“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.
38
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-