The Eye of the Hunter

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Orith glanced up at Nelda and then over at Gwylly, and Gwylly cleared his throat and closed the journal and laid it aside. “Uh, Faeril, not Twyll, not Wilderan, not Common; the three of us, well, we can’t read at all.”

  “Can’t read…?” Faeril was stunned.

  Gwylly nodded. “Not a word. None of us. ’tisn’t needed out here in the Wilderland.”

  “But all Boskydell Warrows…”

  Orith looked at the floor. “We’d always meant to send Gwylly to Stonehill—”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter,” burst in Faeril. “I have plenty of time, more than two years, to teach him to read; Twyll and Common, too.”

  The damman turned excitedly to Gwylly. “Oh, Gwylly, you have so much before you; reading, writing, numbers.”

  “I can cipher,” said the buccan, somewhat stung. “You have to be able to do your sums to sell or trade farm goods.”

  Faeril saw that she was treading on thin ice. “Well, read and write, then.”

  She took up the newer journal. “Here, let me read to you about your ancestors, brave souls they were. About Tomlin and Petal. And Riatha, too, and Urus. And Baron Stoke.

  “Once you hear the tale and the words of the prophecy, then you’ll know what brought me here and why I bear these knives, and why I have to seek out Arden Vale and find the Elfess Riatha. You’ll see just why I must go on a long and perhaps dangerous quest, why I must travel to the Great North Glacier in the far-off Grimwall.

  “And you’ll see just why you must leave here, too, and go on the quest with me.”

  At these words Nelda gasped, her eyes filling with distress.

  * * *

  Once again in the night, the voices of Orith and Nelda drifted to where Faeril had bedded down. This time, though, she overheard what they said, or at least part.

  “He’s got to leave someday, Nelda, to find his own, to be with others of his Kind. Did you see how he and Miss Faeril took to one another? She and Gwylly were meant to be together.”

  “But, Orith, she wants to take him off to the Grimwall, there where the Foul Folk live.”

  “If that be his choice, Mother, then we cannot hold him back.”

  “Orith, they could kill him. They killed his kindred.”

  “Perhaps that’s all the better reason for him to go. To avenge himself for what they took from him.”

  “But we took him in and loved him as our own. Shouldn’t that count for something?”

  “I am sure it does…I am sure it does. He was raised in love and knows we cherish him. And anyone can see he loves us, too. But he’s got to be with his own Kind, Mother, his own Kind.”

  “They could just as well live here, Orith. There’s no need for him to go traipsing off, for either of them to do so. Taking up with Elves. Heading into the Grimwalls. Especially after what we heard of Stoke. I mean, if he is mixed up in this…”

  “Stoke or not, prophecy or not, it’s Gwylly’s to decide. No matter the danger. No matter that we would keep him safe forever, were it up to us.”

  “But he is so small!”

  “Mother, he is full grown, full grown for his Kind.”

  Faeril heard the sounds of weeping, and her heart went out to the parents whose son might now choose to leave them to follow a course of his own. And as with loving families throughout time, when faced with the prospect of a son or daughter setting forth, a sadness fills the breast even though happiness dwells there, too, happiness for the bright future shining before the child. Yet there are times when sadness turns to anguish, and happiness to fear, when the future is dark and full of uncertainty and, perhaps, woe—such as when duty calls and sons and daughters think to answer, think to stand in harm’s way; then souls tremble and hearts are rent in those who must let them go. And this is what Nelda and Orith faced, the prospect of their son standing in harm’s way. That Nelda and Orith were Human and their “son” a Warrow mattered not a whit, for still he was their child, and had they a choice, they would forever protect him from all harm.

  Even so, Gwylly was the other Lastborn Firstborn, and Faeril knew the same destiny that called to her had now spoken to him. Still, unlike she, he had not heard that voice ere now; he had not been raised knowing that he had a mission to fulfill. And unlike Faeril’s mother, Lorra, neither Nelda nor Orith had known of the mission lying ahead. None in this family had been prepared for Destiny’s call.

  And when late in that day Faeril had finished reading the journal to them, had told them of the prophecy, had shown them her own copy of Petal’s journal, and had asked Gwylly to set forth with her ere the week was out, Gwylly had not answered but instead had gotten up and looked out the window into the gathering twilight, his hands clasped behind him.

  And so matters stood.

  Unresolved.

  And now as Faeril lay in her bed and listened to Nelda weep, the damman wondered when Gwylly might make his decision known, when he might choose to answer the voice of Destiny, and what that answer might be.

  * * *

  Again Black came to a point.

  In a shushing gesture Gwylly put his fingers to his lips and motioned Faeril forward. Cautiously, the damman stepped through the bracken below the forest trees, her eyes fixed on the place where the ebony dog’s muzzle was unwaveringly set.

  Of a sudden the hare broke from cover, bounding on long legs through the ferny growth. “Go!” shouted Gwylly, and Black was swift on the heels of the running buck.

  Darting after came Gwylly and Faeril, buccan and damman laughing and shouting, “Go, Black, go!” and “Yah, yah!” and running for all they were worth.

  Dashing and veering, the hare hurtled among the trees of the Weiunwood, maintaining the distance between him and the ebon dog by clever maneuvers and hairpin turns. Black overrunning the track and swinging ’round and wide and back only to overrun the turn after. But then the hare bolted straightaway, no longer veering, the dark dog over-taking with every stride. Seemingly there was no escape, and Faeril shouted, “Run, rabbit, run! Else you will be a crofter’s meal!”

  Onward hurled the hare, Black but a leap or two behind. With great bounds, between the black oaks hurtled the buck and into the shadowed glen beyond, and suddenly Black was tumbling tail over ears, the dog unable to stop cleanly, for even in baying pursuit Black would not enter one of the “closed” places.

  The dog stood and shook himself off, trotting back toward Gwylly and Faeril, the buccan and damman breathless and laughing. “Ah, Blackie, m’lad,” wheezed Gwylly. “outsmarted by a hare.”

  The three of them made their way to a rock-shelved pool in a swift-running, moss-banked stream, where Black lapped up water as if he’d never stop, pausing only long enough to pant heavily and look about, then lap some more. Gwylly and Faeril perched above on the stone overhang and caught their breath, too.

  “Why did he stop, Gwylly?” asked Faeril. “I mean, a stride or two more and the hare would have been our supper.”

  Gwylly pointed at the dark oaks and the dim forest beyond. “It’s one of the ‘closed’ places, Faeril, and Black knows better than to enter.”

  The damman looked long at where Gwylly pointed. She shivered. “I rode through such on my way to find you, Gwylly. The trees and shadows, they seemed to just barely tolerate my being there.”

  Gwylly’s mouth dropped open. “You rode through— But didn’t Blacktail shy away?”

  Faeril nodded. “She did. But finding you was more important than going the long way ’round, and so, through we went.”

  Gwylly shook his head. “Next time, Faeril, go ’round.”

  They sat without speaking for some while. Black flopped down between them, and Faeril scratched his ears. At last Gwylly asked, “What was in there, in places like that one?”

  Faeril thought a moment. “Twilight,” she said finally. “Green galleries and shadow. At times there is a rustling, as if someone or something watches. From the corners of your eyes, things seem to be flitting and darting among the trees.
But when you look, nothing, no one is there. At least nothing or no one that I could see.

  “All the time I rode among the shadows, Blacktail was shy and skittish. And as I said, the places seemed to merely tolerate my presence. Both my pony and I were glad to be out.

  “Have you never been in one, Gwylly?”

  Once. Briefly,” answered the buccan. “When Orith found out he bade me never to do so again. Said things live in there…not evil but not to be disturbed either. He said that only the wild things have clear passage.”

  Again silence fell between them. Only the murmur of a soft breeze and the purl of the stream could be heard, a bird call now and then sweet upon the air.

  It was the ninth day since Faeril had come to the stead. The eighth since she had read from the journal. And still Gwylly had not answered her question as to whether he would go with her to Arden Vale.

  On the five days that he had worked with Orith, Faeril had helped Nelda in the kitchen, the damman showing off her own cooking skills, giving the Woman a special recipe for a pie crust, flaky and tender. Too, she chatted about her family back in the Boskydells. And Nelda felt her own heart grow lighter on these days.

  But on the days that Gwylly went hunting with Black in the Weiunwood, Faeril had accompanied him, using her skill with throwing knives to bring down small game.

  Nine days had passed thus, two days more than she had allotted, and still she had no answer.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow, Gwylly,” she said softly, “whether or no you come with me.”

  Gwylly took a deep breath. “I’m going with you, Faeril. I must. I had not answered you till now because I had to give Mom and Dad a time to get used to the idea.”

  The buccan turned and faced her, green eyes peering into gold. “Besides, I cannot let you go alone, for you hold my heart. You see, Faeril, I am in love with you. I have been so since first I saw you standing in my doorway.”

  Faeril looked at him, her amber eyes gentle. Then she leaned across Black and took Gwylly’s face in her hands and softly kissed him.

  * * *

  “Mom! Dad! We’re home from the ’Wood with game to spare and wonderful news.”

  Nelda looked up from the beans she was snapping, seeing the glow of her son’s face and the smile on Faeril’s. Orith, at the wash basin, turned, his face dripping, and caught up a towel.

  Black’s claws clicked upon the wooden floor as the dog crossed to his water dish and lapped once or twice.

  Gwylly lofted the four rabbits up to the table, then took Faeril by the hand. “Mom, Dad, Faeril and I, well, she’s agreed to…that is, she’s my dammia and I’m her buccaran.”

  Orith paused in drying his face and looked at Gwylly over the edge of the towel. “Dammia? Buccaran?”

  Nelda laughed. “Men! What Gwylly is trying to say, Orith, is that they’ve become sweethearts. Any fool could have seen it was meant to be.” The Woman set the bowl of green beans aside and opened wide her arms, taking Gwylly and Faeril in a loving embrace.

  “Oh, my Gwylly,” whispered Nelda, “you must cherish her and care for her always.”

  Suddenly, the smile on Nelda’s face faded as a realization came upon her, and dismay welled in her eyes and her voice choked. “And oh my, Gwylly, that means you can’t let her go into the Grimwalls alone.”

  * * *

  The next morning, amid a teary good-bye, Faeril and Gwylly set off on Blacktail and Dapper, faring southward for the Crossland Road, which would bear them eastward to Arden Vale.

  Behind, Nelda and Orith and Black watched them ride away. Orith had his arm about Nelda, and she leaned her head against his breast. Distress filled the faces of both, for their son and his beloved rode into danger, or so they deemed. They stood that way for many long minutes, until they could see the wee buccan and wee damman no more. At last the Man and Woman turned and made their way back into the house, while behind, Black lay down and with a sigh put his chin upon his front paws, his brown eyes gazing sadly in the direction Gwylly had gone.

  CHAPTER 8

  Journey to Arden

  Mid and Late Summer, 5E985

  [Three, years Past]

  All that morning, southerly rode Gwylly and Faeril, following along the trace of a waggon-rut trail from long-past journeys between the farm and the distant road to the Stonehill marketplace far away, the wheel marks now faint and overgrown. In the distance to the right lay the shaggy Weiunwood; far to the left rose the tors of the Signal Mountains; before the Warrows the grassland gradually fell away toward the edge of the Wilderland, where lay the Crossland Road and Harth beyond. And down this long, shallow slope they fared, their backs to Gwylly’s homestead, their faces toward the unknown.

  Steadily they rode, stopping but a few minutes every hour to stretch their legs and give the ponies a breather or some grain, and to take care of other needs. Too, they stopped occasionally at streams to water their steeds and refill their waterskins, but in the main they rode steadfastly southward.

  As the noontide drew upon them, they came through a gentle swale between low, flanking hills and swung their course easterly. In the distance far ahead they could see two tall hills standing against the horizon. “Beacontor and J Northtor,” said Gwylly. “We will camp there tonight, on one slope or the other.”

  Faeril gauged the distance. “How far are they?”

  “Oh, twenty, twenty-five miles,” replied Gwylly.

  Faeril nodded. “Well, Blacktail has gone as much as forty miles in one day, though not day after day. I wouldn’t wish to ask for more than she or Dapper can bear.”

  “We will slow down tomorrow, my dammia,” said Gwylly. “I expect that twenty or twenty-five miles a day is well within their means.”

  Faeril twisted about and searched in her right-hand saddlebag. She pulled out a folded sheet of parchment, crackling it open. “The sketch Hopsley made in Stonehill shows Beacontor. On it he indicated that Arden is some two hundred fifty miles beyond. At twenty-five miles a day, we’ll be ten days getting there; eleven, counting today.”

  Gwylly held out his hand and Faeril passed him the sketch. Once again the buccan twisted the printed page about, as if trying to solve the mystery of the written words by orienting the paper just so. Faeril put her hand to her mouth to cover her smile at his efforts. I will have to begin teaching him this very night.

  Onward they rode throughout the long summer day, while the Sun passed overhead and then slid down the western sky, casting their lengthening shadows before them. Still they wended forth, the ponies at a walk, moving easterly through green rolling grassland, the Signal Mountains now marching off northeasterly, the Dellin Downs ahead and to the south.

  In the late afternoon they at last came at an angle unto the great Crossland Road. Onto the tradeway they stepped their mounts, the road a major east-west thoroughfare, reaching from the Ryngar Arm of the Weston Ocean at its far terminus some eight hundred miles to the west, unto the Crestan Pass through the Grimwall Mountains three hundred or so miles to the east, where it became known as the Landover Road and stretched far across the Realms beyond.

  Five more miles they fared, and evening was at hand when they stopped for the night on the southern slopes of Northtor. Slightly east and south rose the crest of Beacontor, the final mount in the chain. Between the two tors ran the road, passing up over the low saddle and on down to the east.

  The skies were clear, yet Gwylly used a hand axe to cut saplings for a lean-to. “Just in case,” he said.

  Meanwhile, Faeril set rocks in a ring and started a campfire, fixing a pot of water above to make some tea.

  Faeril staked out the ponies and while she curried the cinch- and saddle-swirls and -knots from their hair, Gwylly erected the shelter, using small, supple branches to tie the saplings together into a roof, the buccan chatting all the while. “Dad told me about Beacontor. Used to be where an old watchtower was located. It was part of a chain of warbeacon towers stretching from Challerain Keep up in Rian down to this en
d of the Signal Mountains. They say in fact, that the Signal Mountains got their name from these towers.

  “Anyway, here they’d set a fire alight atop the hill when War came, signalled from the north down the chain by the other warbeacons, or up from the Dellin Downs in the south, or whenever any sentries posted in any towers spotted approaching foe nearby.

  “They used this hill because it’s the tallest one around and fires from its crest raised all the land hereabout. Twice it fell during the Ban War. The first time, just two Wilderland Men managed to defeat more than forty of the foe and set the fire alight, though one of the Men was killed. That was the time, I think, when the tower itself was destroyed.

  “The second time it fell, the Black Foxes managed to free it. You’ve heard of the Black Foxes, haven’t you?”

  Faeril said, “No,” and Gwylly plunged on:

  “That was more Wilderlanders. A squad of Men. Other Men named them the Black Foxes because of their wiliness at defeating Modru’s minions and because of the mottled grey and black leathers they wore to conceal themselves in the mountains where they fought. Dad says that eventually they took the name to themselves and had a device enscribed upon their shields: a black fox.

  “In any event, the outnumbered Foxes overthrew the Rūcks and such that had captured Beacontor for the second time.”

  Faeril finished with the ponies and stepped to the now boiling pot of water and set it aside to steep some tea. “Gwylly, do you know any Warrow tales, tales about those of your Kind?”

  Gwylly shook his head, No, and a sadness filled Faeril’s heart, for her buccaran knew nothing of his own Folk.

  The lean-to was finished as the Sun sank below the horizon. In the twilight the buccan and damman took a meal of jerky and hard bread, while sipping hot tea and speaking of the journey ahead. Faeril took her map from the saddlebag and by firelight called attention to its features, as they examined what lay before them. And in looking at the map, Faeril began teaching Gwylly the alphabet of the Common tongue, pointing out the letters on the parchment and using a stick and scratching additional letters in the dust. She would have preferred to start by teaching him Twyll, for then he could use the journals to read from, but Gwylly spoke not the language of the Warrows, and so Twyll would have to wait.