Black Sun Rising

by C. S. Friedman

  “I can try,” she said at last. “But you understand—”

  “Just do it!” He was counting down the seconds in his mind, wondering how long it would take their enemy’s soldiers to reach them. “Do it fast,” he whispered. Was it possible that the enemy’s attention had been elsewhere when they struck, delaying his response? He prayed that it was so. Every minute counted now.

  Hesseth turned her attention to the fire, and he followed her gaze. He tried to See the forces she was summoning, but the delicate power eluded him. How much fae would be available to her, and how long would it last? The tidal patterns altered minute by minute, as time and tides progressed about the planet. Even if she could conjure a barrier for them, would it remain solid long enough for them to do what they had to?

  “There it is,” Ciani whispered. Pointing to the crevice. It could be seen at one edge of the opening, now: a fog, a darkness, that grew solid even as they watched, and eclipsed the fire behind it. He felt his heart pounding as he watched it extend—several inches into the crevice, a foot, two feet, now halfway across it—and he wiped the sweat from his face with a salt-soaked sleeve. Go for it, Hesseth. You can do it. The remaining fire was ragged now, as if struggling against some unseen bond. Smoke was beginning to seep from other places along the crevice, desperately seeking egress from the pit of its birth. For a moment he feared that the fire would break out elsewhere, that Hesseth’s Working might force it to break through the very rock beneath their feet. Then the last of the Fire spurted upward, licking the ceiling with its orange tongue—and was suddenly gone, vanished beneath the shadowy blockage.

  It wasn’t hard to see what the enemy had done to Gerald Tarrant; the grating that supported him still glowed red-hot, supplying them with more than enough light. Atop the thick steel bars lay a body that had been burned and healed and burned again, so many times that its surface was little more than a blackened mass of scar tissue. Where cracks appeared red blood oozed forth, and it sizzled as it made contact with the superheated skin. Damien didn’t look at the face—or what was left of it—but he felt hot bile rise in his throat as he studied the man’s bonds. Wide metal bands bound the Hunter to his rack at the wrist, upper arm, ankle and neck; they, too, glowed with heat, and had burned their way deep into his flesh until the edges of bones were visible.

  “How long—” he began.

  “Eight days,” Ciani whispered. “If they brought him right here.” She looked up at him; her face was drenched with sweat, or tears. Or both. “What do we do?” she begged him. “How do we get him off it?”

  He fought back his growing sickness and tried to Work. It wouldn’t take much fae to break those bonds; that was a simple exercise, a straightforward molecular repulsion. But either Hesseth’s Working had affected the earth-fae or he was simply too exhausted to Work it. He fought with the fae until his vision began to darken about the edges, the whole of the room swimming about him. And then knew, at last, that he was defeated. The best of his efforts couldn’t conjure more power than there was in this place, and there simply wasn’t enough. Tarrant might have been able to do it. He couldn’t.

  He looked up, and saw Ciani’s eyes fixed on him. Not despairing, now, but filled with a feverish excitement. And with a terrible fear. The combination was chilling.

  “The coldfire,” she whispered. “The sword.”

  It took him a moment to realize what she meant. “Too dangerous—”

  “Not for me.”

  He remembered the malevolence housed within that blade, and shuddered. “Can you?” he whispered. “Can you control it?”

  She hesitated. “He controls it,” she said hoarsely. “But I think I can use it. For him.”

  She went to get the blade. He tried to fight back his growing sickness, his sense of horror at what she was attempting. If she tried to master that power and failed, what would the cost be? He remembered the hunger he had sensed while handling it, that had so horrified him. What had the Lost Ones called it—the Eater of Souls?

  And then she was back, and the sword was in her hands. She hesitated just an instant—and he knew in that moment that she feared it every bit as much as he did—and then drew it from its sheath. The containment wards let loose their hold, and the chill power of Tarrant’s coldfire blazed forth freely.

  Hot versus cold. Expansion and contraction. If she could gain control of that frigid force, if she could focus it finely enough . . . it might be enough to break through those bonds and free the Hunter. But if not....

  He saw the barrier flicker for an instant; a burst of flame shot through it, enveloping Tarrant’s torso, and then was gone. He looked at Hesseth, saw her whole body tense with the effort of Working. Hang in there, he begged her. Hold onto it. . . .

  Ciani touched a hand to the blade—and cried out as the blue-white power shot up that extremity, up to her shoulder. Her skin took on the ghostly pallor of long-dead flesh, and frost rimmed her fingernails. Then she grasped the haft of it with that hand, at it seemed that her fingers froze closed about the grip. Slowly she extended the Worked weapon toward the nearest of Tarrant’s bonds; he could see her struggling to bind its power, fighting to impose her own focus on its chaotic essence. Then the tip of the sword touched the red-hot metal, and sparks flew. Coldfire arced upward with electrical brilliance, and snapped like lightening in the charged atmosphere. Then it was gone, and the sword was withdrawn . . . and the steel band that had bound his wrist was shattered, its frosted pieces falling like shrapnel to the fae-worked barrier beneath.

  Smoke spurted and curled upward through Hesseth’s Working as she struggled to move the sword again. Hold onto it! Ciani’s face had taken on the same ghastly pallor as her hand, and he could almost hear her heart laboring to maintain its beat as the Hunter’s killing cold invaded her flesh. Damn the man! Would they free him from death, only to lose her? He watched her face as a second metal strap shattered into frozen crystals, saw the pain—and the fear—that was etched across her brow. Still she continued. Tarrant’s neck was freed now, and Damien’s hand closed tightly about the grip of his own sword. They could cut through the man’s other wrist if they had to, and even his ankles; let him regenerate the flesh at his leisure, once they were out of here. He thought he could hear footsteps now, a distant pounding as if from running feet. The fourth bond shattered. The sweat on Ciani’s face had frozen, and ice crystals rimmed the bottoms of her eyes. Five. He started to move forward, saw a wall of flame erupt before him. Ciani! But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and though her hair was singed and the skin of her face burned, Ciani seemed unharmed.

  Hang in there, Hesseth. just a few minutes longer!

  He moved as the sixth bond shattered, so that by the time Ciani reached to free Tarrant’s second ankle he had hold of the man’s flesh, was grasping him tightly about the wrist. Hot blood scalded his hand, but he knew there was no time to experiment with less direct measures. As soon as Ciani had broken the last steel band, he pulled with all his strength. The body moved like a broken doll, burned flesh pulling loose from it as it was jerked from the red-hot framework, scar tissue sizzling as it was dragged across the grating—and then they were both out of the danger zone, and just in time. Thin flames licked upward through Hesseth’s barrier and then suddenly, with a roar, shot upward toward the ceiling, burning with newfound energy. He felt his own hair curling from the force of the heat, could only pray that Ciani had made it back in time.

  He dragged the body back from the flames, tried to wipe some of the sweat from his eyes so that he could see. There was blood on his sleeve; his, or Tarrant’s? It no longer seemed to matter. He was dimly aware of blisters all along his palm, from where he had grasped the body. His sword-hand, too—damn, that was careless!

  “They’re coming!” Hesseth hissed.

  He took up his sword in his right hand, wincing as his burned palm closed about the rough grip. And saw Ciani throw a length of cloth about the body—Tarrant’s cloak?—so that when they wan
ted to move it they might do so safely.

  And then they came. In numbers, as he had feared. Not a trained guard, but six of the soul-eating creatures who inhabited this underground lair. They were only the first wave, no doubt, the ones who had been closest to the fire when the enemy spotted their activity; there would be others to follow, dozens more, better armed and far more dangerous. But for now, these were enough.

  The heat of the fire blazed across his back as he turned to face his attackers. A bolt shot past his head, from Ciani, but she had fired from too far back; it missed its intended target and struck the wall, wooden shaft splintering from the impact. Hesseth had picked up the other springbolt and she fired it point-blank into the gut of one of the creatures; even as it pierced his abdomen and came out through his back he grabbed at the weapon, long claws scoring her arm as he fought to claim it. A second bolt whistled past Damien’s ear, and this one struck; a shot to the arm that began to smolder in the pale flesh. Only two of the creatures were armed, but though they bore sizable swords they used them clumsily, like men unaccustomed to armed combat. As Damien engaged the first, trying to keep his back close enough to the fire that none would circle behind him, he wondered what manner of contact was required for their most deadly mode of attack. Mere touch? Bodily penetration? He parried his opponent’s sword down to the stone floor and slammed his foot down on it, hard; the cheap steel snapped with a crack, and the momentum of it made the creature stagger off-balance, into his own waiting blade. He wrenched the steel from between the creature’s ribs and swung about just in time to duck a blow that was coming at him from the side; it cut his arm, but not deeply, and he moved to take control of their interplay. Where the hell was the pierced one? He saw Hesseth struggling hand-to-hand with an attacker, was dimly aware that one was burning, one had gone off after Ciani, and he could account for two . . . that left a creature missing, as well as one of his own party. He prayed fervently that the pierced one knew how to take care of himself; the thought of trying to find a way out of these caverns without him was terrifying indeed.

  He heard a sudden scream from somewhere behind him—it didn’t sound like one of his companions—and the smashing of a heavy object into a metal grate. The screaming became a shrieking as flesh began to sizzle, as the creature Ciani had forced into the fire roasted in its core.

  Good for her. He parried a cut that was meant to decapitate him and managed to get his back against a wall. One, two, three accounted for . . . there was still one missing, by his reckoning. Gone for help? That was bad. He saw Hesseth go down, her assailant on top of her, and knew with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach what manner of attack was taking place. But there was no way he could help her, not with sharp steel thrusting at his gut from one side and sharp claws threatening his face from the other. He brought his own blade around two-handed, forcing the thrust aside—and kicked out at his other attacker, taking him right in the kneecap. Whatever manner of flesh they wore, it was as fragile in that joint as its human counterpart; the creature went down, howling, and it was no hard work to follow through with a second sharp kick, into the face. Bone snapped and blood gushed and he was down for good—and then Damien’s other opponent left himself open along one side of his rib cage and he was down, too, blood spurting from a gaping wound in his side.

  He looked about, saw nothing but blood and dead flesh about him. He stepped over one of the bodies and ran to where Hesseth lay, her assailant only now coming to his feet by her side. Her eyes were dilated, glazed, like the empty stare of a fish stranded on dry land. Her attacker’s glee made it quite clear what manner of exchange had taken place between them, and the eyes that gazed out from that death-white pallor were so like Hesseth’s in shape and expression that Damien felt fresh horror take hold of him as he raised his sword to strike—

  —and light blazed past him as a Fire-laden bolt hit home, piercing the creature’s eye and driving deep into his brain. He screamed and fell back; dark blood gushed from the socket, and other less wholesome fluids as well. With a twitching motion he fell, and as the Fire began to consume his brain the whole of his body shuddered, ripples of pain coursing through his flesh as he soundlessly mouthed screams of agony.

  Ciani came to where Hesseth lay and helped her up; dazed, the rakh-woman seemed uncertain as to where she was, or exactly what had happened. Then she saw the body of her assailant, and memory returned to her. All of it. As Ciani helped her to her feet, she whimpered softly in terror.

  “The Lost One—” Damien began. But before he could finish Ciani directed his attention upward, to the wall of the cavern just over its entranceway. There, clinging to the jagged stone surface, the pierced one displayed the body of the last attacker to them proudly. It hung by one ankle, which was wrapped in the cave-rakh’s prehensile tail. Its throat had been torn out. When he saw that they had witnessed his kill, the Lost One released the body; it fell to the floor like a bag of wet cement, bones snapping as it struck. The cave-rakh then climbed down, serpentine fingers taking purchase in the tiniest of crevices, tail grasping at convenient stone protrusions for support.

  Damien looked about, and counted the bodies. Six. All accounted for—but there’d be more, soon enough. “Let’s get out of here,” he muttered. He went back to where Tarrant’s body lay, now covered in the folds of his cloak, and hefted the weight of it up to his shoulder. It was impossible to tell if any life was left in that limp form, but at least the heat of it had cooled somewhat. Time enough later to analyze its condition.

  They ran. As well as they could, considering Hesseth’s wounds and Damien’s burden. The rakh-woman turned back once or twice briefly as if to Work, but whether she had the strength to do so effectively was something Damien couldn’t begin to guess at. He held his own wounded arm tightly against him as he wended his way through the demons’ labyrinth, hoping that no blood was dripping to the floor—because if they left a trail that distinct, all the Workings in the world couldn’t hide it.

  At last they came to the narrow tunnel that had been their entrance into this area. Ciani, who had caught up Tarrant’s possessions in her flight, now threw down a long silk tunic to cover the rough stone bottom and crawled through. Tarrant’s sword went with her, now safely sheathed. Hesseth followed, her bright blood staining the folded silk as she crawled over it. Then the pierced one. By now Damien though he could hear the faint sounds of pursuit from the area they had just left. He lowered Tarrant’s body down from his shoulder—still warm, still bleeding, still utterly lifeless—and, with great effort, managed to get it far enough into the tunnel that the pierced one could pull it through. The cloak Ciani had wrapped around it kept the broken flesh from tearing on the sharp formations, but he could see at the end of the tunnel where dark blood, seeping through the wool, had stained the stone beneath. Quickly Damien divested himself of his weapons and passed them through the narrow space, then balled up Tarrant’s bloodstained tunic and threw that after it. Then, somewhat awkwardly, he began to back himself into the passageway. Voices sounded from a nearby corridor as he forced himself through the narrow space. As his feet reached the other side he felt hands close about his ankles, meaning to pull him through—but he kicked them off and halted midway, fumbling in the darkness for the two stalagmites he had broken earlier.

  The earth-fae was weak here, but this Working was a minor one; it took only seconds for him to use that force to bind the two slender spires back in place, so that the passage was once more impassable. Then he thrust out his feet behind him and let his companions grab hold and pull; stone edges scraped his sides as the neck of the tunnel finally let him pass, and he was through—not a second too soon. Even as he dropped below the lip of the tunnel he saw a flash of light coming from its opposite end, and clearly heard voices from the adjoining room.

  They crouched there, hearts pounding, and waited. Hesseth had Obscured their path, but how well? Had they made it through without leaving a telltale path of blood behind them, or a more subtle trail
of sweat and scent that the demon-creatures might follow? It was because Damien had considered that possible that he had risked a few precious seconds to Work the two stone pinnacles back in place. Now, as best they could make out, it appeared to be that move which turned the trick. The creatures stared down the tunnel for some time, evidently considering it a viable exit from the area. But it was clear that no man-sized being could have made it through that space and left the formations intact, and so at last they moved on.

  “They’ll be back,” Ciani whispered. “They don’t understand how we got away, but their master will.”

  “That’ll take time,” he whispered back, hoarsely. “First, we bind up these wounds so we don’t leave a trail of blood behind us.” He nodded toward Hesseth—whose golden fur was scored with at least a dozen deep, bloody gashes—and indicated his own injured arm. “Then we get as far from this place as we can, preferably high up enough to work a good Obscuring. If that’s possible. Then . . .” He felt fresh pain wash over him, and the weakness of exhaustion. How deep was his wound? How much blood had he lost? “We see what we rescued,” he whispered. “We see if Gerald Tarrant still exists. We see if he can help us.”

  “And then?” Ciani asked.

  From somewhere, he dredged up a grin. Or at least, the hint of one. It hurt his face.

  “Then the real work starts,” he told her.

  Forty-two

  “Calesta!” The voice rang out imperiously, echoing in rage. “Calesta! Attend me, now!”

  Slowly the demon’s form congealed, drawing its substance from the nearby shadows; when the figure was solid enough to bow, it did so. “My Master commands.”