Dominion Page 4

  Kneeling down by the wolf’s side, Tarrant waited until it opened its eyes and looked at him. It seemed to him there was a flicker of humanity in the backs of its eyes—but if so, that was a dim and distant thing, quickly subsumed by bestial pain.

  The sorcerer in Tarrant’s vision had clearly made a study of the Forest. Somewhere in that man’s mind there might be useful information about this place. But for as long as he was trapped in this animal form he could not communicate it directly, Was it possible to change him back? It was an intriguing option, but a dangerous one. Even now Tarrant could feel the Forest’s fae lapping hungrily at his flesh, waiting for a chance to consume him. It might have no real sentience of its own, but five hundred years of absorbing the essence of human nightmares had imprinted it with patterns of human behavior and human fear. It might as well be sentient.

  And it wanted him. He could taste its hunger. It wanted him to surrender to it as the albino had surrendered, so that it might devour his soul and excrete the remnants into this warped ecosystem. One careless moment and he might well suffer the albino’s fate.

  He gazed down at the wolf for several long minutes, assessing its value to him. Unlike the albino he was not a reckless man, but some things were worth taking chances for. Knowledge was chief among them.

  At last he said, very quietly, “I can restore your human form. Perhaps your human soul as well. But there would be a price for such service.” He paused. “A high price.”

  The wounded wolf stared at him. It was impossible to read what was in its eyes.

  “If I give you back your human life, then that life will belong to me. For so long as you remain human you will serve me. All that you possess, all that you know, all the power you command will be mine for the asking. That is the price of my assistance. Do you understand?”

  The wolf continued staring at him. Did it still comprehend human language? If not, then there would be little hope of restoring it to its former state.

  Finally, in a jerky and pained motion, it nodded.

  “Then you must surrender yourself to me now without reserve. Forget everything that you were up to this moment, and permit me to reshape you as I see fit. Anything less than that, and you will not survive the process of transformation.” He paused. “You were a sorcerer once. You understand why that is necessary.”

  He could not interpret the wolf’s expression, but he sensed that inside that bestial head quasi-human thoughts were struggling to take shape. Perhaps it was trying to remember the ways of sorcery, so that it might evaluate his instructions. Perhaps it was asking itself whether or not it was capable of the degree of submission he was asking for.

  If not, Tarrant thought, then you will die.

  “Do you agree to my terms?” He pressed.

  The wolf’s eyes were fixed on him. Unreadable.

  Finally—weakly—it nodded again.

  Stepping back from it, Tarrant braced himself for what must come next. Shapeshifting was one of the most dangerous Workings in a sorcerer’s repertoire, and more than one student had died while attempting it. In order to adopt the form of another creature one must surrender oneself body and soul to the fae, allowing it complete dominion over one’s flesh. It was a terrifying process, and a dangerous one. Failure to submit completely might result in one being trapped between forms, and such a state was a rarely viable. Few were the sorcerers who dared attempt such a Working, and fewer still the ones who succeeded.

  As for working such a transformation on another human being, as Tarrant was about to do… that would require the same kind of absolute submission, but not only to the fae. This human-turned-wolf must be willing to place very his soul in Tarrant’s hands, without hesitation or resistance. Tarrant remembered the sorcerer he had seen in his vision: proud, vain, arrogant. Could someone like that manage the requisite humility? If the man’s years in the Forest had broken his spirit— Tarrant suspected—perhaps. If not, then Tarrant would have to conjure the information he sought from the man’s ashes. Difficult but not impossible.

  Closing his eyes for a moment, he summoned forth the coldfire power that was in his sword, channeling it into a dramatic Working. Blue flames roared forth suddenly from its blade: a heatless, unnatural fire with death at its core. Several of the wolves yelped in alarm. One of them turned and fled into the Forest, and a second one followed. Then another. Soon they were all gone, and Tarrant let the Working fade.

  The clearing was silent.

  Now, he thought. Carefully.

  He could feel the Forest’s power prodding at the edges of his consciousness as he began to shape his Transforming. This kind of Working called for an immense amount of power, and normally he would have summoned whatever was available to him, drawing upon the currents of fae that surrounded him without even thinking about it. A sorcerer’s reflex. But if he tried to mold these currents to his will they would try to take control of him, and even if they failed, the concentration required to control them would likely doom his efforts. The Transforming of living flesh left no room for error.

  He would have to work with what he had.

  At last, when he had summoned forth all the fae that was available to him and bound it to his purpose, he directed a powerful Transforming at the wolf’s body. The animal spasmed in pain as Tarrant’s sorcery engulfed it, which was only to be expected; shapeshifting was not a pleasant process. Molding its body organ by organ—cell by cell—Tarrant forced it to adopt a new configuration, ever so slightly more human than the last. And then another. And another. Normally such changes would flash by in an instant and only the end product would be visible, but this was not a normal Working. Each intermediate stage in this transformation had to be viable in its own right, a combination of organs and limbs that was capable of sustaining life. Whether Tarrant had sufficient knowledge of biology to choose a viable pathway—and the power to force human flesh to submit to it—would determine whether his subject lived or died.

  But the albino’s body had been human once, and on some metaphysical level it seemed to remember its previous form. Once Tarrant realized that, he needed to do little to guide its transformation. Slowly the limbs of the wolf straightened and lengthened—its ribcage contracted—its teeth shrank. The fur fell off in sickly clumps, baring a hide that was bloody at first, then pink and raw, then white and soft. The albino’s body trembled as it transformed, and once or twice a howl of pain escaped its lips, but for the most part it bore the suffering in silence. Perhaps it remembered enough about sorcery to understand that pain was the price of success in such an undertaking.

  And then, finally, it was done. The body that lay before Tarrant now was naked and filthy, but it was unquestionably human. The chest was rising and falling erratically, its breathing ragged but its lungs clearly functional. The heart was pounding hard enough that the veins under the man’s skin twitched visibly, but its rhythm was within normal human bounds. The wound was gone, Tarrant noted; apparently in the process of recovering its original form the body had healed itself.

  He let his power fade and waited.

  For several long minutes his subject lay utterly still, with no sign of consciousness about him. Hopefully his mind had not been so badly damaged that he would be incapable of communication. If it had, then all this had been a wasted effort.

  Very slowly, the thin, translucent eyelids opened. Scarlet irises were surrounded by a corona of broken vessels, turning the eyes into crimson orbs.

  “What is your name?” Tarrant demanded.

  The albino’s brow furrowed as he struggled to process the question. Tarrant gave him time. Regardless of whether the speech centers of the man’s brain had survived the change intact, he had not dealt with human language for a very long time. It might take him a while to remember how to speak.

  “Amoril,” he whispered at last. He winced as he spoke, as if the passage of sound through his throat was painful. “Name… Amoril.”

  “Where are you from, Amoril?”

  The
crimson eyes squeezed shut as he struggled to remember. He looked much more human with them closed. “Not sure… not remember… maybe Sattin? Long time ago. . .”

  Some of his long term memory may have been damaged, Tarrant observed. And: He may be easier to control if it is not restored.

  “Thirst,” the albino gasped. “Water. Please.”

  It was a reasonable enough request, but not one that Tarrant could satisfy. “We will have to go find some. I do not carry supplies for the living.”

  The bloodshot eyes opened wide and fixed on Tarrant. For a long moment Amoril just stared at him, as if trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

  “What are you?” he gasped.

  “A creature very much like yourself, originally.” But less reckless, he thought, and possessed of a much stronger will. “Now I am… something else.”

  The albino’s eyes began to narrow—and then he flinched, and a shadow of pain crossed his face. He must have been about to Work, Tarrant realized. Then the touch of the fae had reminded him what happened the last time he’d tried it. This man would have to seek the answer to his question without a Knowing.

  The clues were there for the finding, Tarrant knew, if one looked in the right places. And a sorcerer should know where to look.

  Consider it a test, he thought darkly.

  “You are fleshborn,” Amoril said at last. “But not… not alive.”

  Tarrant nodded solemnly. “That is correct.”

  “But not dead. Not truly dead. So strange… ”

  Tarrant said nothing.

  “Your clothing … like another time. Almost.” His facility for speech seemed to be coming back to him quickly; each word seemed less strained than the last. “From your real time?” He shook his head weakly. “Few last so long. The living die, the walking dead are destroyed.”

  Tarrant said nothing. The eerie crimson eyes continued to study him intently. Assessing the paleness of his skin, perhaps, or its subtly unnatural hue.

  “Blooddrinker?” he asked at last.

  A faint smile flickered across Tarrant’s face as he rose to his feet. “Among other things.” He held out his hand, to help the man to his feet. “I am Gerald Tarrant, Neocount of Merentha.” If this man knew anything about history he would know just how long ago that title had been created.

  After a moment of hesitation Amoril accepted his hand, and with Tarrant’s assistance he struggled to his feet. Once he was standing he seemed steady enough; his body evidently remembered how to move as a biped.

  “There’s a river nearby,” Tarrant said. “You can satisfy your thirst there.” He took in the albino’s physical state, from his mud-covered legs to his blood-matted hair; a shadow of distaste crossed his face. “And bathe.”

  A cold wind gusted through the clearing; he saw Amoril shiver. Living flesh was sensitive to temperature changes, he remembered. He unhooked his cloak and offered it to him. Amoril hesitated, then accepted. As Tarrant watched him wrap the fine wool about his filthy body he reflected upon the fact that he would probably not want the garment back.

  “How were you wounded?” he asked. “It didn’t look like the work of an animal.”

  “Not an animal.” The albino’s words were flowing almost naturally now, though his articulation was still poor. “Human bitch. Steel armor. Don’t know where she came from. Sigil of the One God here.” He struck his chest weakly with his fist. “Fought like a demon. Wounded. Won’t last long.” The red eyes glittered hungrily. “Should I kill her for you, my Master?”

  “Not necessary.” Tarrant ignored the faint edge of sarcasm with which the title had been voiced. It would take some time before servitude came naturally to this one. “I will take care of it.”

  Amoril cocked his head and smiled. “You are hungry?”

  Tarrant did not respond.

  If the sigil of the One God was emblazoned on the woman’s breastplate, that meant that she was probably a knight of the Church. Perhaps even one of its sacred hunters. And now she was here, abandoned by her own kind, surrounded by the very creatures she had sworn to destroy. No doubt she was afraid that she would die by their hands and thus shame her calling. It was the ultimate fear, for such a crusader.

  He wondered how that fear would taste in her blood.

  “Where is she?” he asked.

  The albino pointed southeast. “Not far. Following a dead stream. Not far.” He hesitated. “Listen to the Forest. It will tell you where to go.”

  “Are you saying the Forest is sentient?” he asked sharply.

  “No. No. Not sentient. No.” The albino wrapped the cloak tightly around himself as he struggled to find the words that he needed. “Many dreams are here,” he said at last. “In the earth, in the soil, in the air. Human dreams. The fae reflects them. Like a mirror.”

  It was along the lines of what Tarrant himself had hypothesized. But was this meaningful information from the time before the albino’s transformation, when he had studied the Forest, or had his mind become so unhinged from its recent experience that he was imagining things? Only time would tell. “I will seek out this warrior,” Tarrant told him. “Meanwhile, you proceed to the river. I’ll catch up with you later.”

  He turned to leave, but the albino grabbed his arm. Tarrant was not accustomed to having other people lay hands upon him, and when he turned back his expression was so dark and fierce that Amoril backed away from him quickly, fear in his eyes.

  “I can’t stay here alone,” the albino protested. “Not without Working. No protection. Too dangerous.”

  Tarrant exhaled sharply in exasperation. But Amoril was right. He was just a man now, and a weak one, with neither armor nor weaponry to protect him. The creatures that feared to come near Tarrant would not hesitate to move in on such a man once he was alone. Leaving him here was a death warrant.

  Loosening his sword in its scabbard, Tarrant ran his thumb along the blade just hard enough to draw blood, then reached out toward Amoril. The red eyes glistened with fear, but this time he did not back away. Tarrant smeared his blood across the man’s forehead, using a whisper of the sword’s stored power to adhere his personal essence to it. It gleamed against his milk-white skin like a fresh wound.

  “The Forest will respond to you now as it responds to me,” he said. “So unless you come across something that is enamored of the undead, you should be safe enough.”

  Then he slipped into shadows and left the clearing, anxious to be gone before another distraction surfaced.

  * * *

  He could smell her fear on the wind. It was carried to him by the air, by the earth, by the currents of fae that swirled about his feet. Its bouquet was as complex and enticing as that of the finest wine, and it aroused a hunger in him so powerful that it sent tremors of desire coursing through his soul.

  That her fear was sacred in nature made it all the more appealing. This was the emotional exudate of a woman who had no real fear of injury—or even death—but whose spirit cringed at the thought that she might fail her God. Sacred duty: the taste of it burned Tarrant’s tongue, but like spice on a human palate, it enhanced rather than diminished his appetite.

  He was surprised at first at how acutely he could taste her emotions without partaking of her blood, but who was to say if those insights were even true? The fae might simply be reflecting his own hunger back at him, plucking choice details out of his mind and manifesting the elements he most wished to believe. Metaphysical bait. Surrender to the Forest’s power, it whispered in its seductive tones, and all that you hunger for will be provided for you.

  But imagine if it were real!

  The woman was moving fairly quickly now; given how wounded she was, that said as much about her strength of will as it did about bodily stamina. Tarrant had seen many men defy mortality thus, sustained by passion alone. And what greater human passion was there than religious faith?

  A fleeting memory surfaced in the black pool of his soul, echo of a life long forgotten. He remembered a
man of faith riding to war in the name of his God, the banner of the one true Church whipping in the wind overhead. So idealistic, that man. So pure in motive. So dedicated to everything that was moral and just.

  No longer.

  The memory sank to the bottom of his soul and was lost again.

  If I had not loved God so much, there would have been no power in betraying Him.

  He was getting close to her now. Perhaps she could hear the occasional twig that he allowed to snap under his foot. Perhaps it made her even more afraid. Suddenly he heard a soft splash, followed by a cry of pain. She had come to a place where there was water in the stream bed, and had stumbled on the wet rocks. New pain. New fear.

  This one would be a rich feast indeed.

  He began to move forward quickly, ready to close the distance between them and claim his prize—when suddenly the earth-fae surged, spraying droplets of ice-blue power high into the air. He blinked against the brightness of it even as drops began to fall like rain all around him, an eerie glowing shower. As they touched him, knowledge came rushing unbidden into his brain. Not the kind of ordered, rational knowledge he might have summoned with a Working. This information was raw—unstructured—a mad chaos of data that roared down the avenues of his consciousness, drowning out all other thought.

  He knew exactly where his quarry was wounded, and exactly how life-threatening each wound was. He understood the nature of her pain, her faith, her fear. A lifetime of her memories rushed into his head, images cascading into one another with such speed and force that his mind reeled as it struggled to absorb them. A child’s nightmares—a teenager’s distress—a grown woman’s loss—a knight’s desperation. A thousand and one battles unfolded in his mind, fought against nightmares and bullies and despots and rivals and faeborn demons, too much for any sane mind to absorb. Instinctively he reached out for power, knowing that he must erect some sort of barrier to protect himself from the mad deluge of emotion before it breached the boundaries of his own soul. It was a sorcerer’s reflex, performed without even thinking—and it was also a deadly error, whose carelessness he cursed even as the full force of the Forest’s fae came crashing into his brain.