Black Sun Rising

by C. S. Friedman

“Is he aware of us?” Damien asked him.

  The pale eyes narrowed as Tarrant studied the fae. “Not yet,” he whispered. “But he will be soon. He listened for a moment longer, then added, ”There are many of them together. Too many to fight.“

  “Then we move,” Damien told him. “The entrance can’t be much farther. If we can make it out before they get to us—”

  He stopped. Met the pale eyes squarely. “Then Ciani can be safe in the sunlight,” he concluded, “while you and I deal with her assailant.”

  They had just started to move again when it seemed, for an instant, that the earth trembled beneath them. Damien felt his heart skip a beat, and he prayed wildly, Not now. Please! Just a few minutes more. As if his God might really interfere. As if the guiding force of the universe was concerned with a handful of human Wardings, or the lives that might depend on them.

  They ran. The walls and ceiling of the earthbound passage began to rain down fresh dirt on their heads, but they shielded their eyes with their hands and continued onward. Knowing how close they must be to the tunnel’s eastern exit, knowing how close that exit was to the relative safety of the plains, they pressed on—through dirtfall, over rock-strewn drifts, across huge heaps of splintered wood and boulders—they scrambled over obstacles as quickly as they could, not daring to take the time to study their surroundings. Again the earth trembled, and this time a dull roar could be heard. “They’re going,” Tarrant muttered, and Damien whispered, “God help us all.” The tunnel seemed at least twice as long in this direction as it had been when Damien first entered it; where the hell was that exit?

  And then the worst of it struck. Not nearly as violent as its predecessor—but such violence was no longer necessary. The supporting structure of the tunnel had already been weakened, and its walls were riddled with gaping holes. It didn’t take much to shake loose what was left, so that the remaining ceiling fell in huge chunks behind them, on top of them, directly in their path. Damien threw himself at Ciani just as a massive shard of stone hurtled down from the ceiling above her; he managed to roll them both out of its path, barely in time. Gravel pelted them, and earth that had been packed to a bricklike consistency. He sheltered Ciani with his body and prayed that the other two were all right. And that their enemies weren’t. Wouldn’t that be convenient, if the earth itself swallowed up Ciani’s assailant?

  But when he finally raised himself up from where he lay, and looked at her, he knew that they’d had no such luck. Her face betrayed none of the joy—or the disorientation—that returning memories would have brought.

  He felt sharp nails bite into his shoulder, heard Hesseth hiss softly. “I think you’d better look at this,” the rakh-woman told him. She nodded toward the east, down to where the tunnel turned. He paused for a second to make sure the tremors had ceased—they had—and then got to his feet and followed her. The space remaining was barely large enough to admit him, and his shoulder pressed against damp earth as he forced his way through. To where the passageway turned, just prior to its ascension. . . .

  It was filled. Completely. The weight of the earth had collapsed a whole segment of the tunnel, rendering it impassable. Damien felt despair bite into him, hard, as he regarded the solid mound before him. They might dig through it, given enough time and the right tools . . . but they had neither, and there was no telling how far the blockage went. If the whole tunnel between here and the surface had caved in ahead of them, then there was simply no way to get through it. No way at all.

  He made his way back to the others and prepared to tell them the bad news—and then saw that it wasn’t necessary. Tarrant had read the truth in the currents, and Ciani’s eyes were bright with despair. The single lantern which remained to them shed just enough light to show him that her hands were trembling.

  “We’re stuck,” he muttered.

  “Can we dig out?” Ciani’s voice was a whisper, hoarse and fragile. “Dig up, I mean.”

  Damien glanced at the ceiling. And then at Tarrant.

  “We’re near the surface,” he said quietly. “I can hear the solar fae as it strikes the earth. Can almost feel it. . . .” He paused, and then Damien thought he saw him shiver. “If the earth above is soft enough to dig, but solid enough not to bury us when we begin to disturb it . . . it would still take time,” he said. “A lot of time.” He looked back the way they had come. “I’m not sure we have that,” he said tensely.

  Damien listened—and it seemed to him that he could hear a scrabbling in the distance, like rodents. “They survived.”

  “Enough of them,” the Hunter said grimly. “More than we can handle, without using the earth-fae.”

  Damien glanced at Hesseth, but she shook her head. Whatever combination of tides she required in order to Work simply wasn’t available now. It might be, in the future . . . if they lasted that long. If there was any future for them.

  Louder, now; the sounds were approaching. Damien heard voices among them, hissing human phonemes. He looked about desperately, trying to think of some way out, or some new way in which they could defend themselves—but there was nothing. They were trapped. Even if they could fight off the Dark Ones for a time, they were still too close to the surface; the next quake would bury them.

  And then the Hunter turned away from them. And put one hand up against the dirt at his side, as though he required its support.

  “There is a way,” he whispered hoarsely. “One way only, that I can think of. It would save the lady.”

  The voices were getting louder. Damien came close to where the adept stood so that they might talk quietly. “Tell me.”

  Tarrant looked up at the ceiling, as if searching for some sort of sign. It occurred to Damien with a start that this was how he had searched before, in the moments before he brought down a whole section of the tunnel.

  “I could blast a way out,” the Hunter muttered. “There’s enough tamed fae in the sword that I could do it, without having to use the currents. Only . . .”

  “The sunlight,” Damien said softly.

  Tarrant turned away again.

  “You can’t,” Ciani whispered. “Gerald. . . .”

  “I appreciate your concern,” the adept breathed, “but there’s no real alternative. Other than dying here beneath the earth, our souls gone to feed those . . . creatures.” He shook his head, stiffly. “Even I can’t Work an adequate defense, without the earth-fae to draw on. There are so many of them, and we have so few weapons left . . . it would only be a matter of time.”

  “Until nightfall?” Damien asked.

  The Hunter shook his head, grimly. “Not that long, I regret.” He turned to Ciani. “This would free you,” he whispered. “I could open this part of the passage to the sunlight, and if your assailant was here at the time . . . it would free you.”

  “And you?” Damien asked. “Could you survive it?”

  He hesitated. “Probably not. Sunlight is relative, of course; I’ve stood in the light of three moons, and beneath a galaxy of stars . . . but this is different.” A tremor seemed to pass through his flesh. Damien recalled the fire underground, and what it had done to him. If a mere earthly blaze could wreak that kind of damage, what chance would the Hunter have when facing the sun itself?

  Then: “I see no other way,” he said grimly. And he drew the coldfire sword from its sheath.

  The voices were coming closer now. Ciani moved to his side, reached out as if to touch him—and then drew back, trembling. “Gerald.”

  “Lady Ciani.” He caught up her hand in his free one and touched it quickly to his lips. If she had any sort of negative response to the chill of his flesh, Damien didn’t see it. “I owe you a debt of honor. I’ve risked much to fulfill it. If this succeeds, and your memory is restored—”

  “Then I would say your honor is satisfied,” she whispered. “And I free you from any further obligation.”

  He let go of her hand. And bowed. “Thank you, lady.”

  “If you can find shelter—
” Damien began.

  “There’ll be no shelter when I’m done.” He gestured for them to move back, clearing the space nearest to him. And studied the ceiling again, looking for a workable fault. “You’ll have to move quickly. Gain the surface as fast as you can, and then get away from here. Fast. You don’t know how long those things will take to die, or what damage they might do to you in their death-throes. The best defense is distance. Don’t even pause to look back,” he warned them—and Damien wondered if his concern was for their lives, or that they might see the Hunter burning.

  “Now,” he hissed. “Get ready.”

  The voices were approaching. Damien stood back, and gathered Ciani to him. Hesseth pressed close by his other side, springbolt at the ready. He began to shield his eyes—and saw Tarrant’s pale gaze fixed on him.

  “Good luck, Hunter,” he said quietly.

  And they came. Climbing over the mounds of earth like oversized rodents, inhuman eyes blazing with hunger. The first one saw them there and pulled up, hissing a sharp warning to its fellows. Then they came into the lamplight as well, swarming about him like hungry insects, filling the far end of the tunnel. Wary, because Tarrant’s sword was drawn and they clearly sensed its power.

  And then one of them fixed its eyes on Ciani and hissed softly, in pleasure. A sharp tongue tip stroked the points of its teeth, and Damien knew by the tremor that ran through her that this was the one, the demon who attacked her in Jaggonath. The one who contained her memories.

  “Now,” the Hunter whispered.

  The demons began to move.

  He thrust. Up into the earth, deep into the fault he had located. The force of the coldfire-bound steel took root and expanded, exploding outward with all the force of a bomb. Dirt bits slammed into Damien and his companions, and the force of the compression struck them like a fist. For a moment there was nothing but a hailing of dirt and rocks, like shrapnel. And then: light. Blinding. The brilliance of the morning sun, to eyes that had spent days in darkness. He threw up his arm across his eyes, as the pain of it seared his vision. The whole world was white, formless, utterly blinding . . . he forced his arm down, remembered Tarrant’s last warning. Get away from here. Fast. Against the glare of sunlight he could barely make out shapes, now, hot white against the hotter white of the morning sky. He clambered toward one of them, felt a newly-formed wall of earth take shape beneath his fingertips. He pulled Ciani over to it and guided Hesseth to follow. “Climb!” he whispered fiercely. He could barely see the ground beneath him, but trusted his hands to guide him. The earth here sloped back in smoothly curved walls, like that of a meteoric crater; he tried not to think of Tarrant as he struggled up that slope, as he tried to gain solid purchase in the shifting, inconstant earth, helping the others to climb along with him—

  Ciani screamed. It was a sound of pain and terror combined, so utterly chilling in its tenor that for a moment Damien froze, stunned by the sound. Then he saw her slipping as her body convulsed, and he grabbed out for her. Caught her by the sleeve of her shirt, and tried to keep her from sliding back down to the tunnel below.

  “Can’t,” she gasped. “Gods, I can‘t—”

  “Help me!” he cried—and Hesseth reached out from the other side, grabbing Ciani’s arm. Together they held their ground as she shivered from the onslaught of her own forgotten memories, all the pain and fear of a lifetime compressed into one burning instant. Her skin was hot to the touch, but that might have been because of the sun. After weeks among the nonhuman and the semihuman, wounded and tired in cold, dark tunnels, Damien would be hard pressed to remember what normal body temperature felt like.

  They began to drag her upward. Slowly. Afraid to move on the treacherous slope, but even more afraid to stay where they were. That Ciani’s assailant was now dead was all but certain. But how many others remained, who might find a short climb into sunlight an acceptable price for revenge? Inch by inch, carefully, the two of them worked their way up the earthen slope. Beneath them clods of earth broke loose and tumbled down into the crater’s depths. They fought not to tumble down with them. The slope grew steeper, and Damien had to drive his hands deep into the soil to get the support he needed. Ciani moaned softly, utterly limp beneath his grasp, and he could only hope that the climb was doing her no damage. He reached into the crumbling earth, and caught hold of something solid at last. A root. He looked up, and against the glare of the sun he could make out the form of trees, not far above them. With a prayer of thanksgiving on his lips he grabbed at the firm root, and used it to pull himself up the slope. Hesseth, on the other side of Ciani, saw what he was doing and followed suit. The soft earth gave way to a tangle of vegetation, gave way to the underearth limbs of mature trees. . . .

  And they were over. All three of them. Damien lay gasping on the ground for a moment, his legs still resting on the edge of Tarrant’s crater. Then, with effort, he forced himself to his feet. Ciani was utterly still, but the look on her face was one of peace; lowering his head to her chest, he could hear her measured breathing. He lifted her up into his arms, gently, and murmured, “She’s all right.” Cradling her, as one might a child. “She’s going to be all right.”

  And the winter chill was nothing to them as they staggered away from the site of their recent trials. Because the sunlight was streaming down on them, and that was life itself.

  The series of earthquakes which Tarrant had triggered continued for nearly three days, but none were as violent as those first few had been. Trees had been torn down, mountains reshaped, whole cavern systems refigured—but in the end the land survived, and that was all that really mattered.

  They camped on the plains, on open ground, until the worst of the aftershocks had ended. Only then did Damien dare to climb back up, to that place where they had so recently escaped from the earth’s confines. The landmarks had all changed, and massive rockslides made climbing all but impossible . . . but in the end he found it, a circle of land devoid of trees, where the ground sloped down in a gentle arena of freshly-turned earth.

  It had been filled in, almost to the brim. The repeated tremors must have done it, shaking the broken earth until it sought its own level, like water. Whatever Tarrant had done to the demons—and to himself—it was buried forever in the mountainside, along with the remains of his body.

  He tried not to think of what that burning must have been like, as he knelt in the soft earth to pray. Tried not to remember the Hunter’s charred flesh as it had been in his hands, as he softly intoned the Prayer for the Dead. Pleading mercy for a soul that had never earned mercy, for a man who had so committed himself to hell that a thousand prayers a day, offered up for a thousand years, would not negate one instant of his suffering.

  “Rest in peace, Prophet,” he whispered.

  He hoped that someday it would be possible.

  Forty-six

  Winter had come early to the plains—but it was nothing compared to the frigid abuse of autumn in the mountains, and Damien was grateful for it. After nearly two hundred miles of travel it was good to be clean again and in fresh clothes, and knowing that he and Ciani were safe was a luxury he had begun to despair of ever experiencing. And if she had changed somewhat, if she was no longer the woman he had known . . . hadn’t he seen that coming, in the last few days? Hadn’t he seen it building in her, all the way back from the eastern range?

  That doesn’t help, he told himself, bitterly. It doesn’t help at all.

  He looked toward the center of the rakhene camp, where even now a celebration was taking place. The night was dark, almost moonless, but the jubilant rakh had set it alight with over a hundred torches, and their triumphal bonfire blazed like a sun in miniature from the center of their camp. And she danced among them—not like one of them, exactly, but not like a human woman, either. An adept who had chosen to suspend herself between two worlds, so that she might bridge the gap between them. A loremaster. He turned away, remembering the word. Resenting it. And hating himself, for the unfairness
of his reaction.

  She was never really yours. You never really knew her.

  It didn’t help. Not a bit. But then, cold reason never did.

  He felt restless. Confined, by the nearness of so many tents. So many rakh. The ranks of Hesseth’s tribe had been swelled by numerous visitors who had come to hear the tales and see the relics and gaze in fascination upon the hated, fearsome humans. He sensed power games going on all about him, on levels too complex for him to interpret, as tribes who normally avoided each other tried to sort themselves out into a new, all-inclusive order. Human society, he thought. We’ve planted the seeds. In time there would be nations, and treaties, and all the ills that came of such things . . . he didn’t know whether to feel glad or guilty, but he suspected the latter was more appropriate. God willing the Canopy would remain intact so that the rakh could make their own fate, in peace, before having to deal with humankind again. God willing.

  Slowly, he turned from the camp. It was cold outside, but the heavy garments which the rakh had made for him were more than sufficient to ward off the wintry chill. He tucked his hands into his pockets and began to walk eastward, away from the starkly lit celebration. The noise of rakhene chanting faded behind him, as well as the occasional burst of human laughter that sparkled in its midst. Her laughter. He pulled his jacket tightly about him and increased his pace. The trampled earth of the rakhene encampment gave way to half-frozen slush, which in turn gave way to snow: pristine, unsullied, a glistening white blanket that draped over the plains like the softest wool, cushioning the land in silence.

  He walked. Away from the camp, from the noise. Away from all signs of life, and all protestations of joy. He had put in one hard night’s celebration, and now he was ready to move again. Restless, as always. To the west of him the Worldsend Mountains loomed, sterile and foreboding. He knew that all its passes were frozen by now, would remain frozen for months to come, and that its slopes were ripe with avalanches in the making, and a thousand other hazards of winter. He would never have risked such a route in this season, not with others by his side—but he might do so alone. Now that Senzei had found his peace, and Ciani had found . . . other things.