The Eye of the Hunter (70 page)

Aravan told the buccan and damman what had befallen: of their rescue and flight, of the finding of the sanctuary, of Nimué and the Nightroses, of the Ghûlk and Hèlsteed, of the treatments.

Urus told of the Bear roaring twice: the first time imperiling the rescue; the second time routing pursuit, the Warrows silently laughing over this latter, their voices not yet recovered.

Riatha reminded all that there was one treatment yet to be administered, and soon.

* * *

It was in the dark time before dawn when Gwylly swirled the tea. Then he turned to Faeril and raised his cup. “I love you,” he rasped, swallowing the drink in one prolonged gulp.

“And I, you, my buccaran,” replied Faeril, her own voice nought but a rough burr, downing her drink as well.

Almost immediately, “I feel…hot,” said Gwylly, Faeril nodding.

“Oh, oh…oh, it burns. It burns. Everything burns.” Gwylly reached out for Faeril’s hand, his eyes filled with pain. She reached for him, yet each began shrieking before their hands could meet, and both Warrows thrashed about in agony.

Riatha scooped up Faeril and Urus took Gwylly, and they held the screaming Waerlinga and rocked them gently and wept.

And Aravan paced back and forth, unable to contain his furious rage.

* * *

In the hour before mid of night, a shadow came down from the oak, creeping unto the sides of the silent Waerlinga. Long it paused at each of the Wee Ones. At last it returned to the tree. Aravan paced to the poolside below, his stone in hand.

[“Nimué…”]

[“Tell me, Nimué, has the sword driven away Death or instead destroyed Life?”]

Aravan sank to the ground, his face in his hands, the sound of his weeping waking Riatha.

Early 5E990
[The Present]

I
t was as if every fiber of my being was on fire,” whispered Gwylly, his throat raw, his voice all but gone. “Yet my body does not
remember
the pain, only my mind.”

Riatha reached out and touched the buccan’s hand. “It is well that thou canst not feel the pain of the past, else thou wouldst die from the mere memory of it.”

“Why did it hurt so, Riatha?” asked Faeril, her own voice but a whisper as well. “Why was the remedy more painful than the affliction?”

“I cannot say for certain, Faeril, yet I ween that ye both indeed were on fire, that the amalgam of Nightrose and gwynthyme sought out the Emir’s poison and burned it away. It was long between when ye drank the poison and when we could begin treatment. Hence, the venom permeated thy entire being, and so the cure was burning everywhere inside ye as well.”

“All I know,” said Gwylly, “is it hurt like blazes.”

Faeril smiled. “And ‘blazes’ it was, Gwylly, ‘blazes’ it was…or so it felt.”

Urus growled, saying, “Damn the Emir! He sought to force us to do that which we had already taken as our sworn quest.”

“And for that error he will pay,” added Aravan.

Faeril whispered, “Perhaps we aided in his blunder.”

Riatha’s eyes widened. “How so?”

“Just this: had he known that Gwylly and I were Warrows,
then perhaps he would have seen we were warriors on our own…and not children of Elvenkind, younglings who might burden the quest. Perhaps, then, he would have heard us speak our pledge, rather than trying to force you three to go and slay Stoke while he held us two hostage.”

Aravan leapt to his feet and paced back and forth. “Nay, wee one, I deem iniquity was always in his heart. He knew of us, of our coming. How? I cannot say. Yet it is of certain that in some fashion Stoke discovered our relentless pursuit and enlisted the Emir’s perfidious aid.

“As to holding ye hostage, pah! His pledge was false from the beginning.

“Even so, he wishes Stoke dead, and sought by his wicked ploy to achieve that end.”

Gwylly reached for a biscuit of crue. “If he wishes Stoke dead,” whispered the buccan, “then why doesn’t he simply send his army to the mosque and destroy the Baron? Or even go with them and kill Stoke himself?”

Aravan stopped his agitated pacing and sat back down. “First, Gwylly, the Emir would never go himself. Why, that would place him in danger…and we know that he is a dastard, fearing death at the hand of an assassin. Didst thou not see the way he wards himself about with guards? Too, he takes no food or drink without a taster’s testing. Nay, he would not go with an army, preferring instead to work his will through others.

“Second, he would not send an army, for he said himself that Stoke has the favor of the Sultan of Hyree, and the Emir would never overtly go against the Sultan.

“Yet heed! By sending us, his hands are clean of any traceable act of rebellion. Should we succeed in slaying Stoke and the Sultan take him to task for it, the Emir will claim that we were merely strangers passing through, and there was no reason to be suspicious, no reason to think we were out to kill the Baron.

“And, had the Emir’s scheme run its course and we had succeeded in the mission, when we returned to redeem ye two, he would have slain us without compunction, so that he could tell the Sultan that he had executed the killers.

“Likewise, had we followed his scheme and gone to the mosque and failed, the Emir would have simply claimed to Stoke that we had escaped his hold, but at least he had slain ye two.

“But now that ye have been rescued, he will merely claim that we all escaped, should we fail and Stoke succeed.”

Aravan fell silent, and Faeril shook her head in rue. “Wily and treacherous is this Emir. No matter whether we succeed or fail, he has an answer for the Sultan or the Baron, whichever one asks the questions.”

* * *

“Lor, what a remarkable place is this,” hissed Gwylly, Faeril nodding in agreement.

On across the moss and under the oak trod the two. Faeril looked up among the limbs, hoping to see Nimué, but only broad branches and dark green leaves did her eye perceive. “I hope she doesn’t mind,” whispered Faeril as she and her buccaran shed their clothes and slipped into the water.

“What makes you think Nimué is a she?” asked Gwylly, shivering, watching his skin turn to goose flesh in the chill water.

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s just that this wondrous hollow seems more suited to a she than a he.”

Gwylly ducked and came up blowing, shaking the water from his eyes. “The bottom is sandy, and since we have no soap, this will have to do.” He held out a fistful of beige grit to Faeril.

Using sand, they scrubbed their skin and hair, diving under to rinse off and to fetch up more clean grit. At last Gwylly moved to Faeril, saying, “Here, love, let me do your back.”

Faeril smiled and drew up her hair from the nape of her neck, turning her back to her buccaran. “Every time you do my back, you know where it leads.”

“Indeed I do, my love. Indeed I do.”

Moments later, in the moss below the sheltering oak, someone whispered, “I do hope that Nimué has the decency to look the other way.”

* * *

Two more days passed, the Warrows continuing to recover. On this day Urus and Aravan, not having the heart to kill the doves that came to the pool, had gone out hunting and had managed to bag several desert mountain quail. And when the late afternoon wind blew up the mountain slopes. Urus built a small fire outside the haven and roasted the birds.

It was the first meat they had had in the past seventeen days.

As they sat and ate, Gwylly, his mouth full, his voice raspy and breaking, asked, “Riddle me this riddle: Why would a monster such as Baron Stoke gain the favor of the Sultan of Hyree?”

“Only the two of them know of a certain,” answered Riatha, “but mayhap there are clues pointing. List to this thread:

“In the Great War of the Ban as well as the Winter War, Hyree stood on the side of the foe.

“In both of those times they worshipped Gyphon, the Great Deceiver.

“When we came through Nizari, we saw mosques abandoned, minarets fallen into ruin. When Faeril asked why, we heard from the Emir’s own lips that in his grandsire’s time, the
imâmîn
, the clerics, had been overthrown, for they hewed to a false prophet instead of the true god, and had done so for nearly nine hundred years.

“Heed: nine hundred years back of the Emir’s grandsire was in the time of the Winter War, when Hyree hewed to Gyphon.

“And after the War, the desert religion of the Prophet Shat’weh became dominant in Hyree. Hence, these mosques and minarets were those of Shat’weh, whom the Emir called the false prophet.

“The Emir then went on to say Hyree had returned to the old ways, the true ways. And that can mean but one thing—”

“Gyphon!” interjected Faeril. “Oh, Riatha, just now do I see why you stopped me from asking the Emir further questions about the mosques and minarets, about the false prophet and the true ways….”

Riatha nodded. “Aye, for then we knew not of the treachery to come, and I did not wish him to believe that we would know enough of their Gyphon worship to carry word back to Pellar, back to the High King.”

“This portends ill for Mithgar,” said Aravan.

“Another War for supremacy, do you think?” asked Urus.

Aravan spread his hands, palms up. “Who can say? But there is this: When the Great War of the Ban ended, there
were yet some mortals in Adonar, and when they returned to Mithgar—”

“But I thought the way between the Planes was sundered
before
the War ended,” put in Gwylly.

“Not for Mithgarian blood, Gwylly. The way to Mithgar was yet open for them, still is for that matter, though it is closed to Elvenkind; just as the way back to Adonar is yet open to Elvenkind, but closed to mortals.”

“Oh, right,” said the buccan. “I forgot.”

“In any event, the mortals brought with them their account of what had passed when Gyphon suffered Adon’s judgment. The Deceiver was banished beyond the Spheres, but ere he fell into the Great Abyss, he said, ‘Even now I have set into motion events you cannot stop. I shall return! I shall conquer! I shall rule!’

“The Myrkenstone was one of these events Gyphon had promised, and it brought on the Winter War. Yet who knows what other schemes he may have set into motion?”

“
Ooo
, that sends shivers up my spine,” said Gwylly.

“Mine too,” agreed Faeril, then cocked her head. “But what has this to do with Stoke?”

Urus spoke up. “The Sultan would favor Stoke only if he saw him as a powerful ally. Know this: Stoke draws Foul Folk unto himself. Perhaps the Sultan thinks Stoke will give him an army of these creatures. An army to rule the night.”

“Lor,” breathed Gwylly, “could this be preparation for another War with Gyphon? If so, how soon, I wonder?” The buccan looked ’round the circle, but none had any answers.

“If we succeed,” said Urus at last, “at least we will have eliminated Stoke from the ranks of the foe.”

The Baeran stood and looked at the sky. The Sun was setting beyond the range. “I will get the shovel and bury the fire and quail bones, for night comes and I would not have their scent lingering on the air.”

* * *

“We were told the mosque was a hard day’s ride from Nizari,” said Faeril, her voice fully recovered. “Yet the Ghûlk you saw on a Hèlsteed was moving at a walking pace. That can only mean one thing: somewhere along the way is a place of safety for those who suffer the Ban—a crack, crevice, or cave…a place where the light of day cannot reach.”

Urus nodded and looked at Aravan and smiled. “We could have come to the same conclusion but did not, Aravan. Clever people, these Waldana…at least this one is.”

Faeril grinned in pleasure. “I had good teachers,” she said.

“Nay, wee one,” responded Aravan. “Cleverness is a trait we cannot instill, and can only enhance slightly.”

“Go on, Faeril,” urged Riatha, “what wouldst thou suggest be our course of action?”

“Just this,” answered the damman. “If it is truly a hard day’s ride to the mosque, and if we ride through the daylight hours, then we will arrive as night falls. And in the nighttime, Rūcks and such are at their strongest, for then they do not have to fear the Sun.

“Yet we cannot ride through the night hours—in particular, we cannot ride through the canyon in the night hours, for then is when the Spawn themselves use it.

“In fact, I think we should not ride in the gulch at all, else we will leave spoor for Vulgs and such to follow…especially if there is a way station for the Foul Folk down in the canyon—or somewhere nearby—for then on occasion they are likely to patrol its extent, and I would not have them find us within it. Instead we should try to choose a route that will avoid the ravine entirely, thus leaving no trace they are likely to stumble across.

“So this is what I suggest: that we ride the rim in the day, staying well back from the canyon, especially at night, for then we must hide from the foe.

“And when we find the mosque, if at all possible we should wait until daylight before entering. That way, if we are pressed beyond our limits, we can fall back to the Sun.”

Faeril fell silent, and none said aught for a while. At last Urus rumbled, “See? I
told
you these Waldana were clever.”

As the others nodded and agreed to the plan, Gwylly hugged his damman and kissed her, whispering, “And you are mine, all mine.”

* * *

On the twenty-second day after entering the sanctuary, the five prepared to leave in the early dawn light.

A week past, Faeril and Gwylly had sorted through the things brought out of the citadel for the Waerlinga by Riatha, finding most of what they would need in the days to
come: weapons, clothing, climbing gear, and other such. As they had taken inventory, Riatha had said: “E’en when ye were removed from us by the Emir, I knew that we would come back for ye. We retrieved thy weaponry from the table when we took up our own, and I packed away all else against the rescue to come. Had the warders been alert, they would have seen that we did so and would have stopped us. Yet they did not, and so, here is what we saved.”