And then he was slammed back, hard. The breath left his lungs in a short burst and he was gasping, swallowing the rock dust that his motion had dislodged. He was aware that he no longer held Tarrant’s wrist, but it was hard to say just where his arm was; that whole side of him was numb with cold, unfeeling.
He managed to get his eyes open. The first thing he saw was that half the ledge was gone; Tarrant’s blast must have weakened it enough that it finally gave way. Then he looked up and saw Tarrant. The man’s face was white, utterly colorless, and his eyes were flushed red. But he was conscious. Safe. Alive, in a manner of speaking.
“That was a very foolish thing to do,” the Hunter gasped. The hand that held the sword was shaking; he seemed to lack the strength to sheathe it. “Very foolish,” he whispered.
“Yeah.” Damien wiped the dust from his eyes. The feeling was coming back into his arm, but not as fast as he would have liked. Not with dawn coming. “I had a good teacher.”
And then he saw a faint smile on Tarrant’s face—only a flicker, but a smile nonetheless—and he knew deep down inside that they were going to be okay. Both of them.
“Can you climb?” he asked. Flexing his frozen arm. It would move now, though it was still stiff. He didn’t like to think about how close he had come to losing more than an arm. He could still feel the chill power of the Worked steel, even from a distance. “It’s not too far to the top.”
The Hunter looked up. Damien thought he saw him shudder.
“Not much choice, is there?”
“You could always transform yourself.”
Instead of parrying with a dry retort, Tarrant leaned back against the granite wall and shut his eyes.
God in Heaven. He’s in bad shape. Damien tried to gauge the rock above them—no easy feat at that angle—and wondered if he could get them both up to the top. Probably so, he decided. But not before dawn. Already the sky was lightening in the east, which meant they had, what? Half an hour? Not long enough, he thought, assessing the rock face above them. Not nearly long enough.
He turned to find Tarrant’s eyes also turned toward the east. “I guess it’s time to climb,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Looks like it. Up or down?”
“Up.” He didn’t even look at the rock face before committing himself. “There’s no shelter down there. I checked.”
“And above?”
“One can only hope,” he whispered.
He moved to sheathe the coldfire blade—and almost dropped it, his hand losing strength as it struck against the edge of the ledge. Damien grabbed for it quickly, and for a moment he almost lost his balance. But compared to some of what he’d climbed, a two-foot ledge was practically a luxury accommodation; he managed to keep three points on the rock while he closed his hand about the icy grip, and after a moment he regained his security. He straightened up slowly, caught his breath, and eased the long sword into Tarrant’s scabbard.
“Try to hold onto that thing, will you?”
The Hunter managed a faint smile. “I promise.”
“You going to make it?”
He glanced again at the east, and this time Damien did see him shiver. “I have to, don’t I?”
Damien pulled a knife from his belt and tore a ragged strip from the bottom of his shirt. Then two more. When he knotted them together, they made a strip some eight feet long; it was far from ideal, but it would have to do. “On your belt,” he ordered, handing one end to Tarrant. The other end he affixed to his own. It was good linen, tough fabric, and it might make the difference if one of them slipped.
If he slips, he corrected himself. It would take all his skill to cling to the rock face if the weight of a grown man suddenly jerked him back: how well could Tarrant, so obviously wounded, manage such a feat?
They started to climb. The rising sun at least gave them some measure of light, so that Damien was able to pick out a reasonably workable course. Tarrant climbed well enough, but his hands were shaking from weakness; how long would he be able to keep it up? Damien tried not to look at the sky as they struggled upward, but he couldn’t help but notice that the bumps and crevices surrounding him were becoming more and more visible.
Then there was a crumbling ledge and a slip and Damien grabbed his companion, flattening him back against the rock. He could feel Tarrant’s growing weakness through the contact, and it frightened him. How badly had the earth-fae hurt him? How long would it take him to heal? He hauled him up to the next step, helped the pale hands grasp hold of a helpful protrusion. Would he heal? The next few yards were easy enough. He was beginning to think they would make it. The sky was blue now, and the stars of the rim were no longer visible. They fought for another yard, then another. His hands were bleeding, and Tarrant’s own were scraped raw. One more little bit . . .
And then they were over, they had made it, they pulled themselves up onto the coarse dirt of the mountain’s face and lay there for a minute in sheer exhaustion. Damien rolled up onto one elbow and studied his companion. Tarrant didn’t look good. He didn’t look good at all.
“We need shelter,” he told him. “You tell me where to go, I’ll get you there. But I can’t find it myself.” When Tarrant didn’t move, he whispered fiercely, “We’ve only got maybe half an hour left!”
“Less than that,” the Hunter gasped. “Far less than that.” He made a move as if to rise up, but clearly lacked the strength. Damien hooked an arm about his shoulder and helped him. With effort, he got him to his feet. It seemed to take forever.
“Can you See?” Damien asked. “Can you find something?”
The Hunter nodded weakly. Damien supported him as he studied the surrounding terrain, as he tried to read structure into the black earth and scraggly foliage that surrounded them. “There,” he whispered at last. Pointing east. “Something that way.”
Together they struggled toward the east. Occasionally Tarrant would study the ground again and then point in a new direction. Damien took him where he wanted to go. If he stopped to think about things, it would probably terrify him how very weak Tarrant had become. He could no longer even stand alone, much less manage the exertion necessary to forge forward across the rough terrain.
Has he finally pushed himself too far? Damien wondered. What if this is beyond his healing?
The Hunter fell to his knees; it took Damien a moment to realize that he’d done it deliberately. “There,” he whispered. Pointing to a shallow depression in the earth, where a thornbush was rooted.
Damien knelt by the depression. The bush made it impossible for him to see the bottom, so he grasped it by the base and pulled it forcibly from the ground. He could feel the thorns pierce his hand as he wrenched it loose, but that was just too bad. He didn’t have the time to be more careful.
What was revealed when the last of the roots pulled loose was a hole some two feet in diameter, like that an animal might make. He pushed at the edge of it with his hand, and then, when he saw what it was, repositioned himself so he could kick at it. The earth gave way beneath his feet, tumbling down into darkness. He could feel cool air beneath his face as he finally hit rock at one edge, then another. Animals might have used this hole, but they sure as hell didn’t make it; Tarrant had found the opening to a natural cavern.
With care he lowered the Neocount’s body down into blackness. The pale skin was already reddened from contact with dawn’s early light, the eyes swollen and bloodshot. He hoped it wasn’t too late. When Tarrant’s body had fallen through, he followed it, lowering himself down into the cavern’s depths.