The Eye of the Hunter

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Niki laughed to see such, for she had never witnessed a boar Bear playing with a cub. In fact, it was well established that boars would at times harm cubs, were it not for the sows’ fierce protection. Yet here were two who proved to be the exception to the rule.

  The cub yawled and the boar roared, and the entire village came to see. But at last the boar Bear stood and shook himself, as did the cub, and together they ambled off into the woods.

  * * *

  “What do you mean it was Urus?” Niki’s question seemed to fill up the entire cottage.

  Uran sloshed oil into the lantern. “Love, there’s some that I never told you about the day we found Urus.” He stoppered up the jug and set it aside.

  “What? What didn’t you say?”

  Uran scrabbled under the bed and withdrew his morning star. “I’ve no time to tell you now. I’ve got to find him. Night’s coming on, and he’s out there, mayhap with a boar, mayhap alone.” He hooked the weapon to his belt.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “Oh, Niki, there’s a large boar involved, and should he go mad—”

  “I said, I’m coming with you!” Her tone brooked no refusal.

  Niki caught up another lantern and threw her cloak about her shoulders.

  Uran took a deep breath and let it out. “Well then, let’s be off.”

  Niki following, Uran stepped to the door and flung it open.

  And before him was Urus, the lad just then stepping onto the stoop, returning home. “Where we going, Da?” piped up the child.

  * * *

  Her chair creaking gently, Niki rocked back and forth, holding Urus, the younker asleep. “I don’t care if he is a Cursed One, still I love him. Even though he is not of our blood, he will always be my baby, my child…our child.

  “Oh, Uran, even had you told me this the first day you brought him home, still would we have kept him. We had no children of our own, though Adon knows we have tried”—Niki smiled—“and still do.”

  In the flickering candlelight she gazed down at Urus’s face, brushing a lock of his reddish hair back from his forehead. “Cursed or no, we would have kept him, for he is precious. He is precious.”

  Uran whittled on a block of wood. “They wanted him raised where he could learn the ways of Man.”

  Niki looked up at her husband.

  “The Hidden Ones, I mean,” continued Uran. “They were bringing him here…well, mayhap not here exactly, but to the Baeron, I’m certain.”

  Niki said nought, the rocker creaking, the knife whittling. After a moment—“I wonder who his sire and dam are.”

  “Most likely they are dead,” answered Uran. “Else they’d raise him on their own.”

  The Man stood and placed his carving on the mantel. It was the likeness of a Bear. “Let us to bed, love.”

  As they lay Urus in his bunk, Uran advanced one more opinion. “The Wrg are thick as thieves in the Grimwall. Why? None knows. Yet I think that they are responsible for making this lad of ours an orphan. What happened and why…well, like as not we’ll never know. One thing is clear, though, this lad is an orphan no more.”

  They blew out the candle and the silver Moon shone in the open window, lighting their way to bed.

  * * *

  Years fled, and Urus grew toward his Manhood, and when he came into his fullness, he towered some six feet, eight inches high and massed nearly twenty-two stone.

  The fact that he occasionally transformed into a huge Bear did not seem to cause great distress among the Baeron. In truth, when Urus took up border duty in the Grimwalls, his ability became an asset. Wrg had continued to gather in the mountains and several skirmishes had been fought at night, and Urus as a Man was a mighty fighter, but as a Bear he was devastating. And though often wounded, weapons did not seem to do him lasting harm, and his healing rate was phenomenal. It was told by the loremasters that only silver pure could do his kind permanent harm—that or starsilver.

  His prowess was sung of often at the Gathering, the annual Mid-Year’s Day convocation of the Baeron in The Clearing in the Greatwood to the south of the Great Greenhall Forest. There it was that tales of heroism were told, and songs of valor sung, and among these were stories of the Man who at times became a Bear.

  Still, he was cursed and knew it, and though he longed to love a Woman and to be loved in return, he held himself aloof from Women and made no advances, for he did not wish to pass his curse onto a child. And perhaps because of his aloofness, or perhaps because of his curse, Women made no advances to him.

  His foster parents, Niki and Uran, had never withheld from him that he was a foundling, not that it lessened their love for him or his love in return. But even though he was happy, Urus had always wondered at his origins, and resolved to one day find his roots somewhere in the vastness of the Grimwalls above Delon Island. Yet time and again, skirmishes against the Wrg prevented him from going on this quest, for his fighting skill was needed along the borders.

  He had been found in 4E1911, and thirty years later, in 4E1941, he was hailed as Chieftain by the Baeron of the Greenhall nigh Delon. Oh, he was not Chieftain over all the Baeron—Rau in the Greatwood held that honor—but Urus was made leader of his clan. When the Council announced their decision, Niki, her russet hair showing strands of grey, embraced and kissed him, saying. “Your father is likely to burst with pride.” And Uran was indeed proud, and he hugged Urus a fierce bear hug and slapped him on the back, and that night Uran and Uncle Beorc, both now in their fifties, drank themselves sick.

  Well and good did Urus lead the clan for the next three years. And then, one night…

  * * *

  Urus and his Warband of thirty had come upon the survivors camped at Haven, the long-abandoned way station on the Landover Road near the eastern rise up to the Crestan Pass, the stopover point nought but crumbling ruins. These people had been part of a waggon train attempting to cross over the pass in early winter. But snow had come, and the train had turned back, only to be ambushed by Wrg. Several had managed to hold out until sunrise, but Men and animals alike had been slaughtered, and now Women and children and the wounded were all that were left. The survivors had come back down on foot as far as these ruins, but as night drew nigh, they feared another attack.

  Urus and his Men tended the wounded as best they could, then set pickets about the perimeter of the camp as it began to snow.

  Four hours or so after sunset—“Who goes?”

  “I need help! I need help! They’ve got my wife!” A Man staggered out from the dark, out from the swirling snow. He was tall and gaunt and dressed in black, with black hair and a thin, straight nose and long-fingered hands. His skin was stark white against his ebon cloak, and his eyes were yellow.

  The guard led the Man to the Baeron campfire. “He came in from the southwest, Urus.”

  “Urus, are you the leader of these Men?”

  Urus nodded.

  Other Baeron had gathered ’round, and the Man jumped up onto the remains of a hut floor, the ruins acting as a platform. “I need help,” he appealed. “The Drik, they have my wife.”

  “Drik?” rumbled Urus. “Do you mean the Wrg, the Foul Folk?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s right, the Foul Folk. Six or eight. They attacked my steading. I fled. I thought she was behind me, but when I looked, they had her. I trailed them. They’re in a cave not far from here. Come with me. Oh, Urus, bring your Warband and come with me, or at least send some of your Men.”

  The hair on the back of Urus’s neck stood up. There’s something wrong here, as if—

  “Hurry, before they do something awful.”

  Arag turned to Urus. “Send me, Urus. They killed my wife and I would take my revenge.”

  More Men surged forward.

  “Wait!” called Urus. “We cannot leave the Women and children and the wounded unguarded.

  “Man, give me your name.”

  “Béla,” replied the yellow-eyed Man. “Oh, hurry.”

 
“Béla, you say that there are six or eight Wrg in the cave?” At the Man’s nod—“There are thirty of us. Arag, choose nine to go with you. The rest will stay to defend should the Wrg raiders come down from the pass. I will remain as well, for the raiders number many, and I would serve better here.

  “And, Arag. Take care, for there may be more than just six or eight.”

  Arag nodded and chose nine of the volunteers. Within moments they were gone into the night, following Béla away from the camp and into the spinning snow.

  * * *

  The night passed without attack, and toward morning the snow stopped falling. Dawn came, and as the Baeron and members of the waggon train prepared to follow Landover Road to the Great Greenhall, Urus scanned the hills to the southwest. He saw nothing but empty white ’scape rolling up to the dark Grimwalls in the distance.

  “Where be Arag?” he growled, but there was no answer.

  Raff came to his side. “They are ready to march. Urns.”

  Urus sighed and turned away from the mountains. “Then, let us away. Arag and the Men are seasoned warriors and can follow when they will. But if aught has happened…”

  Raff waited, but Urus did not complete the thought. “If aught has happened,” concluded Raff, “then Waroo has seen to it that we cannot track Arag and the others.”

  “Aye,” agreed Urus, knowing that Raff spoke of the hearthtale White Bear who claws his way over the mountains to bring snow unto the lands below. And now Urus looked across the unmarked ’scape, pristine white under the morning Sun. “Waroo has indeed seen to that.”

  And so they set off, escorting the survivors to the Greenhall, Urus’s heart filled with anxiety.

  * * *

  “Drik?” Uran turned to his son. “Why, I believe that is the Wrg word for Rutcha.”

  “Wrg word? You mean Slûk?”

  “Aye, the Slûk tongue.”

  “Damn!” Urus slammed a clenched fist into his palm. “Damn! I knew there was something wrong! The stranger, Béla, if that’s his true name, he said Drik!

  “If he did, son, Adon knows what he might be up to. The Men who went with him mayhap are at grave risk. I think we had better gather up a party and go looking.” At Urus’s nod, Uran added, “I’ll get Beorc.”

  * * *

  Two days later, again Urus led a Warband to the sparse ruins of Haven. On the march they had seen no sign of Arag and the nine others. It had been five days since Urus was here last—it had taken three days to escort the survivors unto shelter in the Great Greenhall, and but two days to return—five days in which disaster could have befallen those who had followed Béla into the night.

  “From the Grimwall he came, did Béla,” rumbled Urus, “there, to the southwest, and though it may have been a ploy, southwest shall we search.”

  Urus divided the Warband into four groups of ten each, and they fanned out ’cross the open wold. The rest of the day they searched as well as all of the next. But mid-afternoon of the following day, the group led by Beorc came upon Regar, one of the nine, fleeing through a stand of woods, running away from the dark stone of the nearby mountains. The young Man fell into his rescuers’ arms and wept uncontrollably.

  Beorc sounded his ram’s horn, and within the hour all had gathered, and Regar, his lips drawn thin with distress, his voice choked with fear, told his horrid tale to Urus.

  “…into the caves we went, and Stoke managed to drug us all. How? A vapor, I think, though it could have been otherwise: When we awoke, we were in chains, to be used in his—his—” Regar burst into tears.

  Uran clutched Regar unto himself, shushing the Man as he would a child.

  “His experiments,” supplied Beorc, his eyes hard as flint, repeating what he had gotten from Regar earlier. “To be used in his experiments.”

  Urus ground his teeth in suppressed rage. “This Stoke, he is Béla?”

  Regar was in no condition to answer, so again Beorc spoke for him. “Aye, lad. He’s one and the same.”

  Pushing away from Uran, Regar turned to Urus and gritted, “Aye, Baron Stoke he names himself. And, yes, he performed his experiments on the others.”—Regar’s eyes went wide in remembered horror. “Urus, the Baron, he…”—Regar clenched his fists so tightly that blood seeped where his nails cut into his palms, and the timbre of his voice steadied—”…he started at Arag’s feet and began flaying him, skinning him alive! while all the rest of us watched and tried to cover our ears to shut out the shrieks.

  “But that’s not all, Urus, that’s not all…for after he had flensed him, flensed Arag, then he impaled him, with this—this…Arag was not dead. He was not dead. He was not—”

  Again Regar broke.

  Urus glanced at the sky and at Regar’s trail leading back to the Grimwall. “Before this night is done, Regar, we shall avenge Arag.” Urus motioned to Kael and Bora, and the two forward scouts nodded and shouldered their packs and took up their spears, readying themselves for backtracking.

  Urus turned to Beorc. “What of the others?”

  “Like Arag, all dead.”

  Urus gripped Regar by the shoulders; the young Man stood withdrawn into himself. “Regar, we are going back into those caverns, all forty-one of us if you’ll come. If you do not wish to go, I will understand. We will all understand. I will send some Men with you if you wish to leave this place forever, if you wish to return unto the safety of the Greenhall. But if your heart cries out for vengeance…”

  Regar raised his head and looked Urus in the eye. Fear dwelled deep within Regar’s gaze, yet rage was held therein as well. “He must die, my Chieftain. He must die.”

  Regar held up his hands. His wrists were raw and bleeding where shackles had been. “I managed to kill my jailor, him with the key. And I escaped, the last one alive. I do not easily go back into that Hèlhole, nor readily, but Stoke must die.” Regar raised his right hand before his face and clenched his fist so hard that it shook, and his voice grated out, “Stoke. Must. Die.”

  “Get this Man a weapon,” called Urus, and three warriors stepped forward to offer up one of their own.

  * * *

  Day was almost done when they came to the cavern, the short winter twilight on the land. “There it be, Urus,” said Bora, one of the forward scouts, his voice low.

  “Then let us go,” gritted Urus, “while all are yet within.”

  Into the caves they went, to find the Wrg stirring. Mighty was the battle, forty-one Baeron ’gainst more than twice that many Foul Folk. Spear and mace, morning star and axe, all clashed with scimitar and cudgel, iron bar and tulwar. Too, fang and claw slashed and tore as a raging Bear faced Rutcha and Vulg alike and rent them asunder. Black blood and red stained the walls and slickened the floor, and when it was over, twelve Baeron lay dead, one of whom was Regar. Of the Foul Folk, eighty-nine Rutch and four Vulgs had been slain.

  But of Baron Stoke there was not a sign. He had fled into the night.

  After binding their wounds, the surviving Baeron found the flayed corpses of the nine. They were laid out on slabs; each had been impaled, their abdomens burst open.

  Weeping, the Men took Stoke’s victims and those slain in battle, and they built a great funeral pyre, the flames roaring up into the sky. And that night, heeding no protest, Urus stepped down from the Chieftainship of the clan, turning the responsibility over to his father, Uran, until the Council decreed otherwise.

  “Sire, I pledge myself to ridding the world of this evil monster who calls himself Baron Stoke. Tell my mother that I shall think of her often.”

  Urus would not allow any to accompany him, for he held himself responsible for the death of all who had fallen, both to Stoke’s madness and to the Wrg. And that night he disappeared, and seven years were to pass ere he would return unto the Great Greenhall…

  * * *

  As to the Baeron, the Council made Uran Chieftain of the Clan, though this time there was no celebration by him and Beorc.

  The following year, word of the slau
ghter spread throughout the Great Greenhall, a forest named Darda Erynian by the Elves who lived therein. And one of those who heard of Stoke’s monstrous deeds was a golden-haired Elf named Talar, a Lian Guardian who felt it his duty to run the Baron to earth. And so he dispatched a scroll unto his golden-haired sister, Riatha, in Arden Vale, telling her of his quest.

  Talar began his search in the late spring of 4E1945, six months after the night of slaughter.

  * * *

  Baron Stoke had fled that bloody night in November of 4E1944. Where? None knew. For seven years Urus followed every rumor: into Riamon, into Gûnar, into Jord, and finally in the winter of ’51, into Aven, into the Grimwalls north of Nordlake, then south and east to Vulfcwmb.

  There in Vulfcwmb, in the Red Weasel tavern, he met an Elfess named Riatha and a Waldan named Tomlin, also on the track of Baron Stoke. Riatha’s brother had been slain by Stoke, and that’s why she sought him. As to the Waldan, Tomlin’s sire and dam and his dammsel, Petal, and Petal’s sire, had all been kidnapped that very night by Stoke’s lackeys. And those in the tavern knew of Stoke’s whereabouts, for he had returned to his old haunts to once again terrorize the region.

  At last Urus knew that he drew nigh the monster.

  Tomlin, Riatha, and Urus banded together, and the next night came upon Stoke’s holt, a black bartizan high on the face of a sheer cliff.

  But again Stoke escaped, and Urus was nigh slain. Yet they discovered that Stoke was a shapechanger—into Vulg and flying creature could he shift his shape. Like Urus, Stoke, too, was a Cursed One, though unlike Urus, Stoke was truly a monster.

  They had managed to free Petal, and she joined their quest, for she had witnessed the deaths of her sire and of Tomlin’s sire and dam. Stoke had flensed them and impaled them as well.

  * * *

  Two years passed, and in 4E1953 again they followed a rumor, this time to Vancha.

  In Dreadholt nigh Daemon’s Crag they cornered Stoke, and believed that he perished in a raging fire.

  This time it was Riatha who nearly died, and Urus discovered that he was by now hopelessly in love with her; but she was Elven and immortal, and he was Cursed and a Man, and so he kept his feelings unto himself, returning to the Great Greenhall without speaking his heart to her.