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Authors: Leonard Carpenter
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side. There, on the right, came the scrabble of cloven hooves over rock. He angled toward the sound, letting the downhill course speed him along. Then he had to slow and negotiate an expanse of jagged, broken scree.
At the bottom there was no clue. A broad, sunny glade spread before him, grass-tufted but without discernible track. The prey might have entered the trees at any point along the farther side; to search for traces would cost time, enabling his quarry to rest or lose itself. He scanned the bright, blinding forest edge in vain.
Then came sharp trillings. A pair of birds fluttered from the trees, scared up by his quarry, no doubt. Breaking into a run, he headed straight for the source.
When next the buck paused to rest, sweat dripped from Conan’s damp, tossing mane, streaming down his heaving chest and his long, unobstructed flanks. He was winded, his heart hurling itself at his ribs like a frantic prisoner trying to escape from a barred cage. But his quarry had weakened too. As it sprang yet again to flight, it caromed sideways against a sapling, and its leaps through the foliage were more deliberate and less tight-sprung than before.
To be sure, Conan had doubts about the eventual confrontation. The buck’s antlers were keen weapons. Its neck muscles were massive, not to mention its granite-honed hooves and goat-like teeth. He almost wished that his quarry were a less worthy one, or that he had somehow fashioned a spear with which to harry and cripple it before closing in for the kill. Yet he had downed such creatures in the past with little more than sword and hatchet; surely he could do the same now with a club, a hand-ax, and a far keener hunger.
The animal mounted a stone ridge just ahead; its hind legs faltered and scrabbled pathetically at the top of its lunge. Conan could smell its desperation now, the rank, musky scent of its fear. He almost flung his club at the creature’s slender shanks as he clambered up close behind, but was himself delayed by the steepness of the rock. He felt exultation overcoming fatigue as he hurled himself after the buck where it passed out of sight over the rise.
From just ahead came a crunching sound accompanied by a quick, bleating gasp. Something large passed, signalled by a stirring of foliage and a flurrying of scattered leaves. Conan thought he also sensed a faint tremor of the earth under his bare soles, as of some great weight shifting.
When he pelted into the open space at the crest, it was empty. There was no quarry, no sign of it at all—except, across the faint trail underfoot, a spattering of blood. Red and rich, it glistened from the grass blades and dark loam in sufficient quantity to tell him that he need not chase his prey any farther.
But where had it gone? Wary, scanning the broken slopes around him, he saw no more blood on the nearby rocks, and no scuffs or drag marks across the turf. Could the buck have been carried off by some huge bird, he wondered? If a predator, how far had it stalked the prey—and, presumably, him?
Or was this the work of man? Some tree-sprung snare perhaps, that whisked its victim far out of sight? No. Sorcery? Mayhap.
No prey, no marks, not even a scent... except for the faint, coppery tincture of blood. And, of course, the smell of his own runneling sweat, mingled now with a faint odour, rank and distinctive, that he soon recognized: the smell of fear—his own, wholly in keeping with the sudden change of his status from hunter to hunted.
Fear. It would not do to let any stalking creature smell that scent on him, and mark it, and remember- it. He scanned the tree line carefully, wondering if something lurking in the forest might have paused to watch. Then he turned and jogged resolutely back toward the stream, to bathe himself.
V
Divinations
It was in the fourth year of her stay in Sodgrum hamlet, at the farmstead of Amulf the Good, that the child Tamsin regained her speech. Most fittingly, it occurred on her
At the bottom there was no clue. A broad, sunny glade spread before him, grass-tufted but without discernible track. The prey might have entered the trees at any point along the farther side; to search for traces would cost time, enabling his quarry to rest or lose itself. He scanned the bright, blinding forest edge in vain.
Then came sharp trillings. A pair of birds fluttered from the trees, scared up by his quarry, no doubt. Breaking into a run, he headed straight for the source.
When next the buck paused to rest, sweat dripped from Conan’s damp, tossing mane, streaming down his heaving chest and his long, unobstructed flanks. He was winded, his heart hurling itself at his ribs like a frantic prisoner trying to escape from a barred cage. But his quarry had weakened too. As it sprang yet again to flight, it caromed sideways against a sapling, and its leaps through the foliage were more deliberate and less tight-sprung than before.
To be sure, Conan had doubts about the eventual confrontation. The buck’s antlers were keen weapons. Its neck muscles were massive, not to mention its granite-honed hooves and goat-like teeth. He almost wished that his quarry were a less worthy one, or that he had somehow fashioned a spear with which to harry and cripple it before closing in for the kill. Yet he had downed such creatures in the past with little more than sword and hatchet; surely he could do the same now with a club, a hand-ax, and a far keener hunger.
The animal mounted a stone ridge just ahead; its hind legs faltered and scrabbled pathetically at the top of its lunge. Conan could smell its desperation now, the rank, musky scent of its fear. He almost flung his club at the creature’s slender shanks as he clambered up close behind, but was himself delayed by the steepness of the rock. He felt exultation overcoming fatigue as he hurled himself after the buck where it passed out of sight over the rise.
From just ahead came a crunching sound accompanied by a quick, bleating gasp. Something large passed, signalled by a stirring of foliage and a flurrying of scattered leaves. Conan thought he also sensed a faint tremor of the earth under his bare soles, as of some great weight shifting.
When he pelted into the open space at the crest, it was empty. There was no quarry, no sign of it at all—except, across the faint trail underfoot, a spattering of blood. Red and rich, it glistened from the grass blades and dark loam in sufficient quantity to tell him that he need not chase his prey any farther.
But where had it gone? Wary, scanning the broken slopes around him, he saw no more blood on the nearby rocks, and no scuffs or drag marks across the turf. Could the buck have been carried off by some huge bird, he wondered? If a predator, how far had it stalked the prey—and, presumably, him?
Or was this the work of man? Some tree-sprung snare perhaps, that whisked its victim far out of sight? No. Sorcery? Mayhap.
No prey, no marks, not even a scent... except for the faint, coppery tincture of blood. And, of course, the smell of his own runneling sweat, mingled now with a faint odour, rank and distinctive, that he soon recognized: the smell of fear—his own, wholly in keeping with the sudden change of his status from hunter to hunted.
Fear. It would not do to let any stalking creature smell that scent on him, and mark it, and remember- it. He scanned the tree line carefully, wondering if something lurking in the forest might have paused to watch. Then he turned and jogged resolutely back toward the stream, to bathe himself.
V
Divinations
It was in the fourth year of her stay in Sodgrum hamlet, at the farmstead of Amulf the Good, that the child Tamsin regained her speech. Most fittingly, it occurred on her
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