The Hunter's Haunt

by Dave Duncan

  "Prepare to die," they said, and some of the less subtle among them added, "painfully."

  "Harken to me first!" Hannail replied, and he told them of his new god and how Hool had promised to make him ruler over all the Horsefolk, and he praised the power and cruelty of Hool.

  His brothers and cousins scoffed and demanded that the god confirm these events, else they would proceed to flay the outlaw as custom demanded.

  So Hannail called on the god to witness. At first there was no response, but he did not waver in his faith, continuing to call out the praises of Hool, even when his captors threw him down and began to rip the skin from his body. Then the wind shifted back to the north and the god spoke again from the cave.

  "Behold Hannail, my chosen one," the god said, "WHO I SEE is steadfast. GO where he leads. Slay WHOM HEEE DOOMS. Destroy AAALL other gods and worship only HOOL."

  Then all the brothers and cousins fell on their faces and swore to worship Hool and obey Hannail, his chosen one. They took out the little images that all the men of their people carried with them; they smashed their previous gods. They knelt to Hannail and demanded that he lead them wherever he chose.

  All that Hool had promised came to pass. None could stand against Hannail. Before his first sons took wives, he ruled all the Horsefolk and there was no other god among them but Hool. Then Hannail was yet a man in his strength, a drinker of blood, and he could find no enemy on the steppes.

  Then it was that the emissaries of Uthom in the Middle came through the passes and sought audience with the leader of the Horsefolk.

  "Hear the words of Holy Karzvan," they said. "'My city is destined to be premier city of the seven, and yet the six defy me. Send your fierce young men on their horses to chastise the upstarts in my name. My messengers bring gold, and you may also take home with you all the loot you can carry from the six. Their youths will be your slaves, their maidens your pleasure, without limit or mercy. Spare only Uthom in the Middle.'"

  When the messengers had spoken and Hannail had seen them put to death—that being his custom—he rode off alone, up into the mountains, to the sacred cave. There was no temple there, no priests, no image, for Hool was a stern god, requiring his people to worship him without the help of such frippery. Only a gravel of white bones upon the slope showed that this was the home of a god.

  Hannail waited on the barren slope for several days, until the wind was in the north, for by now he knew that his god preferred it so. Then he knelt and told the words of the emissaries to Hool.

  "It is GOOD!" Hool replied, louder than Hannail had ever heard him. "Take your fierce young men and GO into the Land Between the Seas and despoil it. THROW down the seven gods of the seven cities and let the people raise NO other gods in their place. Start with the one in the middle, whatever it was. BEEE terrible."

  Overjoyed at these commands, Hannail hurled himself prostrate on the cold sharp stones. "Holy Father, I shall make the dogs worship you by night and by day forever!"

  "No!" Hool said. "If YOU make them worship MEEE, then they also will be my people. Torment them in my name if you like, make them fear ME by all means, but do not let them make me their god. YOU are my chosen one. I give my solemn promise that your SEED shall RULE the Land Between the Seas as long as the sun MOVES."

  And so it was.

  Hannail of Hool became Hannail the Terrible. He led the Horsefolk through the passes. He came first to Uthom in the Middle and laid it waste, smashing Karzvan himself to green gravel, which he scattered in the cesspits. Then he worked his way around the coast, razing Kylam, Jombina, Lambor, Damvin, Ilmairg, and Myto, also, although not necessarily in that order. The Land of Seven Cities became a land of no cities. The Land Between the Seas was filled with lamentation from coast to coast, and the Smiling Land smiled no more. The Land of Many Gods became at last a land of no gods at all.

  Thus spoke the Omar of old, Omar of Hilgamthar, of whom I told you.

  When Omar had done, the princess sprang up in a terrible rage and said that that was the worst story she had ever heard, and subversive.

  "That is why I have never told it before," Omar replied patiently.

  But the princess was not comforted. She ran weeping to her grandfather the king, with her retinue of maidens weeping behind her. All trying to speak at once, they told the king of the terrible tale that Omar had related. The king agreed that it was a wicked story, casting aspersions upon the motives of gods. He banished Omar from the court and the old man was seen in Hilgamthar no more.

  Gentle lords, fair ladies, may my words have pleased you!

  | Go to Table of Contents |

  4: Interlude

  The minstrel's tale was followed by a thin and bewildered silence within the taproom. The wind howled mockingly in the eaves and the forest beyond. Smoke puffed from the fireplace.

  The dowager was nodding in her chair. On the other side the hearth, the actress had her head on the merchant's shoulder. She was probably very uncomfortable, but that was her business. Of course it was.

  Nearer to hand, Frieda's head rested on Fritz's shoulder. It was a larger shoulder, although doubtless much firmer, and regrettably she seemed quite content, with her eyes closed. He caught me looking at her and scowled dangerously.

  The note I had discovered in the rye bread was now in my doublet pocket. I had not yet had a chance to read it.

  The red-eyed, red-nosed minstrel tilted his stein in the hope that there might be a drop left in it, or that someone would notice that there wasn't. His voice had failed almost completely by the end. He looked ready for early burial. If a fever cart happened by, it would accept him as he was, without argument.

  I gave him a smile of thanks, although it was an effort for me. Had he really thought I needed help like that? I noted a cynical glint in the soldier's eye and knew he was thinking the same.

  "If you believe you can better that tale, Master Omar, then I suppose you may begin," he said cheerfully. The company stirred.

  "It was certainly a curious choice," the notary murmured at my side. "Interminable exposition with a regrettable absence of uplifting moral."

  The dowager's old eyes opened in a flurry of wrinkles. "We should not prejudge!" she snapped. "Refrain from comment until we have heard the response. You may proceed, Master Omar."

  "The fire needs stoking, my lady. Innkeeper, give the minstrel a stein of spiced ale and put it on my bill."

  Fritz glared at me and his knuckles whitened. Then he rose to attend to the hearth.

  "Put it on mine," the merchant said. "The poor devil surely needs it."

  Good for old Moneybags-Under-the-Eyes! The minstrel croaked his gratitude.

  "Perhaps a cup of your herbal tea, hostess?" the dowager said. "You, child?"

  "Oh, yes, thank you, my lady." Had the maid no name of her own, or had her mistress never bothered to learn it? Her coat was thin and coarse-woven. I had not heard her speak before, and had rarely glimpsed her face, for the brim of her bonnet concealed it. I suspected she was cold. Perhaps she just did not get enough to eat.

  The merchant ordered ale for himself and his wife, or supposed wife. The notary fumbled unobtrusively in his pouch and then said perhaps half a flagon of the small beer—a thought to make me shudder.

  Frieda had gone to make the tea, her hand brushing my shoulder as she went by. Fritz was keeping careful watch on us, even as he tended to his duties. I fingered the note in my pocket—his pocket, actually, as it was his doublet I wore. What message had his sister passed to me? The gaiety and humor she had displayed on my last visit were sadly absent. Could a few more months of living with the boor have depressed her spirits so, or was she merely worried about my chances of surviving the night?

  I wished I could do something to brighten her life. As my old friend the Blessed Osmosis of Sooth used to teach the Faithful, the devil you know may be a lot less fun than some of the others. There was more to it than that, I think, but I forget what.

  "Hannail the Terrible b
egat Nonnil," I remarked. "Nonnil begat Grosail the Gruesome. Grosail—"

  "We are not ready!" the dowager snapped. She was obviously in a very snappish mood, and understandably so after the minstrel's performance.

  "I wasn't actually starting," I said. "Just laying a base. The Land Between the Seas made a sort of recovery. The cities were sad wraiths of their former glory, of course."

  "Cannot we have a tale set in a more salubrious environment?'' the notary whined.

  I beamed at him. "A tragedy must be met with a tragedy, or how will you judge between them? Kylam, fifty years later … Can you imagine fifty years of rule by the Horsefolk barbarians? Horrible, pale-haired monsters!''

  Fritz happened to be going by at that moment with the big copper jug. For a moment I thought he was going to stun me with it. Frieda shot me a warning glance, as if to tell me that he was serious in his threats to kill me—but I knew that already.

  When all was settled again, with wood on the fire and my audience waiting, I began.

  "I am Omar the Trader of Tales, but you know that. What was the Gwill's formula?—'Gentle lords, fair ladies, may my tale please you'? Hear, then, the Tale of White-thorn of Verl."

  | Go to Table of Contents |

  5: Omar's Response to the Minstrel's Tale

  All night long, White-thorn had been helping tend the wounded, the bereaved, the lost children. At dawn she slipped away and went home through the empty streets and the dim, cold light. As she climbed the stairs to her room, every creaking tread seemed to cry out in the silent house. She had sent the servants away the previous evening, for the home of Morning-star would certainly be burned before this day was out, and anyone found in it would die.

  It was a modest house in a modest street, not far from the docks. For half a century no citizen of Kylam had dared display wealth. The Horsefolk overlords ruled by terror. Any native who raised his head higher than other heads lost it; his goods were confiscated, his womenfolk despoiled and likely murdered, also.

  She went first to her father's room. The bed was tidily made, his favorite clothes still hung in the closet, his brushes lay on the dresser, and yet already the chamber seemed abandoned and haunted.

  From the secret panel above the bed, White-thorn took out the least loved of the family heirlooms, a small and thin stiletto, razor sharp, crafted in some far-off land. It had belonged to her great-grandmother, so her father had told her, but he know no more of its history. He did not know if it had ever been used. The faint encrustation on its blade might or might not be poison. Today she might discover if that family legend was true.

  She crossed to her mother's portrait. Golden-bough smiled down at her daughter as she had always smiled at her, for as long as White-thorn could remember. She looked very little older than White-thorn herself now. She had not lived long after that picture was painted, just until the afternoon she had run afoul of a band of Horsefolk thugs in the street. They had raped her on the cobbles and then killed her, while the people of Kylam hurried by unseeing. The atrocity had been a political statement, a demonstration of superiority. Golden-bough had merely been the first attractive woman the brutes had encountered after receiving their orders.

  Faint childhood memories twisted in White-thorn's heart like skewers. "Good-bye, Mother," she whispered. "You understand. I hope I shall be worthy of your memory."

  She rose on tiptoe to kiss the portrait. She had done that only once before, the night Sea-breaker had asked how she would feel if his father came to call on her father to negotiate a marriage union between their two houses. The betrothal had followed, but the wedding had been delayed by the revolution. Where now was Sea-breaker of Kraw? Facedown in the red pools of Mill Creek? Or buried on the field alongside Morning-star of Verl and so many, many others?

  Back in her own room, White-thorn washed and brushed out her hair. Shivering, not entirely from cold, she took thought to the clothes she would wear. Under the rule of the Horsefolk, the people of the Land Between the Seas—especially the women—had learned to dress in public both modestly and unobtrusively. Only in the privacy of their homes had they dared sport the traditional styles of their ancestors, brilliant motleys leaving limbs exposed. In the last few weeks they had joyfully returned to the old ways, and the streets had flowered again with color and beauty. Now the brief spring of the revolution had withered and barbarian winter returned.

  She began with one of her favorites, a swatch she had woven herself from the finest wool obtainable, a cloth as sheer and light as thin cotton, in scarlet and emerald. She draped it over her left shoulder. The hems fell below her knees. She spread it out on the bed and ripped a third from its length.

  For her right shoulder she chose a silk that had belonged to her grandmother, copper blossoms on a ground of peacock blue. She discarded half of it, then wound a golden sash around her waist, spreading the hanging ends of the other cloths to form skirts.

  She donned her silver slippers, her great-grandmother's onyx earrings, the pearl necklace Sea-breaker had given her to mark their betrothal. She must not think of Sea-breaker. She knew her father was dead. She would not abandon hope for her love. There had to be some reason to go on living, and a highly speculative vengeance was not enough.

  Only then did she dare look in the mirror. Her heart pounded, her breath came in nervous gasps. Bare arms, bare legs, breasts barely covered—she would not have appeared before her father like this, and certainly not before Sea-breaker, not until their wedding night. Even by her own standards she was flaunting herself shamelessly, and barbarians would react with fury. So be it, shame was the least of her worries now. She would bait the trap with her own body.

  One thing more—she concealed the stiletto in her waistband.

  White-thorn descended the stairs and entered the hall, striving to hold her head high and walk calmly. Some of her remote ancestors had owned proper halls, great halls, halls capable of seating dozens. This one had been crowded when the eight leaders of the resistance had met in it.

  The little alcove above the hearth was occupied. Every home in Kylam and the whole Land Between the Seas had an alcove above its central hearth. Once the household gods had lived in those niches. Then the Horsefolk had come and smashed all the gods they could find. Only the empty spaces had remained as memories of lost freedoms. That niche had been empty all White-thorn's life, except on special occasions when her father had banished the servants, locked the doors, and brought Verl out from his secret place to worship him. When his daughter had reached the end of her childhood, he had presented her to the god, and thereafter they had worshipped Verl together.

  A month ago the gods of the Land Between the Seas had returned to their places again. Verl stood in his now, the niche that was his by ancient right, a small white dove. He was not very lifelike or beautiful, just a pottery image of a bird. One eye was a small black stone and the other an empty hole. His legs and feet were fashioned of twisted wire and he had lost a couple of toes. He was very old, a thousand years old or more. He was White-thorn's family god and she loved him.

  She sank to her knees and bowed her head. On the fireplace before her lay a sword and a golden chain, both encrusted with black bloodstains.

  "Most Holy Father, hear my prayer. I have no offering to give you—"

  "You offer your life," a whisper said. "Can any god ask more? You always called me 'Mother' before."

  White-thorn smiled through sudden tears. "I am head of the family now. I thought that 'Father' was more apt."

  "Whichever you prefer," the dove murmured, her voice soft as a distant purr among rocks. "You are the last of my chicks, at least for now, and that is all that matters. Anyway, who can tell a father pigeon from a mother pigeon except another pigeon?"

  "Holy Mother, then," White-thorn said gratefully. "Give me courage to do what I must do."

  "I cannot give you courage, my child. You already have as much and more as any of your ancestors, and I have known your family for nigh threescore score su
mmers and winters. I am proud of you, as I am proud of Morning-star, who came to me two days ago in honor. None in your line ever stood higher than he."

  White-thorn fought back a sob. "I have no offering, Most Holy Mother. I ask leave to remove this one." She laid her hand upon the odious chain.

  The god sighed. "It will increase your danger mightily.''

  "And my chance of success?"

  "That, also, yes. So take it with my blessings."

  White-thorn lifted the chain. It was heavier than it looked. It chinked and was odiously cold in her fingers. She laid it beside her on the rug. "And your sacred person, Lady? Shall I return you to your hiding place?"

  There was a silence. Then the god sighed. "I am only a very small divinity, dear one. I can see but a very little way into the future. I know not if you will live or die today, but I do know this house will not stand tomorrow. Even your scullery maids know that. So wrap me in a plain rag and take me with you. Give me to a stranger and bid him keep me safe until the time is ripe. He will understand."

  "Stranger?" White-thorn cried, looking up in shock at the little image. "To guard our household god? And which stranger?"

  "It must be so. A foreigner. You will know him when you meet him. Hurry, child! The time for sacrifice draws nigh. The barbarians are dousing their fires upon the hills."

  White-thorn shivered convulsively. She felt her bones melt with fear. She thought of the smiling picture on the wall upstairs.

  "Courage, last of my chicks!" the dove purred softly. "Be brave and you may not be the last. Be brave and we may have vengeance."

  Draped in a drab cloak of heavy wool, clutching her two small bundles, White-thorn hurried to the palace. The sky was blue already; sunlight glinted on the chimney pots and the tiled roofs of Kylam. The wind wafted a tang of the sea along streets still shadowed. Dogs wandered aimlessly, seeming puzzled by the silence, the absence of people. The docks would be different. There would be crowds at the docks, crazy, panic-ridden multitudes. Children weeping, adults screaming.