For a moment it seemed that the Hunter would move against her anyway, with or without Hesseth in the way. But at last he turned back to Damien, and in a hoarse voice whispered, “I haven’t the strength to argue now. Take the horses. Meet me where I said. I’ll be there as soon as I’ve finished things.”
He turned to go. Damien grabbed his arm through the cloak. “It’s finished. Let them go. They’re just children, Hunter. They won’t—”
“Children?” he snapped. “Is that what you think they are? You fool!” A hand shot free of the protective cloak and closed about the back of his neck; the Hunter’s skin was hot against his own. “Look at your precious children now. Share my vision and See!”
The power struck him like a hot iron, driving the breath from his body. For a moment he could see nothing but the hot sun, the blazing sun, whose killing light penetrated the fog and reflected from every surface. Then, element by element, he began to pick out details of the carnage. Bodies of children, wracked by coldfire. Only . . .
Only they weren’t really children.
He staggered toward the nearest clump of bodies, aware that Tarrant was moving with him. Heat lanced up through his arches as he walked on the sunlit ground, and it felt like his head was on fire. He knelt down by one of the bodies and stared at it in horror and amazement. What had seemed the body of a child was transformed through Tarrant’s vision into something twisted, something grotesque, a creature whom the years had tortured even while it played at childish games and believed itself to be truly young. The limbs were skeleton-thin, the torso so emaciated that ribs could be counted. Its joints were swollen with thick calcium deposits that must have made each movement a torment, and a yellow discoloration had begun to envelop one arm.
He staggered to another body, and another. Not all of them were as old as the first, but all stank of age and neglect. Cuts which had been left undressed had ulcerated, leaving one body a mass of open wounds. Cancer, untreated, had consumed a middle-aged woman. From one gashed leg he could smell the stink of gangrene, and another had broken his foot only to have it heal into a crooked, twisted mass.
Numbly he moved from body to body. Sorting through the carnage for understanding, for acceptance. A few of the fallen had been real children, but even those were in bad shape. Whatever Working had maintained the illusion that these poor creatures were children, it had also blinded them to their own infirmity. It had kept them drunk on the vitality of false youth even while age and infection ate away at their true bodies. Little wonder so few of them had survived to old age. Little wonder they had fallen upon their unlucky comrade with such savage glee. Once the concealing illusion had been stripped from her, she was a reminder to them of what they would themselves become. No wonder they feared and hated her. No wonder they killed.
Then the vision faded, and the ground was littered once more with the bodies of dead children. He lowered his head and shuddered, overcome by the awful power of what he had learned.
“We don’t want them following us,” the Hunter whispered hoarsely. His voice echoed with the pain of his exposure; how much longer could he go on like this? “You get the horses and see if you can find our supplies. I’ll see there’s no pursuit.”
“You’re going to kill them,” he whispered.
The Hunter said nothing.
“Some of them are real children, you know. And none of them understand what’s happening.”
“They’re all his,” The Hunter said sharply. Gesturing back toward the statue. “Do you want that behind us? Do you want to be hunted down again as soon as I turn my back?” He strode toward the wall of fog; it seemed to part at his approach. “I’m not arguing with you this time, priest. There’s a time and place for mercy. This isn’t it.”
He said it quietly but firmly. “Not the children, Gerald.”
For a moment the Hunter stared at him. Then, with a muttered curse, he strode into the wall of mist. The gray veil closed behind him, hiding him from their sight.
With effort, Damien rose to his feet. His body ached as though he had fought all night. He looked at Hesseth, at the small child huddled in her arms, and thought, At least we’ve saved one. What was her name, Jenseny? At least she was still a real child, he mused; Tarrant surely would have killed her otherwise.
So many deaths. So much destruction. What force was responsible for all this? He remembered the statue of Calesta and shivered. What was his motive?
“Come on,” he muttered. Trying not to think. Fighting not to feel. “Let’s find the goddamned horses.”
The horses were tired and edgy and not in the best of shape but they could walk, and right now that was all Damien cared about. Jenseny stared at the huge creatures in amazement as Hesseth and the priest gathered up what few stores they had left. Their food was untouched, as were their camping supplies, but many of the small items were missing. At least the weapons were still there, Damien thought. Thank God for that.
They led the horses to the edge of the island, where Tarrant was waiting. In silence he led them down the rocky slope, and out onto the water. Though he knew that what appeared to be part of the river was really a bridge, Damien had trouble getting the horses to brave the route a second time; in the end he had to blind the animals with strips of linen and force them to follow.
When they were across, Tarrant turned back toward the hidden bridge. His movements were stiff, Damien noted, and he sensed that the man was in no little pain. Thus far the thick mist had held, but if it thinned out even for a moment . . . he shuddered to think of it.
Then the Hunter reached out his hand, and the water exploded. Pieces of wood and ice went flying up and downstream, and a tree trunk which had been near the bridge shattered into a thousand glassy fragments. Splinters of frozen wood rained down upon the party like hail.
“That should do it,” Tarrant said shortly, and he turned back to lead the party into the woods. Damien felt something tight in his gut loosen up just a little bit. If the Neocount had taken time out to destroy the bridge, that meant that he hadn’t killed everyone on the island. The real children were still alive.
Later, when he managed to pull up beside Tarrant, he whispered softly, “Thank you.”
The Hunter didn’t answer. But Damien knew that he heard.
They walked their horses into the forest. After a day and night in the cramped prison, Damien and Hesseth both needed the exercise. As for the girl, she was hard-pressed to match their pace, and at last her strength gave out. Damien called for Tarrant to stop, and together he and Hesseth lifted Jenseny’s limp form up onto the mare’s back. He could feel Tarrant’s eyes boring into his back, his rage at indulging such a delay. Tough luck, he thought, as he strapped her firmly into the saddle. Deal with it. But when they were done and had begun to move again, he did take a minute to let Tarrant know that the girl might have information they needed. It was only half the reason she was with them, but it was the half that Tarrant would care about. No doubt he had used up his limited quota of human compassion when he spared the children’s lives.
When they moved into the depths of the forest, where foliage conspired with the mist to shield the party from sunlight, Tarrant seemed to relax somewhat. Soon after, when the last of the dim light began to fade, he pushed the makeshift hood back from his head. The skin of his face was raw and crusted, and Jenseny—who had caught only a glimpse of him before—stiffened in her saddle and gasped. But Damien and Hesseth’s reaction (or lack of one) seemed to calm her, and after a moment she was slumped in her seat once again, dozing as they went.
“You’ll be all right?” Damien asked. Not really doubting it.