A mass of tracks, many of them trampling others. Among the few clear ones were more tiger tracks. Judging by the size, it was the same beast covering the same ground a few times, but in one smooth patch of soil was a boot print, distinct and undisturbed. It was big and deep. Whoever had made it was at least as tall as Berun;-and much heavier.
Scratched into the boot print-probably with a twig or a thick stalk of grass-were letters. Lewan was by no means a master of letters. In his sixteen years, his master had taught him only the basics, but he knew enough to recognize these. Written in the Thorass letters, they spelled out a word: KHEIL.
'Master, what does this mean?'
Berun swallowed and said nothing. He had gone pale, and Lewan noticed that Berun's fist gripping his bow was tense and white.
'Master? What-?'
'Lewan,' said Berun, his voice hoarse. 'Go back to the village. Keep to cover. Go slowly. Let no one see you. If you don't make it by dark, bed down secure and light no fire. No fire. Do you hear me? You must not be seen out in the open. Get to the village and stay there. Tell them that no one leaves the wall, save in numbers, and everyone goes armed, even behind the walls. Keep the fires lit at night-burning low, but the guards will need to see. And tell them to double their guards. Not just the gate. After dark, every turn of the wall must be watched.'
'I… I don't understand, Master. We've hunted worse than tigers before. Why send me back?'
'Later, Lewan. You will obey me in this. I shouldn't be more than a few days.'
'But I can help you.' 'Not this time.'
'What do those letters mean, Master? What is a 'Kheil?' '
'Not a what, Lewan. Kheil was a man. Now head back to the village.' Berun looked at him. His eyes were equal parts fury and fear. 'You will obey in this, Lewan. Go. Now.'
Lewan looked away. 'As you say, Master.'
'And Lewan?'
'Yes?'
'String your bow. Travel with an arrow in hand.'
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?'
