The Eye of the Hunter (74 page)

Boiling inward came yawling the Rūcks and Hlōks, cudgels and scimitars in hand, their charge bearing Riatha and the Warrows backwards into Aravan.

“Krystallopýr,”
whispered Aravan, Truenaming his spear, leaping forward, attempting to win through the press to aid Urus, but a tulwar-bearing Hlōk came between the Elf and the Troll. Aravan parried the Hlōk’s edge with the haft of
his spear, then cut sideways with the crystal blade, the burning point searing through the foe’s abdomen, entrails spilling forth. The Hlōk shrieked and fell dying, but two others took his place, charging at Aravan, their weapons raised for slaughter.

Gwylly let fly with a sling bullet, the missile crashing into the skull of a charging Rūck, and Faeril threw steel to bring down another. Yet the remaining Rūcks overbore Faeril and Gwylly, but Riatha hurled them back, Dúhamis singing of death.

Somewhere a horn blatted, its raucous call summoning aid.

Again Urus leapt aside and hammered the Troll with the morning star, a bone breaking in the monster’s rib cage, the Ogru bellowing in pain. Risking a glance at his companions, Urus yelled, “Get to a place of safety!” But in that same moment the Troll swept up Urus and clasped the Man to him and squeezed, the creature’s huge arms bulging with effort, Urus attempting to hammer at the Ogru, but he was unable to bring his weapon to bear. Perhaps as the Bear he could have resisted the Troll, even slain it, yet there had been no time for the transformation, for the Ogru was upon them ere any choice could be made. And now Urus dangled in the monster’s awful grasp as would a child dangle in the grasp of a grown-up, his struggles futile, feeble.

“Urus!” shrieked Riatha, and started forward. But once more the Rūcks charged the Waerlinga, and again Riatha leapt to their defense.

Gwylly hurled a bullet at the Ogru, and it cracked against the Troll’s skull, only to glance away from the granite-like bone. And then a yowling Rūck was upon the buccan, cudgel whistling down. A steel knife sprang full blown in the Rūck’s throat, driving him back, yet even as the foe fell dead the bludgeon struck with force, knocking Gwylly from his feet, stunning him.

In that same moment there came a horrid cracking sound, the Ogru crushing Urus’s bones, the Man slack, lifeless, blood bubbling from his mouth. Then the Ogru hurled the Baeran against the wall; Urus’s broken body smashing into the stone and falling with a sodden thud, the Troll leaping after and pawing at Urus’s frame, making certain the Man was dead.

Faeril stood above her fallen buccaran, a knife in either hand, shrieking a warcry in Twyll:
“Blūt vor blūt!”

Aravan yanked Krystallopŷr from the chest of a Hlōk and closed ranks with Riatha, his crystal spear ready to pierce the foe she battled, but Riatha’s starsilver blade, slashed through the enemy’s throat, the Ruch staggering hindward clutching his neck, then crashing to the stone.

The remaining Spawn wrenched back, fear standing in their eyes.

Riatha now saw Urus’s body, the Ogru looming above. “Urus!” she screamed, starting forward, but Aravan barred her way, clutching her, holding her back.

“There is nought thou canst do, Dara!” his voice cracked out sharply. “We are too late.”

“Urus!” she cried again, struggling to break free.

“No, Dara,” grated Aravan. “Instead we must heed Urus’s last words and get to a place of safety.”

The Elfess shook her head to clear her tears, her gaze shifting from Urus’s body to the Ogru pawing the lifeless form. “Not until I kill the Troll,” snarled Riatha, gripping Dúnamis, trying to push past Aravan…but he yielded not.

“The Waerlinga, Dara, the Waerlinga. Now is the time to protect the living and not to avenge the dead.”

Riatha looked at Faeril above Gwylly, the buccan just now floundering to his feet, then at Urus and the Troll.

Behind shrieked a screech of metal, and Riatha turned in time to see a portcullis crash down
Blang!
over the door they had entered.

And still a
Rûptish
horn blatted an alarm.

As Gwylly shook off the last of the stunning, “The front entrance,” gritted Riatha.

Even as she spoke, the Troll turned from Urus and started toward the four, Rūcks and Hlōks howling in glee.

Whirling in their tracks, toward the gaping arch in the front wall they ran, racing for their very lives, and above the yowling of the Spawn and the blaring of the horn, they could hear the thunderous tread of the Ogru hammering across the chamber at their heels, the Rūcks and such coming after.

Ahead of the Troll they dashed through the archway, coming into a vestibule some twenty-five feet wide and fifty feet long. Somewhere in the shadows ahead lay the door,
but there, too, was a portcullis, down and locked, butted against the outer door, the portcullis clamping the crossbar in place.

“No!” shrilled Gwylly when he saw the barrier, the buccan turning to look for the winch and lock, as Aravan and Riatha whirled about to meet the charge of the Troll, the monster just now stooping to enter the vestibule, Rūcks and Hlōks in his wake.

Gwylly’s gaze darted left and right; there was no winch, no side doors either. Overhead, he saw machicolations—slots above—murder holes through which to rain destruction down upon invading foe. Over the archway back into the main chamber was a long slot, and the fangs of a raised portcullis could be seen, the vestibule a death trap for any who entered.

A death trap
they
had entered.

But death did not pour down from above. Instead it took the form of a great Ogru, flanked on either side by leering Rūcks and Hlōks.

Desperately, Gwylly spun about and began hammering on one of the iron shutters covering an arrow slit.

The Ogru struck at Aravan, the Elf ducking under the blow as Riatha sprang forward and slashed Dúnamis against the Troll’s flank, but the starsilver sword merely glanced from the Ogru’s hide. The monster roared and backhandedly slapped the Elfess aside, smashing her into the vestibule wall, Dúnamis lost to her grasp, skittering across the stone.

A Hlōk leaped toward the fallen Elfess, but Faeril hurled a steel knife, felling the
Rûpt
, the other Spawn recoiling.

Aravan stepped under the Troll’s grasp, thrusting Krystallopŷr up and in, the burning blade piercing deep into the Ogru’s abdomen, the monster yawling. With a wrenching motion Aravan drove the blade sideways, the crystal yet deep inside the creature’s gut. Wide flew the Troll’s eyes as Aravan thrust upwards, stabbing deeper, Krystallopŷr bursting through the monster’s heart, the Troll staggering backwards, Aravan jerking the spear free, the crystal blade blazing. Several steps the Ogru reeled hindward, black blood spilling out onto the stone, rock sizzling and popping where the ichor fell, dark smoke rising. And then the monster crashed dead to the stone floor.

And in the archway beyond stood a Man.

With yellow eyes.

Stoke.

And snarling Vulgs stood at his side.

“Balak!”
he shouted, and with a shrieking of iron the inner portcullis thundered down
Clang!
plummeting into the sockets in the floor, a sharp
Clack!
sounding as somewhere above a bolt shot home, locking the grille in place.

“Gluktu glush!”
he commanded, and the Rūcks and Hlōks within the vestibule surged forward.

And in that same moment Gwylly finally got the latch on the shutter free. “Take
this
, you
skuts!
” he shouted, the buccan wrenching the hinged cover aside, the panel screeching open, daylight streaming in through the narrow slot.

The Spawn caught directly in the light only had time to look up in horror as they collapsed and crumbled to dust. Those to the side turned to flee, but instead fell shrieking, and they withered and shrivelled, their limbs twisting grotesquely, their ribs collapsing, chests falling inward, their screams chopped short as if by a blade. The body of the slain Troll crumbled to dust, a massive skeleton momentarily appearing, and then the ligaments and cartilage in the joints crumbled, and the heavy bones separated from one another and clattered to the stone. From above, shrill cries pierced downward through the machicolations, along with a grim tattoo of creatures thrashing in agony, and then nought but ash sifted downward.

And beyond the portcullis, as the Vulgs collapsed, Stoke howled in agony and jerked back and aside, a hurtling silver knife flashing past, grazing his ear, blood flying, the blade clanging to the floor in the darkness far beyond as Stoke disappeared in the shadows.

And silence fell, grim and complete.

Faeril turned to Gwylly to see that he was all right. Then she knelt at Riatha’s side, placing her ear to the Elfess’s breast. As she did so, Riatha stirred, and Faeril began chafing the Elfess’s hand, calling out, “Riatha. Riatha.”

Aravan stepped past the Troll bones and knelt beside Faeril and swiftly examined the Elfess. “She is but stunned and even now recovers.”

Gwylly came and stroked Faeril’s hair. The damman looked up at him. “I threw and I missed,” she said, “missed Stoke. And he escaped.”

“Stoke was here?” blurted Gwylly. “I didn’t see him. That shutter…I almost didn’t get it open.”

“But thou didst, Gwylly,” said Aravan, smiling, “saving us all, I deem.”

Tears trickled down Riatha’s cheeks, the Elfess weeping even as she regained consciousness, murmuring,
“Chieran. Avó, chieran.”

Tears sprang to Faeril’s and Gwylly’s eyes, and Aravan stood and walked to the barway. After a moment he said, “We must find a way out of this trap.”

Gwylly, wiping his eyes, stepped to the inner portcullis beside the Elf, and they both looked back into the main hall of the mosque. Beyond the reach of the daylight streaming in through the open shutter, one of Faeril’s silver daggers lay in the shadows on the floor, its blade glittering in the torch-light from the altar. Against the far wall lay Urus’s lifeless body. Swiftly Gwylly looked away, for he knew that now was not the time to grieve.

The buccan cleared his throat and attempted to swallow his sorrow, yet his voice broke as through brimming eyes he examined the grate before them. Wiping his tears on his sleeve, he said, “Mayhap we can bend these bars as we did the others. We will need a lever, though.”

The buccan turned, his sight flying to the Troll bones. “Perhaps the thighbone…” He stepped to the femur and tried to heft it—“Oof!”—the bone nearly four feet long. Yet its weight was more than the Warrow could lift, though he did get one end up off the floor somewhat. “Lor, but this is heavy.”

“Troll bones and Dragonhide,” said Aravan, stepping to Gwylly’s side. “Mayhap it is because they are so solid that they are impervious to Adon’s Ban.” Aravan lifted the thighbone, grunting with the effort, bearing it to the portcullis, where he dropped it thudding to the stone floor.

Riatha stood and wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. Faeril retrieved the starsilver sword and gave it over to the Elfess, Riatha sheathing it in the shoulder harness.

Together, damman and Elfess stepped to the portcullis, Riatha’s bleak gaze drawn to Urus’s crumpled form lying in the shadows afar.

“Dara, we will mourn later,” said Aravan, his voice gentle. “Now we must strive to escape this trap, for we must do so ere the Sun goes down.”

Unable to speak, the Elfess nodded.

“I deem the lock and winch somewhere above,” said Aravan, looking at the machicolations overhead. “Can we find the way up, then we can raise not only this portcullis but the one barring the outer door as well.”

Gwylly stepped to the femur. “Then let us get to it.”

“The bone, it may not be a long enough lever, Gwylly,” said Aravan, “yet we will try.”

“How can we help?” asked Faeril. “I mean, Gwylly and I. If you put it up where the bars are easiest to bend, then we cannot reach it. And you will need our strength, for Urus is not—” Faeril’s words chopped off.

No one said aught for a moment, but then Aravan spoke: “First Riatha and I will try. If we cannot warp the bars, then we will loop a rope about the lever and through the bars and back for ye to hale upon.”

“Hsst!”
hissed Riatha. “Someone moves above.”

They heard the scrape of footsteps overhead, and a rolling sound as of a glass bottle. Suddenly, down through a murder hole a glittering sphere dropped, shattering on the floor. Bilious green fumes whooshed forth.

“Hold thy breath!” shouted Riatha. “’Tis gas!”

Gwylly gasped in a great breath and pressed his mouth shut. Another sphere plummeted into the vestibule and shattered, and more yellowish-green vapor billowed forth.

Aravan gestured to Gwylly and Faeril and Riatha, and they lay on the floor with their faces at the portcullis, where the way was open to the large chamber beyond.

Behind them, more glass spheres dropped through and shattered.

Gwylly could now see the sickly vapors drifting past, them and into the altar room. And he gripped Faeril’s hand and held his breath, clamping his lips tightly, his lungs screaming to breathe, his abdomen heaving, his body desperate for air, blackness swirling at the edges of his vision, sucking at his consciousness.
No!
his mind screamed.
I will not breathe!
…

…And yet in the end he could do nought else, and with great gasps he drew in the yellow-green fumes and his mind spun down into the boundless dark.

Early 5E990
[The Present]

F
aeril stood in a graveyard, in a slaughter house, in a charnel house, and watched as Lord Death, as a butcher, as Baron Stoke, swung his deadly scythe, sledged cattle, slaughtered Humans, Elves, Dwarves, Warrows. Rūcks stood back and jeered, blood slathering down their arms as they plunged their grasping hands into the carcasses of slain horses, rending and wrenching free dangling gobbets of raw meat, gore oozing. Flies buzzed incessantly and a ghastly stench of death hung over all. Somewhere high above, there where the light dimly glowed, she could hear Gwylly calling her name
.