The Eye of the Hunter (32 page)

Then the darkness within the hole changed, as if whoever, whatever had been there was gone.

The Elfess turned to Faeril, Riatha’s voice grim and deadly. “Tis Stoke!” she gritted. “He is alive! Once apast at Dreadholt did I hear him speak as would a Vulg, and this was the same.” Riatha gazed intently into Faeril’s eyes. “On the morrow, under the safety of the Sun, thou must bear word unto the monastery, for Aravan and Gwylly need to know that Stoke of a certain walks upon the world again.”

Faeril protested. “But you will be left alone, Riatha! I cannot—”

Riatha’s hand chopped downward in a negating gesture, stilling the damman’s words. “Thou
must
go. We are in a precarious position as it is, and as thou didst observe, the
Rûpt
may stumble upon our track. Gwylly and Aravan—and Urus, too, if he lives—must be warned…for the slayer is resurrected and once more will seek to begin his deadly harvest of innocent victims.”

“But what about you, Riatha?”

“Faeril, one of us must remain behind to track the monster should he decide to move.”

“That could be me as well as you, Dara.”

“Aye, Faeril, it could. Yet I have more experience than
thee, and I have less need of sleep, and my stride is longer should it come unto an overland trek.

“Nay, Faeril, ’tis I who should stay while thou dost gather our companions.”

The damman said nothing for a moment, but at last she spoke. “I will do as you say, Dara, and bear the word to them, but as soon as I have done so, I shall return.”

Riatha reached over and squeezed the Waerling’s hand, saying nothing.

More hours trickled by, and sometime after mid of night, the second band returned. Riatha wakened Faeril, and together they watched the scene below. This band, too, came with game of a sort: arctic hares mostly, although Riatha glimpsed what she took to be some kind of a large burrowing animal, mayhap a badger. This time a Hlōk came forth from the caverns below to meet them, and again the game was taken within.

In the hour before dawn, Rūcks and Hlōks and Vulgs boiled out from the east wall, streaming across the arena and into individual splits and crannies and holes. It was as if Stoke had sent them unto separate places to spend the daylight hours. And neither Faeril nor Riatha could fathom why.

* * *

Day came, wan and bleak, a grey sky casting a pall over all. A chill wind blew up from the south, bringing with it roiling dark clouds. And under the lowering skies Faeril set out cross-country for the monastery, even though both she and Riatha knew that a storm seemed to be in the offing, for her mission and message were urgent. Too, Faeril had been trained in arctic survival, and should a blow come, she would endure. And so, under the gloom the damman set out, following the directions given to her by Riatha.

The Elfess had gauged that the cloister lay some four or five leagues northwesterly of Stoke’s bolt-hole, some twelve to fifteen miles across the rugged scape. Of course, Faeril could have backtracked all the way to the glacier and then southwesterly for the retreat, but that would have added miles to the journey, and perhaps hours to it as well. Too, there was always the chance that if she followed a route frequented by Spawn, the Vulgs would scent her passage, leading to disaster for all. Thus, Faeril trekked toward the
col to the northwest, beyond which she should find Gwylly and Aravan and perhaps Urus as well.

She used a pine bough to erase her tracks behind, not wanting Riatha to be discovered by backtracking maggotfolk. A mile or more did she brush away her traces, praying that the snow would not hold her scent for Vulgs to follow back to the Elfess. Espying a vertical rock face, Faeril swept until she reached the stone. Then, placing her back to the wall, she walked straight away. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that the footprints in the snow seemed to emerge from the rock itself.
There. Let the Rūcks and such cipher that. Mayhap they’ll think a secret door lies therein
. Giggling at the prospect of maggot-folk seeking entry into solid stone, Faeril trekked onward.

The land was rough, broken, and splits and ravines barred the way. Often was the damman forced to backtrack and find a different route, a route skirting ’round the obstacle, whatever it might be. At times she had to break out her climbing gear, to clamber up or down or over. At other times the way was too sheer and smooth, and an alternate path was called for. And slowly did she progress, while the sky grew ever darker and the south wind ever more chill.

Up she went, and up. She came to another crevasse, its black depths lost to sight. Ranging leftward, she espied a snow bridge spanning the gap but passed it by, for she had listened well to Riatha’s words that such were dangerous, even for one of her slight weight. She moved onward, until she fetched up against a high stone bluff.
No passage that way, unless I climb
.

To the right the crevasse ran on a goodly distance, yet at last she rounded its far extent and slowly, slowly went on upward through the shattered land, the wind skirling bodefully under blackening skies.

The blow came sometime after the noontide, though exactly what the hour was, Faeril did not know. She was perhaps a mile from the crest of the col when a wall of white came boiling up after her, snow hurtling horizontally across the ’scape, borne on a shrieking wind.

The damman took shelter in a crevice in the rocks. And as she peered out at the hurling white, gone grey under the dark skies, for the first time it occurred to her to wonder what she would do if she came to the monastery and no one was there, not Gwylly, not Aravan, not Urus.
What if
Urus has recovered and they are already following our trail? What if they never reached the cloister at all? What if the maggot-folk got them? What if they are all dead?
She felt a great hollow in her chest at these dark thoughts, and there was little she could do to shake them, storm-trapped as she was.

What if this storm lasts for days? What then, my darkhaired dammsel?
Faeril began to ration her water, knowing that she had not wood for a fire to melt more snow, and knowing as well that to eat frozen snow would rapidly sap her energy. She recalled B’arr’s words:
“Eat snow, bad. Eat snow, steal
makt.
Eat snow, dog get cold inside. Dog need more food get warm again.”

Remembering B’arr brought a lump to her throat.
B’ar
, this
dog won’t eat snow if she can help it, for I plan on avenging your death
.

* * *

Faeril jerked awake sometime after nightfall.
Oh lor’, I’ve been asleep!
Though a wind still blew, it had stopped snowing. Groaning to her feet, the damman hobbled from the crevice.

The storm had blown itself out and the skies were clearing. Here and there a star twinkled through rifts in the cover. Low in the east, the Moon illuminated the clouds from behind. Still the south wind blew, now more gently, driving the cast before it. A fresh fall of white snow covered the land.
Good! Now all trace of my passage is gone
.

Ahead and upward about a mile hence lay the crest of the wide col, and somewhere down the far side she hoped to find the monastery. Fumbling in a pocket, Faeril drew out the last of her tannik, and chewing on the bitter root, she set forth.

Up and up she clambered, at times finding the way easy, at other times difficult, for in this broken land were crevices and cracks and bluffs and ridges. And for one who stood but an inch or two above three feet tall, the terrain was formidable. Yet Faeril persisted, slowly making her way unto the crest of the col.

It had taken the damman nearly two more hours to reach the summit of the pass, and during this time the wind bore the clouds away. Above and behind her the Moon was bright, and stars glimmered overhead. Too, the Eye of the Hunter scored the sky, its tail long and bloody. In the distance
down below her, Faeril could see a narrow plateau, and a mile or so away at the far end of the flat lay her goal—the monastery, its buildings dark, showing no light, standing starkly on the broad ’spanse above the glacier gleaming beyond.
Oh, my Gwylly, are you there within?

Down she started, down from the col, the slope before her shallow. Even so, the way was difficult, for cracks and seams in the stone yet stood across her way, seeking to bar her passage. But these she managed to traverse or go around and head once more for the buildings afar.

She had come some three quarters of a mile, the monastery now but a furlong or two away, when dreadful yawls sounded behind her, the howls of Vulgs on the hunt. She spun about, looking back, and her heart leapt into her throat, for in the silvery moonlight she saw them coming across the col, running on her trail. And then the howls changed tenor, for the creatures had sighted their quarry and leapt forward in pursuit.

Faeril turned and fled toward the dark monastery, knowing that she would not reach it ere the monsters overtook her. Heart hammering, breath coming in sobbing gasps, Faeril ran a race she could not win. A furlong or so away stood the high stone walls ringing the cloister, and the gates were closed.

And then she tripped over something hidden under the new-fallen snow and fell sprawling.

Early Spring, 5E988
[The Present]

“F
aeril!”
cried Gwylly as the damman scrambled to her feet to fly toward the monastery.

“Swift, Gwylly,” shouted Aravan, “a rope over the wall!”

As Gwylly loosened the line at his waist and clicked the grapnel tines into place, Aravan snatched up the iron rod and—
Clang, clang, clang, clang
…—began hammering the alarm hoop.

Gwylly tossed the coil over the side, glancing away from the fleeing damman long enough to lodge the hook into a crevice.

“Now take this,” commanded Aravan, handing the rod to the buccan. “Strike the alarm! It will guide her and she will know we are here, and it may give the Vulgs pause to think the walls are warded.”

As Gwylly began hammering the hoop, Aravan hastily lighted the gate lantern and swung it on its pivoting arm out above the anchored line. “She will need to see where to run to, as well as a light to see the rope.”

And across the snow came Faeril fleeing, now angling toward the light on the wall. And behind raced Vulgs, five hurtling beasts, gaining with every stride.

“Run, Faeril, run!”
shouted Gwylly, yet hammering the iron hoop, his voice lost in the clangor.

But of a sudden he dropped the rod and started to clamber over the wall there where the rope dangled. Aravan grabbed him by the arm and hauled him back. “No! You cannot prevail on the ground. Ready your sling.”

Footsteps sounded behind them, and Doran clambered up the ladder, crossbow slung over his shoulder.

Gwylly moaned in desperation as he loaded a steel shot, for he knew that the Vulgs would overtake his dammia ere she could reach the wall. But even should a miracle occur, even should the ravers falter, even should Faeril somehow reach the bulwark first, still it was fifteen feet high, fifteen feet up to safety.

Now Aravan rang the alarm hoop, hoping the clangor would cause the Vulgs to sheer away. But on they raced, within yards of overhauling Faeril, the damman a hundred or so feet from the wall.

Of a sudden—
thunn! ssss
…—a flaming quarrel flashed from the wall, a bright red streak sissing through the icy air to graze through the fur of the lead Vulg, the black slayer flinching aside, stumbling, the other Vulgs momentarily shying away, Faeril gaining, the Vulgs again hurtling after.

Doran levered the crossbow, cocking it again. “They don’t like fire.” He snatched another rag-wrapped quarrel from his quiver and thrust the oil-soaked cloth toward the lantern.

In spite of his injured shoulder, Gwylly whipped his sling ’round—
“This way, Faeril! This way!”
—and let fly the steel bullet. Behind the running damman a pursuing Vulg howled, the missile glancing from the beast’s tough hide. Yet on it came with the others, in full cry.

Thunn! zzz
…Another bolt of fire sissed across the space, but this one struck true, and howling, the lead Vulg thudded into the snow, quarrel embedded deeply in its chest, flames burning.

Faeril dashed toward the wall, running now for the rope, Vulgs again hurling after.

Aravan dropped the iron bar and grabbed hold of the line.
“Swiftswarm! Swiftswarm!”

Another steel bullet crashed into the Vulgs, cracking into the leg of one, and it yelped, but continued in pursuit, though limping, trailing the others as yawling on they sped.

Footsteps came up the ladder.

Faeril grabbed the line, and up she swarmed as Aravan hauled. Behind a great Vulg lept upward, slavering jaws wide.
Zzzzzzaaak!
A flaming quarrel sprang full blown into the Vulg’s eye and it tumbled down. Other Vulgs leapt.
“Petal!”
bellowed a voice, and a great dark form—
changing, altering—hurled outward over the wall and down atop the leaping Vulgs, bearing them backwards to smash into the ground under its massive weight.

And boiling up from the pile came three Vulgs
and a Bear!

A huge, savage Bear!

RRRAAAWWWW!
Claws slashed. A Vulg fell slain, its throat torn out. Aravan hauled Faeril upward.
Crkk!
—a steel bullet smashed through the skull of a Vulg circling behind the Bear, the Vulg crashing to the snow. Doran lit another quarrel and dropped it into the groove of the crossbow and he took aim.
“Shoot not the Bear!”
shouted Gwylly.
Zzzzzk…tssss!
The bolt flashed past the Vulg to hiss into the snow.

Yelping, the Vulg spun ’round and fled, the Bear roaring in rage. Yet the black raver, though favoring a leg, was too fleet to be overhauled from behind, and swiftly was beyond reach of claw, bullet, and quarrel.

Aravan swung Faeril over and down to the sentry walk. Gwylly took one last look at the Bear snuffling and pawing at the Vulg corpses, then leapt down from the shelf and embraced his dammia, tears of relief running down the buccan’s face. “Oh, Faeril, I thought you would be slain.”