Day of the Hunt (The Faun Quartet Book 2)

by Chris J Edwards

  Then I thought back to my own life. Had I not done the same? Had I not turned back to save Ortham, when I knew him as only Mister Morath, during the ambush in Sythir Eaoghn?

  I looked down on the blanched face of the wounded unman.

  “It’s not working,” huffed the healer. “Wounds won’t close.”

  I stopped passing on my power. Despite myself my heart sank.

  Ortham stooped over the unman and felt around her neck. Then he took hold of a leather thong and pulled it off around her shaved head; connected to it was a lustrous jewel.

  “No wonder. Void Stone. Should have guessed,” he said, holding the necklace up to the light. “These gave us trouble at Tiv’ithm.”

  Herace snatched it out of his hand and hurled it into the grass.

  “There’s no time to waste on trinkets!” he snapped. “Let’s get back to work.”

  We reconnected our chain of magick and I began the flow of energy once more.

  After a moment the healer began nodding his head, pleased by his work.

  “There we go… that’s better now…”

  The sun beat down on us. It was difficult to keep up the flow of magick; I had never sustained such strain before. Dream delving was far easier because I couldn’t feel it. But healing almost hurt. It seemed like most magick hurt.

  “Hey… shouldn’t she have woken up?” Herace asked with concern. “I mean, this is a pretty uncomfortable process…”

  “Should have,” concurred the healer. “Not sure how she’s still out like this. Hasn’t even stirred. Maybe loss of blood.”

  After what felt like hours, at last the healer finished. He sat up with a groan and massaged his lower back.

  “We’ll want to wash and dress the wounds. Clean the blood away, keep the dirt out,” he grunted, getting stiffly to his feet. Then he looked to me.

  “That’s impressive,” he said. “Lot of energy stored in there. Considering it had to pass through three souls to get to me.”

  I shrugged innocently. If only he knew the half of it… if I didn’t have so much magick, the dead on this hill wouldn’t be here. They would have stayed far, far away.

  Herace and the healer spent some time cleaning up the injured unman. Her breathing was slow, but at least she still breathed. I helped to strip her filthy clothing; we scrounged together what we could from our own baggage to cover her up. Eventually Ortham took to looting the dead for their clothing. But most of it was just as gore-soaked, so we did what we could. The result was a collage of spare cloaks and stolen garb.

  Once the healer’s job was done he washed his hands from a waterskin, wiping them against his leather apron. He looked exhausted.

  I thanked him profusely for his help; he refused the gratitude good-naturedly.

  “Just my profession, your highness. And just because the wounds are closed, doesn’t mean she’ll survive,” he said solemnly, glancing over at Herace, who was just out of earshot.

  Herace was busy tending to the Disciple, making sure her bandages were snug but not tight. I still wondered what his obsession was – and how he even knew she would be here.

  “And how much will we owe for such service?” I asked, ready to pay.

  “Oh, no. The dau prince already paid me,” he said, then squinted up at the afternoon sun. “But I must be off; the day’s passing. Ye best be careful, your highness – I’ve not seen such wounds in a long, long time…”

  I nodded to him as he bowed and turned for his horse.

  “Thank you! Your kindness will not be forgotten!” I called after him.

  Then the healer mounted up and rode back into the pines.

  I watched him leave, then turned my attention back to Herace. Ortham was off somewhere, doing something. I wasn’t concerned. But Herace, on the other hand…

  I walked up behind him. He was sitting next to the prostrate warrior, his hand on her forehead.

  “Herace…” I began, “how did you know to bring a healer?”

  He didn’t look up at me. He sat there for a long time in silence.

  “I’m not sure. I had a dream about Retker’s Knoll… then I woke up in a panic. And I just knew I needed to bring that healer. I can’t explain it.”

  I didn’t know what to say. But somehow I understood; I knelt beside him on the ground and put my arm around his shoulders.

  We watched the golden grass sway in silence.

  “So, did you really give the healer half your estate?” I asked, eager to get our minds off the surrounding carnage.

  “Hm? No. I thought you paid him.”

  “What? He told me you paid!”

  I stood up suddenly and looked for the healer; but he was gone, long gone.

  Herace gazed up to the sky and whispered something I could just barely hear above the rustle of the breeze.

  “Another miracle, I suppose…”

  56

  Ortham

  Herace had insisted on keeping the Disciple on his horse – but that was simply out of the question. He already had one arm broken; there was no way he could manage riding while keeping an unconscious being upright at the same time.

  Luckily I had spent some time building a travois from pine branches. It took a while to find branches that were strong enough and long enough, but once that was done it was easy. There was a convenient amount of rope left on the hill – whose purpose I could only guess at – which I used to lash the travois together. Then I lashed the blankets between it all to make a sort of stretcher. It wasn’t perfect, but it would save the horses a lot of strain.

  I had looted a few other things, too; so had Herace, oddly enough. But the only things he took were a small, steel buckler and a strangely curved sword. I recognized them as the Disciple’s, and I was getting the amusing impression that the only reason he was trying to nurse her back to health was to duel her again and win.

  But of course that was ridiculous.

  Then again, it was Herace…

  The only things of value I had found was gold and, of course, the Void Stones.

  Each of the Disciples had a Void Stone hanging around her neck. These things were worth more than an entire crop; cunningly crafted artifacts that housed dozens, if not a hundred, mortal souls. During the razing of Tiv’ithm, we found that much of our magick was being consumed by these Void Stones when we first faced the Unnic legions. They were only given to their most elite, which was their mistake. Against enough magick they were all but useless; ten battle-mages all blasting away at one Void Stone-armed warrior inevitably ended in the warrior’s demise.

  So, needless to say, I pocketed all four of the stones. The one that Herace had tossed away was a little damaged, but I didn’t mind. I wasn’t even quite sure what to do with them; I just knew they were worth a lot.

  A lot.

  We forded the River Sperevus with some difficulty; our Unnic passenger had to be removed from the travois or else risk drowning. Once on the other side, of course, Herace fussed over her like a mother hen, making sure she was well-covered by whatever spare clothing we had to keep her wet legs from getting cold. It was kind of funny to see – also a little concerning. Was he enchanted? Very un-Herace behaviour there.

  Late in the day we reached the rocky, pined slopes of the Bitter Frosts. I could only drag the travois up part way before the path simply became too rough. At that point I detached it, gathered up the rope and blankets, and with a serious concerted effort between mostly Dawn and I (with Herace awkwardly ‘helping’ one-handed), we managed to hoist the Disciple into my saddle. She was tall and heavy; it made things really difficult.

  I think she was even taller than Herace… I would have to mention that to him. I’m sure he would squirm a little. It would be hilarious.

  Evening fell as we made it halfway up the slopes. The horses needed rest, especially mine.

  Dawn and I lit a good fire and we all huddled around it and fell asleep. Despite the balmy late-summer weat
her, the mountains always kept an ethereal chill about them. The wind was forever cold up here – hence the name. They weren’t terribly tall mountains; the cols in between each peak were graciously low, especially the most frequented path in the south. It wasn’t much of an established trail; few parties ever travelled it. Why would any, when one ended up in the Weeping Hills on the western side? It was safer to go around.

  But we didn’t have the time for safety. Herace’s precious cargo – the one that had tried to kill him – was not very well. She needed treatment and rest, in that order. And unfortunately the fastest way back to Céin Urthia was over the mountains and through the hills.

  We started early again the next morning. The Disciple still hadn’t come out of her deep slumber. I couldn’t help but assume the worst – she may not live for long.

  I still wondered how Herace knew to bring a healer. I wanted to say it was providence, but the question that always remained was why? Why would he receive some divine whisper telling him to save a Disciple?

  I shook my head clear of such theological and moral questions. The will of the Maker was something obscured to me, that was for sure. I could muse on it all I wanted, but it wouldn’t change the fact that I was trying to keep the limp body of a sworn enemy from falling out of our shared saddle.

  Sometimes it was best just to accept things the way they are, and wonder about them after they’ve been dealt with.

  We rode over the highest point of the pass an hour before noon; the sun was behind us. And before us stretched the Weeping Hills, still cloaked in the mountain’s shadow. Beyond that lay the beautiful greenery of Céin Urthia, stretching off into the horizon.

  “Hey Herace,” I said aloud, “remember when you got shot in the back here?”

  “Don’t remind me,” he called back.

  We had a good laugh at a bad memory.

  It took the better part of the afternoon to navigate our way down the boulder-strewn western slopes. It was rocky and only made more difficult by my limp cargo. But hour by hour we closed the distance between us and level ground, until by evening I could make out the details of the gnarled trees below.

  I squinted my eyes against the setting sun; not a cloud in the sky marred the view.

  “We should stop here,” I announced as we came upon a generously flat section of ground. “No sense camping too close to those nasty hills. Not with two invalids.”

  “I’m not an invalid,” Herace retorted.

  Dawn dismounted and helped Herace out of his saddle. Then the two of them helped me offload the unconscious Disciple. We laid her gently down on Herace’s bedroll – he insisted we use his.

  Dawn and I lit a fire nearby and we all shared bread. It was dense, hard stuff, but practically impervious to spoiling. It was also disgusting and hard to chew. But it’s what we had for the time being. We also had dried spiced meat, which wasn’t too bad. A little more pleasant than shoe leather.

  I caught Herace staring at the Disciple. He just sat there, chewing his bread, one arm in a sling, watching her sleep.

  “Worried she’ll run away?” I joked.

  He didn’t reply. He turned to look at the fire and sighed deeply.

  “Do you think she’ll… you know. Wake up?” he asked. “That she’ll be alright?”

  I had never heard Herace’s voice so contemplative. There was a certain tenderness to it, an almost child-like worry.

  Dawn spoke first, always one to reassure.

  “I think so,” she replied. “I think the healer did a very good job of giving her a fighting chance.”

  “And as long as we’re quick, we can get her back to Naraya, where she’ll have some proper rest,” I added.

  Herace kept staring into the fire. I decided to ask the question that had been burning in my mind since the day before.

  “So, Herace…” I tentatively began, “why exactly are you so intent on saving her? If not for information…”

  He looked up to me. His eyes reflected the flickering of the campfire. His expression was one very different from the energetic, proud prince that I knew. It was at peace, almost serene.

  “Well,” he said in a whisper, “I think I love her.”

  I nearly fell backward in shock; then I almost burst out laughing. Herace? In love? With an unman?

  I think the healer healed the wrong thing; he should have healed Herace’s head.

  I opened my mouth to joke, to make some kind of funny remark, to maybe bring some sanity back to my poor friend – but Dawn put a hand on my knee and I held my tongue. I studied Herace’s face. He seemed utterly serious, totally genuine. There wasn’t a hint of a lie.

  I wanted to protest – I wanted to say, but Herace, she tried to kill you. She was sent to steal Dawn’s soul. You only just met her. But again, the look on his face – and Dawn’s hand on my knee - prevented me from saying a thing. I could only nod.

  “Herace, tell Ortham about the dream,” Dawn gently prompted.

  “Alright,” he said. “The night before we found her, I had a dream. I had a dream that she was standing on top of Retker’s Knoll. And when I woke up, I knew what I had to do. I had to bring a healer. I wasn’t sure why, I just knew I had to. That it was urgent. It was the strangest thing.…”

  I nodded soberly and glanced over at the sleeping figure. She looked peaceful in the flickering firelight, and not at all like she had been sent to enslave Dawn.

  There wasn’t much that I could say. Especially now that both he and Dawn were on the same side – and worse, that now even I was confused. Maybe it did mean something? Dreams were no simple thing, though… it was all too much of a coincidence. If there even was such a thing as coincidence. I wasn’t so sure anymore.

  As darkness settled heavy upon the slopes, the others lay down to sleep. I decided to stay up and keep watch for a while. I didn’t want to let the fire die, not quite yet.

  Soon the campfire was burning low. I needed to find more wood, so I wandered a little ways further down the slope. It wasn’t too rocky; not like the loose shale of the upper pass. Here grew stunted oak trees and scraggly pines and low carpets of juniper. It wasn’t too hard to find old deadfall. I collected a bundle and started making my way back to camp.

  As I did I stopped. A sound came to me, warbling up from the hills below; the sound of queer laughter, the throb of a distant drum. It wasn’t fae laughter.

  It was low folk laughter.

  And that distant drum wasn’t very distant at all.

  My heart jumped into my throat; I dropped what I had collected and sprinted off at a dead run up the slope, back to the campfire.

  The first thing I did was kick the coals, scattering the remnants of the fire. Red sparks burst, floating upward before dying out – the light faded until our camp was illuminated by nothing but the blue-green light of the twin moons Ip and Ov. Om, swollen and huge, was peeking its ruddy face over the mountain’s crest.

  Dawn and Herace both sat up suddenly, frightened by my abrasive return.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” Dawn asked uneasily, sensing my urgency.

  I knelt between them and lowered my voice.

  “Low folk. Coming up from the hills,” I replied. “I heard a drum. And laughter. They’re close.”

  “Low folk all the way up here? That’s unusual,” Herace said, scrambling to get up despite his injured arm and leg. “Where’s my sabre? Damnit, on the horse…”

  Dawn got out of her bedroll too, squatting next to us both. We all held our breath and strained to hear the ominous noises I had detected. Curiously, all was silent but for a hushing breeze.

  I took the Void Stones out of my cloak and placed them by the Disciple. It didn’t look like she’d be waking up anytime soon. And if I had to cast, I didn’t want to be impeded.

  We waited for what felt like forever, listening for the signs of approaching low folk. Nothing came.

  “I’ll be back,” Herace whispered and disapp
eared into the shadows.

  Dawn sat down and crossed her legs.

  “I’m going to try dream delving. If there are low folk this close, we’ll never make it through Sythr Eaoghn tomorrow. Not in our state,” she said.

  “Do you even know how? I thought Majira was still teaching you,” I said.

  Dawn shrugged.

  “I sort of know how. But if I don’t try, then we’ll be stuck. There’s nothing to lose by trying,” she said.

  I grimaced. I wasn’t so sure about that… all magick had a price. Succeeding and failing usually cost about the same.

  But I didn’t stop her. She closed her eyes, back straight and legs crossed.

  Moments after, Herace reappeared from the shadows.

  “Well,” he whispered, brandishing his sabre, “guess I’ll just have to fight with my left.”

  He looked down at Dawn. She was completely still, face a mask of perfect repose.

  “What’s she doing?” he asked.

  “Dream delving. Or at least trying to,” I replied.

  The sound of stone clacking together cut through the still night. We hushed. I scanned the surrounding gloom; there were so many places to hide. Too many places to hide. Behind juniper scrub, tufts of long grass, tumbled boulders… it was a night-stalker’s dream. And an honest folk’s nightmare.

  Then came another clacking of stone on stone; and another seconds after. It came from no discernable place – it could have been above, it could have been below. It could have been just ten strides away…

  Something caught my eye. I squinted; there, swimming in a pool of shadow cast by the moon, glinted a pair of eyes. My breath caught in my throat; I flexed my hands, ready to blast the thing into oblivion.

  “Close your eyes,” I whispered.

  “What?”

  “Close your eyes,” I repeated.

  Then I traced an arcane symbol, pointed my finger to the sky – and loosed a blinding white flare.

  Light spilled out from the rising orb, illuminating the boulder-strewn slopes. Herace and I gasped in unison.

  A torrent of gibbering screams rose up like an abyssal choir, a wall of gleeful, horrid war cries.