The Eye of the Hunter

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “But Fire-drake or Cold-, terrible are they, massive and deadly and nearly indestructible, their claws like adamantine scimitars, their hides scaled in nearly invulnerable armor. Great leathery pinions bear them up into the sky, and their flapping wings hurl twisting vortexes of air to hammer down upon a foe.

  “It is said that they can sense all within their domain, and that their eyes see the hidden, the unseen, and the invisible, as well as the visible, too.

  “None knows how long they can live, and in this they may be as are the Elves, though I doubt it. Some have estimated that if the waking and sleeping times of the Drakes correspond unto that of Man—that is, three thousand years for a Dragon is likened to one day for a Man— then because the lives of some Men span as much as one hundred summers, say, thirty-six thousand dawns, then the equivalent span of a Dragon would be more than one hundred thousand thousand years.”

  Gwylly gasped, then blurted, “One hundred thousand thousand!”

  “Aye, wee one: one hundred thousand thousand years.”

  Gwylly turned to Faeril, his mind boggled by a number so large, unable to grasp even a glimmering of what it meant. The damman, seeing the confusion in the buccan’s wide eyes, said, “Let me see if I can put this in terms that we can understand, Gwylly.”

  She thought a moment as they continued trudging up slope. “Mayhap this will serve: I have heard that there are seven thousand grains in a pound of wheat.”

  Gwylly nodded, for he had heard the same from his foster father, though he surely did not know who would have counted them.

  Faeril continued: “And, too, I have heard that there are some fifty to sixty pounds of wheat in a bushel.”

  Again Gwylly nodded, for often he had helped with the harvest, and a bushel of wheat weighed nearly as much as he.

  “Well, then,” said Faeril, “if that’s so, then a bushel of wheat contains some”—the damman did a quick reckoning in her head—“oh, say, four hundred thousand grains altogether.”

  Gwylly shrugged, vaguely irritated, feeling ensnared in an arcane academic exercise. “If you say so. But what’s this got to do with—?”

  Faeril held up a hand, and Gwylly fell silent, and buccan and damman continued striding through the snow, while she did another quick reckoning. “Then that means that two hundred and fifty bushels of wheat contain one hundred thousand thousand grains.”

  Gwylly looked at her blankly.

  “Don’t you see, Gwylly, if each one of those grains was like one year in a Dragon’s life, it would take two hundred fifty bushel baskets full of wheat to have enough grains to number the years of a Drake.”

  At last this was something that the buccan could visualize, for Orith had sown and harvested wheat: In his mind’s eye Gwylly saw two hundred fifty bushel baskets stretching out before him, each full to the brim with grains of wheat, each grain representing a year. He envisioned one basket spilled—for he’d spilled them—the grain spread in a uniform layer across a wide floor, the total covering a great area. Then he tried to envision two hundred fifty bushels spilled, knowing that the spread would be vast. But here his mind balked at trying to grasp it in its entirety. To think each grain represents one year in a Dragon’s life. And as to the whole of it, well, it’s quite unimaginable.

  But Faeril’s thoughts, on the other hand, followed a completely different track, and she glanced up at Riatha and Aravan striding alongside. If the span of Dragons seems so vast, then what of that of Elves? Why, all the grains of sand of all the beaches and all the deserts of all the world cannot even begin to number the years lying before each one of that Fair Folk.

  Aravan’s words broke into the thoughts of the Waerlinga. “Thine example is apt, Faeril. Yet I caution thee: ’tis but speculation that the sleepings and wakings of Drakes correspond to the days of Man. It could just as well be that they do not…or that they correspond to that of other beings—Waerlinga, Elves, Dwarves, Utruni…None that I have spoken to knows the truth of it.”

  Faeril looked at the Elf, weighing his words. “Then tell me this, Aravan: how old is the oldest Dragon now?”

  “Adon knows, Faeril,” responded the Elf. “Dragons were here on Mithgar when first we came, and that was several thousands of years apast.”

  For some time the foursome strode up the slope without speaking, their boots scrutching in the snow. Again the earth trembled, and more snow sifted down the face of the vertical walls looming to each side, rocks and ice rattling and shattering down as well. At last Gwylly broke the silence that had fallen among them. “All right, then. What about Kalgalath?”

  Aravan took up the tale once more. “Black Kalgalath was perhaps the mightiest Drake upon all of Mithgar, though it was said by some that Daagor was mightier still. Yet Daagor was slain in the Great War as he fought on the side of Gyphon.

  “Black Kalgaiath, though, sided with no one, remaining aloof from the War.

  “But there was a power token named the Kammerling, though others called it the Rage Hammer and some named it Adon’s Hammer. It was said that this hammer would slay the mightiest Dragon of all.

  “Black Kalgalath in his arrogance thought that the hammer was meant to be his bane, and so he stole it from its guardians, from the Utruni, from the Stone Giants, and gave it to a Wizard to ward for him.

  “Yet two heroes, Elyn and Thork, recovered the hammer and used it to kill Kalgalath.

  “It was in his death throes that Black Kalgalath smote the earth with the Kammerling, there at Dragonslair, whelming the world with that puissant token of power. And ever since, the land has been unstable, quaking, shuddering with the memory of Kalgalath’s death here in the Grimwalls.”

  Onward they walked, an hour or two, then another, the night growing deeper, and the Eye of the Hunter appeared above the east canyon wall, its fiery tail streaming out behind.

  Again the earth jolted, this time severely, and great rocks and slabs of ice shattered down into the deep slot below.

  And Gwylly and Faeril thought that they could faintly hear the far-off ringing of iron bells. But in that very same moment there came a distant, juddering howl, long and ululating.

  Faeril’s heart jumped into her throat, and Gwylly beside her clutched her hand. “Wolves?” she asked, fearing the answer.

  Again came the howl, louder this time perhaps, the sound echoing from crevice and crag, confusing the ear as to its direction, and Gwylly involuntarily squeezed Faeril’s fingers.

  Riatha looked about, sighting up the nearest wall even as debris rattled down from above. “Nay, Faeril, not Wolves,” she gritted. “Instead it is the hunting cry of Vulgs on the track, and they are in pursuit.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Legacy

  Mid and Late Summer, 5E985

  [Three Years Past]

  “P-prophecy…?” Gwylly stammered, staring at the young damman standing in the open doorway, she looking like a young warrior, what with the knives crisscrossing her breast. “W-what prophecy?”

  Before she could answer—“Mind your manners, Gwylly” came the voice of his foster mother, Nelda. “Invite her in.”

  Gwylly stepped aside and the damman entered, her gaze shifting from Gwylly up to these tall Humans, Orith and Nelda, unspoken questions in the wee damman’s eyes. In that moment, however, Black, wagging his tail, greeted her, attempting to get in a lick or two. The damman giggled and ruffled his ears, but fended off the wet tongue. As if suddenly recovering his senses, Gwylly leapt forward, coming to her rescue, with effort pushing Black aside, the dog a handful for one the size of the buccan.

  “Black,” called Orith. “Stand down.” Black backed away, his tail still swinging widely.

  “Take care his tail,” Orith warned. “For one your size it carries a wallop.”

  The golden-eyed damman laughed, her voice silver, and Gwylly felt as if his heart were expanding.

  Nelda gestured toward the kitchen. “Come in, my dear. Have you eaten? Won’t you have some tea?” The Woman led the damman t
o the table. “It’s not often we get visitors out this way, especially the Wee Ones. What did you say your name was, dear?”

  “Faeril,” replied the damman as she climbed up into a chair—Gwylly’s chair, that is. “Faeril Twiggins.”

  Again Gwylly’s heart leapt Faeril. What a wonderful name. The buccan pulled up another chair and sat, too—though much lower since the guest was in his chair—and Gwylly’s chin just cleared the tabletop. Orith sat and Black flopped down beside him, the dog’s tail thumping against the floor.

  Nelda busied herself pouring tea and preparing a plate of food, while Orith stuffed leaf in his pipe and Gwylly stared at the damman—unable, it seemed, to look at aught else….

  And then she turned her golden gaze upon him.

  Flustered, Gwylly tried to appear nonchalant, failing miserably.

  “You are Gwylly Fenn, aren’t you?”

  Gwylly glanced away at Nelda and Orith, then back to Faeril. “My name is Gwylly. But as to the name Fenn, well, we don’t know what…” The buccan’s voice trailed off.

  “Found him twenty years ago,” said Orith, tamping down the pipeleaf as Faeril looked his way. “In a wreck. His sire and dam, well, they’d been killed. Rūcks and such, I think.”

  “We raised him as our own.” Nelda took up the tale, pausing in her food preparation, the wild cherries and pitting knife forgotten, her eyes lost in the memory of that time. “Poisoned by Rūck blade and out of his mind—that’s how he came to us.”

  Gwylly touched the nearly forgotten scar at the edge of his hairline, feeling the ridge running down from forehead to temple.

  Faeril turned to the buccan. “Then you don’t know who you are,” she exclaimed. “And if you don’t know, then how will I know whether or not you are the one I am seeking?”

  Gwylly felt his heart hammering. “But I do know who I am,” he protested. “I just don’t know what last name I was born with.”

  Faeril slumped back in her chair, the look on her face pensive.

  Black’s tail stopped thumping, and he gazed up at those about him, the tall ones and the small ones, sensing that something was amiss.

  Orith stood and broke a long splinter from a split log beside the woodstove. He held it to the flames, and after it caught fire, he used it to light his pipe. The fragrance of the leaf swirled throughout the kitchen area, borne on the drifting cross breeze flowing through the open windows.

  Nelda set the plate before Faeril, and the damman smiled wanly up at the Woman, yet it was plain that the Wee One’s appetite had fled.

  Faeril broke the silence. “There is no clue?”

  Gwylly shook his head. “None.”

  * * *

  Faeril was wakened in the night by a murmur, the voices of Nelda and Orith. But what they said to one another she could not tell, for their words were too low, too indistinct. Even so, by the cadence alone she believed that perhaps they were arguing.

  On the floor beside her bed, Black’s claws scrabbled on floorboards, the sleeping dog dreamchasing fleeing game.

  * * *

  Faeril stepped to the back porch. Pink dawn was turning blue in the eastern sky. She could hear the sound of an axe, and saw Orith at this early hour chopping wood and stacking it into cords near the byre, Black snuffling about the woodpile as if he had something trapped within.

  Nodding to the Man, Faeril walked to the stables, intent upon caring for Blacktail. When she got there, she found Gwylly currying the pony while the horseling munched oats from the stall feedbox. Opposite, two great mules crunched away at their grain, while in a stall alongside Blacktail’s another pony, a dappled grey, also munched oats.

  Faeril took up another curry comb from a shelf and stepped into the stall with the grey. “Yours?” she asked, slipping her hand through the leather strap handle, finding that it was too large for her.

  Gwylly nodded. “Dapper is his name. He’s six.”

  “Blacktail is five.”

  Returning to the shelf to replace the comb, Faeril looked for but failed to find one which fit her hand. “Have you got another comb? One that I can use? Mine is in my saddlebags in the house.”

  “No, but I’m almost done here.”

  Faeril climbed up on the top rail and watched as Gwylly worked.

  As the buccan moved about, suddenly Faeril drew in her breath.

  Gwylly looked up. The damman’s eyes were wide and fixed upon his waist. The buccan looked down at himself. “Something wrong?”

  “You have a sling!”

  “Uh—”

  “You have a sling!” she repeated, interrupting whatever he was about to say.

  Gwylly unlooped the leather weapon from his belt. “Yes, but what—?”

  “Where did you get it? Can you use it?”

  “Of course I can use it. And as far—”

  “Silver bullets!” Faeril interjected. “Do you have silver bullets, too?”

  “Silver bullets…?” A vague fragment of memory plucked at the buccan’s mind.

  “Oh, Gwylly,” cried Faeril, her voice brimming with urgency, “if you have silver bullets, then I will know!”

  “Know what?” Gwylly was edging into frustration. “What’s my sling got to do with anything? And what if I did have silver shot? —Not that I think silver should be wasted that way.”

  “Oh yes, you would,” declared the damman.

  “Oh yes, I would what?” Gwylly was ready to scream.

  “Yes, you would think that silver should be used for bullets.”

  Gwylly slumped back against the side railings, staring up at Faeril in unalloyed bafflement. Is this the way that all dammen act? Hopping about from idea to idea like grasshoppers in a field? He spoke slowly and with forced calm. “And just why would I use silver sling shot?”

  “Where did you get it?”

  Flp! Flp! Gwylly envisioned a thousand grasshoppers, leaping all at once in a thousand different directions. His voice gritted out between clenched teeth. “Where did I get what? Silver bullets? I said that I didn’t have—”

  “The sling,” Faeril interrupted. “Where did you get the sling?”

  Flp! He took a deep breath. “It was my real sire’s sling, or so Orith says.”

  Faeril’s face lit up. “Oh, that’s…that’s very promising.”

  Floop! Dust boiled up around haphazardly landing grass-hoppers. Before Gwylly could reply—Dlang! Glang!—the sound of breakfast call knelled through the air.

  As the buccan and damman strode back to the house, Faeril looked at Gwylly in puzzlement, and then remarked, “It’s not good that you grind your teeth together like that. Have you had the habit long?”

  Throwing up his hands, Gwylly could do nought but burst out laughing in frustration.

  * * *

  At breakfast that morning Nelda looked haggard, as if she’d gotten little sleep. Too, she seemed to be avoiding Orith’s gaze, but as the meal ended, at last she looked at him and nodded. Orith then stood and left the room. He returned moments later, bearing a small cedarwood box. Placing it on the table, he cleared his throat. “Last might, Miss Faeril, you asked if there was any clue to Gwylly’s past. I didn’t think of it then, but later on, I remembered.

  “Gwylly, of course, was the wounded babe I found there in the wreckage of the campsite, and I brought him straightaway here to Nelda, for he was in a bad way and needed healing. Later, I returned to bury his sire and dam and to collect for him whatever I could, whatever remained of his parents’ possessions. But it was mostly gone, stolen, and there were just a few things I took from that place of death:

  “I found a sling and some steel shot, which Gwylly claimed. Belonged to his sire, he said. When I gave him the steel shot, he asked a most curious thing: he wanted to know where the ‘shiny ones’ were. At the time I didn’t know what he referred to, though it was a puzzler that I worried over for weeks. But gradually it drifted from my mind, and I hadn’t thought about it for years…many years. This morning, though, as I was stacki
ng wood, I overheard you and Gwylly talking, and you asked him about silver bullets. Oh, I wasn’t eavesdropping, but I did happen to overhear that. And suddenly that strange remark of baby Gwylly’s popped back into my head—‘Where are the shiny ones?’—and now I know what the ‘shiny ones’ must have been: they must have been silver bullets.

  “Of course, the Rūcks and such would have taken all things precious, and that’s why I didn’t find any silver shot Else he would have had those bullets, too.”

  Faeril glanced over at Gwylly, her excitement growing. Gwylly thought her eyes were fairly glowing gold, and it seemed as if she were about to speak. Ere she could do so, Orith took up the cedar box and raised the lid.

  “Regardless, there was something else in the wreckage which, unlike silver, had no value to those who raided the site: these.” Orith reached into the box and took out two journals and gave them over to Faeril. The damman eagerly began examining them as Orith continued. “I didn’t remember them until after we’d all bedded down, Miss Faeril. But you see, it’s been twenty years since I found them.”

  Looking up from the pages, Faeril exclaimed, “This is it, Gwylly! Journals of the Firstborns, one old, one new. Perhaps…”

  Quickly she flipped to the back of the newer one. “Yes, I am right. This one is the copy made by your sire, for here is your lineal tree, your name recorded at the end: Gwylly Fenn. And your sire’s name was Darby. And before him was Frek. It goes all the way back to Tomlin, here at the top.

  “Oh, Gwylly, here’s the proof to show that you are indeed Gwylly Fenn, Firstborn.”

  She handed the journal to the buccan, open to the back. Gwylly looked curiously at the page, turning it this way and that, a frown coming over his features.

  “And the old journal”—Faeril took it up—“yes, this is the one made by Small Urus from Petal’s original nearly a thousand years ago.”

  Faeril glanced up at the Man. “Oh, Orith, had you only read it, there would have been no question as to who Gwylly was and is. But, then, I can’t hold you at fault, what with all you did for him. Besides, it’s too much for me to expect that anyone other than a Warrow would read Twyll, the Warrow tongue.”