The Hunter's Haunt

by Dave Duncan

  First, the glassy wall was extremely slippery. Second, he had failed to observe that the interior was in shade and the sun was behind him, so his shadow could hardly fail to alert his intended victim. Third, Brown had forgotten that the interior was lower than the ground outside, and he landed roughly. Fourth, he came down in a tangle of wild roses. As far as thorns were concerned, he was wearing nothing between his shoes and his crotch. He stumbled, staggered, and swore luridly. Green's staff cracked down on his arm, sending his sword spinning into the shrubbery.

  Brown stood there unarmed, within reach of a second stroke that could split his skull. The two men studied each other for a moment.

  Green smiled as if satisfied, lowering his staff. He sat down and gestured at a rock in the sunlight nearby. "Pull up a boulder and make yourself at home."

  His attitude was unnervingly confident. Brown glanced around, listening, rubbing his tingling arm, and wondering if he had just walked into a trap. Hearing nothing suspicious, he retrieved his sword and picked his way through the thorns, parting them with his sword just as the first man had done with his staff. He did not go to the indicated seat, though. He approached the other and put the blade close to Green's eyes.

  "Who are you?" Brown was young and he had just made a fool of himself. He was annoyed by his own clumsiness and even more annoyed by his opponent's apparent lack of concern.

  "I was here first, so you introduce yourself."

  "But I have the sword."

  Green shrugged. "Again. You display a regrettable lack of manners in the way you keep flaunting it. If I have to disarm you a second time, I am liable to break something. Well, my name will mean nothing to you, but in your dialect you would pronounce it Homer. And yours?"

  "I prefer not to give it at the moment."

  "Then I will address you as Juss."

  Brown flicked his sword angrily. "How do you know that?"

  "Rumors swarm over the countryside like ants." Homer was not concealing amusement. "The sons of White-thorn have come to raise the banner of liberty and so on. Juss is the name of the younger brother, short for Sure-justice. You're too young to be the elder."

  Juss glared suspiciously.

  Homer's eyes twinkled with devilment. "And you don't look the way I expect him to look. Now why don't you sit down and exchange stories in civilized fashion?"

  "How do you expect him to look?"

  "Sit down."

  Juss moved his sword closer. "Answer my questions!"

  "Go to Hool."

  The sword flicked again, this time opening a tiny slit on Homer's chin. The wound was little more than a shaving nick and hence an impressive display of skill with a yard of steel, but not in the best of taste.

  The victim recoiled angrily. "The locals term these bushes white thorn. Did you know that?"

  "What of it?"

  Pressing the fingers of one hand to his chin, Homer gestured with the other. "The gods raised this place to her memory. This was where it happened. Right here."

  Juss looked around the walled garden and then stared at the other man with disbelief. "How do you know that?"

  "Because I saw it. I saw your brother conceived."

  "That is impossible! You are far too young!"

  "I may be older than I look. Now sit down, stripling."

  This time Juss obeyed, taking the other boulder. The sunlight had moved off it. Homer smiled approvingly.

  Scowling, Juss sheathed his sword. "Why are you here?"

  "Because of a dream. Several dreams. I saw this place, and I saw you. I knew then that it was time."

  "Time to do what?"

  "First tell me why you are here."

  "Because my god told me to come."

  The Homer man nodded, seeming pleased. "Then you admit that you are the son of White-thorn? Don't bother to deny it. You look very like your father, Sea-breaker. Not as tall."

  Brown frowned disbelievingly. "I am Juss. And who are you?"

  "A footloose trader of tales, a vagabond. I met her here in this hall, when it was a hall, one morning thirty years ago. She gave me something to look after, and I have guarded it ever since. When she had done that, she went to find her revenge and I watched." He sighed and for a moment the shadows seemed to deepen around him. "Such courage!" he murmured.

  "Will you tell me about it, please?"

  "I could, but I think another will tell you better. Why did your god order you to come here?"

  "He didn't say why. Gods don't explain."

  Homer raised his eyebrows. "They can be annoying, can't they! Very well. I have a question. Will you ask it for me and tell me the answer if you get it?"

  "What is it?"

  "You don't give up easily, do you? White-thorn carried a knife that day, a stiletto. Vandok assumed that she intended to kill him. I think she used the knife as a decoy. I think she expected it to be found. I want to know if she planned all along to bear Vandok's child. I must know! The question has bedeviled me for thirty years."

  Juss smiled wryly. "It has bedeviled me for six. If I am told the answer, I shall tell you."

  Homer nodded and reached again inside his motley, this time producing a small bundle. "You know what she is?"

  "She?"

  "I have always thought of her as female. It does not matter with gods. Her name?"

  "Verl. But I don't know what she—he—is."

  "A dove."

  Homer handed over the parcel. Juss took it reverently and unwrapped it. He could not conceal a flicker of surprise, or perhaps disappointment.

  "She is nothing much to look at," the trader of tales murmured. "I have sprinkled grain before her once in a while, so she would know she was not forgotten, but of course she will not speak to me. Nor to you while I am here. So why don't I take a stroll while you attend to your prayers?"

  Leaving his bundle, the man in green picked his way back to the entrance and clambered out, while the other laid his little god on the rock and knelt before him.

  Fifteen or twenty minutes later, Homer scrambled in through the hole again. Juss had wrapped up the god and tucked her away next to his heart. He was smiling, but his eyes were pink and shiny.

  "Well?" Homer demanded.

  "He says that White-thorn would have killed Vandok if she had the chance, but she did not expect to. She was counting on the oracle."

  The storyteller nodded with satisfaction. "That was what I suspected. I hope your brother is worthy?"

  "He certainly is!" The young man cleared his throat and held out a hand. "Does this complete our business, Friend Homer?"

  "Not at all! I want to hear all the details! How did she escape, and where did she go, and what happened to her, and who organized this revolution?"

  Juss glanced up at the darkening sky. "Some of that I do not know. Some I cannot reveal. The rest I will tell you willingly. Verl says you may be trusted."

  "I should hope so, after all these years!"

  "Then we can go back to our stronghold and I shall introduce you to a few of our locals. Why don't we talk on the way?"

  So we did that. This was the beginning of the revolution, the Winter War. Vandok came south just before the passes were closed by the snows, but the countryside rose against him. The Resistance was aided by the little gods, who could pass word of all the tyrant's movements. By spring he was fighting a retreat, and he lost most of his army withdrawing through the mountains. Cold-vengeance was then proclaimed king of the Land Between the Seas, which henceforth was to be known as Verlia, and—

  "That is not correct," the notary said.

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  14: Argument

  "Foul!" I yelled. "You interrupted me!"

  "You were misrepresenting the facts," the clerk retorted, recoiling from my anger.

  "You quibbling, bug-infested, ignorant hair-splitter! I will squeeze your grubby little throat until the blackheads pop out of your nose. I was telling a tale on which my life depends and you have the audacity to inte
rpose your ignorant—"

  "Gentlemen!" the dowager snapped. "The intrusion was ill-mannered, the response excessive. Continue your improbable fable, Master Omar."

  "Improbable fable? What sort of leading remark is that when the matter is still sub-judice? You have prejudiced my case, my lady! And how can I possibly recapture the magic, the air of wonder, rebuild the rising mystery, the unmistak—"

  "The unmitigated claptrap!" interposed the merchant, who had now wakened and was glowering sourly at me from his chair by the fire. "You were dropping hints that the 'Homer' character was yourself, two hundred years ago. You think us so gullible or superstitious that we can be frightened into saving you from our host's righteous wrath? You remain a dog killer and a would-be horse thief, and all your sly hints of immortality will not keep your backside from freezing out there in the snow. Begging your pardon, ladies."

  The actress smirked.

  "We have already agreed," I said coldly, "that my name has been used for centuries as a generic term for storytellers. One such was involved in the events I was attempting to recount."

  "You said 'we'!" the actress remarked.

  "I may have let myself be carried away by the drama of my own narrative. It happens."

  Gwill shot me a worried look, although I had thought him more nearly convinced than any. "I do think we should let Master Omar continue," he croaked.

  "I refuse! This round of the contest must be declared null and void."

  The old soldier smiled like a cat with an especially obese canary. "How seldom roles are invoked by winners!"

  "If Master Omar truly believes in his own immortality," the actress remarked acidly, "then I fail to understand why he is so obviously worried by our host's hostile intentions.''

  I had never claimed that I did not feel pain. Besides, there is only one way to prove you are mortal, which is why I have never attempted it.

  Leering, Fritz rose. "I need go out and fetch more wood, lords and ladies. Do not let the thud of my ax or the howling of wolves disturb your conversation." He took me by the collar of my doublet with one hand and lifted me effortlessly right into the air. "Say good night to the nice people, Omar."

  "Just a moment!" The dowager was frowning intently at the notary, her forehead shriveled like a skin on hot milk. "What exactly were you objecting to in Master Omar's wild yarn?"

  Wild yarn! Had I been breathing at the moment, I should certainly have objected to that affront.

  The clerk pursed his lips. "He omitted certain curious matters that intervened between the military campaign and the establishment of the kingdom of Verlia."

  I made a memorably horrible noise.

  "Put him down, innkeeper," the dowager said.

  Fritz lowered me until my toes touched the floor again.

  "I am just coming to that," I wheezed, sounding even worse than the minstrel did.

  Fritz raised me again. "No you aren't."

  "What do you know about those affairs, master?" The dowager glared at the notary with open suspicion.

  His smile was low in humor, high in smugness. "It is a privileged matter, ma'am."

  The merchant beamed complacently. "Master Tickenpepper is an authority on the subject. He has been researching it for me."

  "Indeed?" The old crone exchanged glances with the soldier. "And you know something of the matter, also, Omar? Omar? Innkeeper, please!"

  Once more Fritz lowered me until my toes touched the floor. I managed to nod as I dragged in some air. I had not realized that the notary was associated with the burgomaster and his talented bride, but just then I had more urgent matters to worry about, especially the way Fritz was quietly twisting the collar of his second-best doublet.

  The dowager still had control of the room. "Then perhaps you will relate those events to us, Master Tickenpepper? And I suppose we may as well let Omar contribute, just in case he does know anything relevant.''

  Fritz thumped me back down on the bench like a landed fish. He stalked over to the wood bin and tossed the last couple of logs on the embers. Then he also resumed his seat, scowling promises at me.

  I recalled how the beloved Osmosis of Sooth always taught us to love our enemies, but preferably at a safe distance.

  The merchant leaned back, stretching out his feet and folding his hands over the gold chain on his paunch. The actress had assumed her most demure expression, which would have uncurdled cheese. As my wits returned, I began to sense a new tension in the room. The soldier was intent; even the lady's maid was clasping her hands so tightly that the knuckles showed white. Like me, they had not associated the notary with the other two until now.

  "If my client wishes me to discuss the matter," the clerk said primly, "then I can attempt an exegesis of the salient points. You may find it a bizarre record. The precepts and precedents of foreign jurisprudence can hardly compare with those of civilized realms like the …" He coughed faintly. "I must say that the fire has made my throat a trifle dry, Burgomaster."

  The merchant nodded grumpily to the innkeeper. As Fritz went to fill the stein, Master Tickenpepper recounted his education and qualifications. He was apparently the leading legal mind of Schlosbelsh, which I found an unnerving revelation. Then he launched into a windy, desiccated account of a great historic catharsis, missing all its pathos and drama.

  I hope no storyteller of his caliber ever addresses a court on my behalf—that would guarantee a death penalty, no matter how minor the offense.

  Had I been telling the tale, it would have gone more like this.

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  15: The Tale the Notary Did Not Tell

  I caught up with the army again in the valley of the Dubglas, just below Cemetery Pass. With evening falling and the weather throwing a tantrum, the beetling crags ahead beetled unseen. Snow blew in my face, so that I almost walked onto the first sentry's pike. Fortunately I knew a password good enough to get me to his sergeant and a lantern. My credential was signed by Juss himself and validated with some highly ornate seals to impress the illiterate. I don't know if Sergeant Blood-oath could read or not. It didn't matter, because he remembered me from Redberry Pond and Lone Oak Hill. I soon found myself by a campfire with old friends, sharing a stew worth more for heat than meat, but still very welcome.

  "Here's trouble!" Private Horse-hater proclaimed. "Any time Homer turns up, you can tell there's going to be trouble."

  It was true I often wandered off to more interesting places during the long dull days of waiting that make up most any war. Armies are only part of the story. I could usually count on my knack for timing to bring me back when important things were about to happen, and now felt about right. So Horse had a point.

  Nevertheless, I told him he didn't need me to get into trouble. He'd been promoted to sergeant three times in the last half year, hadn't he? And been busted every time?

  Four times, he admitted, grinning with a mouthful of broken teeth. Twice in one day at Redberry Pond.

  Now that had been an interesting day, the others agreed. They could use more days like that one. All those prisoners bound to trees with their own intestines—what more could a man want? Well, plenty. They began to reminisce about what they had done with the next lot, and the ones after, and then moved on to consider techniques for the future. I sat and gathered tales.

  Less than a year before, Ven had raised the banner of freedom, promising to restore democracy and overthrow the tyrant. He had launched his war with an elite corps of ex-patriots, Algazanian by birth and training, a professional army. The natives then were raw animals, crushed by lifetime despair into something less than human. But they knew how to hate. Men, boys, even women with babes on their backs, flocked in thousands to join the revolution. The war gave them purpose, skills, respect, and revenge. They had swallowed up the elite, swelling into a huge national uprising, willing to drown the tyrant in their own blood or starve to death trying.

  Those men were as tough as any I have ever seen, which is no small co
mmendation. They hated their foes with suicidal intensity. They would follow horsemen into half-frozen rivers—I saw that, more than once. If a dozen freedom fighters must die to kill one of the enemy, two dozen would volunteer on the spot. Vandok could not bring up reinforcements as long as the passes stayed closed; he was outnumbered, running out of fodder and arrows and men. Soon he would be the only one left. For once, a war of attrition had favored the infantry.

  Pitting foot soldiers against cavalry is usually a futile business, for neither side is capable of striking a decisive blow. The sloggers can hold a stronghold but not a country. The riders can cut their opponents' supply lines, but rarely do enough damage to drive them away. Neither side can ever win. Eventually one or the other gives up, when there is nothing left to fight over.

  In this case the Horsefolk had an enormous advantage because their women and children were safely out of reach beyond the peaks, but they were up against the only army I had ever seen fight cavalry by lying down. No horse will charge over a human carpet. The Horsefolk also ran into trip wires, hidden ditches, and needle-sharp caltrops, which the Algazanians had provided by the shipload. Ven had few cavalry of his own at the beginning, but every captured horse was recruited. I told you what happened to human prisoners.

  I have witnessed many savage campaigns, but none more bitter than the Winter War.

  After an hour or so, I began to grow fidgety. I rose and wandered off into the camp. Fires glowed blearily through the driving snow. I passed within earshot of oxen, horses, and mules, downwind of the cookhouse and the latrines. Eventually I located the leaders' quarter. I slipped unobserved past a sentry and almost stumbled over a man kneeling in the snow, muttering. I hurried by him, avoided another doing the same, and came upon a third just rising to his feet. As he began to walk, I recognized Juss and called out to him. He spun around, reaching for his sword hilt.