The Eye of the Hunter (35 page)

Urus looked up from where he knelt next to the track.

“These are muddled and run both ways. And I do not see Riatha’s prints at all.”

“Likely lost under the steps of the
Rûpt
,” gritted Aravan, his features grim.

Urus stood and began shedding his pack. “Aravan, you go north with Tomli—with Gwylly. Faeril and I will scout south.” The Baeran glanced at the grey cast above. “There is precious little more time to search ere nightfall—”

Urus’s words were cut short by Aravan flinging up his hand for silence. The Elf cocked his head and listened. Then he faced north and sounded a
chrk
.

Almost instantly came the answering
chrk
of a ptarmigan.

Sudden understanding flooded Gwylly’s face, and he turned to Faeril. But the damman had started running northward, shedding her pack even as she went. Gwylly followed, dropping his pack as well. Urus looked on in puzzlement. Aravan glanced over at him, the Elf’s visage no
longer grim but smiling instead. “The ptarmigan. ’Tis Riatha.” Aravan turned back.
Chrk!

Again it was immediately answered.

Urus bowed his head and took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, and when he looked up again, his eyes glistered.

In the distance, Faeril clutched a kneeling Riatha, the damman’s arms about the Elfess. “I thought you slain, Riatha. I thought you slain.” Tears ran freely down Faeril’s cheeks.

Riatha’s embrace took in Gwylly, too. “Ah, my wee ones, there was a time when I, too, bethought myself slain. Yet I eluded them in the end.

“And now, Gwylly, thou must tell me…” Riatha’s voice fell silent, for toward her came Aravan and one other, one whom she had thought gone from her life forever. Disengaging from the Waerlinga, she stood, her heart hammering. Slowly the Elfess walked toward the two, her silver-grey eyes glittering with unshed tears. And then they came together, and Urus wrapped his huge arms about her and held onto her tightly, and she clutched him unto her, her face buried in his chest, softly weeping.

And Aravan looked on in consternation.

* * *

Riatha pointed. “There. The dark hole shaped as a cathedral window. A hundred or so feet up from the floor. There is where Stoke has stood in the shadows two nights now.”

The five were on the western brim of the circular pit, peering across to where Riatha pointed. “We can lower ourselves from above to come at him.”

Gwylly looked up at the Elfess. “How far to a place where we can cross over?”

“Half a league,” responded Riatha. The Elfess glanced at the sky. “But not today, Gwylly. Not tonight. We know not what lies within that hole—a simple cavern or a twisting maze—and there is not enough day left for exploring a maze, not enough light ere night falls and the others join him.

“Yet I do have a plan. Heed, in the hour before dawn, Stoke sends the
Spaunen
away from him and unto splits and cracks and crevices spread wide. Then is Stoke most vulnerable, for should aught come at him in the daylight hours, his warders will be unable to answer his call, for, because of the Ban, they cannot leave the blackness of their
holes to cross the arena below to come to him when Adon’s light is in the sky.

“And so, this I advise: that we wait till morn, and at sunrise go in after Stoke, trapping the viper in its lair. Then will we have time enough to search for him, be his bolt-hole a complex labyrinth or a simple cave.”

Urus growled. “I like not this waiting, yet I have no better plan.”

Aravan nodded his agreement. “I would see this Man with the yellow eyes, and so I, too, would wish that it were now rather than on the morrow. But thy plan is sound, Dara, and I follow thee.”

Gwylly spoke up. “What about tonight? Where do we go? Where do we stay?” The buccan gestured at the tracks of the maggot-folk. “I mean, we can’t just stay out in the open, at least not on this rim. Look, it’s plain that the Rūcks and such were here last night and they are likely to come again. And so, what’ll we do about them?”

Riatha looked at the sky. “E’en though it seems a storm is in the offing, hence hiding all trace of our presence, we cannot rely on the fortunes of the weather. List, ere we go to ground, first we must lay a false trail, one the
Spaunen
will follow this night, for I deem thou art right, Gwylly—they will come this eve once more, searching for me again.

“Yet if they do, they will not find us, for we will be well hidden in the
Rûpt’s
own caves, where I spent yesternight.”

Faeril’s eyes widened in amazement. “You spent last night in the caves? These caves?”

Riatha smiled. “Aye, in one they do not use. Where else to hide but in a place they think not to look?”

Aravan barked a laugh as he laced the last thong on the spare frame pack they had brought with them, a pack now filled with a share of the supplies. “Where else, indeed?”

Riatha stepped to the pack. “Come. Let us lay that trail for the
Rûpt
to follow, and I will tell ye all of my adventure as we go.”

After shouldering her own gear, Faeril turned to the Elfess. “False trail you say, Riatha? Let me tell what I did to fool the maggot-folk.” Faeril giggled, remembering her vision of Rūcks and such searching for a secret door in solid stone. “Perhaps we can use the trick here.”

Riatha raised a questioning eyebrow.

Again Faeril giggled, then grew sober. “Here is what we
can do. First, let us cut some pine boughs and then backtrack up the trail we made coming from the monastery to here, walking out beside it, taking care not to step in our old footprints. About a mile from here we will pass a sheer stone face. We will go on beyond the face a furlong or two, now on top of our track from the monastery. A furlong beyond we will stop, start back, and brush out all tracks heading toward or coming from the monastery, thereby keeping the Foul Folk from going there. Instead, when we get back to the stone face, we stop brushing and walk from our trail to the face, as if there were a secret door hidden therein. Then we lay a trail from that stone back to our original trail, and step in our own prints back to here.

“Only you, Riatha, will need to lay a new trail on the return while we step in our original tracks, for you were not with us as we came from the monastery.

“Now think how what we do will look to the maggot-folk. If we are careful, they will not be able to tell which tracks were laid first, hence will believe that we came out a secret door concealed in the stone, walked to the pit, looked about, and then returned to the secret door and went within.

“Perhaps they’ll knock for admittance.”

All burst out in laughter, and Riatha clapped her hands. “Hai! Another clever vixen in this band.”

And so, carrying out Faeril’s scheme, the five set forth from the pit, moving back up the trail, taking care not to step in the tracks.

* * *

One after another, down from the bent tree they rappelled, swinging into the mouth of the cave high above the floor of the arena. They had laid the false trail and had returned to the rim of the sheer-walled pit. Evening was on the land, the overcast had grown darker, and snow began to flurry. Wind moaned through the mountains, driving south to north, up the main valley between hemming massifs, wailing into and over the canyon and pit and beyond. And now the five entered the cave high on the sheer western wall, its dark interior swallowing them whole and sheltering them from the blow.

Being the smallest, Gwylly and Faeril moved all the way to the back of the hole, there where the roof and walls came together. Ere taking a seat, Faeril explored the narrow
crevice at the rear, discovering that she could squeeze into the crack, finding that beyond a turn it twisted away into the darkness, but she did not explore any farther.

Hooded, with his face covered, Aravan lay at the mouth of the cave and peered outward, standing watch.

Between the Elf and the Warrows, Urus sat on one side, his back to the wall, Riatha on the other, her back to the stone as well.

And they waited.

Riatha gazed across at Urus, the Baeran leaning against rock, his eyes closed, resting in shadow. He was a giant of a Man—easily two or three hands taller than Aravan—with broad shoulders and trim waist and slim hips. And his strength was enormous. His face was covered with a close-cropped full beard, reddish brown, lighter at the tips, grizzled, and his hair was the same. Though his eyes were closed, she knew them to be a dark amber. He was dressed in deep umber and wore fleece-lined boots and vest. A morning star depended from his belt, the spiked ball and chain held by slip-knotted thongs to the oaken haft. He was wrapped ’round with a great brown cloak. He was exactly as she had remembered him. He was Urus.

And as she drank in the sight of him, the Dara’s mind drifted back to a time long past.
Ah, Reín, my mother, thou didst warn me long ago in Adonar when thou didst say, “Love not a mortal Man…it will shatter thy heart.” Mother, perhaps it is the fate of daughters to walk in the tracks of their dams. Thou and thine Evian, me and mine Urus—Adon knows, I do love this mortal Man. Yet I cannot tell him so, for I could not bear to see the anguish in his eyes as he grows old and I do not
.

Outside, the wind moaned. Urus shifted, opening his amber eyes, looking directly into Riatha’s gaze of silver.

4E1911 to 5E988
[The Past Millennium or So]

O
i!”
called Beorc. “Did y’ hear that?”

Uran cocked his head in the wind and listened, hearing nought but the sound of air swirling among the crags of the Grimwalls. But then—
wrauu
—came the faint cry. “Sounds like a cub. Lost.”

“Aye,” responded Beorc.

Uran shouldered his gear. “Well, there’s nothing for it—we’ve got to see that it’s all right.”

Beorc, too, shouldered his goods. “Take care, Uran. The sow may be about.”

Nodding, Uran led the way, the two Men moving higher among the crags.

Wrauu!
“There is no mistaking that call,” grunted Uran as the two clambered up slope. “It is a cub, indeed, for nought else squalls so. One in distress, too, if my ears hear straight.”

The Men were in the mountains west of Delon Isle, there in the River Argon. Scouting for the spoor of Spawn, for reports had come to them that the Grimwalls once again had become a dangerous place to be. Yet the Wrg had not begun raiding; it was as if they were waiting for some signal, or for some leader or event to come. But Modru was said to be in exile in the Barrens, and had been since the Great War some thirty-nine hundred years past. And Gyphon was banished beyond the Spheres for those same thirty-nine centuries. And none else had been capable of assembling the
entire Nation of Spawn, hence the renewed numbers of Foul Folk here in the Grimwalls at this time was a mystery. And so, in the spring the Baeron had come from the Great Greenhall and had set up station on the Isle of Delon in the clear waters of the Argon, and had begun sending scouts into the mountains to keep track of the Wrg.

Dressed in varying shades of brown, Uran and Beorc, brothers, were a pair of these scouts. Typical of all Baeron Men, they were tall and muscular Uran, the elder of the two, stood some six feet six and weighed a jot over sixteen stone. Beorc, the younger brother, was mayhap a half inch taller but weighed a bit less, coming in at fifteen stone and some. Both had brown eyes and dark brown hair, and Uran sported a beard, while his brother was clean-shaven. Uran, at twenty-four, was married; Beorc, at twenty-one, was not.

And now in the early morning sunlight of a late summer day they climbed to see what was amiss with a Bear cub, a cub wrauling in distress. That these Men did so was not surprising, for Bears were
special
to the Baeron—Bears and Wolves, alike—some folk even claiming that there was a mystical bond ’tween the Baeron and these beasts. Why, some claimed that the Baeron were able to
talk
to Wolves and Bears. As to the actual truth of the matter, few knew, if any, and none would say for sure.

Wrauu!

“Up there,” called Beorc, pointing. “No cub, but still a Bear.” Uran looked, and indeed he did see what appeared to be the dark form of a large Bear lying on the edge of a boulder-laden flat above.

Higher they climbed. “Fox!” called Uran. “No, two! — Three!”

A flash of red fur betrayed a fox scrambling away among the stones of the rocky ’scape.

Uran stood with his mouth agape. “Adon! My eyes must be playing tricks. I thought I saw…” He fell silent, reflective, and resumed climbing.

“What?” No answer came to Beorc’s question.

“Well, no matter what you saw, Uran, foxes couldn’t bring down a full-grown Bear, be it sow Bear or boar.”

Wrauu!
The wraul of the distressed cub sounded near.

“Mayhap they were after the younker,” replied Uran, clambering upward.

“Hola! Look!” Uran pointed up slope at what appeared to be another felled Bear farther back on the flat.

Beorc held up his hand and tested the wind. “’Ware, Uran. The wind blows that way. Mayhap they are but asleep; it would not do to startle them.”

Uran loosened his morning star from his belt. “Something is not right, Beorc.”

When Beorc had taken his mace in hand, the two Men resumed climbing, going more slowly, more warily.

They came up level with the downed Bears. Now they could see that altogether there were four of them, slain, feathered with arrows, the Bears lying before a low opening in the rocky slope.

Wrauu!
The wraul of the distressed cub came from the dark slot.

Carefully, the Men approached. “Look!” hissed Uran. “Armor. Weapons. Abandoned.”

Scattered across the flat was what could be construed as evidence of battle—chain mail, helms, cudgels, bows, arrows, boots, clothing—abandoned, or so it seemed.

“Rach!”
cursed Beorc, taking up a black-shafted arrow. He stirred the clothing, finding ashes, dust.
“Forbanet
Wrg! No wonder there are no corpses.”