The Eye of the Hunter

by Dennis L McKiernan

  * * *

  A century passed, or perhaps more than one, for Time and Elves are somewhat strangers unto one another, and season followed season without close count, and years fled into the past. In the passing decades Riatha and Talar and Trinith stayed in the Brightwood, learning the lessons of first aid and herblore and healing.

  There came a day when Talar and Trinith moved to Duellin, some ten leagues hence on the eastern shore of Atala. Talar was to take up the art of sword making, apprenticed to the legendary Dwynfor himself, while Trinith was to take up a harp. But Riatha took on another duty, standing watch upon the slopes of Karak, while the firemountain slept, seeking signs of when it might awaken again, if ever.

  Seasons changed and changed, and now and again Riatha would journey to see her fair-haired brother and his ebon-haired wife, or Talar and Trinith would visit her. And in the evenings they would gather ’round the hearths of Darda Immer, or those of Duellin, where Trinith would join with other harpers to sing the Elven songs that reached back to the beginnings of time itself.

  There came a season when word was borne across the sea that Spaunen in great number seemed to be mustering in the Grimwall, there in Mithgar to the east. Something was afoot, and warriors were wanted.

  Then it was that Riatha came to the seaport of Duellin a last time and bade farewell to Talar and Trinith and set sail for Caer Pendwyr, an Arbalina ship swiftly bearing her and her steed eastward across the Weston Ocean and through the Avagon Sea to the Land of Pellar. And in shoulder sling rode Dúnamis.

  Then came the Great War, the War of the Ban.

  Riatha rode with the Elves of Darda Galion, that mighty Elvenholt there alongside the Grimwall.

  Fierce were the battles, and long the struggle lasted. And there was great loss and grief during the strife. Many were the Death Redes—those final messages somehow sent from a dying Elf unto another of his Kind in the moment of death, defying time and distance to reach the one for whom it is intended, benumbing the Elven recipient with the Knowledge that a beloved companion has died, one who had just begun life.

  But as devastating as is a single Elven death, the demise of hundreds is overwhelming, as was the case on the Day of Anguish, when Atala plunged beneath the sea in cataclysmic ruin—by Gyphon’s hand, it was claimed.

  Thousands were lost and thousands more in that monstrous catastrophe, as Humans and Drimma and Waerlinga and Elves perished. And everywhere on Mithgar, Elves were whelmed unto their knees, all Elves upon Mithgar without exception, stunned by the disembodied deathery of hundreds and hundreds of their kindred in the moment of their dying, their passing like a ghastly wind blowing chill through the very souls of all Elvenkind.

  The effects of the destruction of Atala did not end with the sinking of the land beneath the sea, oh no, for other realms of Mithgar suffered mightily with its passing, as great tidal waves rolled over the Weston Ocean, rising up into vast walls as they approached land, smashing into distant seashores, inundating all, sweeping away villages and cities and dwellings and lives alike. Too, a thunderous sound rang ’round the world, as if from a mighty explosion, and the sky grew dark, filled with a pall, while ash fell onto lands beyond the sea.

  And in one of those lands, Riatha, too, had fallen stunned, for so many of Elvenkind had died in the destruction of Atala that no Elf on this Plane had escaped the consequences. But though she had been bedazed, hammered to her knees by this vast last cry of desolation, still no Death Rede had come to her from Talar, and so he might have survived, given that he had not instead sent his Rede to Trinith, for if that were the case, then Riatha would not know of his passing.

  And of those whose anguished cries she had felt, they were dead, all dead; and Riatha wept for them, the Elves whose lives had just begun, no matter their ages.

  Slowly her grief subsided, for the Great War continued and she had battles to fight regardless of her distress, and War waits for no one. She fought on, a hollowness in her breast whenever she thought of Talar or Trinith.

  Yet there came a day when Talar rode into the wooded site where the Lian Guardians were encamped, Riatha among them. She wept to see him, and he wept, too, for when Atala had sunk without warning, Trinith had been swallowed by the sea. Talar had been waiting for her aboard a ship in the harbor of Duellin, a ship that was set to sad the very next day, bound for Hovenkeep, there in the south. the two of them planning to join the Lian in Darda Galion. She had gone ashore to bid farewell to Glinner, the Harpmaster, when Karak exploded and Atala sank. The ship that Talar himself had been on was destroyed in the blast, and he remembered nought until he had found himself floating amid wreckage the next day; how he had escaped the hideous suck as the great island had plunged under the sea, he knew not, yet survive he did.

  Some days later—nine, he thought—he had been rescued by a passing ship. It bore him to a port in Gothon, and from there he had made his way to Darda Galion, and thence to Darda Erynian, following after the Lian company Riatha rode among.

  And even though he had been whelmed by the shattering of the ship, still he had received Trinith’s Death Rede: I love thee, was her sending. I love thee, nothing more.

  And so as Riatha and Talar were reunited, Joy and Grief stood side by side in the forest glade that day.

  * * *

  The War dragged on, Talar and Riatha battling shoulder to shoulder and back to back. Then word came that the High Plane itself had been invaded by Gyphon’s Spaunen from the Untargarda, from Neddra, from the Underworld on the Lower Plane.

  With this dire news Riatha bethought to take Dúnamis back unto her dam, for surely now it was needed upon adonar. Yet even as she prepared for the Twilight Ride, foe fell upon her company, and she fought instead of passing between the Planes. A running battle, it lasted for ten days—and during that time more word came from the High World, from the Hōhgarda: Gyphon’s army now marched across Adonar, aiming, it seemed, for one of the places of crossing in between, preparing to invade Mithgar. To prevent such a disaster, Adon Himself declared that he would sunder the ways between the Planes, and although any could yet use the rituals to return unto the realms where their blood permitted, once there, they would not be able to venture forth unto other Planes again.

  Hence, Elvenkind could return to Adonar, to the High Plane, to the realm of their blood, but then could not afterward step unto the Middle Plane and Mithgar, or to the Lower Plane and Neddra, for neither of these was of their Mood. Likewise, Spaunen and the Cursed Ones could step to Neddra on the Lower Plane, but once there could never again venture to the High and Middle Planes. And any who were of the Middle Plane could return from High or Low but never pass to them again.

  One day later, by Adon’s doing, the open ways between the Planes were sundered, and only the ritualistic blood-ways endured. To the Elves the Dawn Ride was no more though the Dusk Ride yet remained.

  After agonizing over whether to return to Adonar and aid in the battles ’gainst Gyphon there, or to stay on Mithgar and oppose Gyphon’s lieutenant, Modru, and the vast Hordes hammering upon the Alliance, Riatha and Talar finally chose to remain upon the Middle Plane, for here the need was known and seemed greatest, here where the Grand Alliance of Men and Elves, of Drimma and Waerlinga, and eventually of Utruni, grappled with Rucha and Loka, Trolls, Ghûlka and Hèlsteeds, Vulgs, and other creatures dire. Too, Modru was aided by Men—the Lakh of Hyree and the Rovers of Kistan, as well as the Hordes of Jung. Here on Mithgar, too, Wizards fought against Wizards, and against Gargoni as well.

  These were the days before the Ban, and the Foul Folk could range the land in daylight as well as dark, though it was said that even then they preferred to do their deeds in the pit of night.

  Vast battles were fought across the face of the world and many were slain.

  Riatha and Talar with other Lian ranged along the eastern flank of the Grimwall, warding Darda Galion, warding Darda Erynian and the Greatwood, and warding the open wold between.

  It was in the Dalgor March
, there where the River Dalgor flows into the mighty Argon, that they met Aravan, bearing his crystal spear, following after Galarun, son of Coron Eiron, Elven King upon Mithgar.

  Galarun and his company rode at haste, for he bore with him a mighty token of power—the Dawn Sword. And Galarun was bound for Darda Galion, where he would make the Dusk Ride to Adonar, taking with him the silver sword for it was said to have the power to slay Gyphon, the High Vûlk Himself.

  Riatha and Talar and their company of Lian Guardians joined with Galarun, his mission vital beyond compare. Yet as they passed through the Dalgor March, unexpected fog rolled o’er them, and Foul Folk rose up out from the clutches of the fen and whelmed into them. A pitched battle was fought, and many were felled, Galarun among them.

  And when the Rûpt were routed at last, the Dawn Sword was gone. Whether it was borne off by Foul Ones or instead had disappeared beneath the mire, none could say.

  * * *

  In the end, Modru lost, the Battle of Hèl’s Crucible crushing him entirely. With his defeat Adon prevailed, banishing Gyphon unto the Abyss beyond the Spheres.

  As well, Adon caused a bright new star to appear in the heavens above, burning fulgently, furiously, rivalling the Moon itself in brightness. A week or so it flared, and when it died, disappearing back into the blackness whence it had the Foul Folk were banned from the light of day, suffering the Withering Death should daylight fall upon them.

  Too, Adon reft the burning fire from the breaths of those Dragons who had arrayed themselves against Him, and they became Cold-drakes, their male get thereafter as well. Sunlight was also death unto them, though they did not turn into dust, their Dragonhide proof against such.

  * * *

  With the Sundering, the Vani-lērihha—the Silverlarks—had disappeared from Darda Galion, had disappeared from the Eldwood. No more were their songs heard warbling down from the lofty branches, sweet songs that Riatha had studied. And when it became apparent that they would not return. Riatha came to live in Arden Vale.

  Centuries passed, and centuries more, and in that time Riatha took up silver smithing, music and singing and harping, gardening, the sewing and reaping of grain, stone carv-animal husbandry, painting, weaving, and a host of other skills. She had, after all, forever to learn, and she was just beginning.

  Throughout the centuries as well, she would occasionally take a lover into her bed. She was nonetheless a young lady, given at times to lusts and desires and gentle longings, as all young ladies are; too, it must be remembered that this young Elfess would live forever, and still she would be young; it is not, then, unexpected that she would have a lover or two as each century passed and the seasons fell. Even so, she had not yet fallen in love.

  More Wars came unto Mithgar, though most were skirmishes and of little import in the long scheme of things And so Riatha in Arden Vale and Talar in Darda Erynian had little to do with such.

  Even the War of the Usurper did not engage their interest, though other Elves were involved—perhaps it was because other Lian were involved that neither Riatha nor Talar rode to War, for only a subtle, gentle guidance of Humankind is called for.

  At times, however, Riatha did take up Dúnamis and fare forth upon some mission or task.

  And so, too, did her brother.

  But this was to be expected, for the Lian Guardians warded the world, preserving Adon’s creations from depredation.

  Yet these ventures Riatha undertook were but way stations along the journey toward her prime destiny. And had she been counting the measure of time, more than four thousand years had passed since she had come to the Middle Plane, some forty-one centuries—or mayhap as many as forty-two or -three, who can say?—had elapsed for her on Mithgar ere the events occurred which ultimately were to lead to the shaking of all creation. But as with the rest of her Kind, she had little noted the passage of time; after all, even though more than four millennia had elapsed, she had just begun her life’s journey, not realizing the critical juncture that she now was beginning to enter.

  For the Great Weaver had all this time been gathering together many disparate threads and now began weaving them into the patterns that were necessary to shape the fate of the world yet to be.

  * * *

  There came a day when a messenger from Darda Erynian fared into Arden Vale, and he bore word to Riatha from Talar. And the slender, golden-haired Elfess looked upon the scroll from her slender, golden-haired brother, and she was glad.

  Yet when she broke the seal, his words were grim:

  Riatha,

  There is a monster somewhere within the Grimwall, and he preys upon the innocent and unprotected. I do not speak here of the Draedan in Drimmen-deeve, but instead of a butchering fiend. Sister of mine, should aught happen to me, seek out Baron Stoke, for he is the evil I hunt.

  Talar

  Riatha felt a cold hand grip her heart, and to her came a vision of her brother’s face, a steely glint in his grey eyes.

  Two years passed and then another, twelve seasons in all, and no word came to her from Talar. Where he was, what he did, was unknown.

  Summer was upon the land, and Riatha and the other Lian Guardians were readying for combat, and her mind was occupied with stratagems and plans. Yet as she took up her sword, she noted Talar’s scroll within the chest. Once more she read it, and again a dread premonition skittered across her heart, but she told herself that it was merely concern for his welfare. She set aside the scroll to finish her preparations, for the Elves of Arden, allied with the Men of the Wilderland, were setting forth this day to purge Drearwood of the Foul Folk who lay waste to caravans and bands of travellers along the Crossland Road passing through the dread forest. Peopled as the Drearwood was with Rucha, Loka, Ghûlka, Trolls, and other such Rûpt, it was expected that the campaign would take months.

  Too, it was rumored that among the Spaunen in Drearwood dwelled one of the last Gargoni, deadly fear casters, as was the Draedan of Drimmen-deeve, and the Lian had no Wizards among them to deal with such.

  She was just buckling Dúnamis in its shoulder harness across her back when Aravan, bearing his crystal spear, stepped through the doorway of her thatched hut. “Ready?” She nodded, and they stepped forth into the sunlight, where stood their steeds.

  Wending past were mounted Lian Guardians, making their way ahorse across the vale and up the face of the western bluff, entering the carven tunnel to pass through, where they would emerge along the northeastern reach of the deadly forest. And into this grim procession merged Riatha and Aravan.

  * * *

  After the summer of the Purging of Drearwood, autumn came, and Riatha was occupied with the harvest. Still she had had no word from Talar, yet he was a skilled warrior and would not take undue chances. Even so, this was the longest that she had gone without word.

  And then came that dreadful day.

  Riatha was striding up from the fields, returning from a day of scything, when she was whelmed unto her knees, her skin afire, her heart hammering, a dread horror washing over her. And through eyes not her own, she saw the face of what appeared to be a Man, a narrow, pale, wolfish face with yellow gaze, laughing madly, the face of a fiend.

  And in a long-fingered hand was a thin-bladed flaying knife.

  Stoke! came a wordless message.

  Pain started at the soles of her feet and lanced up her legs, as if flesh were being stripped from her. She shrieked in agony, her hands covering her face, and other Lian rushed to aid her, yet they could do nought.

  Unbearable pain ripped upward, from her feet and ankles to her legs to her thighs as her flesh was rent from her, from her back, from her shoulders and arms, from her hands; then flesh was torn from her forehead and face and neck, ripping down her chest, her stomach. Yawling, shrieking, screaming, she was flayed alive, agony exploding throughout her entire being. Mewling, she fell down and down into a bubbling, blood-red Hèl, her mind erupting with horror and fear and hatred and fury and unbearable pain.

  And th
en she was pierced through, impaled, a hideous instrument bursting outward from her abdomen.

  A final drawn-out cry flared silently in her mind: Stoke…!

  And then no more. The pain gone. The horror remaining.

  And the hatred and fury.

  And Riatha wept and raged and cried out in anguish and desolation. For this was a Death Rede: Talar had been murdered.

  By Stoke.

  * * *

  Three years passed, thirty-eight Moons, and Riatha searched for Stoke.

  Along the Grimwall she ranged, listening for rumors of a fiend but finding nought.

  But with the onset of winter came a whisper: Vulfcwmb, in Aven, it was hissed. He’s back. The Baron.

  A blizzard raged as Riatha came upon the wreckage of waggons, horses slain. Yet trapped under an overturned wain she found an unconscious Waerling, Tomlin—Pebble.

  Their tale is told in full elsewhere and will not be repeated here. Suffice it to say that she bore the wounded Waerling to shelter in Vulfcwmb. There he was revived and told that Vulgs and Rûpt had attacked the wains and had borne off his sire and dam, his dammia Petal, and her sire.

  Riatha and Tomlin were joined in Vulfcwmb by Urus, a Baeran, who was himself seeking Stoke—Urus’s quest one of revenge also.

  Together they managed to find Stoke’s strongholt, but were captured and thrown into a cell with Petal, for she yet survived. The other Waerlinga, though, had been flayed alive by Baron Stoke, the Vulgmaster.

  Stoke came to slay them, changing into a great Vulg. But they managed to win their freedom, though it nearly cost them their lives, especially Urus.

  Stoke escaped their vengeance that night, and in the shape of a leathery-winged thing he flew beyond their fury and into the Grimwall. But they pledged to one another that they would hunt him down, wherever he might be.

  Two years passed, and once again rumor of Stoke’s whereabouts surfaced.

  They traced him to Dreadholt, but the monster escaped their wrath a second time, though Riatha came within a sword stroke of slaying him ere she herself was nearly slain. Again he went to ground, and they lost his trail.