Turn 113

"I'm afraid not, but do tell me about him?" In the course of the discussion Emmett expounds cheerfully on one of his favorite topics, and learns something of the local dwarves' religion as well. It is a typically industrious pantheon they follow here and larger than many, with specialist deities overseeing many areas of dwarven life. He paints a very innocuous picture of quiet gods of craft and hearth.
    "Hmmm...and do any of those hearth gods specialize in weaponmaking? I hear tell you have some fine steel, and am looking for a head for my spear. The shaft is made of local hardwood by human craftsmen, but having a point of dwarvish steel would make it a better example of the world for my company."
    "Nothing on me, I'm afraid, but perhaps when we return to the city we can discuss the matter," is the affable reply. "There are some of my people working in the city, and they produce excellent weapons. Though I confess I am surprised; rumor would have it that there are entire worlds made of iron beyond our small purview." He gestures at the landscape around them, then the sky.

    * * *

    Yestin slings the crossbow with a sigh. He had little experience with hunting, and little desire for more. He could see where some men might find it exciting to pitch their strength against a dangerous beast, but the conclusion was, after all, almost foregone; dangerous though it may be, a mastodon was still only a dumb beast and no match for the wits or steel of a band of determined men. The Giff much preferred the thrill of true combat, battle against armed and cunning foemen, than this pale copy.
    Smiling to mask his indifference to the outcome of the hunt, Yestin lumbered after the other hunters on foot, careful to keep his stride small enough that the giant giff did not o'erpass his human companions. He unsheathed his massive two-hander, more to impress his fellow hunters than out of any intention to meet the beast with it.
    The mastodon does not give up its life easily; the chase and the battle goes on for the remainder of the day, an exhausting, exhilarating affair of flying spears, slashing swords, reddening snow, shrieking horses and shouting men. A couple of the footmen are trampled and killed in the course of the fight. The priests tend to the wounded and otherwise stay out of the thick of things. Ibn Fadil is having a grand time.
    At last, when the sun has vanished behind the mountain and their spears are hurled in uncertain torchlight, the great beast bellows its last and sinks to the ground, and the final blows are struck.
    A hush falls as the hunters gather around their kill. Gwidon begins a chant in praise of the gods, quickly joined by Lynden and the others. The first task is to remove the creature's heart, which will be used in the omen ceremony that ends the day--messy work for the priests, who are red from head to toe by the end. The tusks are taken as well as a few of the choicest cuts from the flesh.
    "A most excellent hunt," the king remarks, clearly pleased by the day. "Let us return to camp and see how the others have fared." A half dozen men are left behind to continue the job of dismantling the massive corpse and guarding it from the wolves whose voices can be heard not too far away, and the rest of them make their way back to where the others are waiting. At first they talk excitedly, but as the slow miles pass they grow tired. The men are tired, chilled, and hungry by the time the light from the camp can be seen.

    * * *

    And then it's gone. For the moment.
    "Everybody form up around the wounded!" the half man barks, maneuvering his mount to provide cover for Father Ziven. "I want a wall of sharp pointy deterrence to protect the good father and our comrades. Give them reason to look elsewhere for prey! Keep a close eye on your neighbors and if those things appear, back one another up." Once again the spear gets maneuvered upright and the scimitar is sheathed, replaced with a javelin. With any luck the poisoned horse will still be the most attractive prey, and he and Alais could dispatch the things at range when they appear.
    For what seems like a very long time nothing happens. The wounded horse moans and collapses. Nothing moves in the trees.
    "I've done what I can, but we should return to camp as soon as possible," Ziven announces, his brown brow furrowed with concern. They are short two horses, as the first victim's mount bolted off into the trees in the confusion following the initial attack, but the wounded are soon being carried by their comrades' sturdy beasts. Still they wait, not trusting the silence, and it is well that they do so! Perhaps wishing to avenge the devastating attack on its mate, the second spider appears mid-spring toward Alais, ignoring the spears of the men, and the young mage feels the needle-like fangs' touch and slumps down, too weak now to stand or even remain upright.
    Emmett's spear bites home once again before the thing can vanish, and the spider seems to be content with its parting wound, for it does not reappear, leaving only drops of ichor melting the snow. Ziven kneels down beside Alais and places a small black object in his mouth, murmuring quietly, and the dreadful progress of the poison is arrested.

    * * *

    The three groups of weary hunters finally stagger into the welcoming firelight to be greeted by the cheers and embraces of those who remained behind.
    Warm clothes, food, and wine await, and spirits are quickly revived, although it will be some days before the men wounded by the spider are up and about. Around each fire, men vie with one another to tell the best tale, employing mugs, knives, and cuts of roast meat in their efforts at pantomime. They lost a couple of men, but they died well in a quasi-holy cause and are no doubt being received by the gods.
    The lords of the court enjoy themselves no less than the soldiers, though for those who took part in the mastodon kill, their stories tend to prudently flatter His Majesty slightly more than themselves. The _Distraction_'s crew is emplaced among them, each taking part according to their nature. General Brosh, with an air of thoughtful surprise, gives considerable credit to Nyala for her role in killing the second of the boars they found, to which she merely smiles her mysterious smile. Ibn Fadil can tell that she has enjoyed the day immensely; no doubt these forests and the hunt have reminded her of the better days at home. Emmett has the most appreciative audience he could want in his tale of the day's unexpected encounter -- Inez appears to be immovably attached to his side -- and Alais' weak-voiced discourse on the nature of the enormous spiders is given all due respect.
    Everyone, in short, is having a good time.
    At one fire, the priests have gathered and are preparing for the rites that will end this first day. Songs are sung, and particular herbs cast into the flames. People begin drifting over in that direction by ones and twos, maintaining a respectful distance but curious to see. Quiet falls, broken only by the distant wolves and the occasional sound of snow or ice falling from a tree.
    At last the moment is judged correct. The hearts are cast into the fire, along with certain barks. A vast cloud of strangely-scented smoke issues forth, illumined from below by the flames. The watchers are silent and still, and everyone present is gripped by an almost physical sense of apprehension, a feeling of being borne down by the numinous presence gathering.
    Only the priests of the Rigolian gods clearly see the shapes that form, but those who are closest catch a glimpse here and there and stir uneasily, keeping silent only with effort as serpents and fell beasts swarm, and the treacherous fox grins malice. Armies march over plain and mountain, cities lie deserted, ships are dashed to pieces by grinding ice, and a vast form of demonic mien grows like a thunderhead over all. There is a distant sound - no two who hear it later report it to be the same, one suggesting swords beating on shields, another hoofbeats, another the sea, while still another heard a clash as of rattling chains.
    Straining every faculty to make out details of the shadows, Lynden is surprised at the end to see a familiar form take shape, that of his guide and god, huge to his eyes. The many-branched antlers hold up the sky, his legs are pillars that hold up mountains, there is nothing else in the world. The vast dark eyes look into his, the crown lowers to point at him -- in threat or benediction, he cannot say, and darkness falls over his eyes.
    Lynden is not the only one to faint (though he later finds that no one else saw Gerik's form in the smoke); several of the younger priests are likewise overcome by either fear or the intensity of the experience. The others stand dazed for some time, only slowly returning to themselves.
    "Sire, may we speak privately?" Gwidon breaks the silence at last, his voice hoarse. The two go off into the shadows of the forest; others of the councilors are summoned later on, and the discussion goes on far into the night, with all of those involved looking grave.

    * * *

    Brother Pham lies awake long into the night after his own prayers have been said. Though he did not see the visions that so affected the locals, he has heard them whisper to one another and is sorely troubled; the sense of looming disaster that has dogged him ever since he joined this crew has grown stronger. He looks back over his own visions, the tales of the half-crazed Hextorian on Janik, the connection that god seems to have with the atrocity in Myrr, the oddities in the Flow. Something is going to happen, something with terrible consequences, and it is no longer far off. And Hextor is clearly wrapped up in it. He stares at the stars, faintly hazed by the remnants of the sacrificial fire, dogged by the old unanswered questions about the god who called him until at last he drifts into uneasy sleep.

    * * *

    In the dead of night, when the camp has grown quiet at last after the strange omen-casting, ibn Fadil can hardly help noticing when someone joins him in his woolen cocoon (itchy, but warm).
    "Good evening," Nyala purrs in his ear.
    "I do hope our hosts will only consider me shameless, but I thought it best to speak to you as soon as may be without listeners. A most eventful day it has been -- during our chase this afternoon I was entertained by conversation with friend Steelhand while the good general was occupied with his quarry. He is most anxious to discover our position relative to the quarrels of this world, for he believes -- or would have us do so -- that this notorious Lord Durrell's first use for his imported steel is actually to attack the dwarves. If the man could but gain control of even a small portion of their mines, he would be then restrained by neither king nor the Victors' whims. And he is most anxious to know what is happening in that lord's demesne. Interesting, no?"

    * * *

    In the morning, funerals are held for the men killed by the mastodon. The second day of the hunt is fruitless; the soldiers are dispirited, the servants frightened, the nobles distracted by the omens of the first day, and as in Myrr those quickly become a self-fulfilling prophecy in unsophisticated eyes as every small mishap is taken as a sign of doom.
    By the third day, the hunters have recovered somewhat, and more game is found. Emmett earns himself further renown when, going out again with a small group of men, they bring down a good-sized bear. Ibn Fadil and Yestin, following King Roald once more (after elk this time), observe that he appears distracted, but puts on a reasonable show of enthusiasm despite the fact that his kingdom appears to be headed for some sort of catastrophe.
    With no little sense of trepidation, the ritual is performed again, and again the future appears grim. After the fourth day is much the same, the order is given to return to the city; the omens are clear, and now they must take counsel.
    While things are being packed and prepared all around, a servant summons Yestin to attend the Lord Chancellor. The old man is alone, sitting at a fire a bit apart from the bustle.
    "Ah, captain. Delightful. I hope you have found the week's excursion worthwhile?"
    ??
    After the small talk about the hunting, "You know something, I think, of the dilemma we face, the dangers of which we are warned. It goes beyond the bound of credulity that your presence here and the matters with which it is bound have nothing to do with the omens received. I will speak simply, therefore.
    "It is urgent that we know what is happening in Lord Durrell's realm, what seeds of evil these other visitors have sown and what fruit they might bear. Your vessel is swift, and your crew not without cleverness. Will you go and see what may be brewing there that can so trouble our whole world?"
    

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