The Eye of the Hunter

by Dennis L McKiernan

  The remaining Spawn wrenched back, fear standing in their eyes.

  Riatha now saw Urus’s body, the Ogru looming above. “Urus!” she screamed, starting forward, but Aravan barred her way, clutching her, holding her back.

  “There is nought thou canst do, Dara!” his voice cracked out sharply. “We are too late.”

  “Urus!” she cried again, struggling to break free.

  “No, Dara,” grated Aravan. “Instead we must heed Urus’s last words and get to a place of safety.”

  The Elfess shook her head to clear her tears, her gaze shifting from Urus’s body to the Ogru pawing the lifeless form. “Not until I kill the Troll,” snarled Riatha, gripping Dúnamis, trying to push past Aravan…but he yielded not.

  “The Waerlinga, Dara, the Waerlinga. Now is the time to protect the living and not to avenge the dead.”

  Riatha looked at Faeril above Gwylly, the buccan just now floundering to his feet, then at Urus and the Troll.

  Behind shrieked a screech of metal, and Riatha turned in time to see a portcullis crash down Blang! over the door they had entered.

  And still a Rûptish horn blatted an alarm.

  As Gwylly shook off the last of the stunning, “The front entrance,” gritted Riatha.

  Even as she spoke, the Troll turned from Urus and started toward the four, Rūcks and Hlōks howling in glee.

  Whirling in their tracks, toward the gaping arch in the front wall they ran, racing for their very lives, and above the yowling of the Spawn and the blaring of the horn, they could hear the thunderous tread of the Ogru hammering across the chamber at their heels, the Rūcks and such coming after.

  Ahead of the Troll they dashed through the archway, coming into a vestibule some twenty-five feet wide and fifty feet long. Somewhere in the shadows ahead lay the door, but there, too, was a portcullis, down and locked, butted against the outer door, the portcullis clamping the crossbar in place.

  “No!” shrilled Gwylly when he saw the barrier, the buccan turning to look for the winch and lock, as Aravan and Riatha whirled about to meet the charge of the Troll, the monster just now stooping to enter the vestibule, Rūcks and Hlōks in his wake.

  Gwylly’s gaze darted left and right; there was no winch, no side doors either. Overhead, he saw machicolations—slots above—murder holes through which to rain destruction down upon invading foe. Over the archway back into the main chamber was a long slot, and the fangs of a raised portcullis could be seen, the vestibule a death trap for any who entered.

  A death trap they had entered.

  But death did not pour down from above. Instead it took the form of a great Ogru, flanked on either side by leering Rūcks and Hlōks.

  Desperately, Gwylly spun about and began hammering on one of the iron shutters covering an arrow slit.

  The Ogru struck at Aravan, the Elf ducking under the blow as Riatha sprang forward and slashed Dúnamis against the Troll’s flank, but the starsilver sword merely glanced from the Ogru’s hide. The monster roared and backhandedly slapped the Elfess aside, smashing her into the vestibule wall, Dúnamis lost to her grasp, skittering across the stone.

  A Hlōk leaped toward the fallen Elfess, but Faeril hurled a steel knife, felling the Rûpt, the other Spawn recoiling.

  Aravan stepped under the Troll’s grasp, thrusting Krystallopŷr up and in, the burning blade piercing deep into the Ogru’s abdomen, the monster yawling. With a wrenching motion Aravan drove the blade sideways, the crystal yet deep inside the creature’s gut. Wide flew the Troll’s eyes as Aravan thrust upwards, stabbing deeper, Krystallopŷr bursting through the monster’s heart, the Troll staggering backwards, Aravan jerking the spear free, the crystal blade blazing. Several steps the Ogru reeled hindward, black blood spilling out onto the stone, rock sizzling and popping where the ichor fell, dark smoke rising. And then the monster crashed dead to the stone floor.

  And in the archway beyond stood a Man.

  With yellow eyes.

  Stoke.

  And snarling Vulgs stood at his side.

  “Balak!” he shouted, and with a shrieking of iron the inner portcullis thundered down Clang! plummeting into the sockets in the floor, a sharp Clack! sounding as somewhere above a bolt shot home, locking the grille in place.

  “Gluktu glush!” he commanded, and the Rūcks and Hlōks within the vestibule surged forward.

  And in that same moment Gwylly finally got the latch on the shutter free. “Take this, you skuts!” he shouted, the buccan wrenching the hinged cover aside, the panel screeching open, daylight streaming in through the narrow slot.

  The Spawn caught directly in the light only had time to look up in horror as they collapsed and crumbled to dust. Those to the side turned to flee, but instead fell shrieking, and they withered and shrivelled, their limbs twisting grotesquely, their ribs collapsing, chests falling inward, their screams chopped short as if by a blade. The body of the slain Troll crumbled to dust, a massive skeleton momentarily appearing, and then the ligaments and cartilage in the joints crumbled, and the heavy bones separated from one another and clattered to the stone. From above, shrill cries pierced downward through the machicolations, along with a grim tattoo of creatures thrashing in agony, and then nought but ash sifted downward.

  And beyond the portcullis, as the Vulgs collapsed, Stoke howled in agony and jerked back and aside, a hurtling silver knife flashing past, grazing his ear, blood flying, the blade clanging to the floor in the darkness far beyond as Stoke disappeared in the shadows.

  And silence fell, grim and complete.

  Faeril turned to Gwylly to see that he was all right. Then she knelt at Riatha’s side, placing her ear to the Elfess’s breast. As she did so, Riatha stirred, and Faeril began chafing the Elfess’s hand, calling out, “Riatha. Riatha.”

  Aravan stepped past the Troll bones and knelt beside Faeril and swiftly examined the Elfess. “She is but stunned and even now recovers.”

  Gwylly came and stroked Faeril’s hair. The damman looked up at him. “I threw and I missed,” she said, “missed Stoke. And he escaped.”

  “Stoke was here?” blurted Gwylly. “I didn’t see him. That shutter…I almost didn’t get it open.”

  “But thou didst, Gwylly,” said Aravan, smiling, “saving us all, I deem.”

  Tears trickled down Riatha’s cheeks, the Elfess weeping even as she regained consciousness, murmuring, “Chieran. Avó, chieran.”

  Tears sprang to Faeril’s and Gwylly’s eyes, and Aravan stood and walked to the barway. After a moment he said, “We must find a way out of this trap.”

  Gwylly, wiping his eyes, stepped to the inner portcullis beside the Elf, and they both looked back into the main hall of the mosque. Beyond the reach of the daylight streaming in through the open shutter, one of Faeril’s silver daggers lay in the shadows on the floor, its blade glittering in the torch-light from the altar. Against the far wall lay Urus’s lifeless body. Swiftly Gwylly looked away, for he knew that now was not the time to grieve.

  The buccan cleared his throat and attempted to swallow his sorrow, yet his voice broke as through brimming eyes he examined the grate before them. Wiping his tears on his sleeve, he said, “Mayhap we can bend these bars as we did the others. We will need a lever, though.”

  The buccan turned, his sight flying to the Troll bones. “Perhaps the thighbone…” He stepped to the femur and tried to heft it—“Oof!”—the bone nearly four feet long. Yet its weight was more than the Warrow could lift, though he did get one end up off the floor somewhat. “Lor, but this is heavy.”

  “Troll bones and Dragonhide,” said Aravan, stepping to Gwylly’s side. “Mayhap it is because they are so solid that they are impervious to Adon’s Ban.” Aravan lifted the thighbone, grunting with the effort, bearing it to the portcullis, where he dropped it thudding to the stone floor.

  Riatha stood and wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. Faeril retrieved the starsilver sword and gave it over to the Elfess, Riatha sheathing it in the shoulder ha
rness.

  Together, damman and Elfess stepped to the portcullis, Riatha’s bleak gaze drawn to Urus’s crumpled form lying in the shadows afar.

  “Dara, we will mourn later,” said Aravan, his voice gentle. “Now we must strive to escape this trap, for we must do so ere the Sun goes down.”

  Unable to speak, the Elfess nodded.

  “I deem the lock and winch somewhere above,” said Aravan, looking at the machicolations overhead. “Can we find the way up, then we can raise not only this portcullis but the one barring the outer door as well.”

  Gwylly stepped to the femur. “Then let us get to it.”

  “The bone, it may not be a long enough lever, Gwylly,” said Aravan, “yet we will try.”

  “How can we help?” asked Faeril. “I mean, Gwylly and I. If you put it up where the bars are easiest to bend, then we cannot reach it. And you will need our strength, for Urus is not—” Faeril’s words chopped off.

  No one said aught for a moment, but then Aravan spoke: “First Riatha and I will try. If we cannot warp the bars, then we will loop a rope about the lever and through the bars and back for ye to hale upon.”

  “Hsst!” hissed Riatha. “Someone moves above.”

  They heard the scrape of footsteps overhead, and a rolling sound as of a glass bottle. Suddenly, down through a murder hole a glittering sphere dropped, shattering on the floor. Bilious green fumes whooshed forth.

  “Hold thy breath!” shouted Riatha. “’Tis gas!”

  Gwylly gasped in a great breath and pressed his mouth shut. Another sphere plummeted into the vestibule and shattered, and more yellowish-green vapor billowed forth.

  Aravan gestured to Gwylly and Faeril and Riatha, and they lay on the floor with their faces at the portcullis, where the way was open to the large chamber beyond.

  Behind them, more glass spheres dropped through and shattered.

  Gwylly could now see the sickly vapors drifting past, them and into the altar room. And he gripped Faeril’s hand and held his breath, clamping his lips tightly, his lungs screaming to breathe, his abdomen heaving, his body desperate for air, blackness swirling at the edges of his vision, sucking at his consciousness. No! his mind screamed. I will not breathe!…

  …And yet in the end he could do nought else, and with great gasps he drew in the yellow-green fumes and his mind spun down into the boundless dark.

  CHAPTER 40

  Vengeance

  Early 5E990

  [The Present]

  Faeril stood in a graveyard, in a slaughter house, in a charnel house, and watched as Lord Death, as a butcher, as Baron Stoke, swung his deadly scythe, sledged cattle, slaughtered Humans, Elves, Dwarves, Warrows. Rūcks stood back and jeered, blood slathering down their arms as they plunged their grasping hands into the carcasses of slain horses, rending and wrenching free dangling gobbets of raw meat, gore oozing. Flies buzzed incessantly and a ghastly stench of death hung over all. Somewhere high above, there where the light dimly glowed, she could hear Gwylly calling her name.

  Moaning in dread and lunging against the shackles, slowly Faeril struggled up through the ebon shadows and toward the light, dragging great, long chains behind, horrible images in the darkness all about—blood flying, bones breaking, intestines spilling, some images hideous beyond description, the mind refusing to comprehend what the eyes had seen—the damman struggling toward her buccaran’s voice as Gwylly called…and called…and called…

  Even as Faeril regained consciousness, she could hear herself groaning in terror, the nightmare clinging. A foul, putrid smell overlay the air. And she opened her eyes to find herself lying on a stone floor of a dimly lit chamber. She could hear Gwylly calling from behind, and she rolled over to see the buccan kneeling a short distance away. And now she saw that he was fettered, iron cuffs about his wrists, chains anchored in the stone wall.

  Faeril groaned and sat up, her vision swimming with the mere effort, and found her own wrists ironbound, rattling links connecting her to heavy studs embedded in rock.

  A look of relief mingled with anxiety washed over Gwylly’s face. “Oh, love, are you all right?”

  Faeril took a deep breath and shook her head, trying to clear it of the dizziness, trying as well to clear it of the remnants of the horrid dream. “I’m a bit lightheaded. Gwylly.”

  “That’ll pass, love. The green gas, you know…. You have the right of it: deep breaths help. Through your mouth, though.”

  Faeril breathed in and out several times. “Where are we? And where are—” Her words chopped off, for beyond Gwylly and shackled as well lay Aravan and Riatha, Elf and Elfess unconscious. “Are they all right, Gwylly?”

  “They are breathing, love. And I’ve seen them move.”

  Gwylly lifted a hand and gestured outward away from the wall. “As to where we are…well, my dammia, some kind of Hèlhole, I would say.”

  Faeril looked into the gloom and recoiled, a moan escaping from her lips. Corpses were strewn throughout the darkness—grinning jaws agape, sightless eyes staring, their flesh a horrid dark red, as of dried blood all over….

  …And then Faeril saw that they had been flayed.

  And impaled.

  Split from crotch to navel, abdomens burst open, entrails spilling out.

  I am still trapped in my nightmare!

  But no nightmare this; instead it was horribly real.

  Faeril covered her face with her hands, but still she could see the images. And smell the putrescent stench.

  “Oh, Gwylly…”

  Gwylly’s voice came softly. “I know, love. I know.”

  Not looking at the dead, Faeril crawled to the limit of her chains toward her buccaran, haling up short. “They’re not long enough for prisoners to reach one another,” said Gwylly.

  Faeril examined the fetters and links. Made of iron, the shackles were key locked, and they gripped snugly about the wrists. The chains themselves were perhaps five feet long, anchored in the wall some three feet up from the floor.

  For long moments Faeril sat gathering her nerve, bracing herself for what she knew had to come next. All right, my dammsel dear, you can’t plan an escape if you don’t look to see what’s here. Faeril gritted her teeth and stood and forced her gaze out into the shadowed chamber, her sight sliding over the decaying corpses.

  The room was illuminated by a small chain-hung oil lamp in chamber center, but it cast enough light for her to see that the huge room itself was virtually square, some sixty feet or so to a side and perhaps sixteen feet to the ceiling, from which hung other oil lamps, unlit. Centered about the middle of the room, four stone pillars stood at the corners of a twenty-foot square, supporting a structure of heavy beams crisscrossing overhead.

  Beside each pillar sat a long, narrow table, and with a sinking heart Faeril could see that each was bloodstained and fitted with straps for holding prisoners down.

  Beneath the lamp sat another table on which were tools, implements, and except for the tongs and thin-bladed knives, Faeril could not identify any.

  In mid-room as well, chains and shackles hung down from the overhead beams, the dangling fetters some eight feet above the floor.

  Against a far wall, what Faeril had first taken for a corpse in the shadows instead were saddlebags and bedrolls and their weaponry, all heaped in a pile. Faeril’s heart clenched at the sight of Urus’s morning star, but she shook her head—I will grieve later—and wrested her thoughts back to the task at hand.

  Located at the midpoints of the walls were shadowed wooden doorways, closed. And except for where each door stood, manacles and chains were studded at regular intervals around the room, enough to hold sixteen prisoners in all, four along each flank, two on either side of a door.

  Faeril and Gwylly were anchored next to one another, Faeril closest to a doorway, Gwylly between her and the nearest corner. Riatha lay ’round the corner adjacent to Gwylly, and Aravan beyond the Elfess.

  As Faeril’s gaze lingered on her companions, Riatha stirred
and opened her eyes, the Elfess breathing deeply, trying to rid herself of the dregs of the gas.

  And while Riatha slowly recovered, Faeril continued her survey of their prison, now forcing herself to look at the dead, glancing swiftly from one to another. Thank Adon, Urus is not among them.

  Again she looked at the corpses, the bodies splayed, arms and legs akimbo. Stripped of clothing, all were armed as if for battle, and some wore helms or vambraces or greaves the metal strapped against raw meat and bones of head or arms or legs. Some of the slain were obviously long dead, while others seemed freshly slaughtered. All had been flayed and impaled. Faeril counted: nine rotting, their flesh decomposed, sloughing away; fourteen newly killed, butchered like cattle, not yet falling into decay. Nine old victims. Fourteen new. Now where—? Faeril gasped, realizing, The fourteen caravan prisoners: Stoke has murdered them all! Faeril wrenched her eyes away, unable to look upon this butchery any longer.

  Riatha now sat with her back to the wall, her silver gaze taking in the chamber and its horrid occupants.

  Aravan began to stir.

  * * *

  Faeril searched throughout her clothing, looking for anything that might be used as a picklock, though she had no skill in such. “Nothing,” she said at last, glancing up at Aravan.

  The Elf looked at Gwylly. The buccan shook his head, No. Aravan turned to Riatha, the Elfess gazing across the room at Urus’s morning star. She, too, shook her head, No. “I thought not,” said Aravan. “They have stripped us of all that could do so.”

  Gwylly slumped back down, then looked up. “Have you your amulet, Aravan?”

  Aravan nodded. “Aye, and it is chill. Like as not Stoke’s lackeys fear it, will not touch it unless driven so.”

  The Elf turned and braced his feet against the wall and took up the slack in the right-hand chain. Not for the first time, he strained to break a link or pull the stud from the stone—to no avail.