The Hunter (15 page)

“Father, we bring you the body of our faithful brother Arba Mintch, killed before his time by the hard ones. We beg you to
take his spirit home and give it the peace in death that it fought for so long and bravely in life. Arba Mintch was the bravest
of the brave; he fought for the tribe always, defying the hard ones, bringing risk upon himself to spare the others. His mate,
Sytha Trubal, is left alone now, to spend her life in sorrow. Please send her comfort and ease her suffering. We beg you to
hear our words and come to our aid, or all of our bones shall litter the earth and our spirits will join those of Arba Mintch.
Do not desert us in our time of need, Father, but come to us now, we beg of you.”

These amazing words, spoken in the same odd, but understandable, inflections, were followed by a loud outcry of sobs as well
as individual pleas to the one known as Master or Father. The pain was so intense, the suffering so real, that it was all
that Braldt could do to keep himself hidden. No one who spoke so eloquently could be an animal, surely they could speak together.
Possibly they were Duroni, although such a thing did not seem possible. And who or what were the “hard ones”?

More words followed as the body was placed inside one of the cubicles on a lower level and somewhere to the side of Braldt’s
hiding place. There seemed to be a specific form that was followed, one that all were familiar with for the leader, the one
with the deep voice, spoke his words that
were then echoed by his companions or answered with set responses, all of which seemed to follow a familiar pattern.

The sounds of grief were given open vent now as the ceremony came to an apparent conclusion. That there were women present,
there was no doubt, and, from the sound of it, more than a few children. Oldsters, their voices reedy and thin with age, wailed
and cried aloud, offering themselves in return for the spirit of the dead Arba Mintch. Braldt felt himself swept up in the
depth of their desolation and wished that he could show himself and offer them some solace, but to do so was folly, he could
do nothing but hide and listen to their grief.

Then, the sounds that he had most dreaded came to his ears, the sound of Beast barking loudly and in full cry, filling the
small corridor with the sound of his alarm. There were sounds of shock and dismay from the mourners and then cries of anger
and rage. Torn between the need to remain hidden and the urge to leap from his cubby hole, Braldt listened in horror as Keri
and Carn were dragged forth and brought before the gathering.

There were heated demands for their death and cries of hatred broke out on all sides that Carn answered in turn, shouting
defiant insults. Keri, except for a single choked cry, said nothing. Beast continued his shrill barking until it too ceased,
suddenly and with an ominous finality.

Braldt clenched and unclenched his hands, wondering what to do, knowing now that these were no Duroni, no allies, knowing
that he was badly outnumbered and that their only hope was for his presence to go undetected. He could only hope that Keri
and Carn would not be killed outright, that somehow he would be given the chance to rescue them.

There were voices, then the speaker, he who had led the prayers and chanting, conferred with his people one at a time, polling
them as to their thoughts.

“Crotius,” he intoned.

“Death to them as they would deal death to us!” came the reply.

“Ambest.”

“Kill the sneaking two-foots!”

“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.

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.