Sentinelspire

Chapter Two

Berun watched Lewan disappear into the tall grass. He'd hurt the boy. Lewan was confused and afraid, but that couldn't be helped. This job had seemed so simple. Something had been killing sheep around some of the villages that Hubadai, the self-proclaimed ruler of the Hordelands, had established along the Great Amber Steppes. Not all that unusual so near the Shalhoond, but eleven days ago two shepherds had been attacked, one killed, and one saved only by the quick ministrations of the village healer. The villages had banded together and sent out a hunting party. They hadn't been seen since, so the villages had hired Berun to track down the beast. Simple enough. Berun had done many such jobs over the past few years since wandering into this part of the world. The little gold it put in his hand helped to buy what supplies he and Lewan could not take from the wild. But this simple job had just turned into something much, much worse.

Berun's mind swirled. Rising fear told him to go after Lewan, to collect the boy and head south into the deep wood where they could lose themselves. Maybe hide among the yaqubi. Let Hubadai's new villages fend for themselves or call upon their new khahan for aid. If Berun's guess was right, then this was no rogue tiger he was following. And those hunters sent out by the village would likely never be seen again.

But another voice whispered round the edges of his fear.

An old half-elf's voice. Chereth, his teacher. Berun had spent many seasons with Chereth beneath the boughs of the Yuirwood, far to the north and west, learning from him the sacred ways of the wild, the paths of life and death, the hearts of growing things. As a Master of the Yuirwood, Chereth had long been devoted to his own woodland home, but as a servant of Silvanus, he was also sworn to protect all the wild places of the world, and that service sometimes took him and his disciple far from home. Over the years, his devotion sometimes turned to obsession, and he walked hundreds of miles, searching for old lore and relics.

Chereth and Berun's last journey together five years ago had taken them into the depths of the Ganathwood, whose long-dead inhabitants shared a common heritage with the ancient elves of the Yuirwood. They had found what they sought and-were leaving, were in fact nearing the edges of the wood, when they came upon a large band of marauders, made up mostly of escaped slaves from Thay and Mulhorand who had fled to the Ganathwood and gone savage. The band had raided some of the outlying villages of Murghom, stealing supplies and taking captives. They were bloodied and tired, yet they pushed themselves to reach the shelter of the wood. Chereth and Berun hit them hard.

The fight had been short but brutal, the few surviving marauders taking to the woods in different directions. But Chereth and Berun had underestimated the raiders' bloodlust. As the fight turned against them, they'd killed their captives rather than see them freed. Chereth and Berun had only managed to rescue one, a young boy.

"How is he?" Chereth asked.

"Frightened," said Berun. "Looks starving but he won't eat. I barely got him to swallow a mouthful of water. He has the look of a hare before the hawk's talons strike."

"And he fears we are hawks?"

Berun considered a moment. "I don't know that he's thinking even that much."

"Do what you can for him."

Berun heard the farewell in the statement. "Master Chereth?"

The old half-elf looked away. "I must leave you now, my son.

"Wh-what? Why?"

"I found what I sought in the Ganathwood. The final branch of a tree that I have long watched grow. Now that I have it, I must go."

"Go where?"

"To fell the tree."

"Have I failed you in some way, Master?"

Chereth turned back to him. "No, my son. You have surpassed all my hopes for you. Some days I wish you were truly the son of my body as well as my teaching."

"My place is with you, Master."

"Not this time. Not this fight. Tend the slain captives here. Leave the dead raiders for the wolves. Malar must have his offering as well as our Lord Silvanus. Then take care of the boy. Most of all, you must care for this."

Chereth reached inside his shirt and pulled out a necklace braided from thin strips of leather. Fastened on the end was a medallion of sorts, a mass of hardened wood and vine in a twisting pattern that encased three small stones, each just a shade off amber. The bits of wood and vine were dark, obviously ancient and worn, yet they seemed to possess a strange vitality, almost as if they were veins pulsing with life from the three stones within.

"Erael'len,"said Chereth.

"The Three Hearts," said Berun, translating. "But Master, you are its sworn guardian."

"Yes. I swore to keep it safe. Where I now go, I cannot keep that oath. But you can."

"But Master, you've only begun to teach me its secrets."

"And you have done well. You must continue now on your own. Guard Erael'len with your life." Chereth looked away, and when he spoke again, Berun heard an odd note in his voice. "Do what you can for the boy. He has the look of one of the Murghom. Head east and ask among the ataman. See if you can find a family for him. Leave word whenever you stop. I'll find you when I am done, if I can."

Berun looked around. Swarms of flies buzzed around the dead, alighting on eyes open to nothingness and clogging wounds where the blood already seemed more black than red. The boy sat still, hugging his knees, his eyes clenched shut.

"When will that be, Master? When will you be done?"

"I do not know. You must promise me one thing, Berun."

"What?"

"Do not search for me. No matter what you hear." Chereth was staring eastward. "If word does not come directly from me, you must… let me go."

Berun considered this, and he wondered what had held his master's attention in the east. That way lay the Mountains of Copper, the spider-haunted Khopet-Dag, the great Shalhoond, and beyond that Sentinelspire. That was it.

"Master," he said. "This has to do with… with Kheil, doesn't it? Kheil and the Old Man of the Mountain."

The tears were gone from Chereth's eyes now, and his gaze was hard. "You must promise me, Berun."

Berun closed his eyes, swallowed, and managed a rasp. "Kheil is dead, you know."

"Even the dead can be raised," said Chereth. "You of all people should know this. Now promise me that you will do as I say. Swear it."

"I swear it, Master."

Chereth extended his staff and turned it. Near the end was a tangled knot of thorns, still green and hale. "Swear it in blood, my son."

Berun grasped the thorns and squeezed until he felt them bite his palm and fingers, then he opened his hand to show the blood pooling there. "I swear I will not come after you," he said. "Save on your word alone. By my blood upon thorn, I swear it."

Crouched amongst the tall grasses and thin trees, Berun looked down upon his hand. The scars from that oath had long since healed-he had worn off many calluses in the years since-but the oath held him still.

He had sworn blood upon thorn not to seek his old master, save on Chereth's word alone. And that word had never come. But what now? He had never sought Kheil's old paths. But now it seemed someone else had. They'd come to him. It was flee or fight. Hunt or be hunted.

Berun strung his bow-a long curve of yew, runes burned the entire length of the wood-and chose a special arrow, the one whose sharp steel head had three tiny holes near the shaft, threaded through with tiny bits of blue hemlock. Not fresh. It had been two days since he'd threaded the fibers, but they'd still do the trick if it came to that. Berun nocked the arrow and took up the trail.

Time to hunt.