The Masks of Sentinel

Chapter One part 2 of 3

  
          "And that's all I remember of that night at the inn. The light from those blasted eyes seemed to swallow me up. I woke the next morning to find that I'd signed a contract allowing Falk full control of the Kuthnar, for an unlimited period. To be fair, the terms were not ungenerous. Even so, it was hardly an attractive prospect. I took the agreement to the nearest magistrate. Watertight. And the rest you know."
          "Only too well," Symos had said, with an ironic smile.
          Now it was over, except for the journey home. The outward voyage had taken almost a hundred days, and had brought the Kuthnar farther north than it had ever been, way off the regular shipping lanes. Despite everything, all would have agreed that there had been worthwhile moments: wonders and excitements they would talk about for the rest of their lives. They had anchored off legendary coasts, put in at strange ports. They had sighted vessels of exotic origin and alien design, including a sea-eagle from ice-walled Skarnyr (which, luckily, had shown no reciprocal interest). They had gone to the assistance of a derelict; but, seeing only rats swarming over the deck and up the rigging, they had set it ablaze with a volley of fire-arrows. They had found a funerary boat, its lone occupant wrapped in gold and staring at the world through jewelled eyes; it had sailed on unplundered. They had seen a flying dragon with wings of living flame. And they had anchored between crystal towers that touched the sky.
          "The moon's moving," said Falk.
          "If there's logic in them, it's beyond my grasp."
          Tarush watched as the glowing disk sank towards the landward horizon, where the advancing night now stretched like a river, a starriver, across the sky. The moon progressed slowly at first; then suddenly accelerated, as though being pulled irresistibly to the starsea's edge, like an iron coin to a giant magnet. It plunged into the brightness - Tarush half expected an uprush of astral fire - then vanished beyond the distant castle towers.
          An instant later, there was a sound like thunder.
          "I remember now," Tarush said slowly. "A hearth-tale of long ago. It spoke of a country in the north ... of a city of scarlet, black and gold ... of a citadel like a giant's fist ... of a race of shape-shifters, offscourings of the Time-Before-Time .... Sounds like gibberish, I know. Anyway, the place was called Challun-Tioch, which means Fallen Moon."
          "The compass," Falk said.
          Puzzled, Tarush echoed, "The compass?"
          "You mentioned to me yesterday that its needle had started to behave erratically, as though in the grip of a powerful magnetic force."
          "Ah, yes," the captain muttered. "A persistent flux, though I'm convinced the effect is purely local. Why do you mention it?"
          "A random thought, nothing more."
          Tarush tangled his fingers in his beard, seeking peace of mind in the clicking of the beads.

          Wild-seeming, yet charged with purpose, the hawk flew on over unbroken greenwood.
          There was nothing alien in its outer shape. Its plumage was smooth and precise as veneered inlay, mottled and streaked with the colours of earth and ashes, amber and jet. Its eyes were hard and bright as beads of gold, its beak and talons cruel as hooks of dark blue steel.
          Observed from the ground, its pattern of flight alone would mark it as a hawk, a lord of the winds.
          Yet it was more, far more, than a mere tangle of instinct: more than just a natural mechanism, however perfectly evolved.
          At last, the tightknit forest thinned, the paler green of grass and the flash of streams showing through. Glades and lakes appeared. Far off, the woods faded into a vague purple expanse. And beyond this, the wall of mountains, overhung with the widening crest of the starsea.
          Suddenly, below, a rush of movement, an advancing swirl of flickering light.
          Instantly, the hawk dived, hovered above the treetops.
          A jagged brazen sound pierced the woodland quiet. Answering blasts quickly followed: horns, calling each to each with shrill, eager voices.
          At the edge of a rock-strewn clearing, motes of brightness thickened, surged.
          Overhead, the moon started its descent.
          Even as the noise of horns grew more strident, more exultant, other tones fought to be heard: shouting, the pounding of hooves, the baying of blood-maddened dogs.
          A man broke free of the forest. He froze, clearly uncertain as to his next action. Then he began to run, in a curious, crouching, apelike manner, towards the opposite curve of the wood. The hawk swung down to track him.
          The man did not get very far.
          Hounds foremost, the hunt erupted into the daylight; then rushed, a shining, many-hued wave, over the floor of the glade. The hounds were long and lean and black. The hunters were clad in silks and jewels; their mounts were white as foam; their lances glinted in the sun.
          Naked and weaponless, the terror-stricken quarry wove erratically among the boulders. The hawk hung close above him, watching every move. The cause of the man's distorted posture was now apparent: a pair of branching horns, similar to those of a stag, extended from his skull. This bestial appearance was enhanced by a down of russet fur, covering his head and the back of his body.
          A tumult of sound and movement filled the glade.
          Howling, snarling, red tongues bright, the dogs hurtled through the long grass. Yelling and laughing, the hunters jostled with each other, seeking favoured positions for the kill. Horses snorted, reared, pawed at the ground. And still dominating the general clamour, the frenzied screams of the hunting horns.
          Flame-eyed, grunting, the man continued his hopeless flight. Hounds snapped at his heels and lower legs. Drops of blood flew through the air, speckling black muzzles and green grass.
          An arrow whistled past the hawk. Faster than the shaft itself, the winged watcher sped skyward. It witnessed the next stages of the deathgame from a secure height.
          As the dogs closed upon him, the horned man turned to face them. He lowered his head. With an air of dark ritual, the chief hunters, their faces pale and rigid with excitement, urged their mounts into a wide, loose ring about hounds and prey.
          Like a cloud of boiling black smoke, the pack surged over the waiting man.
          He did not die easily, his antlers being sharp and many-branched. He gored two of the dogs to death, injured several others, then broke free. He ran straight at the circle of riders, blindly, hounds tearing at his back.
          One of the hunters, a woman, rode forward to meet him.
          Slowly, so as not to attract attention, the hawk flew nearer the scene.
          The woman was black-haired, beautiful. A green velvet cloak swathed her body. Moaning, the dying man clutched at the mane of the woman's horse, then fell away. His trailing fingers striped the white coat with glistening red: a curiously heraldic effect.
          Unnoticed by all save the hawk, the moon gathered speed and hurtled down the sky.
          There was a sound like thunder.
          And then the huntress' cloak flew open and back, like a pair of wide wings unfurling. A naked sword flashed free, described a gleaming arc, sliced into flesh, bit through bone.
          The man's head leapt from his shoulders on a plume of blood.
          The woman laughed.

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