The Eye of the Hunter

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Each was fitted with his climbing harness, though it was planned for Aravan alone to clamber down within the canyon to gather whatever petals he could, while Urus stood above, paying out and anchoring the line.

  Dusk washed over the mountains, quickly followed by the nighttide, and soon only the stars cast their glimmering light upon the two below.

  Along the rim of the gulch they moved, peering down within, seeking white blossoms.

  “When will they open, I wonder?” murmured Urus.

  “I know not,” responded Aravan. “Nimué did not say.”

  An hour passed, and Urus hissed to Aravan. “Look there.”

  On the canyon wall some three yards below Urus’s feet a white blossom had turned its face to the starlight, as if seeking the scintillant gleams.

  Quickly Urus snapped the rope to Aravan’s harness, and backward over the lip and down walked the Elf.

  When he reached the flower he inhaled its fragrance. “Its smell is somewhat like that of an ordinary white rose,” he softly called to Urus, “yet more subtle.”

  Taking care, Aravan plucked a single petal, wrapping it in a soft dark cloth, stuffing all in his jerkin pocket. Then up he swarmed, coming again to the rim.

  They placed a small cairn of stones upon the lip above the Nightrose, marking it so that they would not pluck from this one’s blossom again.

  On they searched, roaming the canyon brim, peering down into the shadows below.

  Once again Urus espied a blossom, and as Aravan plucked a petal from its bloom, in the distance he saw a third Nightrose.

  Two more hours passed ere they saw the next white blossom, and as Aravan was down within the canyon he softly called up to Urus. “The blue stone, Urus, it grows chill.”

  Swiftly Aravan clambered up to the rim, and he and Urus lay on their stomachs and watched the shadows below. At last they heard the clip-clop of an oncoming mount, the sound echoing such that they could not tell which way it approached. Finally, ’round the bend and heading southward came a rider. Corpse white he was, with jet black hair. He wore a heavy dark cloak over his clothing, and in his hand he bore a cruel-barbed spear. A tulwar was girted at his waist, and black breeks and boots clad his legs and feet. He wore no helm, but around his neck was a spiked steel collar, wide and thick, as if to protect against beheadment.

  The mount that bore him was horselike, but no horse this. Instead it was hairless and had cloven hooves, and as it passed below, the two on the rim could see that it had a snakelike, scaled tail. And a foetid stench drifted up to the watchers.

  Of a sudden the beast squealed and stopped, its nostrils flaring, head casting about as if attempting to scent something or someone. The rider glared and gritted words in Slûk, harsh and guttural, yet he, too, looked about, searching.

  Aravan and Urus slid back from the rim, out of sight, and the Elf clasped his blue amulet tightly, his eyes closed.

  Heartbeats passed, and then they heard a glottal command and the sound of hooves pacing away. After a moment, cautiously, Urus peered over the brim, watching as the rider and steed moved onward, around a bend, disappearing from sight, bearing southward in the direction where Stoke’s strongholt was said to lie.

  When the rider was beyond hearing, Aravan breathed, “Ghûlk! And Hèlsteed, too!”

  Urus glanced over his shoulder, eyeing his and Aravan’s horses tethered to brush some distance back from the rim, knowing that if the mounts caught full scent of the Hèlsteed, riderless they would bolt in panic. The horses shifted about uneasily at the faint trace of malodor reaching them, but settled as the drift of air carried it away.

  Urus turned to Aravan. “Think you that the Hèlsteed caught our scent? Is that why it stopped? If so—”

  Aravan shook his head. “Nay, Urus. I deem instead that it sensed the warding of the amulet; some creatures are more sensitive to it than others. I tried to use the stone to will the creature on its way. Mayhap I succeeded, mayhap not. Regardless, the beast and its rider are now gone.

  “Even so, that Ghûlk and Hèlsteed are here is ill news, for I thought all perished in the Winter War.”

  Urus grunted. “I know nothing of this Winter War but that which I have been told. Yet I do know of the Guula. A dreadful foe. Nearly unkillable. Wounds do not harm them unless they come from silver or a special blade.”

  Aravan nodded. “Aye, but there is this, too. Wood through the heart—stake or spear or e’en arrow—beheading, dismemberment, fire, the light of day: these will kill the Ghûlk as well.”

  Urus stood. “Even so, Aravan, if Stoke is drawing these allies unto him, then we will face dire foe.”

  “Aye, Urus, and forget not the Hèlsteeds, for they are deadly on their own and should not be underestimated.”

  Urus took up the rope still attached to the Elf’s harness. “What other enemies, I ask, will we meet in Stoke’s mosque? Rutcha and Drōkha of a certainty, Guula and Hèlsteed as well…”

  As Aravan walked backward over the lip, he added to Urus’s list. “Forget not the Vulgs, Urus. And if Stoke is collecting our enemies of old, then he perhaps has Trolls, too.”

  A grim look came upon Urus’s visage and he muttered, “Ogrus.”

  * * *

  Bearing the eighth and final petal, Aravan clambered up over the rim. Urus glanced at the sky, trying to judge the depth of the night. As Aravan unbuckled his harness, he said, “We have yet one hour ere the Moon rises, Urus. Mayhap enough time to start treatment this very nighttide.”

  The Baeran slung the coiled rope and his own climbing harness over his shoulder. “Then let us ride.”

  Swiftly they strode to their horses, untethering the steeds and mounting up, spurring them into action, riding for the sanctuary within the stone. The terrain was rough and they could not gallop or even canter, though here and there they could go at a trot. Even so, they covered the three miles in less than an hour.

  Into the dim interior of the stone passageway they rode, emerging once again in the hollow behind, Elven eyes and those of a BearLord adequate in the glimmer of starlight seeping in through the high openings above.

  As Riatha stood and stepped toward them, “Light the fire, Dara,” said Aravan. “We were successful.”

  In mere moments a tiny blaze sprang up, its faint light but barely illuminating the interior above that of the stars shining in.

  Urus unsaddled the horses as Riatha and Aravan spoke of the treatment yet again. The Baeran curried the beasts, finishing with one as the water came to a boil.

  Setting the pot aside from the flame, Riatha carefully shredded a Moon-white petal of the Nightrose into the steeping water, quickly followed by a golden leaf of gwynthyme. As she fragmented the Nightrose, “Lily, mountain laurel, and rose,” she murmured, describing the combination of scents drifting up from the white petal.

  Aravan took the blue stone from his neck and, dangling it by its thong, immersed it in the hot liquid, stirring slowly.

  Riatha repeated the shredding, another flower petal and mint leaf joining the first ones.

  They sat fretting, Aravan stirring, now and then reversing direction. At last Riatha said, “We have but a quarter hour till the Moon rises,” relying on her Elven gift for knowing at all times where stand the Sun, Moon, and stars.

  Aravan continued to stir slowly. “It will be on the other side of the range, Dara; yet even so, I too would that we be finished with this first treatment ere the Moon broaches the horizon beyond.”

  Finished with the horses, Urus came and sat to one side.

  Aravan leaned over the steeped tea, inhaling its fragrance, then he held the pot out for Riatha to smell. “What think thee, Dara? I can no longer sense the gwynthyme alone nor the smell of the Nightrose.”

  Riatha gently inhaled. “Aye, it is ready.”

  Pouring two cupfuls, Aravan took one and knelt at Faeril’s side, Riatha moving to Gwylly’s. Carefully, a few drops at a time, they spooned the warm liquid into Waerling mouths, Faeril and Gwylly refle
xively swallowing.

  Slowly the liquid diminished, yet the desperate Elves did not hurry, even though it was but minutes until the waning quarter Moon would break above the unseen horizon.

  At last, “I am finished,” said Riatha, wiping Gwylly’s mouth.

  Moments later, “So am I,” said Aravan, setting his cup aside.

  “Not an instant too soon,” said Riatha, settling back on her heels, “for the Moon rises even…now.”

  That’s when Gwylly began screaming.

  So, too, did Faeril.

  * * *

  Over the next three days, Riatha, Aravan, and Urus took turns stepping outside to escape the dreadful pain within, yet unable to flee from the wrenching at their hearts.

  And one at a time Riatha clutched each Waerling to her breast, singing softly and rocking, tears streaming down her face as the Wee One in her arms writhed, the pain beyond all endurance, their mouths stretched wide in silent agony, screaming without letup though they emitted no sound, their voices lost in the first hour of shrieking.

  After the second treatment both Gwylly and Faeril opened their eyes, yet their gazes were wild and unseeing. And they thrashed about and clawed at themselves, and would have fled if they could have, their silent words shrilling into the hearts of those who tended them. It burns! It burns! Everything burns! Oh, Adon, Adon, it burns!

  Urus suggested that the two be immersed in the pool, but that only seemed to make things worse. And so they held the Wee Ones to them, trying to comfort them but failing, their endless raw screams crying out and piercing the heart even though there was no sound but hissing air.

  When came the third dose of Nightrose and gwynthyme, Gwylly looked into Riatha’s eyes, his own gaze mad, frantic, the faint remnants of his voice crying out, “Oh, Adon, why do you hurt me so?”

  And when Riatha tried to get him to sip the tea, he violently shoved her away, his whispers shrieking, “No, no, no…”

  It was all they could do between them to hold him still and force down the tea.

  And they wept as they did so.

  Then they turned to Faeril, her own eyes mad with pain.

  And Aravan shouted for all the world to hear, “Emir! Bastard! For this thou art dead!”

  * * *

  Throughout the following day the whispered shrilling slowly diminished and just ere dusk ceased altogether. Riatha put her ear to the breast of each Waerling. “Oh, Adon, they hang but by a thread,” she said, her eyes flooding with tears.

  Aravan glanced at the oak tree. “Nimué said it was a two-edged sword, cutting both ways. Life or death, we know not which it will yield.”

  The stillness in the sanctuary fell upon them all, only the soft trickle of water echoing within. “Sleep,” said Aravan at last. “I will watch.”

  Exhausted, Urus and Riatha did not argue, and immediately fell aslumber.

  It was three hours ere dawn when Faeril stirred, rolling over to see Aravan’s silhouette against the starlight. She tried to speak yet could not, her voice gone.

  Aravan swiftly knelt beside her, feeling her pulse, then clasped her to him, kissing her on the brow, his eyes filled with tears of relief.

  Again she tried to whisper and failed. Even so, Aravan sensed her needs, giving over to the damman a cup of water and a crue biscuit. But the Waerling fell back to sleep before she could finish either.

  Some two hours later, Gwylly awoke, his pulse strong, and Aravan hugged him and kissed him and gave him water and crue as well. The buccan managed to consume both biscuit and drink before collapsing again.

  * * *

  The following day Aravan slept, Riatha and Urus now watching over buccan and damman.

  In mid-afternoon, again Gwylly awakened, and as he took more water and another biscuit, Faeril came around, too.

  Gwylly managed a smile at his dammia, and she wanly smiled back at him. He inched his way to her and gave her a kiss, whispering in her ear. A great grin washed over her features, and she would have laughed, but her voice was gone. Even so, she motioned to Urus and whispered in his ear, and his great rolling laughter echoed throughout the sanctuary.

  Urus turned to Riatha. “Gwylly says, ‘This adventuring, some fun, neh?’”

  Again the cavern rang with laughter.

  * * *

  The days passed slowly, Riatha, Urus, and Aravan swiftly recovering from their wretched days and nights, Faeril and Gwylly recuperating much more slowly.

  Aravan told the buccan and damman what had befallen: of their rescue and flight, of the finding of the sanctuary, of Nimué and the Nightroses, of the Ghûlk and Hèlsteed, of the treatments.

  Urus told of the Bear roaring twice: the first time imperiling the rescue; the second time routing pursuit, the Warrows silently laughing over this latter, their voices not yet recovered.

  Riatha reminded all that there was one treatment yet to be administered, and soon.

  * * *

  It was in the dark time before dawn when Gwylly swirled the tea. Then he turned to Faeril and raised his cup. “I love you,” he rasped, swallowing the drink in one prolonged gulp.

  “And I, you, my buccaran,” replied Faeril, her own voice nought but a rough burr, downing her drink as well.

  Almost immediately, “I feel…hot,” said Gwylly, Faeril nodding.

  “Oh, oh…oh, it burns. It burns. Everything burns.” Gwylly reached out for Faeril’s hand, his eyes filled with pain. She reached for him, yet each began shrieking before their hands could meet, and both Warrows thrashed about in agony.

  Riatha scooped up Faeril and Urus took Gwylly, and they held the screaming Waerlinga and rocked them gently and wept.

  And Aravan paced back and forth, unable to contain his furious rage.

  * * *

  In the hour before mid of night, a shadow came down from the oak, creeping unto the sides of the silent Waerlinga. Long it paused at each of the Wee Ones. At last it returned to the tree. Aravan paced to the poolside below, his stone in hand.

  [“Nimué…”]

 

  [“Tell me, Nimué, has the sword driven away Death or instead destroyed Life?”]

 

  Aravan sank to the ground, his face in his hands, the sound of his weeping waking Riatha.

  CHAPTER 38

  Restoration

  Early 5E990

  [The Present]

  It was as if every fiber of my being was on fire,” whispered Gwylly, his throat raw, his voice all but gone. “Yet my body does not remember the pain, only my mind.”

  Riatha reached out and touched the buccan’s hand. “It is well that thou canst not feel the pain of the past, else thou wouldst die from the mere memory of it.”

  “Why did it hurt so, Riatha?” asked Faeril, her own voice but a whisper as well. “Why was the remedy more painful than the affliction?”

  “I cannot say for certain, Faeril, yet I ween that ye both indeed were on fire, that the amalgam of Nightrose and gwynthyme sought out the Emir’s poison and burned it away. It was long between when ye drank the poison and when we could begin treatment. Hence, the venom permeated thy entire being, and so the cure was burning everywhere inside ye as well.”

  “All I know,” said Gwylly, “is it hurt like blazes.”

  Faeril smiled. “And ‘blazes’ it was, Gwylly, ‘blazes’ it was…or so it felt.”

  Urus growled, saying, “Damn the Emir! He sought to force us to do that which we had already taken as our sworn quest.”

  “And for that error he will pay,” added Aravan.

  Faeril whispered, “Perhaps we aided in his blunder.”

  Riatha’s eyes widened. “How so?”

  “Just this: had he known that Gwylly and I were Warrows, then perhaps he would have seen we were warriors on our own…and not children of Elvenkind, younglings who might burden the
quest. Perhaps, then, he would have heard us speak our pledge, rather than trying to force you three to go and slay Stoke while he held us two hostage.”

  Aravan leapt to his feet and paced back and forth. “Nay, wee one, I deem iniquity was always in his heart. He knew of us, of our coming. How? I cannot say. Yet it is of certain that in some fashion Stoke discovered our relentless pursuit and enlisted the Emir’s perfidious aid.

  “As to holding ye hostage, pah! His pledge was false from the beginning.

  “Even so, he wishes Stoke dead, and sought by his wicked ploy to achieve that end.”

  Gwylly reached for a biscuit of crue. “If he wishes Stoke dead,” whispered the buccan, “then why doesn’t he simply send his army to the mosque and destroy the Baron? Or even go with them and kill Stoke himself?”

  Aravan stopped his agitated pacing and sat back down. “First, Gwylly, the Emir would never go himself. Why, that would place him in danger…and we know that he is a dastard, fearing death at the hand of an assassin. Didst thou not see the way he wards himself about with guards? Too, he takes no food or drink without a taster’s testing. Nay, he would not go with an army, preferring instead to work his will through others.

  “Second, he would not send an army, for he said himself that Stoke has the favor of the Sultan of Hyree, and the Emir would never overtly go against the Sultan.

  “Yet heed! By sending us, his hands are clean of any traceable act of rebellion. Should we succeed in slaying Stoke and the Sultan take him to task for it, the Emir will claim that we were merely strangers passing through, and there was no reason to be suspicious, no reason to think we were out to kill the Baron.

  “And, had the Emir’s scheme run its course and we had succeeded in the mission, when we returned to redeem ye two, he would have slain us without compunction, so that he could tell the Sultan that he had executed the killers.

  “Likewise, had we followed his scheme and gone to the mosque and failed, the Emir would have simply claimed to Stoke that we had escaped his hold, but at least he had slain ye two.