The Hunter Read online

  “Krantus.”

  “Death!”

  And so it went with none speaking in favor of life and then, just as Braldt was readying himself to leap out of hiding, to try to take the unseen enemy by surprise, another voice spoke out, overwhelming the others, even though it was soft and low-pitched. An uneasy silence fell upon the crowd.

  “It must not be so,” said the voice. “I, Sytha Trubal, mate of Arba Mintch, say that there will be no more killing.”

  A fevered outcry answered her words, but she spoke again, silencing them once more.

  “Has his death taught us nothing? Will we always be ignorant and be forced to learn the same lessons over and over again? I have said it before and I tell you again, there is no answer in death. We cannot win by striking down the hard ones or even the Duroni. It is wrong and it will gain us nothing. If we strike down a hard one, what do we achieve? We have not done away with it and it will rise again and we will pay with our blood as Arba Mintch paid with his.”

  “You are wrong, Sytha, you speak with the tongue of a woman,” came a harsh reply, interrupting her soft, convincing words. “We have struck down all the hard ones and stopped the great flow. We have stopped them from coming and going and have taken away that which they most want. And now we will strike back at the two-foots for all the pain and suffering they have brought upon us. You are wrong.”

  “No, Shadath, I am not wrong. You have stopped the hard ones for now, but they will return again and our blood will flow. They are more powerful than we and we cannot win by force alone.”

  “I do not agree with you. You are a woman and know nothing. What would you have us do with these two-foots? They are here, in our most sacred chambers, what excuse do you offer for their lives?”

  “Let them go,” the one called Sytha said quietly. “They can do us no harm. Take their weapons from them and let them go. They will not return.”

  Amazingly, even though there was much muttering, it seemed to Braldt that the woman’s wishes would be honored, not so much because they were in agreement or she had convinced them with her words, but because of the respect they had had for her man. After much argument, it was agreed that Keri and Carn would be released without their weapons and allowed to make their way back to Duroni lands. It was more than Braldt could have hoped for or believed possible. Then, just as the speaker was talking, the gathering erupted in chaos. Yells and screams broke out, angry shouts and, above all, the sound of Carn cursing.

  “Dirty karks! Let go of me! Let go!” And then there was the sound of a blow striking bone and flesh and Carn’s voice was stilled. Then there was nothing but the sound of Keri weeping amid angry, hostile voices that flowed out of the corridor, out of the chamber that lay beyond, leaving nothing behind but the vibrations of their rage.

  11

  Braldt could stand it no longer. After the last voice had died away, he slithered out of his hiding place and leaped down, landing softly on the hard-packed earth. A sharp intake of breath was the first indication that he was not alone. Turning swiftly, knife in hand, he found himself looking down on the bowed figure of a female kark who was seated on the ground, her long arms wrapped around her shaggy knees.

  The kark made no move to rise, to attack, or even to defend herself, but looked steadily at Braldt with sorrow in her large eyes. Some part of him that was strangely detached noted with surprise that her eyes were green in color and thickly fringed with heavy lashes that would have been the envy of many a Duroni girl. He had no doubt that he was looking at the one called Sytha Trubal, the mate of the deceased Arba Mintch.

  Many questions came to his mind, questions that he would very much have liked to have had answered. In fact, he found himself strangely drawn to this creature and at another time would have welcomed the opportunity to speak with her, but now there was no time.

  “Where have they taken my friends? What will they do to them?”

  The female studied him quietly, wrapped in the same calm dignity that had accompanied her words. “I suppose they will kill them,” she said softly, the familiar words falling so oddly from her lips that at first he had trouble comprehending the meaning. It was a thing that his mind could not seem to grasp, as strange and peculiar to him as if Beast had suddenly begun to talk. But she did talk and he needed her knowledge if he was to save Keri and Carn.

  “Where will they go?” he demanded.

  “You cannot stop them,” she replied. “Their hatred is deep and unreasoning. You are but one small two-foot. What could you do against so many of them?”

  He raised his knife in silent answer, a silent threat to her as well, for he was desperate to know what was going to happen.

  “Men are the same whether they are two-foots or Madrelli,” the female said more to herself than to Braldt, seemingly unafraid of the upraised knife. “You all seem to think that violence and death are the answer to everything.”

  “I have no wish to harm you,” said Braldt, lowering his knife, “but I must help my friends and you must tell me what you know.”

  “There is nothing that I must do but die in my own good time and now that Arba Mintch is dead, it can be sooner rather than later, it does not matter overly much.”

  “I am sorry for your loss,” Braldt said, finding himself responding to her words much as he would have done to a grieving widow of his own people, for other than her appearance, as time passed, there seemed little difference. “But you must understand that I cannot allow my friends to be killed. You say that you are against killing, well help me then, help me free my friends from your people and prevent their deaths.”

  “Why should I help you,” the female asked, raising her head and looking at Braldt with something like interest in her large, luminous eyes, “after all it was your friends who attacked my people.”

  “The man is young and impulsive and too quick to act at times, but at heart he is a good man. The girl, his sister, is kind and generous and thinks much as you do about killing. They are my adopted family and neither of them deserves to die. Please help me, Sytha Trubal.”

  “Arba Mintch would say that I am a fool,” Sytha said to herself as tears filled her eyes and trembled on her lower lashes. “He said that there was no strength in compromise and that we would die unless we struck the first blow.”

  “But Arba Mintch is dead,” Braldt said softly, feeling her pain as she closed her eyes at his words, the tears trickling down through the fine bronze fur that covered the high cheekbones on either side of the broad, flat nose.

  “Yes, he is dead, struck down by the hard ones even as he broke the last of them and stopped them from their work.”

  Braldt wondered who and what the hard ones were and what it was they had been working at, for he could think of nothing that would meet that description, but he sensed that Sytha was weakening now and pressed on, regardless of the hurt he was causing her.

  “Help me stop the killing, Sytha, help me to help my friends. Perhaps there is a way to save them without bringing death to your people or to mine. If you truly believe what you say, then you will help me.”

  The kark known as Sytha raised her eyes to his and studied him carefully. “You would do this thing without killing?”

  Braldt paused. “If it is possible,” he said at last. “Yes.”

  “They will take them to the rock,” Sytha said with a sigh, rising slowly to her feet. She stood quietly, eyes downcast, lost in thought. “I do not think we can get there before them, but perhaps if we hurry, we can stop them. Yes, that is what we must do, if your two legs are equal to the task,” she said, looking up at Braldt with a quirk at the corner of her mouth that might have been the beginning of a smile.

  “I will keep up,” Braldt said gravely. Then, struck by a sudden thought, he turned and gazed around him, finding what he was seeking in the crumpled form of the pup, lying where he had fallen at the base of the far wall. He had expected to find the pup dead and was surprised to see his chest rise and fall. Picking the pup up
gently, Braldt placed him inside the drapes of his robe, where he had ridden so often before, and silently commended his fate to the gods. “I am ready,” he said.

  Sytha made no reply but turned and strode down the corridor, still brightly lit by torches that had been placed in holes in the wall. Following close on her heels, Braldt glanced around him and saw what he had only guessed at before. Each cleanly carved declivity held the earthly remains of a kark, some totally dessicated, their fur and skin brittle and paper-thin, clinging to their bones by habit alone. Others, more recently dead, slowly settling into the sleep of the ages. Beside each body was a small accumulation of articles, small, highly decorated pots containing seeds and nuts, bunches of dried flowers, a polished stone. One small body, obviously that of a child, was wrapped in a soft coverlet and the tiny fist still clutched the carved figure of a doll.

  Unwittingly, they had taken shelter in the burial ground of the karks, no small wonder that their discovery had earned them such a violent reaction. Nor could it have been otherwise, thought Braldt, for between kark and Duroni, there had never been anything but enmity. Even now his mind reeled with the thoughts of what he had seen and heard. Karks speaking, burying their dead in a civilized manner, reference to gods that certainly indicated some form of religion and philosophy, and now the lives of Carn and Keri resting in the hands of a kark, whom Braldt would have slain without thinking only a short time before. There was much that he did not understand. When there was time, he and this female, this Sytha Trubal, would talk and he would ask many, many questions.

  Once out of the cave it was difficult keeping up with Sytha for she covered the ground twice as quickly as he in a loose, loping sprint that utilized her hands as well as her feet, dropping to all fours when the terrain demanded it. Braldt found himself at a distinct disadvantage, staggering about and falling often on the rough ground, unable to use his hands as Sytha did to stabilize himself, and once he took a painful tumble down a steep slope, rolling over and over, falling atop Beast, and finally crashing to a halt against the bole of a tree, tangled in his robes and the straps of his pouch, smarting from a dozen cuts and bruises. Sytha helped him to his feet without a word, but thereafter her pace was more moderate.

  They followed no path or trail that Braldt could discern, first clawed their way up a sheer slope of slippery scree that threatened to bury them at every step, then slid down a nearly perpendicular rock face that removed several layers of Braldt’s skin, crossed a swiftly flowing torrent that took his breath away with its icy coldness, and finally made their way to the foot of a massive outcrop of shining black rock, so polished and bright that he could see his own exhausted image gaping back at him.

  But Sytha allowed him no time to rest, seizing him by the wrist and pulling him forward. Now he heard it, the sound of voices, angry voices chanting aloud. But this was no religious ceremony, no death dirge, although the result might well be the same, for the voices were chanting, “Death! Death! Death!” over and over and over, growing louder with each intonation, voices that were filled with the sound of rage and hatred rather than sorrow and grief.

  His feet found the carved steps that led up the side of the black outcrop, and together they made their way up the incredible stone, struggled over the final crest, and found themselves surrounded on all sides by a furious gathering of karks, all of whom were chanting, “Death! Death! Death!”

  His wrist was still firmly gripped by Sytha and as he found himself pulled deeper and deeper into the angry mob, Braldt began to fear that he had allowed himself to be entrapped and that soon he too would join his companions as they faced their deaths.

  All around him, karks were becoming aware of his presence. Some few snatched at him with sharp, claw-tipped digits, or tried to strike at him, but his passage was too swift as Sytha made her way through the crowd, the karks parting to allow her to pass, deferring to her even in their rage as though she were royalty. Braldt caught brief glimpses of these attitudes before the expressions turned from quiet deference to rage at the sight of him, and he could but wonder what role Sytha played in this strange society before his thoughts returned to that of his own survival.

  And then as the crowd parted before them once again, Braldt saw that they had come to the end of their journey. Before them stood two karks, one taller and bigger than any they had seen before, an elaborate headband fastened around his massive brow, festooned with shells and feathers and bits of the black, shiny rock. Fixed in the center between his jutting brows was the small curl-horned skull of a highland bik-bik, swift of foot and almost impossible to bring down with spear or sling. Bright, intelligent eyes fixed on him and he felt as though his entire self had been judged in that single glance.

  Braldt wrenched his eyes away and stared at the second of the karks. This one was old, older even than Auslic from the look of him, for his fur was white and grey and pocked with the mark of ancient scars. He too wore a headband although his was plain and bore no ornament other than a chunk of the shining, black rock, worked in some elaborate design that Braldt’s eyes could not identify at the distance. And while the younger kark’s gaze had been filled with nothing but hatred, this one looked on him with something akin to sorrow. Holding up a pale and withered hand to silence the angry mob, the old one approached them.

  “Sytha Trubal,” he said softly, the words somehow conveying the weight of his caring as well as containing the unspoken question.

  “Uba Mintch,” she replied with respect, bowing her head toward him and gently but powerfully tugging on Braldt’s hand so that he too was forced to bow as well or have his arm jerked from its socket. “We have come to speak with you about these two-foots and ask your guidance.”

  “There is nothing to talk about, nothing at all!” The younger of the two karks thrust himself forward, standing so close to them that they felt the exhalation of his breath and were threatened by his very nearness. Braldt resisted the need to step back, to put space between himself and the kark, and stood straight, doing his best to show no fear. Sytha Trubal stood upright beside him, letting go of his wrist and her hand slipped into his and squeezed it gently as though giving him courage. It also served to let him know that she had not abandoned him and he was shamed for his thoughts.

  Sytha stared directly at the young male and did not flinch from his angry gaze. “It is a time for the killing to stop, Batta Flor. Killing accomplishes nothing, leaving only the desire to kill more. I have come to ask counsel of Uba Mintch and only he can deny my request.”

  “We will talk after we have given the two-foots to the Master. Then, their spirits can join you at the Council Ring. Take this one too!” he cried aloud, gesturing at Braldt. Braldt felt himself seized on either side by rough, powerful hands that began to drag him backward.

  “No!” Sytha Trubal spoke the word softly, yet it was enough to stop those who held him, and he could literally feel the weight of their indecision. Sytha drew him toward her, away from their nonresisting grasp, and placed her hand on his shoulder. “This two-foot is mine. He is mine to claim. I take his hand willingly as all may see,” and so saying she raised their two joined hands above their heads to the shocked gasps of the crowd. “He is now under my protection. None may harm him. The others are his blood family and as such are mine as well. My roof is theirs now. They are Mintch. They are Madrelli.”

  The kark known as Batta Flor stared at Sytha Trubal as though unable to believe his ears. Disbelief and pain filled his eyes, which were black and small, and his jaw drooped in what might have been a comic expression, had his distress not been so evident.

  “You are sure of this, Sytha Trubal?” the old one asked quietly. “Such a thing has never been done before.”

  “Well, maybe it is time for such a thing now,” Sytha replied, her voice even softer than before, but Braldt, from the short time he had been with her, could sense the fact that even she was shaken by her own actions.

  “But, I had thought that you and I… Sytha, how can you t
ake a two-foot under your roof, give him your name?” Batta Flor was pleading openly now, the threatening air gone completely, beseeching Sytha to listen. “He has no hair,” he said in bewilderment, apropos of absolutely nothing.

  “You will always be a welcome guest under my roof, Batta Flor, but it is time for the killing to stop.”

  “Do you realize what you have done, Sytha Trubal. You have given the keeping of the tribe into the hands of the enemy. You have betrayed us. You have killed us!” A low moan rose behind Braldt as he struggled to comprehend the meaning of what he was hearing. Women began to weep and distressed voices broke out on all sides. Batta Flor stared at Sytha Trubal, begging her silently to take back her words, but even though Braldt felt her hand tremble in his, she did not speak again.

  “It is done.” Batta Flor spoke in dull, numbed tones, all hope extinguished from his voice. Turning to face the crowd, he raised his arms and spread wide his fingers. The crowd fell silent except for an undertone of frightened crying. “Let it be known that Sytha Trubal, mate of Arba Mintch, High One of the Madrelli, has this day chosen one to share her roof. He and those of his family must pass among us in peace. This is the way of the Madrelli, let no one among us say nay!”

  He lowered his arms to the sound of open weeping and, without looked at Sytha Trubal again, turned, his powerful arms hanging loose at his sides, and walked away with head bowed.

  Uba Mintch approached them now, his eyes troubled, and stood there silent, pondering.

  “Father,” Sytha said simply. “There did not seem anything else to do. I could not think of anything that would stop the killing.”

  Uba Mintch’s grey muzzle twisted to one side in an all-but-toothless grin. “Well, you certainly stopped it,” he said wryly. “Now, what are you going to do?”

  “I—I don’t know,” she replied, uncertainty entering her voice as she looked up at Braldt with wide eyes as though only just realizing the enormity of her actions.