The Tiger's Eye (Book 1) (3 page)

6

Angus took Voltari’s advice and headed south. He had quickly
dismissed going north or west; Voltari’s tower was near the northwest corner of
the
old map
, and he had simply written
DEATH
SWAMPS—FISHMEN
across the northern border. Along the western edge were
mountains, and he had scrawled
XENOPHOBIC MOUNTAIN DWARVES—IMPASSIBLE
over
them. That left east or south. East of the foothills of the western mountain
range was a wide open space labeled
KINGDOM OF TYR.
It was an expansive
plain that ranged from the Death Swamps in the north to the mountains hugging
the edge of the map’s southern border. An east-west road split the kingdom in
two and led to the capital, Tyrag, in the heart of the kingdom on the eastern
edge of the map. He briefly considered going to the capital, but when he
thought about doing it, he broke out in a sweat and felt a nearly irresistible
urge to run in the opposite direction. That left south. The mountains in the
southwest corner were topped with smoke plumes, and Angus was leery about going
there. But Voltari had said to go to Hellsbreath, and the name was hastily
scrawled near an
X
nestled in among them. Not far from there, to the
northwest, there was an ominous symbol he didn’t recognize, a sort of teardrop
superimposed onto a flat pyramid. It was vaguely similar to the runes
representing flame magic, which were variations of a candle flame, but this one
was far too smooth—and the pyramid was meaningless to him. Still, there was a thin
line leading to it—
a road? trail?
—from near Hellsbreath, and it was the
only thing on the map that wasn’t a label or didn’t represent some kind of
terrain.
What is it?
he wondered, scratching it lightly with his
fingertip.
No matter
, he decided;
I have to go to Hellsbreath, first,
anyway.

Hellsbreath looked like a major hub for travel. From there a
road went into the mountains to the west and another sloped southeast along the
edge of the southern mountains. A third transected the town, heading north and
south. Those and the east-west road through Tyr were the only ones on the map,
and the only other town Voltari had identified was Wyrmwood, which was located
at the spot where the east-west road from Tyrag intersected the north-south
road from Hellsbreath. The road continued north a bit further, nestled against
a squiggly line that Angus took to be a river, and stopped a considerably
distance from Blackhaven Tower. Or it could be nearby; there was no sense of
scale or distance on Voltari’s map. The river continued all the way to the
Death Swamps, and Angus decided he would meet up with it and follow the road
south. If he were lucky, there would be human settlements on its banks that
Voltari hadn’t bothered to mark on the map, small villages that were of no
importance to him. Once he was underway, he could decide where to go from
there. First, though, he had to find civilization.

Voltari had built Blackhaven Tower in a secluded little
valley surrounded by steep foothills plagued with nettles and thorn-encrusted
bushes. At least the latter had ripe edible berries; tart little black and red
ones that had pinprick seeds that stuck between his teeth. There was a small
stream running through the valley, its waters flowing east. He followed it,
expecting it to eventually meet up with the river or one of its larger
tributaries. It was narrow, barely three feet wide, and meandered through
thickets, shrubs, and intermittent maple groves. Along its banks grew clumps of
tall grass, fully half his height, riddled with snakes, spiders, and a wide
variety of small birds and insects. There were no fish larger than his
finger—and not enough of them for a meal—but they helped to ease his hunger a
bit. At least the stream was shallow enough that it didn’t top his boots, and
wading through it was easier than dealing with the thorns or having his legs
smothered by the thick growth of tall grass.

Near dusk he belatedly sought shelter, but the hills on
either side of the stream were lined with densely-packed impassable thickets. It
was well after dark before he finally settled on a small knoll that split the
stream apart for a few dozen feet. The ground was damp and mushy, held together
by the grass’s thick entanglement of roots, and after he trampled down a swath
of it, the grass provided ample cushioning for a bed. He set his backpack down
and did a thorough search of the knoll. There were no snakes or spiders to
worry about, so he returned to the small clearing he had made and sat down. The
soggy ground squished beneath him, and he hurriedly stood up before the water
seeping up through the grass could dampen his trouser bottom.

“I should have brought those robes,” he muttered. “I could
have put them on the ground to sleep on.” He sighed and shook his head. “The
present and future, not the past,” he finished. “Focus on what I can do, not on
what I should have done. Don’t forget it, but no sense dwelling on it.”

He thought about cutting the grass and dismissed it. It
would take too long, and a few more layers would only deter the water seeping
up through them a little longer. Besides, it was a chill night, and a little
extra warmth would be welcome. So, he took out the robe Voltari had given him and
slipped it on over his clothes, clenching his teeth as he anticipated the
inevitable, unrelenting itchiness it always gave him. But, this time, it didn’t
aggravate his skin, and the odd intrusion of magic on his body was curiously
mild, almost unnoticeable. The chill left him in moments, and not long after
that, he lay down for some rest. A thick sliver of moon peeked over the
mountains, and he was somehow comforted by its slim presence and the subdued
light it cast upon everything. He fell into a light sleep, a part of his mind
alert for anything out of the ordinary.

But everything was out of the ordinary. The hard stone shelf
he slept on had been replaced by soft, soggy grass. The comforting echoes of
his breathing bouncing off his chamber walls were gone. The rhythmic pulsing of
blood rushing through his ears and the soft thrumming of his heartbeat were
overwhelmed by the trickle of the stream, the whistles of a night bird, the
rustle of the wind in the thickets, the distant scurrying of something small
making its way through the thickets, the light touch of an insect on his cheek,
the faint, rancid stench of a rotting log, the overwhelming twinge of fresh cut
grass crying out for mercy….

Sleep would not come. If only he was nestled in the stark,
quiet
confines of his chamber in Blackhaven Tower! But he wasn’t, and he never would
be again. Voltari had ordered him to never return, and he wouldn’t. Tempting
his master’s wrath would be far worse than a few sounds and smells. He could
tolerate the delicate touch of an insect’s brittle legs, a moth’s fluttery
wing. But he still couldn’t sleep.

His muscles bunched up around his sternum and tension
radiated outward from their center.
Still the body
, he thought, closing
his eyes and mouthing the mantra.
Still the mind.
He was the master,
now, and he methodically registered each sensation, categorized it, and let it
pass through him. One by one they disappeared from his awareness until only two
remained: the rhythmic pulsing of blood rushing through his ears and the soft
thrumming of his heart. He listened to them, drew comfort from them, and let
everything else slide away….

He had slept only a short while when a new sound intruded
upon him, gradually tweaking away the sleep until he brought it more fully into
his consciousness. His body lay perfectly still, the heartbeat and breathing
unchanged, but his mind was utterly focused, listening intently for the
disturbance to repeat itself, trying desperately to identify the source of the
sound. But there was only the murmur of the stream as it trickled past, the
sound of wings flapping, the distant screech of a night bird. He had nearly convinced
himself that it had been another nightmare when he heard a splash in the water
near him, to the right. It wasn’t the arrhythmic melody of the stream, either;
something had dropped softly into its waters.

Another splash, this time closer.

Something was approaching his little knoll, but what? To
what end?

His left hand slid down to his belt, reached for the dagger
hilt. But he couldn’t catch it in his grip; the robe was in the way.
Stupid,
he thought.
I should have put the belt over the robe, like Voltari does.
His self-recrimination was brief; whatever was on the knoll was working its way
through the grass, toward the other side of the knoll. He eased up to a sitting
position, lifted the hem of his robe, and slipped the stiletto from his right
boot. It was a thin, well-balanced blade, and he flipped it over to grip it by
the blade tip.
The present
…

There was a soft splash a few feet to his left. It was a
small splash, like the first, as if the thing making the noise was trying not
to make it. He saw movement in the moonlight reflected off the stream. There
was a soft rustle in the grass on the opposite bank….

Angus rolled to his knees and threw the stiletto in one
motion.

A high-pitched, angry chitter thundered through his mind as
a rodent stood on its hind legs and tried to leap back into the water. But the
stiletto had pinned it to the mud. It thrashed against the bank, trying desperately
to work the stiletto loose with sharp little jerks.

Angus drew the second stiletto from his left boot and threw
it effortlessly, burying it in the mud where the creature had been but a moment
before. It had wrenched the stiletto from the mud and was dragging it into the
thicket. The densely packed root and stem system—normally a place of safety for
such a creature—was an impediment as the stiletto’s hilt became entangled in
them. It pulled, and the blade gouged into the muscles of its leg. It squealed
furiously, bit at the stiletto, and pulled more fiercely with its leg.

Angus jumped into the water, slogged over to the second
stiletto, and pulled it from the mud. He edged toward the wounded animal. It
saw him and struggled to get deeper into the undergrowth. The blade in its leg
sliced through a tendon, and it finally jerked free—but too late. Angus thrust
the second stiletto through its back, pinning it to the ground. It wiggled for
a few seconds and then lay still. He waited until he was sure it was dead and
then retrieved the stilettos. He rinsed them in the stream, dried them on the
long grass, and slipped them back into their sheaths. Then he turned to the
animal he had killed.

It was a small thing, no longer than his forearm and only a
little wider than his hand. It had short, dark, thick fur and a scaly, hairless
tail. Its spade-shaped paws ended with three webbed toes and flat claws
suitable for digging. Its head was narrow, with a long, pointed snout, small
ears, and large eyes. Its teeth were flat and dull in the front, but near the
hinge of the jaws they became a sharp jagged ridge that could easily tear away
strips of flesh.

He dipped it in the stream and held it under until the blood
had washed away, and then went back to the edge of the knoll to sit down. He
laid the animal across his knees, belly up, and took the stiletto from his
right boot. Without thinking about it, he inserted the stiletto just beneath
the skin of the hind leg and made a slit across to the opposite one. There was
surprisingly little blood for a fresh kill, and he poked the stiletto into the
stream bank before using his fingers to peel the pelt from around each of the
back legs and tail. Then he flipped it over on its belly. He hesitated only a
moment before grabbing the thing’s head with his right hand and the loose fur
around the tail with his left. He pinched the tail between his knees, and
pushed with his right hand. The thin, greasy layer of winter fat between the
pelt and the flesh of its back made it easy for the two to separate, and he
soon had his forearm inside the inverted pelt, as if it were a fur-lined glove
on his hand and wrist. The carcass dangled beneath his forearm as he lifted it
and used his left hand to peel the warm, pliable, sticky flesh from the skin of
its belly. When there was a gap large enough for him to wedge his fingers
between them, he wrapped his left hand around the belly until he had a firm
grip on the carcass. Then he removed his right from inside the pelt and tugged
on the slippery underside of the skin to enlarge the hole. It felt and sounded
almost like unraveling an old vellum scroll that hadn’t been read in decades.
He slid his fingers through the hole and slowly pulled the two apart until the
pelt caught on its forelegs. He peeled each foreleg free, the tiny paws
snapping against his leg as the skin around them ripped. One more tug brought
the skin to the ears, and if he were planning to save the pelt, he would have
used the stiletto to cut around them. But he was only interested in the meat.
He twisted the head until the neck cracked apart and then pulled it off. He
tossed it and the pelt attached to it into the stream and rinsed the carcass
off. Then he held up the animal with the fingers of his right hand just beneath
the forelimbs, with the belly facing him. He picked up the stiletto and made a shallow
slit from the ribcage down to the anus, careful not to nick the intestines with
the tip of the blade, and pried the flesh apart. He reached in with three
fingers and pulled out the lungs, heart, and stomach. He thought about eating
the heart, but it was small and uncooked. There was a small pop as the
esophagus broke free, and he brought out his fingers, allowing the intestines
to cascade out until the abdominal cavity was empty. A quick slit sent them
floating downstream. He submerged the carcass and ran his fingers around the
inside of the abdominal cavity to make sure there wasn’t anything clinging to
the abdominal wall. He held it up by its hind legs and tail, inspected it as
best he could in the dim moonlight, and nodded with satisfaction. Finally, he
rinsed his stiletto off and put it back in its sheath. He stood up and
retrieved his backpack.