The Eye of the Hunter (46 page)

[
“Pego an vilar…”
] “Why
…why…why…
hast thou summoned me?
…summoned me…summoned me…summoned me…summoned…
” echoed the ghastly chorus of mutterers, whispers hissing, different voices fading in and out, stronger weaker, rising falling, murmurs on top of murmurs, all asking…asking…asking….

Stoke answered in the same tongue, a tongue long lost to all but those who would and will not let the dead lie buried: the scholars of the ancients, who seek knowledge for the sake of knowledge alone; and those who delve into the forbidden art of
Psukhomanteía
, of Necromancy, where such tongues are at times…useful. “Seek not to evade me, dead one. Instead do that which I asked! Where are the enemies who now follow me?”

Still the ebon holes stared at Baron Stoke, but his yellow-eyed gaze did not waver. At last, ’mid the creaking and cracking of bone, and the thin sound of dry parchment tearing, the corpse turned its head, searching, at last peering northwesterly and very slightly upward. A myriad whispering voices hissed answers, simultaneous agonizing echoes murmuring, rustling, mumbling, as if numberless mutterers crowded forward, all speaking, each striving to be heard, murmurers fading in and out, many voices talking at the same time through the same mouth, each whisperer describing a different event, a confusion of sissing babble.

…Flay…four follow…one follows…burn…three…pierce…demon…

Yet Stoke listened for the dominant whisper, not easily distinguished from the multitude, for as his mentor, Ydral,
had told him long past,
“Trust little the word of a dead soul, for unto the dead time has no meaning. They see the past and the present and the future all at once, all the same. Unless the
Psukhómantis—
the Necromancer—has the will and energy and endurance, the power to give focus, then the voices of the dead bring words of little use to the summoner, for they may bear a message meant for another entirely
. Tji
must listen carefully to find the truespeaker for
tji.
If
tji
can single out that voice, then words of value may come, as they did when
jai
discovered that one who bears Elven blood will be
mai
doom. Concentrate, dominate, else what
tji
learn will lead to disaster.”

And so Stoke listened carefully, trying to choose from among the myriad of agonized whispers, trying to pick out the voice of the truespeaker who would answer his questions. Mutterings filled the chamber, murmurings, sissings, hissings.

Yet among the whispering voices, Stoke found one that seemed to dominate, one that seemed to belong to
this
corpse. “Thine enemies
…collapse…Dwarves break the
—two Elves
…she will cut…
two small ones
…beware the long piercer…the ruined spear breaks…
and a ManBear—encamp at the marge of a great mire
…flay…timbers fall…
a mire this one
…silver bullet…silver dagger…
hast not seen ere now.”

Stoke laughed. “So, my enemies encamp at the marge of a great mire, a mire you have not seen ere now. Hah! It is
this
place, you fool! Look about and see the bog your Realm has become.”

Moaning ten thousand moans, the corpse rotated its head about, parched flesh falling away from yellowed bone, as the dry tissues ’round the neck crumbled to dust. Vacant eye sockets seemed to be staring through surrounding stone walls, through earth, seeing the tangle and scum and muck and foul waters beyond.
Aiee…!
shrieked the voices of the countless damned, the echoes filling the crypt with cries of anguish.
Drik
and
Ghok
shrank hindward in terror, some backing against the walls, others bolting a few steps from the chamber and into the dark tunnels, stopping, wanting to flee yet unable to face the ebon catacombs beyond.
Vulpen
whimpered and cowered, yet would not leave their master.

Stoke reveled in the agonized wail, though it did not nearly answer his unholy lust to inflict pain, to flay, to…
impale. “Enough!” he commanded. “Answer my second question: where are my enemies bound?”

Countless sobbing moans issued forth from the gaping jaw, yet no answer came.

Now Stoke invoked the tongue of
Psukhomanteía
, of Necromancy, bidding
tòn nekròn
, the dead, to answer:
“Tòn páton tòn autôn heuré!”

Slowly the chorus of wails subsided. Finally, as if seeking, again the corpse rotated its head about, vertebrae grinding, withered flesh crumbling, all the while thousands of voices whispered:
…Gûnarring…Gron…Arden Vale…Fjordland…Vancha…Rian…Wilderland…
Yet still the head swivelled, skritching, flaking, disintegrating. At last the corpse fixed its vacant stare southerly. Voices poured out:
…Karoo…Garia…Pellar…Sarain…Chabba…
But Stoke listened carefully, seeking the whisper of the truespeaker, and he heard: “Southerly
…westerly…northerly…easterly…
they fare
…ride…ship…
unto a great town
…desert…hamlet…forest…
where a High King
…seer…oracle…
dwells along the shore of the
…Boreal Sea…Weston Ocean…Grimmere…
Avagon Sea.”

Air sissed in through clenched teeth. “Speak again,” Stoke demanded. “To what end do they seek this High King?”

The corpse replied not.

“Egò gàr ho Stókos dè kèleuo sé!”
commanded Stoke.

Gradually, bones crumbling, parchment skin splitting, the desiccated head of the corpse turned empty sockets unto the yellow-eyed Man. Thousands of hollow whispers sounded. “I have given thee all that thou art due
…art due…art due…due…
Thou dost now attempt to reach beyond
…beyond…
that which thou didst invoke when thou didst summon me
…summon me…summon me…me…
It is not
…not…
in thy power to ask
…to ask…ask…
for more and receive it. I would go now
…would go…would go…go now…go now…go…
” The ghastly whispers fell silent and would not speak again.

Stoke’s eyes flared with rage, yet he was spent and had not the energy to invoke obedience, would not have the power for weeks to come. Glaring in wrath at the withered thing before him, he hissed, “Then thou shalt fall again
back unto the black abyss wherein dwell the souls of the dead!” And his voice took on the incantation to make it so.
“Pése pálin eis tòn keuthmòn tòn mélanta éntha oikéousin hai psukhaì hai tôn nekrôn!”
he shouted, and with a clatter the corpse collapsed, bones shattering, skin, raiment, tissues all crumbling, a boiling cloud of dust whooshing upward, dancing motes drifting, some to settle back upon a long-forgotten scepter whose office of power was not even a memory.

Spring and Summer, 5E988
[The Present]

O
ff and on for four days did Aravan and Riatha and Urus and Gwylly and Faeril ride within sight of the great Khalian Mire, that vast swamp some one hundred and fifty miles from its northernmost reach unto its southern extent. Fifty or so miles below lay the Lesser Mire, out of which coursed the River Venn, its waters originating in the Grimwalls, flowing by many tributaries unto the mires to spread out over the two vast swamps and drift sluggishly, torpidly, through the great bogs to funnel down and come together and rise at last as a single stream beyond. Just past the mire along the banks of the Venn lay the village of Arask, the place where the five hoped to purchase ponies for the Warrows to ride, for as Gwylly had said, “Mules are fine as pack animals, but me, I’ll take a pony.” Too they hoped to trade up to a larger horse for Urus, the Baeran’s weight a burden for the one he now rode, the horse in effect bearing double; and so they stopped often to rest, or to walk awhile, relieving the mount of the Man’s twenty-two stone, of his three hundred and ten pounds.

After passing through Stoneford west of Inge and north of the mires, they had seen no other hamlets or villages along the way though solitary farms and the cabins of hunters and trappers had lain in their path, and at each the companions had stopped and spoken to the occupants, seeking information that might lead to Stoke’s whereabouts, finding none. And so, alongside the bogs southward they
rode across the gently rolling hills, ten or twelve leagues a day.

Spring was now full upon the land, and trees were beginning to leaf out, some now showing blossoms—apple and pear trees, cherry and peach. Bees hummed among the petals, collecting nectar and pollen, disappearing when they had gathered as much as they could bear.

It was the fourth day of May when they came into Arask, ten days after they had departed from Inge three hundred and twenty-five or so miles hence by the route they had travelled.

“Here we stay a day or three,” rumbled Urus. “Give the animals a chance to rest a bit. Us too.”

They inquired after an inn and were directed to the Red Ox on the main street. While stabling their horses and mules out back, they found from the horseboy that indeed some ponies were to be had, though he opined that the price might be high “…for a pony, that is.” Too, there were some larger horses, though how fleet these were was another matter. But pony purchasing and horse trading would have to wait, for uppermost on the minds of the comrades were rooms and baths and good hot meals and a tankard or two of ale.

As they took supper that night, Faeril remarked, “Gwylly and I went for a stroll. Saw some boats alongside a quay. Docked. We thought that if we all went by water, we’d get to Pellar faster.”

Aravan nodded. “Aye, that we would. Yet were we to take the river, like as not we must needs leave our mounts behind, for I, too, saw those boats at the quay, and they are too small to bear the horses and mules and any ponies we might get.”

Gwylly glanced up from his mutton. “And…?”

“And,” continued Aravan, “should we hear of Stoke’s whereabouts, without mounts we would have no swift way of getting there…unless, of course, he were on the river as well—an unlikely event.”

“Oh, right,” responded Gwylly, shovelling another chunk of gravy-soaked bread into his mouth.

* * *

They spent another two days in Arask, filling themselves up with hot cooked meals, sleeping in soft beds at night, taking daily baths—to the wonder of the innkeeper and his
staff—and purchasing needed supplies, including a larger horse for Urus and two sturdy ponies—promptly named Ironfoot and Buster by Faeril, who said that it would be undignified to ride on a nameless beast…and besides, Ironfoot
had
needed his new shoes, and Buster
had
kicked down the stall door when Urus had come near, though he had settled down after Urus had spoken to him.

And daily they pored over Riatha’s maps, again studying the alternatives before them, reviewing the best course to Pellar. Urus summed up their primary choices, his finger tracing the routes on the charts:

“Here at Arask we can ferry across the river into Aralan and then follow the Venn awhile, veering from it here, where it arcs westerly, rejoining it here where it swings back to run through this slot between the Skarpal Mountains and the Bodorian Range, aiming for the port of Thrako on the Avagon Sea. From there we sail to Pellar. In all, some eight or nine hundred miles to the sea, and then a voyage of another thirteen hundred. Given the terrain we must cross, and conserving the horses and ponies and mules, that’s some five or six weeks overland, and by sea, another…” Urus cocked an eyebrow at Aravan.

“Depending on the ship, when it embarks, its route, the number of stops, and how long it stays in any given port along the way, it could take as little as, say, a week or two, and as much as one or two months.”

Urus growled at Aravan’s reply. “
Arrr
. Anywhere from eight weeks to fifteen, then. Anywhere from July to September.”

Aravan nodded.

Faeril spoke. “What about this river here, the Hanü? Can we ford it?”

Aravan glanced over at the damman. “Aye. I crossed it once on my way into the Skarpals. Somewhere nigh here”—he pointed—“is a ford we can ride for.”

Gwylly scanned the map. “What about the other routes?”

Again Urus’s finger traced across the chart: “There is this: We follow the Venn all the way to Vorlo in Garia, here where the River Ulian joins it. Then we ride easterly, swinging southerly, passing ’round the Skarpal Mountains to come to Dask on the Inner Sea, where once again we wait for a ship to bear us, first out to the Avagon and thence to Caer Pendwyr. The journey by land covers some”—Urus
used the length of his thumb to gauge—“eleven to twelve hundred miles, and then another twelve hundred by sea; here the terrain is somewhat more gentle, so the overland journey will take perhaps eight weeks or so, and the sea journey another”—Urus glanced at Aravan—“week to two months, neh?”

Aravan nodded in agreement.

Urus sighed. “July to September, again.”

Gwylly pointed at the map, bobbing his head up and down. “We could go to Rhondor instead of Dask. I’ve always wanted to see Rhondor, the city of merchants.”

Urus smiled. “Aye, we could, can we ford the River Storcha. The distance is almost the same.”

Faeril traced a route overland from Rhondor to Caer Pendwyr. “It looks to be some nine hundred miles cross-country. If we went by horse, pony, and mule all the way…”

“I have made that journey in but three weeks,” interjected Riatha. “’Twas War, and the steeds were utterly spent at journey’s end. Six weeks or seven would I recommend for us.”

“What if we can’t ford the Storcha?” asked Gwylly, then answered his own query. “Oh wait, I see: we could sail the Inner Sea from Dask to Rhondor.”

“In all, then,” rumbled Urus, “some fourteen or fifteen weeks, can we ford the Storcha, and somewhat more if we cannot. That would put it August or September when we arrive at Caer Pendwyr.”

Aravan shrugged. “No matter which way, we must await the High King, for he arrives after.”

Urus studied the alternatives. Finally he said, “Aravan’s original plan holds the most promise for the swiftest delivery to Caer Pendwyr: we ferry across into Aralan here, ride down to the sea at Thrako, then book passage to Pendwyr.”