But as he sprinted forward toward his mount the vines at the edge of the forest parted, and he knew that it was too late; if they were coming into the open, it meant that the camp was already surrounded. There was no time to get back behind the ridge now, for what little shelter it provided. And besides, if he did that, he’d be revealing Hesseth’s position. Let her have a chance.
Heart pounding, he braced his weapon against his shoulder and waited for the enemy to reveal itself.
The first thing he saw was a face. A horrible visage, with slashes of red above and below distorted human features. He was so on edge that it took him a minute to realize what it was. Beside it another appeared, equally grotesque, crudely painted. They were the faces of his childhood nightmares, the masks that his unconscious mind had assigned to demons of the night long before he had actually seen any. And masks they were, in a very real sense. He watched in amazement as more and more armed figures came out of the woods, until the campsite was surrounded. They were fierce, these warriors who wore the demon-masks; their dirty bodies were painted with the colors of blood and death, and bones were tied to their weapons. Their wooden spears and crude arrows were all stained brown or black about the tip, and Damien had no doubt that it was blood of many kills which had seeped down into the wood.
He should have moved before they were in position. Or gone back to Hesseth. He should have done something.
But he couldn’t. He just stared.
They were children.
More then twenty of them surrounded the camp now; he didn’t dare turn his head to count. Few stood higher than his chest. At least a handful were small enough that they couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old at the most, and the rest seemed little older. Though it was hard to make out their shapes between the grotesque masks they wore and the leather vests and breeches which had been similarly painted, Damien would have wagered that not more than one or two of them had reached their teens yet.
How bizarre. How utterly, horribly bizarre.
They were all armed, and though their weapons were crudely made they were undoubtedly effective. As they came slowly into the clearing, Damien realized that he had only two choices. He could try to cut them down, using his size, his strength, and his experience as an advantage to counteract their numbers. Or he could surrender, bide his time until Tarrant returned. The latter went against his every instinct, and he found himself bracing for battle, calculating just how and when he should move against so many . . . but they were children. Children! How would it feel, to cut down those tiny bodies? Could he do it? Suddenly he wasn’t so sure. His hands, clasped about the weapon, trembled slightly.
Prodded from her hiding place, Hesseth joined him. He heard her growling low in her throat as she scanned the crowd surrounding them, as unhappy as he was about the choices.
“Who are you?” he demanded of them. “What do you want?”
It was a lean boy—one of the tallest—who responded. “You come with us. Now. Put down your weapons and come—”
“Or we kill you,” another one interrupted. She was a tiny thing, with bedraggled bits of blonde hair hanging down about her shoulders.
“Do it fast,” the lean boy commanded.
Damien looked at Hesseth, and saw in her eyes a reflection of his own inner turmoil. Perhaps a moment ago he could have pretended that they weren’t human, could have managed to close his eyes and mow them down with sword and with sorcery . . . but not now. Not now that they’d spoken. All his human instinct cried out against it. Children were to be protected, not murdered.
If they had moved against him, he could have fought. If they had threatened his life. If they had seemed so angry or irrational that he thought they might kill him outright rather than take him prisoner. If . . . anything.
But they didn’t. And they weren’t.
He lowered his weapon. The children waited. He looked at Hesseth—her ears were still flat against her head and she was hissing softly, but she nodded—and he laid the weapon down. And stepped back. It was little more than a gesture; between his strength and Hesseth’s claws they were far from helpless in this crowd. But it seemed to be what the masked children wanted.
He watched while they moved into the clearing, gathering up the supplies and taking hold of the horses’ reins. They didn’t move like children, Damien thought. Too awkward. Too stiff. It was hard to watch them closely, he discovered. Hard to focus on one for any length of time. Was that the remnants of an Obscuring? It was an odd sensation.
At last the camp had been gathered up, except for those few items the children didn’t value. Damien’s weapon had been taken up, along with Hesseth’s. A slender girl with a predatory mask carried his sword in its harness; it was taller than she was.
“Who are they?” Hesseth whispered. “What are they?”
The tall boy heard her. As the children drew close about them, preparing to herd Hesseth and Damien back into the forest and to God knows where, he took a stance opposite them with his feet spread wide and his spear planted firmly in the ground by his side. A challenging stance. A triumphal stance.
“Terata,” he told them. And though a mask obscured his features, Damien had the distinct impression that he was grinning. “We’re the Terata.”
23
They tied his hands behind his back. It went against his grain to allow it, but he saw no other option. He had already surrendered, after all. As they bound the coarse rope tightly about his wrists he did what he could to tense his arms, to thicken his wrists, and they seemed not to notice. That should net him some slack later. When they left him to work on Hesseth, he pulled at his bonds in several directions, testing the sophistication of the arrangement. He was pleased to feel it give slightly, which meant that although he had been tied tightly, he had not been tied well; between that and the small slack he had earned, he should be able to work himself free later.
When they were satisfied that their prisoners were bound, the Terata led them into the forest. Spears prodding their backs to keep them moving, they forced Damien and Hesseth through the thick brush that flanked the river, then into the shadowy realm beyond. Once Damien fell, and the sharp point of a weapon stabbed between his shoulder blades; he had to bite his lip to keep from cursing them aloud.
They’re children, he reminded himself. Struggling to his feet without benefit of his hands. He could feel blood trickling down between his shoulder blades, adhering his woolen shirt to his back. Self-indulgent by nature, not yet sophisticated enough to value self-control . . . you anger them now, and there’s no telling what they’ll do. Be careful, Vryce.
Where had they come from, these painted infants? What chain of circumstances had brought them to this place? He could only wonder as he stumbled through the shadowy forest, trying to keep his footing for fear that some fledgling warrior might run him through if he didn’t. Hesseth seemed to be doing well enough, though the set of her ears and the soft hiss of her breathing made it clear she was far from happy about the turn their travels had taken.
Yeah, he thought darkly. That makes two of us.
The Terata led them south. Through a forest that had been stripped of its lower leaves by some gnawing creature—another sorcerous creation?—and past trees that had been girdled by toothmarks, robbed of their sap so that the upper limbs dried out and died. Long bark fingers scraped down from the heights above them, brushing their hair as they passed. Now that Tarrant had pointed out the pattern of life here, Damien could see it clearly. And if the Neocount had wondered what type of mind would create such creatures, now Damien understood. Limited minds. Untested, untrained. Minds that could not yet encompass the awesome complexity of Nature, nor make allowances for her excesses.