by Simon Hawke
For years now, he had thought his days of stalking the most dangerous game of all were far behind him. Now, the greatest challenge of his life beckoned.
Valsavis remounted the kank and set off on the trail. He took in a deep breath, filling his lungs with the hot, dry, desert air, and exhaled heavily, with satisfaction. He almost felt young again.
* * *
Sorak and Ryana had made camp once they reached the shelter of the rock formations on the steep slope of the northeastern foothills. It had not been a very difficult climb, but it had been a time-consuming one, especially since Ryana was so tired, it was late in the afternoon before they stopped. They had chosen a spot where several large rock outcroppings formed a sort of miniature fortress with a patch of ground inside that afforded some shelter from the wind. At the same time, the ring of rocks would serve to mask their fire from any observers who might happen to be in the vicinity. The wind sweeping across the slopes would quickly dissipate the smoke, and the flames would be hidden by the stone.
They gathered some wood and scrub brush for the fire, and Ryana spread her cloak out on the ground to lie beside the warming flames. The location seemed secure enough, but no place on Athas was ever totally secure, so Sorak cautioned Ryana to stay alert while he went foraging to find her something to eat. At the same time, he would allow the Ranger to go hunting for the tribe.
As he ducked under and let the Ranger take the fore, Sorak retired to some much-needed sleep. The Ranger, fully rested, emerged to take over the body and go hunting. The tribe had discovered that their body did not really need to sleep so long as they, themselves, did. It was the mind that grew tired, more so than the body, which needed rest and nourishment much more than sleep for recuperation. Before long, the Ranger picked up the scent of a kirre. It was a male in rut, spraying to mark its territory. The scent made its trail that much easier to follow.
With his long and loping strides, the Ranger moved quickly through the wooded foothills, following the beast’s trail effortlessly. It was headed up into the higher elevations, having probably come down to hunt for food. Now, its instincts drove it to seek a female of its species, and it was ranging wide, moving up and back, scouring the countryside. At times like these, the Ranger was not only at his best, doing what his personality was ideally suited for, but also at his happiest. He reveled in the hunt. It was a primal pleasure, stalking dangerous elusive prey for food, testing his knowledge and his instincts, and at the same time, it brought him intimately into contact with the land in a way that was almost a spiritual communion.
To track a man was one thing, but to track an animal was entirely another. A man, unless he was unusually gifted with a knowledge of the land and well practiced in treading on it lightly, left a trail that was far easier to follow. He walked heavily and often clumsily by contrast to the beasts, and where his footsteps did not leave easy tracks to follow, his movement through the underbrush snapped twigs, dislodged small stones and bent down desert grass.
An animal moved lightly, leaving but the faintest trail by comparison. However, the Ranger knew the track of every beast that roamed the Athasian wilderness, and he could read a trail so effectively that he could even tell what movements the animal had made.
Here, the kirre had stopped for a few moments, sniffing the air tentatively, shifting its weight slightly as it turned, then took a few more steps and sniffed again. There, it had paused to investigate a jankx’s burrow, scratching at the entrance lightly to remove some of the brush the smaller beast had used to camouflage its home, and then sniffing once or twice to see if it was hiding inside.
As he followed the kirre’s trail, the Ranger came to know the beast from the way it moved and acted. It was full grown and healthy, a powerful, young adult male that had recently shed the velvety covering of several inches of new growth on its curving, swept-back horns. From time to time, it still paused to scrape against an agafari tree, leaving telltale scratches on its trunk. It was inquisitive, a fact demonstrated by its frequent pauses to investigate the abandoned lair of a smaller animal or the spoor of a rasclinn that had passed not long ago.
Before long, the quarry was in sight, and the Ranger crept up stealthily from downwind of the beast. It was moving slowly, sniffing the air as if it sensed his presence. The Ranger reached down to his belt for the hunting knife Sorak carried in his sheath. Any other hunter would have used a bow and shot from as great a distance as he could, for safety, to allow time for a second shot in case the first one missed. But the Ranger, while an archer of great skill, eschewed such an advantage. There was no purity in such a kill.
He moved in slowly, with agonizing care, placing his feet so as not to make the slightest sound. He kept track of the wind, making sure it did not shift and give away his position.
There it was, upon a nearby outcrop, crouched on its eight powerful legs. Already, the kirre was tense and agitated, its psionic senses alerting it that there was something wrong. It was prepared to spring in any direction at the slightest warning as it raised its twin-horned head to sniff the air. It was a magnificent looking beast, a great, brown- and gray-striped cat fully eight feet in length and weighing several hundred pounds. Its barbed tail twitched back and forth nervously.
Then, suddenly, the wind shifted, and with a low growl, the cat turned directly toward the Ranger, gathering its legs beneath it for a leap. There was no time to attack now, the beast was already bounding into the air, taking the initiative, launching itself at the Ranger with a roar, its four front legs extended, claws poised to rake and shred.
The Ranger timed it perfectly. He rolled beneath the beast as it hurtled toward him, came up fast as it landed, and leapt onto its back before it could turn to face him. He locked his legs around the great cat’s torso and seized one of its horns with his left hand, ignoring the painful lashing of its barbed tail as he bent its head back to expose its throat. The kirre threw itself down, trying to dislodge him, but the Ranger held firm, gritting his teeth with the effort of forcing back its head against the pull of the cat’s powerful neck muscles. The knife flashed, and the cat gave a gurgling cry as its blood spilled out onto the ground. Still holding on, the Ranger plunged the knife into the creature’s heart, ending its agony. It shuddered once, then lay still.
The Ranger relaxed and disengaged himself from the dead beast, getting back to his feet and standing over it. He crouched beside the body and stroked its flank, then placed his hand upon the creature’s massive head and softly said, “Thank you for your life, my friend. May your strength become ours.”
After the Ranger made his kill and the tribe had fed, he gathered some wild berries and kory seeds, as well as some pulpy, succulent leaves from the lotus mint, which grew in abundance on the slopes. He filled his pouch so that there would be a plentiful supply for Ryana to take with them when they set out in the morning. With any luck, they might a find a small mountain stream where they could stop and refresh themselves and fill their waterskins. It was a clear, cool night, and the Ranger always felt better in the mountains than on the desert tablelands, so he allowed Lyric to come forth and join him so that he could enjoy a song.
As they made their way back to the camp, Lyric sang a song in elvish—a ballad Sorak no longer remembered but had once heard his mother sing. The Ranger walked along at a steady pace, enjoying the feeling of the breeze blowing through his hair and the lilting voice of Lyric issuing from between his lips. As they approached the campsite, they could see the soft glow of the fire reflected on the rock walls of the outcropping. The Ranger smiled, thinking how Ryana would enjoy the meal he had gathered for her. As they rounded the far side of the rock outcropping, the Ranger suddenly heard something hissing toward them through the air. Lyric’s voice fell silent as the arrow struck them in the back, and they fell to the ground, both of them spinning away into the darkness.
* * *
Sorak came to his senses not knowing what had happened. He was lying stretched but on his stomach, with his own
cloak covering him. It was early morning. The campfire was burning brightly, and he could smell the aroma of roasting flesh. He opened his eyes and saw a man seated cross-legged by the fire, cooking some meat on a spit. He sat up instantly, and gasped as he felt a sharp pain shoot through his shoulder.
“Easy, friend,” said the man seated by the fire. “Move slowly, else you will undo all of my good work.”
Sorak looked at shoulder. His tunic had been removed, and his shoulder crudely but effectively bandaged. Some kanna leaves had been pressed together underneath the bandage to make a poultice.
“You did this?” asked Sorak.
“I applied the poultice and the bandage,” the man replied. “I did not inflict the wound, however.”
“Who did?”
“You do not know?”
Sorak shook his head. “No, I remember nothing.” Suddenly, he looked around. “Ryana! Where is she?”
“I saw no one save you when I arrived,” the stranger said. “But there was a party of men here not long before. If your companion was here alone, it seems they have made off with her.”
“Then I must go after them at once,” said Sorak. He tried to get to his feet, but winced at the pain in his shoulder when he moved. A wave of dizziness came over him.
“I do not think you would be of much use to your companion in your present condition,” said the stranger. “We will see to your friend presently. For now, you need your strength.” He held up a piece of uncooked meat, spitted on a dagger. “Elves eat their flesh raw, do they not?”
Despite himself, Sorak started salivating at the sight of the meat. He knew the tribe had fed earlier, but he did not know how long he had been unconscious, and the wound had made him weak. Druid vows be damned, he thought to himself as he accepted the meat from the stranger. Ryana needs me, and I need my strength to heal. “Thank you,” he said to the big stranger.
“You are small for an elf,” the stranger said. “Are you part human?”
“Part halfling,” Sorak said.
The stranger raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Indeed? And how did such a curious thing occur?”
“I do not know,” said Sorak. “I did not know my parents.”
“Ah,” the stranger said, nodding with understanding. “The ways of Athas can be harsh.”
As he ate, Sorak looked the man over. He was a large and powerful-looking man, very muscular, with a fighter’s build, but he was no longer young. His features betrayed his age, but his body belied it. He had long gray hair that hung down past his shoulders and a thick gray beard. He was dressed in a sleeveless hide tunic that displayed his mighty arms, hide breeches, high moccasins with fringe at the tops, and studded wristlets. He wore an iron sword and several daggers in his belt, and given the extreme rarity of any kind of metal on Athas, it was clear testimony to his prowess as a fighting man. Some very rich and grateful aristocratic patron had bestowed the weapons on him, and he was skilled enough to keep them and not let a better fighter take them away. Sorak immediately thought of his own sword and clapped his hand to his side. It was not there.
“Your blade is safe enough,” the Stranger said with a smile, noting his alarmed reaction. “It is in its scabbard, lying with your tunic, there.”
Sorak looked where the stranger pointed and saw that Galdra was, indeed, safely lying by his side, not three feet away, atop his tunic. “A lot of men would have been tempted to take it for themselves,” he said. The stranger merely shrugged. “I did not care for the shape of it,” he said simply. “A handsome weapon, to be sure, but not suited to my style of fighting. I suppose I could have sold it. No doubt, it would have fetched a great deal of money, but then I would have had the worry of wondering what to spend it on. Too much money can only bring trouble to a man.”
“What is your name, stranger?” Sorak asked.
“I am called Valsavis.”
“I am in your debt, Valsavis. My name is Sorak.”
Valsavis merely grunted.
Sorak felt his strength returning to him as he finished the raw meat. It was z’tal flesh, and it tasted exceedingly good. “I must heal myself, Valsavis, so that I can go after the men who took my friend.”
“So? You are adept at healing? You are a druid, then?”
“What of it if I am?”
Valsavis shrugged. “I have had occasion to be healed by druids in the past, I bear them no ill will.”
Sorak closed his eyes and allowed the Guardian to come to the fore. Under her breath, she spoke the words of a healing spell and concentrated her energies, drawing some additional power from the earth, but not enough to harm any growing thing. Sorak felt his strength returning as the wound began to heal.
Moments later, it was done, and the Guardian withdrew. Sorak stood, removed the bandage and the poultice, and went over to get his tunic and sword.
“That was uncommonly quick,” Valsavis said, watching him with interest.
“I have a gift for healing,” Sorak replied as he buckled on his sword.
“And apparently a gift for recovering from the effort it requires,” Valsavis said. “I have seen druids perform healing spells before. It nearly always leaves them drained, and they require hours of rest.”
“I have no time for that,” said Sorak. “I thank you for your kindness, Valsavis, but I must go help my friend.”
“Alone?” Valsavis said. “And on foot?”
“I have no mount,” said Sorak.
“I do,” Valsavis said. “My kank is staked just behind these rocks.”
Sorak stared at him. “Are you offering to help?” Valsavis shrugged. “I have nothing better to do.”
“You owe me nothing.” Sorak said. “Rather, he is who owe a debt to you. Those men who took my friend were probably a party of marauders. They will be heading for their camp. We will be greatly outnumbered.”
“If they reach their camp,” Valsavis said. Sorak examined the trail leading from the rocks. “There are six or seven of them, at least,” he said. “Nine,” said Valsavis.
Sorak glanced at him with interest. “Nine, then. And we are only two.”
“Without me, you would be only one.”
“Way would you risk your life for me?” asked Sorak. “I have no money, and cannot pay you.”
“I did not ask for payment.”
“Why then?” Sorak asked, puzzled. Valsavis shrugged again. “Why not? It has been a uneventful journey. And I am no longer of an age where I can afford to remain idle very long. I seed to keep my hand in, or all of the good jobs will go to younger men.”
“And what if we should fail?” Sorak asked “I had never thought that I would live this long,” Valsavis replied flatly. “And the thought of dying in bed does not appeal to me. It lacks flamboyance.”
Sorak smiled. “Somehow, I had never thought of death as flamboyant.”
“Death itself is merely death,” Valsavis said. “It’s bow one lives, up to the final moment, that matters.”
“Well then, let us see if we can introduce some marauders to their final moment,” Sorak said.
“That was not spoken like a druid healer,” said Valsavis, raising an eyebrow at him.
“As you said, the ways of Athas can be harsh,” Sorak replied. “Even a healer must learn how to adapt.” He clapped his hand to his sword.
“Indeed,” Valsavis said, getting to his feet. He kicked some dirt onto the fire to put it out. “I estimate they have perhaps three or four hours’ start. And they are mounted.”
“Then there is no time to waste,” said Sorak.
“We shall catch them, never fear,” Valsavis said.
“You seem very confident,” said Sorak.
“I always catch my quarry,” said Valsavis.
Chapter Three
The trail was not difficult to follow. Nine riders, mounted on overburdened kanks, could not move without marking their passage. They seemed to be in no hurry. And why not? thought Sorak. They think I’m dead. They hadn’t even pause
d to check his body. He had been down on the ground, unmoving, with an arrow in his back, and they had Ryana to occupy all their attention. A chill went through Sorak as he considered what they might have done to her.
She would never have gone quietly, and under normal circumstances, the marauders would have had a fight on their hands that would have proved much more than they had bargained for. But Ryana had been utterly exhausted from their long trek across the i plain. If she had fallen asleep, they might have taken her easily.
Sorak tried not to think about what they might do to her. She was no ordinary woman. She was not only very beautiful, she was also a villichi priestess. However, it was possible her captors might not have realized that. Ryana did not look like most villichi. Her coloring was different, and though she was tall for a woman, she lacked the exaggerated length of neck and limb that characterized villichi females. Her proportions were closer to the human norm. If Ryana was smart—and she was—she would not reveal herself, but would bide her time while she regained her strength so that she could pick her opportunity. But if they had harmed so much as one hair on her head…