The Eye of the Hunter (71 page)

And now came the time to take up the mission once again, the time of recovery and planning at an end.

While Riatha, Urus, and Aravan saddled the steeds and laded them with their goods, Gwylly and Faeril girted themselves with bandoliers and bullet pouches, with throwing knives and sling, with daggers and long-knives. And they were dressed in their desert gear, leaving behind the Emir’s silks and satins—the clothing they had been wearing when rescued—the garb clean and folded and placed under the oak, the rich cloth a gift to Nimué. Finally all was ready, and they took one last look at this wondrous refuge, and then turned to go.

Urus and Riatha led their horses out, and Gwylly and Faeril came after, but Aravan stayed behind, his blue stone in hand. And when his companions were gone, his voice quietly echoed throughout the great hollow:

[“Nimué, we thank thee for the use of thy haven, a sanctuary sorely needed. Yet e’en more so, we thank thee for the lives of the Waerlinga, for they are precious to us and the world a better place with them in it.

“We go now to right old wrongs and rid the world of a monster. Should we survive and there be aught we can do for thee…”]

The Elf fell silent, and only silence answered.

Aravan turned and led his horse to the fold of stone leading outward. Just ere he entered the passageway—

—came the silent voice.

[“Friend,”] responded Aravan, pausing expectantly…but there was no more, and so he walked on out to where his companions waited in the early light of day.

* * *

Southerly they rode, Gwylly sitting before Riatha on the withers of her steed, Faeril likewise ensconced before the Elf, Aravan.

The land they entered was rough beyond their expectations, but Urus saw this as an advantage, for, “…Stoke’s minions are unlikely to come this way, preferring instead the easy passage of the gulch below.” And so, across sharp-edged ridges and shattered plateaus and scree-laden slopes they fared, now and again coming to crevasses that they detoured long to pass around, or jumped if they were narrow—the Warrows swinging ’round behind their riders and hanging on tightly, the horses running and leaping, soaring, landing.

They rode throughout the day, stopping often to give the horses a breather, sometimes dismounting and walking. And as the Sun began to near the western horizon, they scouted the terrain for shelter, finding a narrow dead-end slot riving the face of a nearby bluff.

They judged that all in all this day they had come but five leagues—just fifteen miles total.

They took turns standing watch, the warder on duty holding Aravan’s guardian stone. The chill on the amulet waxed and waned, growing cool and cooler, then warming again, never becoming frigid.

At mid of night, a nigh full Moon sailed silently overhead, and the ’scape was lighted nearly as bright as day. Even so, when the stone grew chill, still they saw no foe, each warder concluding that the enemy patrolled down in the distant gulch.

* * *

The second day was much the same as the first, as through a broken land they travelled, staying within sight of the canyon, using it to guide them to the destination. Just where was the mosque, the Emir’s major-domo had not known, “…somewhere near the ravine, I am told,” had said Abid, and no more.

And so, above the gulch they rode, keeping it well off to the right; and from the ridge tops and high ground their eyes ever searched the distant reach ahead, watching for minarets, for domes, for spires…searching but locating none.

As evening drew nigh, they came across a rivulet running down the mountain flank. Turning upstream, they discovered it issued from a crevice, yet they did not stay within, for it clove into the mountain far beyond their exploration. “This has water and could be a Ruchen bolt-hole,” mur-
mured Riatha, kneeling and refilling a goatskin upstream from the drinking horses, “and I would not hide where the
Spaunen
may come. Let us away to elsewhere.”

And so, as the Sun set and night came, a mile beyond they settled for the darktide among a jumble of massive boulders.

Their order of watch was the same as they had kept before: Aravan, Gwylly, Faeril, Riatha, Urus.

* * *

It was nearing dawn when the stone grew chill and Urus saw the silhouette of a great, dark flying
thing
flap across the face of the Moon, winging southward.

“Stoke!”
he hissed.

Then it was gone.

The Baeran did not waken the others.

* * *

All that day they rode among great boulders, twisting a tortuous route inching southerly. At times they would gain the open and check their bearings, keeping track of the whereabouts of the gulch. But occasionally, when they had ridden long without coming into the clear, they would stop, and one or another would climb onto a boulder to see where the gully lay, and to call out its course to the others below. And once they unexpectedly came upon a rim to find themselves peering down into the gulch itself, for it had taken a wrenching turn and had cut diagonally across their path. Quickly they had retreated, and had swung wide to pass ’round the bend.

They finally left the boulders behind and came to a foot of a long ridge sloping upward. And as they topped this ridge, suddenly, there before them in the distance high upon the mountainside, gleaming in the afternoon Sun, they could see a large, walled mosque, the building a sandy red, its dome a pale orange. And off to one side towering upward stood a slender minaret.

Gwylly’s heart leapt to his throat, and his pulse hammered in his ears. He looked to Faeril and found her eyes on him, and they were grim. Then once again his gaze swung to the mosque afar.

They could see no movement in the distance, yet there was no doubt among them—

Somewhere inside a monster lay.

Early 5E990
[The Present]

U
rus looked at the descending Sun. “I do not think there remains enough daylight for us to reach the mosque and complete our mission ere darkness falls. No matter that I chafe at the bit, Faeril’s plan is sound—the temple itself must wait till morrow’s dawn. Hence, we need find cover for the night. Let us take to the high ground for a place to hide, somewhere closer and above the holt, so that we may look down on it and lay our plans by what we see.”

They scanned the mountainside, locating potential sites, finally choosing a cluster of crags on a horizontal ridge slightly higher than the plateau on which the mosque sat.

Up they rode and up, here and there dismounting and walking, sparing the horses the burden. As they climbed the slopes, the Sun sank in the west.

“Hah,” huffed Gwylly, trudging upward, “the place is farther than it looks.”

“Aye,” agreed Urus. “Mountains are deceptive with their distances. Something to do with their huge size.”

“Like a mirage? Like an illusion?” asked Gwylly.

“More like a
delusion
,” put in Faeril, clambering up over a ledge.

Now and again as they climbed upward they would peer at the mosque and its surround, yet no glimpse of movement did they see. Still the Sun descended, staying not its ceaseless course, copper rays now streaming through dark peaks to the west.

“Oh, lor,” exclaimed Gwylly, “I’ve just had a horrid thought: what if the crags are infested by Foul Folk?”

“Then we are in for a fight,” said Aravan.

“Nothing or all is the risk,” added Urus. “There is no middle ground.”

“We will soon know whether our choice was wise,” said Faeril as they climbed up the last of the grade, the horses following.

They came in among the crags, stone pillars jutting up like great lithic sentinels surveying the slopes westward, ruddy rays of the setting Sun glancing from their unyielding flanks. A maze of sloping passages ran among them, open to the sky, widening into roofless chambers within the stony grove. Weapons in hand and leading their horses, into the labyrinth fared the five, and they found a relatively flat place where they could tether the steeds.

Riatha turned to the others. “Let us go back to where we may see the ground below and plot our course for tomorrow.

“I would remind ye all to hide that which might glimmer—Faeril, cover thy daggers; Aravan, thy crystal blade—for I would have no last stray glint from the setting Sun reveal us to watchers below. I would not have them come upon us in the dark of night, nor we to walk into a trap on the morrow’s dawn.”

A pulse of doom ran through Gwylly at these bodeful words, and he reached out for Faeril’s hand and found her trembling. Swiftly he hugged her, whispering, “I love you,” and together they followed the others through the winding crags, the damman pulling her cloak over her bandoliers.

Swiftly they came to the place where they could look down on the mosque, a half mile away and some two or three hundred feet lower down. The sinking Sun cast long shadows, yet the comrades could see well enough by its dying rays. And as they stood concealed among the pillars and peered downward, Aravan began speaking, drawing their attention to detail, detail that would perhaps be vital to their plan:

“I gauge the height of the mosque to be some one hundred feet or so from the courtyard below to the tip of the spire above, the width of its dome the same. The main building I would judge at fifty feet high, and its length mayhap at three hundred, its width slightly less.

“The wall surrounding is fifteen or twenty feet high, and it runs nigh twice the length and width of the mosque, say six or seven hundred by five.

“The minaret looks to be the same height as the mosque, a hundred feet or so. And see the two balconies evenly spaced up its sides, along with the one at the top ‘neath the archways holding the cupola?

“Behind the mosque, inside the wall are three—”

“Hsst!”
hissed Faeril, her voice tight with tension. “I saw movement in the yard: the far left corner.”

Gwylly’s heart hammered.

In the shadows beyond three large outbuildings along the back wall, there was a stir of motion.

“’Tis a horse,” said Riatha at last. “A paddock and stable are there.”

“Probably for food,” rumbled Urus. “Rutcha eat horses.”

The last of the Sun dipped below the horizon, the building now in dusk. Aravan rushed to complete his description, for in this part of the world, darkness came swiftly upon the heels of twilight. “The plateau on which all sits is small, its sides steep, the mountain behind formidable.

“See, too, that the gulch swings nigh, and a twisting road leads up to the front gate, the only way that we can take our steeds.”

“Are we taking the horses?” asked Gwylly.

Faeril nodded. “We should, for we may need swift transport—to pursue…or to flee.”

Aravan laughed. “Aye, wee one, fight or flight.”

Urus growled. “I do not intend to flee.”

“Nor I,” added Riatha.

Even as they looked on, night fell and stars winked into being. Somewhere beyond the mountains to the east a full Moon rose, its pale beams glancing through the high cols above.

“Well, Aravan,” commented Faeril, “except for the minaret and the onion-shaped dome, why, this could be a fortress.”

“Likely it is, wee one,” responded the Elf. “A fortress, that is. Heed, as the Prophet Shat’weh’s temples of worship were being built, oft they were attacked by the believers of the old ways, Gyphon’s followers. And if this mosque was made in that time, then as with others I have seen, the walls will be thick, the windows barred, shuttered within, and the
gates and doors difficult to breach. The outer wall will have banquettes for warriors to stand on, and arrow slits to fire on the foe. And the passages will have murder holes to rain death from above.”

“Huh,” grunted Gwylly. “Look, if you ask me, it’s not much of a place of worship, not much of a holy place, if it was built to kill others.”

Aravan clapped a hand on Gwylly’s shoulder. “That, lad, I do not deny.”

Faeril interlaced her fingers in Gwylly’s, then turned again to Aravan. “How is it likely to be arranged on the inside?”

Aravan gazed back down at the starlit enclave. “The main hall of worship will be under the dome. Cloisters to the sides. Living quarters on the outer walls and in the back.”

“Perhaps chambers below,” added Riatha, “basements and sub basements.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Gwylly. “Like the monastery above the glacier. Almost all of their quarters were below ground.”

“Aye,” answered Riatha. “Mayhap.”

“Look!”
hissed Urus.

Below, a broad shaft of yellow illuminated the forecourt, as if the monastery doors had been thrown wide and light shone out. But where the comrades were ensconced, they could not see the front of the building, only the northern side and rear. That the doors had been opened became apparent, for out into the courtyard marched a squad of torch-bearing Rūcks, a Hlōk overseer at their side.

His heart pounding in his breast, Gwylly squeezed Faeril’s hand to reassure her, and she did the same.

Aravan whispered, “If we did not know for certain that Stoke was below, I suspect that we do know it now.”

While some of the Spawn readied to withdraw a great bar from the front gate, others swarmed up the ramps to the walls to stand guard, the Hlōk among them.

In the still mountain air, sound drifted up to the crags, unintelligible murmurings for the most part. Yet when words did sound clear, still they could not be understood by the five, for the foe was speaking Slûk.

“I see no Vulgs,” said Gwylly.

“Let us hope there are none,” replied Riatha. “There is precious little gwynthyme left.”

Urus shifted his stance. “If I know Stoke, he will have
Vulgs about. Thrice have we met him—four times if you count the bolt-hole nigh the glacier—and each time he has had Rutcha and Drōkha and Vulgs in his train.”

“And now, mayhap a Ghûlk and Hèlsteed,” added Aravan. “Mayhap more than one.”

“Beheading, wood through the heart, silver blade, fire, dismemberment,” recited Gwylly, “those are the ways to kill a Ghûlk, but what about a Hèlsteed?”