Celia Friedman - Black Sun Rising

They ran. And they were not alone. Close behind them, back the way they had come, something else was moving through the tunnels. Something that chittered in half-human speech, as it followed the path they had cleared. One demon—or many? With a sudden start Damien realized that his sword was still buried near the citadel, the rest of his weapons inside it. All he had left was the flask of Fire—if that was still intact—and he couldn’t draw that out without burning Tarrant. Still, if Tarrant could survive it, and if it could drive back their enemies . . . he fingered the flap of the pouch as he ran, made sure that it was free to open. Tarrant would understand. Strategy demanded it. Survival might demand it.

And then they came around a turn, and there were the Dark Ones. A good four of them at least, and perhaps more in the shadows beyond. They were bruised and bleeding, and more than a little disoriented—but their eyes blazed with hatred, and hunger, and their nostrils flared as they caught the scent of human fear. Of food.

“Don’t let them touch you,” Hesseth whispered. A tremor of fear was in her voice; was she remembering when she’d been drained, back at the earthfire? Damien stepped to Ciani’s side and took the springbolt from her. “Get back,” he whispered. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tarrant reach out to her—for a moment he was lost in Morgot again, as the tidal power Hesseth had conjured dissolved all their barriers, and set loose the Hunter’s evil—and then he nodded, and gestured for her to go to him, knowing that there was no place where she would be safer than by the adept’s side.

And then the creatures fell upon them. Mindless as animals gone rabid, and ten times as deadly. He brought one down with a shot to the gut, fired point-blank into the demonic flesh. And then cursed himself as he brought the second bolt into line, for failing to ask which one of the weapons had only one Worked bolt in it.

And then one was upon him, and his weapon was still uncocked—so he brought the brass butt up into its face, hard, cursing it as he did so. There was blood, and the sharp crack of bone splitting, but the blow did nothing to slow the creature down. One clawed hand grasped the barrel of the springbolt, another grabbed at Damien’s arm. He tried to throw the creature off, but a strange numbness had invaded his arm; he found it hard to move. Shadows began to fill his mind, and his thoughts were slow in coming. He needed to fight it. Didn’t he? He needed to drive it back from him, before it . . . what? What would it do? He found himself shaking as the numbness claimed more of his flesh, found himself filled with a dread and a fear that was all the more terrible because he couldn’t remember its cause.

And then the Dark One howled, and fell back. In its chest was a smoking hole, where the point of a Fire-laden bolt had pierced through the flesh. Hesseth was ready behind it, her blade poised as if to decapitate the creature, but the Fire made that unnecessary. With a last desperate cry, the Dark One fell—and memories flooded Damien’s brain like some wild dream, a thousand and one disjointed bits pouring into him with nightmare intensity. He staggered, trying to absorb the onslaught. Trying to brace himself for further battle, even as he reclaimed his humanity. But beside him the cold blue light of Tarrant’s sword filled the tunnel, and he could see by its glow that an icy path had been etched through the flesh of two of their assailants. Carmine crystals glittered where the great veins had been severed, and a frosty steam arose from the newly chilled flesh.

“Let’s go-” Damien began, but Tarrant ordered, “Wait.”

He walked several yards down the tunnel, back the way they had come. And studied the ceiling overhead as if searching for something. After a minute had passed he seemed to find it, and he raised up his sword so that the glowing tip brushed the packed earth overhead. And then thrust up, suddenly. Chunks of dirt burst outward from the point of contact in an explosion that echoed down the length of the tunnel. And when the dust cleared, they could see that passageway behind them was filled. There might be Dark Ones still ahead of them, but none would be coming from behind. Not without a digging crew.

The Hunter resheathed his sword. “Now we go,” he whispered. His posture was tense, in a way that Damien had never seen before. Had the enemy touched him, as well? Or was it just that the odds against them were growing, too swiftly for the adept’s liking?

If he’s afraid of them, Damien thought grimly, what does that mean for the rest of us?

They passed other openings that offered access to the lower regions. Half of them were already filled with rubble, rendering them useless to the Dark Ones. The other ones they left alone. There were simply too many, and each one that Tarrant chose to seal meant another delay, another chance that their enemies would get ahead of them . . . Damien caught sight of the adept’s expression as they passed by a particularly large opening, and it was utterly colorless and grim. And he remembered the sunlight that awaited them all, if they ever did reach the end of this passage, and wondered what the man could do to save himself. Was it safe for him to stay down here until sunset? With so many Dark Ones coming to the surface, half-mad with rage and hunger?

I won’t let him do it alone, Damien thought darkly. Remembering the hands that had pulled him from the earth, which might just as easily have left him there. Feeling a loyalty which might have shamed him, in another time and place, but which now felt as natural as breathing.

“They’re coming,” Tarrant whispered, and he turned to look behind them. There was nobody visible there, not yet, but Damien knew enough to trust the man’s senses. He was about to speak when Ciani cried out, sharply—and the look on her face was one of such abject terror, such utter despair, that Damien’s blood chilled as he recognized what the cause must be.

“He’s there,” the Hunter said. Giving voice to her fear. “He’s coming.”

“Is he aware of us?” Damien asked him.

The pale eyes narrowed as Tarrant studied the fae. “Not yet,” he whispered. “But he will be soon. He listened for a moment longer, then added, “There are many of them together. Too many to fight.”

“Then we move,” Damien told him. “The entrance can’t be much farther. If we can make it out before they get to us—”

He stopped. Met the pale eyes squarely. “Then Ciani can be safe in the sunlight,” he concluded, “while you and I deal with her assailant.”

They had just started to move again when it seemed, for an instant, that the earth trembled beneath them. Damien felt his heart skip a beat, and he prayed wildly, Not now. Please! Just a few minutes more. As if his God might really interfere. As if the guiding force of the universe was concerned with a handful of human Wardings, or the lives that might depend on them.

They ran. The walls and ceiling of the earthbound passage began to rain down fresh dirt on their heads, but they shielded their eyes with their hands and continued onward. Knowing how close they must be to the tunnel’s eastern exit, knowing how close that exit was to the relative safety of the plains, they pressed on—through dirtfall, over rock-strewn drifts, across huge heaps of splintered wood and boulders—they scrambled over obstacles as quickly as they could, not daring to take the time to study their surroundings. Again the earth trembled, and this time a dull roar could be heard. “They’re going,” Tarrant muttered, and Damien whispered, “God help us all.” The tunnel seemed at least twice as long in this direction as it had been when Damien first entered it; where the hell was that exit?