“Some pickle, neh?” said Gwylly.
“Wha—what, Gwylly?” asked Faeril. “I didn’t hear you.”
“I said, it’s some pickle we’ve gotten ourselves into this time, is it not so?”
The damman looked at her buccaran. “And one we are not likely to get out of alive either.”
Though they could not touch, Gwylly held his hand out to her. “Ah, love, we yet breathe. And where there’s life…what I mean is, we must be ready to seize any chance to get free. If even one of us survives, then there’s still a possibility we can bring down Stoke—and speaking of Stoke, he may already be dead, killed by daylight.”
Riatha shook her head. “Nay, Gwylly, I think he survived the light of the Sun. The glass spheres that dropped through the murder holes, Stoke used such once before.”
“I know,” responded the buccan. “I read it in the journal of the Firstborns.”
“What is the hour, I wonder?” asked Faeril.
“Nearing sunset,” answered Aravan, his Elven gift unimpaired by his imprisonment.
Faeril’s heart thudded in her breast at Aravan’s words. “I expect that we will soon know, then, whether or not Stoke yet lives.”
* * *
It was nigh mid of night when the clack of bolts being shot and the clatter of key in lock and the clank of a bar being set aside announced the arrival of Baron Stoke.
The door swung open and in he came, accompanied by an escort of a half-dozen dusky Hlōks bearing cudgels and tulwars, the long curved blades glinting red in the lantern light. And in the shadows behind Baron Stoke came a Ghûl. Too, inward scurried two Rūcks, the swart Rûpt scuttling about the chamber to light oil lamps, driving back the shadows.
And Stoke bore with him a long golden stake, triangular steel blades glittering down its length.
Stoke paused a moment at the table containing the devices, as if to assure himself that all were present. Pallid he was and tall, with black hair and hands long and slender. His face was long and narrow, his nose straight and thin, his white cheeks unbearded. Dark humor played at the corners of his mouth, and when he smiled, long teeth gleamed, the canines sharp. He appeared to be in his thirties, though his actual age was nearer sixteen hundred years, a thousand of which he had spent trapped in a glacier. And then he looked up at his captives; his eyes were a pale amber—yellow, some would say.
Faeril shrank back against the stone wall, and Gwylly stood and stepped toward her, as if to come between his dammia and Stoke, yet his chains would not allow.
Riatha now stood, her silvery-grey gaze fixed upon this kinslayer before her, her eyes filled with bitter hatred.
Aravan’s shoulders sagged, and he spoke in Sylva.[“Although he resembles Galarun’s killer, this is not the yellow-eyed Man I seek.”]
With care, Stoke lay the golden spike among the other instruments, and then came and stood before his prisoners, his fists on his hips, his yellow eyes gloating.
Immediately behind him stood the Man-sized Ghûl, dead black soul-less eyes glittering in pasty white flesh, a red gash of a mouth filled with pointed yellow teeth, a cruelly barbed spear in his hand, a wide, spiked steel collar about his neck. Yet one side of his face was hideously blistered, as if he had been burned, and the hand gripping the spear was scalded as well, knuckles flame charred, wrist and forearm seared.
And he looked upon Gwylly with hatred in his eyes, as if he would murder the buccan, a hollow snarl growling deep in his chest.
Yet Stoke paid the Ghûl no heed, and instead one by one he gazed long at each of his captives, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of Faeril and Gwylly. Then his mad glare settled upon Riatha, and he spoke in a whisper that made Faeril shudder with the sound of it. “It has been long since I have had the pleasure of harvesting an Elf”—his yellow eyes flicked in Aravan’s direction—“much less two.”
Riatha stood in grim silence, her fists clenched.
Stoke’s gaze swung to the Warrows and then back. “I am surprised that these two yet accompany you, Elfess, for I did not know their Kind to be this long-lived, and they will please me much.”
Faeril glanced at Gwylly and then back to Stoke. Adon! He thinks we are Tomlin and Petal.
Stoke glanced at the far wall where lay their weapons, then turned once more to Riatha. “Too bad about my old foe, Urus, for it would have delighted me to hear his howls as I flensed him of his skin. Yet though I will not have that pleasure, he will serve me nevertheless: this morning I had his corpse borne into the repository”—Stoke gestured, at the door he had entered—“and later tonight he will join the ranks of my unconquerable army.”
Riatha ground her teeth in rage and would have stepped forward but for her chains. “Urus is slain and will never serve thee, Stoke!”
Stoke laughed wickedly at her reaction, saying, “Not serve me? You fool, you know not even of what I speak.”
Stoke made a sweeping gesture at the corpses in the chamber. “When you were first chained, I would have left you in the dark, but I wanted you to see my…handiwork…so that you would have sufficient time to admire it, to anticipate and relish your own fate to come.
“Yet merely by seeing the fallen dead you cannot fully appreciate your destiny, no matter how beautiful they are, no matter the exquisite way in which they died.
“Nay, I must show you what you will soon be, how you and yours will serve me, Baron Stoke.”
Stoke turned, facing into the room. He stood in silence for a moment, as if gathering his strength, his will. Then his voice lashed out:
“ô nekroí!”
The arcane words seemed to hang on the air, as ice would silently cling. And the Rūcks and Hlōks peered nervously about and edged toward the door, as if they would bolt from the room.
“Egò gàr ho Stókos dè kèleuo humás!”
A chill seeped into the chamber, and Gwylly shivered, glancing at Faeril, the damman’s arms hugged about herself, her eyes wide with apprehension.
“Akoúsete mè!”
Aravan’s hand crept to his throat, the blue stone frigid.
“Peísesthe moi!”
In the flickering light, from the corner of her eye Faeril thought that she saw faint motion among the dead. Her heart hammering furiously, she wrenched her gaze in that direction in time to see a black beetle drop from the gaping jaw of a corpse and scuttle away. Oh, Adon, did it come from the mouth?
Then Stoke’s harsh words rolled out into the chill:
“Stánton!”
As if from ten thousand throats, a ghastly sigh whispered through the chamber, and now Faeril was certain that she saw a corpse move, head rolling to one side, dead eyes staring at Stoke, or staring at Faeril herself!
“Stánton!”
Now ten thousand anguished groans wailed, and corpses began to shift, dead arms and legs levering, lifting, a ghostly weeping filling the chamber, and now the Rūcks did run, disappearing into the shadowy hall beyond the open door.
Up jerked the corpses, lurching to their feet, weapons in hand, entrails dangling from burst abdomens.
When they all stood facing him, Stoke gestured toward the dead, his hand clawlike.
“Léksete!”
Ten thousand voices moaned throughout the chamber groaning forth from slack jaws: M‘alim…Kibr…Kûmandân’…Mîr…
Now the Hlōks bolted from the room, slamming the door behind.
But the Ghûl stood fast, his blistered face split in a malevolent grin.
Stoke turned to Riatha. “See? This is what you will become. A soldier in my unconquerable army.
“Do you hear what they call me?”
Whispers and groans hissed throughout the chamber, the spectral voices of the dead ebbing and flowing as would a ghostly tide.
Aravan answered. “They speak the language of the desert, and name thee Master, Greatness, Commandant, Prince, and more. Yet heed, Stoke, thou art evil to delve into such matters, to visit such foul calamity upon these dead ones.”
&nb
sp; “Pah!” replied Stoke above the hideous murmurings. “I have surpassed—”
Suddenly he broke off and whirled toward the corpses “Hesukhádsete!” he commanded, and the chamber groaned to silence.
Stoke turned once again to Aravan. “—I have surpassed the skills of my mentor, Ydral, he who showed me the pleasures of the harvest, who even now would like to know my secrets.
“But should I give such power to another? Nay, for it is mine and mine alone to wield as I will. What matter that he is my true father, for he would raise an army to rival my own.”
Aravan’s question came softly. “Where is this sire of thine?”
Stoke’s eyes widened, but ere he spoke—“Why?” shouted Faeril. “Why do you need such a foul army? A legion of the cruelly slain.”
Stoke laughed and turned to the damman. “Because with it I can rule the world. Think of it, runt: Where I march, swift fear will run before me. Weapons will not harm those already slain. Adon’s Ban holds no sway over these soldiers, and with them I will conquer all.
“Pah, the Sultan of Hyree thinks I raise it for his use, my army of the dead. Yet he does not know what I truly intend.
“Let him fight his religious War, his jihad. I have bigger things in mind.”
Again Aravan repeated his question. “Stoke, I asked, where is this sire of thine? Where is Ydral?”
Baron Stoke vaguely gestured to the east, then his eyes filled with rage. “Fool! Am I my father’s keeper? I am not here to be questioned.”
Agitatedly he paced back and forth, looking at the captives as if they were chattel. Then a slow, cruel smile spread over his face. “Instead, I am here to indulge in my…simple pleasures.”
Now Stoke stepped before Gwylly. “And you, runt, you will suffer the most.
“Did you truly think that sunlight would kill me? Bah! I am a werecreature and will never die, for none is clever enough to kill me. And unless I am slain by silver pure, or by starsilver rare, or by fire, or by the fangs and claws of another such as I, I will live forever.
“Elves are not the only immortals.
“And as to your feeble attempt, I was in my present form in which the Sun can only cause me pain…and for that you will pay dearly.
“Heed, I suffer not Adon’s Ban, unlike my jemadar“—Stoke gestured at the Ghûl—“who will die in the light of day. See what even a distant dimness did to him, there where he is charred, scalded, burned. He was well back in the chamber when you opened the shutter, and only a faint glimmer of the light fell upon him, yet it seared as a fire until he fled beyond its reach.”
“Too bad,” replied Gwylly. “I should have waited until he was closer.”
Stoke murmured a word in Slûk and the Ghûl leapt forward and smashed a fist into Gwylly’s face, sending the tiny Warrow crashing back against the stone wall and sprawling, to the floor.
Shrieking, “You bastard!” Faeril leapt toward the Ghûl, only to be jerked short by her chains.
[“Faeril, no,”] called Gwylly in Twyll, scrambling to his feet, blood runnelling from his nose. [“I am all right, and I would not have you hurt.”]
The corpse-white foe stepped back, his red gash of a mouth split in a vile grin. Again Stoke murmured something in Slûk, and the Ghûl, still leering, stepped to the nearby stone pillar and drew forth a key from a carven slot.
Stoke turned to Gwylly. “Obviously, fool, you are fond of the female runt, and now I see just how I will make you suffer.”
The Ghûl seized Faeril’s wrists and unlocked the manacles, the damman struggling and kicking to no effect as he dragged her among the still standing corpses and toward the center of the room.
“Stoke! You skut!” shouted Gwylly, wrenching at his chains. “Leave her alone, murderer!”
In grim silence Riatha and Aravan haled against their own fetters, but the iron yielded not.
Stoke smiled, turning to watch as the Ghûl lifted Faeril up by one arm, fastening it into a dangling manacle mid-chamber. Then he did likewise to her other wrist, the damman kicking and shrilling curse words in Twyll.
Stoke beckoned the Ghûl to him, then turned to the buccan. “Ah, fear not, runt, for I will let you watch from close by.”
With a terrible strength the Ghûl grabbed Gwylly by the jerkin, snarling at the Wee One who had caused him so much pain, slamming Gwylly back against the wall, stunning the buccan. Swiftly the Ghûl unlocked the shackles and dragged Gwylly to room center, hefting him up and chaining him dangling diagonally across from Faeril.
Behind, Riatha and Aravan began singing a deathsong, for there was nought they could do to prevent such, and so they sang a cant to Adon, asking that He receive the souls of these small ones unto His bosom.
As the Ghûl returned the key to its niche, Stoke stepped to the nearby instrument-cluttered table. And there he took up a vial filled with a blood-red liquid. Back he came to stand before Faeril, and he held the flask up to the lantern light. “You must drink, for I would not have you swoon from pleasure. This elixir will keep you alert to the very end, magnifying the exquisite sensations I will visit upon you…as I did these others.” Stoke’s hand swept in a gesture toward the standing dead, their unblinking eyes open and staring, their jaws gaping in hideous jape. “Your comrades in arms.”
Stoke held the vial up to the damman, but she turned her head aside, clamping her lips shut.
“What? You do not trust me? Why, this is not poison…see.” Stoke put the flask to his own lips and drank a swallow. “No more than a gulp is needed.”
Again he held it up to Faeril, but she jerked her face aside.
Stoke motioned to the Ghûl, and he held the damman while the Baron forced liquid into her, as Gwylly shrieked in hatred, swinging on his chains, kicking out, trying to reach them, to no avail.
They turned to the buccan, and the Ghûl doubled his fist and slammed it into Gwylly’s gut, driving the air from him, stunning the Wee One with pain, Stoke quickly pouring the liquid in the buccan’s open mouth, forcing him to swallow.
Now the Baron stepped again to the table, setting down the flask. And then he took up the golden stake, some three inches in diameter and thirty inches long it was, tapering to a blunt point on one end, four blades set thereon, other razor-thin triangular steel blades glittering down the shank, bloodstones embedded here and there, the shaft butted against a polished steel plate on the opposite end.
Stoke stepped before Gwylly, the buccan yet gasping from the blow to his stomach. “How will I make you suffer, runt? Merely by allowing you to look and listen as I tend to your sweetling.”
Stoke turned and moved to Faeril, his voice soft and gentle, his cruel harshness submerged. “Heed, my lovely. First I will remove your clothing so that I may see your fair skin…then I will remove that also, starting at your feet.”
Her eyes widening in terror, her heart hammering, feet flailing, Faeril struggled against her fetters, chains clanking as she jerked to no avail.
Stoke smiled at the effect his words were having, and he said solicitously, “Oh, fear not, the elixir you drank will not only heighten your senses so that it will be exquisite beyond your wildest imaginings, but you will remain aware throughout and feel every excruciating moment.”
Now Faeril began groaning in horror, and behind, Gwylly shouted in rage, while against the wall, Aravan and Riatha sang the deathsong.
Stoke raised his voice to be heard. “And when I have taken your skin from you”—he held up the hideous shaft, turning it in the light, gold gleaming, steel glinting—”this will be your next reward.”
Laughing wildly, Stoke stepped back and set the stake to the floor where Faeril could see it, the instrument resting on its buttplate, the horrid bladed point stabbing upward, razors glittering.
Then the Baron took a swift stride to the table and seized a thin-bladed knife, coming back to Faeril. Motioning for the Ghûl to grasp her kicking legs, Stoke wrenched her boots from her and flung them aside. His hands trembling with eagerness, he s
et the blade in the shrieking damman’s clothes, slicing upward, rending the cloth from her.
Soon Faeril was stripped naked, and Stoke turned to Gwylly. “Now, runt, experience the pleasure of seeing your loved one die an agonizing death.”
Gwylly closed his eyes and turned his face upward, refusing to look.
And just as Stoke set his razor-sharp knife to the sole of Faeril’s foot, from the hallway came a commotion, and inward darted three Rūcks, slamming the door behind.
Gwylly opened his eyes, looking upward, his gaze flying wide.
Angered, Stoke whirled, shouting invectives in Slûk. But his voice was lost beneath a deafening roar—
“RRRAAAWWWW!”
—and the door was shattered by a massive blow, the panel crashing inward, smashing down upon the Rūcks, and atop the wreckage stood a huge beast.
The Bear had come to call.
* * *
Stoke whirled about and snarled to the standing corpses, “Ekeî eisìn hoi polémioi hoi emoí!”
Corpses oriented upon the Bear, unblinking eyes staring. Others turned toward Riatha and Aravan. And yet others wheeled in the direction of Faeril and Gwylly.
“Faeril! Faeril!” shouted Gwylly, climbing up his right-hand chain.
The damman looked at her buccaran, and then overhead. Then she, too, began hoisting herself upward, toward the beam holding the hooks anchoring her chains.
“Thanatósete autoús!” shouted Stoke.
The ghostly howl of ten thousand ghastly voices fading in and out of gaping jaws, forward trod the ranks of the undead, scimitars and tulwars and cudgels upraised, the slain coming to kill the Bear, to kill the Elves, to kill the Warrows.
The Bear knew these two-legs were not Urwa. Still they challenged him! And roaring in rage he charged into the shuffling undead, his great claws sweeping left and right, rending and smashing and battering.
Gwylly fetched up against the wooden beam, and reaching over, he slipped the topmost link of his left-hand chain up to the tip of its anchoring hook, and jerking and jerking, he wrenched it through the gap.
He looked over just as Faeril came to her beam. Grim determination reflected in her face. She glanced at him and said, “Gwylly, get the key and free Aravan and Riatha. I will get our weapons.”
The Eye of the Hunter Page 58