The Legend of the Hunter

Belac felt no fear at all, only a cold and blazing sense of justice and fury. The monster facing him was anathema to everything he held sacred; to every fibre of his being; to everything he believed in and lived by. The Drakheen was an insidious evil that would infest the world and warp it into something unnatural and unholy. He could not let that happen, despite his being only a mere mortal confronting what amounted to a Beast Mage with incalculable powers.

The Drakheen looked upon the puny human approaching him so fearlessly, and he became inflamed with all-consuming rage. He wanted to smite this insect and have done with him, but he wanted to make an example of the man. He would humiliate and demean him first in front of those who believed in him, and thus shatter their spirit to dismay them; make them despair that there could be any hope or salvation for them; bring them to their knees to worship him, fear him, and sacrifice themselves for him. He would be their god, and oh, what a lovingly merciless god he would be!

Slowly, cautiously and barely perceptibly, the Drakheen started to spin an illusion around the Hunter. He projected a false image of himself towering far larger than he truly was and looming over the Hunter. In addition, he broadcast a subliminal telepathic message to the Hunter, telling him that he was moving through adhesive mud, that his movements were being restricted and that he could barely place one foot after the other.

Belac felt as if he couldn’t move or breathe; he was caught in a morass that wanted to drag him down and suffocate him. He could see the Drakheen standing as tall as a mountain in front of him, not even moving in anticipation of the battle, but simply waiting for Belac to reach him. It was an exhausting effort to lift one leg after the other; his breathing became laboured and his vision gradually started to dim around the edges. At first his panic was only a tiny, bothersome distraction in his heart, but the more he tried to move faster and attack the loathsome Beast, the larger that disturbance became, and the greater his attempt to find enough breath to continue. He knew something was not right about all of this, but his growing alarm was usurping his instincts and intellect. The Hunter knew he was in serious trouble.

“What is he doing? Why has he slowed down so much – he is hardly moving!” Marethlin said in obvious confusion and consternation.

“He looks as if he has gone blind. Look how he keeps turning his head from side to side, as if he’s trying to see better, or get his bearings,” Ptrashul stated. The Supreme Speaker scratched his shaved head and flexed his muscles in frustration.

“He has gone blind – in a sense,” Lathlin cryptically said. The Elfling watched his friend and was deeply perturbed by what he could see in Belac’s energy flows. He was entirely swamped by hues of dark green, deep purple and intense crimson, colours that spoke of confusion caused by the failing of one’s physical perception and intellectual acumen. Belac was for all intents and purposes literally blind to his reality.

“He is not seeing what we are seeing,” Lathlin explained to his friends. “He is perceiving what the Drakheen wants him to see; he is experiencing some kind of potent illusion.”

Quietly and confidently, the Ripple spoke up. “The Elfling is correct. Belac has been ensnared in a fictitious reality, one created and projected by the Drakheen. If Belac cannot see through this deception soon, he is doomed. And so are we all.”

“We not assist him by attacking Drakheen?” Krauwyk asked. The byrgreme was eager to plant a few arrows in the breast of the Beast.

“Yes,” agreed Qarethlin, “shoot arrows at the Drakheen and maybe disrupt his concentration long enough for his trickery to be dispelled, and thus allow Belac to break free of his magic.”

As if the Drakheen had anticipated just such an action, he abruptly immobilised all of them. The Beast cast an ironclad magical net of stasis over them, and none of them could move a muscle. But he had miscalculated with the Ripple: her Powers were still unconfined by the spell.

And he had underestimated the power of one other person: Rachmin, the Hunter of Truth. He could not have known of Belac’s unique secret gift, the one that the Hunter had shared only with Lathlin when they were sitting outside Zidayt’s cabin a few days before Zenia was kidnapped.

And now the Hunter’s power flared up so intensely that it destroyed the illusion in seconds. Belac stumbled as if unexpectedly emerging from a sea onto dry land. Swiftly he regained his footing and saw that he was only a few paces from the Drakheen – and the Beast was not as massive as he had believed him to be. Belac narrowed his eyes and slowly smiled. He had seen through his Enemy’s artifice, and he was ready to mete out some long overdue justice.

Just as the Drakheen realised that the Hunter had seen through his deception, Belac attacked. The Hunter lunged for the Drakheen’s heart, throwing all his strength behind the sword thrust. Caught completely off guard, the Drakheen lurched awkwardly to the side, just barely managing to avoid getting stabbed. At the same time, he also lost his hold over those watching the spectacle. As the Drakheen righted himself, Belac tackled him around his legs and toppled both of them to the ground. The Drakheen instantly wrapped his wings and arms around the Hunter and tried to crush him, but Belac forced the Beast’s arms back and quickly stabbed the monster through his left wing. He slashed down with his sword, tearing through the membrane and cartilage and making the Drakheen roar in pain and fury.

The Beast backhanded Belac, sending the Hunter soaring through the air to land heavily, explosively expelling the air from his lungs. Before Belac could rise, the Drakheen stormed him. The Beast planted a huge clawed hoof on Belac’s chest, pinning him to the ground. Then the Drakheen slashed at Belac’s face, intending to rip through it. At the last instant, Belac turned his face away and instead of ripping his face off, the Drakheen scored his right shoulder deeply. Belac grunted in agony, but heaved with all his might to unbalance and shove the Beast off him. As soon as the Drakheen fell back to stabilise himself, Belac jumped to his feet and faced the Beast, holding his sword firmly in his left hand. He was fortunate he was left-handed, for the injury to his right shoulder didn’t hamper him as much as it would have had the Drakheen clawed his left shoulder. As it was, the pain was nearly unbearable, but the Hunter knew he had to ignore it and concentrate on finding the Drakheen’s weak spot.

The Drakheen was in abject pain, his damaged wing drooping uselessly at his side. He was enraged beyond reason because he was struggling to kill this inconsequential human. He moved back a few steps from the Hunter to reassess the situation, and to unleash the full force of his magic upon the man.

The Ripple sensed what the Drakheen was about to do and swiftly warned Belac.

“Hunter, beware! The Drakheen is about to blast you with a magical fire that will sear you to the bone, but I will enshroud you in a protective film of air. Lathlin will try to interfere with the Drakheen’s energy waves to afford you time to assault him before he calls upon another spell,” she telepathically informed the Hunter.

Hardly had her message reached Belac than the Drakheen unleashed a supernatural fire that engulfed the Hunter where he stood. Everyone watching gasped in shock and dismay, only to see Belac standing unharmed within the inferno.

“Ha! Ripple magic stronger,” Krauwyk said in delight.

“Beat that, you overgrown bat!” Marethlin added with a grin.

The conflagration sudden whooshed out, leaving the Drakheen confused as to how his magic could have been extinguished. He was oblivious to Lathlin’s manipulations of his energies, but not for long. Shrewdly, the Beast became aware of the Elfling’s interference, and he sent a painful telepathic stab into Lathlin’s mind. It struck the Elfling like a physical blow, and he dropped to the ground in agony. Qarethlin rushed to his aid while Marethlin, Ptrashul and Krauwyk could stand aside and be spectators no longer. They each peppered the Drakheen with arrows, most of which bounced harmlessly off the scaly hide of the Beast. Some of the arrows penetrated though, further infuriating the Drakheen.

“Enough!” he thundered. “All of you shall die now, for I tire of this game. You are nothing but filthy grubs to me, and I shall not expend another second on you. Swear your fealty to me and worship me now, or all your lives are forfeit!” he threatened.

He conjured up a devastating gale and blasted his opponents with it, attempting to send them tumbling down the cliff. Belac plunged his sword into the ground and used it as an anchor while the Elves grabbed hold of whatever outcroppings of rock they could find. The Ripple was flung into Ptrashul who held her protectively, while Krauwyk simply stood in the blast, totally unaffected. Most of the captured Raajat Cult members were not so lucky; they were flung screaming over the side of the promontory of Grief’s Spire, and landed sickeningly in a broken heap at the bottom of the cliff. Only Zounith fell without a sound, still in thrall to the Ripple. He and his cult members had indeed received their reward from their Master. Only, it was one they could never have anticipated.

In the aftermath of the chaos, only Belac witnessed what crawled up stealthily behind the raging, roaring Drakheen. He could hardly believe his eyes. It was an enormous, hairy frunx. Belac vaguely recalled Release telling Talat that these creatures sometimes strayed from their usual territory, only to eventually return. It was still an unexpected shock though to watch the massive spider sneaking up on the Drakheen.

Just as the Beast prepared to cast an especially lethal spell at Belac, one that would have melted the very flesh from his bones, the frunx pounced. The Drakheen had just boastfully proclaimed, “I am invincible!” when the spider landed full upon his back and sank its fangs deeply into the Beast’s neck. As it pumped its venom into the Drakheen, the frunx ripped the damaged wing completely off and started to devour it. The frunx jumped off the stunned Drakheen and waited for its venom to take effect.

“What … what is this? How dare it … attack … attack me!” the Drakheen managed to whisper in outrage before the spider’s venom utterly paralysed him. Without any volition of his own, the Beast ever so slowly toppled over onto his back, stiff as a board but still alive and cognizant of his condition. The frunx wasted no time and seized its prey. The monstrous spider started to feast on the Drakheen, gnawing first through his chest to get to the tender organs inside. Unlike normal spiders whose venom liquefied the insides of their prey, the frunx chewed its victim’s flesh and swallowed small bites at a time. The Drakheen would take a very long time before it would eventually die.

Belac had to avert his gaze from the horror, but he did not miss the irony that the Drakheen was being devoured by a creation of his creations: the Hollow People. Sickened to his stomach by the gruesome way the Drakheen was slowly being consumed, he was tempted to slay the frunx, but suddenly the Ripple spoke telepathically to him. He could hear Lathlin retch in the background.

“No, Rachmin. Let nature take its course. The Drakheen had planned to cause far more suffering and torment to his conquered subjects, thus it is only just that he should have such a demise, however horrific it might be,” she proclaimed. It was the older Ripple speaking, not Zenia, and Belac couldn’t help but wonder how the little girl would be able to live with this dichotomy within her. Then a surprising thing occurred.

Belac could feel the ancient Ripple subside, like a rock being slowly but inexorably covered by the returning tide waters. And with her submersion, the younger Ripple emerged as the dominant one. Now that the threat of the Drakheen had been averted and dealt with, Zenia had reclaimed her body. The little girl wept in ragged sobs of grief, terror and trauma. A recovered Lathlin was at her side in a flash, comforting her and soothing her turbulent energies. Belac marvelled at his friend’s infinite compassion for others even when he himself was in emotional duress.

Belac limped over to his friends, trying to ignore the awful sounds of the frunx consuming the Drakheen bit by juicy bit behind him. Mercifully, the Beast was incapable of making any sound while he was being eaten alive.

“What is that vardusht thing?” Marethlin asked Belac as he reached them. “Vardu! Look how it is enjoying its meal,” he added in disbelief.

“I would rather not look,” Belac barely managed to speak over his pain. “It’s called a frunx, and it was created by the Hollow People,” he explained.

“Well, what do you say to us feeding the rest of these bastards to it?” Ptrashul asked and pointed at the handful of Cabal members who had survived the tempest the Drakheen had conjured up.

“I think we have had enough of death and killing to last a lifetime or two,” Lathlin said quietly but firmly from where he was standing with the now calmer Zenia. “Let us just leave this accursed place and return to Zanderon,” he added forlornly.

“I agree,” Qarethlin said. “You can take your Syllables and return to your People as you had intended to do before the Drakheen ambushed us. Perhaps the time has come for all of us to make the attempt to start afresh, and to avoid following the same path we had been travelling on before,” she strongly hinted.

Ptrashul treated her to his disarmingly handsome smile and said, “Point taken, my lady. In any case, I have grown too fond of your brother to part his pointy ears from his stubborn head,” he added and laughed good-naturedly.

“Yeah, you can try,” Marethlin was quick to respond, but the Elf was also smiling.

Krauwyk though was another matter. The byrgreme’s brow was clouded by anger, and her frown was as deep as a ravine as she gazed with hatred at Ptrashul.

“Silent People kill Krauwyk mate. Krauwyk kill any Silent One if find them in Doondé. No forgive, ever!” the byrgreme insisted. Marethlin placed his hand upon her shoulder and gently squeezed it in understanding, and then Ptrashul uttered words that testified why he bore the title of Supreme Speaker.

“You’re right, Krauwyk. What we did is unforgiveable and no matter how much we tried, we would not be able to make amends, or bring back your mate. As the Leader of my People, I take full responsibility for the deaths we caused and the torment we visited upon the surviving family members.

“I would wish to have the opportunity of leading my People on a path of redemption and restitution, and to show them and myself that we can have better lives without violence, that peace and kindness are far more rewarding than cruelty and murder, but to do that, I must begin with you.” Gracefully, the tattooed giant knelt in front of Krauwyk.

“I offer you my own life willingly and happily, in exchange for your forgiveness of my People for what they have done to you and countless others. I know it can never return your mate to you, or abolish the everlasting pain of his loss you carry in your heart, but I hope that it will at the very least grant you some form of closure and revenge.”

Immediately, his Syllables shouted their objections, but the Supreme Speaker silenced them all with a single look. Krauwyk stood staring at the kneeling giant in absolute stupefaction.

“This is trick, yes? Stutterer try fool Krauwyk?” the byrgreme asked in disbelief.

It was Belac who sombrely and ponderously answered her. “No, Krauwyk. I see no deception or artifice in this man. He meant every word he said.”

Unbidden tears flooded the byrgreme’s eyes, and she said vehemently, “Good! Then Krauwyk kill filth now!”

Marethlin and the Syllables were aghast and some of the Syllables cried out in distress as Krauwyk raised her arm high to slash Ptrashul across his throat with her claws. The leader of the Silent Ones made not a sound; he closed his eyes and valiantly awaited the death stroke. Krauwyk swung down her arm, her fury and sorrow powering it mightily towards Ptrashul’s exposed throat, her claws fully extended. At the very last possible moment, the byrgreme halted her taloned hand, and made the tiniest scratch on Ptrashul’s neck.

“I kill filth. Not in you, in Krauwyk heart. Krauwyk see your heart pure, better than heart of Krauwyk. Krauwyk take you as blood brother now,” the byrgreme stated to everyone’s astonishment. The ecstatic Syllables raised a jubilant cheer and lifted Krauwyk up on their shoulders while Ptrashul looked at the byrgreme and said laconically, “That byrgreme sure knows how to put on a show and steal someone’s thunder!”

Ignoring the celebrating Silent Ones, Lathlin walked over to Belac who had slumped against an outcropping of rock. The Hunter looked pale and exhausted. He seemed to be hovering on the very precipice of consciousness.

“You are injured,” Lathlin said and winced in sympathy when he saw the ragged claw marks along Belac’s shoulder. The Hunter also had a gash along his forehead, the blood dripping steadily down his left temple. It was only then that Lathlin noticed the far more serious wound the Hunter of Truth had suffered, and he gasped in dismay. Belac had been gored just under his heart by one of the Drakheen’s hooked tusks, and the hole was the size of a small child’s fist. Thick red blood was being pushed out of the wound in rhythmic pulses.

Qarethlin had followed the Elfling and when she saw the gaping hole, she immediately tore off a chunk of material from her shirt and gently plugged the wound.

“I cannot heal him alone,” Lathlin lamented. “I need the help of the Weaver healers. If we do not get him back to Zanderon within the next hour, I fear we will lose him,” he added, sounding close to tears and entirely unsettled.

“Then we will just have to get him to the healers in time, will we not, love?” Qarethlin said with false confidence. Both Elves knew it had taken them nearly two hours to reach Grief’s Spire, and that was when all of them were in perfect shape. With a grievously injured Belac, they knew their chances of reaching Zanderon in time to save Belac’s life were slim to none.

The last thing Belac saw before the darkness of oblivion embraced him lovingly was Lathlin’s grief-stricken and anxious face suspended above his prone, damaged body. Then the Hunter of Truth became dead to the world of the living.