“You coming?”
The demon hesitated. And sighed. And then, to his great relief, nodded. “Can’t let you go in there alone, can I?”
He offered his hand. After a moment, Damien grasped it. And then, with only the briefest grimace, the priest stepped forward. Onto the path that Tarrant’s soul-blood had marked. Into the blackness that waited there.
Damn you, Calesta.
18
MORDRETH: Police have confirmed reports that forty-three men were killed last night by a pack of animals that came out of the region known as the Forbidden Forest. The men, who had established temporary residence just outside Johanna’s borders, were taken by surprise shortly after midnight when the Forest beasts stormed their camp without warning. Although a few men managed to arm themselves before being struck down, the sheer ferocity of the assault quickly overwhelmed their defenses. Less than an hour after the pack’s arrival, every man inside the camp was dead.
Lestar Vannik, who was returning to the area when the attack took place, managed to flee the camp before the animals caught his scent. According to a press release from Darvish Sanitarium, he described them as “white monsters, with hands instead of real paws, and eyes that glowed bright blood red.” The beasts were apparently accompanied by a swarm of demonlings, who descended upon the camp’s would-be protectors and blinded them so that they could not fight back effectively. Sanitarium officials will not confirm rumors that Vannik also saw a human figure running with the pack, whose coloration and ferocity matched those of the animals.
It is not yet known what prompted the attack, but communities throughout the region are concerned that the border truce between the Forest and its neighbors may no longer be protection enough. Several have begun collecting arms and training men, in order to defend themselves against similar assaults. The mayor of Sheva, a prosperous city which borders on Johanna to the east, is negotiating for special troops to guard its periphery, and it is expected that neighboring cities will do likewise. A special meeting of mayors is expected to be convened within the month, to discuss the financing of such operations.
The informal truce which has been observed in the region for nearly five hundred years has permitted the commercial development of areas surrounding the Forest, notably in the fertile Raksha Valley to its east. Tradition has it that the arrangement was originally established by the Hunter, a demon or sorcerer who came to the region at approximately that time. Under the terms of the truce, communities who offered no threat to the Forest would themselves not be threatened, although individuals of either side were fair game. The truce was broken only twice: in 1047, when an expedition of twenty men breached the Forest borders with intent to find and destroy its sorcerous ruler, and in 1182, when a radical faction from Mordreth set fire to the Forest in the dry season, in hopes of burning it to the ground. In both cases vengeance was swift. In the fall of 1047, twenty heads minus eyes and tongues were impaled on stakes outside the gates of their city. In 1183 the Mordreth Massacre, now infamous, turned a thriving port town into a ghost city overnight. Historians are quick to note that both these incidents were in response to real provocation, and that neither was succeeded by any further acts of violence.
It is not yet clear in what way, if any, the men of this camp provoked their sorcerous neighbor to new atrocity. But amidst rumors of the Hunter’s disappearance, the border cities are doing what they can to protect themselves. Authorities hope that as Vannik recovers he can shed further light on the details of this conflict, but for now all concerned must assume that the ancient truce is no longer being honored by its Forest patron, and defend themselves accordingly.
“He’s here.”
The priest who spoke was a short man, round in the belly, red-faced, congenial. The words he spoke so sharply seemed ill-suited to him, as if some other mouth had formed them. Or was that only the Patriarch’s perception, knowing as he did what those words implied?
“Are you sure?” the Holy Father asked.
The double chin bobbed as he nodded. “Elerin spotted him in the foyer. I can have him come in if you want.”
“Please do.”
As the priest went to the door to summon his acolyte, the Patriarch reached into his desk to pull out the sketch he kept there. It was a pencil drawing on low-quality paper, well worn from handling. He studied it once more as the priest fetched his acolyte, filled with wonder and more than a little misgiving. If he really had seen this man ... He shook his head, banishing the thought. One thing at a time. Confirm the sighting first.
The acolyte Elerin was a freckled teenager with bright red hair and a line of pimples along his chin. The Patriarch couldn’t remember having seen him before, but that was hardly a surprise; lesser priests handled the training of such boys until they took their vows in his presence.
The youth bowed clumsily, clearly anxious about this interview, and mumbled something that might have been, “Your Holiness.”
The Patriarch handed him the drawing. “Have you seen this man?”
The boy glanced at the picture and then back toward the priest, who nodded his encouragement. “I think so, Your Holiness. The drawing I saw was a little different, though.”
“That was a copy. This is the original.”
He looked at it again and then nodded, somewhat stiffly. Clearly he wasn’t comfortable in such august company. “He was at the afternoon service, I think. On Tuesday. Yesterday,” he added helpfully. “I was watching in the foyer, like Father Renalds told me to. This guy came out of the sanctuary right after the service, almost the first one out. He was in a real hurry.” He looked down at the picture again, then nodded. “I’m pretty sure it was him. His hair was a little shorter, and he wasn’t quite this thin, but the face looked about the same.”
“Did you find out who he was?”
He shook his head, scattering the red hair out of its embankments. “I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t stop. I asked a few people who were there if they knew who he was, but no one did.”
“Did you follow him?”
The boy looked stricken. “No, Holy Father, I... I’m sorry.” His face had flushed so bright a red that it almost rivaled his hair. “I didn’t think of it. I didn’t realize.... Please, forgive me.”
“It’s all right.” He took the drawing back from the boy. “There’s no reason you should have thought to do that. We’re not training you as a spy.” He tried to keep his tone as beneficent as possible; the boy was so nervous he looked as if a light breeze would knock him over. “Thank you, Elerin. You may go now.”
He did so anxiously, bowing repeatedly as he backed his way toward the door. Not until he was gone did the Patriarch let his smile fade, and a more businesslike expression take its place.
“I want to know who this man is,” he told the priest, tapping the drawing. “If that means following him, then do it. If our people lack the skill to pull that off gracefully, then hire someone who can.” He glanced at the picture again. “Get one of our priestesses to keep watch outside the sanctuary during services. Someone young and pretty, whom he might be willing to talk to. Unmarried,” he added sharply.
Would that be bait enough? The face in the picture, though roughly sketched, was clearly a handsome one. Such a man might stop to talk to a pretty woman, while ignoring the man right beside her.
“Are you sure he’ll come back, Your Holiness?”
He shut his eyes for a moment; visions rose unbidden before his inner eye. “A vision showed, me that he would come here, and he did. It also showed me that he would return.”