“The wall surrounding is fifteen or twenty feet high, and it runs nigh twice the length and width of the mosque, say six or seven hundred by five.
“The minaret looks to be the same height as the mosque, a hundred feet or so. And see the two balconies evenly spaced up its sides, along with the one at the top ‘neath the archways holding the cupola?
“Behind the mosque, inside the wall are three—”
“Hsst!” hissed Faeril, her voice tight with tension. “I saw movement in the yard: the far left corner.”
Gwylly’s heart hammered.
In the shadows beyond three large outbuildings along the back wall, there was a stir of motion.
“’Tis a horse,” said Riatha at last. “A paddock and stable are there.”
“Probably for food,” rumbled Urus. “Rutcha eat horses.”
The last of the Sun dipped below the horizon, the building now in dusk. Aravan rushed to complete his description, for in this part of the world, darkness came swiftly upon the heels of twilight. “The plateau on which all sits is small, its sides steep, the mountain behind formidable.
“See, too, that the gulch swings nigh, and a twisting road leads up to the front gate, the only way that we can take our steeds.”
“Are we taking the horses?” asked Gwylly.
Faeril nodded. “We should, for we may need swift transport—to pursue…or to flee.”
Aravan laughed. “Aye, wee one, fight or flight.”
Urus growled. “I do not intend to flee.”
“Nor I,” added Riatha.
Even as they looked on, night fell and stars winked into being. Somewhere beyond the mountains to the east a full Moon rose, its pale beams glancing through the high cols above.
“Well, Aravan,” commented Faeril, “except for the minaret and the onion-shaped dome, why, this could be a fortress.”
“Likely it is, wee one,” responded the Elf. “A fortress, that is. Heed, as the Prophet Shat’weh’s temples of worship were being built, oft they were attacked by the believers of the old ways, Gyphon’s followers. And if this mosque was made in that time, then as with others I have seen, the walls will be thick, the windows barred, shuttered within, and the gates and doors difficult to breach. The outer wall will have banquettes for warriors to stand on, and arrow slits to fire on the foe. And the passages will have murder holes to rain death from above.”
“Huh,” grunted Gwylly. “Look, if you ask me, it’s not much of a place of worship, not much of a holy place, if it was built to kill others.”
Aravan clapped a hand on Gwylly’s shoulder. “That, lad, I do not deny.”
Faeril interlaced her fingers in Gwylly’s, then turned again to Aravan. “How is it likely to be arranged on the inside?”
Aravan gazed back down at the starlit enclave. “The main hall of worship will be under the dome. Cloisters to the sides. Living quarters on the outer walls and in the back.”
“Perhaps chambers below,” added Riatha, “basements and sub basements.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Gwylly. “Like the monastery above the glacier. Almost all of their quarters were below ground.”
“Aye,” answered Riatha. “Mayhap.”
“Look!” hissed Urus.
Below, a broad shaft of yellow illuminated the forecourt, as if the monastery doors had been thrown wide and light shone out. But where the comrades were ensconced, they could not see the front of the building, only the northern side and rear. That the doors had been opened became apparent, for out into the courtyard marched a squad of torch-bearing Rūcks, a Hlōk overseer at their side.
His heart pounding in his breast, Gwylly squeezed Faeril’s hand to reassure her, and she did the same.
Aravan whispered, “If we did not know for certain that Stoke was below, I suspect that we do know it now.”
While some of the Spawn readied to withdraw a great bar from the front gate, others swarmed up the ramps to the walls to stand guard, the Hlōk among them.
In the still mountain air, sound drifted up to the crags, unintelligible murmurings for the most part. Yet when words did sound clear, still they could not be understood by the five, for the foe was speaking Slûk.
“I see no Vulgs,” said Gwylly.
“Let us hope there are none,” replied Riatha. “There is precious little gwynthyme left.”
Urus shifted his stance. “If I know Stoke, he will have Vulgs about. Thrice have we met him—four times if you count the bolt-hole nigh the glacier—and each time he has had Rutcha and Drōkha and Vulgs in his train.”
“And now, mayhap a Ghûlk and Hèlsteed,” added Aravan. “Mayhap more than one.”
“Beheading, wood through the heart, silver blade, fire, dismemberment,” recited Gwylly, “those are the ways to kill a Ghûlk, but what about a Hèlsteed?”
“Like a horse but not a horse,” responded Aravan, “they are most dangerous. They have a hairless hide, tough as boiled leather, hard to cut. Too, they are savage, and their cloven hooves deadly. Their bite, if it does not kill outright, still may kill days later. Not poison, yet lethal if not cleansed.”
“I have heard some say that their snakelike tail cuts as would a whip,” added Riatha, “though others say ’tis but a rumor.”
“Whip or not, get ye from behind them,” said Aravan, “for their kick is nigh fatal.”
“Yes,” agreed Gwylly. “But how do you kill them?”
“From a distance, if possible,” answered Urus, “spears, arrows, slings, quarrels. Even traps—deadfalls, pits, and the like. Up close, any weapon will do, must do, if you can avoid being slain by the beast first.”
“Sounds worse than a Ghûlk,” replied Gwylly.
“Nay, Gwylly,” answered Aravan. “A Hèlsteed is merely savage and has not the cunning of a Ghûlk.”
They fell silent for a while, watching the Foul Folk—setting up torches to ring the walls, opening wide the gates, as if expecting visitors.
“I wonder,” murmured Faeril, “what other foe might await us down in the mosque below.”
“Well,” said Gwylly, “about the only thing we haven’t named are Krakens and Ogrus and Dragons.”
“There are other vilenesses that could await,” said Aravan. “Things worse than Rucha, Loka, Ghûlka, and Trolls.”
“Gargons,” suggested Gwylly.
Both Aravan and Riatha sucked air in through clenched teeth, and Aravan said, “Gargoni, aye, they would be worse. Other things as well…yet I think none of these are likely to be in Stoke’s sway.”
“Unlikely, aye,” agreed Riatha, “yet not beyond the realm of possibility. Recall though, as it is with all Spaunen, daylight will kill each and every one.”
“But first,” rumbled Urus, “you must lure them into the light of day.”
A band of torch-bearing Rūcks marched out through the front gate, disappearing from sight on the far side of the wall. Behind them, the Rūcken warders swung the gates shut once more, sliding the drawbar back across. Beyond the fortress the marching squad came into view again, tramping down the road toward the gulch.
“Mayhap they go to patrol the canyon,” said Aravan.
“Or to relieve the guard at the way station,” added Faeril, “that is, if there is indeed a Rūckish bolt-hole somewhere along the ravine.”
The squad marched into the gulch, turning northerly, and even though the band could not be seen down in the gully, still the five could follow their progress by the flickering glow seeping upward from their burning brands.
Finally, Urus turned to Aravan. “Alert me if anything untoward happens. I am going to care for the steeds.”
“I suggest that we all return to the horses,” said Riatha, “all but the one on watch. We need be rested for the morrow and cannot do so if we all of us stand ward together throughout the entire night.”
Faeril said softly to Aravan, “I’ll bring you water and crue.”
Leaving the Elf behind, the other four slipped back and away from the ridge, foll
owing the twisting corridors among the adamant crags until they once more came to where the horses stood.
* * *
A full Moon sailing overhead, the blue stone amulet about his neck, Gwylly sat watching the mosque below. The buccan had not been able to sleep, his mind and heart seething with tomorrow’s possibilities. And now he sat on guard duty, peering down at the torch-lit fortress afar, wondering what the morrow would bring.
Rūcks patrolled the high stone walls, making rounds, and occasionally indistinct voices would drift up to Gwylly from below.
The blue stone was chill but not frigid, yet when a pebble rattled behind, Gwylly jumped as if arrow shot, whirling about to face…Faeril coming through the crags.
“Oh!” hissed Gwylly. “You gave me a start, dammia.”
“I couldn’t sleep, Gwylly. Too many…possibilities.”
“Hah! I know what you mean, love. All night my brain’s been churning with what if’s and could be’s and I don’t know’s.”
Faeril sat down beside Gwylly and took his hand in hers. “I keep thinking that the odds against us are so very great. I mean, there are just five of us, and who-knows-how-many of them…or even what kind? And there they are, holed up in that fortress below, Stoke’s strongholt, and we don’t know the arrangements of rooms, where he is within, or what traps he might have set for the unwary, or—”
“Oh, Faeril, those are the very same things I’ve been fretting over.”
Faeril caressed his fingers. “They say that this is the calm before the storm, this time of waiting, yet I am anything but calm.”
Gwylly put his arm about her shoulders, and they sat in silence and watched the mosque below. Still the Rūcks and such stood on the walls and scanned the land about, while the fulgent Moon crept up to the zenith.
Gwylly reached up and stroked Faeril’s hair, her silver lock shining in the bright moonlight. The buccan smiled. “Riatha said to cover all things from which stray glints might gleam, and your silver tress—”
Faeril gasped, her hand flying to her hair. “Oh, Gwylly, do you think?…I had forgotten.”
Gwylly pulled her to him and gave her a quick kiss. “No, love. I was just teasing. I don’t believe—”
“I’d better cover it anyway,” interjected Faeril, slipping her cloak hood over her head. “I wouldn’t want to betray us.”
Mid of night came, the Moon straight above. “Well, my buccaran, now it is I who ward and you who should go back and get some rest.” Faeril held out her hand.
Gwylly took the blue stone from around his neck and handed it to the damman. “Here’s your badge of office, love. But as for me getting some rest, I think instead I’ll sit here with you awhile.”
Taking comfort in each other’s company, they sat and held hands in silence, watching.
A time passed, but then Faeril pointed. “Look, Gwylly, at the canyon. There.”
Following her outstretched arm, Gwylly saw a wide band of reflected torch-light gleaming from the far lip of the steep-walled gulch. Slowly it moved toward the opening where lay the road to the front gate. And riding through came a Ghûl on Hèlsteed, accompanied by a torch-bearing Rūck on foot, and after came a file of prisoners, shackled to a long chain and flanked by Foul Folk bearing burning brands.
As Gwylly’s heart hammered in his breast, Faeril gripped her buccaran’s hand, tears brimming in her eyes. “Oh, Gwylly, they’re bringing victims for Stoke.”
“Yes, love. Men, I would say, though from here it is hard to tell.”
Behind the chain of prisoners, skitting and shying, now came saddled horses and cargo-bearing camels, herded by a pack of Vulgs, the horses and camels near panic from the stench of Hèlsteed but more frightened of the black Wolflike creatures running at their sides.
“Lor!” exclaimed Gwylly. “They do have Vulgs!”
“And a Ghûl and Hèlsteed, too,” added Faeril.
A horn blat sounded on the still air, and as Rūcks inside ran to open the gates, raucous cheers drifted up from the walls.
“They’ve captured a caravan,” said Faeril, wiping her eyes. “Quick, we must count what we see.”
Carefully, Faeril talking, Gwylly grunting his assent, they numbered foe and prisoner alike. “One Ghûl; one Hèlsteed; one, two, three…fourteen prisoners; seven Vulgs; nine Rūcks; three horses; eighteen camels; seven Rūcks on the walls; and—”
Suddenly Faeril fell silent. Then she hissed, “The minaret, Gwylly. Someone in the shadows.”
Gwylly’s gaze flew to the top of the spire. In the darkness within the crowning pavilion, a vague form could be seen, silhouetted by the torch-light beyond. But then in an ebon swirl, the figure disappeared.
“Stoke, do you believe?” whispered Gwylly, his heart racing again.
Faeril nodded, her lips drawn thin. “Yes…. Maybe we should waken the others.”
Gwylly shook his head. “I would say not, love, for there is little we can do tonight. The fact that we may have seen Stoke changes nothing.”
“Right,” agreed Faeril. “Besides, if our companions sleep, rest is what’s wanted, not more worry.”
As the prisoners were driven through the gate and into the mosque, the horses and camels were herded ’round back to the paddock and shut within, the Rūcks began unlading the cargo from the camels and bearing it into the nearest outbuilding.
The Ghûl then rode the Hèlsteed through the sidecourt and to the cornermost outbuilding along the back wall, a Rūck opening the door, the Ghûl dismounting and leading the ‘Steed inside.
Once again the front gates were closed.
A short time later, again the gates were opened and a squad marched out. Down the road and into the gully they went, their torch-light heading northward. “I counted twelve,” whispered Gwylly. “Off to join the others, I suppose.”
“No Vulgs went with them,” said Faeril. “They are still inside the mosque.”
Eventually, the Ghûl walked back through the sidecourt and entered the main building.
Another hour passed, the Moon slowly arcing across the sky, the vault of stars wheeling westward as well. Finally, Riatha came through the shadows to join them. “Gwylly, thou shouldst be resting, sleeping, not sitting watch with Faeril.”
“I know, Riatha, but I couldn’t sleep,” said Gwylly, shrugging.
Faeril took the blue stone from her neck, handing it to the Elfess. “Riatha, we saw Stoke, we think. In the minaret. He watched as prisoners were brought to him. Men. A caravan, or so it would seem. Horses and camels, too.”
Riatha glanced down at the distant mosque. “Was that what the horn announced?”
“You heard that, did you?” asked Gwylly. “You are not sleeping either, neh?”
Riatha smiled. “None are, I deem. Resting, aye; sleeping, nay.”
The Elfess turned to Faeril. “How many prisoners? How many foe?”
“Fourteen prisoners; three horses; eighteen camels; one Ghûl; one Hèlsteed; seven Vulgs; nine Rūcks in the escort; seven Rūcks on the walls.”
Gwylly added, “And afterward, twelve Rūcks marched down into the gully, heading north…like the others, going on patrol or to a hideaway somewhere.”
“The Hèlsteed is stabled in the northernmost back building,” said Faeril, “but as far as we know, the Vulgs are inside the mosque; none went with the patrol.”
Riatha gazed at the mosque, a resigned look on her face. “I expected Vulgs to be within, for therein dwells a Vulgmaster.”
The Elfess turned to the Waerlinga. “Go now. Rest. The morrow will come soon enough without our wakeful urging.”
Faeril leading, Gwylly following, back through the stone corridors they went, back to their fireless campsite. The horses stood dozing there among the crags. To one side, Aravan appeared to be resting in the Elven state of meditation, sitting against an upthrust rock, his spear across his lap, his eyes glittering in the moonlight. Urus, too, sat leaning against a crag, his eyes closed.
Gwylly and Faeril spread o
ut their blankets and snuggled down together, trying to get comfortable on the stony ground, and neither thought that sleep would ever come…
…But moments later, it seemed, Riatha gently wakened them.
Dawn was pale in the sky beyond the eastern mountains.
* * *
They watered the horses and fed them grain, and then took a quick meal of their own. Gwylly, his heart thudding, picked at his crue biscuit until Urus said, “Gwylly, on a campaign or when readying for battle, heed the warrior’s creed: ‘Eat at opportunity, for you know not when you will feed again.’”
The buccan took a large bite of the waybread, chewing without appetite, consuming it nevertheless.
“Are the Vulgs still inside?” asked Faeril.
“None left during my watch or Urus’s,” replied Riatha. “None came from the canyon either. And now the gates are shut and barred.”
Gwylly swallowed. “So the mosque is still filled with Foul Folk: Rūcks, Hlōks, Vulgs, and a Ghûl.”
The buccan took another bite of his crue. “And a Hèlsteed out back.”
“Aye,” replied Riatha. “Yet heed: Our task is to get in, find Stoke, slay him, and get back out. We are not on a mission to kill Foul Folk. And so, stealth and cunning is called for, and not the slaughter of Spaunen.
“They will disband soon enough when their master is dead.”
Aravan looked up. “If Stoke is the one I seek, the Man with the yellow eyes, then there is the matter of the Dawn Sword. It may be hidden within the mosque, and if so, I would recover it.”
“I will aid you in that event,” rumbled Urus.
Aravan looked at the others, and each nodded. “We need sail that sea only if we find ourselves on its shore,” said the Elf.
“What about the prisoners?” asked Faeril. “We can’t just leave them caged.”
Urus grunted. “If captives yet live, we will free them. But I do not hold hope that any survive.”
“Beyond the mountains the Sun now lips the unseen horizon,” said Riatha. “Let us go.”
They led the horses out from the crags and down the slopes till they came to where they could safely ride. Mounting up, Gwylly before Riatha, Faeril before Aravan, they headed for the point where the road came up out of the gully, for the road was the only way to reach the surface of the steep-sided plateau by horse.
The Eye of the Hunter Page 55