When True Night Falls

by C. S. Friedman

  “It came in search of food,” he told them, “because it had found none in the surrounding lands. It wandered a long time on the black plain, searching for a promising scent. It found none. Nor was there any overt danger,” he added. “At last, exhausted, it lay down to sleep. And died.”

  “Just that?” Damien demanded.

  The pale eyes met his. “Just that.”

  “And no sorcery?”

  The Hunter shook his head.

  “Shit.”

  “Probably starved to death,” Hesseth offered. But she didn’t sound like she believed it.

  “The Prince didn’t want it to live,” the child whispered. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

  “Disease?” Hesseth offered.

  The Hunter considered—perhaps Worked—and then shook his head. No.

  Damien balled his hands in frustration, longing for something to hit. Any kind of solid threat, that he could strike out at. “So it died, all right? Maybe naturally. It was tired, it was hungry, sometimes animals just die.”

  “You don’t believe that,” the Hunter said quietly.

  “So what now?” Hesseth demanded. “Now there are bones. Does that change anything?” She stared defiantly at the two men. “We know that the Wasting kills. We know most animals can’t survive here. Is it such a surprise that there are bones?”

  Damien knew her well enough to hear the edge of fear in her voice, and therefore he kept his voice carefully even as he responded, to calm her. “You’re right, of course. There’s no point in wasting time here.” He looked up at Tarrant. “Unless you think there’s something more we can learn from it.”

  The adept shook his head.

  They continued onward, silent and uneasy. Their footsteps grated on the coarse stone as they walked, and it seemed to Damien that a man many miles away might hear it. A soldier, waiting in ambush ... he banished that thought, with effort. They had no way of knowing if the Prince had detected them, had sent out his men to intercept them. Hadn’t Jenseny said that the Prince could enable his people to enter the black desert safely? It was something Damien tried not to think about. The flat plain with its lack of cover was less than an ideal battlefield, and he dreaded the thought of the Prince’s servants confronting them there.

  Nothing we can do except keep up the Obscurings and be ready to fight, he thought grimly.

  There were more bones scattered throughout the black land, many more. Most of the skeletons they passed were whole, but some were missing a tail or a leg, and one was missing its skull. One had been broken apart, its pieces scattered across a good half-acre. Two were nestled together as if in peaceful sleep. That last was especially eerie, and as Tarrant dared another Knowing Damien prayed that it would net him some kind of explanation that would help them avoid a similar fate. But like the first, these two had died peacefully, and their remains offered no useful information.

  And then there was the human skeleton.

  Unlike the animals it was clothed, in wisps of cloth that clung to its bones like weeds. There was a knife by its side, a can by its hip, the rusted remains of a belt buckle lying between its ribs. There were bits and pieces of other things as well, but they were so rotted and wind-torn and faded that it was impossible to make out what they were, or what purpose they had originally served.

  Damien knelt down near the skull and examined it. Male, he decided, and he checked the pelvis to make sure. Yes, definitely male. Its owner had died leaning up against a cluster of trees and had fallen in between them; in the moonlight it was hard to distinguish bone from branches, and the ribs which splayed out about one tree base were nearly indistinguishable from the tangle of roots surrounding it.

  He drew in a deep breath and felt himself tremble. Maybe up until that point he had thought they were safe. Maybe he had convinced himself that the Wasting had the power to claim smaller lives, but that men—intelligent men, wary men—were immune. Now that illusion shattered, and he was left standing naked and vulnerable before whatever strange force the Prince had conjured.

  Then the Hunter said, in a low whisper, “The stars are out.”

  He looked up sharply at the sky. The stars were indeed out, a sprinkling of them overhead and a solid bank along the horizon. That meant that Corerise was less than three hours away, which meant, in turn, that the sun would rise soon. Too soon.

  “You have to go.”

  The Hunter nodded.

  “Where? Do you know?”

  “The land is riddled with cracks and crevices, and there should be empty spaces beneath the surface. I should be able to find safe shelter nearby.”

  Damien looked up at him. He was remembering the night in the rakhlands when Tarrant had left them and had not returned. The night the enemy had taken him prisoner. “Be careful.”

  He nodded. “Will you camp here?”

  He looked down at the skeleton and shivered. “No. Not here. We’ll go south a while more, get away from ... this.” He hesitated, embarrassed by his own discomfort. “It doesn’t make sense, I know—”

  A faint smile creased the Hunter’s lips. “I understand.”

  He didn’t transform right away, but first crafted a careful Obscuring. A complex Obscuring, that must hide the awesome power of a shapechange. Only when it was done did he let the earth-fae claim him, and remake him, and give him the shape he needed to seek out a daylight shelter. Only then.

  With a sigh Damien loosened his sword in his scabbard, ready to deal with any wraiths who might use these last few minutes of night to check out the strangers wandering through their realm. The faeborn would be hungry, in a place like this. Hungry and desperate. He didn’t look forward to dealing with them.

  “Come on,” he muttered. “Let’s find a good campsite and call it a night.”

  And let’s set up a damned good guard, he thought. Because God alone knows when the thing that killed this man will come for us, or what form it will take.

  The weight of the night on his shoulders, Damien led his party onward.

  Thirty-eight

  Fire. Rising up out of the bowels of the earth, licking the walls of the cavern. Rising up into the canyons of the ceiling, lost in its whorls and crevices. Heat shimmering in the firelight, distorting outlines, distorting forms. A man’s arm, shackled to an iron bar. An icy sword, blazing with silver power. A man—or a demon who had once been a man—confined to the fires of Hell while still alive, consumed by the unearthly flames even as he struggles to heal himself....

  He tries to crawl forward, but the heat is too great to bear. Tries to reach out to this devil incarnate—his enemy, his companion—but the fire melts his flesh even as he struggles forward, and he knows that the moment is lost, the battle is over, the Enemy has won....

  No! he screams. Refusing to accept it. His hands are gone now, charred to cinders, but he uses the stumps to pull himself forward, inch by inch, into the blazing heat....

  Into the flames themselves, a white-hot silhouette....

  Man’s face, insect eyes

  Faceted

  Glittering

  Laughing....

  Damien awakened suddenly, his face hot with sweat, his whole body trembling. For a moment he could hardly gather his thoughts, or even remember where he was. It was as if each concept was mired in glue, and he had to slowly pry it loose before the next one would come.

  I was dreaming.

  Of the fire of the earth.

  Of Tarrant’s imprisonment.

  Of Calesta.

  When he had worked out that much, he shut his eyes and drew in a deep breath, exhausted. How much effort it took to think! His every fiber cried out for him to abandon the exercise, to drift in the shadows of ignorance, to rest ... but he had traveled enough and experienced enough to recognize the danger in that, and so he fought it. His whole body shook as he struggled to remember who he was, where he was, what he was supposed to be doing. Every thought was a battle. It was as if some vital connection in his brain had
been severed, or at least weakened; the simplest facts refused to come to him. Panic began to rise up inside him, and his pulse pounded like a drumbeat inside his head. What was wrong? What had happened? What had he been doing when it started? He sensed that the last question was vital to his survival, that he had to place himself in time and purpose immediately, because if he didn‘t—

  If he didn‘t—

  What?

  He could feel the sweat trickling down his neck, cold now as it soaked into his collar. Where was he? What was he supposed to be doing? He struggled for a context. Images came to him, drifting in and out of the shadows like disembodied wraiths. He and Hesseth and the child ... camping in the Wasting ... tent erected, food shared ... dawn’s light bright over the hard earth ... first watch established....

  He gasped as it hit him. Suddenly, with the force of a blow.

  First watch!

  The child and the rakh-woman had gone to sleep, huddled in a nest of blankets. He had leaned his back against a tree and set himself to guard them, a process so familiar that it was now second nature to him. If any danger should approach, he would be armed and ready. He felt himself relax into the familiar watch-state, sleepless, alert....

  And he had dreamed.

  Fear knifed into him, cold and sharp. Never in all his years had he fallen asleep while on guard. Not even when he was traveling alone, when the only permissible sleep was garnered in restless snatches, too short to measure. Not even when exhaustion was a dead weight on his chest and he could barely keep his eyes open a moment longer—and yet he did, he did it because he had to, because you couldn’t travel in this world without keeping your wits about you, there were too many things all too happy to feed on a sleeping man.

  He had slept.

  He had slept!

  What the hell had happened?

  He forced his eyes open and got to his feet, his hand already reaching for his sword. Or so he intended. But though his eyes did open and his right arm twitched, the rest of his body did not move. It was as if some vital link between mind and flesh had been severed, and his limbs would no longer respond to him.

  He remembered his dream of the Black Lands, the terrible fear that had consumed him. It was nothing compared to what he felt now, the hot panic that blazed in his gut as he realized the full extent of his helplessness. Neither nature nor sorcery acted without a purpose, he reminded himself, which meant that if he was helpless there was something that wanted him to be helpless, something that would perhaps feed on his helplessness. Or on him.

  Trapped in the confines of a crippled brain, Damien struggled to make his flesh respond to him. Each attempt was a trial, each thought a torment. It would be so much easier to give in, to rest, to let the shadows have him ... but there was no question of his giving in to that, none at all. He had done too much and seen too much for the concept even to tempt him. Thought by thought he forced his will out into the shell of his flesh, demanding that it respond to him. Thought by thought his demands dissipated into the shadows of his mind. He could feel his body trembling, feverish as he tried to work his will on an arm, a leg, anything. And that gave him hope. If he could feel his flesh, then surely he could control it! But effort after effort resulted in failure—devastating failure—and at last he lay panting, exhausted, caged within himself, unable to fight any more.

  The fae.

  Using it meant risk. Accessing it meant that the enemy might See them, might get a fix on them, might know how to reach them ... but did he have a choice? It was that or die, he realized suddenly. Because whatever had taken control of him wasn’t going to let go. And if he didn’t Work soon, while he still had the strength, he might never get the chance to do so.

  He envisioned the patterns of a Healing in his brain, felt the power coalesce in response. He didn’t know if such a Working would help him, but it seemed the most likely course—and it was the strongest Working in his repertoire, which made it doubly appealing. The short prayer which he used to focus his intentions was normally muttered out of ritualistic habit, one part of a complex formula; this time he prayed it with all his soul, begging for response. Give me the strength, God, to use this power. Guide me in my handling of it, so that my every use may be concurrent with Your Will.

  The power surged within him and he rode it down the avenues of thought, seeking the damage within him. There, a shadow; he burned it away, reveling in the smell of heat and ash which his senses supplied. There, bright thoughts mired in a bog; he set them free with a thrust of power, tasting their sharpness as he did so. Again and again he burned, cleansed, opened, freed—and each time he did so his thoughts came faster, his purpose was clearer, the power was easier to wield.

  At last he felt that it was time. Eyes open, body braced, he tried to move an arm. For an instant his flesh failed to respond and he felt despair flood his soul—and then the flesh stirred, first faintly and then distinctly, as fingers, hand, and forearm came under his control. He used the arm to rise up, to support the weight of his torso as he forced that solid mass to respond to him as well. Pain lanced through him as his body left the ground, but he refused to relinquish his advantage. His legs were moving now, he had them under him, he was sitting upright and then rising, then standing unsteadily on the hard black earth—

  He swayed and gasped for breath, reaching out to one of the white trees for support as he struggled to get his bearings. There was no enemy visible, thank God, although that didn’t mean that none was around. Hesseth was sleeping soundly some ten yards away, Jenseny curled up against her side like a slumbering kitten. They both looked peaceful enough, but was that the result of true sleep or of drugged immobility? Try as he might, Damien could see nothing nearby that would account for his strange weakness, though even now he could feel the drag of it on his thoughts, the numbness of it in his body. There was no question in his mind that the minute he ceased to struggle the strange malaise would come upon him again, and this time it would consume him utterly.

  He let go of the tree and headed toward Hesseth and the girl. Or tried to. But his body was weak, or else his control was lacking; he fell to the ground, hard, scraping his hands and bruising his knees on the black rock, his vision swimming as he focused downward on the place where he had been lying—

  And for a moment he stopped breathing. Was still. Tried to focus on the ground before him, on the black expanse that had once been smooth and unbroken, which he had chosen for his watch-site.

  It had changed.

  With a trembling hand he reached out to touch the thing he had seen, to test its reality. His fingers made contact with a network of fibers that must have sprouted from the ground while he slept, root-like in form, their casing as hard and as white as the trees at his back.

  The trees.

  His heart pounding wildly, he struggled to his feet. He was seeing in his mind’s eye the piles of bones they had passed, not sheltered by the bleached white trunks like he had thought but wrapped around them, invaded by them. And he knew what kind of creature would need to immobilize its prey, first lulling it to sleep and then invading its dreams, its mind, and at last its very flesh....

  He fell to his knees by Hesseth’s side, oblivious to the pain as his bruises hit the earth. He grabbed her by the shoulder and shook her violently, willing her to come awake. But for all his effort it was long seconds before her eyelids fluttered open, and even then the spark that was in them was dim and confused.

  “You have to get up,” he told her. “Our lives are in danger, Hesseth!” He shook her again, harder. Slowly her eyes came into focus, and she managed to nod. Thank God; whatever had gotten hold of him hadn’t fully gotten control of her yet. As he helped her sit up, then helped her stand, he could sense the presence of the trees at his back. Hungry, so hungry. How long did they normally have to wait before some prey blundered by, some animal who had happened upon the black lava desert and then lost its way, until sleep—and death—at last claimed it? He tried not to think about it as he helpe
d Hesseth get her balance, then looked at Jenseny. The girl hadn’t moved in all this time, which was a dangerous sign; she had been shaken and jostled enough times by now to wake her ten times over.

  It was Hesseth who took the girl by the shoulder and shook her—gently at first, then with greater and greater vigor as she failed to respond. “Kasa!” she hissed. But the girl was unresponsive. Hesseth tried to pull her upright, but the girl’s body wouldn’t move that far. The rakh-woman looked at him, terrified. Damien grabbed the girl by the shoulders and pulled her toward him, but though she was limp enough and light enough, there was a point beyond which she would not move.

  His heart cold with a sudden certainty of what he would find, he held her against him as he leaned down over her body, peering into the shadowed recess between flesh and blankets, a mere four inches of space. And yes, there it was. It had grown through the blankets and then into her flesh, rooting her to the ground. Feeding on her vitality, no doubt. Little wonder she hadn’t woken up, despite all their efforts. If he didn’t free her from the tree’s embrace, she might never awaken again.

  “Damien?”

  He didn’t answer. It was still hard to think clearly, and he needed all his strength to focus on the girl. Still holding her, he fashioned a Knowing, focusing it on the tangle of roots before him. His vision was augmented by the fae so that he could see it all: a network of roots that had insinuated itself throughout the lava, so fine that in places they were no more than threads. A network that waited, somnolent, until it sensed prey on the ground above. He traced it with his Sight as it passed through the earth, above the earth, into her flesh, saw it growing even as he watched—

  And he cut it. Pulled forth his knife and severed the fine white threads, so that they no longer bound her to the earth. She cried out as he did so, and he had no doubt that it hurt like hell—but it would have hurt her even more had he delayed, he was sure of that. Quickly he rose, noting with horror that the fine white roots had pierced the blanket in more than one place; the whole ground beneath them must be coming alive even as they stood there.