The Eye of the Hunter

by Dennis L McKiernan

  “How much rope?” asked Reigo.

  “Two hundred sixty-six cubits,” Halíd answered, “four hundred feet.”

  Gwylly looked up, astounded. “Four hundred— Who dug this well? Who would set mortared stones that deeply? Even beyond! I mean, if it’s four hundred feet to the water, then the bottom of the well is deeper still. Who would do such?”

  Halíd and Reigo both shrugged, and Aravan turned up his palms.

  “That much rope will be heavy,” commented Faeril, “even without a bucket of water at its end.”

  “I will draw the water,” rumbled Urus, knotting together several lines.

  Riatha gazed about as if seeking something. “I wonder…if a traveller came unto this well and had no line, no way to draw up the water, would he die of thirst at well’s edge? Look about: See ye winch, line, bucket? See ye a cover capping the well to keep the water from evaporating? Nay! Here is a riddle to read.”

  Down went the bucket into the well, and Halíd’s judgment proved to be accurate, for Urus payed out one hundred and six ells of rope ere the bucket struck water. Weighted on one side, the bucket overturned, and Urus gave it suitable time to settle, then drew the filled bucket back to the top of the well. Time and again did the huge Baeran draw up water, replenishing first the goatskins and then pouring bucket after bucket into the trough at well’s edge. Each camel drank its thirsty fill, downing nearly twenty-five gallons apiece, taking considerable time to do so. Then bloated and grumbling, the animals were hobbled and set to grazing, for other than a small amount of grain, they had had nothing to eat in the past five days, and their humps were flaccid from lack of food.

  Several more times did Urus draw up water, refilling the trough to the brim. Strong as he was, Urus was wearied, for he had hauled up bucket after bucket of liquid. “Last one,” he grunted as he started to hale up the final bucket. But it did not rise. “Caught,” he growled.

  “On what?” asked Gwylly, peering downward into the blackness, seeing nought but the rope dwindling out of sight.

  “Mayhap on the masonry, or on a rock.” Urus moved to the far side of the well, paying out slack. Then he drew upward, but it did not yield. “Garn!”

  Again Urus moved, then setting one foot against the well top—“Unh!”—he wrenched up and back, the bucket coming free, the Baeran stumbling hindward, landing on his seat yet retaining his grasp on the line.

  Gwylly laughed, and Aravan, smiling, said, “Here, Urus, let me.” The Elf took the rope from the Man and stepped to the wall of the well. As he hauled upward, his eyes widened at the weight of rope, bucket, and water, and he glanced at Urus in surprise. “Hai! Thou art indeed a strong one, Urus. Better had we dragooned a camel for this work.” Yet hand over hand the slender Elf continued to pull up the rope, the final bucket coming to the top at last, the side holed, water running out.

  “Hoy!” exclaimed Gwylly. “Good that this was the last.”

  * * *

  They pitched camp near the well in the tattered shade of the shabby palms. As the seven rested, Aravan studied Riatha’s map. “We have come another sixty-seven leagues on our journey, one hundred twenty-seven leagues from Sabra in all. There are but twenty leagues left ere we reach the place where kandra was said to have grown, a day and a half of travel.”

  “Dodona,” breathed Faeril.

  “Let us hope,” added Gwylly.

  Urus nodded but said nought as Riatha kneaded his back and shoulder muscles, for the labor of drawing water had been difficult.

  Reigo sat with his back to a tree, his chin on his chest, napping.

  Halíd stood, his eyes casting about. When Urus looked up in question, the Gjeenian said, “I am of a mind to search for another stele, for this may be a place of Djado, too, as was the Oasis of Falídii.”

  Urus barked a laugh. “This place is cursed, aye…but only because of its wickedly deep well.”

  Faeril got to her feet. “I’ll join you, Halíd. After what you told Gwylly, if there’s another Djado stele, I want to know, for I would be elsewhere if Lord Death and his black camel come calling tonight.” She reached down and pulled Gwylly to his feet, saying, “Come on, my buccaran, who knows what we may find?”

  Aravan continued to study the map, and Riatha continued to soothe Urus’s worn muscles. Reigo slept on.

  Long the searchers looked, walking outward in a spiral from the wellhead, finding nought. But on the return journey, as was the case when the vambrace had been found, again it was Gwylly who turned up evidence of a deadly nature: some twenty yards on the south side of the well, he found part of a shattered Human jawbone embedded in the arid soil, some teeth yet set in place.

  * * *

  When Gwylly’s turn at guard came, Aravan handed him the blue stone. “Keep a sharp eye and ear, Gwylly, for the chill waxes and wanes.”

  Gwylly took the small stone in hand, feeling its cool surface. Aravan stepped away a short distance and sat down, placing his back to a tree. Gwylly knew the Elf both slept and watched, as he had been doing since the Oasis of Falídii, the place of the Djado stele.

  Holding the stone, Gwylly took a seat on a boulder, his senses alert to the surround, warding his companions. How long he sat thus he knew not, yet ever did his eyes sweep across the starlit sand. But he saw only the vague silhouettes of the camels grazing on the thorny brush and wisps of grass. And so, amulet in hand he sat on the rock, watching the desert, guarding his comrades, listening to the rustling of the faint breeze among the sparse palm fronds, the susurration whispering above, a soft sibilancy murmuring in his ear, almost as a faint, faint song dimly in the distance, a purling aspiration, a wafting ripple, singing, singing, insistently, inviting him to listen to its soft echo, a gentle breeze shushing, bidding him to rest, singing, singing, darkness falling, sleep, sweet sleep overcoming, blackness flowing, stars winking out, dreaming wonder drawing closer, closer, ebon darkness growing, flowing up and out and over the stone rim, followed by a thing of beauty, leaning down, gently kissing companions, joyfully receiving, lips smacking, liquid dripping, maw masticating, hand burning, fierce with cold, silent screaming, eyes open, never closed, seeing, seeing, seeing—

  Struggling against the irresistible, Gwylly squeezed his hand tightly upon the burning cold amulet, his mind shrieking for him to move, yet he could not, for he was frozen in place. Still he fought desperately, striving to focus his mind on what he was seeing, praying for the fiery pain of the frigidly cold blue stone to aid him. Slowly he began to apprehend, and dimly through the ebon darkness he could see the motionless bodies of his companions lying as still as death. But at the well—at the well—he could see a black thing, extending up and out from the well, a thick, segmented, wormlike body, laden with glistening slime, filling the round well shaft—filling the shaft. Gripping the freezing amulet, drawing strength from it, forcing himself to see, Gwylly followed the arc of its shape up and over and down through the murk, the roundness tapering down, flattening, coming to a blunt end, a mouth fastened to Reigo’s still form—and it was feeding. Slime dripped from its bloody maw, horrid sucking sounds filled the air, Reigo’s body like a bag of blood being drained. The sight burned into Gwylly’s mind, and he shouted in terror, but all that came out was a feeble moan. Straining, in small wrenching movements, he managed to turn his head slightly, and saw that next in line for the hideous creature to feed upon was Faeril!

  And even at that moment the creature rose up from Reigo, blood and slime dripping from its red maw. And with sucking, slurking sounds, its glistening orifice opened and closed, and the eyeless head of the creature—nothing more than a hideous, flat, blunt tip—slowly moved back and forth, as if seeking the whereabouts of new prey. And when its ghastly, drooling, sucking mouth pointed toward Faeril, the dreadful questing stopped.

  Shrieking in silent horror, with all of his might, Gwylly tried to leap up, and slowly, ever so slowly, he toppled from the stone, slamming into the ground, the crash jolting him, driving back his enthrallment but
barely. Straight in front of him lay Riatha and Urus, unmoving.

  Driven by desperation, grimly he inched himself forward until he came to the Elfess. Agonizingly, he forced his arm ahead, placing his hand in hers, pressing the frigid amulet into her palm, against her skin. Reaching down deep inside for his last dregs of strength, Gwylly managed to utter words, his voice whispering, croaking, “Riatha. Riatha. Help. It will kill Faeril.”

  And then he knew no more.

  * * *

  Words, like dark stones falling into a black pool…

  Help…help…elp. It will kill Faeril…it will kill…Faeril…Faeril…

  …fell into Riatha’s empty dreams of dread.

  Urgent words:

  Riatha…help…

  Desperate words:

  It will kill…

  Whispered words:

  Help…Riatha, help…

  She struggled…Something cold, frigid…and came awake, remnants echoing in her mind…

  Help…help…elp. It will kill Faeril…it will kill…Faeril…Faeril…

  Who called?

  She did not know. But something icy burned her hand…

  …and this she did know.

  Amulet!

  Danger!

  She could not move.

  She forced her eyes open. She could not see. All was blackness. Impenetrable. In the distance she heard the bellowing of terrified camels, yet at hand was a hideous sucking and slurking and bubbling, and she could smell the iron tang of free-running blood, overpowering all. Yet there was another odor on the air, close and dank, sickening to the senses.

  She closed her hand upon the amulet, gripping it tightly, driving back the thralldom slightly.

  Willing her arm to move, with tiny jerking motions she inched her empty hand downward, fingers extended, straining to reach the sword lying at her side. Sweat beaded on her brow, and she ground her teeth with the effort, all the time sweet blackness sucking at her mind. At last she touched the jade grip and managed to close her fingers ’round, and her very soul wept at what she was about to do, her mother’s voice echoing in her mind—“It has a Truename…it draws strength and energy and life…a terrible price…mortals may lose…years from their span…years…”—yet had she any choice?

  “Dúnami,” she whispered, Truenaming the sword, and suddenly she was filled with a burst of strength, of energy, of life, and could move! And a pale blue light streamed outward from the blade, piercing through the unnatural blackness, and she could see!

  And something shrilled thinly.

  Rolling forward to her feet, Riatha saw the thing, the wyrm, recoiling up and away from Faeril’s body, its oval maw oozing slime and blood, the hideous, segmented black monstrosity shrinking back from the sword’s blue radiance, trying to withdraw, to escape down the well. Yet more than thirty feet of it extended from the circular opening, and it was bloated, engorged, and it struggled to force itself back in.

  Dread hammering through her entire being, “Yaaahhhh!” shrieked Riatha in a wordless yell, running forward, blue flaming sword raised high in a two-handed grip. Shkk! the blade sliced across the hideous thing’s gut, black blood and red gushing out, spilling on the ground, the creature mewling. Shlakk! With a backhanded stroke Riatha drove Dúnamis again through the monster, opening another great gaping wound, blood and tissue and slime pouring forth.

  Shrilling in agony, the monstrosity whipped back into the well, disappearing downward, the blackness collapsing, the stars shining down.

  Pursuing, Riatha ran to the lip of the well and peered inward, the azure glow of Dúnamis shining into the depths of the black hole, revealing only massive streaks of slime and blood down the dark stone throat.

  The thing was gone.

  Stepping back, “Dúnami,” whispered Riatha, Truenaming the sword once more, and its blue radiance vanished, leaving behind the sparkle of dark silveron.

  And as the light disappeared, a massive wave of weakness washed over Riatha, and she fell to her knees, nearly swooning. Struggling, she barely regained her feet, but then she saw Reigo, or what was left of him, and her hand flew to her mouth in horror. She reeled away, sickened, even as tears sprang into her eyes.

  Stumbling, dry retching, she fell to her hands and knees on the ground among the companions, even now some of whom were striving to rise—Urus, Aravan, Halíd—yet failing in their feebleness. Beyond them, Gwylly lay, and right at hand was Faeril, and Riatha’s heart leapt to her throat, for buccan and damman moved not.

  CHAPTER 30

  Kandra

  Autumn, 5E989

  [The Present]

  Struggling, Urus managed to gain his feet, and two steps later he fell to his knees at Riatha’s side. His voice croaked out, “Beloved, are you—”

  “The Waerlinga, Urus,” she gasped, “they move not.”

  Urus crawled to Faeril. A sickening mix of blood and mucous covered the damman. Quickly Urus wiped her face and stripped the Wee One of her slathered cloak and brussa. He could see no wounds, for Riatha had acted before the thing had begun to feed upon Faeril. Urus placed his ear to her breast. “She yet lives, but barely.” The damman drew a shallow breath.

  Aravan had overheard Riatha’s words and had dragged himself to Gwylly. “This one has no breath…but faintly his heart beats still.” Aravan pinched Gwylly’s nose shut and put his mouth to the buccan’s and breathed shallowly into him. He took his mouth away, and watched as the buccan exhaled. Then the Elf gave him another breath, and paused, and another, and paused, and another…

  Clutching Dúnamis in one hand, knuckles white, the blade slick with slime and gore, Riatha crawled toward her belongings, hissing out, “Halíd, the fire. Boil water for tea.”

  “Tea?” rasped Halíd.

  “Adon!” gritted Riatha, crawling on. “Question me not, Halíd! Water for tea!” Halíd floundered impotently, trying to gain his feet, failing. Then he, too, began hitching himself across the sand, canteen in tow, aiming for the fire.

  At her bedding, Riatha loosed Dúnamis from her right grip, and found that she was yet holding Aravan’s blue amulet in her left; the stone was cool to the touch, not icy. How she had managed to retain it and yet take a two-handed grip on the sword, she did not know. Aravan was but an arm’s length away, still aiding Gwylly to breathe, and Riatha held out the amulet to him. The Elf took it and placed it ’round the buccan’s neck, and in that moment Gwylly began breathing on his own.

  Riatha fumbled through her belongings, searching, finding, withdrawing a small packet. “Gwynthyme?” asked Aravan. The Elfess nodded, and she managed to gain her feet and totter toward Halíd, the Man now at the campblaze, a copper pot of water set on the stubby tripod above the burning scrub.

  Halíd had levered himself into a sitting position, and he was rocking and moaning and staring toward what remained of Reigo, the Realmsman’s body no longer resembling that of a Man, but rather that of a flaccid, emptied skin, covered with slime and blood and drained.

  Riatha slumped down in the sand beside Halíd. “Halíd, don’t look. Reigo would not wish thee to look at him the way he is.”

  But Halíd could not look away. “I heard you shout a Warcry. I saw the blue light pressing back the murk. I saw the…the thing. I could not move…I could not move!…I could not move! And now Reigo is dead!”

  “Halíd, look at me. Look at me!” Slowly Halíd turned his face toward the Elfess. She reached out and put a hand on his arm and stilled his rocking. “There was nought thou could do, Halíd. The thing in the well entranced us all. I deem Gwylly managed to put the amulet in my hand. Even then—hear me, Halíd!—even then it was too late, for Reigo was by then dead. Without the power of…my sword…we would all have perished.”

  Halíd stared in noncomprehension at her, anguish filling his eyes.

  The water began to boil. Riatha took the copper vessel from the tripod and set it in the sand. She extracted six of the small golden leaves from the packet and carefully crumbled them in the water a
nd slowly swirled it, steeping the resulting tea. A minty fragrance filled the air, driving back somewhat the dank odor overlying the campsite.

  Rummaging through the cooking gear, she filled a small cup and handed it to Halíd. “Here, drink this. Drink it! Slow sips, Halíd.”

  Her strength returning, the Elfess stood and stepped to Urus. Two more cups she filled. “One for Faeril and one for thee, beloved.”

  Urus glanced up at her, a strange puzzlement in his eyes. “Riatha, look at the Waldan. Look at her.”

  Urus had stripped Faeril of the remaining soiled clothing and had washed her clean of mucous and blood and had wrapped her in a blanket. Kneeling, Riatha peered closely at the Wee One and drew in a shuddering breath. The damman’s turban had been removed, and underneath, Faeril’s raven black hair had a narrow silver streak running through it, extending from the right brow over the back and down the full length of her mane.

  In Riatha’s mind whispered her mother’s voice. “…If thy need is great, Dúnamis will draw life itself…”

  A great hollowness filled Riatha’s chest, clutching at her thudding heart. But she shoved aside the feeling, for her comrades were in need. “Give her the tea. Small sips over time. And likewise drink thine own, Urus.” She looked closely at her beloved, yet she saw no apparent change in his grizzle-tipped hair.

  As she gave Aravan two cups of gwynthyme tea, she examined both Elf and Waerling. There seemed to be no effect upon Aravan, but beneath Gwylly’s turban the buccan’s red hair had gone grey at the temples.

  Back at the campfire she unwound Halíd’s turban; his black hair was now shot through with strands of grey.

  “…Dúnamis will draw life itself…

  Riatha buried her face in her hands. Adon, am I no better than the wyrm of the well?

  * * *

  The gwynthyme tea restored them somewhat, and Faeril and Gwylly slipped into a natural sleep. As soon as they could, Riatha, Urus, Aravan, and Halíd moved the campsite far from the well, Urus and Aravan gently bearing the sleeping Waerlinga out to the new site. When they had relocated all their goods, Urus returned to the well and enwrapped Reigo’s remains in a blanket. With the coming of the dawn they would hold a ceremony, cremating what little was left of their companion. Aravan and Halíd walked out into the basin to find the camels, for the beasts had panicked, yet hobbled as they were, they could not have gotten far, and the Elf and Man went to retrieve them.