The Eye of the Hunter

by Dennis L McKiernan

  And below, the Bear roared and slashed the ranks of the undead, slamming them backwards, hammering them to the floor, great claws gashing their cadaverous flesh in devastating blows that would slay the living. But these soldiers were already dead, and so they rose up to attack again from wherever they had been whelmed.

  And the howling dead came upon Aravan and Riatha, the Elves limited by the chains embedded in the wall. Even so, with a turning, thrusting kick, Riatha slammed her heel against the knee joint of a shuffling corpse, the leg breaking with a sharp crack! The Elfess snatched free the tulwar from the fallen undead, and with a chopping hack she decapitated the creature, then spun in time to parry a strike whistling at her.

  Nearby, Aravan at the last instant stepped aside and let a massive blow rush past, seizing the corpse’s arm at the wrist and breaking the elbow across his knee, wrenching loose the cudgel from the grip of the dead one. The Elf hammered the iron bar into the skull of another of the undead, the cranium smashing like a rotten egg.

  And in room center, a dark shimmering came upon Baron Stoke, his shape altering, changing, dropping down to all fours, coalescing into a new shape, and where he had been now stood a huge black Vulg, virulent fangs adrip.

  Above, Gwylly grasped an adjacent chain, taking the strain from his own right-hand fetter, and he hoisted the topmost link to the tip of the anchoring hook and jerked it loose as well.

  Eight-foot chains dangling from his manacled wrists, the buccan was now free. But below stood undead soldiers, ghostly channelled voices keening, weapons in hand.

  As the Vulg charged to battle the Bear, Gwylly slid partway down the chain he grasped and, swinging, managed to reach another chain, the undead shuffling after. Again Gwylly swung, building up momentum, and at the height of his arc he released his hold, flying through the air, hurtling out and down, crashing to the stone floor. He struck hard and rolled, pain shooting throughout his entire body, the effect of the elixir hideously magnifying the impact. As he leapt to his feet, intense agony flashed up his left leg, his mind screaming in torment. Hobbling, each step harrowing torture, through tear-filled eyes Gwylly glanced back and up at Faeril, the damman even now beginning her own descent to the open floor below. Although the corpses had followed him, some now began to swing about, shuffling toward his dammia.

  Standing, the Bear slammed a whelming blow against the skull of the great black Vulg, hammering the leaping beast aside, for he had fought this Urwa long past and it had nearly slain him. Roaring a challenge and ignoring the slashing tulwars and scimitars and pounding cudgels, the Bear charged toward the downed Vulg, knowing that this black four-legs was his enemy true.

  Riatha hacked gaping wounds into the undead soldiers, yet they came shuffling forward regardless, a headless corpse now stumbling among them, striking out at random. The Elfess knew that the only way to stop them was to cut their hands and arms from them so that they could not grasp weapons; cut their legs from them so that they could not walk; cut their heads from them so that they could not see. And she set to this butchery, knowing that in the end they would overwhelm her, for she was chained to a wall.

  On her flank, Aravan crushed skulls and broke arms and legs, corpses crashing down and rising up, only to be felled again by the Elven warrior. Yet he, too, was shackled to the wall.

  Faeril dropped the last eight feet to the stone floor, crying out in agony as she struck, magnified pain lancing throughout as she crashed to the stone, smashing down to hands and knees. Corpses struck at her with wicked blades and iron bars, yet in spite of her agony she managed to roll aside and spring to her feet, and trailing her chains behind, she darted among the undead and toward the weapons against the wall alongside the broken door.

  As the Vulg sprang upward, the Bear smashed him to the floor again and leapt upon the back of the downed black beast. Grappling, tumbling and rolling, they crashed among the undead, battering them aside, the Vulg unable to claw, to bite, for the Bear had him in a crushing grasp from behind.

  Gwylly gained the stone pillar and, reaching up, blindly felt within the niche for the shackle key, his fumbling fingers falling upon it. In triumph he grasped it, jerking it free, turning, to be smashed back by the haft of a barbed spear, the buccan crashing hindward against the pillar and collapsing in agony.

  Such a blow would have rendered Gwylly unconscious in any other circumstance, but he had taken Stoke’s elixir, and not only did it magnify Gwylly’s pain, it kept the buccan from passing out, his mind awake and aware.

  Through anguish-filled eyes Gwylly looked up to see the Ghûl standing above him, the red gash of his mouth gaping in a wide grin, pointed yellow teeth showing, his burned face sneering in triumph, savoring the moment of his revenge, and he raised his spear for the final blow.

  Yet the Ghûl had not counted on the incredible quickness of the Wee Folk, and in spite of his pain Gwylly rolled aside even as the iron barbs struck stone. Scrambling away and leaping to his feet, the Warrow took a grip on the two chains shackled about his wrists. Whipping the fetters about his head, with all his might Gwylly lashed the chains into the Ghûl, bones cracking as iron links smashed into them.

  But the Ghûl just grinned, for he was impervious to such.

  Again Gwylly smashed the links into the Ghûl, yet this time the foe was ready, and he caught up the chains and slowly drew the struggling Warrow toward him, the barbs on his spear glinting wickedly.

  Darting among the corpses, Faeril reached the pile, snatching up Riatha’s sword and Aravan’s spear, dodging aside as one of the undead struck at her and missed. The damman leaped back to snatch her bandoliers, yet she could not find Gwylly’s sling or the long-knives and instead grabbed up her Elven dagger for him to use.

  Now the Bear stood, his jaws clamped in the muscles of the Vulg’s shoulders, his arms reaching ’round, claws embedded in the howling Vulg’s chest, the massive grasp crushing ever tighter. And the Bear lifted the Vulg from the floor.

  Gwylly wrenched back and forth, yet the Ghûl jerked him close and slammed the buccan facedown to the stone and smashed him down with a foot. Raising his wicked spear, he plunged it into the buccan, Gwylly crying out in agony as the barbs thrust through him, striking the stone floor below, and then were jerked back out.

  Fetters snaking after, Faeril darted across the room, dodging blows, leaping aside, bearing the weaponry toward the wall where were chained Riatha and Aravan in desperate combat, both Elves wounded by blade and cudgel. Yet at last the damman came to the battle and managed to dart among the undead to thrust the haft of the spear into Aravan’s hands—but she was driven back and could not reach Riatha.

  Hammering a corpse hindward, “Krystallopýr,” whispered Aravan, Truenaming the spear, striking out, and where the blade pierced, the dead fell dead, never to rise again. “To me, Riatha!” he yelled, his weapon long enough to reach beyond her and protect them both.

  And scrambling clear of the mêlée, Faeril turned to see—“Gwylly!” she shrieked as the Ghûl plunged the spear through the buccan again.

  And again.

  Dropping all but her Elven dagger, screaming in rage, Faeril ran shrieking across the space between her and the Ghûl. Leaping upon the creature’s back, she plunged the blade into him time and again. Yawling, the Ghûl dropped his barbed spear and clawed hindward, clutching at the damman. But she was naked, having been stripped by the Baron Stoke, and he could not grasp her. Around and around the Ghûl whirled in agony, for the blade was silver pure, and it pierced him in pain.

  Chains trailing after, leaving a long, bloody smear behind, Gwylly dragged himself across the floor, his life swiftly leaking from him. Yet he remained conscious and in hideous agony, for Stoke’s elixir yet flowed. Ahead he could see Aravan and Riatha, undead striking at them, felled dead at their feet.

  And he knew he had to reach them.

  Blackness leached at his vision, and a terrible coldness filled him. He was so tired, so very tired, and he knew he could not go on, even though
he must.

  A sissing roar filled his hearing, and although he could see Riatha, and she him, he could not hear what she was calling.

  But he knew he must reach her. He had to travel those last few feet.

  For he still held the key.

  And reaching out with the last of his strength, he felt her take his hand in hers, and he smiled.

  And then the blackness took him.

  * * *

  And behind, at last the Ghûl clutched Faeril’s hair and wrenched the damman up and over, holding her out at arm’s length, his burned features distorted with rage.

  “You bastard!” she shouted, and spat in his blistered face.

  The Ghûl grabbed her by the throat and jerked her to him, and she plunged the silver blade into his heart. His dead black eyes widened in horror as he realized what he had done, what she had done, his hollow voice yowling, and then he collapsed.

  Flayed corpses closed in to slay her, but ere they could strike a single blow, crystal spear and starsilver blade slammed into them. Aravan and Riatha were unchained at last.

  In room center, whirling ’mid the undead, the Bear crushed his massive arms about the black Vulg, teeth rending fur and flesh from its back. And then the Bear glimpsed an auric spike standing on the floor. He raised the Vulg up high and drove the beast downward onto Stoke’s own golden stake, slamming him clear to the stone, steel razors slicing, bladed blunt point bursting in and through and out, entrails spilling forth.

  Oooo…moaned ten thousand ghastly voices, and corpses backed away.

  The Vulg howled and tried to bite the horrid thing piercing him. But he could not reach it, and every time he moved the blades slashed within.

  And a dark shimmering came over the beast, its form altering, shifting, changing, growing larger, elongating, widening, and where had been a Vulg now flapped a huge, hideous winged thing, its flailing pinions leathery and black, a single scimitar-like spur at the forward bend of each wing, its beak filled with jagged teeth, the claws of its feet clutching and grasping at the air, skrawwing in agony, for it, too, was impaled.

  Once again came the dark shimmering, the altering, the shifting, the shape growing smaller, compacting, wings drawing in, becoming arms, legs forming, beak shrinking, head rounding, and where the thing had been, now was Baron Stoke, shrieking in horrendous rack, for he was impaled, his abdomen burst open, his entrails spilling out.

  And the elixir magnified his agony and fended shock from him, kept him awake and aware.

  Yet he could not die from impalement, for he was a werecreature.

  The Bear stepped forward to slay him, claws raised.

  But in the last moment he did not.

  Instead, the Bear looked over at the female two-legs, the one holding dark metal filled with stars.

  “Whuff!” the Bear called, and backed away…

  …and Riatha stepped before Stoke, her sword in hand, the Baron screaming, his eyes wide in hideous pain, razors inside slashing with every movement no matter how slight.

  Voicing an endless howl, he looked up at the Elfess. “This is for Talar,” she said, drawing back Dúnamis, tears streaming down her face. “For Gwylly. For all the others.”

  And with a dark silveron sword, the starlight blade glittering as it swung through the lantern light, Riatha took off his head.

  * * *

  Corpses collapsed to the stone, the dead no longer undead.

  The Bear sat down and a dark shimmering came upon the beast. Riatha stepped forward as swiftly it changed, altering, losing bulk, gaining form, and suddenly there before her sat a giant of a Man, a Baeran: it was Urus.

  And she knelt beside him and took his hand and kissed it and held it to her cheek, tears flooding down her face. “Chieran. Avó, chieran. I thought you dead.”

  Urus embraced her and kissed her gently.

  But then his own eyes filled with tears, for over her shoulder in the shadows he saw a grieving Aravan standing ward above Faeril—the wee damman sitting on the stone floor, rocking and keening, her slain buccaran in her arms.

  CHAPTER 41

  Wings of Fire

  February 5, 5E990

  [The Present]

  Urus stood, drawing Riatha up after, the huge Man blinking the tears from his eyes. “We cannot stop to mourn,” he gritted, “for we have yet to fight our way free. We must grieve for Gwylly later.

  “And you are wounded, my love, by Rutchen blade…and so too may be Faeril and Aravan. We must clean and bind such, for the weapons of Wrgs are often poisoned, and the wounds they deliver can slay you days after.”

  Riatha nodded and wiped away her own tears, then turned toward the pile of goods. “Stand ward by the broken door for the foe may yet mount an attack, while I search among our belongings for any herbs and simples they may have overlooked. Bandages, too, as well as clothing for Faeril.”

  The saddlebags were yet buckled and the bedrolls bound, and as Riatha unclasped the leather pouches and began rummaging through, Urus took up his iron morning star and stepped to the portal and stood guard. He did not clear away the wreckage, or the dead Rutcha beneath, instead leaving it as loose rubble to slow any attack.

  Quickly the Elfess found the medicine kit and Faeril’s spare clothing and a white jerkin to be torn up as dressing for their wounds.

  Too, she found their canteens and, sloshing them, discovered that they yet contained water. Riatha uncapped each and sniffed, then opened her pouch of herbs. She selected a white powder and dropped a small pinch into each flask, listening, capping them after. Pitching a canteen to Urus and shouldering the other four, “Drink,” she said. “It is safe.”

  Riatha threaded her way among the fallen corpses to come to Faeril and Aravan, retrieving the damman’s boots along the way.

  “Here,” she said, handing Aravan a canteen, setting all else to the floor. “Drink. It is safe and there is enough. Enough to cleanse all wounds as well.”

  The Elfess knelt beside Faeril. “Wee one, we must ready ourselves to leave. There may be foe yet about.” Riatha looked up at Aravan.

  “The stone is chill,” said the Elf, “though not as it once was. Foe are nigh. What they may be, I know not, yet it is certain that Loka and Rucha remain within the mosque. As to Vulgs, others, I cannot say.”

  Faeril sat clasping Gwylly in her arms, stroking her buccaran’s hair, tears flowing down her cheeks. She did not look up as she shook her head. “There are no Vulgs. They would have come at Stoke’s howl had there been any. Gwylly killed them all with the daylight. He killed them all—”

  “Even so, Faeril,” responded Riatha, “were Gwylly here now, he would urge that thou not cast thy life away needlessly. He would tell thee to ready thyself for that which remains before us.”

  Riatha took the key and unbound the shackles yet fettering Faeril’s wrists, casting the chains aside. The damman looked up. “Gwylly’s too,” she insisted, and Riatha unlocked those as well.

  Then Riatha took Faeril’s face between her hands. “Come, wee one, stand and let me bind thy wounds. Too, thou must get dressed and armed, for we have yet to fight our way out from this place of death, and we need thy aid.”

  Long did Faeril pause, looking from Riatha to Aravan to Urus. Last she gazed down at Gwylly, then gently lowered her slain buccaran to the stone floor. She stood and let Riatha examine her, the Elfess turning her about. Except for where the manacles had rubbed her wrists raw, the damman was unscathed.

  Riatha gave her a canteen. “Drink, and then dress.”

  Faeril’s throat was parched and she drank her fill, for she as well as the others had had no water in the long hours past, not since they had begun their descent down from the crags in the early dawn.

  As the damman donned her garb and looped her bandoliers over her shoulders, Riatha washed and bound Aravan’s wounds, applying a salve here and there. Then Aravan did likewise for her.

  Riatha took a long drink from her canteen, then said, “Aravan, stand ward at the broken
doorway while I attend to Urus.”

  When Urus came to the Elfess and was examined, lo! his wounds were already closing, some merely red lines upon his flesh. “I have always done so,” he said. “It is my nature.”

  “Silver pure and starsilver rare,” murmured Faeril. “They are all that may harm you. That and fire…and the fangs and claws of another so cursed.”

  Riatha looked at Faeril and then at Urus, wonder in her silver-grey eyes. Thoughtfully she cleansed Urus’s cuts, applying salve, binding one or two.

  As the Baeran dressed, Riatha said, “Now we must decide our course, decide where to spend the remainder of the night, for the dawn is just over five hours hence.”

  Urus growled, “I say we need reach the outside now, for the closer it comes to daylight, the more reluctant the Wrg will be to attack. Whereas should we remain here, day or no, they may mount a charge at any time.”

  They looked up at Aravan, who had been listening from beside the broken door. “I stand with Urus,” he called. “The sooner out, the sooner safe.”

  “Even outside, they can come at us as long as it is night,” said Riatha. “Hence, we will need a place of safety till first light.”

  Urus nodded, thinking, staring at the floor. At last he looked up. “The minaret. At the top we can close the trapdoor…and even should they attack, they can come at us but one at a time.”

  Riatha nodded. “Let us be gone, then.”

  “Wait,” cried Faeril. “I cannot, will not, leave Gwylly here in this”—she gestured about—“this charnel house, in this hideous place of death.”

  Riatha knelt and hugged her. “Oh, wee one, we would not leave him behind here among these—these obscenities. Nay, I will bear him myself.”

  “Wait,” called Aravan. “There is yet that which I must do.” And while the others sorted among which of their things to take with them, the Elf stepped to each of the corpses and began the grisly task of piercing each of them through the heart with Krystallopŷr, the spear burning the dead, Aravan making certain that they would not ever rise again.