Sentinelspire (3 page)

L
ewan crouched in the cover of the thick brush near the stream. The long tree-shadows and tall grasses made for good cover, but a large predator would detect any movement. Lewan kept absolutely still, save for his eyes, which flitted about, searching for anything on the move. The sound of the stream would hide all but the loudest sounds should he need to move—but it would do the same for anything approaching. Still, he could have sworn that his ears had caught something a moment ago.

The sound came again, off to his right—
wheet-wheet!
—the call of the spotted crake, one of the many small birds that made its home in the tall grasses where the trees of the Shalhoond thinned before fading into the Great Amber Steppes. Lewan answered with a crane’s call.

A rustling in the grass came closer, stopped, then moved closer still. A moment later a small green and brown head, scaled and with a tiny horn above the nose, poked out from between tufts of new spring grass. The little lizard’s eyes locked on Lewan, the small black tongue flicked out, tasting the air, then the creature was gone, a hiss in the grass.

Berun came in quietly, scarcely more than a whisper himself, crouching low so he didn’t breach the surface of the
grass. His silence belied his size. Standing straight, he would have looked down upon most natives of the steppes, though he was lean and his features were hard, shaped by years of wind and sun. He held his bow—far larger than the one on Lewan’s back—in one hand, though it was unstrung. A treeclaw lizard rode his shoulder, its long tail dangling beside the man’s braid.

“You found something?” asked the man.

“Yes, Master,” said Lewan. “Down by the water.”

They kept to the cover of the trees and brush as much as they could, but nearer the stream it was all grass. Between two tall tussocks was a bare patch of soil that had been moistened by the rain of two nights ago. It had dried since, preserving the four prints quite nicely. Looking at them, Berun’s brows knit together. They kept their voices low.

“What kind of animal is it, Lewan?”

“A large cat,” he replied. “Steppe tiger, I think.”

Berun gave him a slight smile, though he didn’t look up. “What else?”

“A female. The rear paws come down slightly to the outside of those of the front. Wider hips means a female—even in cats. Yes?”

Berun’s grin widened. “Yes, Lewan. Even in cats. And how big is she?”

Lewan looked at the prints. They were large, as big as his outstretched palm. The soil would have been softer after the rain, and the prints were deep.

“She’s big,” said Lewan. “I’d guess at least eight hundred pounds. Maybe more.”

“A good guess,” said Berun. “Well done, Lewan.”

“What now, Master? It seems she’s headed back into the forest. She isn’t spraying any markers, doesn’t seem to be establishing any territory, and she hasn’t hit any farms in eleven days. She abandoned that last deer half-eaten. She’s wandering all over the place. I don’t understand.”

Berun’s smile disappeared and he became grim again. “Nor do I.” He looked up at the sun. “We’ll keep tracking her while the light is strong. If she keeps heading deeper into the wood, we’ll find a good place to bed down. I don’t want to hunt a steppe tiger in the dark.”

They tracked the tiger throughout the rest of the morning and into midday. They did not hurry, keeping to cover and taking care to move quietly. Although the tiger had taken the deer three days ago and probably wouldn’t be hunting again, it didn’t hurt to be cautious. Tigers were ambush hunters, and this tiger was already a puzzle, hitting three farms in the last month, slaughtering mostly sheep, but at the last one she’d forsaken the sheep and taken the shepherd. She’d kept to no set range, so she wasn’t a newcomer seeking territory. At least not yet.

Just past midday they came upon another stream, one of the many that crawled out of the Khopet-Dag to the west. They were farther from the wood now, and the few trees rising out of the steppe hugged the water where they starved out the thicker grasses. Lewan found fresh tracks near the water and called to his master.

“Look, Master,” he said, keeping his voice low. “These are less than half a day old.”

The men crossed the stream where the tracks did, moving swiftly so as not to be in open sight for long. The water never rose above their knees, but it was cold; it had probably been snow on some distant peak only a few days ago. As they were about to set foot on the opposite shore, Berun came to an abrupt halt and motioned for Lewan to do the same. He approached the wet soil on the opposite bank with utmost care, crouching low and choosing his ground so as not to step on any tracks. Lewan noted that the fluid grace had left his
movements. His master was stiff and hesitant. Something had startled him.

“What is it, Master?” he whispered.

When Berun didn’t reply, Lewan stepped forward, keeping low, his hands on his knees to preserve his balance. He followed his master’s gaze.

A mass of tracks, many of them trampling others. Among the few clear ones were more tiger tracks. Judging by the size, it was the same beast covering the same ground a few times, but in one smooth patch of soil was a boot print, distinct and undisturbed. It was big and deep. Whoever had made it was at least as tall as Berun—and much heavier.

Scratched into the bootprint—probably with a twig or a thick stalk of grass—were letters. Lewan was by no means a master of letters. In his sixteen years, his master had taught him only the basics, but he knew enough to recognize these. Written in the Thorass letters, they spelled out a word: KHEIL.

“Master, what does this mean?”

Berun swallowed and said nothing. He had gone pale, and Lewan noticed that Berun’s fist gripping his bow was tense and white.

“Master? What—?”

“Lewan,” said Berun, his voice hoarse. “Go back to the village. Keep to cover. Go slowly. Let no one see you. If you don’t make it by dark, bed down secure and light no fire.
No
fire. Do you hear me? You must not be seen out in the open. Get to the village and stay there. Tell them that no one leaves the wall, save in numbers, and everyone goes armed, even behind the walls. Keep the fires lit at night—burning low, but the guards will need to see. And tell them to double their guards. Not just the gate. After dark, every turn of the wall must be watched.”

“I … I don’t understand, Master. We’ve hunted worse than tigers before. Why send me back?”

“Later, Lewan. You will obey me in this. I shouldn’t be more than a few days.”

“But I can help you.”

“Not this time.”

“What do those letters mean, Master? What is a ‘Kheil?’ ”

“Not a what, Lewan. Kheil was a man. Now head back to the village.” Berun looked at him. His eyes were equal parts fury and fear. “You
will
obey in this, Lewan. Go. Now.”

Lewan looked away. “As you say, Master.”

“And Lewan?”

“Yes?”

“String your bow. Travel with an arrow in hand.”

B
erun watched Lewan disappear into the tall grass. He’d hurt the boy. Lewan was confused and afraid, but that couldn’t be helped. This job had seemed so simple. Something had been killing sheep around some of the villages that Hubadai, the self-proclaimed ruler of the Hordelands, had established along the Great Amber Steppes. Not all that unusual so near the Shalhoond, but eleven days ago two shepherds had been attacked, one killed, and one saved only by the quick ministrations of the village healer. The villages had banded together and sent out a hunting party. They hadn’t been seen since, so the villages had hired Berun to track down the beast. Simple enough. Berun had done many such jobs over the past few years since wandering into this part of the world. The little gold it put in his hand helped to buy what supplies he and Lewan could not take from the wild. But this simple job had just turned into something much, much worse.

Berun’s mind swirled. Rising fear told him to go after Lewan, to collect the boy and head south into the deep wood where they could lose themselves. Maybe hide among the
yaqubi
. Let Hubadai’s new villages fend for themselves or call upon their new khahan for aid. If Berun’s guess was right, then this was no rogue tiger he was following. And those hunters sent out by the village would likely never be seen again.

But another voice whispered round the edges of his fear.
An old half-elf’s voice. Chereth, his teacher. Berun had spent many seasons with Chereth beneath the boughs of the Yuirwood, far to the north and west, learning from him the sacred ways of the wild, the paths of life and death, the hearts of growing things. As a Master of the Yuirwood, Chereth had long been devoted to his own woodland home, but as a servant of Silvanus, he was also sworn to protect all the wild places of the world, and that service sometimes took him and his disciple far from home. Over the years, his devotion sometimes turned to obsession, and he walked hundreds of miles, searching for old lore and relics.

Chereth and Berun’s last journey together five years ago had taken them into the depths of the Ganathwood, whose long-dead inhabitants shared a common heritage with the ancient elves of the Yuirwood. They had found what they sought and were leaving, were in fact nearing the edges of the wood, when they came upon a large band of marauders, made up mostly of escaped slaves from Thay and Mulhorand who had fled to the Ganathwood and gone savage. The band had raided some of the outlying villages of Murghôm, stealing supplies and taking captives. They were bloodied and tired, yet they pushed themselves to reach the shelter of the wood. Chereth and Berun hit them hard.

The fight had been short but brutal, the few surviving marauders taking to the woods in different directions. But Chereth and Berun had underestimated the raiders’ bloodlust. As the fight turned against them, they’d killed their captives rather than see them freed. Chereth and Berun had only managed to rescue one, a young boy.

“How is he?” Chereth asked.

“Frightened,” said Berun. “Looks starving but he won’t eat. I barely got him to swallow a mouthful of water. He has the look of a hare before the hawk’s talons strike.”

“And he fears we are hawks?”

Berun considered a moment. “I don’t know that he’s thinking even that much.”

“Do what you can for him.”

Berun heard the farewell in the statement. “Master Chereth?”

The old half-elf looked away. “I must leave you now, my son.”

“Wh-what? Why?”

“I found what I sought in the Ganathwood. The final branch of a tree that I have long watched grow. Now that I have it, I must go.”

“Go where?”

“To fell the tree.”

“Have I failed you in some way, Master?”

Chereth turned back to him. “No, my son. You have surpassed all my hopes for you. Some days I wish you were truly the son of my body as well as my teaching.”

“My place is with you, Master.”

“Not this time. Not this fight. Tend the slain captives here. Leave the dead raiders for the wolves. Malar must have his offering as well as our Lord Silvanus. Then take care of the boy. Most of all, you must care for this.”

Chereth reached inside his shirt and pulled out a necklace braided from thin strips of leather. Fastened on the end was a medallion of sorts, a mass of hardened wood and vine in a twisting pattern that encased three small stones, each just a shade off amber. The bits of wood and vine were dark, obviously ancient and worn, yet they seemed to possess a strange vitality, almost as if they were veins pulsing with life from the three stones within.

“Erael’len,”
said Chereth.

“The Three Hearts,” said Berun, translating. “But Master, you are its sworn guardian.”

“Yes. I swore to keep it safe. Where I now go, I cannot keep that oath. But you can.”

“But Master, you’ve only begun to teach me its secrets.”

“And you have done well. You must continue now on your own. Guard
Erael’len
with your life.” Chereth looked away,
and when he spoke again, Berun heard an odd note in his voice. “Do what you can for the boy. He has the look of one of the Murghôm. Head east and ask among the ataman. See if you can find a family for him. Leave word whenever you stop. I’ll find you when I am done, if I can.”