The Eye of the Hunter

by Dennis L McKiernan

  Hearts thudding, Gwylly and Faeril seemed transfixed by the sight of the black Wolf-like beasts, but no Wolves were these, for each was nearly as large as a pony, yet sleek and with and savage.

  “Haste, Aravan,” barked Riatha, her voice firm, controlled, “rope the packs together. We’ll pull them up after.”

  Aravan backslung his spear and began to lash the packs to his rope, while Riatha quickly knotted the remaining three lines to one another and clipped the four comrades at intervals on the resulting length: she first, Faeril next, then Gwylly, and finally Aravan. And as the Vulgs gave voice to long, ululating howls and raced up the slope, the Elfess turned to the craggy face of the bluff, seeking a safe mute. Choosing, she began to climb.

  Onward came the Vulgs, now less than two furlongs distant, their speed frightening. Still kneeling at the packs, “Climb!” hissed Aravan to Gwylly and Faeril. “They’ll be upon us in ten heartbeats.”

  Up scrambled the Warrows, following Riatha’s lead, the Elfess climbing rapidly.

  Now the Vulgs sighted their quarry and hideous wrauls shattered the air, echoing and reverberating in the high-walled canyon, the savage creatures leaping forward, rushing to the kill.

  Yellow-eyed, poison-fanged monsters plunging toward him. Aravan cinched the last knot and then turned and leapt to the stone wall and began climbing. Ahead, Gwylly and Faeril clambered upward, and beyond them climbed Riatha. The land shuddered; ice and stone fell; yet up they went and up, ignoring all, Aravan coming last, the Elf now but some twenty feet up the stone, not safe, for the lead Vulg was even then bounding up the ramp of scree and ice and snow, mere yards away, mere strides away from the quarry above, and with a guttural snarl he sprang. “Anchor!” cried Gwylly, and Aravan thrust outward and sideways from the stone, trusting to the Waerling’s skills, the Elf leaping away just as the Vulg crashed against the rock wall where he had been. Yelping, the black beast fell back among the pack rushing after and tumbled a way down the slope ere scrambling up. Above, Aravan ran in a shallow are across and up the face of the perpendicular cliff, suspended by the line anchored by Gwylly. At the far extent of his run, the Elf managed to grasp a rock projection, halting his pendulum-like dash up the plumb surface. Below, snarling Vulgs leapt upward, claws scrabbling against vertical stone, the great beasts falling inches short of Aravan, for they had not the advantage of a running start. Swiftly Aravan climbed upward and across, now clearly beyond the reach of the slavering beasts raving below, though they raged and leapt still.

  When the Elf reached the ledge where Gwylly stood, he found a trembling Waerling. Hands shaking, Gwylly pointed to the jam anchored in a crevice, the climbing rope cinched to the attached ring. “I didn’t know,” Gwylly’s voice quavered, unshed tears glistening in his eyes. “I didn’t know if it would hold. I snapped it taut and threw the clinch, but I didn’t know.”

  Aravan looked into the viridian eyes of the buccan and smiled. “Thou didst well, wee one. Thou didst well.”.

  Of a sudden, from below came furious snarling and the sounds of rending. “The packs!” cried Faeril. “They are shredding the packs!”

  Quickly Aravan snapped a retaining strap to the ring of the jam in the wall. Then he turned about on the ledge and grasped the line affixed between his belt and the packs below, reeling it in hand over hand. Above, Riatha and Faeril clambered downward to help, for all the packs together weighed over a hundred pounds. Gwylly on the ledge beside the Elf was out of position to lift, though he took up the drooping slack, coiling the excess. The line below snapped taut and Aravan grunted and hauled, and up came the packs, out from the Vulgs below; yet they in turn jumped and clamped long fangs down upon the canvas and leather and lunged back, pulling Aravan off balance, and he fell. The belt strap fastened to the jam stopped him from plunging downward, though Vulgs below raved and leapt upward at the dangling Elf, trying to reach him, abandoning their rending of the packs.

  Aravan twisted about and clutched at the wall, and heaved himself back onto the ledge.

  Once again the Vulgs began mauling the packs, dragging them down the ramp of scree at the base.

  “Aravan,” barked Gwylly. “Loose the pack line, else they’ll pull you down.” But even as Gwylly spoke, Aravan perceived the danger and unclipped the rope from his belt.

  “If three of us could draw them away,” called Faeril, “one of us could stay behind and haul the packs up.”

  Slightly above the damman, Riatha said, “Too late. We must abandon the supplies and instead climb, for Aravan was right: where run Vulgs, so run the Rûpt.” The Elfess pointed down the defile.

  In the glancing moonlight, dark against the snow came a lone figure loping ’round the twisting turn of the canyon below. It was a Rūck, or a Hlōk—in the shadows at this distance neither Faeril nor Gwylly could say, though Aravan called it a Ruch. Clearly he was following after the Vulg tracks. He stopped and raised his head and howled an ululating call, and was answered in kind by the Vulg park below.

  Again he howled, and again was answered, the wrauling yawls glancing off the walls of the canyon, echoing, confusin the ear as to the direction of the source. Even so, it was plain that the pack was nearby, and the Rūck raised a horn to his lips and blatted a brazen call. And after long moments, a faint brazen blat answered.

  “Swift!” hissed Riatha. “Let us go. Foul Folk are upon our track.”

  * * *

  Up over snow and ice and rock, past a gnarled scrub or two they ascended through the moonlight, following along a wide crevice, using knobs and ledges and cracks and rifts for hand- and footholds. They had climbed a hundred feet or so when wild blaring came from the horn of the Rūcken tracker.

  “He has seen us,” gritted Aravan.

  From the near distance, blatting horns answered the tracker’s call. “And more Rûpt come,” added Riatha.

  Now and again Gwylly looked back at the turn in the canyon. And after they had climbed another fifty feet or so, he saw more shapes loping into view—more Rūcks more Hlōks. Twenty or so he counted, all bearing pikes. Too, he thought he could see bows and scimitars, though at this range he was not certain. They milled about the tracker a moment, then howling, raced toward the wall where clung the foursome. From the foot of the cliff, Vulgs wrauled, raging for the blood of the climbers above.

  “Take care,” warned Riatha. “Let not the presence of these Spaunen cause one of us to slip and fall through haste.”

  In that moment the unstable land jolted, and rocks and ice rained downward. The four pressed themselves against the sheer face, hands gripping, hearts pounding, and prayed that none would get hit.

  And in the distance, onward came the yowling Foul Folk some handing their pikes to others and unslinging their twisted-wood bows even as they ran.

  The trembling stopped, and Riatha clambered upward the other three right behind. But now and again a late-falling stone or chunk of ice clattered down, and the four clutched themselves up against the wall until it hurtled past.

  They had climbed perhaps another fifty feet when the first arrow shattered against the cliff, the black-shafted quarrel striking rock ten feet to the right of Faeril.

  Glancing back down, Gwylly judged that he was some two hundred fifty feet above the floor of the canyon. Standing out away from the wall some fifty feet or so were the Rūcken archers, even now loosing their deadly bolts. The dark missiles flew up through the moonlight, some shattering to left and right, most falling short. Below, Aravan clambered upward. “Go on, Gwylly. Climb. For e’en Ruchen archer can court Dame Fortune.”

  Gwylly turned and continued his ascent.

  Up they went and up, over ice and snow and stone, arrows shattering about them. But shooting at a target over head requires great skill, though luck takes a hand now and again. Yet Fortune favored not the Spawn, and for the most part the shafts fell short, though one or two came within inches of Aravan. Even so, after the four had climbed another fifty feet, the Foul Folk stopped wasting their black-shafted
arrows.

  Again the land trembled, rocks and ice plummeting crashing below, driving the Vulgs and Rūcks and Hlōks back away from the base. This time debris rained down upon the climbers as well, and a chunk of ice thudded upon Gwylly’s arm, the buccan crying out in pain, the jagged fragment nearly jolting him loose from the wall. And as he tried to scrabble at stone to regain his grip, he found his right arm numb and useless. But Aravan climbed up from below and boosted the Waerling to a safe ledge.

  Faeril, too, climbed down to her buccaran, worry etched in her face, yet there was nothing she could do to aid him. Even so, he was comforted by her presence.

  A lime passed and slowly his arm regained feeling, first tingling pins and needles, and then throbbing in intense pain. He could not yet resume the climb, and so all waited as at the buccan sucked air in and out between clenched teeth, and Faeril spoke softly to him of other days.

  And as they clung there, they heard a sharp cracking in the distance, as from a lash, and around the bend in the canyon below twenty Rūcks hove into view, hauling a sled piled high with cargo, a Hlōk riding on the runners, lashing a whip upon the backs of the dog-harnessed Rūcks.

  Faeril gasped. “You don’t suppose…”

  As the haulers came round the bend, the maggot-folk at the base of the cliff shouted and jeered, their calls ringing from the walls of the canyon. Gwylly glanced down at the Spawn directly below, the Rūcks and Hlōks now standing in the bright light of the Moon above. And for the first time he truly looked, at last seeing that the Foul Folk bore not pikes, as he had first surmised, but instead carried poles hacked from the scrub pine and sharpened. And affixed stop each pole was—

  Sickened, the buccan averted his eyes. “Don’t look, Faeril,” he gritted, reaching out to her. But she began to weep, for she, too, had seen the heads of sled dogs impaled upon the poles, as well as the heads of three Humans.

  Rage rising inside his breast, Gwylly’s voice came gutturla. “They will pay, B’arr. They will pay. This I swear.”

  Slowly the Aleutan sled was hauled up to the group below, and Rūcks and such milled about. But after a moment twenty or so broke away from the group and began jog trotting up the canyon, bearing their weapons, accompanied by the Vulg pack, all twelve of the savage slayers loping ahead. And below, Rūcks and Hlōks jeered up at the four clinging to the wall above.

  “Canst thou yet climb, Gwylly?” asked Riatha. “I fear that the Rûpt and Vulgs seek the end of the canyon to reach the rim and come at us from above.”

  Wincing, Gwylly flexed his arm. “Let’s give it a go.”

  And so up they started once again, more slowly this time for one of the climbers was injured and the ascent arduous.

  Over ice-clad rock they clambered, as well as bare stone. Up crevices and ledges and up through narrow chimneys, past scrub pine clinging tenuously to the cold granite walls, the wood wind-twisted and gnarled, slowly they ascended, while the land shook and ice fell and rocks tumbled down. The higher they went the more they felt an icy chill oozing over the lip of the canyon and flowing down upon them, as if something intensely frigid lay high above. And somewhere beyond the wrenching turns in the canyon, Rūcks and Hlōks and Vulgs sought to head them off, while overhead the Eye of the Hunter streamed remote and blood red and ominous.

  They had just passed the halfway point, some five or six hundred feet up the wall, when again the world jolted, a long, shuddering quake. At the onset a great crack’ sounded from above, followed by a massive thud, as if a chunk of the mountain itself had split away and fallen to the ground. But the quake continued, the land jolting and heaving, while tons of rock and ice rained down. Yet the four were in a shelter of a sort: moments before they had entered a shallow, dead-ended chimney and had paused to give Gwylly’s arm respite from climbing, and were resting on a long, narrow ledge at its base. But now as the world rattled and shook, the four grimly hung on, barely protected by the negligible crevice, and they pressed back into the wall as tons of debris thundered past, plummeting into the depths below. And after it had all crashed down, again there came the faint sound of iron bells ringing in the distance.

  When quiet fell, Gwylly whispered, “Lor, if we’d been out there…” He said no more, for all knew what he meant.

  After a short rest and a long drink of water, once more they girded themselves for the climb. Below, the Rûpt waited, blocking escape by that route.

  “Why don’t we find a deep crevice or a ledge under an overhang, one safe enough to shelter us till the Sun rises?” suggested Faeril. “Then the Foul Folk will be gone.”

  “That has been my hope since we started, Faeril,” responded Riatha. “Can we find such, we will do so and wait for the day to come and drive the Spaunen into their sunless holes. Yet until then we must climb, for this wall is too dangerous a place to remain.”

  Aravan spoke. “Even so, Riatha, as dangerous as is this wall in the quaking land, Vulgs and Rucha and Loka are more dangerous still. And just such Rûpt are seeking to come unto the rim above us, if we have rightly guessed their foul intentions.”

  “Garn,” growled Gwylly, “here we are in the middle of the night beneath the bloody Eye of the Hunter in the Spawn-infested Grimwalls, with no supplies, clinging to a sheer, frozen wall some six hundred feet up, with tons of rock and ice hailing down on us while the Dragon-damaged land rattles and quakes and tries to shake us loose, with Foul Folk below ready to kill us, and Vulgs and maggot-folk somewhere above, also preparing our death, and we’ve no safe place to wait until the coming of the Sun drives “em off.”

  Faeril looked at her buccaran and smiled. “Gwylly, my love, I am reminded of that which Patrel said to Danner in the dark hours of the Winter War.”

  Gwylly cocked an eyebrow at the damman. “And what that?”

  “He asked,” responded Faeril, “‘What are you going to do when things really get bad?’”

  Gwylly gaped at Faeril, and a tremor shuddered through the cliff. Then the buccan began to laugh, and Faeril giggled. Riatha and Aravan looked at one another in amazement, and then smiled. And as ice and stone shattered down from above, the four clung to the rock wall and laughed.

  * * *

  They resumed their climb, slowly inching upward. Still the icy chill from above flowed down over them, getting colder with every foot they advanced. An hour or so they climbed, ascending another two hundred feet, stopping now and again to rest, desperately clinging to stone when the land trembled and rocks and snow and ice tumbled down.

  It was Faeril who observed: “It diminishes. The higher we get, the less there is above us to come crashing down.”

  From below, Aravan added, “Yet the higher we get, the closer we come to the Rûpt who mayhap even now wait for us.”

  “Perhaps we can—” Gwylly’s words were chopped short by a bone-chilling howl from above. Vulg-like it was yet…it was a howl starting deep and strong, but trailing off thinly, as if a Vulg were injured or weakened in some manner.

  “Look!” exclaimed Faeril. “The Rucks and such below!”

  On the canyon floor, Foul Folk milled about in confusion

  Again came the howl. And it was answered by a chorus of distant Vulg voices, Vulgs afar, up on the canyon rim somewhere to the south.

  From below came voices shouting in jubilation. Gwylly looked down. The Spawn were leaping about as if in celebration.

  “Quickly,” gritted Riatha. “We must climb.”

  “But—” Gwylly’s words were cut off by the Elfess.

  “Now!” she commanded.

  And up they went.

  Below, Foul Folk rifled the cargo on the stolen sled, and then began jog trotting away, up the twisting canyon, abandoning their vigil of the climbers overhead.

  And above, in the distance, on the rim, howls grew louder as a running Vulg pack drew nearer.

  “Riatha!” called Gwylly, even as he haled himself up the stone. “The maggot-folk below have left. But above, they draw near. Downward is safety, but upw
ard is danger. Why do we climb?”

  Again the chill howl sounded from overhead.

  “Dost thou not hear, wee one?” answered Riatha. “That call? Once apast, I heard such a cry—not the same, but near—and it came from the throat of Stoke, summoning aid. And if Stoke is above, and can we come unto him ere the Spaunen arrive, then a vile monster we will slay.”

  Up they climbed, as swift as Gwylly’s injury would allow. The Vulg howls from the rim drew nearer and nearer. Still the land shook, and debris rained, but it was as Faeril had said: the higher they climbed, the less there was above to come crashing. And still the icy drift of raw air flowing over them and down grew more chill as they ascended. Even so, their labor was such that perspiration runneled beneath their clothes as up they went, straining mightily, hearts hammering, breath coming in gasps, using their skills to the uttermost to climb rapidly.

  They were some one hundred feet from the top when the chorus of Vulg howls seemed to come from directly above.

  Riatha stopped. “We have lost the race,” she panted.

  Yawls and howls, wrauls and yammering rang through the night, while the four below tenuously clung to rock and ice, and a frigid drift of air flowed down across them, chilling them to the bone. They set jams into crevices and clip-belted themselves to these anchors, taking the strain from arms and legs, taking respite, for they were weary beyond measure.

  Time eked past, and still the Vulgs above gave clamoring voice. But then came the sound of ironshod boots tramping as the Foul Folk arrived, soon followed by shouting Rûptish voices and cries of jubilation.

  After some time, a hundred or so paces to the south of where the foursome clung, a Hlōk came to the rim and shouted down below. What he called is not known, for he used the Slûk tongue, a language that none of the four on the wall below knew. And they clung to the stone without moving, hoping that their stillness and Elven clothing would keep them from detection.

  The Hlōk was joined by several Rucks, and they ranged along the lip above, peering downward, shouting out to one another, obviously searching for the four comrades. Hearts hammering, the climbers remained utterly still, now looking down so that the whiteness of their features and the glitter of their eyes would not give them away. And now they could hear Foul Folk directly overhead. And still the four pressed into the wall and moved not, and kept their faces hidden.