The Eye of the Hunter

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “Fear not, love,” said Gwylly, his voice filled with a bravado that he did not feel. “Once we know it, this Grimwall, it’ll not be so sinister.”

  Faeril turned about and faced the mountains once more, examining them, trying to see them for what they were, trying to gain knowledge and thereby master her fear.

  Onward ran the dogs, slowly drawing closer to this place of danger, where Spawn were said to dwell.

  * * *

  In mid-morn they stopped to stretch their legs and rest the dogs, giving each animal more water. Too, they cared for other needs, relieving themselves as necessary. Shortly, however, they set off once more, running through cold sunlight, long shadows trailing behind.

  And this was their pattern throughout the frigid day: the dogs trotting at a goodly clip, hauling sleds and passengers across the whiteness for an hour or two, then resting for long, airy minutes, while the sledmasters gave the team more water.

  At one of the stops they took a meal of jerky and crue, but they did not stay longer than necessary, getting underway as soon as they could.

  And all the while, the Grimwall loomed closer, rearing up into the sky.

  * * *

  They stopped at last in the shadow of the range, cast northeastward beyond seeing by the setting Sun, for B’arr would not run the dogs in the darkness, that time between the coming of the night and the rising of the Moon.

  This time they camped in a small swale, a shallow hollow providing scant shelter from the chill air breathing down from the Grimwall. This night the dogs did not get a ration of salmon, for they were fed only every other day.

  It was a cold camp and dark, but for the moonlight and starshine, there being nothing spare with which to make a fire. Oh, they had brought ren møkk with them, but it would be used to melt water on the morn, water for dog and Man and Elf and Warrow alike.

  And once again the Eye of the Hunter rode the darktide up into the sky, its long glowing tail streaming out behind, while now and again the land below shuddered and shivered and quaked.

  * * *

  Once more the predawn hours found Gwylly and Faeril lugging waterskins out to the sledmasters. Sensing the Warrows coming, eagerly the dogs got up from the burrows they had twisted in the snow and shook ice crystals from their fur, a fur so efficient that no heat escaped to melt the beds they slept in.

  After a cold breakfast, again the teams began their trek toward the Grimwall, now so close that Faeril felt as if she could reach out and touch the dark mass.

  ’Strak! Strak!” called the sledmasters, and the dogs hewed straightly to the course, Gwylly and Faeril, Riatha and Aravan, borne onward, across a snow gone silver grey in the low, glancing light of the Moon. Through the platinum beams they glided, and finally the late dawn lightened the skies. At last the Sun rose, though still they could not see it, travelling as they were in the shadow of the range.

  On toward the mountains they ran, straight toward the rearing walls of rock and snow, occasionally the earth shuddering beneath them, quaking in the early day. High above now loomed the Grimwall, and it seemed as if the sledmasters were aiming to drive straight into the walls of granite. But at last, at the very foot of the towering face of sheer stone, they came to a wide river, flat, frozen, the wind-scoured ice dark, grey, its surface raddled with cracks.

  “Venstre!” called the sledmasters, and leftward they turned along this course, running atop the grey ice and alongside the massive flank, black with shadow.

  An hour or so they ran, but of a sudden, “Stanna!” cried B’arr, stepping down on the footboard mounted between the runners at the back, the dragbrake cleats pressing into the ice, digging in, the sled gradually sliding to a halt as the dogs slowed to a trot and then to a walk and then stopped altogether, peering back and about.

  “What is it, B’arr?” asked Faeril, throwing off furs, struggling to get up and out.

  Tchuka and Ruluk brought their own sleds to a stop alongside, yet some distance away, maintaining a space between each of the teams, avoiding the risk of a mêlée for dominance between spans.

  Winning free of the sled basket, Faeril stood and repeated her question. “What is it, B’arr? What’s wrong?”

  The sledmaster pointed at the ice, and where he pointed, a small spot was pink. “Blood.”

  “Blöd!” he called out to Tchuka and Ruluk. “Sørge for din spans!”

  B’arr turned to Faeril, Gwylly now at her side. “I tell them to look at dogs. Ice cut feet.”

  The sledmaster began examining each dog in turn until he found two with pads slashed, cut by the sharp-edged cracks in the ice. He walked back to the sled and took up a bag, inside of which were—“Booties!” cried Faeril, laughing in spite of her concern when she saw what B’arr was doing. “Dog booties.”

  “Renhud,” grunted B’arr, smiling up at Faeril. He slipped the deerskin booties onto the feet of each patiently standing dog and pulled the drawstrings firm, tying them in place. “Protect from cut. Dogs no like, but wear while run.”

  Faeril squatted beside B’arr. The damman ruffled the fur of the dog, Kano, fending off its licks. “But you will bandage them up when we stop for the night, won’t you?”

  B’arr pulled another bootie onto the waiting dog’s left hind foot. “No, Mygga. Dog no like. Bite bandage off. Lick cut, like lick Mygga face. Lick clean. Make well.”

  Then B’arr laughed as Kano took another lap at Faeril and again the damman fended him off. “Let Kano lick your face, little one; if you sick, he not make you well, but he make you feel better.” Again B’arr laughed, and Faeril smiled.

  Off to the side, Gwylly stooped and examined one of the cracks jagging through the frozen river. In that moment the ground shuddered, and then he knew what caused the riven ice. “Sharp,” he exclaimed, drawing his thumb along the edge. “But I say, B’arr, why is the ice so grey? I mean, it looks as if it’s frozen milk—milk gone bad with dirt, that is.”

  B’arr glanced over at the wee one and grinned. “You see good with Mygga eyes. It jokel melk—glacier milk, in tongue you speak.”

  As he tied the last bootie on Kano, the dog now licking at the sledmaster’s face, B’arr pointed eastward with his chin in the direction they were travelling. “Great jokel ahead. Ice fall down from above. Ice cloudy. Full of jokel melk. Melt in summer. Make river. River run dark. Things grow good in jokel water, in jokel melk.

  “But river get hard in winter. Land shake. River crack. River break. Make knife edge all over. Cut dog feet. What she-Mygga name bootie we call sokk. Keep dog feet from cut on ice.”

  Strolling over to the Warrows, Aravan arrived in time to hear B’arr’s words. “Glacier milk.” he murmured. “Silt-laden water. A river full of powdered stone, ground from the Grimwall itself by the ponderous ice of the Great North Glacier. And the land that drinks from this chill stream becomes rich soil. Plants and flowers and green growing grass burst forth from the bordering earth and reach up for the Sun in the long summer days.”

  Gwylly looked again at the grey ice, and then at the snow-laden riverbank, barren in winter, and finally at the Grimwall looming above, and he wondered how something as foreboding as this dark, ominous range could engender fertility in an ice-cold waste.

  The sledmasters soon had their teams ready to travel again, ren-hide booties on all the dogs, and once more they set out eastward, wending along the base of the towering Grimwall range.

  On they ran, following the curve of the glacier river, frozen in late winter’s grasp. And as they rounded a bend, Faeril gasped, for in the distance she saw great tumbled-down blocks of shattered ice piled in a gargantuan jumble, ramping in a massive heap upward, lying against an ice-clad wall of black granite. And high above, two thousand or so feet up the sheer stone, the frozen wall of the Great North Glacier loomed white and deadly, two or three miles wide or more, and massive, an enormous frozen river, itself hundreds of feet high, poised to cascade downward.

  Even as they looked, a huge section of the overhan
g broke away, the mass of ice falling silently for what seemed an eternity, to smash into the miles-wide ramp below. And seconds later there came a rending, a riving, a splitting krrack! the sound of the ice calving away just then reaching their ears, followed eventually by a thunderous whoom! of the mass whelming down.

  And still the face of the glacier loomed above, seemingly undiminished by the gigantic fall.

  Outward swung B’arr, driving the dogs on a course that would safely take them past this deadly place, Tchuka and Ruluk coming after.

  An hour or so they travelled along this arc, and finally the glacier and ice fall stood off to their right. Yet onward they ran for another hour, skirting out beyond the danger to come to a broad gorge a mile or two beyond the far edge.

  Again the earth trembled, and afterward came the echoes of ice rending and shattering in the distance behind.

  “Høyre! Høyre!” called B’arr, and the dogs swung to the right in response, entering the mouth of the wide, shadowed defile.

  Before them, Gwylly and Faeril could see a sheer-walled canyon twisting up into the interior of the Grimwall, its end beyond seeing, somewhere past a wrenching curve. A mile or more apart stood vertical bluffs to either side, their tops some two or three thousand feet above, crevices and crags and ledges marring the perpendicular stone. Snow and ice clad the walls, where they could gain a foothold. Scrub pine grew there as well, twisted and gnarled by the wind. Frozen snow lay on the rising ravine floor—how thick, the Warrows could not say.

  Into this slot B’arr drove the dogs, aiming for a place known to Riatha and told to B’arr, a place where they could safely make their way up and to the glacier, to come to “the light of the Bear,” or so she deemed.

  “Strak! Strak!” called B’arr, now telling Shlee to follow, the course, the command echoed by the following sledmasters as into the canyon they ran.

  Up a gradual slope they fared, coming to the distant turn, only to find another turn before them. And another after, and more, as they wrenched and twisted deeper into the mountains.

  The daytide ebbed, and shadows clustered thickly in the sheer-walled slot. And the farther they ran, the slower went the teams, despite the sledmasters’ urgings.

  “Is it the slope?” called Faeril to B’arr. “Do the dogs tire?”

  “No, little Mygga,” responded the sledmaster. “Dog no want to come into this place.”

  Another mile or two they ran, and still the dogs slowed. And then without command, Shlee turned the full team and stopped, refusing to go any farther.

  Into Gwylly’s mind sprang the image of Black refusing to go into one of the “closed” places in the Weiunwood. Black had not seemed to fear the place, but simply to respect it instead.

  Yet when Gwylly looked at Shlee, he saw that although the lead dog was not cowering, still his hackles were raised, and he seemed to be saying, Bad! Place bad!

  Gwylly twisted about and saw that Laska and Garr had also turned their spans and would run this way no more.

  “B’arr?” Faeril’s unspoken question seemed to hang or the cold air.

  “Shlee know, little one. Trust Shlee. He know.” B’arr turned and called to Tchuka and Ruluk. “Ikke mer. Vi vende tilbake.”

  Turning once more to the Warrows, the sledmaster’s bronze features reflected the worry he felt. “We go back You come. Not safe. Shlee know. Laska know. Garr know. All dog know. Trust dog. All know.”

  Riatha and Aravan dismounted from their sleds and trudged across the snow to come to B’arr’s side.

  Faeril struggled out of the fur blankets and stepped from the sled basket. “B’arr says that we must turn back.” Her face was stricken with uncertainty. Gwylly stepped free and put his arm about her.

  B’arr looked Riatha in the eye. “Shlee know, Infé. Shlee know. This bad place.”

  Riatha sighed. “I know, Sledmaster, what the dogs deem. Yet we must go on.”

  B’arr turned to Aravan. “Anfé, tell Infé she must turn back. All must go from this bad place. All dog, all Alute, all Mygga, all Fé. Place vond…evil. Dog know!”

  Aravan shrugged. “We have no choice, Sledmaster. Our way lies yon.” Aravan pointed up into the defile.

  Riatha turned to the Waerlinga. “Once again these mountains have become a place where evil dwells. I had hoped that it had not yet reached this side of the Grimwall.” Riatha looked at the dogs. “But given the actions of the dogs, of Laska and Garr and Shlee, I deem that the Spaunen or worse have now come into this region as well.”

  Faeril’s heart was hammering, and she did not trust her voice. Nevertheless, she glanced at the waning sky and hitched her bandoliers into a more comfortable position, the look on her face now resolute. “Then let us gather our things and go.”

  At a nod from Gwylly and Aravan, Riatha turned and made her way back to Tchuka’s sled, where she began to gather up her gear, as did Aravan at Ruluk’s sled, and Gwylly and Faeril at B’arr’s.

  Riatha slipped a waterskin under her coat where it would not freeze. She slung her sword in its scabbard across her back, and then shouldered the already prepared frame pack, settling it so that it did not interfere with the sword.

  Aravan also slung a waterskin under his parka, then strapped his long-knife in its thigh scabbard onto his leg. He slipped his arms through the shoulder straps of his frame pack, buckling the chest belt across. Last, he took his black-hafted, crystal-bladed spear in hand, then turned to the others.

  Gwylly’s sling was looped through his belt next to the sling-bullet pouches, and his dagger was affixed to the opposite side, and so when he slung his waterskin and shouldered his pack, he was ready to set forth.

  Faeril, too, prepared herself, waterskin and frame pack, the damman already bristling with knives crisscrossing her torso. She turned to B’arr when she was ready and held out her hands. “Oh, B’arr, do take care. We shall miss you, you know.”

  B’arr knelt down and squeezed the she-Mygga’s hands. “Already I miss you, little one. I know Mygga and Fé must go now. I worry you not safe. We come back when”—B’arr gestured to the night sky and groped for a word—“when star with tail gone. You stay safe till then, eh? Then we run happy back to Innuk, yes? Summer come, we fish.”

  Faeril managed a wistful smile and nodded and kissed the sledmaster on the cheek, then turned away.

  Gwylly, too, said good-bye to B’arr, then stepped to each of the teams and ruffled the fur of Garr and Laska and Shlee, whispering something to each, his words heard by none else.

  Aravan and Riatha bade each of the sledmasters farewell, and then all four—Riatha, Aravan, Gwylly, and Faeril—set forth up slope, heading deeper into the shadow-wrapped canyon, while the skies above grew dim. B’arr watched them go, and for a long time he did not move. And he glanced down at his bone-bladed spear and wondered what perilous game, what deadly foe, the four of them pursued, a foe so dangerous that it would require weapons of steel and silver and starlight and crystal to slay it.

  At last he looked up at the darkening skies, then signalled to Tchuka and Ruluk. As had been commanded, they would go back to the ruins two days north and wait until the strange star was gone from the skies. Then would they come back for the Mygga and Fé. Grasping his sled by the handlebar, “Hypp! Hypp!” he called, the dogs lunging ahead in response. “Venstre, Shlee, venstre!” Slowly the team wheeled leftward, until they were heading down slope. “Strak! Strak!” and down the course they fared, back the way they had come, Shlee’s span running hard, Laska’s and Garr’s spans just as swift behind.

  * * *

  Night fell as up the rift they hiked, Gwylly and Faeril setting the pace for Riatha and Aravan. The Moon rose unseen, shielded by the ice-clad canyon walls. Overhead, stars wheeled in slow procession, and the four comrades knew that somewhere above the hidden horizon the Eye of the Hunter streamed.

  Up the slope they walked, twisting deeper and deeper into the defile, its sheer walls looming closer in the darkness, the snow-covered floor of the
vale rising up to meet them.

  And now and again the earth shuddered, and snow sifted down from above, along with clattering rocks and jagged slabs of shattered ice, hammering onto the canyon floor at the base of the steep ramparts.

  It was after one of these rumblings that Gwylly asked, “Hoy, Aravan, tell me about Dragons and about this Black Kalgalath. How be was slain and all.”

  The Elf looked down at the Waerling and smiled, There’s much to tell and little, for the life of any given Dragon is not well known. Even so, much is known concerning Dragons taken altogether.

  “They are a mighty Folk, and perilous. Capable of speech. Covetous of wealth, gathering hoards unto themselves. They live in remote fastnesses, coming now and again upon their deadly raids, usually to steal cattle and other livestock, though I ween they think of it as hunting. ‘All must aid when Dragons raid,’ so goes the eld saying. Yet I deem that nought can be done when Dragons raid, and so the saying simply means to give shelter and comfort to those afflicted by a Drake’s comings and goings.

  “They sleep for a thousand years and waken for two thousand. At this time Dragons are awake, and have been so for some five hundred years.

  “There are two strains of Dragons, though once there was but one. Fire-drakes and Cold-drakes they are now called: the breath of Fire-drakes a devastating flame; the breath of Cold-drakes a cloud of poison, its spittle an acid spume which chars flesh and stone and metal alike.

  “Once there were no Cold-drakes, but in the Great War of the Ban, some Dragons sided with Gyphon. And after He was defeated, Adon reft the fire from these Dragons, causing them and their get to become the Cold-drakes of today.

  “Too, the Cold-drakes suffer the Ban, the light of the Sun slaying them, though their Dragonhide saves them from the Withering Death which strikes the other Foul Folk. Have thou not heard the saying ‘Troll bones and Dragonhide’? It comes about because there are two things among the Foul Folk which do not wither under Adon’s golden light: the bones of Trolls; the hides of Dragons. And so, when exposed to the daytide, Cold-drakes do not turn to ashes, as do the Rúpt, the Spaunen. Even so, still the Sun slays them, the Cold-drakes…though the Fire-drakes are unaffected by the light of day.