The Eye of the Hunter (6 page)

Suddenly Black veered, shying from a wall of dark oak trees marching off to left and right to disappear beyond seeing in the depths of the forest. As the dog ran wide of the ebon marge, steering clear, Gwylly followed, also giving wide berth to the ancient trees, though he peered into the murky interior, his sight sifting among the shadows, trying to see…what? He did not know.

This was one of the dark places, a hidden place, a place closed to ordinary folk. A place where no one went. A place spoken of in rumor and whisper.

Too, there were tales of strange beings within these forbidding places, shadowy figures half seen, some gigantic and shambling, others small and quick. Some were said to be shining figures of light, while others were of the dark itself. Too, it was told that some of the dwellers within were made of the very earth, while others were beings seemingly akin to the trees and plants and greenery.

But no matter their nature, they didn’t abide strangers.

Gwylly had heard the tales, tales of those who disapeared in the interior of such places, of those who had sworn to stride through such, entering but never emerging.

Gwylly had heard other tales, too. Tales of aid given to those in need.

It was said that once all of the Weiunwood was dark. Closed. But when the Warrows came, pursued as they were, flying before an implacable foe, the ’Wood let them enter. Let them take refuge. Let them hide.

And afterward, when the foe had been defeated, the ’Wood gave them the glens and glades, and parts of the treeland as well, though it kept much of the forest unto itself, closed.

The Warrows had then settled in communities within—communities called Glades. And here groups of Warrows had lived ever since, unmolested by and large. Now and again some foe would try to conquer them, such as had Modru a millennium past, during the Winter War, though he had failed.

Sheltered by the ancient forest, the Weiunwood Warrows roamed free, though even they did not enter the closed places, with its Fox Riders and Living Mounds and Angry Trees and Groaning Stones and all the other creatures of lore and legend said to dwell within.

And as Black and Gwylly ran alongside the great margin of one of these vast, dark places, Gwylly’s eyes darted hither and yon, seeking to see…to see—

Suddenly before them a roebuck broke from cover, crashing off through the ferns. Black leapt upward, sighting the fleeing deer, the dog yelping in excitement yet not running after, waiting the command from Gwylly.

“Down, Black!” called Gwylly, his heart pounding in startlement.

Black looked at the Warrow as if in disbelief.
Not chase?

“Not today, dog. Today we hunt bird.” Gwylly felt his pulse slowing. In the distance the sounds of the red buck faded…faded…then were gone, and Gwylly wondered which of the three of them—Warrow, dog, or deer—had been the most startled.

“Bird, Black. Find bird.”

Somewhat disgruntled, Black cast one last accusing look at Gwylly, then again took up ranging back and forth, searching for bird scent. And through the woods went Warrow and dog, all thought of strange forest dwellers now gone from the buccan’s mind, for although Gwylly knew of these legends, of this lore, he was not part of the Weiunwood Warrows, having
been raised otherwise, elsewhere, on the fringes. And so, Gwylly and Black searched woodland, hunting birds, leaving the legends for others to dwell upon.

A quarter hour passed this way, Black veering back and forth, Gwylly cutting through the dog’s pattern in a more or less straight line. Then Black stopped, his tail straight out, his muzzle fixed and pointing. Sliding to a halt behind the quivering dog, Gwylly loaded his sling. “All right, Black,” he whispered. “Flush.”

Slowly Black crept forward, Gwylly edging softly behind, sling in hand, his eyes fixed on the place where the dog’s muzzle pointed.

Whrrr
…Woodcock wings hammered through the air. Gwylly whipped his arm about and loosed a sling strap, the bullet flying to strike the bird, the slain woodcock tumbling down through the air and to the ground.

“Black, fetch!”

The dog bounded forward, disappearing through the ferny growth to reappear moments later with the bird in his mouth.

Gwylly knelt and took the game, and ruffled Black’s fur, scratching the dog behind the ears. “Ah, Black, my good comrade, you are undoubtedly the greatest bird finder and fetcher in all of the Weiunwood. Hai! In all of Mithgar!”

Gwylly looped a slipknot into the cord, preparing to tie the woodcock with the other three. “It is your nose and my sling which makes this team so very successful. You and I, Black, we are mighty hunters. And let no one deny it.”

Black sat before Gwylly, his tail thumping the ground, his brown eyes fixed upon the buccan, not knowing precisely what was being said but knowing that whatever it was, it was good. And Black was ecstatic with joy.

“Let’s go, boyo,” said Gwylly, woodcocks corded, slinging all across his shoulder, “time for home. Time to show Mom and Dad what we’ve downed for supper.”

Understanding the word
home
, Black set off to the east, beading for the fringe of the Weiunwood itself, for home lay some two or three miles away on the marge of a sloping plain. The plains themselves led up into the Signal Mountains, an ancient range, timeworn by wind and rain, now no more than high tors, no more than the spines and ribs of former giants, curving in a long easterly arc from Challerain
Keep in the far north to Beacontor and the Dellin Downs in the south.

Toward this ridge fared Gwylly and Black, though the forest blocked out any sight of the crags and round tops and stone rises and grassy slopes of the highland ahead.

As they wended their way among the now thinning trees, the Sun rode upward in the sky, the noontide swiftly approaching, the light and warmth of summer filling the woodland. Still they passed among hoary giants, the massive, moss-laden trunks somehow protective in their silence. Past fallen timber and hollow logs fared the two, Black stopping to sniff out scents now and again, then running to catch up to Gwylly, circling about, pausing long enough for a pat before trotting on.

At last they broke from the woods and there before them rose the fertile upland, where stood the homestead of Orith and Nelda. In the distance Gwylly could see the farmhouse, smoke rising lazily from the chimney and up into the blue sky above.

They scrambled down a creek embankment and splashed across, clambering up the opposite side to come to the grassland sloping upward. Then Black took off running, racing up the long slope, the wind in his whiskers, Gwylly running behind.

Black of course was first home, racing joyously about the yard, yelping in victory, as Gwylly, laughing, ran beyond him and to the porch.

Banging in through the door, “I’m home!” called Gwylly, unnecessarily, both he and Black making for the kitchen, whence came the smell of baking. Entering the cookery, the Warrow unslung the birds from his shoulder and cast them upward to the tabletop. And turning toward him from the woodstove, his foster mother, Nelda, greeted him with a smile, the Human female pleased to see her wee buccan son.

* * *

After taking a drink from the dipper, Gwylly poured some water into a bowl for Black. “Where’s Dad?” asked Gwylly, panting, the dog lapping water and panting too.

“In the field,” answered Nelda. “His lunch is nearly ready.”

“I’ve got to dress these birds first,” said Gwylly, “but then I could take his meal to him.”

Nelda smiled and nodded, and Gwylly caught up the birds and stepped outside, Black following.

The Woman watched him go, her heart content. Nelda turned once more to the woodstove and began stirring the contents of a pot, her thoughts elsewhere.

Gwylly was her joy, for he had come to her some twenty-two years past, in a dark hour of despair, after she had miscarried for the third and, as it turned out, final time. She had been alone the night she had lost the baby, for Orith had gone to Stonehill nearly two weeks past to trade grain and beets and onions for needed supplies.

The next day, weeping, shovel in hand, she bad patted down the last of the earthen mound marking the tiny new grave—there by the other two now grown over with wildflowers and grass—when she heard Orith’s hail and had turned to see the mules and waggon drawing nigh.

But wonder of wonders, Orith had had with him a wounded Warrow child, a tiny thing, three or four years old, no more, an ugly gash across his head. Feverish had been the babe, and calling out for his dam, for his sire. Nelda had taken up the wee one, bearing him inside. His parents had been slain, Orith told her, Rûck raid or the like. Killed them down on the Crossland Road ’tween Beacontor and Stonehill, looting their campsite, stripping their bodies, stealing their ponies. The wee one had been left for dead amid the wreckage where Orith found him.

Orith had cleaned the dark grume from the wound and treated it with a poultice of summer julemint, perhaps saving the babe’s life, for Orith suspected that the blade which had made the cut had been poisoned. Then Orith had made straight for home, driving the mules throughout the remainders of the day and that night as well, arriving the following mom.

Nelda had replaced the poultice with another, tending the youngling day after day, sleeping at his bedside. And when the wee one’s mind had cleared and he could talk, in his tiny, piping voice he had told them of the bad ones who had come in the night and had killed his sire and dam. He did know his given name, Gwylly, but not his last. Too, he knew not the names of his parents, calling them only Mother and Father.

A week or so later, when Orith returned to the wreckage of the campsite to bury the slain, he had found among the pitifully few salvageable things a sling and pouch of sling-stones,
and two diaries…or journals: one old, one new. Leaving two graves behind, Orith had returned to his stead, bearing all that remained of the memory of Gwylly’s parents. The youngling yet abed had claimed the sling and stones, saying that they had belonged to his sire. Then he asked where the “shiny” ones were. What this implied neither Orith nor Nelda could fathom, and Gwylly could not tell them what he meant. And the journals had been of no help, for neither Man nor Woman could read aught of the language scribed therein—though after close inspection Orith declared that the new one appeared to be a copy of the old.

And when baby Gwylly was on his feet again, healthy once more, neither childless Orith nor barren Nelda could give him up….

* * *

Twilight had come unto the steading, Gwylly, Nelda, and Orith having just finished their supper, Black asleep in the corner. Windows were open, and the trilling and croaking of the creek frogs drifted in through the still night air. Orith was speaking of shoeing the mules the next day.

Of a sudden Black lifted up his head, his ears cocking this way and that. Then he stood and trotted to the front window, rising up on his hind legs, his forepaws upon the sill. His tail began wagging, and he dropped back to the floor, his claws clicking as he went to the door.

Jumping down from his chair, Gwylly, too, stepped to the door, just as a soft knock sounded, and Black gave out with a short yip.

Gwylly raised the latch and opened the door and found himself peering straight into the most beautiful golden eyes he’d ever seen.

The eyes of one of his own Kind.

The eyes of a damman.

She smiled. “Gwylly? Gwylly Fenn?”

Gwylly’s mouth dropped open, and he could do nought but stutter.

The damman looked at this tongue-tied young buccan stammering before her, and at the two Humans behind. “Oh, I do hope you are Gwylly, the one I seek, for I’ve had a troublesome time finding you.

“I am Faeril Twiggins, and I’ve come about the prophecy.”

Throughout Time
[Past and Present]

I
n the beginning, after Adon made the stars and scattered them across the heavens above, He created the Sun and the world and the bright wanderers and set them on their ceaseless courses throughout the skies.

Although He had made the Moon, He kept it somewhere hidden, not yet having placed it along its endless path.

Perhaps the world was not then ready for light from the silver orb…

…for when the world first was made, it was harsh and molten and without life, and it heaved and churned and bubbled as if trapped in a vast cauldron of Hèl. Violent blasts of fire exploded outward, sending gigantic gouts of melt fluming up and away, as if the very matter itself were attempting to flee, to escape; yet it could not, and it fell back into the fiery wrath below to be lost in the elemental fury.

And in those days the heavens themselves seemed bent upon the destruction of the world, for immense primordial rocks of iron and stone and ice hurtled out from the frigid blackness between the stars to smash into the bubbling, boiling, molten earth, spewing melted stone and metal and matter across the heaving face of the world.

Yet the earth endured.

Aeons passed, and aeons more, and slowly, oh so slowly, the world began to cool. Down and down fell the heat and fire. Down and down.

Aeons passed and aeons more. And still the world cooled, though now and then the heavens would again hurl great missiles to smash into the earth. But still it endured…

And cooled. A crust formed, like slag upon molten metal.

The world cooled even more…

And endured.

Then it began to rain. Aeons passed…And still it rained.

Slowly the oceans filled, covering the crust, until at last in only one place was there land. A vast continent. And though it rained still, the ocean which covered all the rest of the world grew no deeper.

The continent was flat and featureless for the most part.

And then Adon sent the Moon to join the Sun in the sky.

From far off it came, the Moon, plummeting toward the earth as if it would smash into the world, just as the heaven-sent stones had done. Yet Adon had other plans in mind, and the Moon did not crash into the world, though how it missed is a wonder.