Celia Friedman - When True Night Falls

Tarrant had failed them. Or perhaps the earthquake had disabled him before he even had a chance to Work; perhaps the misKnowing was never even cast. Even so, there must have been a hell of an Obscuring guarding this company that Damien had never sensed its presence. Which meant there might be a Worker with them, and one of considerable power. If so . . . he tried not to think about that. He tried to focus on what he could possibly do against such numbers, the one slim chance he had. With a desperate prayer in his heart he reached with his will down into the water at his feet, the icy current that hid the earth-fae from view-

“Don’t try it,” a cool voice warned.

Startled, he looked for its source. A dark figure was moving among the soldiers, a figure cloaked in heavy wool that walked through the shadows with unhuman grace. The glint of buckles and clasps hinted at a uniform not unlike those which the other men were wearing, but with considerably more decoration. The voice was silken, with a trace of an accent that Damien didn’t recognize.

“Don’t,” the figure repeated. It was holding something up toward Damien, and with a chill the priest realized what it was. A pistol. “If you Work—or even try to Work—I’ll kill you on the spot. You understand me?”

Stiffly he nodded. Desperately he tried to think. There had to be a way out of this. Had to be. But as he looked at the soldiers spanning the shore, at the tall figure who so obviously commanded them, he could feel his heart sinking. There had to be a way out . . . but he couldn’t see one for the life of him.

The figure nodded a command, and two of his men waded into the water toward Damien. For a brief instant he considered resistance, and then one of the men raised up a pistol of his own and trained it on Damien’s face. Point blank. He stared down the cool steel barrel in utter despair, icy water swirling about his ankles as the other man yanked his sword from his hand, his knife from his belt, anything and everything that might be used aggressively from his person. If he had been stripped of his clothes in front of all these men, he could not possibly have felt more naked. Despair welled up inside him with numbing force. Was this it? Was this the end of everything they had fought for, suffered for, prayed for? He didn’t want to accept that. He struggled not to believe it.

Roughly they hauled him back to shore, and forced him to his knees. His arms were jerked behind his back and manacles were snapped shut about his wrists; defeat engulfed him then, so powerfully that it nearly brought tears to his eyes. But he wouldn’t give them the pleasure of seeing that. They had beaten him, bound him, stolen his dreams, but he would not give them his weakness as an added gift.

Slowly the cloaked figure approached him. As it did so, it passed from shadow into light, and Damien could see its features. Beside him he could hear Jenseny breathe in sharply, her struggles momentarily halted as she gazed upon the face of their captor.

Rakh.

A glorious, majestic rakh, with a thick silken mane that lifted in the breeze as he moved and eyes that glowed green in the moonlight. Not from Hesseth’s own species, but a sibling race that had been transformed by the same power which remade hers. His face was marked with the bands and stripes of a jungle hunter, sable upon gold, and it gave his expression a fierceness that no human countenance could rival. His mane was not coarse and shaggy like those of the western rakh, but a thick ruff of silken fur that framed his head and shoulders in a corona of gold. Though his features were more naturally human than Hesseth’s had been, the markings made him seem doubly bestial, and like war paint on a human face hinted at a ruthless, unforgiving nature.

“It’s over,” the rakh said quietly.

Spoken in that way—so utterly calm, so perfectly confident—the words were like a spear thrust into Damien’s heart. It’s over. They had failed. It was finished.

He lowered his head in despair. God, forgive me. We did our best. What more could we have done?

“Get the boats,” the rakh instructed.

Three men ran off eastward along the narrow shore; moments later they rounded a promontory and disappeared.

“There should be three of them,” a familiar voice pronounced.

Startled, Damien twisted about. Despite the firm hand on his shoulder which kept him from moving too fast or too far, he was able to twist around far enough to see the tall, lean man who was approaching them now, his long silk tunic sweeping the rock wall at his side as he moved.

Gerald Tarrant.

“You bastard,” Damien whispered hoarsely. “God damn you! You sold us out.”

“Where’s your companion?” the rakh demanded from behind him.

He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. He could hardly breathe, so totally consumed by rage was he. Rage, and also despair; because if Tarrant was helping the enemy, Damien and his small ward didn’t have a chance in hell of getting free. Not now, not ever.

With leisured grace the Neocount crossed the space between them. The soldiers carefully kept out of his way.

“Where’s Mes Hesseth?” he demanded.

For a moment Damien couldn’t speak. Then the words came, spiked with a burning hatred. “What’s the matter, you don’t get paid as much for just two of us?”

He was struck on the head from behind, hard enough that for a moment his vision exploded in stars. “Where is she?” the rakh demanded. His voice made it clear that he was ready to strike again if necessary.

“She’s dead ” Damien choked out. He looked up at Tarrant, loathing the lack of reaction on that pale, arrogant face. Had Damien ever truly traveled with a creature that inhuman? Could he ever have really trusted him? “God damn you!” he spat. “She died for our cause.” The words were an accusation, and he poured as much scorn and venom into them as his voice could possibly contain.

“ Your cause,” the Neocount said coolly. “It hasn’t been mine for some time now.”

“Where did she die?” the rakh demanded. “When?”

The past seemed a blur; he struggled to remember. “A day north. Maybe. There was a chasm . . .”

“I know the one,” the rakh said. “I’ll send men out there in the morning to confirm it.”

He remembered Hesseth’s body, so lifeless, so broken. Thank God she had died before this moment. Thank God she didn’t have to witness their defeat.

The boats were coming into sight now, three long canoelike structures that would seat two men across, three in the center. Two-thirds of the way back was a small metal housing that might contain some sort of engine or turbine, but its shape gave no hint as to its mechanical nature. The combined package was light enough and maneuverable enough that all three boats were easily brought to shore, and there a man held each in place, bracing it against the river current.

The rakh walked to the water’s edge and knelt down by it, scooping up a mouthful of the ice-cold water into a pewter cup. When he had enough he stood again, and took out a small glass vial from a pocket in his uniform. This he unscrewed and upended over the cup; Damien saw a thin stream of white powder glisten in the moonlight.

He walked toward Damien, swirling the cup so that the powder and water might mix thoroughly. When he reached the priest, he held it out to him, close enough that he might touch his lips to its brim.

“Drink it,” he ordered.

His heart pounding wildly in fear, Damien asked, “What is it?”

“It will make you temporarily incapable of Working. I trust you understand why that’s necessary.”

He looked up at Tarrant, hoping for . . . what? Sympathy? Support? He’d sooner get it from a host of bloodsuckers than from that corrupted soul.