The Eye of the Hunter (41 page)

Some years later, he had drifted as far as the ruins of Dragonslair, in the quaking mountains above the Land of Aralan. He sent his lackeys down to reap victims from farms and villages of the region, to raid caravans, to capture the fourteen folk living near the river crossing known as Stoneford.

In the mountains north and east of Dragonslair, Stoke discovered a monastery above the Great North Glacier, and he flayed and impaled the twelve priests he found living therein.

He made the monastery his lair, but again his holt was invaded,
by the very same four pursuers:
two Warrows, the Elfess, and Urus—twenty years had passed,
and they were still after him!

Stoke hid in the underground rooms of the monastery, but their search revealed him. He fled to the belltower and
shifted
. Yet as he flew away, he was severely wounded: a silver sling bullet cracked a bone in his left wing, and he spiraled down onto the glacier below.

Still they pursued relentlessly, as they had done for two
decades. They overtook him on the ice. Even so, he nearly slew the Elfess, she with the starlight blade, but as he prepared to behead her with her very own sword, a silver knife was thrown by the damman, embedding in his shoulder.

The pain was hideous, yet he could not bear to touch the silver to withdraw the blade. He
shifted
again, but the knife remained. In the form of a
Vulp
he sprang from the lip of a wide crevasse, leaping for the far side to escape, but that
fool
Urus intercepted him in mid-flight, and together they fell down into the frigid black depths below.

And the crevasse slammed shut, locking
Vulp
and Man eternally together in frozen battle.

When they crashed into the ice in the depths of the abyss, the silver knife was jarred from Stoke’s shoulder, and over the millennium the ice held them, slowly, ever so slowly, the
Vulp
healed—he was, after all, a Cursed One, and rapid healing was one of his traits, though here in the cold, the process was greatly retarded.

A golden glow bathed both the Baron and the Baeran,
Vulp
and Man, and even though his life was suspended, still Stoke felt the cursed light.

A thousand years passed—deep in the ice the
Vulp
and the Man were caught in a slow, grinding eddy, an eddy drifting ever closer to the edge of the pack.

At last came a night that the wall of the glacier split, calving, disgorging the
Vulp
. Hours passed, and still Stoke did not move. Yet given his powers of regeneration, ultimately he regained consciousness, and he heard the far-off voices of yammering
Drik
and
Ghok
and the distant howls of
Vulpen
. Stoke yawled for help, and when it was answered, he
shifted
again, becoming once more a yellow-eyed Man, if Stoke could be called a Man.

As he waited, he saw a hairy star scoring the night sky, and by its position among the stars he deduced that it was the Eye of the Hunter and that he had been locked in the glacier for more than a thousand years.

At last, aid came to him. And when he was lifted up from the ice, he could dimly see the form of Urus yet trapped in the glacier, but only inches deep, silhouetted by a cursed golden glow. Stoke ordered the Foul Folk to dig Urus free and behead him, and to burn the remains. Yet none could withstand the auric luminance, and so Stoke had to let the
Man be, for Stoke, especially Stoke, was repelled by its holy aura.

That night the
Drik
bore Stoke to the canyon caverns. And there he laired, regaining his strength.

Two nights later, his hunting parties reported the scent of strangers, and they told of an Elfess who vanished into thin air. And just ere dawn, a wounded
Vulp
came limping from the monastery bringing news of a damman Warrow that had escaped, and of a savage Bear that slew.

And then Stoke
knew
that he was yet pursued—by Elves, by Warrows, by Urus. He deduced that likely this place was watched, and so he laid a plan.

And the next night, as he and his band left the canyon, remaining behind were
Drik
and
Ghok
and
Vulpen
. If Stoke was followed, those who hunted him would in turn become the prey.

A hideous winged
thing
flapped southward through the falling snow, knowing that the white would cover the tracks of its lackeys, knowing also that even if someone managed to trail them, the trackers themselves would be slaughtered from behind.

And so it flapped onward through the night, the savage storm howling ’round not matching the cold fury within.

Early Spring, 5E988
[The Present]

H
urtling out from the spinning wall of white, the snarling Vulg crashed into Faeril from behind, slamming her facedown into the snow, smashing atop her, driving the breath from her—
“Unhh!”
Only the deep snow and her backpack saved her from instant death. All she could hear was a wild wrauling and footsteps thudding past. And the creature bearing her down sought to savage her. Struggling, Faeril attempted to roll, but she could not escape the mauling weight crushing her. She could not reach the knives in her bandoliers, but she jerked the silver Elven blade from the scabbard at her waist and slashed at the creature’s leg, gashing it. With a howl it leapt aside, and Faeril managed to scramble to her knees even as it plunged at her again, savage mouth agape. Without thinking, the damman jammed the blade past its teeth and straight down its throat, silver slamming home even as slashing fangs tore into her flesh. Yawling, it jerked away, wrenching the blade from her grasp. And of a sudden it collapsed.

Gaining her feet, Faeril threw down her backpack and drew a steel throwing knife and looked into the swirling whiteness whirling all about in the howling wind. And at that very moment, all was plunged in blackness.
The lantern! It’s out! Oh, Gwylly!

She could hear sounds of combat, the skirl of steel on steel and the shrieks of the dying, and vague shapes hurtled past in the blackness, more sensed than seen, but who was fighting whom, she could not tell.
I cannot see to throw!
She jammed the dagger back into the bandolier and drew her long-knife—a sword in the hand of a Warrow.

Before her, a torch sputtered into life, and she could momentarily see dim figures lunging through the blizzard, a tall one plunging toward the torch bearer, merging, a loud shriek, the torch falling in the snow,
sissing
, blackness returning.

A figure loomed before her.
“Adon!”
she cried. She could sense the figure turning, and she stabbed out with her blade, feeling it scrape bone, the figure gasping, collapsing, nearly wrenching the long-knife from her hand. But she hung on grimly, and grinding, it came free of the downed being.

Faeril fell to her knees and groped.
Oh, let it be foe!
Her hands fumbled across the body, the torso clad in leather sewn with steel ringlets.
Rūck!
she thought just as she put her hand atop spurting blood from a heart pumping its last.

Revulsed, Faeril scrabbled backwards, only to slam into someone behind. Snarling, the being fell over her akimbo, thudding into the snow. Blindly the damman slashed, making contact, the being howling in agony. Faeril jammed the long-knife at the sound, but whoever, whatever it was rolled away, scrambling up and running through the blackness, a blot of darkness disappearing into the raging ebony storm.

Another came near, gasping harshly. Faeril readied her blade.
“Adon!”
she called, starting to plunge the long-knife.

“Adon!”
came the instant reply.

“Gwylly!”

“Faeril!”

“Oh, Gwylly, I almost—”

“Back to back, love,” interrupted her buccaran. “Back to back, though I won’t be much help. I’ve taken a wound.”

“Oh, Gwylly—”

“Back to back!”

And so the two Warrows stood back to back, facing into the blackness—Gwylly breathing harshly, coughing now and then; Faeril trembling in fear for him.

In the distance, another torch sputtered into life, to be extinguished moments later amid shrieks of dying.

Still the black blizzard howled, dark snow hurling past—ebon ravens’ feathers flying in the nightwind. Occasionally there sounded steel on steel, occasionally a dying scream, occasionally footsteps ran past. Nought could be seen in the
blackness, and little could be heard above the squall of the storm. And Warrows stood back to back.

“The darkness and wind alone save us,” hissed Gwylly. “Without the blizzard hiding us, the wind flinging away our scent, we would fall to the maggot-folk.”

And then Gwylly collapsed.

Faeril spun about and knelt, feeling for his wound, discovering nothing.

But even as her hands fumbled over Gwylly’s form, from nearby there came a guttural growl, and a snuffling, and then a yawl of a Vulg. Faeril crouched above her buccaran, her long-knife at the ready, praying that the beast would not find her, would not find Gwylly. Yet that was not to be, for the rasping snarls sounded louder, the creature casting about, coming nearer. And then black on black loomed before her, wrauling.
“Adon!”
she shrieked, leaping up and across, hurtling forward over Gwylly. But in that same moment another plunged inward, spear piercing the Vulg’s unprotected flank, Aravan crying
“Adon!”
even as Krystallopŷr
burned
into and through the howling beast, even as Faeril’s blade took it in the throat, chopping short its agonized wail.

Now Elf and damman stood back to back, Gwylly lying in between. In the darkness by feel alone they could find no wound, and so they took up station above him, for there was nought they could do in the midst of battle to aid the buccan.

Now and again they heard the skirl of steel on steel, at times coming from two different directions simultaneously. “They fight themselves,” hissed Aravan, “though surely Riatha engages them as well.”

Suddenly a harsh voice yawled above the howl of the wind, his call taken up by others. What he cried, neither Aravan nor Faeril knew, for Slûk was the language. After several moments, again there sounded cries, farther off, southward. Then again, growing faint in the storm. Then no more.

“Perhaps they’ve gone,” said Faeril.

“Mayhap ’tis but a ruse,” responded Aravan.

Still they waited in the blackness, ebon snow whirling about. The world spun ’round, and Faeril’s stomach heaved, a sudden nausea whelming upon her. She staggered a step or two and fell to her knees and retched.

From far off a hollow, booming voice echoed in her ears. “Faeril, what passes? Art thou wounded?”

The damman could not answer, for her ears rang and her entire body seemed aflame—she
burned
. Icy perspiration exploded from her skin. And as she toppled into the blackness, she managed to whisper a single word: “Vulg.”

* * *

Stoke!…Stoke!…stoke!…stoke…stoke…stoke…toke…oke…o…

As the echoes of his cry slapped and rang among the mountains, in the morning light Urus turned and set off northward across the trackless snow, heading up the wide, twisting vale, the Man moving back towards where he had last seen his companions.

Seething rage and cold apprehension warred within his heart: rage, for Stoke had eluded him; apprehension, for his comrades had not arrived.
Is it possible that Stoke has them in his vile grasp?
Urus did not know, could not know, and he roared a wordless shout in anger, his stride carrying him onward.

If they are within his grasp…where?
Urus glanced about; within sight he could see a handful of cols and canyons that Stoke could have taken, yet he knew that just beyond, a thousand avenues of escape branched forth among the Grimwalls, and a thousand bolt-holes lay within.
Stoke could lair in these mountains forever! And the wide world lies beyond!
Again Urus shouted his anger, but only dying echoes answered.

His wrath cooled to a deadly determination, receding into that secret place where he stored his rage, leaving his heart filled with deep foreboding.
If not captives, then what? Is it possible that Peta—she is not Petal! She is Faeril! Yet she is Petal’s very image. And he is Tomlin’s—Gwylly…
.

Is it possible that Faeril had the right of it? Was a band of Wrg following? If so, could this be the cause of the delay?

Oh, my Riatha, are you…are you…?

On he trekked, his mind and heart filled with anxiety and rage and foreboding and logic and wrath.

And he shouted unto the mountains, “Stoke! Bastard! Monster! Filth! We shall destroy you just as the Dwarves destroyed your bartizan! Destroyed the caverns beyond! Just as we burned Dreadholt!”

The snow lay deeply in the vale, at times coming to the
Man’s mid-thigh—
This will be hard for the Waldana to broach, yet I can break trail for them…if they yet live
—but in spite of it Urus made good time, and onward he trod.

At last he rounded a curve and in the distance saw a thin tendril of smoke rising up from a sparse coppice. His heart leapt.
Let it be them!
As he trudged closer, he could see what appeared to be a lean-to among the trees, its backside toward him. Urus slipped his gloves from his hands, and placed two fingers in his mouth and emitted a piercing whistle—
Tweee…!
—high-pitched echoes shrilling back from the stone flanks rearing upward all about.

There was no movement.
Nothing!

Again he whistled, and as the echoes died, a tall figure stepped out from behind the shelter—
Aravan! It is Aravan!
—and raised a hand and slowly waved.

Urus waved back, increasing his pace, but Aravan disappeared behind the shelter once more.
Where is Riatha? And the Waldana?
Dread clutched at Urus’s heart.

Now Urus came in among the sparse trees, the snow shallower, and he broke into a trot. In but moments he reached the lean-to, and out before it by a small fire squatted Aravan, stirring a liquid in a container suspended above the flame. Yet Urus only glanced fleetingly at the Elf, for stepping forth to greet him was—
Riatha!
Urus crushed her to him, his heart hammering in his ears, fierce joy singing through every fiber of his being as she clung tightly to him.