The Eye of the Hunter Read online

  But it was not only the features and bearing and stature and weaponry of the Mygga and the Fé that told the Aleutan these were folk of legend, for even more telling was that the dogs allowed these strangers, these strangers, to approach and pet them, ruffle their fur, fawn over them—even Rak and Kano, feral savages that they were, even haughty Shlee. The same was true of Ruluk’s and Tchuka’s teams, with their leads, Laska and Garr, and with their power dogs, Chenk and Darga and Kor and Chun, and with all the others, too. Yipping and yammering in excitement whenever the Fé and Mygga came near. Rolling on the ground. Nuzzling. Bouncing. Dropping down on their forelegs, inviting play. Savages acting like puppies! Aye, these were the folk of legends told by the lore tellers while gathered ’round the fires; of that, there was no doubt.

  “Yah, yah!”

  Onward hammered the team through the storm, the sled shsshing after.

  Faeril looked at Gwylly, her gaze of amber capturing his of emerald. “Shlee knows,” she said, smiling, glancing up at B’arr and then back to Gwylly. “Shlee knows.” Then the damman turned to face front once more.

  Out before her ran nineteen dogs, two by two, except for Shlee alone in the lead, the dogs of each pair running on opposite sides of the tow line, each fastened to that gang line by their individual tug lines. Had Faeril measured, she would have found that the team was evenly spread out over a distance of nearly eighty feet from the first dog to the last, giving them room to run, and Faeril could see at most ten yards beyond the lead dog ere her vision gave out. Hence she knew that if the eyesight of Shlee in the lead was like her own, then the dog could be seeing no more than thirty or forty yards beyond into the storm, and the wee damman wondered what would happen should there be a crevasse in the way?

  * * *

  They came to the old stone ring atop the low hill within a half hour, Shlee somehow finding it in spite of the storm. Ruluk’s sled with Laska in the lead, and Tchuka’s with Garr, running in on their heels. Still the snow blew and swirled in the moaning wind, and the stone wall of the ruin was but a vague darkness on the crown of the tor.

  And as the Aleutans separated the three teams a distance from one another, and began driving widely spaced individual stakes into the frozen ground and tying a dog to each, Gwylly and Faeril were joined by Riatha and Aravan, and they began unloading the sleds, carrying goods through the blow and into the tumbled remains of a small round building, the ruin open to the sky, snow swirling in.

  Her voice nearly lost under the groan of the wind—” ’Tis from the eld days,” murmured Riatha, setting down her burden, the golden-haired Elfess running her hand over the stone, her silver-grey eyes gazing hither and yon, her head turning this way and that, as if seeking unseen sights and listening for unheard voices.

  “A watchpost, I would say,” responded Aravan, placing his bundle next to Riatha’s, the Lian Elf slender and dark, his hair as black as a raven’s wing, his eyes deep blue, as were those of other Elves of his kindred.

  A faint tremor ran through the earth, and Faeril placed a hand against the rock. “Dragonslair?” she asked, receiving a nod from Riatha.

  “Aye, wee one. From Kalgalath’s ruin thousands of Springdays agone. As a bell remembers its ring, so too does the world remember the Dragon’s destruction.”

  Faeril said nothing in return, for she had read the ancient diary of her long-dead ancestor, some thirty generations removed; and the faded writing spoke of a region of quakes, there in the Grimwalls. Even so, to actually feel the earth shudder gave her pause. And words from a thousand years back rose up in her mind and her heart raced, for she knew that when they reached their goal they would be at a place where, now and again, the world shook even more violently, than these faint echoes from afar. And that would be soon now, for they were but a day or so from their destination: the Great North Glacier, a wide, deep river bound forever in ice, imperceptibly flowing out of the Grimwall. And though it lay only a day or so away, time was of the essence, for she knew as well that in the dark of the night the Eye of the Hunter now streamed overhead, and an eld prophecy stood due, the augury of a seer cast more than a millennium past Faeril shivered at the thought.

  Aravan raised up his hand, reaching for the top of the standing wall, falling a foot or so short. “Not very tall, this guardpost, yet the land about is lower. A platform atop or mayhap a tower would give a place to stand and yield warning enough should foe draw nigh.”

  Gwylly cast back his hood and looked up and about, his red hair tumbling out, the coppery color in sharp contrast to his eyes of green. “Foe?” The Warrow gestured out toward the storm-swept plains. “What foe? It’s deserted out there.”

  Aravan smiled down at the Wee One. “Look not to the empty plains, my Waerling. Instead, thine eye should be turned toward the Grimwall, for there it is that the Foul Folk dwell, there in the mountains ahead. And it is that which this post once guarded against: Spaunen. For those were the days before Adon’s Ban, and the Rûpt ranged far and near, and this land was at risk. Yet the Great War changed all, and now the Foul Folk remain in the grasp of the Grimwall, nigh the places where they take shelter when the Sun rides the sky.”

  Gwylly knew that Aravan referred to the Great War of the Ban, when Gyphon had sought to challenge Adon for dominance over all. In the struggle Gyphon had been aided by the folk of Neddra—the underworld—and by minions on Mithgar—the Kistani, the Hyranians, some Renegade Dragons, and a few Wizards, as well as by Foul Folk and others. In contrast, Adon had been aided here on Mithgar by the Grand Alliance of Men, Elves, Dwarves, and Warrows; and some even claimed that the Utruni—the Stone Giants—had been part of the Alliance as well.

  In any event, the struggle had been mighty and the balance in doubt, yet at the last the Alliance had prevailed, and Modru, Gyphon’s lieutenant upon Mithgar, had been defeated and the rebellion collapsed.

  As punishment, Adon set His Ban upon the Foul Folk, signalled by a blazing star where none had been before, a star which burned brightly for weeks, a star which faded and was nevermore seen. Yet during the time that the Ban Star burned, the Foul Folk began to suffer from a sickness whenever they stepped into the light of day; and the longer the star burned, the more deadly became this sickness, until in the end the touch of daylight upon one of the Spawn would bring on the Withering Death; even the briefest exposure meant a deadly collapse, the victim turning into ashes in mere moments.

  All Foul Folk suffered Adon’s Ban, and other creatures as well, including some Dragons—those that had sided with Gyphon—now Cold-drakes, for Adon reft them of their fire as punishment.

  But of the Men who had aided Gyphon, none suffered the Ban, for they had been misled by the Great Deceiver and Adon spared them in the end.

  And this was what Aravan referred to when he spoke of the Great War changing all: for now the Ban drives the Foul Folk into hiding, into places of concealment in the Grimwall Mountains when day is upon the land. Hence even at night Foul Folk would not range this far, would not come unto these ruins, unless driven by great need or by great fear, for the Sun would find them and slay them should they be caught out upon these plains after dawn, should they not discover a crevice or cranny to hide in during the day, a place free of Adon’s light.

  And so Gwylly peered at the ruins, while thoughts of Wars and Bans and ancient days skittered through his mind.

  As the wind moaned and snow blew over the rock wall and swirled in through the tumbled doorway, the buccan looked up at Aravan. “How would this place be defended? I mean, it’s not more than ten of my strides across—six of yours—certainly not large enough to house any great force. I would think that it would easily fall.”

  “Aye,” responded Aravan. “But a place such as this is not meant to be defended. Should foe be sighted, then the sentries would ride from here and give warning, or perhaps light a beacon fire and then ride.”

  “Like Beacontor?” asked Faeril.

  Gwylly shook his head, No. “Beacontor, love, was meant t
o be defended. The towers of the Signal Mountains were ringed ’round by walls. This place, though, has no fortress walls. Just a tower…and a small one at that.”

  Riatha turned her silver gaze away from the stone and toward Gwylly. “Should we look, I deem we would find the remains of a stable, or mayhap a kennel—a place used long ago for housing a steed or a team for quick flight across the land when the need arose. They would light the signal fire, then run.”

  Faeril brushed a stray lock of coal black hair from her eyes and looked through the door gap and out at the spinning snow. “Who would they have Warned? I mean, who lived in here and out there when the tower was built?”

  “Aleutani, I think,” answered Aravan. “For even then they brought their herds of ren here in the long summer days when the grass is lush and green, even as they do unto this day.”

  Faeril nodded, for she had seen some of the antlered ren in their winter pastures in the deep, sheltered vales along the rim of the Boreal Sea.

  Again the land trembled, and Faeril stepped to the tumbled-down entrance. “Will it be safe to sleep here tonight? I wonder, with the quakes…”

  Riatha smiled at the wee damman. “Safe enough, little one. The land out here on the edge of the foothills is yet a distance from the Grimwall, and farther still from Dragonslair.”

  Glancing up at the Elfess, Faeril nodded again, then turned and stepped out into the storm, leading the others back to the sleds.

  It took one more trip for them to transfer the needed supplies into the stone ruins. While the Elves busied themselves with the bundles, Gwylly and Faeril set about trying to find wood for a fire. Although the Warrows did find a stable of sorts out to one side—it, too, fallen into ruin—they found no wood to burn.

  No sooner had the Warrows returned than B’arr stepped in through the doorway, with Tchuka and Ruluk behind, the sledmasters having staked their teams. B’arr laughed when Gwylly asked what they would do for firewood, and so, too, did the other two sledmasters when the buccan’s query was translated into the Aleuti tongue. As B’arr and Ruluk unwrapped whole frozen salmon and, using hand axes, began hacking the fish into great chunks, Tchuka disappeared outside, returning in a moment with what appeared to be slabs of dirt. To Gwylly’s amazement, the sledmaster set these afire.

  “Turf,” said Aravan, as if that explained all.

  At the blank look on Gwylly’s face, Riatha added, “Some call it peat. Yet by any name, it burns.”

  Gwylly shook his head in rumination. “I saw the mound near the stable, but I thought—”

  “—that it was just dirt,” Faeril finished for him, for it had been her assumption as well. “But I should have known,” she admitted, “for I am from the Boskydells, where there are fields of fireplace turf, near Bigfen and Littlefen both.”

  “Hah!” exclaimed B’arr, saying something aside to the other Aleutans that brought smiles to their coppery faces. Then he turned to Aravan. “No, not firedirt, Anfé; it is ren møkk…you name, dung. From ren.”

  Now Aravan laughed. “Fewmets! Deer fewmets! Dried dung. Ah, Sledmaster, thou dost show me the errors of my ways.” Great grins crinkled Gwylly’s and Faeril’s features, for Warrow and Elf alike had been fooled.

  Riatha too smiled, fleetingly, then grew somber, distracted, turning her gaze toward the unseen Grimwall. “What appears to some as one thing is oft completely different to the eyes of another, and even then its true nature might not be known, might be something else altogether.”

  Gwylly stared into the glow of the dung fire, his thoughts miles away. He watched as the writhing white plume of the pungent smoke was borne swirling upward above the wall, where it was shredded by the moaning wind. And the buccan wondered at what else they might encounter that would fool them all, something perhaps deadly in its deception.

  B’arr stood, interrupting Gwylly’s bodeful thoughts. “Mygga feed span?” he asked, gesturing to a bag of cut salmon, his black eyes glittering.

  Gwylly’s face lit up, and he bobbed his head. Faeril, too, nodded animatedly.

  At this indication from the Mygga, Tchuka and Ruluk grinned widely, their strong teeth showing white against their black beards and moustaches and bronze-like features.

  B’arr took up a frozen slab of axe-hacked salmon. “Then wait. I call.” And he stepped out into the windblown snow. The other two Aleutans also took a chunk of salmon apiece and followed B’arr outside.

  They were each heading to their lead dogs, for as Gwylly, Faeril, Riatha, and Aravan had come to learn since setting forth some twelve days past, some six hundred miles agone, the lead dog of each team was the first to be fed, the last to be harnessed, and the first to be unharnessed. Each was the dominant dog in its team, in its span, and the sledmaster maintained that status by treating the lead dog with the deference that was its due, and by displaying that treatment to all the other dogs in the team.

  As B’arr had explained in his broken Pellarion: “Life depend on span. Span depend on lead. Lead depend on sledmaster. I am pack leader, Shlee is span leader. His life in my hands, my life in his. I treat him as leader, he treat me as master. All dog see. All understand. All stay alive. All dog. Shlee. Me.”

  After but a moment or so, B’arr’s whistle sounded above the storm. Gwylly, dragging two bags of cut salmon, and Faeril, hauling one, stepped out through the doorway and into the whirling snow. And after a moment there sounded the yipping and yammering of excited dogs.

  * * *

  The storm abated sometime after nightfall, and the Moon rose argent in the clearing sky.

  And in the night Faeril awakened to see Riatha standing in the moonlight, her silver gaze turned upward. Faeril, too, looked up and out, her sight flying through the open roof. And her heart ran chill. For high in the silent vault above, she could see the Eye of the Hunter, its long, fiery tail streaming across the spangled sky.

  CHAPTER 3

  Faeril

  Early Summer, 5E985

  [Three years Past]

  “Ooo, the Eye of the Hunter!” exclaimed Lacey, looking up from the small leather-bound journal. “Sounds positively ominous. What is it?”

  Faeril paused, balancing the throwing knife in her hand, and glanced over her shoulder at the ginger-haired damman. “Just keep reading, Lacey,” she said, then turned and whipped her arm forward and down, the steel glittering as it tumbled through the air to thunk! into the wood next to the other blades.

  As Faeril strode toward the fallen log to retrieve her knives, Lacey returned to the finely wrought script, one hand straying out and fumbling about upon the picnic cloth to find her cup, her eyes never leaving the page. The damman took another sip of tea and a bite of bread, though whether she tasted either is another matter, so absorbed in the reading was she.

  Dappled shadows drifted across the pages as the day passed through the noontide, Faeril’s knives chnking into the log, adding to the murmur of the woodland: birds calling afar, the faint rustling of leaves in the wafting air, the occasional hum of a bee hurling past, the burble of the moss-banked rill tumbling down the nearby slope.

  At last Lacey closed the diary upon itself and looked up at her distant cousin, once again collecting her knives from the fallen tree. “Oh, Faeril, these old words make me feel as if a doom is soon to fall.”

  Faeril stood at the log and slipped the knives back into the leather sheaths on the two bandolier belts crisscrossing her torso: six scabbards to a belt, twelve in all, ten now filled with steel, one with silver, one empty. A determined look on her face, Faeril turned and approached Lacey.

  Lacey glanced from the damman to the diary and back again. “Faeril, you look positively grim. I think you are about to tell me something that I do not wish to hear.”

  Faeril sat at the edge of the picnic cloth. In a ritualistic gesture that she and Lacey had used since childhood, she reached out and captured Lacey’s right hand between both of hers; then right to right, she pressed her open palm against Lacey’s. “My best friend, I give
you a secret to be held under lock until the time of unlocking.”

  Slowly Lacey curled her fingers and clenched her fist, as if holding tightly to something invisible. Then she pressed it to her heart and opened her fingers one at a time until her hand was hard against her breast. “My best friend, here it is locked until the time of unlocking.”

  Faeril took a deep breath. Even so, her voice quavered with emotion. “I’m leaving the Boskydells, Lacey. And I wanted someone to know. Someone to tell Mother.”

  Tears sprang into Lacey’s eyes. “Leaving? Leaving the Bosky…? But why, Faeril? Why?”

  Faeril’s eyes, too, filled with tears. Yet with her secret told, the trembling left her breath.

  Again Lacey asked, “Why?”

  Faeril lifted the crossed bandoliers over her head and held them out before her, steel and silver glinting. “Because I am the firstborn dammsel of firstborn dammsels, reaching back through time to Petal herself.”

  Shaking her head, Lacey blinked away her tears and glanced at the diary. “Yes, I know. As was your dam and her dam and— But-but, Faeril, what’s that got to do with your leaving the Bosky?”

  Faeril lay the belted knives on the cloth. “Tomorrow is my birthday: I will pass from my maiden years and become a young damman. I will then be of an age to set forth upon the way charted for me by my upbringing—a path ordained a thousand years ago. A path that only I can tread.”

  She reached out and took up the journal. “Lacey, this diary tells a centuries-past tale of the pursuit of a monster—Baron Stoke—by four comrades: Riatha, Elfess of Arden Vale; Urus, a Baeran Man from the heart of the Greatwood; and my ancestors, Tomlin and Petal, Warrows of the Weiunwood.

  “Three times they faced Stoke, and on the third time they slew him, though Urus, too, was lost, the Man plunging to his death in order to take the monster down with him, in order to slay Stoke.”

  “I know,” said Lacey. “Urus was very brave, very noble, and it was sad. But it is an ancient tale, an ancient story…and this is now, this is today.”