The Eye of the Hunter

by Dennis L McKiernan

  They had ridden some four hours or so, the Sun having passed overhead, when Aravan held up his hand and called back to the others, “The stone grows chill.”

  Onward they went, Faeril’s heart racing, but then, “It’s daylight,” she said. “Surely we have little to fear.”

  “Aye, Faeril,” responded Aravan. “There will be no attack unless they have Men among them—a most unlikely coupling.”

  Onward they rode, passing by a dark opening in the eastern wall, a crevice cleaving the stone. “There, I ween,” said Aravan, pointing. “There is their bolt-hole.”

  Faeril looked into the shadowed slot, but it twisted away beyond seeing. “How far have we come?”

  “Some seven leagues.”

  “Twenty-one miles,” reckoned Faeril. “Then this is where the Ghûl and the Hèlsteed stayed when first you and Urus saw them, and the place where last night the Rūcks and Hlōks did run.”

  “Aye, Faeril, I deem thou hast the right of it.”

  On past the crevice they went, Aravan’s blue stone growing warmer as they rode away.

  “I feel we are leaving a task undone,” said Faeril, “a pest hole that needs to be cleared out and stoppered up.”

  “Mayhap, wee one. Yet the Rûpt are now leaderless, not the threat they once were. Left alone they will hide in the mountains and squabble among themselves.”

  “Do you mean, Aravan, that the raids will stop?”

  “Nay, Faeril, raids will yet occur, though infrequently, and with much less success. For without a cunning mind to guide the Spaunen, travellers and steaders and dwellers in towns have much less to fear.”

  * * *

  Four more hours they trotted northerly, debouching at last into the pass, leaving the gorge behind.

  Leftward they turned, westerly, riding toward Hyree. An hour of daylight remained, yet when evening fell, they did not stop, for they wished to put more distance between themselves and the Rūcken bolt-hole.

  And so they rode onward, twisting among the mountains of the Talâk Range, stars shining overhead. The gibbous Moon rose, glancing rays from the yellow globe casting long shadows. And as if impelled by the pale beams behind, eighteen camels pressed westerly.

  * * *

  They made camp at mid of night, there in the depths of the pass, some seventeen leagues beyond the bolt-hole, some fifty-one miles in all.

  As Riatha changed the dressing on Aravan’s wounds, Urus studied by firelight one of Riatha’s maps. “This day alone we have travelled seventy-two miles or thereabouts—a pace the camels cannot sustain.”

  Aravan groaned. “Nor can I sustain such, Urus, at least not my backside.”

  Riatha tied off the last of Aravan’s bandages, then turned to Urus.

  “We will not press nearly as hard in the days to come,” continued Aravan, rolling down his sleeve, “now that we are well free of the gorge.”

  Urus grunted. “I make it nearly one hundred fifty miles till we leave the pass, and then I measure another thousand or so to the port of Khalísh.”

  “Remove thy shirt, chieran,” ordered Riatha.

  Urus unlaced his jerkin and pulled it over his head.

  “Aye,” said Aravan. “Another month of travel should see us to the sea.”

  Urus nodded in agreement, as Riatha unbound the bandage on the Baeran’s shoulder. Only a faint pink line showed where Urus had been wounded. In the other two places—wrist and rib—not even a line showed. “Thou art wholly healed, Urus,” breathed Riatha, wonder in her eyes.

  Urus grinned. “’Tis my nature, love.”

  Riatha turned again to Aravan, handing him the salve and bandages, pulling off her own jerkin. As the Elf changed her dressings, he said, “On the morrow, thou and Faeril need don the garb thou didst find in the plunder at the mosque. And I will ready my own ruse, Urus likewise. Then should we come upon any soldiers, they will not know that we are aught but what we claim: caravaneers.”

  Aravan looked at the others, Urus and Riatha in accord.

  But Faeril sat to one side, gazing at the fulgent Moon, tears running down her cheeks, the damman thinking of other times, other places…other Moons.

  Thinking of Gwylly.

  * * *

  The next morning, Riatha and Faeril donned thōbes, the black veiled garments hiding Faeril’s jewel-like, tilted eyes and Riatha’s Elven eyes, hiding as well Riatha’s golden hair, the robes covering from head to foot so that nothing showed except the hands, as is the custom for females of the desert.

  For Aravan’s part, he lightly stained his face and arms and hands to an ecru brown, and he wrapped a headband about his brow, capturing his pointed ears beneath his black hair, the cloth ready to pull down over his eyes. He donned a white kaffiyeh, the headdress held in place by a beaded agāl. Last, he cast a light blue jellaba over his shoulders, the cloak long and flowing.

  Sun-bronzed, Urus used a stain to darken his hair and beard, and he replaced his iron morning star with a wide-bladed scimitar, sliding the curved weapon down through a broad blue sash about his waist. He fitted a blue turban ’round his head, pulling the face cloth into place.

  Now all was ready, and they set out to fare through Hyree.

  * * *

  Late on the fifth day after leaving the mosque, the caravan came down from the pass and into the Sultanate of Hyree. There at the outlet was a small garrison, manned by border guards. Two warders stepped from the roadside station and halted the camel train.

  [“What news from Nizari?”] queried the guard, speaking in Hyrinian. [“How does the city fare?”]

  [“The city endures,”] responded the blind caravan master, his wholly veiled daughter sitting before him, [“growing rich on the tolls they charge.”]

  The other soldier walked the length of the train, looking over the goods as if to see what the caravan bore, glancing up at the thōbe-clad wife, then passing beyond. [“Any trouble at the haunted gorge?”] he called.

  [“None,”] replied the caravan master. [“Of course, I paid dearly for an escort from Nizari to see me well beyond.”]

  [“Did you see any strangers on horses? Three Men and possibly two children? Or perhaps two Men and a Woman? Or the graves of children?”]

  [“Why, no,”] replied the blind one, gesturing at his bandaged eyes. [“But then, I see very little.”] He broke out in laughter.

  The other soldier snorted, smiling. [“Khassim, you have the brains of an ass. That happened a Moon ago. Those fugitives are either gone or dead by now.”]

  [“We were told to ask,”] protested Khassim. [“We were told to ask.”]

  [“Then stop, I tell you. No one can live near the notch through even a single night, much less an entire Moon. They are no doubt dead, slain by the monster of the haunted gorge and eaten long ago.”]

  The blind master turned in the direction of his mute bodyguard near the rear of the train. [“Jula,”] he called, signalling with his hands, [“find suitable gifts for these fine soldiers.”]

  Within a fraction of a sandglass, the caravan moved onward, the soldiers behind admiring their new kaffiyehs, trading the headdresses back and forth, trying to select between silken white and holy blue, using each other as a mirror.

  * * *

  Northward fared the caravan along the western flank of the Talâk Range, this side of the mountains covered with greenery, for here the crests stole the rain from the sky, leaving for the most part nought but dry winds to blow on beyond, out over the mighty Erg, over the sands of the vast Karoo.

  On the third evening of the northerly trek, Aravan sat with Riatha, the two speaking softly in the moonless night.

  Aravan added a branch to the low-burning fire. “Dara, once apast as we sailed down the coast to Pellar, I asked thee who thou wouldst defend if it came to a choice—thy lover, or those mayhap more in need…. Riatha, twice, mayhap thrice, thou wert put to the test, and each time didst thou leap to the defense of the Wee Ones. I beg thee to forgive me for my doubt.”

  Riat
ha shook her head. “Thou wert right to question, Aravan. For I did not know myself until came the time….”

  She glanced over at the sleeping Baeran. “Ah, would that I had known then that Urus takes wounds with little lasting effect. It would have saved me much consternation.”

  Aravan, too, looked at Urus. “Dara, how old wouldst thou say he appears?”

  “Aro, Aravan, I am no judge of a mortal’s years.”

  “I would say…young,” mused Aravan. “Lord Hanor at Caer Pendwyr guessed his age at no more than thirty years.”

  “What art thou driving at, Aravan?”

  “Just this, Dara. Baron Stoke said that Elves were not the only immortals, and in that he was right…the Hidden Ones are immortal, as well as the Gods and others.

  “Stoke claimed that he was immortal, too, saying that he could only die by silver pure or starsilver rare, by fire, or by the fangs and claws of another—”

  “So cursed!” interjected Riatha, her heart hammering in her breast, hope soaring. “Urus is so cursed. Oh, Aravan, do you think…?”

  Aravan raised his hands, palms upward. “We can only wait and see, Dara. Urus may be immortal, or long lived but mortal…or neither. Yet this we know: time will tell…time indeed will tell.”

  * * *

  They travelled by day and camped at night—the blind master, his wife and daughter, and his huge bodyguard—occasionally stopping in foothill villages to spend a day resting in a suitable inn, seizing the opportunities to bathe in private, to sleep in beds, to take on supplies.

  And along the way they saw evidence of the casting down of the religion of the Prophet Shat’weh—minarets fallen to ruin, abandoned temples and mosques, the absence of morning and evening prayers. Too, now and again a troop of soldiers would ride past; whether this was commonplace in the back country, the foursome did not know, but even so it did seem somehow significant.

  On two separate occasions rain fell: the first time gently, but on the second occurrence it was driven before a harsh wind. Days after, they forded swollen streams flowing down from the mountains above.

  For nearly a month they wended northward, but there came a day—the twenty-ninth after leaving the mosque—when they topped a rise to stare out on the azure waters of the Avagon Sea. Below them lay the port of Khalísh, and out in the bay plying the waters fared lateen-sailed dhows. At sight of these, Faeril burst into tears, and when Aravan asked, she said, “Oh, Aravan, do you recall the mirage? Ships like these sailing the desert? Gwylly was so happy then. And so was I…so was I.”

  * * *

  Keeping but few items unto themselves, they sold the caravan goods in the city, including the camels, the blind master haggling skillfully, haggling well, obtaining a fair price for all, the huge, mute bodyguard with the great scimitar weighing out the silver and gold.

  They booked passage for Arbalin since no ship from Khalísh fared to Pellar, and nine days after arriving at the port city, they set sail in the morning on a three-masted dhow—the Hilâl—running out on the ebbing tide.

  Across the Avagon they fared, coursing day and night, the ship crewed by dusky sailors, wiry and small. Through waters plied by rovers they ran, seemingly without fear, for Hyree and Kistan had strong ancient ties in commerce and combat and religion. And so they ran at night with lanterns lit, and lurid red sails in the day, announcing to one and all alike that here was a ship of courage, here was a ship of Men.

  Although the captain had his cabin and the crew quartered on the cargo below, the blind master and his huge slave slept in the open, while the wife and girlchild shared a small deck tent. These female passengers remained enclosed in their canopy during the day, stretching their legs only after dark, as was the Hyrinian custom for Women aboard ships. It was during their nighttime exercise that Riatha and Faeril—soft Elven step and silent Warrow foot—came upon the steersman, his face to the stars, praying to the Prophet, for they heard the word Shat’weh. When the sailor saw that he was observed, he fervently pleaded with the thōbe-clad “Women,” but what he said, they knew not, for neither spoke Hyrinian. Yet they stiffly bowed in silence and continued their stroll, while behind the shaken steersman plied the tiller and watched them walk on, anxiety in his eyes.

  The very next eve was the night of the vernal equinox, and Aravan stepped to the same steersman and spoke softly to him. And in the wee hours, the sailor watched in wonderment as the four passengers stepped the stately paces of the Elven rite celebrating the coming of spring, Riatha and Aravan softly humming the ritual hymns.

  When the dance was done, with tears streaming down her face behind her veil, Faeril said, “I must stop weeping at every little thing. Yet how can I stop, how can anyone stop remembering times past when there was another standing at hand, a love now gone.”

  Urus knelt and hugged the wee damman in her robes. “You must not even try to forget, Faeril Not ever. Instead, relish those good times you had, for as long as we remember, something of Gwylly yet lives.”

  * * *

  The seas were calm, though it rained several times, and the wind in the main blew briskly. Still, in all it took some twenty-one days for them to reach the Isle of Arbalin, running in on the afternoon tide.

  And that evening ashore, once again appeared two Lian Elves, a wee Warrow, and a huge Baeran—the blind master and his mute bodyguard gone forever in the suds of a bath, his wife and daughter vanished with the doffing of thōbes.

  * * *

  They were fortunate and booked an early passage on an Arbalina vessel—the Delfino—a carrack sailing for Pellar within but two days. And on the eleventh of April, they weighed anchor on the tide of dawn.

  Along the shores of Jugo they sailed and past the mouth of the mighty River Argon, and now the land to the ship’s port side was the Realm of Pellar. Beyond Thell Cove they fared—there where the Eroean was hidden in a grot—continuing easterly along the Pellarion coast.

  They sailed into Hile Bay on the midday tide, the cliffs of Pendwyr towering above. Faeril was relieved to be once again at the city, though everywhere she looked, the despoiling hand of Mankind was evident: sewage stains running down the sheer stone bluffs from Pendwyr above, the waters of the bay unclean.

  They put ashore in the early afternoon and clambered up the stairs of the cliffs, making their way through the noisy, crowded city, the odor of middens thick, the effluvium of sewage wafting.

  At the caer they were welcomed by Commander Rori and ushered to suitable quarters. Later word came from Rori that he had arranged for them to see Lord Leith, Steward, on the morrow, for King Garon and Queen Thayla were of course in Challerain Keep, having fared north in early spring, not to return till early autumn.

  In the darktide as Faeril lay down to sleep, she reflected on how good it was to be back. But even better would be going home…wherever home might be. When she thought about it her mind did not conjure up a vision of the Boskydells, but instead she saw a cote in Arden Vale, where buccan and damman had lived on the hill above the River Tumble.

  That night Faeril cried herself to sleep.

  * * *

  “Damnation!” exclaimed the portly Man, crashing a fist to table. “Another jihad now? Will they never learn?”

  “My Lord Hanor,” soothed Lord Leith, “it was not said that there would be a jihad, only that the mosques of the Prophet had been overthrown, and that is not news. Our spies have—”

  “Military movements, that’s what I heard. What else can it be if not preparation for a jihad?”

  The steward turned to Commander Rori. “What say our spies about such, Rori?”

  “It seems to be on the increase,” answered the Realmsman, “as if something is afoot.”

  Aravan cleared his throat. “Mayhap the Sultan’s schemes have been set back, for with the death of Stoke, any plans for an army of corpses have gone aglimmering—the secret of such died with that monster.”

  Lord Leith sighed. “Perhaps so, Lord Aravan. In any event, King Garon must hear
of this. I will dispatch a rider to Challerain tomorrow, giving him your news.”

  Silence fell among those gathered. At last, Faeril turned to Rori. “Commander, did Halíd return? Last we saw, he set out across the desert for Sabra, to intercept Captain Legori and the Bèllo Vènto.”

  “Aye, that he did,” replied the commander, glancing at the silver lock in the damman’s otherwise black hair. “Came here back in December. Said that he was almost hanged as a horse-thief in Sabra.

  “He stayed here but a day, leaving the very next morning for Darda Erynian…and in early April he and two Elves—Silverleaf and Tuon—appeared here in Pendwyr and set sail for Sabra, heading for that well in the Karoo where the creature dwells.”

  “Uâjii,” murmured Aravan.

  “Aye, that’s it,” said Rori, “the Well of Uâjii. They went to kill the wyrm, to avenge Reigo. You missed them by—let me see…why, just eight days.”

  “Fiddle-faddle I say to this monster down a hole in the desert,” grumbled Lord Hanor. “A bigger monster sits on the throne of Hyree, and something must be done about it—an assassination, perhaps—else we may have a jihad true.”

  Aravan’s sapphire-blue gaze took in the advisor. “The Sultan a monster, thou dost say? We brought only suspicions. Hast thou proof of monstrous deeds?”

  Hanor clenched a fist. “Pah! I need no proof, Lord Aravan. My suspicions are enough. I say that he is a monster, and like all monsters everywhere, he should be killed.”

  Aravan’s gaze grew icy. “We met several monsters on this journey, slaying the greatest of them, though not the one I seek. Yet many more are left in this world, and if thou wouldst hunt them all down, Lord Hanor, thou wilt have taken on a task thou canst not complete, for more are in the making even as we speak.