The Eye of the Hunter

by Dennis L McKiernan

  And then she tripped over something hidden under the new-fallen snow and fell sprawling.

  CHAPTER 17

  Awakening

  Early Spring, 5E988

  [The Present]

  “Faeril!” cried Gwylly as the damman scrambled to her feet to fly toward the monastery.

  “Swift, Gwylly,” shouted Aravan, “a rope over the wall!”

  As Gwylly loosened the line at his waist and clicked the grapnel tines into place, Aravan snatched up the iron rod and—Clang, clang, clang, clang…—began hammering the alarm hoop.

  Gwylly tossed the coil over the side, glancing away from the fleeing damman long enough to lodge the hook into a crevice.

  “Now take this,” commanded Aravan, handing the rod to the buccan. “Strike the alarm! It will guide her and she will know we are here, and it may give the Vulgs pause to think the walls are warded.”

  As Gwylly began hammering the hoop, Aravan hastily lighted the gate lantern and swung it on its pivoting arm out above the anchored line. “She will need to see where to run to, as well as a light to see the rope.”

  And across the snow came Faeril fleeing, now angling toward the light on the wall. And behind raced Vulgs, five hurtling beasts, gaining with every stride.

  “Run, Faeril, run!” shouted Gwylly, yet hammering the iron hoop, his voice lost in the clangor.

  But of a sudden he dropped the rod and started to clamber over the wall there where the rope dangled. Aravan grabbed him by the arm and hauled him back. “No! You cannot prevail on the ground. Ready your sling.”

  Footsteps sounded behind them, and Doran clambered up the ladder, crossbow slung over his shoulder.

  Gwylly moaned in desperation as he loaded a steel shot, for he knew that the Vulgs would overtake his dammia ere she could reach the wall. But even should a miracle occur, even should the ravers falter, even should Faeril somehow reach the bulwark first, still it was fifteen feet high, fifteen feet up to safety.

  Now Aravan rang the alarm hoop, hoping the clangor would cause the Vulgs to sheer away. But on they raced, within yards of overhauling Faeril, the damman a hundred or so feet from the wall.

  Of a sudden—thunn! ssss…—a flaming quarrel flashed from the wall, a bright red streak sissing through the icy air to graze through the fur of the lead Vulg, the black slayer flinching aside, stumbling, the other Vulgs momentarily shying away, Faeril gaining, the Vulgs again hurtling after.

  Doran levered the crossbow, cocking it again. “They don’t like fire.” He snatched another rag-wrapped quarrel from his quiver and thrust the oil-soaked cloth toward the lantern.

  In spite of his injured shoulder, Gwylly whipped his sling ’round—“This way, Faeril! This way!”—and let fly the steel bullet. Behind the running damman a pursuing Vulg howled, the missile glancing from the beast’s tough hide. Yet on it came with the others, in full cry.

  Thunn! zzz…Another bolt of fire sissed across the space, but this one struck true, and howling, the lead Vulg thudded into the snow, quarrel embedded deeply in its chest, flames burning.

  Faeril dashed toward the wall, running now for the rope, Vulgs again hurling after.

  Aravan dropped the iron bar and grabbed hold of the line. “Swiftswarm! Swiftswarm!”

  Another steel bullet crashed into the Vulgs, cracking into the leg of one, and it yelped, but continued in pursuit, though limping, trailing the others as yawling on they sped.

  Footsteps came up the ladder.

  Faeril grabbed the line, and up she swarmed as Aravan hauled. Behind a great Vulg lept upward, slavering jaws wide. Zzzzzzaaak! A flaming quarrel sprang full blown into the Vulg’s eye and it tumbled down. Other Vulgs leapt. “Petal!” bellowed a voice, and a great dark form— changing, altering—hurled outward over the wall and down atop the leaping Vulgs, bearing them backwards to smash into the ground under its massive weight.

  And boiling up from the pile came three Vulgs and a Bear!

  A huge, savage Bear!

  RRRAAAWWWW! Claws slashed. A Vulg fell slain, its throat torn out. Aravan hauled Faeril upward. Crkk!—a steel bullet smashed through the skull of a Vulg circling behind the Bear, the Vulg crashing to the snow. Doran lit another quarrel and dropped it into the groove of the crossbow and he took aim. “Shoot not the Bear!” shouted Gwylly. Zzzzzk…tssss! The bolt flashed past the Vulg to hiss into the snow.

  Yelping, the Vulg spun ’round and fled, the Bear roaring in rage. Yet the black raver, though favoring a leg, was too fleet to be overhauled from behind, and swiftly was beyond reach of claw, bullet, and quarrel.

  Aravan swung Faeril over and down to the sentry walk. Gwylly took one last look at the Bear snuffling and pawing at the Vulg corpses, then leapt down from the shelf and embraced his dammia, tears of relief running down the buccan’s face. “Oh, Faeril, I thought you would be slain.”

  Faeril’s heart was hammering, and she sobbed and gasped for breath at one and the same time. She could not speak, so winded was she. But her eyes, too, were filled with tears.

  “Oh, Adon,” breathed Doran, averting his face from the scene outside, scribing a warding sign in the air. Glancing over the wall, Aravan swiftly climbed down the ladder and slid back the bar on its tracks and opened the gate. And through the portal came limping a huge Man, a Baeran: Urus.

  Looking up to the walkway above, “Well, Petal,” called the Man, his voice deep, rumbling, “are you all right? Come down, let’s have a look at you. And what were you doing out among Vulgs? For that matter, how came you and I and Tomlin to be back here at the monastery?” And then, without warning, Urus fell to his knees, collapsing sideways into the snow.

  * * *

  Urus held out the bowl. “Another, please.”

  The Baeran sat on a stool, a cloth wrapped ’round his shoulders. On the floor all about was shorn hair. Behind stood Gavan, holding comb and shears, his wounded arm no longer in a sling. He set aside the shears and took the wooden vessel from Urus and again filled it with stew and smiled. “Why don’t you just eat straight from the pot, Urus? I mean, this is the fifth one.”

  Urus grinned and tore off another great hunk of bread. “’Tis enough of a struggle keeping hair from my food in that tiny bowl, Gavan, much less the struggle it would take to protect the pot. Else believe me, I would.”

  Color had returned to the Baeran’s face, so pale when they had carried him in. Though they had feared he had taken poisoned Vulg bite, upon examination they found no wound. Urus had merely fainted after the battle, having awakened to hear the alarm and rushing to render aid, his health and constitution not yet ready for such. And so the fight had drained him of what little energy he had summoned up from Adon knows where, and he had collapsed afterward. When they had revived him, he had asked for food and drink, downing copious quantities, eating as would a starving Man.

  “I’m hungry as a—”

  “Bear,” interjected Gavan, handing the bowl to the Man. “A Bear that’s just wakened from a long winter’s sleep.”

  Gwylly nodded. “A very long winter’s sleep.”

  Urus shook his head. “It’s hard to grasp that a thousand years have…have passed”—the Baeran looked at Gwylly and Faeril, the damman applying the last of a minty salve to the buccan’s tender shoulder—“and that you two are not Petal and Tomlin…”

  A hard glint came into Urus’s eye. “…and Stoke is alive.”

  Faeril leapt to her feet. “Oh, where is Aravan? I mean, we’ve got to go from here. Even now Riatha sets watch over that monster…and she is alone.”

  Gavan held up his right hand in a soothing gesture. “Adon will protect her.”

  Urus set his bowl aside. “Mayhap so, priest. Yet I’ve noticed that Adon protects those best who protect themselves.”

  Gavan sketched a sign in the air, its meaning unknown to the Warrows. “You speak as would a strong Man, Urus. Yet Adon watches over the weak as well.”

  Urus growled. “Just as He watched over you and your comrades, eh?”


  Gavan’s face fell.

  “Argh, priest, I am sorry. I had no cause to say such.”

  The door opened and Aravan came in with another arm load of supplies, followed by Doran, the abbot’s arms also filled. “This should do us,” said the Elf, piling all upon a table. He then swiftly divided the goods into four stacks, and set each stack next to partially filled frame packs.

  “There,” said Gavan, laying down the shears and removing the sheet from ’round Urus’s shoulders. “All done.”

  Urus, beard and hair trimmed, drained the last of the stew, then stood and thanked Gavan and stepped to the scullery basin to wash the bowl and spoon.

  Doran shuffled back from the herb cabinet, bearing several packets. “Here, Aravan, you may need medicines in the days ahead. Know you the uses of these?” The abbot and Elf opened each packet,. discussing the herbs within, their uses and preparation, Gwylly and Faeril watching and listening.

  As Doran divided out the herbs and wrapped individual doses into separate packets, Urus came to him and unhooked the aspergillum from his belt. “Friar, I would return this to you.”

  The abbot looked at the silver and ivory relic. “Nay, lad. You go into peril, where dwell the Spawn, and the Rutch and such are loath to come into the light of this holy vessel, If you are beloved of Adon, it shines forth at great need, repelling your enemies and calling allies unto your side.”

  Urus set the aspergillum down on the table. “I am done with it, friar. It served me once when I was in need. ’Twas only by accident I had it with me, and now I return it to its rightful keepers.”

  Aravan looked up from the frame packs he was filling. “Abbot, thy need is greater than ours, for we will be five when we join our companion, whereas ye are but two”—the Elf held out a hand, forestalling Doran’s protest—“and ye must survive to take word unto the Aleutani that B’arr and Tchuka and Ruluk are dead, slain by the Rûpt. Too, I would have ye deliver my letter unto a Fjordlander ship captain, to find its way back unto my kindred in Arden Vale. And though I know that driven Spaunen can o’ercome the golden glow of yon device, still I think that they will not come at you without a driving hand.

  “Hence, keep the aspergillum as Urus advises, and use it to ward ye twain in the long nights ahead. And come the summer, go down unto the grasslands where the ren herds graze, and there find the Aleutani. They will escort ye back unto the Boreal, and ye can go from there unto thine order and report on what has passed here. Mayhap they will again wish to occupy this monastery; if so, then let it be with warrior-priests, for such is needed in this perilous place.

  “We would stay and ward ye both, had we the choice. Yet we do not, for our Dara waits.”

  At last Doran bowed his head and took up the aspergillum. Long he held it reverently, then passed it on to Gavan. The young priest clutched the artifact to his breast and fell to his knees, giving thanks to Adon.

  For long moments did Faeril gaze at the praying monk, then she turned to Aravan. “Let us go from here, for Riatha is alone.”

  Stowing the last of the goods and shouldering the frame packs, the four stepped through the door and passed down the corridor and out through the hall of worship, Doran and Gavan following. Day was on the land, early morning, and pale light shone through a greying sky. Chill wind gusted and swirled among the stone buildings, and Gwylly wondered if another storm was in the offing. At the gate they stopped, and Urus drew the bar.

  Beyond the open portal lay nought but snow. Of the slain four Vulgs there was no sign, and none expected, for with the coming of the daytide the dead creatures had withered into dust which the swirling wind scattered even as the Ban took its toll on the corpses.

  Gwylly stepped out into the snow and looked, finding three crossbow bolts.

  Faeril turned to the abbot. “I thank you for my life, Doran. Had it not been for you and your crossbow, I would now be dead.”

  “Hai!” called Gwylly, returning, holding high the quarrels. “It was one for the buccan and one for the Bear, but two of the five did Doran account for. Would that I had his skill!”

  Doran gave a negligent wave of his hand, yet it was apparent to all that he was pleased as Gwylly handed him the bolts.

  “Take care, priest,” rumbled Urus to Gavan. “Protect yourself and Adon may watch o’er you.”

  A smile tugged at Gavan’s mouth. “I will pray for you and yours,” he answered.

  Doran sketched a warding sign in the air. “Adon’s blessings on you all.”

  Aravan raised his own hand in farewell. “And may He keep ye both safe as well.”

  The four set forth, following Faeril, and behind, the Adonites watched them go. At last they closed the gates and slid the bar into place. And then the old Man and the young Man turned and trudged through the swirling wind across the courtyard and into the hall of worship beyond. And as they entered, the ground rumbled and trembled, as if shivering in fear.

  * * *

  Up to the col fared the four, and at the crest of the pass they paused. Urus looked back at the pearly glacier behind, the miles-wide river of ice coming into view down the long slope of the mountains to the south and passing from view in the distance to the north. “Long was I trapped, though it seems but yester.”

  They turned and in single file crossed through the gap and started down into the broken land beyond.

  Down they fared and down, climbing over ridges and crossing ’round crevasses and lowering themselves down rock faces both slanting and sheer, the stone snow-covered or wind-scoured or ice-clad. Often did they stop and rest, for all were weary, especially Faeril, who had clambered up these same slopes only the night before. Additionally, they all were burdened with full backpacks, both Urus and Aravan carrying extra, that which would be given to Riatha when they came to her side. Too, Urus was weak, his frame gaunt and his clothing loose, and none knew, not even Urus, how he had managed to survive a thousand-year entrapment within the glacier. Gwylly considered it a miracle that Urus was alive at all, though neither Faeril nor Aravan ventured an opinion.

  And so, weak and weary and burdened, down and down the land they went, under lowering skies. And somewhere in the distance before them they hoped to find an Elfess standing watch o’er a monster’s lair.

  * * *

  It was late that drear afternoon when they came nigh the cliffs above Stoke’s bolt-hole. Cautioning silence, Faeril led them among the pines and through the newly fallen snow to the place where she and Riatha had set watch…

  …but the Elfess wasn’t there.

  Instead the snow was moiled with the spoor of Rūcks and Hlōks and Vulgs!

  His heart pounding, Gwylly wanted to shout out in anger, yet he clamped his lips tightly and forced his rage to remain within. And as they bent to examine the tracks, all was silent there ’mid the pines, but for the occasional chrk of a distant arctic ptarmigan and the soft sound of Faeril weeping at his side.

  CHAPTER 18

  Elusion

  Early Spring, 5E988

  [The Present]

  The wind blew chill as Riatha watched Faeril move off among the pines, the damman bearing word to the monastery that Stoke was of certain alive, bearing word as to the location of his bolt-hole. Slowly, Faeril went, backward up the slope, and with a pine bough swept out the traces of her passage as she threaded her way across the snow.

  Riatha continued to gaze in the direction Faeril had gone long after the damman was beyond seeing—May Adon protect thee, wee one—the Elfess’s heart torn between going with the Waerling and staying with the Rûpt, torn between protecting a friend and keeping close watch o’er foe. And so, long she looked up the slope, wondering if she had made the right choice.

  At last, however, Riatha turned her attention to the pines, her eyes seeking cones, for she had sent all the food with Faeril and needed to replenish her own stores. The boughs above swayed to and fro, snow sifting down from the branches. ’Tis likely a storm will fly on the wings of this wind. Would that F
aeril reach the cloister ere it comes.

  The Elfess spied a cone among the branches, its scales yet closed—any seeds would still be held within. She climbed, the limbs her hand- and footholds, and plucked the cone, finding two more hidden among the needled boughs. Clambering back down, she trudged to the next tree, and the next, and the one after, slowly moving among the forest, finding more cones as she went. When her pockets were full, she stopped and pried open the scales, shaking out the small nuts, no larger than a fat grain of rice or wheat, her mind returning to the discussion between Faeril and Gwylly concerning the span of a Dragon. How many cones would it take to yield up enough pine nuts to number the Dragon’s years…and how many trees, what size forest, would hold that many cones, my Faeril?

  On went the Elfess, collecting more. Had I a fire, then these could I roast…had I a pan. Too, I could use the inner bark of a pine to make a hearty soup…had I a fire and a vessel in which to hold the broth.

  The wind began gusting harder, and dark clouds ran across the skies. A two-edged sword is this blow, for I can use it to carry away the scent of a fire, yet at the same time I doubt not that the wind indeed bears a storm—Oh, Faeril, make haste, for I would have thee sheltered ere it strikes.

  Riatha walked north along the canyon wall, leaving Stoke’s bolt-hole behind, the Elfess moving with the wind and away. Far downwind a mile or more she found a shelter between a mountain rise and a great rock slab that leaned against it. There she built a small fire, out of the blow, and used it to melt more snow, replenishing her depleted water supply. She sat in the shelter and took a meal of pine nuts, the seeds nutritious and tasty. I will grow weary of such after a time, yet for now I savor them.

  All the while she sat, the fury of the wind grew. At last Riatha quenched the fire, hauling snow into the shelter and piling it high, until the ashes were deep under, all evidence hidden, all scent extinguished. Then she started back.