The Eye of the Hunter (9 page)

Faeril, too, prepared herself, waterskin and frame pack, the damman already bristling with knives crisscrossing her torso. She turned to B’arr when she was ready and held out her hands. “Oh, B’arr, do take care. We shall miss you, you know.”

B’arr knelt down and squeezed the she-
Mygga
’s hands. “Already I miss you, little one. I know
Mygga
and
Fé
must go now. I worry you not safe. We come back when”—B’arr gestured to the night sky and groped for a word—“when star with tail gone. You stay safe till then, eh? Then we run happy back to Innuk, yes? Summer come, we fish.”

Faeril managed a wistful smile and nodded and kissed the sledmaster on the cheek, then turned away.

Gwylly, too, said good-bye to B’arr, then stepped to each of the teams and ruffled the fur of Garr and Laska and Shlee, whispering something to each, his words heard by none else.

Aravan and Riatha bade each of the sledmasters farewell, and then all four—Riatha, Aravan, Gwylly, and Faeril—set forth up slope, heading deeper into the shadow-wrapped canyon, while the skies above grew dim.
B’arr watched them go, and for a long time he did not move. And he glanced down at his bone-bladed spear and wondered what perilous game, what deadly foe, the four of them pursued, a foe so dangerous that it would require weapons of steel and silver and starlight and crystal to slay it.

At last he looked up at the darkening skies, then signalled to Tchuka and Ruluk. As had been commanded, they would go back to the ruins two days north and wait until the strange star was gone from the skies. Then would they come back for the
Mygga
and
Fé
. Grasping his sled by the handlebar,
“Hypp! Hypp!”
he called, the dogs lunging ahead in response.
“Venstre, Shlee, venstre!”
Slowly the team wheeled leftward, until they were heading down slope.
“Strak! Strak!”
and down the course they fared, back the way they had come, Shlee’s
span
running hard, Laska’s and Garr’s
spans
just as swift behind.

* * *

Night fell as up the rift they hiked, Gwylly and Faeril setting the pace for Riatha and Aravan. The Moon rose unseen, shielded by the ice-clad canyon walls. Overhead, stars wheeled in slow procession, and the four comrades knew that somewhere above the hidden horizon the Eye of the Hunter streamed.

Up the slope they walked, twisting deeper and deeper into the defile, its sheer walls looming closer in the darkness, the snow-covered floor of the vale rising up to meet them.

And now and again the earth shuddered, and snow sifted down from above, along with clattering rocks and jagged slabs of shattered ice, hammering onto the canyon floor at the base of the steep ramparts.

It was after one of these rumblings that Gwylly asked, “Hoy, Aravan, tell me about Dragons and about this Black Kalgalath. How be was slain and all.”

The Elf looked down at the Waerling and smiled, There’s much to tell and little, for the life of any given Dragon is not well known. Even so, much is known concerning Dragons taken altogether.

“They are a mighty Folk, and perilous. Capable of speech. Covetous of wealth, gathering hoards unto themselves. They live in remote fastnesses, coming now and again upon their deadly raids, usually to steal cattle and
other livestock, though I ween they think of it as hunting. ‘All must aid when Dragons raid,’ so goes the eld saying. Yet I deem that nought can be done when Dragons raid, and so the saying simply means to give shelter and comfort to those afflicted by a Drake’s comings and goings.

“They sleep for a thousand years and waken for two thousand. At this time Dragons are awake, and have been so for some five hundred years.

“There are two strains of Dragons, though once there was but one. Fire-drakes and Cold-drakes they are now called: the breath of Fire-drakes a devastating flame; the breath of Cold-drakes a cloud of poison, its spittle an acid spume which chars flesh and stone and metal alike.

“Once there were no Cold-drakes, but in the Great War of the Ban, some Dragons sided with Gyphon. And after He was defeated, Adon reft the fire from these Dragons, causing them and their get to become the Cold-drakes of today.

“Too, the Cold-drakes suffer the Ban, the light of the Sun slaying them, though their Dragonhide saves them from the Withering Death which strikes the other Foul Folk. Have thou not heard the saying ‘Troll bones and Dragonhide’? It comes about because there are two things among the Foul Folk which do not wither under Adon’s golden light: the bones of Trolls; the hides of Dragons. And so, when exposed to the daytide, Cold-drakes do not turn to ashes, as do the
Rúpt
, the
Spaunen
. Even so, still the Sun slays them, the Cold-drakes…though the Fire-drakes are unaffected by the light of day.

“But Fire-drake or Cold-, terrible are they, massive and deadly and nearly indestructible, their claws like adamantine scimitars, their hides scaled in nearly invulnerable armor. Great leathery pinions bear them up into the sky, and their flapping wings hurl twisting vortexes of air to hammer down upon a foe.

“It is said that they can sense all within their domain, and that their eyes see the hidden, the unseen, and the invisible, as well as the visible, too.

“None knows how long they can live, and in this they may be as are the Elves, though I doubt it. Some have estimated that if the waking and sleeping times of the Drakes correspond unto that of Man—that is, three thousand years for a Dragon is likened to one day for a Man—
then because the lives of some Men span as much as one hundred summers, say, thirty-six thousand dawns, then the equivalent span of a Dragon would be more than one hundred thousand thousand years.”

Gwylly gasped, then blurted, “One hundred thousand
thousand
!”

“Aye, wee one: one hundred thousand thousand years.”

Gwylly turned to Faeril, his mind boggled by a number so large, unable to grasp even a glimmering of what it meant. The damman, seeing the confusion in the buccan’s wide eyes, said, “Let me see if I can put this in terms that we can understand, Gwylly.”

She thought a moment as they continued trudging up slope. “Mayhap this will serve: I have heard that there are seven thousand grains in a pound of wheat.”

Gwylly nodded, for he had heard the same from his foster father, though he surely did not know who would have counted them.

Faeril continued: “And, too, I have heard that there are some fifty to sixty pounds of wheat in a bushel.”

Again Gwylly nodded, for often he had helped with the harvest, and a bushel of wheat weighed nearly as much as he.

“Well, then,” said Faeril, “if that’s so, then a bushel of wheat contains some”—the damman did a quick reckoning in her head—“oh, say, four hundred thousand grains altogether.”

Gwylly shrugged, vaguely irritated, feeling ensnared in an arcane academic exercise. “If you say so. But what’s this got to do with—?”

Faeril held up a hand, and Gwylly fell silent, and buccan and damman continued striding through the snow, while she did another quick reckoning. “Then that means that two hundred and fifty bushels of wheat contain one hundred thousand
thousand
grains.”

Gwylly looked at her blankly.

“Don’t you see, Gwylly, if each one of those grains was like one year in a Dragon’s life, it would take two hundred fifty bushel baskets full of wheat to have enough grains to number the years of a Drake.”

At last this was something that the buccan could visualize, for Orith had sown and harvested wheat: In his mind’s eye Gwylly saw two hundred fifty bushel baskets stretching
out before him, each full to the brim with grains of wheat, each grain representing a year. He envisioned one basket spilled—for he’d spilled them—the grain spread in a uniform layer across a wide floor, the total covering a great area. Then he tried to envision two hundred fifty bushels spilled, knowing that the spread would be vast. But here his mind balked at trying to grasp it in its entirety.
To think each grain represents one year in a Dragon’s life. And as to the whole of it, well, it’s quite unimaginable
.

But Faeril’s thoughts, on the other hand, followed a completely different track, and she glanced up at Riatha and Aravan striding alongside.
If the span of Dragons seems so vast, then what of that of Elves? Why, all the grains of sand of all the beaches and all the deserts of all the world cannot even begin to number the years lying before each one of that Fair Folk
.

Aravan’s words broke into the thoughts of the Waerlinga. “Thine example is apt, Faeril. Yet I caution thee: ’tis but speculation that the sleepings and wakings of Drakes correspond to the days of Man. It could just as well be that they do not…or that they correspond to that of other beings—Waerlinga, Elves, Dwarves, Utruni…None that I have spoken to knows the truth of it.”

Faeril looked at the Elf, weighing his words. “Then tell me this, Aravan: how old is the oldest Dragon now?”

“Adon knows, Faeril,” responded the Elf. “Dragons were here on Mithgar when first we came, and that was several thousands of years apast.”

For some time the foursome strode up the slope without speaking, their boots scrutching in the snow. Again the earth trembled, and more snow sifted down the face of the vertical walls looming to each side, rocks and ice rattling and shattering down as well. At last Gwylly broke the silence that had fallen among them. “All right, then. What about Kalgalath?”

Aravan took up the tale once more. “Black Kalgalath was perhaps the mightiest Drake upon all of Mithgar, though it was said by some that Daagor was mightier still. Yet Daagor was slain in the Great War as he fought on the side of Gyphon.

“Black Kalgaiath, though, sided with no one, remaining aloof from the War.

“But there was a power token named the Kammerling,
though others called it the Rage Hammer and some named it Adon’s Hammer. It was said that this hammer would slay the mightiest Dragon of all.

“Black Kalgalath in his arrogance thought that the hammer was meant to be his bane, and so he stole it from its guardians, from the Utruni, from the Stone Giants, and gave it to a Wizard to ward for him.

“Yet two heroes, Elyn and Thork, recovered the hammer and used it to kill Kalgalath.

“It was in his death throes that Black Kalgalath smote the earth with the Kammerling, there at Dragonslair, whelming the world with that puissant token of power. And ever since, the land has been unstable, quaking, shuddering with the memory of Kalgalath’s death here in the Grimwalls.”

Onward they walked, an hour or two, then another, the night growing deeper, and the Eye of the Hunter appeared above the east canyon wall, its fiery tail streaming out behind.

Again the earth jolted, this time severely, and great rocks and slabs of ice shattered down into the deep slot below.

And Gwylly and Faeril thought that they could faintly hear the far-off ringing of iron bells. But in that very same moment there came a distant, juddering howl, long and ululating.

Faeril’s heart jumped into her throat, and Gwylly beside her clutched her hand. “Wolves?” she asked, fearing the answer.

Again came the howl, louder this time perhaps, the sound echoing from crevice and crag, confusing the ear as to its direction, and Gwylly involuntarily squeezed Faeril’s fingers.

Riatha looked about, sighting up the nearest wall even as debris rattled down from above. “Nay, Faeril, not Wolves,” she gritted. “Instead it is the hunting cry of Vulgs on the track, and they are in pursuit.”

Mid and Late Summer, 5E985
[Three Years Past]

“P
-prophecy…?” Gwylly stammered, staring at the young damman standing in the open doorway, she looking like a young warrior, what with the knives crisscrossing her breast. “W-what prophecy?”

Before she could answer—“Mind your manners, Gwylly” came the voice of his foster mother, Nelda. “Invite her in.”

Gwylly stepped aside and the damman entered, her gaze shifting from Gwylly up to these tall Humans, Orith and Nelda, unspoken questions in the wee damman’s eyes. In that moment, however, Black, wagging his tail, greeted her, attempting to get in a lick or two. The damman giggled and ruffled his ears, but fended off the wet tongue. As if suddenly recovering his senses, Gwylly leapt forward, coming to her rescue, with effort pushing Black aside, the dog a handful for one the size of the buccan.

“Black,” called Orith. “Stand down.” Black backed away, his tail still swinging widely.

“Take care his tail,” Orith warned. “For one your size it carries a wallop.”

The golden-eyed damman laughed, her voice silver, and Gwylly felt as if his heart were expanding.

Nelda gestured toward the kitchen. “Come in, my dear. Have you eaten? Won’t you have some tea?” The Woman led the damman to the table. “It’s not often we get visitors out this way, especially the Wee Ones. What did you say your name was, dear?”

“Faeril,” replied the damman as she climbed up into a chair—Gwylly’s chair, that is. “Faeril Twiggins.”

Again Gwylly’s heart leapt
Faeril. What a wonderful name
. The buccan pulled up another chair and sat, too—though much lower since the guest was in
his
chair—and Gwylly’s chin just cleared the tabletop. Orith sat and Black flopped down beside him, the dog’s tail thumping against the floor.

Nelda busied herself pouring tea and preparing a plate of food, while Orith stuffed leaf in his pipe and Gwylly stared at the damman—unable, it seemed, to look at aught else….

And then she turned her golden gaze upon him.

Flustered, Gwylly tried to appear nonchalant, failing miserably.

“You
are
Gwylly Fenn, aren’t you?”

Gwylly glanced away at Nelda and Orith, then back to Faeril. “My name
is
Gwylly. But as to the name Fenn, well, we don’t know what…” The buccan’s voice trailed off.

“Found him twenty years ago,” said Orith, tamping down the pipeleaf as Faeril looked his way. “In a wreck. His sire and dam, well, they’d been killed. Rūcks and such, I think.”