Sentinelspire c-4

by Mark Sehestedt

  Chereth and Berun's last journey together five years ago had taken them into the depths of the Ganathwood, whose long-dead inhabitants shared a common heritage with the ancient elves of the Yuirwood. They had found what they sought and-were leaving, were in fact nearing the edges of the wood, when they came upon a large band of marauders, made up mostly of escaped slaves from Thay and Mulhorand who had fled to the Ganathwood and gone savage. The band had raided some of the outlying villages of Murghom, stealing supplies and taking captives. They were bloodied and tired, yet they pushed themselves to reach the shelter of the wood. Chereth and Berun hit them hard.

  The fight had been short but brutal, the few surviving marauders taking to the woods in different directions. But Chereth and Berun had underestimated the raiders' bloodlust. As the fight turned against them, they'd killed their captives rather than see them freed. Chereth and Berun had only managed to rescue one, a young boy.

  "How is he?" Chereth asked.

  "Frightened," said Berun. "Looks starving but he won't eat. I barely got him to swallow a mouthful of water. He has the look of a hare before the hawk's talons strike."

  "And he fears we are hawks?"

  Berun considered a moment. "I don't know that he's thinking even that much."

  "Do what you can for him."

  Berun heard the farewell in the statement. "Master Chereth?"

  The old half-elf looked away. "I must leave you now, my son.

  "Wh-what? Why?"

  "I found what I sought in the Ganathwood. The final branch of a tree that I have long watched grow. Now that I have it, I must go."

  "Go where?"

  "To fell the tree."

  "Have I failed you in some way, Master?"

  Chereth turned back to him. "No, my son. You have surpassed all my hopes for you. Some days I wish you were truly the son of my body as well as my teaching."

  "My place is with you, Master."

  "Not this time. Not this fight. Tend the slain captives here. Leave the dead raiders for the wolves. Malar must have his offering as well as our Lord Silvanus. Then take care of the boy. Most of all, you must care for this."

  Chereth reached inside his shirt and pulled out a necklace braided from thin strips of leather. Fastened on the end was a medallion of sorts, a mass of hardened wood and vine in a twisting pattern that encased three small stones, each just a shade off amber. The bits of wood and vine were dark, obviously ancient and worn, yet they seemed to possess a strange vitality, almost as if they were veins pulsing with life from the three stones within.

  "Erael'len,"said Chereth.

  "The Three Hearts," said Berun, translating. "But Master, you are its sworn guardian."

  "Yes. I swore to keep it safe. Where I now go, I cannot keep that oath. But you can."

  "But Master, you've only begun to teach me its secrets."

  "And you have done well. You must continue now on your own. Guard Erael'len with your life." Chereth looked away, and when he spoke again, Berun heard an odd note in his voice. "Do what you can for the boy. He has the look of one of the Murghom. Head east and ask among the ataman. See if you can find a family for him. Leave word whenever you stop. I'll find you when I am done, if I can."

  Berun looked around. Swarms of flies buzzed around the dead, alighting on eyes open to nothingness and clogging wounds where the blood already seemed more black than red. The boy sat still, hugging his knees, his eyes clenched shut.

  "When will that be, Master? When will you be done?"

  "I do not know. You must promise me one thing, Berun."

  "What?"

  "Do not search for me. No matter what you hear." Chereth was staring eastward. "If word does not come directly from me, you must… let me go."

  Berun considered this, and he wondered what had held his master's attention in the east. That way lay the Mountains of Copper, the spider-haunted Khopet-Dag, the great Shalhoond, and beyond that Sentinelspire. That was it.

  "Master," he said. "This has to do with… with Kheil, doesn't it? Kheil and the Old Man of the Mountain."

  The tears were gone from Chereth's eyes now, and his gaze was hard. "You must promise me, Berun."

  Berun closed his eyes, swallowed, and managed a rasp. "Kheil is dead, you know."

  "Even the dead can be raised," said Chereth. "You of all people should know this. Now promise me that you will do as I say. Swear it."

  "I swear it, Master."

  Chereth extended his staff and turned it. Near the end was a tangled knot of thorns, still green and hale. "Swear it in blood, my son."

  Berun grasped the thorns and squeezed until he felt them bite his palm and fingers, then he opened his hand to show the blood pooling there. "I swear I will not come after you," he said. "Save on your word alone. By my blood upon thorn, I swear it."

  Crouched amongst the tall grasses and thin trees, Berun looked down upon his hand. The scars from that oath had long since healed-he had worn off many calluses in the years since-but the oath held him still.

  He had sworn blood upon thorn not to seek his old master, save on Chereth's word alone. And that word had never come. But what now? He had never sought Kheil's old paths. But now it seemed someone else had. They'd come to him. It was flee or fight. Hunt or be hunted.

  Berun strung his bow-a long curve of yew, runes burned the entire length of the wood-and chose a special arrow, the one whose sharp steel head had three tiny holes near the shaft, threaded through with tiny bits of blue hemlock. Not fresh. It had been two days since he'd threaded the fibers, but they'd still do the trick if it came to that. Berun nocked the arrow and took up the trail.

  Time to hunt.

  Chapter Three

  The tracks led into the deep wood, where the trees grew close, branches from dozens of trees tangling with their neighbors as they fought for the sunlight. Down in the valleys and along the hillsides, the ground was a solid mass of hundreds, perhaps thousands of years of dead leaves, shattered twigs, and trees rotted back to soil.

  Berun slowed, proceeding at a careful crouch. The sun had begun its long arc toward the horizon, and the bits of sky that managed to peek through the canopy of leaves and branches had grown pale, thickening the shadows beneath the trees. The tracks were very fresh here-the top layers of leaf-fall were shredded and overturned to reveal the moist humus beneath. If the tiger was growing hungry again, this would be the time of day she'd hunt. The lizard, still riding Berun's shoulder, sensed his master's tension. Berun felt the tiny claws tighten, digging through his shirt and pricking his skin.

  "Easy, Perch," he whispered. The lizard flicked his tongue, tickling Berun's ear.

  Part of Berun's gift as a disciple of the Oak Father was a unique link to the lizard-a sort of bonding. Perch had the intellect and limited reasoning of his kind, but the Oak Father had blessed the pair with a special connection. Even though Perch's brain could not form words, the comrades had shared the bond so long that Berun had learned to interpret the lizard's will almost as clearly as words in his mind.

  But now, the only sensations coming through were unease and inquisitiveness. The bond went both ways, and Berun's fear was leaking through to Perch. What-what-what? What-scared-what? Where-what-scared?

  Berun did his best to comfort Perch. Easy. Watch and watch. Taste the air. Watch for danger.

  The land rose as the forest thickened around the broken foothills of the Khopet-Dag. The trees were taller, older- some so massive that Berun couldn't fathom how the winter storms hadn't toppled them. He began to see cobwebs thickening the hollow remains of old logs. Small leaf spiders, mostly. Their larger, more dangerous cousins generally kept to the mountains and higher foothills.

  The tracks paralleled a small stream, and Berun followed the trail uphill. Water coursing over thousands of stones drowned out most other sounds, so Berun was very close when he heard-it-a growl, so low that it hit his gut more than his ears. He froze. The scream that followed, high and harsh, broke through the gurgle of the stream. A ma
n's scream.

  Berun climbed a steep incline of rock broken by tufts of grass and a few bushes with branches tough as iron bands. He pushed his way through a thick cobweb and came to a level clearing about halfway up the hill. The stream filled a small, shallow pool that fed two smaller streams. The smaller rivulet spilled into the stream he had been following. The other fell over the opposite side of the hill.

  Crouching amidst the brush, Berun wiped spider silk from his face. The growl hit him again, louder this time. It reverberated in both his ears and the spot between stomach and heart that was the first to flutter when fear hit. Another shout followed-definitely from the ravine. Perch, still riding Berun's shoulder, chattered, and again his claws flexed.

  Berun splashed through the pool and then crouched behind a boulder that formed the lip of the waterfall. Holding his bow out of view, he peeked over the edge.

  The ravine was not wide-the tiger probably could have jumped across-but it was steep. The constant fall of water had washed away nearly all the soil, leaving a sheer wall of slick rock sloping some twenty feet down. The drum of the water as it hit told Berun the pond below was likely deep. The pool drained into the open end of the ravine that broke the hillside.

  Standing on the dozen or so feet of opposite shore, his back to the rock wall, was a man. Not one of the locals, by his looks. His round eyes and the paleness of his skin painted him a westerner. His clothes were ragged and torn. His hands and face bore many tiny scratches-probably from scrabbling through the thick brush-and blood smeared a good portion of his skin. In trembling hands he held a spear, and he kept the steel point low, between him and the massive steppe tiger.

  She was a beautiful beast. Her tawny coat was streaked by dusky stripes that faded into a uniform gold along her underbelly. Familiarity hit Berun, a feeling like fear. The fine lines of red ochre painted in intricate designs along the top of her head and down each flank gave her away.

  "Taaki," Berun whispered. His throat caught at the noise, but he remembered that the sound of the waterfall would probably drown out normal speech. He'd have to shout to be heard down there.

  The steppe tiger crouched, her muscles taut and prepared to spring, kept at bay only by that sharp steel barb.

  Berun swallowed, considering. If Taaki was here…

  Maybe she was alone now. Maybe that explained why she was roaming the Amber Steppes and the outer Shalhoond, preying on sheep and shepherds. Maybe No. That might have been a hope had Berun not found the boot print with the letters scratched into the soil. Those letters-Kheil-meant any such hope was in vain.

  He looked at his arrow, at the tiny bit of blue hemlock fiber twined through the steel tip. He knew he'd have to hit the tiger with three such arrows to take her down. Unless he could get one shaft into her heart, and from this vantage point, that was almost impossible, even for him. If he hit her from here, the poison would take time to work through her body. It would burn, set her heart to racing, and that would only drive her mad with fear and pain. Steel-tipped spears and poisoned arrows would not be able to stop her then. The blue hemlock would kill her, yes, but not before she killed the man with the spear and then turned to attack Berun.

  Berun took his hand off his arrow, nocked tightly against the bowstring, and reached up to the lizard on his shoulder. "Time to go to work, Perch," he said.

  The lizard climbed onto the back of his hand and hissed, his jaws distending as he saw the tiger below.

  Berun held out his arm, pointing the lizard at the tiger, and said, "Drassit. Tochganneth!" And through their bond-Strike and lead” her away. Strike-strike!

  The lizard leaped and spread his limbs, the thick membrane between his hind and forelegs and the first third of his tail spreading to catch the air. Perch couldn't fly like a bird, but he could glide like some of the squirrels of the Yuirwood, and his light frame helped him to ride the air with a feral grace. He glided almost to the opposite wall of the ravine before turning in a tight spiral, then turned again before the waterfall could take him. Two thirds of the way down, the lizard aimed for the tiger's head and folded his legs. The winglike membranes collapsed and the lizard's claws pointed down, sharp as needles.

  Perch hit the tiger just where the base of her skull met neck and shoulders, where the fur was thick but the skin soft.

  The tiger let loose a teeth-rattling roar and leaped backward. Berun knew how thick the fur was there, and the tiger was startled, not hurt. As she shook her head to dislodge the lizard, Perch leaped, using the tiger's own momentum to propel him onto the rocks. The tiger resumed her crouch, her fangs bared, her gaze flitting between the spearman and the lizard.

  Perch stood on a rock, balancing on the base of his tail, and hissed at the tiger. Enraged, the tiger leaped for him but before she struck Perch was gone, skittering away amongst the rocks. She scrambled after him, reminding Berun of a stable cat hunting a mouse through the straw. But Perch was a treeclaw lizard of the deep Khopet-Dag. He and his kind hunted spiders-some that were as big as a man. Small as he was, Perch possessed extreme quickness and cunning". Amid the cracks and crevices of the rocks, the tiger could not catch him. She came close twice, her claws coming down an instant after the lizard scampered away.

  The tiger gave up and turned back to the spearman, but she'd gone no more than a few steps before Perch leaped on her rump and sank in his claws, one quick squeeze, then jumped away again. Snarling, the tiger turned and bounded after him. Perch skittered away, a small brownish streak disappearing into the brush where the stream fell in a series of falls down the valley. The tiger followed.

  Berun waited until the sounds of the chase faded and he could see no more trace of the huge beast trampling through the brush. He looked down at the spearman, who was staring after the tiger, his eyes wide as coins and his mouth agape. Berun stood and called down, "Hey!"

  The spearman started and looked up, bringing his spear around to point at Berun.

  "You hurt?" said Berun.

  The man started at the sound of Berun's voice but said nothing.

  Berun repeated the question in Chondathan, Damaran, and Tuigan. Still nothing. The man clenched his jaw shut, and the hands that held the spear began shaking violently.

  Berun looked down the opening of the ravine. No sign of the tiger or Perch. Not even rustling brush. The sound of the waterfall crushed any hope of hearing them. He'd have to be quick.

  Holding bow and arrow in one hand, Berun climbed down into the ravine. Plenty of rocks jutted from the cliff, but most were worn smooth by years of falling water, and a fine spray made them slippery. Berun nearly fell twice. After the second near-miss he jumped the final five feet or so, landing with a splash. Though he hit near the edge of the pool, it was deep, and he sank well past his midriff. The pull of the water falling down the ravine was surprisingly strong, and Berun had to fight to cross to the other side.

  The spearman hadn't moved, but he kept the point of his weapon trained on Berun. The man's hands no longer trembled, and some of the tension seemed to have left him. An odd spark lit his eyes, and Berun hesitated at the edge of the pool. A warning went off at the base of his skull.

  Dripping, Berun stood at the pool's edge, two spear lengths away from the man, and took a long look. Closer, he could see that none of the man's injuries were serious. Scratches only. The blood covering him was in thin streaks, as if it had been smeared, spreading it as far as possible. Closer up, even in the dim light, Berun could see that not all of it was blood. Around his face, much of it was ochre, dampened by water-and by the scent he exuded, probably reddened with berries.

  "You should leave," said Berun, his right hand tightening the arrow on his bowstring. "The tiger won't be gone long."

  The man straightened, still cautious, ready, but obviously relaxing. A slight smile curved his lips. "No," he said. "She will not."

  "What is this?"

  The man motioned to the ground with his spear. "Put that bow down. Nice and slow."

  In one fluid
motion Berun pivoted, facing the man sideways to present a narrow target, and brought the bowstring to his cheek. The steel head of the arrow aimed at the man's torso.

  "Easy!" said the man, his eyes widening as he took a quick step back. He brought the spear up, but the look in his eyes said he knew it a futile gesture.

  "I save your life and you want to rob me?"

  "That isn't how this is!"

  "I'm not worth dying over. The poorest shepherd on the steppe has more gold in his croft than I have on me. This bow is the only thing of value I own."

  "And a fine weapon it is!" said a voice from above.

  Keeping the arrow aimed at the spearman, Berun risked a quick glance up at the rocks. Kneeling on the very boulder from where he had watched the tiger was a massive shape silhouetted by the dying blue of the sky. He knew that voice, and even as he studied the silhouette, other shapes joined it-one man to the right and two to the left. Last of all, the massive form of the steppe tiger joined the group. Berun knew who was above him.

  The silhouette stood and sidestepped so that a shaft of sunlight, orange as an ember in the evening dim, fell on him. He was half-orc, nearly seven feet of grayish skin over knotted muscle, his coarse black hair falling in a series of braids over his shoulders and down his back. Two incisors, one yellow and one silver, protruded from his bottom lip. Tattoos that suggested thorned vines decorated his arms and face. A bone-handled knife was sheathed at his waist, and the pommel of a sword protruded above one shoulder.

  "Lower the bow," said the half-orc. "We're here to talk, not fight."