Part 31 (2/2)

And then the door opened and the light of an unshuttered lantern blinded him for an instant. He took a step backward and squinted against the light, fighting to make out details of a figure that seemed to glow with all the power of the sun- ”Oh, my G.o.d,” he whispered. Almost dropping his sword. ”Who the h.e.l.l... ?”

The figure in the doorway was wearing armor cast in silver and gold, that captured his lamplight and reflected it a thousand times over, making the golden sun upon his breastplate blaze like the star of Earth itself. After hours spent in the semi-darkness, the light was blinding. But that wasn't what stunned Damien so. He was a seasoned enough warrior not to be unmanned by simple pyrotechnics, and even the sight of the Prophet's famous armor come to life, just as it had been painted on the Cathedral's high wall, was something he could come to terms with. It was the sight of the man who wore the armor that utterly unnerved him, so that his grip upon his sword grew weak and the familiar steel blade nearly fell from his hand.

The man was Gerald Tarrant.

No, Damien thought. Fighting the power of the image. This man's skin was tan, where Gerald's was pale. This man's eyes were darker, and deeper set. He was slightly shorter than the Hunter, and maybe a little bit stockier, and his hair wasn't quite the same length. But except for those minor details the resemblance was amazing. Unnerving. Even-given the circ.u.mstances-terrifying.

This was how Gerald Tarrant must have looked in his first lifetime, when the heat of life still surged in his veins, when the pa.s.sions of mortal existence still blazed in his eyes. Even the man's wounds bore witness to his living state: a livid red scratch mark swelling across his brow, a hot purple bruise along the line of his jaw. And the look in his eyes . . . there was a hate so hot in them that Damien could feel it like a flame upon his face; even the hate-wraiths that wisped in and out of existence about the man were red and gold and orange, fire-hues that sizzled in the keep's chill air.

The burning eyes fixed on him, then on Tarrant. There was madness in them, and an echo of pain so intense that Damien flinched to see it. With bruised hands the newcomer put down his lantern and then swung a hefty springbolt into firing position, aiming at the Hunter's chest. But Damien stood between the two of them, close enough to foul a clean shot.

”Get back,” the man rasped. There was a hysterical edge to his voice, the sound of a soul pushed almost to the breaking point. Damien had seen enough men in that state to know how very dangerous it was. ”Get out of the way!”

He couldn't move. He didn't dare. A knife in the heart is as fatal to an adept as it is to any other human. knife in the heart is as fatal to an adept as it is to any other human. Who had said that? He couldn't remember. ”Who are you?” he managed. Not because he thought the man would answer him, just to buy a precious moment's delay. Who had said that? He couldn't remember. ”Who are you?” he managed. Not because he thought the man would answer him, just to buy a precious moment's delay.

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 hoa.r.s.ely. His hand on the springbolt was shaking; the dried blood on his face was streaked with sweat. ”G.o.d d.a.m.n you to h.e.l.l 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 G.o.d, 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.

G.o.d, 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 b.i.t.c.h.” 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 relations.h.i.+p 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 value me?” He spat the words out in disbelief, almost unable to voice them. ”What kind of bulls.h.i.+t is that? How stupid do you think I am?” me?” He spat the words out in disbelief, almost unable to voice them. ”What kind of bulls.h.i.+t 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. ”That will be his true triumph, Andrys Tarrant. Not my death. Your corruption.”

”If Calesta's dead, then he has no power now-”

”Doesn't he?” the adept demanded. ”Do you know what will happen if you kill me now? That spark of Calesta's hate which lies like a dormant seed within you will take root and grow, until it strangles all within you that is still human. That's That's his vengeance, Andrys Tarrant. Not your paltry campaign, not even the rigors of h.e.l.l itself, but the knowledge that as you pull that trigger, you commit yourself to his world, in which the only joy is suffering.” his vengeance, Andrys Tarrant. Not your paltry campaign, not even the rigors of h.e.l.l itself, but the knowledge that as you pull that trigger, you commit yourself to his world, in which the only joy is suffering.”

The man reeled visibly, as if the words had been a physical blow. ”No,” he whispered hoa.r.s.ely. ”You're just trying to talk yourself out of a-”

”Look within yourself, then! Imagine the hatred taking hold, Calesta's Calesta'shatred taking hold, the embrace of vengeance consummated at last ... and then ask yourself how you'll return to the real world after that. Or did you think it would all end when you pulled that trigger? Did you think your soul would be magically cleansed at the moment of my death?” He shook his head sharply. ”This is just the beginning. The easy part.”

”You killed them,” he whispered. Raising up the weapon again, aligning it with his eye once more. ”My brothers, my sister, all of them! G.o.d d.a.m.n you to h.e.l.l! You deserve to die!”

”Then pull the trigger,” the Hunter dared him. ”And destroy us both.”

Andrys Tarrant blinked hard; sweat ran redly down the side of his face. ”I don't ... I can't....” His hands were shaking. Suddenly he gestured toward Damien with the springbolt. ”Go,” he whispered hoa.r.s.ely. ”Get out of here.”

”I think-” he began.

”This isn't your fight! It's between him and me. Whoever the h.e.l.l you are, just get out of here! Now!”

Damien hesitated, then looked at Gerald. The Hunter nodded ever so slightly. ”He's right, Damien.” His voice was quiet but strained. ”There's nothing more you can do here.”

”Gerald-”

The Hunter shook his head. Damien's protest died in his throat.

”Go,” Gerald Tarrant whispered.

He swallowed hard, trying to think of something to do, something to say, anything that could change this moment. He imagined himself in Andrys Tarrant's place, and sensed how very easy it would be to fire. How many times had he dreamed of putting an end to the Hunter so quickly, so easily? But now the issue was no longer that simple. Now the Hunter had become ... something else.

Hadn't he?

You killed my family, the younger Tarrant had accused. the younger Tarrant had accused.

He forced himself to move as indicated. Andrys took a few steps into the room to give him a wide berth in case he intended to attempt a last minute rescue ... and indeed he might have, if there had been an opening. But there wasn't. And then he pa.s.sed through the door and it slammed shut behind him, and he knew that one way or another a man was going to die.

You killed my family.

It was justice, surely. Long overdue. Generations would celebrate the death of a man who was every bit as evil as Calesta, whose heart was so like the Iezu's in its core that when he had beckoned to his enemy with the full force of the Hunter's sadism, Calesta had come to him like a lover.

He needed time, G.o.d. A man can't contain that kind of evil and then be rid of it overnight. But he would have come back to You.

His heart heavy, his feet like lead, he ascended the winding staircase that led to the upper levels. Up he climbed, toward the black halls he remembered so well. Up to where the soldiers of the Church were laying down explosives and fixing fuses in place. Up to the living world, where the Forest was dying so that new things might be born, where the legend of the Hunter would give way to other things fearsome and terrible, but none so full of despoiled brilliance, or of courage....

There were tears in his eyes, blinding him. Hot tears.

He kept walking.

They had built a bonfire in the courtyard. He watched as they carried the pieces of Amoril's body over to it and threw them one by one onto the flames. He watched the pieces char and sizzle and lose their human coherency, and he sensed the relief among the soldiers as it was guaranteed, by that burning, that no undead resurrection would bring their enemy back.

Distantly he watched, as if from another world. No one disturbed him. Not the soldiers whom he knew, not the Patriarch ... no one. Surrounded by a coc.o.o.n of darkness he watched as the flames danced, feeling their heat upon his face, an alien thing in the Forest night.

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