Riatha turned the knife over and again in her hands. “It is Drimmen work, Faeril—Dwarven made. How they forge such I cannot say, yet this I do know: silver this is, and pure, yet in its forging lies a long-held secret of the Drimma.” Riatha handed the knife back to the damman.
Faeril sheathed the blade and drew its mate. “Well, I don’t believe that the other one tarnishes either, though I’m not at all sure that it has ever been given a chance to do so—it seems to me as if we polished it every day. I suppose by now it should have been rubbed to a nubbin, but I can’t see any wear on it at all.” Faeril glanced at Riatha. The Elfess shrugged. Faeril resheathed this blade, too. “I know, Riatha, I know—another Dwarven secret, neh?”
* * *
It was late mid-morn when they came to the canyon, the land slowly dropping down between sheer walls. The track they followed plunged down and in. Onward paced the two, following the footprints in the snow. A mile or more they went, the canyon walls sheer above them, rising some two or three hundred feet overhead, the slot growing narrower until it was but forty or fifty feet wide. Ahead, they could see that the ravine flared outward, and soon they came unto an open area, roughly circular, perhaps three hundred feet across, the hemming vertical walls raddled up and down and roundabout with crevices and holes. Opposite the way in, it appeared the canyon continued onward, exiting through another narrow slot, spanned by a snow bridge high above. Whether or not this way led outward and into the mountains beyond, they could not see—for all they knew, it could be a dead end.
“’Ware, Faeril,” hissed Riatha. “Here I ween is Stoke’s bolt-hole.”
Cautiously in the daylight, they followed the tracks inward. These led to the center of the amphitheater, and there the two could see that the snow had been tramped down in a wide area, as if the Rûpt had milled about. From this central point, tracks led outward in all directions unto the sheer walls ringed ’round, going into various shadowed cracks and dark crannies and black holes. None led onward into the slot under the snow bridge.
“Now we can see just how many Spaunen are in this band,” breathed Riatha. “Thou count the tracks on thy side, separating Vulg from others, and I will count them on this side. But ’ware, step not on the untrod snow, for we would not leave our scent where it can be found by Vulg when darkness falls.”
Staying within the large beaten-down area, Faeril counted the number of individual trails that she could see heading for the wall. Riatha did the same. Then they traded sides and counted again. Their tallies were consistent: the Rūcks and Hlōks totalled twenty-seven, the Vulgs thirteen. Neither Elfess nor damman espied what could clearly be identified as Stoke’s tracks—although as Riatha pointed out, any one of the Vulgs’ trails could be his, were he in that form. Faeril suggested that if Stoke were in fact impaired, he might have been carried by Rūcks or Hlōks, perhaps even on a litter, though no evidence of this was seen.
Riatha scanned the rim overhead. “Let us backtrack, hiding our scent among the traces left by the Spaunen band. When we can safely do so, we will circle to the west wall above and, when night falls, see what we can see.”
Faeril removed her glove and wetted a finger, holding it up. A chill breeze swirled within the arena. “What if the wind is such that our scent will be borne down from the west wall? Can we cross over the snow bridge and take station on the east wall? The span must be sturdy to exist in this shaking land.”
Riatha shook her head, glancing up at the white arch. “Nay, Faeril, though thy words ring true, still snow bridges are treacherous, even for one of thy slightness; only when there is no other acceptable choice should they be tried. If the wind is against us, we will backtrack and come at the east wall in the same manner that we now assay the west.”
Faeril nodded. “If we do this, we need to change the markers, too, so that Gwylly and Aravan avoid the canyon and find our true trail.”
“Aye,” agreed Riatha, and the two started back the way they had come.
Moving swiftly, Riatha and Faeril hiked up the trail some three miles or so, pausing now and again to notch through each of the blazed trail signs pointing into the ravine.
At last the Elfess found what she was seeking: an expanse of bare stone rising steeply. As Faeril blazed a new sign, Riatha loosened the small grappling hook from her belt and fixed a line to it. Casting the hook and setting it, up from the trail she and the damman ascended. From atop the stone, Riatha looked back down. “There. If Rûpt should find our trail this night, then that should give them a riddle to read.”
Faeril’s heart leapt into her throat. “Oh, Riatha. Should they find our trail, then it will lead them back to the glacier—back to the tracks of Gwylly and Aravan…and Urus.”
Riatha stood long in thought. “Mayhap, yet there has always been the danger that Vulgs will find their scent, just as they found the four of us last night. Too, the Rûpt may stumble across any of our tracks, including those of Aravan and your beloved Gwylly. The Spaunen of certain know that we are in the region, even though they abandoned their search for us yesternight—to aid Stoke, we deem.
“But heed: they would have forsaken their pursuit of us regardless as soon as day drew nigh, else they would suffer the Withering Death. I judge that where we stand is some twenty miles from where Stoke was found, and they were hard-pressed to reach yon bolt-hole ere light of day. Even so, though it is a distance back to where we were, there is a chance they may return to the glacier to hunt us again—yet I deem it unlikely they will do so.”
Riatha glanced at the Sun, now nearing the noontide. “Rest thy heart, Faeril, for even now our loved ones must be at the monastery. I know of no better place to be, should Foul Folk come upon them.”
Even though the Elfess seemed confident, still the damman wished that there were some way to make certain that her buccaran was safe. “Is it always like this in times of peril, Riatha? I mean, I am so afraid for my Gwylly.”
Riatha squatted and loosed the grapnel and began coiling the line. “Aye, wee one. ’Tis always so. Yet list—thy loved one afar has the same concern of thee, and thou must take all honorable precaution to guard thyself for his sake, just as he must do for thee. Thou and he can do little else. He knows this, as dost thou. Take comfort in this knowledge, as well as in the knowledge that he is with steadfast companions, just as art thou.”
Faeril threw her arms about the Elfess and kissed her on the cheek, receiving an embrace in return. Then Riatha stood and hung the hook and line on her belt. “Let us away.”
* * *
As the Sun set, Faeril and Riatha were in place atop the bluff above the circular amphitheater in the canyon below. Before taking up their places, Riatha had marked the direction of the wind, and they had positioned themselves as well as they could to avoid their scent wafting into the canyon. They had carefully brushed away the snow and loose rock at this place so that none would inadvertently fall from their own movement there on the rim, alerting the foe. To their left was the canyon the Spaunen had followed into the arena below. To their right, the canyon continued onward, sloping downhill, the walls of the hemming bluffs diminishing as well as receding, the ravine widening and becoming shallower until it was no more, having merged with the broad valley beyond. Be-ringing the entire rim of the arena stood the sparse forest of arctic pines, the trees marching away unto the mountain slopes on either side, covering the width and length of the canted vale.
Darkness fell, and with it came the sound of Foul Folk. Riatha and Faeril eased themselves belly down and peered over the rim. The arena below was deep in shadow, yet Waerling and Elven eyes could just make out the floor of the amphitheater. And as they watched, torch-light flickered from many of the splits and cracks and holes below. Dark shapes emerged, bearing burning brands, fluttering shadows cast against the snow. Vulgs and maggot-folk there were—Rūcks or Hlōks or both—and they milled about in the center, speaking their guttural tongue. At last a small band broke away, Vulgs in the lead, running south, into the c
anyon beyond. A short moment later, another band formed, and this one went north. Yet some Vulgs and others remained behind, and these disappeared back into their holes.
Hours passed with no activity. The Eye of the Hunter scored the sky, and the Moon overhead shone down into the pit. Then there came a great hubbub from the south, and again Riatha and Faeril lay belly down at the rim. Even as they watched, Vulgs, Rūcks, and Hlōks came marching in through the slot, and they bore a slain deer with them. Vulgs yawled, and answers echoed out from the splits and cracks of the stone walls. Rūcks and such emerged from within, and the deer carcass was hacked into meaty chunks, Spaunen squabbling over choice parts. Of a sudden there came a howl from on high, and all quarrelling stopped. All eyes swung toward the east wall, and there, halfway up, in the ebon mouth of a cavern, there was a shadow of movement, but no form could be discerned, for no light shone therein.
There came a Vulg-like snarling, and the band below gathered up the rendered carcass and trooped to the east wall and within.
Riatha sucked in her breath and clenched her fist, but otherwise made no move, for there was no way in which she could bring a weapon to bear upon the shadow opposite.
Beside her, Faeril looked across at the dark arch, her heart racing in her breast. She could not even tell the shape of the shadow, yet she had no doubt who it was. And she found that she held a silver dagger in her hand; when she had drawn the weapon, she could not say.
Then the darkness within the hole changed, as if whoever, whatever had been there was gone.
The Elfess turned to Faeril, Riatha’s voice grim and deadly. “Tis Stoke!” she gritted. “He is alive! Once apast at Dreadholt did I hear him speak as would a Vulg, and this was the same.” Riatha gazed intently into Faeril’s eyes. “On the morrow, under the safety of the Sun, thou must bear word unto the monastery, for Aravan and Gwylly need to know that Stoke of a certain walks upon the world again.”
Faeril protested. “But you will be left alone, Riatha! I cannot—”
Riatha’s hand chopped downward in a negating gesture, stilling the damman’s words. “Thou must go. We are in a precarious position as it is, and as thou didst observe, the Rûpt may stumble upon our track. Gwylly and Aravan—and Urus, too, if he lives—must be warned…for the slayer is resurrected and once more will seek to begin his deadly harvest of innocent victims.”
“But what about you, Riatha?”
“Faeril, one of us must remain behind to track the monster should he decide to move.”
“That could be me as well as you, Dara.”
“Aye, Faeril, it could. Yet I have more experience than thee, and I have less need of sleep, and my stride is longer should it come unto an overland trek.
“Nay, Faeril, ’tis I who should stay while thou dost gather our companions.”
The damman said nothing for a moment, but at last she spoke. “I will do as you say, Dara, and bear the word to them, but as soon as I have done so, I shall return.”
Riatha reached over and squeezed the Waerling’s hand, saying nothing.
More hours trickled by, and sometime after mid of night, the second band returned. Riatha wakened Faeril, and together they watched the scene below. This band, too, came with game of a sort: arctic hares mostly, although Riatha glimpsed what she took to be some kind of a large burrowing animal, mayhap a badger. This time a Hlōk came forth from the caverns below to meet them, and again the game was taken within.
In the hour before dawn, Rūcks and Hlōks and Vulgs boiled out from the east wall, streaming across the arena and into individual splits and crannies and holes. It was as if Stoke had sent them unto separate places to spend the daylight hours. And neither Faeril nor Riatha could fathom why.
* * *
Day came, wan and bleak, a grey sky casting a pall over all. A chill wind blew up from the south, bringing with it roiling dark clouds. And under the lowering skies Faeril set out cross-country for the monastery, even though both she and Riatha knew that a storm seemed to be in the offing, for her mission and message were urgent. Too, Faeril had been trained in arctic survival, and should a blow come, she would endure. And so, under the gloom the damman set out, following the directions given to her by Riatha.
The Elfess had gauged that the cloister lay some four or five leagues northwesterly of Stoke’s bolt-hole, some twelve to fifteen miles across the rugged scape. Of course, Faeril could have backtracked all the way to the glacier and then southwesterly for the retreat, but that would have added miles to the journey, and perhaps hours to it as well. Too, there was always the chance that if she followed a route frequented by Spawn, the Vulgs would scent her passage, leading to disaster for all. Thus, Faeril trekked toward the col to the northwest, beyond which she should find Gwylly and Aravan and perhaps Urus as well.
She used a pine bough to erase her tracks behind, not wanting Riatha to be discovered by backtracking maggotfolk. A mile or more did she brush away her traces, praying that the snow would not hold her scent for Vulgs to follow back to the Elfess. Espying a vertical rock face, Faeril swept until she reached the stone. Then, placing her back to the wall, she walked straight away. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that the footprints in the snow seemed to emerge from the rock itself. There. Let the Rūcks and such cipher that. Mayhap they’ll think a secret door lies therein. Giggling at the prospect of maggot-folk seeking entry into solid stone, Faeril trekked onward.
The land was rough, broken, and splits and ravines barred the way. Often was the damman forced to backtrack and find a different route, a route skirting ’round the obstacle, whatever it might be. At times she had to break out her climbing gear, to clamber up or down or over. At other times the way was too sheer and smooth, and an alternate path was called for. And slowly did she progress, while the sky grew ever darker and the south wind ever more chill.
Up she went, and up. She came to another crevasse, its black depths lost to sight. Ranging leftward, she espied a snow bridge spanning the gap but passed it by, for she had listened well to Riatha’s words that such were dangerous, even for one of her slight weight. She moved onward, until she fetched up against a high stone bluff. No passage that way, unless I climb.
To the right the crevasse ran on a goodly distance, yet at last she rounded its far extent and slowly, slowly went on upward through the shattered land, the wind skirling bodefully under blackening skies.
The blow came sometime after the noontide, though exactly what the hour was, Faeril did not know. She was perhaps a mile from the crest of the col when a wall of white came boiling up after her, snow hurtling horizontally across the ’scape, borne on a shrieking wind.
The damman took shelter in a crevice in the rocks. And as she peered out at the hurling white, gone grey under the dark skies, for the first time it occurred to her to wonder what she would do if she came to the monastery and no one was there, not Gwylly, not Aravan, not Urus. What if Urus has recovered and they are already following our trail? What if they never reached the cloister at all? What if the maggot-folk got them? What if they are all dead? She felt a great hollow in her chest at these dark thoughts, and there was little she could do to shake them, storm-trapped as she was.
What if this storm lasts for days? What then, my darkhaired dammsel? Faeril began to ration her water, knowing that she had not wood for a fire to melt more snow, and knowing as well that to eat frozen snow would rapidly sap her energy. She recalled B’arr’s words: “Eat snow, bad. Eat snow, steal makt. Eat snow, dog get cold inside. Dog need more food get warm again.”
Remembering B’arr brought a lump to her throat. B’ar, this dog won’t eat snow if she can help it, for I plan on avenging your death.
* * *
Faeril jerked awake sometime after nightfall. Oh lor’, I’ve been asleep! Though a wind still blew, it had stopped snowing. Groaning to her feet, the damman hobbled from the crevice.
The storm had blown itself out and the skies were clearing. Here and there a star twinkled through rifts in the c
over. Low in the east, the Moon illuminated the clouds from behind. Still the south wind blew, now more gently, driving the cast before it. A fresh fall of white snow covered the land. Good! Now all trace of my passage is gone.
Ahead and upward about a mile hence lay the crest of the wide col, and somewhere down the far side she hoped to find the monastery. Fumbling in a pocket, Faeril drew out the last of her tannik, and chewing on the bitter root, she set forth.
Up and up she clambered, at times finding the way easy, at other times difficult, for in this broken land were crevices and cracks and bluffs and ridges. And for one who stood but an inch or two above three feet tall, the terrain was formidable. Yet Faeril persisted, slowly making her way unto the crest of the col.
It had taken the damman nearly two more hours to reach the summit of the pass, and during this time the wind bore the clouds away. Above and behind her the Moon was bright, and stars glimmered overhead. Too, the Eye of the Hunter scored the sky, its tail long and bloody. In the distance down below her, Faeril could see a narrow plateau, and a mile or so away at the far end of the flat lay her goal—the monastery, its buildings dark, showing no light, standing starkly on the broad ’spanse above the glacier gleaming beyond. Oh, my Gwylly, are you there within?
Down she started, down from the col, the slope before her shallow. Even so, the way was difficult, for cracks and seams in the stone yet stood across her way, seeking to bar her passage. But these she managed to traverse or go around and head once more for the buildings afar.
She had come some three quarters of a mile, the monastery now but a furlong or two away, when dreadful yawls sounded behind her, the howls of Vulgs on the hunt. She spun about, looking back, and her heart leapt into her throat, for in the silvery moonlight she saw them coming across the col, running on her trail. And then the howls changed tenor, for the creatures had sighted their quarry and leapt forward in pursuit.
Faeril turned and fled toward the dark monastery, knowing that she would not reach it ere the monsters overtook her. Heart hammering, breath coming in sobbing gasps, Faeril ran a race she could not win. A furlong or so away stood the high stone walls ringing the cloister, and the gates were closed.
The Eye of the Hunter Page 24
