The Hunter Read online

  Carn was far easier to understand. He was Duroni through and through, quick to act without thought, violent, and unpredictable. He could be managed, but it would mean keeping a close rein on his own emotions and refusing to be baited. It would be hard, but it could be done. For the love of Sytha Trubal, he would have been willing to endure much, much more.

  Braldt rose to his feet and slipped into his pack, signaling that the day was about to begin.

  “Do you not think that we might try to circle the lake?” said Batta Flor, careful to phrase the thought in the form of a question, thus appealing to the two-foots’ own sense of importance. “There appears to be a narrow band around the edges where we might safely travel. Our path must surely lie in one of those caverns on the far side.”

  His companions turned their attention to the path he had indicated. Carn was the first to speak.

  “Never,” he said flatly. “It’s too dangerous. How do we know that it goes all the way around. It could stop halfway. And even if it does go all the way, the rock may be unstable and we’d fall into the lake and be cooked. I say we go back and take the other tunnel, the one that went down. At least we know it’s going in the right direction.”

  “But, Carn, we’re here,” Keri said hesitantly. “I hate to go back all that way. Why don’t we try doing what Batta Flor says. We can test the path with our spears and if it’s not stable or ends, we can always come back and try the tunnel.”

  “You’d side with him?” Carn said with a hateful look. “I should have known. You should have stayed behind, you’ve been nothing but trouble from the first.” Keri’s face turned red, and staring down at the black sand, she bit back an angry reply.

  “I am tempted to give this plan of yours a try,” mused Braldt, breaking into the exchange. “But we cannot be certain that the path will continue or that any of those tunnels will lead to anything but dead ends. Whereas we know that the tunnel we passed is both clear and leads downward. I think that we should return and see where it leads. It is not so far that we cannot change our minds.”

  Rather than provoke further angry words from Carn, Keri and Batta Flor gave in and the small group began to retrace the previous day’s steps. Beast seemed to think that they were returning to the surface and he bounded along, turning and barking at them if their steps flagged. The downward slope that had led them to the lake had seemed gentle during their descent, but returning was another matter and their aching muscles were a vivid reminder that whether inside or out, they were indeed climbing a mountain.

  They reached their destination about midmorning, using the known burn time of the waxy cubes as a gauge. There had been an attack of shadows to keep them alert. The scaly creatures had chosen to attack at a turn in the tunnel where there was no forewarning. Beast had not scented them for some reason and Keri had sustained a painful scrape all along the length of one arm before the lizards were beaten back by the flames.

  They turned into the new tunnel with a sense of relief and high expectations, with the exception of Batta Flor who became increasingly nervous as time passed. He examined his feelings but could place no name to them, but he was nervous and started at every unexpected noise and he felt anxious as though awaiting some unknown dreaded event. Several times he opened his mouth to speak, to share his fears with his companions. But each time he remained silent, knowing that the two-foots would not accept unsubstantiated fears as valid grounds for retreat. Carn would be certain to call him a coward, which would only make matters worse.

  The farther they advanced, the more loudly Batta Flor’s senses screamed of danger, yet there was no sign of anything wrong. The tunnel was both wide and smooth, and after the initial steep descent, it settled into an easy, gradual slope. Nor were shadows or the stinging moss in evidence. What’s more, occasional glimpses of dim daylight filtered down through cracks in the roof above them. These outward signs of normalcy seemed to greatly pacify the two-foots even as Batta Flor’s own senses warned him of imminent danger.

  The tunnel suddenly took a precipitous plunge downward and the walls and roof above them splintered into a mass of fractured stone, the various layers twisted and broken as though rent by some great pressure. Threads of hot vapor rose from the fissured stone and the smell of rotten eggs hung heavy on the air. From time to time their torches flared up brightly as though they fed upon the very air itself.

  “I think we should go back,” urged Batta Flor, no longer caring whether his manhood was called into question for the feeling of disaster clung to him like a second skin.

  “Look, we can get down easy, it’s just like climbing steps,” said Carn as he stepped down onto a great slab of tilted rock. “And there’s still enough daylight to light the way, we probably don’t even need these torches. Come on, let’s not quit just yet. I think we’re going the right way.” To demonstrate his faith in his own judgment, Carn snuffed out the torch and, stowing it in his pack, began to descend the broken rock.

  “No, wait!” cried Batta Flor, but the two-foots did not heed his warning and before he could stop them, Keri and Braldt had slipped over the edge and begun to follow Carn. Only the lupebeast pup remained on the edge of the break, whining nervously and trotting back and forth in indecision, even though he could easily have jumped to the next ledge.

  “You feel it too, don’t you,” whispered Batta Flor, knowing with certainty that something was dreadfully wrong. Beast sat down on his haunches and, throwing his muzzle back, howled, an eerie sound that echoed throughout the tunnel, magnifying itself and returning over and over again. It was the sound of death.

  Batta Flor could see them still, they had descended swiftly and now appeared to be resting some distance below him. Oddly enough, they did not seem to respond to the sound of Beast’s cries. Batta Flor would have expected Braldt to call to the pup, reassuring him and urging him to follow. But there was no call from Braldt who appeared to be leaning back against a rock as though catching his breath. Nor was there any comment from Carn who would surely have welcomed the opportunity to heap scorn on Batta Flor’s lack of courage. He had gone the farthest of the three and was lying on his belly, peering over the edge at what lay below. Keri was nearly hidden from sight, wedged in a narrow crack on a small ledge holding her head in her hands. Why were they resting, the descent was not that difficult?

  Batta Flor gently wrapped his hand around Beast’s muzzle, as he had seen Braldt do, urging the pup to be silent. The pup turned worried eyes to him and whimpered. “Yes, little one, I feel it too, something is wrong, but howling will not help. Listen now. What can be heard?” But there was nothing to be heard but a steady sibilant hiss and the crackling of his torch as it flared brightly.

  Batta Flor placed his head on one side and then the other, listening, trying to place the sound, trying to remember… And then he had it! Bad air, poisoned air! Once, in the control chamber, such air had accumulated without warning, killing six Madrelli before the hard ones realized the cause. It had been necessary to drive ventilation shafts into the chamber from the surface, installing blowers that sucked the bad air out before it was safe to return. It had happened long before his own birth, but the tale was still told by the elders.

  Batta Flor thought swiftly. What could be done? Were the two-foots already dead? How fast did the bad air work? His first thought was to run away, to leave the place as quickly as possible before he too fell victim to the poisonous gas… but then he looked down at Keri’s still form and remembered the moment they had shared. How could he leave her to die; she did not deserve to perish. But if he rescued her, would he not have to rescue the one called Braldt as well? Keri would not thank him for saving her life while allowing Braldt to die. And if he rescued the two of them, how could he leave the hateful Carn behind? But if he did nothing at all, they would all die and he could return to the tribe and Sytha Trubal. He had warned them not to go and they had not listened. Their deaths would not be on his hands for they had willingly chosen their own course.


  But despite all of his arguments, Batta Flor knew in an instant that he could not leave them to their fate. Sytha Trubal would know with but a single glance, and what was more, he would know as well, and it would always be between them. To leave the two-foots to perish was a thing without honor. It was not the way of the Madrelli.

  The pup looked up at him and whined. “I will do my best, little one, but if I do not return, you must find your way back alone. You must save yourself if I fail.”

  Batta Flor fastened one end of his rope to the end of a rocky spire, tugging on it to see if it would hold his weight. Then, thinking of all that might go wrong, he wedged a bit of leather in between the rock and the rope so that its sharp edges would not sever the rope. There did not seem to be anything else he could do, and muttering loudly, cursing the Madrelli sense of honor, he began his descent, wishing not for the first time that it were possible to believe in the things the Duroni called gods.

  His agility and the Madrellis’ ability to use their feet with as much dexterity as their hands allowed him to descend quickly. Keri was the closest. He found her slumped across a fold of rock, eyelids fluttering, her color sickly, teetering on the edge of consciousness. Batta Flor debated taking her up first, but reasoned against it for although she was obviously not well, she was still alive. The others might need him more.

  Holding his breath against the unseen poisonous air, Batta Flor fairly skipped down the rock face passing Braldt until he reached Carn. There was a high-pitched ringing in his ears and he felt dizzy, although whether it was from holding his breath or absorption of the gases, he did not know. Without pausing to see if Carn was alive or dead, he picked him up, threw him over his shoulder, and began the long climb to safety.

  It was harder than he had thought it would be. Carn did not weigh half as much as he, but as he struggled up the fractured rocks, searching for handholds and footholds, Carn grew heavier and heavier. His vision blurred and his lungs burned and begged for air. He could not hold his breath any longer and breathed shallowly through his mouth. They passed the sprawled figure of Braldt, oddly stilled, like a child’s toy with the stuffing removed, his face tinged with blue.

  Batta Flor resisted the temptation to rest, knowing that he might not have the strength to return, seized Braldt by the wrist, and dragged him along, staggering now under the extra burden. His strength was great and his powerful shoulders capable of bearing great loads, but he was not performing under favorable conditions.

  He was panting now, the breath searing all along the length of his throat, burning a line down the center of his chest. He could hear Beast barking but the sound rolled around inside his head, echoing loudly, over and over without end, and he wished he could make it stop.

  Now he could hear his own breath as well, harsh, rasping gasps that were an auditory reflection of his pain. He could not feel his feet and looked down to discover them gripping stone and climbing as though with a mind of their own. One toe was bleeding badly from a long, deep gash, but it was as though it had happened to someone else for he could not feel the pain.

  Keri was on the ledge where he had left her, mumbling to herself, and for some reason this struck him as humorous and he began to laugh, but laughing made him dizzy and he stumbled and fell to his knees, nearly letting go of Braldt. With great difficulty, he pulled the dead weight that was Braldt onto the ledge and he sucked in great breaths of air into anguished lungs. The world swung around him like a giant pendulum and he blinked his eyes and tried to stabilize. It only made things worse. Spittle was coating his cheek, clotting the fur, and he drew away in distaste for he was fastidious about his person.

  He knew that he was in great danger. He would never see Sytha Trubal again if he did not rise, and this thought more than any other enabled him to fight off the desire to rest, to close his eyes for just one moment, to not have to climb with fingers that could no longer feel. He knelt beside Keri and knotted the rope around her chest. She stared at him with eyes that held no sign of recognition and he saw the faint blue tinge beginning to color her skin.

  Beast’s cries became louder and louder and then, even as he sought for another handhold on the smooth rock, he felt Beast’s teeth close on his pelt and pull, hard enough to hurt. He cursed the pup for ignoring his command to stay. Why had it not been smart enough to remain where it was safe?

  He raised his hand to continue, but there were no more handholds, the rock rose smooth and unbroken above him. There were no holds at all. They were on a ledge, a broad ledge, one that went back and back and back into darkness. Slowly, Batta Flor sank to his knees. He could do no more and Beast would not release his hold, which was becoming painful as well as bothersome. He had tried but he had failed. Tears came to his eyes as he thought of Sytha Trubal, the way the sun shone on her fur, the way her stripes flared when she was angry. The way she looked when she was in love, a look that would never be bestowed on him. Holding her vision to him, he allowed the darkness to take him.

  It was Beast who brought him back, barking over and over in his ear and licking his muzzle and his eyelids, urging, no, demanding, that he waken. Lupebeast spittle coated his muzzle and stuck to his lashes and Batta Flor swatted at the small animal, cursing him as he sat up with a groan. His head ached as though he had been drinking fermented silverwood sap. There was a bad taste in his mouth and his blood flowed too loudly inside his head. He wished that he were at home in his own bed. Why had he come? For a moment he could not remember where he was or why.

  And then he remembered. Keri! With barely a look at the crumpled figures beside him, he pulled on the rope, feeling the dead weight dangling on the other end, wondering, hoping, that she was still alive. How long had he been unconscious? He cursed himself for the lazy kark that he was, hoping, praying to the gods of the Duroni that the girl had not died. His arms trembled like those of a child and he felt as though he would be sick, but he worked at the rope, feeling it inch its way upward, fearing what he would find on the other end.

  Keri’s head came into sight, lolling back at an awkward angle, deeply tinged with the ominous blue, her eyes rolled back in their sockets. She did not seem to be breathing. Batta Flor pulled her over the edge onto the floor of the tunnel and loosened the rope from her chest, seeing the deep indentations left by the coarse fiber. He dragged her to one of the slender cracks in the rock, noting that darkness had all but arrived and placing her facedown, he began pressing on her back and then releasing it in a semblance of breathing. Nothing happened. Batta Flor’s fingers were shaking when he turned her over; grasping her chin in one hand and her nose in the other, he began breathing into her mouth as he had been taught to do. Hot tears filled his eyes and dropped on her face. He continued his efforts long after he had reason to believe that he might succeed, simply because to cease was to release her unto death. This he could not bring himself to do.

  “Please, please don’t die,” he whispered. A bright silvery shape came into view through the slender crack in the stone and even as he breathed into the girl’s mouth, he composed a prayer to the orb whom the Duroni believed to be their god. Batta Flor had always been taught that there were no such things as divine beings, that everything in the universe had a cause and an explanation, but at that moment, the lack of a greater being in whom one might place one’s fate meant that there was no one and nothing who could help Keri but he himself. And, he feared, that was not enough.

  “Mother Moon, I speak to you as a Madrelli. I am not one of those who worship you, but this two-foot is. She is dying, Mother Moon, and she deserves to live. For the sake of this Duroni who believes in you, please grant her life.”

  No sooner had he thought the wish than he felt Keri stir beneath his hands. She turned her head to cough and the coughing led to vomiting. Batta Flor held her head over the edge of the precipice and wiped her face clean with tears of joy streaming down his muzzle. He did not know what it meant, and for the moment it was enough that she lived. But Batta Flor could not ignore the fac
t that his prayers had indeed been answered.

  20

  Batta Flor could scarcely remember the journey back to the dark lake. His head throbbed with pain and his eyes burned. His lungs felt as though they were afire, blazing anew with every inhalation, and he was overcome with nausea on numerous occasions. But he suffered far less than his companions, all of whom had stumbled and staggered along behind him, bound together with the rope tied around their waists.

  It had been necessary to carry Carn a good portion of the way for he kept falling and bringing the others down with him since he had descended the farthest and thus breathed in more of the bad air. Even now he lay still on the black sands, unmoving, his skin an unnatural shade of grey, and Batta Flor wondered if he would survive. He would not miss the two-foot if he died and he would have the satisfaction of knowing that he had done all that was possible to save the man.

  Keri crouched beside the fire, shivering even though the air was warm and close, and brewed more of the bitter brew that the Duroni seemed so fond of. Batta Flor took his own portion from her shaking fingers and was surprised to find that while it warmed his insides it also seemed to ease the pain in his chest. He drank the rest without argument and felt greatly revived, as the tight bands loosened their painful grip on his head.

  Braldt was sitting up now, sipping the steaming brew from a gourd. His color was not good but at least he was alive. “You saved our lives,” he said, looking Batta Flor directly in the eye. Batta Flor said nothing.