The Eye of the Hunter

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “Riatha, thou wert there when the sword was lost. Can we recover it, then should aught happen requiring its use it will be at hand.

  “Rael’s sooth speaks of a silver sword borne forth upon the dawn. She is now gone from Mithgar, having ridden the twilight back unto Adonar with Talarin. Yet were she here I deem that she would be the first to say that it is not certain that the silver sword of her sooth is the Dawn Sword.

  “Likely it is, yet should it not be, then I say we must follow all threads to where the Dawn Sword may lie. And perhaps one of those threads leads to Baron Stoke.

  “Regardless of the whereabouts of the sword, there is the death of Galarun to avenge. And on the chance that Stoke is responsible, I would join thee on thy quest.”

  Riatha, of course, agreed.

  But then the Elfess suggested that perhaps the silver sword might lie hidden at one of Stoke’s strongholts of old: at the bartizan beyond Vuifcwmb, or in Dreadholt near Sagra, or at the monastery above the Great North Glacier. And so she and Aravan made long journeys to the places she named: First to Dreadholt in distant Vancha, where they discovered caverns behind the burnt-out ruins there at Dacmon’s Crag; long they searched but no sword did they find. Then they fared to Vuifcwmb and north, unto the destroyed bartizan which once was clutched upon the high cliff walls, ere it was brought crashing down by the Drimma of Kachar. Once again a thorough search of the ruins and caverns—those which were not collapsed—revealed nought. Lastly they went through the Grimwalls north of the ruins of Dragonslair, the land quaking and unstable, coming at last to the stone monastery above the glacier, a monastery whose iron bells rang whenever the juddering of the land became violent. Again they found only an abandoned dwelling, and no silver sword.

  While they were at the Great North Glacier, Riatha took Aravan with her to the golden glow emanating from deep within the ice. Standing in its soft radiance, Aravan felt strangely drawn to the luminance, as if he were being called. Yet it was deep, very deep, far beyond reaching.

  Riatha’s words came softly. “It has drifted, ever drifted, toward the eastern edge,” and Aravan saw that she wept.

  By the time they came back unto Arden Vale, two years had passed. Aravan’s quest for sword and vengeance was as yet not fulfilled and mayhap would never be, but he was driven to continue seeking. As he took his leave, he promised to aid Riatha in the time of the prophecy, vowing to return in the years just prior to when the Eye of the Hunter would ride the night.

  * * *

  Time passed and centuries fell, the seasons ever changing. But three winters ere the Hunter’s ruddy harbinger would course through the dark nighttides, Aravan came back unto Arden Vale, his quest for silver blade and red revenge still unrealized. At this time Aravan had been on Mithgar for more than twelve thousand years…

  …His life was just beginning.

  CHAPTER 12

  Equinox

  Late September, 5E985

  [Two years, Six Months Past]

  “Kel, Riatha, Dara!” called Jandrel. “Vi Didron ana al enistori!”

  Riatha turned from the unshorn grain and shaded her eyes and looked at the three there at field’s edge: Jandrel ahorse with two Waerlinga mounted upon ponies at his side. She handed her scythe to one of the gleaners, and walked toward the visitors….

  …the Lastborn Firstborns had come.

  As the Elfess approached, the wee Waerlinga dismounted and led their ponies forward. Riatha’s heart welled up within her, for in spite of their dress and the weapons they bore, once again she saw before her what at first glance looked to be two children of Elvenkind. Yet it was not so, for no Elf had e’er conceived a child on Mithgar, and no Elfchild had set foot upon this world for more than five thousand years, not since the time of the Sundering. But even though her mind told her that these were not the children of Elves, her heart said otherwise, and she found unexpected tears running down her face.

  As Riatha stepped to the edge of the field, the damman bobbed a slight curtsy and said, “I am Faeril Twiggins, and this is Gwylly Fenn. We are the last of the firstborn descendants of Tomlin and Petal….

  “…And oh, Riatha, you are even more beautiful than I had imagined.”

  And with that, Faeril dropped the reins of Blacktail and rushed forward, her arms outstretched, and smiling past tears, Riatha knelt down to embrace her.

  * * *

  Riatha led Gwylly and Faeril among the pine trees and past widely scattered thatch-roofed cottages, with walls made of woven withes and white clay and supported by wooden beams. “After we stable thy ponies, I shall find each of thee a dwelling—”

  “Oh, no, Lady Riatha,” interjected Faeril. “I mean, well. Gwylly and I are now mated to one another, though we have not yet said our vows in public.”

  Riatha smiled to herself. “Oh, I see. One cote, then, shall ye have.”

  Onward they walked. Elves pausing to look at these Waerlinga—remembering. Suddenly Gwylly piped up: “Say, d’you think that we could say our vows here? I mean, d’you have a mayor or a kingsclerk or other such?”

  Riatha smiled once again. “Nay, Gwylly, no mayor or kingsclerk, but ye shall have better. I shall arrange a pledge-giving ceremony.”

  As they entered the stables, Gwylly looked up at the tall Elfess. “Pledge-giving ceremony?”

  “Aye. ’Tis a thing we do when we wish to enter into a more lasting relationship. And a pledge-giving ceremony is a cause for celebration among Elvenkind, for it is not often that we commit unto an oath.”

  “Not often?” asked the buccan.

  “Thou must know, Gwylly, that each of us of Elvenkind is…very long lived…very—”

  “Immortal,” supplied Faeril.

  “…Aye. Immortal,” agreed Riatha.

  The Elfess opened two stalls, and the ponies were led within. As Gwylly and Faeril removed their gear and saddles and bridles, Riatha put a scoop of oats into each feed bin and fetched water.

  “What does a long life have to do with the giving of pledges?” asked Gwylly, rummaging through his saddlebags for his curry, comb.

  Riatha set a bucket of water in Dapper’s stall and another in Blacktail’s. “Just this: Each person follows an individual path. At a given stage in life, a person may find his path running side by side with another’s. At a different stage, paths grow apart as the individuals change, as interests change, as common ground becomes less and less. Then other paths, new paths, may begin to parallel these new directions, as new common ground forms between different individuals.

  “Friendship is an example of this: Friendships grow, become fast, then drift apart as interests change, while new friends are made. It does not mean that all friendships are fleeting, just as it does not mean that all friendships are lasting. Both fleeting or lasting: some are; some are not; most fall in between.

  “Because individuals’ paths change, sometimes in unforeseen directions, one must take care when taking an oath or giving a pledge. For interests change. Common ground disappears.

  “Elvenkind is most aware of such, for we live…forever. An oath taken today in pleasure may become an unbearable burden in the future—and heed, for Elves the future is forever. Hence, oaths, vows, and pledges given or received by Elves must take this into account.

  “But even among mortalkind, within a mortal’s limited span of years, oaths taken and pledges made can in time become burdens too heavy to bear.”

  Gwylly paused in his currying. “Surely, Riatha, you are not saying that it’s all right to break oaths.”

  Riatha hefted first one saddle, then the other onto a low rail, draping blankets over as well. “Nay, Gwylly, I am not counselling oath breaking. Among all Folk, including Elvenkind, oaths are not to be taken lightly. I am, however counselling prudence. Think long, very long ere taking an oath, for the common ground where the pledge was made may one day become too small to stand upon.”

  Blacktail placidly munched oats as Faeril lifted each of the pony’s hooves and examined the
m, scraping a blunt tool along the edge of the iron shoes to dislodge caked dirt. “Oh, I think I see, Riatha. Should the conditions for making the pledge change appreciably, well then, perhaps the pledge no longer applies.”

  “Such as…?” asked Gwylly.

  Faeril straightened, releasing the last of Blacktail’s hooves. “Well, such as making a pledge of fealty to someone, someone who later changes, becoming, say, unsavory in his deeds, perhaps even asking you to commit foul acts as well. In that case the person has changed and therefore the common ground has changed, perhaps has disappeared altogether, becoming something that no longer can support you in your pledge.”

  Gwylly nodded, saying nothing, but Riatha spoke softly. “Aye, ’tis the common ground which supports all oaths. And conditions may change in ways unforeseen, enriching or depleting the soil nourishing a given vow. Hence, it behooves each of us to carefully examine the earth between ere planting a pledge therein.”

  Finished with Dapper, Gwylly stepped forth from the stall, latching the gate behind. “You make it sound as if an oath is but a fragile seedling to be sewn only in fertile ground.”

  “Aye, Gwylly, ’tis indeed that. And just as seedlings need tending and watering to survive and become strong and hear sweet fruit, vows, too, need cultivation and nourishment to keep them from withering.”

  Faeril scooped up her saddlebags and bedroll. “That must be why some friendships die—they are not nourished.”

  As Gwylly, too, took up his gear, Riatha smiled a sad smile down at the damman. “Aye, Faeril. Without nourishment all things wither—be they seedlings or vows or friendships or matings or aught else.”

  Leaving the stables, once again they trod through the pine forest and past widely scattered thatched cottages nestled therein. Soon they emerged from the trees and into a tiny sunlit glade cupped on the edge of a slope, grass and wildflowers all about. And in the center of the glade stood another cote overlooking the vale to the east. Pines ran down to the banks of the Tumble and on up the slopes beyond, and the craggy bluff of the far wall of Arden Vale was visible in the distance a mile or more away. Riatha led the Waerlinga across the glade, while bees buzzed among the wild blossoms and gathered the last of summer’s bounty, sensing, perhaps, the onset of fall and the coming of winter beyond. The Elfess stepped to the stoop of the cottage. “This will be thy dwelling, though I deem that the furnishments within are not fitted to thy sizes.” Raising the latch, she opened the door.

  Faeril and Gwylly stepped inside, and as Riatha went from window to window, opening shutters and letting the daylight shine in, the Warrows set down their belongings and looked about.

  The cottage held two rooms: one a combination kitchen and living room, containing cupboards and tables and chairs and a fireplace for heating and cooking with two cushioned chairs for sitting before the fire, as well as a small pantry and cabinets, a washstand, a bench, and a writing desk; the other room held a bed and a wardrobe as well as a dresser and a chest of drawers, and two chairs for sitting, and a third chair before a small writing desk.

  Gwylly looked out the back door, espying a nearby well while off in the distance to the side stood a privy. Just beyond the back stoop was a small plot of land for a vegetable patch, and garden tools were neatly arrayed on the rear cottage wall.

  “Oh, Riatha, it’s a splendid cote,” breathed Faeril, “and we shall cherish our time here.”

  * * *

  After Riatha left them to settle in, saying that she would be back in the eventide to take them to a banquet, Gwylly and Faeril unpacked their meager belongings and explored the cottage and its surroundings. Gwylly was uncommonly somber, though, and as they sat among the flowers on the slope and gazed across the vale, Faeril at last asked him why the brooding brow.

  “Just this, my dammia: I love you more than life itself yet I wonder if we have enough ‘common ground’ between us to support vows to one another.”

  Faeril’s heart clenched. “What are you saying, Gwylly? What more do we need than love?”

  Gwylly took Faeril’s hands in his and looked into her eyes, as if seeking something deep within their amber depths. “My dammia, I do not know if I am worthy of you.” He held up a hand, stilling the protest that sprang to her lips. “You can read; I cannot. You were raised among our Kind; I was not. You knew about the prophecy; I did not. You trained for this mission; I did not. You—”

  Faeril laughed and took Gwylly’s face in her hands and silenced him with a kiss. “Oh, my love,” she said, “let us examine these things you cite:

  “Indeed, I can read. And so will you within the year—”

  “But I barely know my letters,” protested Gwylly.

  “Faugh!” snorted Faeril. “Already you can write your name and mine, and spell perhaps a hundred words. No love, within the year you will be reading and writing in the Common tongue. And within two, you will be speaking, reading, and writing Twyll, the language of Warrows.”

  Gwylly merely grunted, not convinced.

  Faeril went on: “And as far as being raised among ‘our Kind,’ by the time you get to know the language of the Warrows, you will by then know much of Warrow lore, for I will use lore and legend with you to practice the speaking and writing of Twyll.

  “As far as not knowing the prophecy, you will read all about it in the journals we brought.

  “As to training for the mission, we have plenty of time to do so ere we set out.

  “Too, by the time we finish this venture with Riatha, you and I will have more common ground between us than nearly anyone else I can think of.

  “And as far as being worthy…oh, Gwylly, you are a kind and gentle soul with a heart as big as the world. Had your Warrow parents lived, they could not have raised a better buccan than did Orith and Nelda, Human though they were.

  “Oh, my buccaran, don’t you see that the ground we have in common is as rich and as fertile as any could wish, and will only grow?”

  Gwylly stood and pulled Faeril to her feet. He took her in his arms and gently kissed her. Together they walked through the wildflowers—bees rising up from the blossoms at the Warrows’ passage and then settling back to gather more nectar and pollen—the Wee Folk returning to the cottage and stepping within, closing the door behind.

  * * *

  Dressed in green silks and satins, jade ribbons wound among the pale golden tresses of her hair, Riatha came for Gwylly and Faeril as twilight settled upon the vale. The Waerlinga had donned their own finest clothes—the finest they had brought with them—and though the fabric was homespun and sturdy, still they were quite presentable: Faeril in black breeks and a grey jerkin, a black ribbon with long, loose ends dangling down tied ’round each arm high above the elbow, her black hair unbound; Gwylly in a rust-colored shirt and dark brown pants, and a narrow leather headband across his brow and tied behind; both wore dark brown boots of brushed leather.

  Westward across the glade they walked, meadowlarks calling as evening fell. They stepped in among the shadowy pines, treading on a yielding carpet of fallen needles, the forest about them silent but for the soft susurration of slow-moving air in the crowns above, or the occasional scritching of a small animal scurrying away in the darkness. Too, in the tree branches now and then a bird would sound a gentle chirp, as if murmuring one last thing to itself while settling down to sleep. As they walked, Faeril and then Gwylly became aware of the faint echo of silver harps and voices singing in the twilit distance. A glimmer afar shone through the trees, and another, and more still, yellow and amber and soft. Closer the trio came and closer, stepping at last past a line of boles and into a small open glade. They came forth into amber light cast by candlelit paper lanterns hanging from limbs of the encircling trees, each lantern bearing an arcane sigil or rune, their colors various. As they entered the glade, the voices rose up joyously, and they found themselves among Elvenkind, dressed in silks and satins and leathers of varying hues—blacks and greys and whites, yellows and oranges and reds and browns, bl
ues and greens and violets and lavenders—the Fair Folk gathered in celebration.

  Elves smiled and gave way as Riatha led the twain across the greensward and unto glade center. Back and back moved the Fair Folk, yet singing, until they were ringed ’round, yielding a space so that all could see the visitors. Riatha took Faeril’s hand in her right and Gwylly’s in her left and slowly turned about, letting all view the Waerlinga. And as she turned, the singing slowly faded, subsiding until it was but a gentle murmur and then not at all. Harp strings rose and then fell in a last silvery glissando, the final notes drifting among the shadowed pines. Silence descended, and overhead stars emerged as the gloaming dimmed to darkness. Riatha faced north, a Waerling at each hand, and called out in words of liquid silver: “Alori e Darai, vi estare Faeril Twiggins e Gwylly Fenn,” and a shout of welcome rang through the woods as again Riatha turned the Waerlinga about so that all could once more see them.

  Facing north again, Riatha led the Waerlinga toward the arc of the be-ringing Lian, toward the point where stood a tall, flaxen-haired Elf. To his left and right were planted standards, the flags hanging lax in the still night air. Even so, as they approached, the Warrows could see the design thereupon—green tree on field of grey—and knew at once that they beheld the sigil of Arden Vale, the Lone Eld Tree standing in twilight, a flag that had been borne with honor upon many a field in Wars cataclysmic.

  Riatha came to a stop before the flaxen-haired Elf. “Alor Inarion, vi estare Faeril Twiggins e Gwylly Fenn, eio ypt faenier ala, Faeril en a Boskydelis e Gwylly en a Weiunwood. Eio ra e rintha anthi an e segein.”

  The Elf smiled down at Faeril and Gwylly, and winked, and his words came softly: “I would be greatly surprised if ye spoke Sylva.”

  Faeril, her eyes glittering in the lambent yellow glow of the lanterns, shook her head No, but added, “We could learn.”

  The Elf laughed. “Dara Riatha—that is, Lady Riatha— has presented ye unto the Host of Arden Vale. Too, she has spoken thy names unto all gathered. She has also presented ye unto me. I am Alor Inarion, Lord Inarion, Warder of the Northern Regions of Rell.” The Elf Lord bowed.