The Legend of the Hunter

At the exact moment that Zounith was raving and losing himself in his own vile rhetoric, Belac, Lathlin, the Elf twins and Krauwyk arrived at the cave entrance to Grief’s Spire. The companions wasted no time and rushed headlong down the tunnel. They could hear someone speaking loudly and passionately. Although they couldn’t yet hear the words themselves, all of them had the sense that the speaker was reaching the climax of whatever speech he was delivering. As one, the companions finally emerged into the central cavern and pulled up short at what they beheld.

They immediately located the Ripple lying prone and tied upon an altar set in the middle of the room. A raised dais made from a naturally extending platform of rock reached out just above the altar, and upon this stood Zounith. The Weaver looked altered in more ways than one. He appeared taller, more sure of himself and extremely cocky. However, it was the way he was projecting his authority that arrested Belac and his companions in their tracks. The man looked possessed by something ineffably evil. His face was contorted in a grimace of hatred; his eyes looked as if they were alight with some inner fervor; his voice grated upon the ears of the listeners like sharp shards of broken glass.

“The Spirits protect us,” Lathlin said softly. “He has traded his soul to the Drakheen. I see nothing left of the man; only a shade of pure iniquity.”

“Look!” Marethlin hissed and pointed at the line of children on their knees in front of a trough. A tall man dressed in a black cloak with a cowl covering his head was approaching the children with a purposeful and menacing stride. In his hand he held a curved dagger, its serrated edges seeming to glint and flow animatedly as the torchlight played along the blade. When he stopped behind the tallest child in the line, a boy, Qarethlin cursed softly.

“We need to stop him,” she whispered fiercely. “He is about to harm those children and we are just going to stand here and stare?” she asked vehemently. As if in mockery of her words, the tall man suddenly grabbed the boy’s head, forced it back and in one violent movement, slit the boy’s throat. Blood gushed forth and spilled ruby-red into the wooden trough.

“The Drakheen has heard and accepted our offering,” Zounith proclaimed. “Quick! The next sacrifice!” he ordered. “The Master is on his way!”

Belac and the rest were stunned by the swiftness of the murder, but it also shocked them into action. Lathlin immediately set off for the altar to go to the Ripple’s aid, moving furtively but rapidly along the left side of the cavern.

Before the man in black could spill more innocent blood, Belac put an arrow through the back of his neck with such force that the arrow tip burst through his throat, ripping it out in a bloody spray. The High Priest fell forward with a surprised grunt, landing awkwardly across the trough. His blood mixed with the victim’s he had so recently murdered.

Marethlin aimed for Zounith and let fly his throwing knife at the crazed Weaver. By some fluke, Zounith turned at the last second to gape at the dead priest sprawled across the wooden trench, and the knife sailed harmlessly by him. Qarethlin’s aim was truer: she loosed arrow after arrow at the gathered cultists, dropping them like so many miserable flies.

Krauwyk plunged into the gathered Weavers and killed them indiscriminately; giving no quarter, showing no mercy. The byrgreme had gone berserk when she had witnessed the cruel slaughter of the young boy. She was reminded of her byrgremete, and she went on a single-minded warpath to butcher as many of the cultists as she could. The Rajaat Cabal didn’t know what hit them.

Belac was a whirlwind of death, meting it out with no care for himself. He had one goal: to reach the Ripple and help Lathlin protect her; nothing could deter or prevent him from it. Once his arrows were depleted, he unsheathed his sword and became an unstoppable executioner. Qarethlin was keeping pace with him, covering his blind spots and gutting any cultist foolish enough to approach within her reach. Marethlin and Krauwyk were fighting back to back, holding their own against the Weavers, but they were too few to decimate their numbers. It was absolute chaos and mayhem, with cultists shouting in fear and fury; blood flying everywhere, splashing the cavern walls like thick paint. Amidst this hurricane of deadly destruction, the rescuers were like the eye of a storm: calm, focused and beautiful.

Belac moved inexorably towards the altar where the three remaining sacrificial children were cowering in petrified stupefaction. The Ripple was speaking calmly to them and watching the approaching Lathlin, thus she was oblivious to Zounith’s presence until the Rajaat Cabal leader loomed over her. The man was beyond reason; he had lost the last semblance of sanity when he realised his carefully orchestrated plot was about to be wrecked by the Hunter of Truth and his companions. He stared murderously at Zenia for a few seconds before he spoke venomously.

“The Master shall have you, one way or the other, even if I have to deliver you to him personally!”

As he reached for her, a new and wonderful power unfurled itself in Zenia’s mind. It blazed in her consciousness as suddenly as the sun emerging from behind black, obscuring clouds. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, her mind reached out to Zounith’s and wrapped itself around his like a constricting net. Zounith froze instantly, incapable of any movement whatsoever. Then the Ripple absorbed his mind into her own like the sea swallowing a drop of rain, and her will became his.

Her wishes became his; her thoughts his commands. Zounith untied Zenia as Lathlin reached the altar, and the Elfling helped her step down from the altar. Belac and Qarethlin reached her just as she stepped onto the cavern floor. Zounith stood at her side like a petrified statue, not moving a muscle, for it was not the Ripple’s will that he do so. That was until she thought of the children’s plight – then Zounith hurried over to the terrified waifs and gathered them to him like a mother hen herding her chicks under her wing. Lathlin pushed the cult leader aside and took charge of the mute children. Belac and Qarethlin were mystified by Zounith’s silence and compliance, and both were unsure whether to kill or leave him be. In the end, it was Zenia who decided the matter.

“He is no longer his own man,” the child said in a woman’s voice. “He belongs to me now and will not harm any of you or the children. He does my bidding and is fully in thrall to me. I did not have a choice: I had to use the Compelling on him,” she explained in a tone of regret.

“As far as I am concerned, as long as he gives us no more trouble, you can Compel him to slit his own throat and good riddance,” Qarethlin said. “For now,” she added, “we need to get you out of here before worse befalls us.”

“Is this why the Drakheen wants you, for your power of Compelling?” Belac asked Zenia.

“Yes, he wants me to use my power to serve him. He is on his way here, Hunter. We don’t have much time,” she revealed.

A sudden loud disturbance at the entrance to the cave drew their attention, and they stared in amazement at the giant, tattooed man striding into the cavern. Without breaking stride, the man savagely killed the closest cultist to him. Close on his feels followed a number of other strangers who fell upon the now swarmed cultists.

“Silent Ones!” Qarethlin hissed upon first seeing them, fearing that they now had two foes to contend with, but then her mind registered what the Silent Ones were doing. They were brutally attacking the cultists and made no move against Marethlin or Krauwyk who were still in the midst of the battle with the Cabal members. Now that the Silent Ones had entered the fray, the odds were evened very quickly, especially with Belac and Qarethlin once again joining the fighting, and soon the tide of the battle swung against the cultists. They had no choice but to surrender.

Ptrashul had no intention of accepting their surrender though and meant to slaughter every last cultist. It was Belac who boldly stepped in front of the tattooed giant and said, “Enough! It is not the way to kill those who surrender. We thank you for your assistance, but lower your weapon now.” For a few brief moments it appeared that Ptrashul was going to submit to his lust for more bloodshed, but Belac’s indomitable stance left the Supreme Speaker in no doubt that here was a man who could very probably best him. With an engaging smile, Ptrashul made a short bow as if in defeat and called to his Syllables to desist.

Marethlin had a huge grin plastered on his handsome face, dimpling his cheeks and making him seem like the most innocent of lethal Elves on Wrochcia, as he went up to Ptrashul.

“Well met, Tattooed One,” he greeted Ptrashul.

The Supreme Speaker returned the Elf’s smile and said, “If I recall correctly, the last time we met I said I would cut off your pointy ears.”

“And I said I would separate your stinking head from your shoulders,” Marethlin replied. Then both men burst out laughing and clasped arms.

“Men,” Qarethlin said in disgust.

“How is it that you and your Syllables are here?” Marethlin asked Ptrashul. “The last time we saw you, you were taking Ragar back to the marshes, is that not so?”

“Yes, we took Ragar, but not to the marshes. Hruss is keeping Ragar company somewhere… private,” the Silent One said with a wicked grin. “As for why we are here: we have been keeping watch on the clandestine movements and meetings of these swine for years now. Although the Doondé is not part of the Gillipo Marshes, we use parts of it for some of our … enterprises.” Nobody asked him to elaborate on these “enterprises”, as they could all surmise that it involved nothing innocent or harmless.

Ptrashul continued his explanation after a moment or two of looking slightly ill at ease. “Recently, we noticed increased activity in this location, and one of our scouts reported that something of great significance seemed to be occurring at Grief’s Spire. The news came just as I was about to rejoin my people who have abandoned the marshes and are now living in the grasslands beyond the Doondé. Even though the information was exiguous, I knew I had to act on it. I took a small company of Syllables and here we are,” he finished with a flourish.

“And grateful we are indeed for your timely intervention,” Lathlin said. Then he turned to Zenia.

“We need to leave right now. The sooner we get back to Zanderon, the better we can protect you,” he explained.

“I agree,” Belac said, “but what do we do about these cultists?” he asked and pointed at the defeated Weavers.

“Take them back with us to Zanderon,” the Ripple commanded. It was unnerving to everyone present to hear the young girl sound like an ancient woman, even though all of them knew she was a reincarnation of the most powerful Ripple ever to have lived. “We will mete out justice to them in the proper manner,” she stated.

Belac efficiently organised the prisoners in teams and placed each under the care of one of his company. Ptrashul said he needed to return to his people, but he offered to accompany Belac and the others for a short distance, “Just to ensure this scum doesn’t give you any more trouble,” he explained with a mischievous glint in his eye.

With that, they all left the cavern and moved towards the path leading away from Grief’s Spire. That was when they noticed the ominous figure of the Drakheen standing directly in their path. The Beast cut an imposing figure, especially since he was outlined by the rising sun. Its rays formed a nimbus around his silhouette, making it seem as if he were a radiant angel. The Beast stood obstinately blocking their way, immobile as a towering peak, emanating waves of arrogance and malevolence. His eyes were feverishly locked upon Zenia who was undaunted and fearlessly returned his stare.

“Ah, now I’m indeed delighted that I decided to accompany you for some distance,” Ptrashul said. “I have a score to settle with this gutless monstrosity. He ate some of my people!”

“Oh, no. Get in line, Marsh Man. His hide is mine!” Marethlin quipped.

“Mareth, I think this is one instance where all of us must work together to defeat this evil,” Qarethlin said softly, all the while keeping her eyes on the still motionless Drakheen.

“No. This is my battle,” Belac suddenly said in a firm tone. “Isn’t this exactly why I was named Rachmin? None of you will engage this Beast while I am still alive. If I fail and fall, only then may you assault the Drakheen to protect Zenia. Until then, only I will confront him in combat.”

“You will not be alone, Hunter of Truth,” the Ripple stated. “I will be with you in your mind.”

“And I will be with you in your heart,” added Lathlin. “With the help of the Ripple, I will convey to you what I read of the Drakheen’s energy flows so that you will be aware of his every move before he makes it. He surely has not the slightest inkling of my powers, and he is probably unaware how much Zenia’s power has grown.”

Krauwyk growled deep in her chest and said, “Beast stink of hatred, evil, cruelty. Krauwyk want slay Beast now! Rip, tear, slash, bite!” The byrgreme was nearly apoplectic, as the mere presence of the Drakheen was affecting her on some animalistic level and infuriating her. Marethlin quickly grabbed hold of her and calmed her down.

“Then it’s settled; the Drakheen is mine. Remember: do not attempt to assist me or engage the Beast. Only if I am slain will you attack him,” Belac instructed his companions, then hefted his sword. Resolutely and utterly unintimidated, the Hunter of Truth approached the snarling Drakheen.