The Hunter (16 page)

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 take 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.

No longer restrained, Keri and Carn retreated from the
edge of the black rock and hurriedly joined Braldt, looking around them as though they expected to be attacked at any moment.

“What did you say? How did you do that?” Keri cried as she rushed to his side, ignoring Sytha and Uba Mintch as though they
did not exist.

“I did nothing, there was nothing I could do,” Braldt said, noticing the way that Uba Mintch was forced to step aside to avoid
Carn’s approach. “It was Sytha Trubal who saved your lives.”

Carn and Keri turned and stared at Sytha who did not meet their eyes but stared down at the ground. “What… How?” Keri asked
in bewilderment.

The old kark rested on his stick and sighed heavily, the weight of his years bowing him down. “Sytha Trubal was mate to my
son. He was High One of the tribe. Upon his death, Sytha Trubal became High One in Waiting because they had no son. She has
chosen this one, this two-foot, as her mate. He is now High One of the Madrelli and ruler of our tribe.”

Carn, Keri, and Braldt stared at Uba Mintch in shock,
barely comprehending his words. Braldt had heard the words but took them to mean only that Sytha had extended to him the
protection of her home, much as a Duroni would do when hosting a guest. Now, it was apparent that her words had meant much
more. He was now her mate, mated to a creature whom he had regarded as an animal only a dawning ago! Had it really been so
short a time?

Carn barked out a short laugh accompanied by Keri’s cry of dismay as she turned to Braldt in disbelief. “But how…”

“Come,” interrupted Uba Mintch. “We must talk.” He did not stop to see if they would follow, but turned and shuffled away,
following the edge of the plateau, seemingly unaware of the fact that the drop was sheer and unbroken, falling thousands of
feet to the rocks below. Braldt followed Sytha, who did not even seem to be aware of his presence and walked swiftly, wrapped
in her own thoughts.

The massive outflow of shining, black rock sloped sharply downward in a smooth flow, resembling nothing so much as a sheet
of black water that had somehow been changed to solid stone. As they made their descent, the shining black flow came to an
end, merging with ordinary grey stone and earth.

The kark, or Madrelli, as they called themselves, village came into view then. It lay in a small valley cradled between two
towering white-capped peaks, sheltered on three sides by mountainous walls of rock, and approachable only from the edge of
the plateau. Braldt admired the clever placement of the village for it seemed all but unassailable by
an enemy. A thick ribbon of muddy red water, which could only have had its source in the mountains above, swept through the
village, lapping at the uppermost edges of its channel and dividing the village in two.

The village itself and the sixty or more dwellings came as a complete surprise. Braldt would have supposed that karks lived
in trees or slept on the ground in grassy nests, but these were no crude nests, but cleverly made buildings constructed entirely
of wood and stone. As they entered the village by way of a smooth road made of the shining black stone, all doors and windows
were tightly closed, and Braldt had the distinct impression that they were being viewed by many curious eyes.

The main avenue that ran alongside the canal was laid with the black stone as well, carefully fitted stones that provided
a smooth and unbroken footing. The dwellings rose to their left and stood slightly above the road and back, allowing for small
plots of ground where bright flowers and carefully tended herbs grew in profusion.

The homes themselves were a marvel of the builder’s art and even Carn was awestruck at the beauty of their design. Somewhat
lower in height than Duroni dwellings, each home was distinct in its design as though reflecting the personality of its builder.
Some were constructed entirely of the black, shiny stone, while others were a combination of black and the more common grey.
Some builders had chosen to use the trunks of trees rather than stone, and these had been stripped of their bark and with
the passage of time had weathered to a pleasant silvery hue. Doors and windows were covered with narrow strips of woven lattice
that allowed the movement of air as well as permitting those inside to look out without being seen themselves.