The Legend of the Hunter

Marethlin felt uneasy. He couldn’t put his ear on the right note, as the Elf saying went, but he knew entering Queleuq without additional support from the Elf League in Hulya was a bad idea. Kloneithlin disagreed though and the Commander had pushed for a bold strike upon Ragar’s compound. Rusthlin shared Marethlin’s misgivings, but the Battle Elf – or any Elf, for that matter – would die before he would dispute a Commander’s directive. Yet, Marethlin’s “No Fun, Run!” instincts were to all intents and purposes beating him soundly around his very pointy ears.

“Hojuth,” he now said very quietly to his Quiver 7 Team Leader, “do you not feel the wrongness in the air about this? Should we not contact the Hulya Elf Outpost and ask for reinforcements before we venture any further?” The two of them were at the tavern’s serving counter, ordering drinks and a meal for their company.

Kloneithlin was seated at a table with Rusthlin, Krauwyk and Kunkuna, out of earshot, but Marethlin was still acutely aware that he was edging very dangerously on insubordination.

“Mareth, put the arrow back in its quiver or shoot at a phantom!” Hojuthlin fired back an old Elf saying that meant Marethlin was only wasting his energy. “We are committed to this action. As one of my Quivers, I tell you now arrow straight to cease your Elfling-like grumbles and shoulder your share. Kloneithlin is Commander, and we are sworn to abide by whatever action he sees fit to undertake.” As far as Hojuthlin was concerned, the matter was now settled and moot, but the niggling worm of disquiet continued to wriggle uncomfortably in Marethlin’s stomach.

“I have a kashtunk feeling about this,” he said, using the Elven word for “bad” in his distress. “Will you at least hear out my plan, Lieutenant? You know I am not one to hesitate about going into battle, so give me a chance to lay out the plan I have, and then if you still feel we should abide by Kloneithlin’s strategy, I will not object again,” the Elf pleaded. Hojuthlin rubbed his smooth chin and pulled at an earlobe, Elven affectations that revealed indecision and introspection. Marethlin took these to be good signs, but he was wise enough not to push his luck and waited patiently. He was unable to still his tapping foot though.

“Will you get your vardusht foot under control?” Hojuthlin suddenly snapped at him, making Marethlin spill some of his ale. The lieutenant rarely cussed, but when he did, it was usually because he was about to do something against his better judgment.Marethlin found his hope flaring like a banked fire stoked to full heat.

“I will hear your plan, but not alone. You will share it with the Commander, for I will not deceive him, or betray his trust in us. You know that is not the Elven way,” Hojuthlin finally said and stalked over to Kloneithlin’s table.

“Kloneithlin,” Hojuthlin began, “I respectfully request that you give Mareth a chance to tell us about a stratagem he has. It is the Elven way to allow every Elf a say, is it not?” he concluded.

“Yes, you are right, Hojuthlin. I stand reminded of that custom, and apologise for not asking if anyone else had a different proposal,” the Commander graciously said. He felt deeply ashamed at his lapse in protocol, and he promised himself to make reparations to his party at the first convenient opportunity.

“Mareth, please. Share your idea, young Elf,” he now said to Marethlin who had taken a seat next to Krauwyk. The byrgreme displayed her unsettling pointy-toothed smile, and it oddly encouraged him. She was a crucial part of his plan, and he was relieved that the two of them had grown close during the trek to Queleuq.

Dreferd, Ragar the Brute’s best tavern spy in Queleuq, had just informed the leader of Thug, Inc. of the company of Elves that had arrived in the early hours of the morning. Ragar had been expecting them, thanks to the information he had received from his latest reluctant “acquisition”, the Silent One. Ragar had decided to call him Chatty, much to the ire of the man. Ragar cared nothing for the man’s displeasure; he was, after all, only a possession.

“Excellent work, Dreferd,” Ragar complimented the spy and casually tossed a small bag of coins to him. “Keep me updated as to their movements,” he instructed the man.

“Yes, Your Brutishness. My second is at the tavern, keeping an eye on those slippery Elves. They won’t take a piss without us knowing about it,” he said crudely. Ragar laughed uproariously and dismissed the Thug, who cast a filthy look at the chained Silent One with the missing ear as he passed him.He nearly spat his way until he remembered in time that Ragar had flayed a Thug alive once for having done such a thing in his Audience Room. Dreferd scurried out quick as a rat, but he was inwardly amused by the Silent One’s captivity.

“Jhanahj! I need your skills, Interpreter!” Ragar shouted. The man was hiding in the thick clouds of smoke, but Ragar always knew exactly where he was skulking. The incense was especially thick today, as Ragar was experiencing greater pain than usual. Of late, his suffering had increased dramatically, and it tended to foul his mood.

“Yes, Lord. I am at your service,” Jhanahj said as he emerged from a particularly hazy corner of the gloom.

Ragar threw a silver cup at the coward and unerringly hit him in the head, which lightened his temper slightly. He giggled at the man’s wince of pain, then said, “Ask Chatty if any others of his kind would be following him to Queleuq. And mind, he had better not lie or try to be duplicitous, as before,” Ragar cautioned.

He recalled the first time he had “questioned” Chatty; he preferred not to think of it as torture. It was such a distasteful word for a man of his sophistication. The Silent One had tried to prevaricate, but a few well administered knives, a hot poker and an exceedingly sharp needle in the right places had soon produced forthright and truthful answers.

Ragar stretched luxuriantly in memory of that wonderful questioning session. He wondered if he should call Labal to work his talent on Chatty again, but then he changed his mind. His constant pain would only be a miserable distraction that would mar his bliss.

“He says none that he’s aware of, my Lord,” Jhanahj said after the Silent One had signed to him. Although the Silent One was chained to the wall, his hands were free to communicate via sign language.He signed something else to Jhanahj.

“My Lord, he says if his people find out that you’ve lied to them about the blind Elf, that he can’t grant them eternal life, you will wish you had never met a single Silent One,” the old man said, fearfully.

“I think I liked you much better when you weren’t so chatty, Chatty. Maybe I should permanently silence you by ripping out your offending tongue, seeing that you don’t really have any use for it,” Ragar threatened the man.

In return, the Silent One signed something rapidly to Jhanahj.

“What did he say? Quick, clod, before I brain you again!” Ragar screamed at the interpreter.

“A moment, Your Lordship, please. He signed too fast for me to catch it all. I will ask him to repeat it,” Jhanahj said, ducking in anticipation of a flung object. None was thrown his way.

“Aah,” the old man said, “he says that although he doesn’t know if his people will try to rescue him, seeing that none of them even know he’s being held captive here, he’s certain word will get to them. He says if you wish to keep your ugly, stinking head and hide attached, you should free him now,” Jhanahj said and quickly added, “His words, Lord, his words! Not mine!”

Ragar let out a bellow of rage, which made the old man skedaddle surprisingly fast out of the room, then he approached the Silent One. Ragar punched his captive hard in the stomach and the unfortunate man doubled over in pain. Ragar lifted his knee to knock the Silent One mercilessly under his chin. As the chained man straightened up, Ragar started to backhand and slap him rhythmically – right to left, left to right – until the man’s lips were bleeding and his cheeks bruised from the rings adorning the Thug’s sausage-thick fingers. The Silent One was spared though from a prolonged, ruthless beating when Ragar was of a sudden incapacitated by a tremendous stab of pain that ran from his chest down to his legs. He collapsed unceremoniously in a heap to the floor. His silent but constant attendants darted over to him in panic and carried the comatose Brute from the room. The Silent One breathed heavily, murder filling his burning eyes while blood streamed freely from his cut lips.