The Hunter

by Rose Estes

  Braldt and Carn cut the corpse down and wrapped him in his own robe, the russet brown stained red with his own life’s blood, and buried him some distance away on the banks of the ravine. They placed the gourd of fermented milk by his side, along with a twist of meat and a dagger, so that he might go into death as a warrior. Then they said the words that would free his spirit to roam the skies with Mother Moon and made the signs over his grave that would speed his spirit on its way, cutting the air between them with their spears so that the spirit would not cling to the life it had once known. And then it was done and there was nothing to do but go on, which they did gladly, leaving the awful sight behind them, though the memory accompanied them as they traveled deeper into the lonely land.

  7

  They saw the Guardian Stone rising up out of the red earth, solitary and isolated, long before they reached it. The mountains rose in the distance behind it, distorted by watery, wavery images that would disappear as they drew near. The mountains appeared to be close enough to touch, but Braldt knew that they were still many days away.

  They reached the stone at midday and stopped for a brief meal. The stone rose above them, looking outward impassively at the mountains, with a forboding expression in its fixed gaze. Once again Braldt was seized by a feeling of discomfort as he looked up at the plinth, for the features on the stone, although flat and distorted, were undeniably those of his own.

  “Still think you’re one of them, eh, Braldt” Carn drawled, following the direction of Braldt’s eyes. Braldt shrugged and turned away, embarrassed that Carn had caught him out so easily.

  “I’m surprised that you bother to live among us mere mortals. Must be rather boring for you. How come you don’t just fix that thing that’s broken and then heal uncle? Why bother coming on this trip at all? Unless you want to give uncle a chance to die while we’re gone. That’s it, isn’t it, Braldt? You’re hoping he’ll die while we’re gone!”

  Braldt stared at Carn and bit back the angry words that filled his mind. Carn’s face was darkly flushed and his hand opened and closed spasmodically at his sides, a sure sign of the uncontrollable rage that often overtook him, swiftly and without warning. It was useless to try to reason with him at such times for mere words could not appease him.

  “I do not want to fight with you, Carn, your words are foolishness.” Braldt turned away and began rummaging in his pouch, looking for a bit of dried meat to feed Beast. Beast growled ominously and Braldt looked over his shoulder and saw Carn framed by the white sun, with a large rock hefted above his head ready to strike.

  Carn screamed and brought the rock down with full force, but Braldt threw himself to one side and grabbed Carn’s ankles, jerking them out from under him. Grunting and panting with exertion and emotion, the two men grappled on the hot, dusty earth, searching for a hold while attempting to elude being pinned themselves.

  Carn’s face was close, his dark eyes full of undisguised, bitter hatred. Braldt was deeply shaken for he had not even suspected the depth of his brother’s feelings.

  Gasping and panting for breath, the two men rolled back and forth on the hot earth, neither able to gain the advantage. Although Braldt was by far the taller and heavier, Carn was lithe and strong and his hate gave him added strength. Suddenly a knife appeared in Carn’s hand, its point pricking at Braldt’s throat. But then, just as suddenly, he was gone, his weight removed, and he struck out repeatedly, the knife rising and falling as Braldt threw himself forward, catching Carn around the waist and hurling him facefirst onto the ground.

  Yapping shrilly, Beast rose up on his hind legs as the adults of his kind were wont to don and skittered sideways, then dropped to all fours and lunged, snapping at Carn, his double rows of teeth already stained with Carn’s blood.

  Carn rolled sideways, knocking Braldt off, and then rose to his feet brandishing the knife. Braldt cursed and struggled to his feet, but neither Carn nor Beast paid him any attention, each fixed upon the other. A steady stream of blood pulsed from a wound on Carn’s ankle and Beast’s flank was scored by a long, shallow cut. Neither was hurt badly but Braldt knew that it could get much worse, quickly.

  Braldt ripped his robe free and threw it over Beast, enveloping him in its folds, and held the struggling bundle against his chest while backing away from Carn. He backed until he was stopped by the smooth warm surface of the stone.

  “Do you hate me so much, brother?”

  “That much and more,” replied Carn as he sheathed his dagger and looked into Braldt’s eyes. The killing rage had dimmed, replaced by something more easily maintained over a long period of time, hatred.

  “You are not my brother and never will be. No words will make it so. You are an outsider. You were not born of the Duroni and have no claim to the throne, no matter what Uncle says. He is old, weak, and useless. He grieves that he has no son to take his place and carry on the family name. He has picked you, but by all rights it should have been me, and would have been me had you not appeared so mysteriously. And it will still be me, brother,” he said, twisting the word and spitting it out like a bitter seed.

  “Carn, I have no wish to be chief. You may have the throne and my allegiance as well. I never asked for the honor. I tell you that it is not what I want.”

  “Oh, and what is it that you do want, brother?”

  “I want for things to be the way they were between us. I want you to stop hating me. How can such a thing be? I have no hatred for you! You are right, I am an outsider, that is plain enough to see. But I cannot control what happened when I was but a babe. Am I to be punished and reviled for the events that robbed me of my own parents, my birthright, my own history? Do you not think that I lie awake nights and wonder who my parents were and how they came to be found in the desert, and wonder what killed them?

  “Fate or the gods robbed me of my own family and then gave me into the keeping of yours. Would you deny me the right to love and honor them, the only family I have ever known? Do you think it is easy knowing that I am different and do not belong? You are my brother, Carn, and even if you hate me, it will not change the way I feel.”

  Carn stared at Braldt, measuring his words, weighing them, and then he turned away, his back to Braldt. When he turned back, the hardness had left his eyes, or was well masked, and he was no longer the stranger he had become, but Carn the Stalker, brother of Braldt.

  “You mean what you say, don’t you?” he said in carefully measured tones.

  Braldt nodded.

  Carn stared down at the ground, lost in thought, and then at his bleeding ankle and the steady stream of blood that soaked into the parched earth.

  “Well, if we are not going to kill each other, maybe you can help me with this leg before I bleed to death,” he said with a forced grin. “And maybe you can stop that thing from attacking me again.”

  Braldt looked down at the squirming bundle and wondered whether Carn could truly change so quickly. He wanted to believe that it was so, but how could anyone hate so strongly one minute and then deny it the next? Beast lunged in his arms, trying to free himself. And then there was Beast. Braldt had no idea what the animal would do; he was no tame creature who would do his bidding. It was possible that Beast would forever view Carn as an enemy.

  “I don’t know what he’ll do, I can but try.” Placing the robe down on the ground, Braldt held Beast firmly with one hand and stroked him with the other, murmuring in what he hoped was a soothing tone. Beast quieted and Braldt removed the robe.

  Beast looked at Braldt as though seeking reassurance and then up at Carn, fixing him with a steady, burning gaze that spoke of enmity that went far beyond his young age, but he made no move toward him. Then he turned his attentions to himself, pointedly ignoring Carn and tenderly licking the raw edges of the long wound. Nor would he allow Braldt to minister to him, trotting some distance away and settling beneath the low-hanging branches of a grease-wood bush.

  Freed of that concern the two men dealt with Carn’s ankle, wash
ing it with some of their precious water, laving it carefully to cleanse it of any bits of dirt that might later fester and cause the leg to sicken. Fortunately, it had been but a glancing slice of the pup’s teeth rather than a solid bite, and though it bled copiously, it was shallow and not of a serious nature. Still, it did not do to take any wound lightly and the ankle was liberally smeared with Jos’s stinging healing unguent and bound with strips of clean cloth.

  Tending to the wound had allowed their emotions to cool further and without referring to the matter again, they turned to the subject of food, deftly avoiding any mention of what had gone before. Strips of dried meat were brought out of their pouches and hard rounds of cheese, washed down with the gourd of sour fermented milk. They ate in silence, neither of them knowing what to say. Beast returned after a time although he would not come close to either man, viewing both with distrust. Carn threw him a bit of meat that Beast ignored.

  “I did not know you hated me,” Braldt said, staring straight ahead.

  “I am tired of hearing your name. I sometimes think that I do not exist. It is as though Auslic and even my father think that the moon itself rises and sets to please you. It’s Braldt did this, Braldt did that. My ears grow weary of hearing your name and no one has eyes for anything that I do.

  “Last turning, I killed the merebear that was taking the shebeasts, the one that had ventured to the very outskirts of the city, and when we measured it, Father pointed out that you had once slain one that was larger!” The bitterness was obvious in Carn’s voice and even though he had not been present or responsible for Otius’s comments, he could feel the pain that they had caused.

  “I did not know, Carn, nor do I wish it to be so,” Braldt replied simply, not knowing what else he could say.

  “That only makes it worse.”

  “Can we still be brothers?”

  “I do not see that I have a choice. We have been sent to do this thing together, and our lives may depend upon each other if it is to be done. But afterward, after we return, I make you no promises.”

  Carn turned to look at Braldt then, and though the hatred and naked hostility was gone from his eyes, there was no sign of warmth or caring, either.

  Braldt nodded slowly, realizing that the promise of temporary neutrality was all that he could hope for at the present time. He repacked his pouch and refastened his robe as he rose to his feet. “Let us do this thing then, and return quickly so that I may speak to Auslic and tell him how I feel. Come, brother. As Jos is wont to say, the sooner begun, a job is done.” He extended his hand to Carn. Carn took it reluctantly and then stood to face Braldt, the two of them looking deep into each other’s eyes, taking each other’s measure. Neither was reassured by what he saw.

  8

  Braldt began to suspect that they were being followed during the long hours of the afternoon. They had crossed the boundary of the Duroni lands and were now traveling across the softly undulating hills of the Forbidden Lands. The pace was slower than it had been, for Beast would not allow himself to be picked up and he lagged well behind them. Carn’s ankle had begun to bleed and the bandage was stained crimson, but he would not stop, shrugging off the wound even though Braldt could see that it was paining him.

  He had paused on the crest of a small hill to find the pup, to make sure that he was still with them, when he first caught glimpse of the follower. At first he thought that he had been mistaken, that it was a trick of the light, for it vanished almost immediately and did not reappear. He did not say anything to Carn, preferring to make certain before he spoke, but subsequent sightings proved his suspicions to be correct. And it was no animal.

  He could not tell whether the follower was Duroni, but a Duroni would have no reason to hide and the follower was definitely attempting to conceal his presence. He was good, fast and clever, moving from one bit of shelter to another; but Braldt was better.

  He wondered if it could be a slaver, one of the roving bands who enslaved and sold those who were vulnerable or too weak to protect themselves. But this one was traveling alone, at least Braldt could detect no sign of more than one, and slavers were rarely found in less than large numbers. A wise precaution in view of their practices.

  They made an early camp at Braldt’s insistence, stopping beside a small rivulet of water that flowed through the narrow valley through which they were traveling. Carn protested, but it was obvious that his heart was not in it, and he sank to the ground wearily and made no objection when Braldt examined the wound.

  It was ugly. The flesh was red and vastly swollen, the ankle appearing like some grotesque, obscene fruit. A pulse throbbed visibly and blood still seeped from the torn flesh. “Why did you not speak?” Braldt demanded angrily. “Are you determined to be brave and silent at the cost of your leg or even your life?” Carn did not reply.

  Braldt built a fire quickly and set the gourd of sour milk to warm at its edge. Carn covered his eyes with the back of his arm and made no sound as Braldt washed the leg and ankle. with water from the small stream. Braldt could feel the heat of the flesh beneath his hands and knew that if he could not stop the sickness before it grew, Carn might easily lose his leg. At the very least they would be unable to travel for many days.

  Carn had fallen into a deep, exhausted sleep when Braldt slipped out of camp. He had placed both pouches beneath the spread of a large tree, deep in its shadows, and covered them with his robe. It would not fool anyone for long or sustain close scrutiny, but with any luck, it would not be necessary.

  He crept out of camp silently, glad for once that the pup was nowhere to be seen, and hid himself beneath a clump of cibas, the acrid stink of their leaves filling his nostrils. He had a clear view of the camp, the burning fire clearly visible as was Carn’s sleeping figure and his own crumpled robe. From a distance, it looked quite acceptable. Now, all he had to do was wait.

  Darkness closed in quickly, fading from dusty grey to dark in short order as it did every turning when the seasons grew shorter. The fire drew his eyes like a lodestone and he was forced to keep his back turned to it for even a single glance destroyed his night vision. He hoped that his quarry would be drawn to it as well.

  With the coming of the Cold Season, much of the underbrush was dead and the grasses rustled and crackled underfoot. He waited for a long time before he heard the sound he was waiting for, the stealthy advance of one treading carefully through the dry undergrowth. The approach was all but silent but clearly audible to one whose ears were waiting for just such a sound. Braldt had picked his spot with care, placing himself alongside the route he himself would have chosen.

  At last his patience was rewarded by the sharp snap of a twig broken underfoot, followed immediately by a long silence where even Braldt found himself holding his breath. The sound was very close. He saw a shadowy figure, no more than a darker bit of shadow, move toward him in a sinuous, silent glide.

  He waited until it had passed him and then rose up swiftly bringing the hilt of his sword down hard. His quarry had heard him or sensed his presence at the last moment and begun to turn just as the heavy blow caught him a stunning blow that crumpled him to the ground in a silent heap.

  Anxious to learn his identity, Braldt turned the fellow over none too gently. There was a sharp intake of breath and a muffled curse as Braldt recognized his unlikely foe by the wan light of Mother Moon, now rising over the far horizon.

  It was Keri.

  Angry words leaped into his mind, along with concern, for he might easily have killed her. What was Keri doing here? What game was she playing at? Why, by the name of the blessed Mother and all the gods, had she followed them?

  He examined her more closely in the pale light and saw that the blow had landed on the side of her head above her left ear, rather than at the base of her neck. It was swelling quickly and her short hair was wet and sticky with blood. She would have a headache, but she would live (a fact that she might regret by the time he was done with her). Slinging her over his shoulder w
ith all the concern he might have given a sack of pankow feed, he returned to camp.

  He dribbled the remainder of the warmed milk down Carn’s throat, rinsed the gourd, and filled it with water and a handful of ciba leaves, setting the mess to boil beside the fire. Soon Keri stirred, groaned, and raised herself to a seated position before falling back and groaning even more loudly, pressing her hands to her head.

  Braldt waited for her to draw herself upright, without making any attempt to help her, knowing how her head must ache and taking grim satisfaction from the fact.

  She stared at him dully, taking in the sight of the camp and her brother lying before the fire with his leg red and swollen.

  She stared up at Braldt with a mixture of fear and defiance.

  “You aren’t sending me back.” It was no plea for forgiveness, no graceful attempt to sway him, but a straightforward attack, blunt and to the point like the girl herself. Angered though he was, Braldt could not help but admire her nerve.

  “Don’t be stupid. This is no place for you to be, Keri. We don’t know what to expect and I don’t have time to be worrying about you.”

  “Why would you have to worry about me?” Keri rose to her feet and faced Braldt defiantly. “I can handle myself just fine. I’m better than most of the boys and can throw a knife as good as any of you and I can run faster and longer than Carn, though it doesn’t look as though he’s going to be doing any running for a while. I can help take care of him. Between the two of us, we can carry him, you know, make a litter; otherwise you’ll have to stay here and that will cost you many dawnings.”

  Braldt opened his mouth to speak, to tell her that it would never work and that she would return at first light, but before he could utter a single word, Beast began to bark in the shrill puppy voice that signaled alarm. The high-pitched agitated tones carrying an obvious warning. The pup bounded into camp and skittered to a halt before Braldt, his tail erect and pole stiff, the fur standing up all over his back and neck as though it had been rubbed backward by an uncaring hand.