The Hunter's Rede

by F. T. McKinstry

  Lorth avoided looking at the maple tree as they passed it. If this wizard knew about Icaros’s death, he didn’t let on. However, Lorth was glad that snow had covered the grave in the night—and that he had buried the Osprey’s cloak he had stolen.

  Chapter 6

  Shade of Solitude: I am alone.

  As the hunter rode with his armed escort away from his childhood home, he settled into a deeper part of his mind, slipping in and out of the sudden, crushing darkness on his heart as he realized Icaros was gone. He had been thinking of the wizard for so long, he no longer knew the difference between the images in his mind and the reality of what had happened.

  They rode for several hours before the Raven’s enchantment faded from the surroundings. Sunlight glittered on the snow piled in smooth drifts against trunks and stones, cast cool blue shadows and warmed the high boughs, causing tufts to loosen and drift through the trees in sparkling clouds. The mountains glimmered white beneath the sky. Passing clouds enshrouded the tops of crags, and distant squalls obscured the valleys.

  The wizard rode with ease, though the alertness in his bearing was not lost on Lorth. He knew the look and feel of it. The wizard knew of everything ahead and behind them, above and below; he was on watch, and not a bird or a leaf fluttered by that he didn’t notice. Clearly, he knew every inch of this land, in every season. He knew it the way animals knew it.

  No one said anything. Standard procedure: Lorth was a prisoner, and a dangerous one. They would question him in Eusiron, and wouldn’t risk revealing anything to him now. In silence broken only by the sounds of horses, birds and wind in the trees, Lorth went deeper, until his instincts took over.

  The sun casts shadows.

  The energy of the forest bowed with grace to the season change. In the spaces, the veins in leaves, the cracks in stones and the ridges in the bark of trees, darkness turned. Icaros is gone. The realization hit Lorth again and again, rising from his thoughts with a shock, a sword in the gut, a brutal awakening. Crushed by the emptiness and needing to fill it with something, anything, he unleashed his mind into a brilliant array of lines Icaros had called fiorloc, which in Aenspeak meant “spider web.” The hunter basked in the warm light of nature’s consciousness, as Freya moved powerfully beneath him.

  Almost at once, beyond the vibration of the woodlands, he perceived a shimmering force the likes of which he had never felt before. A watch-web?

  He doubled over with a cry as a shock of energy hit him between the eyes. Freya spooked and danced to the side, unseating him. He hit the snow with a jolt that knocked the breath out of his chest. As he rolled over, gasping for air and shaking his head to clear the daze, he looked up to see the Raven towering over him, mounted and gazing down with a dreadful expression of astonishment.

  In the woods beyond, Cael shouted as he attempted to bring Freya to hand. The wizard whirled around and uttered a rough string of words in Aenspeak that caused an immediate, eerie calmness to descend over the horses. Cael brought Freya to him without a fight.

  “Get up,” he said to Lorth, taking the mare’s bridle in his fist.

  Lorth rose clumsily to his feet, brushed the snow from his limbs and mounted, breathing heavily. Weakness washed over him, and a whining, buzzing sensation pounded in his forehead, between his eyes.

  The wizard drew close, his jaw flexing and his sea-colored eyes dark. “Whatever you are doing in this land, with a stolen horse, stolen weapons and the blood of two Ravens on your hands, you’re in no position to pit your powers against mine, however you acquired them. Try that again and we’ll bring your body to Eusiron without you in it. Understood?”

  Cael came up behind them. The warrior sat on his horse with the calmness of a mountain range, one brow lifted and a faint smile curled on his mouth.

  Lorth turned to the wizard with a breath. There was no point in defending himself, not now. The blood of two Ravens. For the wizard to accuse Lorth of this meant two things: he had already known about Icaros’s death; and he had spoken to someone in Os—probably the Osprey—and learned that Lorth was wanted for murdering Roarin.

  “Understood,” the hunter answered.

  As the Raven turned his mount and moved into the forest, the hunter retreated into the void like a wounded wolf and stayed there.

  No death is mine, whispered the Shade of Attachment.

  ~ * ~

  Late in the afternoon, the company emerged into a glade that adjoined the Roar Pass Road, a wide path beneath a brow of tumbled boulders rising a hundred feet into the face of a ridge. The road wound through the mountains all the way to Alil, in the east. While less hospitable than the Wolf River Road in places, it made traveling through these mountains possible, especially in winter. The Roar Pass was built centuries ago by an ancient clan called the Maelgwn, a strong, quiet, black-haired race for whom the rigors of stone, heights and cold held little discomfort. For generations, these elusive men and women had maintained this road without a care for who used it or why. Icaros had once said that the Maelgwn were the beloved children of Eusiron, the god who built the palace and gave life to the lands of this region.

  Hours passed as they climbed higher. The terrain became steep and rocky, thick with ancient trees and hollows, mossy streams, brushy clearings and towering outcroppings. Beyond the edge of the road, the low places in the forest deepened into shadow. They rode until the sun dropped below the hills. When only a peach and purplish glow defined the black lines of the crags to the west, the wizard finally called a halt.

  Below, through a clear opening in the snowy brush, lay the Wolf River Road. In the distance, the pale towers of Eusiron twinkled through the trees. The palace sat on a pinnacle that plunged five hundred feet into the Wolf River on one side. The Starfilon River flowed in a fury from the Frostwhisper Mountains in the northeast, and formed a network of reservoirs, waterfalls and streams that fed the palace from beneath before it joined the Wolf on the western side.

  The wizard rode down the embankment in a pounding spray of scree and snowy brush. Lorth and Cael followed him. When they reached the road, the wizard dismounted. He put his nose to the wind and hooted like an owl, once, twice. Several moments passed before a dark-haired man appeared above, in the trees. He came down with animal grace, strode to the wizard and pressed his fist to his heart with a bowed head. They spoke together in low tones. Cael remained mounted, on watch, his steely gaze scanning the forest around.

  The dark-haired warrior took the wizard’s horse and mounted. The horses moved about in agitation, their breath clouding the frosty air. With great reluctance, Lorth slid off Freya and leaned against her. Hunger tore at his gut and limbs like a pack of wolves.

  The wizard approached and said something in Aenspeak that Lorth didn’t understand, touched Freya and looped the reins over her head without trouble. The dark-haired warrior drew near and held out his hand. He took the mare, and in a whirl of hooves, cloaks and snow, he rode north, leaving the hunter standing in the cold to watch the last thing he cared about vanish into the shadows.

  Nodding to Eaglin, Cael rode after the horses.

  “Follow me,” the wizard said. He crossed the road, muttered something strange and slipped over the bank. Lorth’s heart skipped a beat as he realized where they were going. South side of the palace, west of the road. Eusiron’s Haunt. This madman was taking him into the palace through Eusiron’s Haunt! He glanced up the road once more before following.

  They picked their way down for a time, until they reached a steep, crumbling stair that twisted into the forest like a serpent’s spine. Snow and ice covered the stones; they would have been treacherous even in bright light, let alone dusk. Lorth had to extend his inner senses to find his footing. A faint wind blew, and the river sang in the mountain cleft.

  As a young warrior in training, Lorth had never entered Eusiron by any other route than the High Pass. He had once believed the stories of dangers on other routes into the palace were just that—stories designed to frighten young m
en with swords from venturing off the beaten path—until his blademaster, Efar, had told him about the Haunt.

  As they entered the towering, tangled forest that stretched across the southern side of Eusiron, Lorth felt a chill on his spine that had nothing to do with the cold. All forests were strange at dusk, when shadows came alive in the transition between day and night. The hunter had become those shadows enough times to recognize them. But something else lived here. He didn’t sense menacing threats like predators or archers, apparitions or wizardry. This was more insidious, because it didn’t threaten one’s sense of safety at the physical level; it threatened one’s sense of existence.

  According to Efar, the presence of Eusiron himself pervaded this place, defied the mortal mind and made one question one’s perceptions. As Lorth walked, the features of the landscape appeared and disappeared as he perceived them, as if his attention altered everything it touched from the deepest level, beyond the structures that created the natural sense of consistent reality inherent in mortal beings.

  In this forest, he could have seen a ghost, a wolf or a dragon. He could have seen something as fearsome as a sioros, an immortal man-shaped predator with tall black wings, fangs and no tolerance whatsoever for anything intruding on its territory. He had heard stories of things like that. Efar had told him that whatever one saw here depended on who that person was and with what purpose. Had his intentions been different—hostile, for example—the forest might have changed not only in appearance, but also in what lived here. It wouldn’t change in a linear sense, as if monsters or armies suddenly flooded from the trees. Time-space itself would change. From one moment to the next, a forest slightly unnerving would become, from the beginning of time, a forest patrolled by sioros, dragons and Maern knew what else. The ancient oak tree that moved from one side of the path to the other would become a monster with its own history, intentions and no one to stop it, as most likely no palace would tower above the tops of the trees, with an army inside to come to the rescue.

  Ahead, the black-cloaked wizard walked as if he had lived here all his life. He could have been a being from a tale, the way he moved—like a god, fluid and without mortal sense interrupting his passage. He didn’t bother to see if his prisoner still followed.

  Until Lorth stopped.

  Deep in the trees shone a strange, comforting light. As Lorth stared, entranced, the light grew until it became warmth in his limbs and peace in his heart, unlikely as that seemed to him. He caught his breath as it appeared on one side of the path, a shining warrior clad in flawless black, with a shroud-white cloak, hair the color of crows and eyes as gray as a mountain crag. Eusiron? Lorth dropped slowly to his knees as his wits scattered to emotions he had never felt and didn’t understand.

  “Remember the Shade of Blood,” the god said. Then he vanished, leaving behind a strong sensation that he had never been there at all.

  Lorth rose slowly, blood pounding in the cuts on his chest. The Shade of Blood? Death is life. Why would—

  “You’d do well to keep moving,” the Raven said. “Men have gone mad in here.”

  The wizard stood on the path before him. Evidently, he hadn’t seen the apparition. As he turned and continued on, Lorth stumbled after him. Hunger is making me see things, he thought. But he couldn’t shake the feeling in his body, or the message he had received. Death is life. Was that supposed to be a warning?

  Night had fallen by the time the two men reached the entrance to the palace. Flaming cressets leaned out from either side of a barred opening. Carved into the ancient stone above the gate was the Eusiron standard, barely discernable for the moss. As the wizard approached, the gate screeched open before him. The sound knifed into the woods like the call of a gull.

  Lorth followed him through, and stopped at his side. Not only did he now believe every tale he had ever heard about this place, he also had enough to create a few of his own. “Why did you bring me this way?” he risked asking.

  The wizard pushed his hood back. “It’s the quickest and least observed way to your cell.” He grabbed a torch and swept into the darkness as the gate boomed shut behind them.

  ~ * ~

  Lorth awoke shivering with cold, from a dream about spiders.

  Daylight bled into the chamber where the Raven had left him the night before, without a candle, torch or a fire. Lorth got up stiffly, clutched his cloak around him and swayed on his feet, light-headed from hunger and possibly the sword wound on his chest, which had become infected. He moved slowly as he explored his new home.

  On one side of the room was a thick oak door with bars in the shapes of curling leaves. The corridor outside was indistinguishable in the shadows. In the center of the room lay a fire pit, and above it, a hole in the ceiling vanished into sooty darkness. Twining tree roots laced the walls and ceiling. Opposite the door, a row of small windows overlooked the river gorge; early morning light shone on the forested tiers of rock on the far side. Lorth leaned forward and looked down. A sheer cliff wall plummeted out of sight.

  He turned around. The room smelled like burning leaves. Aside from the rush of the river below, it was as silent as a tomb. He moved to sit by the empty fire hole. It would be his tomb if he didn’t get something to eat.

  He put his head in his hands. Some homecoming! He should have stayed in Tarth. No wizards there. One good thing about it.

  Remember the Shade of Blood, the god had said. Death is life. What did that mean? When he died here, they would throw his starved body to the ravens and wolves and everybody would be happy?

  Who had murdered Icaros? No mistaking that spider bite. Those nasty creatures didn’t live here.

  The hunter sat there until the sun crept down the drop on the western side of the gorge. Then he heard footsteps. He looked up at the bars on the door with the brooding regard of a viper as a face appeared there. It vanished. At the bottom of the door, a wooden flap moved.

  Food. Lorth got up, fetched the tray and crammed the small hunk of bread into his mouth with a gasp. It was still warm. A piece of hard cheese, an apple. Just enough to keep him alive. As he finished, he noticed the mysterious cell keeper had pushed a leather sack through. Water. Lorth drained the skin and shoved it back into the hall, then leaned up and looked out the bars. “Hai!” he shouted. “How about some wood for a fire?”

  No response. The hunter let out his breath and returned to his vigil by the pit. “Gods-forsaken Tarth,” he growled. Wizards or not, if he hadn’t stayed in that sweating jungle for so long, he would be able to handle this. Food relaxed him a little, but it didn’t shut off the cold rippling in his bones. And he was still hungry.

  After a short time, the footsteps returned. The flap opened, and two short, heavy branches came through. Lorth stared at them, then at the grate. He considered shouting for healing dressings and salves—but he kept that, not wanting to invite more questions.

  He got up and retrieved his wood, and tossed it into the pit. He had nothing to light it with. He sat down, ground his teeth and turned inward.

  The earth keeps secrets.

  Inhale—ignore the festering cut—exhale. Fire. What he would do to feel the sun and warmth of a horse beneath him. Fire. Life force, burning, reaching, changing. The swing of a blade. Wrath. Lust. Fire... His mind spread out into the essence of fire, the most structured of the elements, burning in the hearths, stoves, cressets, torches and candles of the palace. Warmth grew in the pit of his belly, spreading outward.

  He thought of Leaf, standing by the door with a firelit tear sparkling on her cheek. You don’t want me?

  “Teine!” he hissed. The wood by his feet burst into flames, leaping hungrily for the maw above. Lorth relaxed, stretched out and closed his eyes. That ought to get me some attention.

  He had drifted into a doze when a booming sound startled him awake. He rolled up as the door exploded open and wind rushed into the cell, stirring up dust and tearing sparks from the coals of his fire. Lorth hit the floor as something shattered one of t
he windows.

  He looked up from beneath his arm to see the Raven standing in the doorway. The air crackled with wrath, and shadows of blue and green moved around him like currents in a pool. “You’re coming with me,” he said.

  Lorth got to his feet. “How long were you planning to leave me in here? I didn’t lie to you about being summoned. I want to see the Mistress—”

  As swiftly as a striking snake, the wizard came forward, drew a sword and leveled the tip at Lorth’s throat. His breath stopped as he felt the thin, cold sliver of a cut. He gazed down the length of the blade, a stunning, graceful thing engraved with intricate patterns similar to the ones on the sword Efar had given him.

  “Summoned or not,” the wizard said, his eyes dark as a grave, “a river of blood flows in your wake. As a Master of the Eye, I am bound to either answer for or condemn your use of magic.” He stepped back and gestured to the doorway. “I’m going with the latter. Now march.”

  After a brief hesitation during which he considered doing something ridiculously rash, the hunter strode for the door. Six men crowded the narrow passage outside, blades drawn. High Guard. Cael and Regin were among them. Their expressions and the energy around their bodies made it clear that they would contain him with little or no encouragement.

  As the company escorted him down the hall, Lorth glared at the Raven’s back and asked, “Where are you taking me?”

  “Shut up,” said Cael behind him.

  The presence of the High Guard told him one thing: this was not about magic. Did this black-hearted Raven think Lorth was after the Mistress of Eusiron? The heart of Ostarin, loved and revered the land over, many believed she was a goddess, the Old One in flesh. In this land, threatening her was a worse offense than murdering wizards.

  His captors led him through darkness until they reached a torch on the wall, which one of them took. The wizard moved in the shadows ahead, at one with the dark. After a time, they began to ascend from the depths. Lorth didn’t recognize these halls; as a young warrior, he had lived on the eastern side, in the Hall of Thorns, which held the warriors’ quarters and training yards. He would no more have ventured into other parts of the castle than he would have gone for a stroll in Eusiron’s Haunt.