Damien looked at Hesseth. The rakh-woman hesitated, then nodded. “All right,” he muttered. “We’ll do that. And then we’ll pray.”
He started to take a step back toward Tarrant, but his legs were weak and his feet were unsteady and suddenly his knees folded and he was down, bruised legs striking the ground with numbing force. His upper body followed, and though he managed to get his arms out in front of him to keep from cracking his head open, his elbows hit the ground hard enough to send fresh pain shooting up his arms.
And then he was down, gasping. The granite island was spinning about him and the stars . . . they were streaks across the sky, throbbing in time to his pain.
Then: footsteps on rock. Soft-soled shoes. Gentle hands touching him and then a firmer, colder grip.
“Nothing’s broken,” the Hunter assessed. “Yet.”
“Thanks a lot,” he gasped.
The chill hand reached inside his collar, pressed against the side of his neck as if to test the pressure of his pulse. He could feel the channel that bound him to Tarrant come into focus, as if drawing power from the heat of his body; he let it, knowing that the Hunter was using it to examine him.
“He’s tired.” The cold hand withdrew; the soft hands remained. “Tired and dehydrated and bruised and cut up . . . but otherwise fine. He needs salt and water and sleep, in that order.”
The soft hands withdrew. The soft footsteps moved away.
For a moment there was silence.
“I’ll stand guard,” Tarrant told him. There was the sound of someone rummaging through their packs. Hesseth? “You just sleep.”
He could barely manage to shape coherent words. His tongue was hot and swollen. “If the Prince attacks—”
“He won’t. Not tonight.”
There was something being placed on his tongue, something small and salty. Then cool hands helped him rise up long enough to drink from the cup that was held to his lips, a cool arm braced against his back to support him. He took enough water to wash down the pill and then tried to stop, to conserve their precious stores, but the water remained at his lips and he swallowed and swallowed and at last it was all gone.
Gently the strong hands lowered him back down to the rock. There was something soft beneath his head, something folded up to serve as a pillow. The soft wool of a blanket settled down over him, shutting out the chill of the night.
“You’re a stubborn man, Vryce.” The Hunter’s tone was surprisingly gentle. “But you have real courage. That’s a rare attribute.”
He could hear the Hunter rising. He could sense him standing, gazing at him. Studying him, for God alone knew what purpose.
“Let’s hope it’ll be enough,” the adept said.
39
According to theologians, the Hell of the One God was a truly terrible place. It was so bad, they said, that if you tried to imagine all the terrible things that might exist in the universe, and then you put them all in one place, and then you multiplied them a thousand times over, the combination still wouldn’t hold a candle to the horrors of Hell.
In short—Damien thought—Hell was probably worse than the Wasting.
But not by much.
He awoke soon after dawn, with a dry mouth and an aching head and a body that hurt in at least a dozen places. After a moment he dared to test it, and found that at least it moved when he wanted it to. After his last awakening, that seemed like little less than a miracle.
He managed to push off the blanket and get to his feet. It took his eyes a minute to adjust to the light: blinding yellow from the east, a cooler white from overhead. Around the Core the sky was an odd shade of green; he felt that he had seen it once before, but couldn’t quite place the memory. His legs seemed strong enough, but his sense of balance felt precarious, and he stood where he was for a few long minutes, giving it time to settle in. When at last he felt that he could walk without falling he started back toward the center of the island, and looked for his companions.
The granite mound had a hump in its center and Hesseth was seated on it, her strange northern weapon cocked and ready by her side. Looking at her crouched there—long ears pricked forward, fur bristling slightly, eyes as golden as the Core itself—it was easy to forget her human attributes and see instead a predator, an alien, a creature to whom scent-cues and survival reflexes were as natural as they were to any four-legged hunter. He was suddenly very glad to have her there, and to have those reflexes on his side.
“Morning,” he managed, as he hiked up to join her. His mouth felt like he’d been eating rock dust all night. Ten yards across, maybe three feet up; it wasn’t much of a vantage point, but it was the best the island had to offer.
She shot him a look that was half smile, half grimace. It took him a second to realize the reason for the latter.
“You see something?”
She exhaled noisily. “Smell it.”
“Shit.” He flexed his arms in an easy, conservative stretch; they hurt like hell. “Animal, rakh, or human?”
She shook her head. “Not sure yet.”
Trouble. It could only mean trouble. God damn it, couldn’t it have waited a day? Long enough for them to heal? “If you had to guess, what?”
She hesitated. “Animal. Maybe.” She faced into the wind again and drew in a deep breath, drawing it in through her nose and her mouth. Her neck fur bristled in the breeze. “Shouldn’t be here,” she said shortly. “Nothing should.”
“Jenseny said there were animals in the Wasting.”
“Jenseny said they fed on the trees,” she reminded him. “But I didn’t see any sign of feeding on the trees we passed. None at all.”
He tried to remember, but revulsion welled up inside him at the mere thought. For a moment he swayed, wondering if he was going to be sick. “No,” he muttered at last. “I don’t remember anything like that.” Was his fear of the trees that great, or was this some kind of defense mechanism his body had conjured, to keep them from getting hold of his mind again? Or had Tarrant whipped it up and glued it to his psyche while he was sleeping? If so, he could have picked something a little more pleasant.
With a sigh he turned in the direction she indicated and tried to detect any odd scent on the wind, but his merely human senses could not see or smell anything of consequence. At last frustrated, he looked about for the girl. “How’s the kid?”
“Alive. Just. I gave her some food about dawn. She seemed pretty shaken. I take it she had some rather fierce nightmares.”
Yeah. And I’ll bet it wasn’t just because of the trees. I had nightmares, too, the first time Tarrant Worked on me.
Hunger stirred in his belly, sharp and demanding. He looked back at the camp. “She sleeping now?”
The rakh-woman nodded. “Soundly, I think. Maybe for the first time all night.”
“I won’t disturb her.”
He made his way down to the place where Hesseth had laid out their supplies; given her predilection for neat tents and carefully tended campfires, the jumbled blankets and scattered piles of supplies were mute testimony to her own exhaustion. The pile of food was all too small, Damien noted, the water skins too empty for comfort. He managed to find the vitamins with the first aid kit and downed two of them, wondering what their caloric value was. Could you survive on those alone if all other food ran out, or would you wind up poisoning yourself with some toxic dose of a trace mineral before they did you any good? He wasn’t anxious to find out.
He ate as sparingly as he could, but even so their stock was noticeably depleted when he was finished. They must have left a feast behind when they fled from the trees. Damn it. He hoped there was game at the river, or at least some kind of edible plant life. They’d need something if they were going to make it to the rakhlands with their strength intact.