Something stirred overhead, where there had been no motion during all her imprisonment. She sat up weakly, bracing herself against the slimy wall. There was a scraping noise and then it seemed to her that something moved. There was a line of darkness forming that was less black than that which surrounded, dim and insubstantial, but yes, it might even be called light. She blinked hard as she stared at it, not quite believing.
"Time to come out.” It was the white man’s voice, no longer wholly human but a strange gurgling sound; she had trouble making out the words. Something came down from the darkness and splashed to the floor by her side. She reached out a tentative hand to see what it was, and felt a smooth wooden shaft pointing upward. A ladder. He had lowered a ladder.
"Up,” he growled. “Now!"
Narilka hesitated. Whatever was waiting for her up that ladder could be even worse than her current misery, which she had almost come to terms with. She remembered the foul breath of his pack, the pain of their teeth in her flesh. No. Better the darkness than that.
When he saw that she wasn’t moving, he howled in fury, a sound more animal than human. She heard scrabbling as his beasts ran toward him, and with a sick feeling in her heart she realized that the things she feared most might simply come down into the darkness and drag her out; her obstinacy would gain her nothing. Slowly, her hands shaking, she forced herself to climb. The creatures up ahead of her were growling, and the white man also. When her head cleared the opening, he reached out and grabbed her long hair, hauling her up by it. Stars of pain danced behind her eyes.
"I need you,” he hissed. His hand tangled in her muddy hair, savagely pulling her head back. “Don’t fight me. I’ll let them eat you if you do, you understand me? I’ll hurt you!"
She didn’t have the strength to nod. She couldn’t summon the voice to answer.
Snarling, he dragged her away.
The flat Forest earth gave way to rocky ground, to the gentle slope of hills, to the steep incline of a mountainside. That was a good sign, the Patriarch told them.
Vryce’s notes made it clear that the Hunter’s keep was in the mountains, therefore they were headed in the right direction.
Then there came a point at which the horses could no longer manage the steep climb, and had to be left behind. Given the choice between staying with them or making the climb with their company, the wounded chose to struggle onward. Andrys didn’t blame them. In a place this hostile, where the darkness might erupt with new dangers at any moment, a handful of wounded men and women wouldn’t stand a chance by themselves.
The dead were unloaded and buried in a makeshift cairn. It seemed a waste of time to Andrys. Didn’t the Church teach that dead flesh was only an empty shell? Wouldn’t their companions want them to hurry on their way, rather than risk a delay to attend to such a meaningless ritual? But once more, the Patriarch insisted. To leave the dead unhonored now would “poison too many futures,” he said. Whatever the hell that meant.
They climbed. Bearing their supplies upon their backs, foodstuffs and explosives lashed side by side. Upward they climbed, higher and higher, tramping out a switchback path along the rocky slope. At times the way was so steep that they had to cling to the very vines which meant to hinder them, and men who failed to get a handhold slid back two steps for every one they gained. Andry’s wounds burned like fire, but he was willing to bet that was nothing compared to the Patriarch’s own pain, or that of the other wounded soldiers. The currents had become so powerful that he could hear them now without even trying; their roar drowned out all other sounds, making speech impossible. So strong was the pull on his flesh that he had to fight step by step not to be dragged down to the earth, where its power—and Gerald Tarrant’s-could drown him. How much longer could he hold on?
At last the ground leveled out a bit. Andrys leaned against a tree to catch his breath, then jerked back violently as a serpent hissed mere inches from his face.
Did this damned place never let up? One by one his companions joined him, and though none dared to say it, clearly all hoped that the worst of the climb was over. They were carrying not only their supplies and their weapons, but a share of the equipment which had been on the horses, and that load on their backs made every step hurt tenfold.
Now, he sensed, the enemy was near. Whatever dark power had been trying to stop them, whatever creature now sat at the heart of the Forest and wove black webs of hate to entrap the living, it was here, right before them. He could taste its presence in his mouth, bitter and repulsive. He could smell it on the wind, a stink so foul that several men and women had wrapped scarves about their noses and mouths in the desperate hope of keeping it out. He could hear it echoing in his brain, a presence so unclean that the Hunter’s own power seemed pristine by comparison.
There was a ridge ahead of them that blocked their view. Zefila sent out scouts to explore. From where he waited, Andrys could see them tense up as they rounded the natural barrier. At last, after what seemed like an endless wait, the men returned and signaled for the others to join them. Andrys and Zefila went first, with the Patriarch limping behind them. They came to the end of the ridge and crept around it—And stopped. And stared.
Ahead of them, looming up into the night itself, was a castle. The trees which cloaked so much of the Forest gave way in this place, and Andrys could see it clearly by the light of Prima’s crescent. It was a black structure, gleaming black, with a surface that might have been made of rippling water, so did it seem to move when the light shimmered over it. He heard the others gasp as they came around the turn, but their surprise couldn’t possibly equal his own. Nor could they feel the horror that he did, gazing upon the citadel that his undead ancestor had built.
It was Merentha Castle. His own home keep, down to the last finely worked detail. Cast in black volcanic glass, a mockery of the home which had sheltered him. There, in that window, Samiel had watched for him; there, in that doorway, Betrise had scowled. There, in that courtyard ... he started toward it, drawn by his own horror. Would that be the same as well, down to the last black flagstone?
“Tarrant!” Zefila grabbed him from behind, nearly jerking him off his feet as she pulled him roughly backward. “Stay with us, damn it!”
Silently, wary, they entered the courtyard. There were bodies all over the place. Human bodies, half-devoured and now rotting. Mounds of horseflesh in similar condition. Soldiers prodded a few just to make sure they were really dead, then fanned out, springboks at the ready. Where was the danger? Andrys could feel it, but he couldn’t define it. Something was waiting for them. Where?
“There’s no one here,” a woman dared.
“Make sure of it,” Zefila ordered. She nodded toward a pair of men, who started toward the building—
And white shapes appeared along the wall of the courtyard, where moments ago there had been nothing. Of course, Andrys thought darkly. A simple Obscuring, the most basic of all Workings. In a war defined by sorcery, they should have expected it.