. ”Listen to me,” he begged. ”Deep inside there's a part of me so afraid I don't even like to think about it. It's in that place where you store hateful feelings and then bury them with lies and distractions, because you can't bear to face them head on. Because you know they'll eat you alive if you try.” He whispered it, pleading; ”Why waste that, Gerald? It's food to you, and the strength to heal yourself. Take it,” he begged. ”For both our sakes.”

For a long, long time the Hunter was silent. Then, ever so slightly, he nodded. Just that.

Damien let go of his arm. His heart was pounding. ”What do I have to do?”

Silence again, then a handful of words whispered so softly he could barely hear them. ”Complete the bond.”

”How?”

Slowly, the Hunter then reached into the pocket of his tunic for the knife he carried there. Not the same one he had used so long ago to open Damien's vein, establis.h.i.+ng the channel between them in the first place-that had been lost in the eastern lands-but one very much like it, that he had purchased afterward. He opened the blade partway and then quickly, precisely, pressed its point into the flesh of his fingertip.

”Here,” he whispered. Raising up his hand, so that the tiny drop of blood might be visible. Black, it seemed, and so cold that its surface glittered like ice. Or was that only Damien's expectation, playing games with his vision? ”Only once in my long life have I offered this bond to another man ... and that one betrayed me.”

As vulnerable as this will make you, it will make me equally so it will make me equally so. The words rose up out of memory unbidden, and for a moment Damien understood just how desperate the Hunter must be to offer such a bond. You fear this more than I You fear this more than I do, he thought. Reaching out to touch the glistening drop, gathering its dark substance onto his own fingertip. do, he thought. Reaching out to touch the glistening drop, gathering its dark substance onto his own fingertip. d.a.m.n Calesta, for making us do what we fear the most. d.a.m.n Calesta, for making us do what we fear the most.

As the Hunter had done to his first offering years ago, so now Damien did to this. Touching his tongue to the cold, dark drop. Forcing himself to swallow it, as one might a bitter pill. Forcing his flesh to take the Hunter's substance into itself, so that a deeper link might be forged- -And the monster within him rose up with a roar from those hidden places where it had lain shackled, its bonds shattered, its howling triumphant. Fear: pure and terrible, agonizing, undeniable. Fear of dying in this place. Fear of surviving, but as less than a man. Fear of returning to a world in which he no longer had a purpose. Fear that Calesta would claim his soul, or else leave him unclaimed-the ultimate sadism!-to witness his final holocaust. Fear that the Church would fail and mankind would be devoured by the demons it had created ... and fear that it would succeed, and the world would become something unrecognizable, that had no place for him. Those fears and a hundred more-a thousand more, ten times a thousand-roared through Damien's soul with such horrific force that he could do no more than lie gasping on the floor of the cavern, shaking as they exploded one after another in his brain.

Then, at last, after what seemed like an eternity, the beast's roar quieted. He could still hear it growling in the comers of his brain-it would never be wholly quiet again, not while Tarrant lived-but if he tried hard enough, if he focused on other things, surely he could learn not to hear it. Surely.

”You all right?”

He managed to open his eyes, amazed that his flesh still obeyed him. For a while it hadn't. ”Just great,” he whispered. It seemed there was an echo in the chamber, that it took him a minute to place. Tarrant's perception. Tarrant's perception. The thought sent a chill down his spine. The thought sent a chill down his spine. I'm feeling him hear I'm feeling him hear me. Fear uncoiled anew in his gut, rising up to- me. Fear uncoiled anew in his gut, rising up to- He choked back on it, hard. His whole body trembling, for a moment he could do no more than lie where he was, struggling to get hold of himself. Then slowly, very slowly, he rose up to one elbow. Tarrant offered him a hand for support, and he grasped it in his own. Not cold, that undead flesh, but comfortable in its temperature, comforting in its strength. That, too, made him s.h.i.+ver.

”It won't last long,” the Hunter a.s.sured him.

”Yeah.” He brushed himself off with shaking hands. ”Only until one of us dies.”

”As I said.” The Hunter reached down to pick up his backpack, handed it to him. There was a strange kind of echo to the gesture, such that when Damien closed his hand about the leather strap it was as if he had just done so seconds before. Unnerving. ”Not long at all.”

He drew in a deep breath, then slipped his arms into the straps. It seemed to him that the air between them was warmer than before; was that some new faeborn sense, or just overheated imagination?

”The strangeness of it will fade,” the Hunter promised. It seemed to Damien that he smiled slightly. And yet his mouth didn't change, nor any other part of his expression. Weird.

”How about you?” he asked. The Hunter's face, he saw, was back to its accustomed ghastly color. ”Feel stronger?”

”Strong enough to send a Iezu to h.e.l.l.” And he added: ”Thanks to you.”

For a moment there was an awkward silence. Not quite an expression of grat.i.tude. Something stronger, and subtler.

”All right, then.” Damien s.h.i.+fted the pack on his back until its straps fell into their accustomed position, allowing him free access to his sword. Without further glance at Tarrant he started toward the exit, knowing that the Hunter followed. ”Let's do it.”

The valley was ...

Different.

Where before a dark valley floor had served as backdrop for mist and moonlight, now an ocean of fiery power seethed and frothed, driving itself onto the rocks beneath them with such force that a spray of earth-fae, fine as diamonds, drizzled down the slope of the ridge. Where once vague tendrils of mist had curled about the crags and monuments of Shaitan's domain, now it was possible to see things stirring, snakes of mist that resolved into semihuman form and then, with a ghastly cry that Damien could feel in his bones more than he could hear, melted into mist once more. The whole of the valley floor was in motion, spewing forth malformed creatures and then swallowing them up again while Damien watched; the sight of it made him dizzy, and he leaned back against the ridge for support, afraid that he might lose his balance and fall into it.

And then that vision faded. Not utterly, though he would have liked that. Out of the corner of his eye he could still sense unearthly motion, and he knew that he wouldn't be able to walk along that ground without feeling the earth-fae twine about his flesh, without knowing that here every human thought became a thing with a face and a hunger and a chance to scream, before Shaitan's power swallowed it up again.

”A taste of my Vision,” the Hunter said quietly. ”Now that you can share it.”

”Is that really what you see down there?”

The Hunter chuckled. ”A faint shadow of it, no more. The most your human brain can handle. Here.” He held out something to Damien. ”Put this on.”

It was a fist-sized bundle, soft and gleaming. Damien shook it out to its full length, nearly ten feet long. ”A scarf?”

”Just so.” The Hunter had taken out one of his own and was wrapping it about his head like a turban. The fine black silk was so thin that it seemed more like smoke than fabric, and when he drew a fold of it across his face and fixed it there, it gave his white skin a weird, ghostly quality. ”Shaitan's breath is hard on the skin. You'll want to put on your gloves also.”

”Not to climb down a mountain, I don't.”

-and his hands are burning, corrosive mist eating into the flesh until the skin peels off in reddened bits, blood welling in the wounds- ”Okay, okay! Gloves it is!” He fumbled in his pack and retrieved them. ”G.o.d.” He put the wrong hand in the wrong glove and had to start over. ”You're a lot of fun to travel with, you know that?”

”The fun,” Tarrant a.s.sured him, ”has not even started yet.”

He looked down into the valley again. The ground was dark. The mist was just mist. It was comforting. Damien wrapped the black silk around his head as he had seen Tarrant do-it took three tries-and noted that it had a faint chemical odor, as if it had been treated with something. It did surprisingly little to affect his vision; perhaps it had also been Worked in that regard. Tarrant's been here before, Tarrant's been here before, he reminded himself. he reminded himself. He knows what he's doing. He knows what he's doing.

”Ready?”

The Hunter had brought a special rope for the descent, a thin line meant to steady them on the rubble-strewn slope, long enough to guide them down almost to the valley floor. He tied one end to a spire of rock and sent the other end, weighted, hurtling down into the darkness.

Damien sighed. ”As ready as I'll ever be.”

Tarrant led the way. Slowly, oh so carefully, they dropped down toward the valley floor and the dangers that made their home there. At times the Hunter would stop and signal for Damien to do the same, and they would grasp the thin rope to keep from sliding while he waited for whatever danger he had sensed to pa.s.s them by, or turn its attention elsewhere, or ... whatever. Damien didn't want to know the details.

The rope gave out at last and they had to make their way without it. Gazing down at the ground by his feet, eerily lit by the orange fire of Shaitan in the distance, Damien couldn't help but notice the tendrils of mist that played about his feet, couldn't help but remember the vision that Tarrant had shared with him. When he made the mistake of looking too closely at the misty tendrils, they reared up like snakes and began to take on a more distinct form-but Tarrant ignored them, and just nudged him forward at a faster pace. Soon they were moving too fast to look at things closely, thank G.o.d. If you didn't look, did they leave you alone?

At last they reached a place where the ground seemed level enough, and Damien allowed himself a small sigh of relief. Thin orange highlights played along the earth, not enough to see by; with a glance at Tarrant to make sure it was all right, he took out his lantern and lit it. Golden light flickered upon the bellies of mist-clouds, outlining ghostly faces that formed and faded as he watched. ”Those are no danger,” Tarrant told him, when he seemed hesitant to move forward. ”Come.”

It was an eerie place, and the orange light from Shaitan, flickering and fading as its lava fields pulsed, did little to make it more comforting. Craggy monuments lined the valley floor, and the mist flowed between them like rivers. A handful of plants had tried to take hold on the rocky ground, but they were stunted things, pale reflections of a hardier species, and their leaves and bark had been eaten away in seemingly random patterns, fibers peeling back to reveal a core laced with channels and pockmarks. The very smell of the place was strange, as if the plants were struggling to create some kind of natural perfume but were too wounded to do it right; wisps of unnatural odor came and went with the breeze, mixed with the stink of ash and the omnipresent bite of sulfur in the air. The ground seemed solid enough, but what if that were just another of Calesta's illusions? Karril said he would protect us, Karril said he would protect us, Damien told himself as they walked. Damien told himself as they walked. He won't let Calesta kill us with illusions. He won't let Calesta kill us with illusions. Yet there was a vast gap between Yet there was a vast gap between killing killing and and being safe, being safe, Damien knew that, and if Calesta believed that Tarrant had figured out a way to kill him ... what would he do? Damien gazed up at the mists surrounding them, at the craggy monuments that reared high over their heads, and s.h.i.+vered. That Calesta would strike at them was not to be questioned. The only question was when, and how. Damien knew that, and if Calesta believed that Tarrant had figured out a way to kill him ... what would he do? Damien gazed up at the mists surrounding them, at the craggy monuments that reared high over their heads, and s.h.i.+vered. That Calesta would strike at them was not to be questioned. The only question was when, and how.

The b.a.s.t.a.r.d's afraid of us, he told himself. Trying to derive some satisfaction from the thought. he told himself. Trying to derive some satisfaction from the thought.

And then something drifted out at them from the mists, all too human in shape for his comfort. Tarrant said nothing, but urged him forward with a touch, and Damien obeyed silently, his stomach a tight knot of dread. They walked like you did with a mad dog, slowly, pretending not to notice its presence, while all the while your heart was pounding, and sweat was running down your face. The figure had come closer now, close enough to investigate, and it took everything Damien had not to turn and look at it. Were there other figures by its side, or was that only his fear making him see things? Or Calesta's power, turned against them at last? d.a.m.n it, if this place didn't give him a heart attack all by itself, waiting for the enemy to strike at them might just do it.

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