The Eye of the Hunter

by Dennis L McKiernan

Urus started to object, but Aravan cut him off. “She is right, Urus.”

  “When I reach the top, I will lower a rope. Wait for my signal ere climbing. I will tug three times when it is safe.”

  Up went the Elfess, slowly, free-climbing an offset join where abutted two columns of the massive blocks, jamming fingers and feet into narrow crevices, keeping three points anchored while shifting the fourth, making certain of her support ere moving on. The distance to the openings in the castellated wall was some forty feet above, the very top some five feet beyond. And it took her an eternity to travel those forty feet.

  Just ere reaching the top, Riatha paused and listened, hearing nought. Carefully, she clambered on up the merlon, and when she could, she stepped into the crenel.

  Again she listened…silence. She risked a quick look, then ducked back. The patrol was just leaving the southwest corner, coming her way.

  Quickly, carefully, Riatha sought to regain her hand- and footholds on the merlon, racing against time yet moving slowly, small bits of loose mortar falling into the darkness below. At last she discovered her former holds and moved back onto the wall.

  There she held—it seemed forever—yet at last the guards scuffed past. When they had moved sufficiently beyond, back into the crenel she stepped. Shaking with tension and fatigue, the Elfess uncoiled a rope, and after another quick look, anchored the small grapnel by two tines over the top of the merlon. Down she payed out the line, and when she felt the tug from below, she returned the signal with three quick pulls.

  Urus came up first, the big Man haling hand over hand, stepping into the crenel beside her. “There’s a ramp downward just across the banquette,” whispered Riatha. “Go when it is safe.”

  Urus peered out at the corners opposite, then risked a glance at those adjacent. Moving in swift grace and silence, suddenly he was across and down.

  Again Riatha tugged on the line, and up swarmed Aravan, as a sailor would swarm up rigging.

  While the Elf unhooked the grapnel and recoiled the line, Riatha slipped across the walkway and down the ramp.

  In quick succession, Aravan followed.

  Down in the moonshade behind the outbuildings the three gathered. Following the wall, they glided through the dark, heading ’round the back and to the opposite side. Several times they paused, while soldiers passed in the moonlight. At last they circled to the far wall. Passing between buildings, they came to the flagstone pave. Across the way and slightly toward the rear of the citadel, they could see a garden, several palm trees scattered among the low-lying shrubs. In the midst of the trees stood the statue described by Riatha—a Man on horseback. Above and to the left, three storeys up was a dark window, barred. “There,” hissed Riatha, pointing. “There is the chamber where last I saw Faeril and Gwylly.”

  Aravan looked across the bailey. “We will be in open moonlight as we cross over, and the wall we must scale is illumined by the silver beams.”

  “Nevertheless,” growled Urus, “we must cross and climb.”

  “What of the bars?” queried Riatha.

  “Just get a rope ’round them,” responded Urus. “The Bear will take care of the rest.”

  Aravan’s eyes widened, then he looked at Riatha. “Thou stay on the ground with the Bear, Dara. This time it is I who will climb.”

  “If the stone permits,” amended the Elfess.

  They waited until the patrol above had passed to the far side of the central dome. No one was in sight in the courtyard, and the corner sentries seemed to be watching the ’scape beyond the walls. Across the flagstone and into the garden they scurried, and they crouched down behind the broad pedestal supporting the statue, listening for calls of alarm; none were sounded.

  The sculpture they hid behind was carved in the likeness of the Emir, somewhat more heroic than the tall, portly Prince, yet recognizable.

  Hearing no challenges, they made their way to the wall of the building, finding only hairline seams between the red marble slabs cladding the side of the building, nothing that would permit free-climbing.

  “Vash!” cursed Aravan. “We cannot use rocknails; the pounding will bring the guards.” He stood back and gazed upward. “A grapnel, then…”

  “The noise,” warned Riatha.

  Urus began ripping cloth from the hem of his shirt. “We will muffle the tines.”

  They wrapped fabric about the hooks and haft of the small grapnel, and waited until the patrol had passed from sight again and the corner guards were looking outward. Aravan then made the toss, the grappling hook catching on the bars the very first cast, a faint muffled thud the only sound.

  Aravan reversed his cloak, for although its color did not match that of the stone, the shade of the inner cloth more closely resembled the tone of the marble. “I will signal when I am ready.”

  Again they waited until the patrol passed from view, then up swarmed the Elf. At the window he looked into the room, and by the pale moonlight shining inward, he could see a bed and two small forms upon it.

  Holding onto the heavy ornate grille Aravan loosened the grapnel, reaching under the frame and through and resetting the spikes to catch the sill beyond. Then one-handed, he looped a slipknot in the line, fixing a snapring therein. The ring he clipped to his climbing harness, and after making certain that the hook would hold, he let the line bear his weight.

  Doubling a second line and tying it about the bars, he payed both ends down to those waiting below.

  And he held his breath and did not move as the patrol on the ramparts slowly paced into view.

  They stood and spoke with the corner guard for some time, then laughing, slowly moved on. They made some remark in passing to the next corner guard, and he, too, burst out in laughter as the pair on patrol continued their stately pace.

  Aravan let out a sigh of relief as they moved beyond seeing.

  And down below, beneath the trees, from the midst of a shimmering darkness emerged the Bear.

  Quickly Riatha fashioned a simple rope harness and looped it about the Bear, the beast uncooperative, snuffling among the flowers, digging up bulbs to eat. At last all was ready.

  “Urus, pull!” hissed the Elfess.

  The Bear looked at this two-legs standing beside him, her hair pale in the bright night. Then he swung his head about, peering over his shoulder at the ropes arcing up through the trees. “Whuff.” He ambled forward several paces, until the ropes grew taut. And then he leaned into them, pulling, the lines stretching…to no avail.

  And whispering in his ear was this two-legs, urging him on.

  Harder he pulled and harder, knowing that something was supposed to happen, but whatever it was, it wasn’t happening. Instead it was defying him.

  RRRAAAWWWW! he roared, angered beyond his limits—

  —the mighty bellow echoing throughout the courtyards, crashing among the buildings and walls of the citadel— RRRAAAWWWW!…RRRAAAWWWWW…RRRaaawwww…Rrraaawwww…awwww…www…

  Spang! snapped the anchoring rods supporting the cage of bars at the window, frame and all bursting outward, arcing down into the garden below, the Bear whirling and growling and biting at the now slack rope, the two-legs beside him hissing “Urus! Urus!” in his ear.

  Above, Aravan whipped up and over the sill and into the room, drawing up his climbing rope after.

  And on the walls, guards shouted—their own cries a confusion of echoes—and whirled about, peering outward into the moonlit ’scape, and inward at the courtyard below, unable to locate the source of the horrendous sound.

  Barracks doors slammed open, and a clatter of running footsteps was heard, soldiers erupting into the bailey, their weapons in hand.

  “Urus, change!” called Riatha in the Bear’s ear as the beast found the rope slack, lifeless, slain, and stopped growling.

  The Bear looked at the two-legs, then sat on his rump. And a dark shimmering came upon him, and swiftly he changed, Urus emerging.

  “Garn!” he cursed, remembering all, slipping out fro
m the rope harness, Riatha hissing, “Quickly, we must hide.”

  They scuttled behind the pedestal of the statue, Urus hauling in the rope and pulling the window bars to him, unfastening the line from the iron.

  In the bailey, guards raced past, heading for the front of the building.

  And in the room above, Aravan stepped to the bed, finding Gwylly and Faeril lying unconscious, their breathing shallow, each Waerling’s pulse rapid and thready.

  The Elf looped the rope under Faeril’s arms and about her chest, then picked the damman up and bore her to the window. Peering out, he could see warders racing past, running toward the front wall, as if expecting an attack, their shouts echoing in the sidecourt. Upon the ramparts, other warders stood, looking outward, seeking foe.

  Momentarily the side yard cleared, and swiftly Aravan lowered Faeril down into the garden. In the darkness below, Riatha scurried to the damman’s side, taking loose the line, casting it free, Aravan snaking it up and in.

  Moments later, down came Gwylly, and as soon as the buccan touched the ground, Aravan swung over the sill, pausing only long enough to pull the inside shutters to, then he slid down afterward. As Urus bore Gwylly to the base of the statue, Aravan flipped loose the grapnel from the window above and followed.

  “I like this not,” said Riatha, raising her ear from Faeril’s breast, then feeling Gwylly’s pulse. “These Waerlinga are dying. We must get them to a safe place where we can treat them.”

  As more guards rushed past the garden, the Elfess withdrew a packet from beneath her cloak, drawing out two gwynthyme mint leaves. She put one in her mouth, handing the other to Urus. “Here, chew but do not swallow. Spit the liquid into Gwylly’s mouth.”

  As Urus followed her directions, Riatha did the same for Faeril, buccan and damman both reflexively swallowing.

  “Now the pulp,” Riatha directed, placing the tiny cud inside Faeril’s cheek, Urus following her example, tucking the pulp into Gwylly’s.

  “Now we must hie from here,” declared Riatha, “yet we cannot simply bear the Waerlinga in the open.”

  “Under our cloaks, then,” suggested Aravan, “strapped to our backs. Urus with Gwylly, Faeril with me.”

  Aravan rigged a rope harness, a simple boatswain’s chair, passing a line around each of Gwylly’s thighs and about his waist and chest, fixing the buccan’s rigging to Urus’s climbing harness. The unconscious Waerling was now borne by the Baeran much the same as a low-slung backpack, or as some Folk bore their babies. Turning to, Faeril, Aravan repeated the process, and Riatha aided him in strapping the damman onto his own back.

  Throwing their cloaks over the Waerlinga, Urus and Aravan signified they were ready.

  “Then let us away from here,” said Riatha. “In this confusion, I say we walk in the open.”

  Urus nodded. “To the ramp and up and over the wall, then. Three ropes. Grapnels. Sliding down.”

  Aravan grunted his agreement, fastening his scarf across his face, hiding his features, cinching on his climbing gloves, Urus and Riatha following his example.

  And the three stepped forth from behind the pedestal.

  Of a sudden, hindward shouted a voice. “Shû ‘ammâl ta‘mil?”

  Whirling about, the trio saw a gold-turbaned Man at the garden edge. Urus and Riatha started to reach for their weapons, but Aravan hissed, “No!” The Elf gestured widely at the garden, calling out, “Fattish ‘ala a‘âdi, Jemadar.”

  “Taiyib! Kammal!”

  “Na’am yâ sîdi.”

  As the Man strode on past, Aravan made a great show of searching the bushes, Riatha and Urus imitating his example. When the jemadar was beyond earshot, Aravan whispered to his two companions, “Continue to the far end of the garden, for he may look back. I told him we search for enemies.”

  “I gathered as much,” rumbled Urus.

  As soon as the Man vanished beyond the far corner, the trio left the garden and walked swiftly ’round the rear of the building and headed for the central ramp up to the battlements. Along the way, they passed several groups of soldiers hastening on errands of their own, and each time they steeled themselves for discovery. Yet none took notice of the trio hurrying through the pale moonlight.

  Up the ramp they went and to the walls, now manned heavily, soldiers scanning the countryside. Even so, most were congregated near the corners, and the trio saw three open crenels nearby. Aravan looked at his companions and gestured, indicating which each would take, and they stepped to the openings.

  Snapping open the tines on the grappling hooks, Riatha, Urus, and Aravan set the grapnels. Then, as if leaning out to look, they dropped the concealed ropes straight down.

  Glancing at one another, “Hai!” called Aravan, and as one they leapt into the crenels and were over the wall and sliding down, sentries on the battlements gaping at the three. “Waugh!” cried one in astonishment, then, “Jemadar! A‘âdi!”

  It was forty feet down, yet in a trice they were on the ground and running, dashing through the pale moonlight over the broken terrain, racing for the gully where were tied the horses, cries of alarm mingled with shouted orders coming from behind. They had run a hundred feet or so when the first arrow struck among the rocks to one side. None of the trio risked a glance behind, and onward they hurtled, yells and shouts following.

  Now several arrows shattered into the ground nearby, some glancing away before them. And though the moonlight was pale, on they raced, trusting to Elven eyes and the eyes of a BearLord to see the way.

  They came to a shallow fold. Here Urus stopped, crouching down, calling to Aravan. “The Waldana!” he shouted. “We cannot use them as shields.” But Aravan was already in the ditch, and like Urus, unbuckled his climbing harness to swing the Waerling into his arms.

  Behind, Men slid down the ropes, coming in pursuit.

  Up leapt Urus and Aravan, running again, bearing the Warrows before them to shield the Wee Ones from the hissing arrows. Swiftly they pounded beyond the range of an accurate cast, yet still shafts clattered about, the archers trusting to fortune to guide their missiles.

  Riatha, racing ahead, came to the gulch, and her heart leapt into her throat, for she saw no horses! Left she looked, her eyes following the gully up slope. There they are!

  “This way!” she called, dashing uphill.

  Now Urus and Aravan followed, each cradling an unconscious Warrow.

  Behind, Men shouted and ran toward them, some stumbling and falling in their haste, not blessed with the vision of Elvenkind.

  And then Riatha came riding up and out from the gulch, haling Aravan’s and Urus’s steeds trailing after. Holding the Warrows, up the two mounted, and crying, “Yah! Yah!” down into the gulch and away galloped the three, bearing their two precious burdens, outstripping the hue and cry.

  * * *

  After a short sprint through the gully, down its length and out, the three slowed, for the ground was rough, and it would be disastrous for a horse to fall in this rocky land, to perhaps break a leg.

  Yet soon they reached the road of the pass and increased their pace to a canter, heading into the mountains.

  “We must stop and tend the Waerlinga,” called Riatha.

  Aravan looked back toward Nizari. “Not immediately, Dara, for the Emir’s Men pursue.”

  In the near distance they could see a troop of mounted horsemen come bursting out from the gate to thunder toward them.

  Now did the trio kick their mounts to a gallop and race ahead in the shadow-wrapped defile.

  And the hammering pursuit relentlessly followed.

  * * *

  Shattering echoes of pounding hooves shocked throughout the defile, the trio of steeds sounding as would a cavalry as they plunged headlong among the twisting turns, the silver Moon shedding light for the steeds to run by, though often they hurtled through pools of blackness.

  In the lead Aravan rode with Faeril, Urus and Gwylly on his heels, Riatha coming last. Now and again the Elfess thought she could
hear the sounds of riders behind, though among the reverberations she could not be certain.

  A mile or more they galloped, perhaps two in all, before Aravan slowed his horse to a trot, calling back to the others, “We cannot keep up a full-running pace, else we will kill the horses. If any are to slay their steeds, let it be our pursuers.”

  From the rear Riatha spoke: “I deem we are yet two leagues, nearly three, from the way to Stoke’s mosque, a ravine our guide seemed disinclined to enter. Mayhap those who follow will feel the same, can we reach it first.”

  “Winds of Fortune,” rumbled Urus.

  “Thy meaning?” asked Aravan.

  “That Men pursue even though we ride where the Emir would have us go.”

  “Winds of Fortune, indeed,” responded Aravan, “for we would deal with Stoke regardless of the Emir’s schemes.”

  “Aye,” said Urus. “Would that the Bear had not roared; we would not likely be fleeing now.”

  Riatha rode up beside Urus. “Mayhap, love, yet I ween that had the Bear not gotten angry, the bars would not have come down.”

  On they rode—Urus cradling Gwylly, Aravan holding Faeril—the miles consumed by trotting steeds. Yet now from behind they of a certain could hear the clatter of following hooves. How near or far, they could not say, for the echoes strengthened and faded.

  At last they came to the slot cleaving away to the left of the pass. But ere they entered, Urus halted his horse. Dismounting, he handed Gwylly up to Riatha, the unconscious buccan still swaddled with rope and attached to Urus’s loose climbing harness. Too, Urus handed over the reins of his horse to the Elfess. “Here, love, take Gwylly and my horse. I have yet one trick to play to shake off our pursuers.”

  A stricken look washed over Riatha’s face, yet unquestioningly she took the buccan and the reins of the steed. “We will ride the gulch several furlongs and wait. Vi chier ir, Urus.”

  “And I, you,” he replied, softly touching her hand. “Now go.”

  And the hooves of the followers clattered toward them.

  Aravan leading, into the slot they rode and away from sight. Urus listened to the sound of the pursuers a moment, then stepped into the shadows of the notch.