Mark Sehestedt: Sentinelspire

"Chereth?" he asked. "How…?"

"How what?"

"How did I…?" He searched his memory and found only broken bits and pieces. Chereth, a druid, one of the Masters of the Yuirwood, that ancient forest so far from… where? The mountain. A lone mountain rising to great height above miles of rolling grassland. Sentinelspire. That was the mountain's name. "How did I come here?"

"You would not say," said the half-elf.

He sat up and looked down on his body. The pain-the memory of which made him flinch-was only a dull ache in his flesh, but the scars remained, crisscrossing his torso, his arms, his legs. Looking at them, he remembered-rain and wind, a gnarled tree, and through it all, cold knives glinting in the light of a storm.

"You do remember then," said the half-elf. "I was not sure."

"They… they killed me. Th-the knives, they-" "Yes."

"You told them to kill me." "Yes."

"Then why… this? Why call me back?"

The old half-elf raised his hand, and Kheil saw something dangling from it-a leather cord tied to a knot work of twisted vines, all braided round three small stones. As Chereth raised it into one of the sunbeams, the light caught in the stones, and Kheil saw that they were jewels of some sort.

"All your life you have dealt death. Now the god of life calls you. Time to answer."

14 Tarsakh, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR) The Northern Shalhoond

Lewan crouched in the cover of the thick brush-near the stream. The long tree-shadows and tall grasses made for good cover, but a large predator would detect any movement. Lewan kept absolutely still, save for his eyes, which flitted about, searching for anything on the move. The sound of the stream would hide all but the loudest sounds should he need to move-but it would do the same for anything approaching. Still, he could have sworn that his ears had caught something a moment ago.

The sound came again, off to his right-wheet-wheet! — the call of the spotted crake, one of the many small birds that made its home in the tall grasses where the trees of the Shalhoond thinned before fading into the Great Amber Steppes. Lewan answered with a crane's call.

A rustling in the grass came closer, stopped, then moved closer still. A moment later a small green and brown head, scaled and with a tiny horn above the nose, poked out from between tufts of new spring grass. The little lizard's eyes locked on Lewan, the small black tongue flicked out, tasting the air, then the creature was gone, a hiss in the grass.

Berun came in quietly, scarcely more than a whisper himself, crouching low so he didn't breach the surface of the grass. His silence belied his size. Standing straight, he would have looked down upon most natives of the steppes, though he was lean and his features were hard, shaped by years of wind and sun. He held his bow-far larger than the one on Lewan's back-in one hand, though it was unstrung. A treeclaw lizard rode his shoulder, its long tail dangling beside the man's braid.

"You found something?" asked the man.

"Yes, Master," said Lewan. "Down by the water."

They kept to the cover of the trees and brush as much as they could, but nearer the stream it was all grass. Between two tall tussocks was a bare patch of soil that had been moistened by the rain of two nights ago. It had dried since, preserving the four prints quite nicely. Looking at them, Berun's brows knit together. They kept their voices low.

"What kind of animal is it, Lewan?"

"A large cat," he replied. "Steppe tiger, I think."

Berun gave him a slight smile, though he didn't look up. "What else?"

"A female. The rear paws come down slightly to the outside of those of the front. Wider hips means a female-even in cats. Yes?

Berun's grin widened. "Yes, Lewan. Even in cats. And how big is she?"

Lewan looked at the prints. They were large, as big as his outstretched palm. The soil would have been softer after the rain, and the prints were deep.

"She's big," said Lewan. "I'd guess at least eight hundred pounds. Maybe more."

"A good guess," said Berun. "Well done, Lewan."

"What now, Master? It seems she's headed back into the forest. She isn't spraying any markers, doesn't seem to be establishing any territory, and she hasn't hit any farms in eleven days. She abandoned that last deer half-eaten. She's wandering all over the place. I don't understand."

Berun's smile disappeared and he became grim again. "Nor do I." He looked up at the sun. "We'll keep tracking her while the light is strong. If she keeps heading deeper into the wood, we'll find a good place to bed down. I don't want to hunt a steppe tiger in the dark."

They tracked the tiger throughout the rest of the morning and into midday. They did not hurry, keeping to cover and taking care to move quietly. Although the tiger had taken the deer three days ago and probably wouldn't be hunting again, it didn't hurt to be cautious. Tigers were ambush hunters, and this tiger was already a puzzle, hitting three farms in the last month, slaughtering mostly sheep, but at the last one she'd forsaken the sheep and taken the shepherd. She'd kept to no set range, so she wasn't a newcomer seeking territory. At least not yet.

Just past midday they came upon another stream, one of the many that crawled out of the Khopet-Dag to the west. They were farther from the wood now, and the few trees rising out of the steppe hugged the water where they starved out the thicker grasses. Lewan found fresh tracks near the water and called to his master.

"Look, Master," he said, keeping his voice low. "These are less than half a day old."

The men crossed the stream where the tracks did, moving swiftly so as not to be in open sight for long. The water never rose above their knees, but it was cold; it had probably been snow on some distant peak only a few days ago. As they were about to set foot on the opposite shore, Berun came to an abrupt halt and motioned for Lewan to do the same. He approached the wet soil on the opposite bank with utmost care, crouching low and choosing his ground so as not to step on any tracks. Lewan noted that the fluid grace had left his movements. His master was stiff and hesitant. Something had startled him.

"What is it, Master?" he whispered.

When Berun didn't reply, Lewan stepped forward, keeping low, his hands on his knees to preserve his balance. He followed his master's gaze.

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."