Dave Duncan - Omar 2 - The Hunters' Haunt

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The Hunters' Haunt

by Dave Duncan

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The Hunters' Haunt

by Dave Duncan

Other works by Dave Duncan also available in e-reads

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THE REAVER ROAD

A ROSE-RED CITY

The Hunters' Haunt

by Dave Duncan

To my daughter Judy, who has never had a whole book

dedicated to her alone but has merely shared one (because

we did not then realize how many books there were going to

be!), this book is belatedly and lovingly dedicated.

The Hunters' Haunt

by Dave Duncan

WARNING

This is the second extract from the memoirs of Omar the

Trader of Tales to be offered to the public in vernacular

translation. Certain passages herein may seem to contradict

statements Omar made in the first book. Those who have not

read the first book will not be troubled by this. Those who

have will not be surprised.

The Hunters' Haunt

by Dave Duncan

1: The Traveler Returns

Some harsh words had been spoken the previous summer,

the first time I lodged at the inn. Nothing serious, milords,

just a minor misunderstanding—a small imbalance on the

slate. A trivial sum, truly!

I admit that appearances were against me. My taste for

shortcuts has been misinterpreted before. When the hour for

my departure dawned—it was slightly before dawn actually,

but I am by nature an early riser—I chose the swiftest route.

I was in a hurry, being bound that day for Gilderburg, a city

many hard leagues away. Moreover, I feared I might disturb

the other guests if I went clattering down the stairs. Only

when I was halfway across the vegetable patch did I realize I

had forgotten to pay my bill. The house door would still be

locked, so I resolved to leave the money on the hostler's desk

in the stable.

That was the only reason I approached the stable. Why

else would I do so? I had no horse lodged there!

The trouble arose because the innkeeper, Fritz, motivated

by unseemly greed, had rented out even his own quarters the

previous night. He had chosen to sleep in the hayloft

overhead, from which he had a clear view of my window.

The stable door gave me a little trouble. Then it swung

open, freely and quietly on well-oiled hinges. I stooped to lift

my bundle, and when I straightened up I was exceedingly

surprised to discover myself facing what appeared to be a

haystack.

The Hunters' Haunt

by Dave Duncan

I have often been complimented on my expertise in animal

husbandry. I am well aware that general practice is to put the

livestock on the ground floor and the fodder in the loft. It is a

technical matter of getting them up ladders. In this case I

could not see why Mine Host Fritz might have reversed the

normal filing system. Then I realized that what I was seeing

in the chill predawn light was Mine Host Fritz himself. He had

no shirt on, which is what had confused me. When I tilted my

head back, I discovered his face, higher up.

There can be something very unwholesome about blue

eyes. Jaws of that magnitude are better left unclenched.

Instinct warned me that there could be a misunderstanding

brewing. I explained carefully, using short sentences and

speaking distinctly.

Another problem then arose, concerning the house tariff. I

do not deny that it was posted in large letters on the taproom

wall, a list very detailed and well lit. No one could claim that

the inventory of services offered was incomplete or the scale

of charges ambiguous. The Hunters’ Haunt was an inn of the

highest standards. Though small, it offered quality personal

service most welcome to experienced and sophisticated

travelers such as myself. Within its range, it was one of the

finest hostels I had ever graced with my custom, and one I

fully intended to recommend heartily to the numerous fellow

wayfarers I meet upon my travels—as I repeatedly assured

the innkeeper. However, being a stranger in the Grimm

Ranges, I had mistakenly assumed that his prices were

posted in Nurgic dinars.

The Hunters' Haunt

by Dave Duncan

To my astonishment, Fritz informed me that Gilderburg

thalers were specified at the bottom of the notice. I explained

that every time I had been looking in that direction the

previous evening, Fritz himself had been drawing ale from the

left-hand barrel, directly underneath. The vital postscript

must have been obscured by his shoulders. True, that was a

remarkable coincidence, and most men would not have

blocked my view, but Fritz was not most men—only about

three of them, hammered into one.

Of course I had funds enough to cover my tab, had the

amount been calculated in Nurgic dinars.

That was the truth of the matter, milords. Alas, the oaf

chose to disbelieve me!

Do not be too hard on him! Large as he was, Fritz was

young for his responsibilities. Even an older, more

experienced man might have misconstrued a situation of such

manifest ambiguity. He was perhaps a little coarse in his

language. He might have used more tact in the way he

disassembled my bundle, pronouncing my spare garments to

be useless rags and strewing them in the mire of the stable

yard. Finesse is not to be expected in the young. But he

resisted overt violence, which must have been a great

temptation for one of his size.

Pretty much resisted it, that is. He carried me by my right

ear over to some distant outbuildings, and there presented

me with a monstrous ax, more fittingly sized to his thews

than mine. He indicated ten or eleven tree trunks and where

they should be stowed when cut into hearth lengths. And then

The Hunters' Haunt

by Dave Duncan

he whistled up an animal I had seen the previous day and at

first assumed to be a full-grown bear. It was a dog.

Its name was Tiny, but even by Fritz's standards that was

inappropriate. Tiny, Fritz assured me, would keep me from

leaving—ever, under any circumstances—until its master gave

it the correct password to release me. Tiny was an excellent

guard dog, the innkeeper added, its only fault being the killer

frenzy that came upon it when it tasted blood.

While I mulled the implications of that subtle innuendo,

Mine Ex-Host stalked away to prepare breakfast for his

guests. Tiny ran a tongue like a black doormat over a picket

fence of white teeth and lay down to plan my

dismemberment.

The sun rose about then, promising a hard day, or perhaps

several hard days. I began with a few lusty blows of the ax,

continuing until I judged young Fritz would be engrossed in

other pursuits and hopefully out of earshot.

I think I mentioned that I am not without knowledge in the

ways of our four-legged brethren? Pausing to catch my

breath, I edged closer to the corner of the woodshed. Tiny

raised a forest of hair down the entire length of its back,

rumbling a growl I found strikingly reminiscent of the

earthquake that threw down the walls of Atlambaron. Clearly

the beast was expressing a warning that I should not

progress any farther. Fortunately I was already close enough

for my purposes.

To be explicit about my next actions might bring a blush to

sensitive cheeks, so I shall wash over the details. Suffice it to

say that I rendered said corner of the aforementioned

The Hunters' Haunt

by Dave Duncan

woodshed of immediate interest to the dog. When I had

finished, Tiny rose and came across to inspect my labors, its

manner indicating a clear belief that it might not know much

about firewood, but it did know about that. Tiny came, in

short, within reach. When it turned away to initial my

signature, I stunned the brute with the back of the ax.

I missed breakfast and lost my bundle, but I sold the ax

for six Gilderburg thalers in the next village, so I came out

well ahead on the exchange.

That, as I said earlier, had been in the summer. Now

winter was setting in.

I had come to the Volkslander in search of the ending of a

certain story and had failed to find it. The experienced

collector of tales learns to accept disappointment and will not

let it discourage him. Somewhere, someday, I would pick up

the trail again—in bazaar gossip, a chance remark upon the

highway, a tale heard in an alehouse, or perchance a legend

recounted in a monastery. Meanwhile, warmer climes called

me, for my way of life can be arduous in cold weather.

Three possible routes south were available. I could take

ship, although the season was late. I might seek out a

caravan following the amber road and accompany it as far as

the salt rivers, but the wild children of the steppes were being

gruesome again. All in all, it seemed safest and easiest just to

venture a recrossing of the Grimm Ranges. The way is

strenuous, but extremely scenic.

My sojourn in the northern marches had not been entirely

fruitless. My repertoire of stories had been well rewarded. I

left Luzfraul on a sunny, frosty morning, mounted on a

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