The Legend of the Hunter

“You are the key to it all, Zaherain,” Lathlin told the still bemused Weaver as soon as all of them had entered their quarters. Belac had just closed and locked the door and turned to listen to the conversation, his interest piqued, but he also had pressing personal questions for the Weaver.

“I had to get you out of the Throne Room swiftly when I realised what caused the Curse to come into existence. Or rather, who its origin is,” the Elfling added enigmatically.

The Weaver was an intelligent man, and the significance of the emphasis on “who” allowed him to draw a conclusion that left him thunderstruck.

“Wait. Are you saying what I think you’re implying? That I am the origin of the Curse?” he asked, his tone conveying his utter incredulity.

“Precisely!” Lathlin confirmed. “But it is not as straightforward as that; it is slightly more complicated,” he remarked, causing Zaherain to grab his head and sink down into the nearest chair.

“Elfling, do you think it’s possible for you to not always be so mysterious and puzzling? Could you ever give anyone a frank answer without turning it into a riddle?” Talat asked in obvious annoyance. “Is he or is he not the reason these Hollow People are cursed?” he demanded.

“Before we get to that, I have a few questions of my own for Zaherain,” Belac said calmly before Lathlin could answer Talat. “The first one being: Why did you call me Rachmin, the Hunter of Truth? And why, Talat, did you appear to know what he was referring to?” the Hunter asked, his huge frame held rigidly and his entire body projecting the tension he was holding in check.

Belac walked over to the seated Weaver, who was still holding his head in his hands and staring at the floor. The Hunter squatted in front of Zaherain and waited for him to look up. Then he said, “Tell me, what did you mean when you called me by that name? How do you know me?”

Zaherain stared at the Hunter for a few heartbeats before he replied. He was trembling slightly, but not out of fear. It was simply because he was in awe of Belac, who was entirely unaware of the effect he had on the Weaver.

“I don’t actually know you,” he began while Lathlain came to stand next to him, putting a kind hand on the man’s shoulder to settle him, as he could see his emotions were in turmoil. Talat went to the kitchen to get some ale and a chunk of bread. When the Thug was nervous, he tended to eat to calm his nerves. He walked back into the front room to hear the Weaver out.

“My people and I know about you,” Zaherain continued. Belac had by then risen and was leaning comfortably against a wall and listening attentively. “We have a legend, or a kind of prophecy, if you will, about the One who will come to protect us in the Bleak Hour against the Drakheen, the Warlock Azlotlin who turned himself into a fearsome Beast,” Zaherain continued. “It’s a legend every Weaver child knows because the elders see to it that the legend is passed down from generation to generation. It is very specific in how we will recognise our Saviour,” he said and paused. Talat took up the tale.

“Yes, I know about this legend; a Weaver who has a rug stall in Queleuq told me about it once. Zapherine was my lover at the time, and we enjoyed talking after … afterwards at length about her people, my people, our different customs and tales,” the Thug began. “She told me about the legend of the one they called Rachmin, the Hunter of Truth, their Saviour who would come from across the ocean and aid the Weavers in their Hour of need. He would battle the Drakheen who would come to take revenge on the most powerful Ripple to have ever lived because she had rejected him when she saw how evil and corrupt he was. She would apparently be reborn some day. She added that although all of the Weavers believed this legend to be true, she didn’t think the Hunter of Truth would appear in her lifetime.”

The Thug looked at Belac and said, “I shared her belief that such a legendary hero wouldn’t appear in our lifetime, but I never imagined he would be you!”

“That still doesn’t explain how you ‘recognised’ me as this supposed ‘Hunter of Truth’,” Belac said with his customary caution to Zaherain. Lathlin smiled as he remembered how he had had to persuade Belac of the truth of his story back when he had first met the Hunter. He waited patiently for Zaherain to reveal what he had already gleaned from observing the Weaver’s colours.

“The legend about the Hunter of Truth,” Zaherain began, “tells that the Saviour of our people would be left-handed and –”

“That could be anyone! I’m not the only left-handed person on Wrochcia or Verahasti, for that matter,” Belac uncharacteristically interrupted the Weaver.

“The One who would protect us against the Drakheen,” Zaherain resolutely continued, “would bear the mark of a swooping hawk. You have that mark under your right eye,” Zaherain said very softly, and pointed at Belac, whose left hand darted to his right cheek, and he instinctively rubbed the small brown patch under his eye.

“Sweet Spirits! I’ll be a rat’s uncle!” Talat exploded at the revelation.

Belac was rendered speechless, and Lathlin could read the Hunter’s consternation and agitation as clear as day. He knew he had to say or do something to help his friend. He could see that Belac felt as if his familiar world had been ripped out from under him, and he was floating off into some vast expanse.

The Hunter was indeed adrift, lost in memories of his past on Niminimi. In particular, he was vividly recalling the conversation he had had with his mother on the day his entire world was torn asunder for the first time.

They had been beach combing, the twelve-year-old Belac looking for marine treasures the sea might have washed up, while his mother was gathering crabs, molluscs and the occasional rare items like a beaded necklace or bronze jewellery she could sell at the market. She had eagerly called him over when she had found the silver bracelet.

Belac had looked at it in wonder, never having seen such a beautifully crafted and expensive piece of jewellery before. His mother wiped it clean until it shone, the various charms of tiny bells, shells and stars tinkling sweetly as she moved the bracelet.

“The sale of this will allow us to have food for the rest of the year,” his mother had declared in elation. “Your Da could even take us on that trip to Pahexin, as he has been promising for years,” she said. “And maybe, my little hunting Belac, I can persuade him to finally reveal to you the secret of the mark you bear, for with this treasure, we can change our entire lives and not have to live in hiding any longer.” Then she had hugged him in delight and the two of them had danced a silly little jig right there on the white beach, with the surf coming in and the gulls whirling overhead.

The slavers had appeared out of nowhere. One minute mother and son were capering about blissfully; the next second, his mother was dead, felled by a massive blow to her head by the club of the lead slaver. Belac, who was taken prisoner, could only scream “Ma!” over and over again as he watched the head slaver pocket what would have been the means to a new life for him and his family. And then he had been stunned by a rock hard fist to the face, which mercifully knocked him unconscious. When he awoke some time later, he was on a ship and headed to unknown lands, his innocence ripped from him. And his life had never been the same again.

“Belac, this could all still be mere coincidence. Calm yourself, my friend. We need more time to ponder this and examine its consequences, but I promise you that I will be at your side, no matter how things turn out,” the Elfling said and walked over to the Hunter. Surprising both himself and Belac, he gave the Hunter a quick but fierce hug, and then stepped back. He was rewarded by an unusual smile on Belac’s normally staid face. The Hunter stretched out his hand and Lathlin shook it warmly.

“That means a great deal to me, Lathlin. Having you by my side will certainly help me negotiate what promises to be another morass,” Belac said with feeling. He made a concerted effort to close off the memories of the past, sincerely hoping he was successful in hiding his inner turmoil from the perceptive Elfling.

“Please,” Zaherain suddenly said, “you haven’t told me yet how I am the cause of the Curse. I have done nothing to bring it about, and even if I had wanted to, I couldn’t, for I have no magical abilities whatsoever,” he lamented.

Lathlin turned his blind gaze upon Zaherain and spoke gently to the Weaver.

“The Curse was created by magic, yes, but not by any magic that can be conjured by intent. It is an extremely rare kind of Curse wrought entirely from raw emotion experienced at the devastating rupture of a bond.”

The Elfling stood pensively studying the Weaver while Talat started a slow pacing of the room. Belac simply waited for Lathlin to continue. The Hunter had become so familiar with the Elfling’s mannerisms and speech that he knew Lathlin was attempting to explain a complex concept as simply as he could. He smiled inwardly and wished his friend luck with what he was sure would be a daunting task indeed. He was also relieved that Zaherain had distracted the Elfling.

“Tell me, Weaver, are you mated or widowed, or were you mated but when you were captured by the Hollow People, you were widowed?”

“I am mated and was mated still when I was taken from her,” Zaherain answered with a heavy heart.

“There!” Lathlin said in triumph. “Absolute proof that you are the origin of the Curse. You and your mated one,” he added.

Talat spun to look at what Lathlin was talking about, only to realise the Elfling was referring to what only he could see: the colours swirling around the Weaver. Zaherain was now even more perplexed than before and threw up his hands in frustration.

“What are you talking about? I did nothing except sit here and listen to you muddle my mind until I think I must be losing it!”

“I think,” Belac said in a deep timbre, conveying a seriousness that made Zaherain more heedful of what the Elfling was trying to explain, “that Lathlin just saw something in your energy flow that confirmed his theory that you have somehow, whether wittingly or inadvertently, brought this Curse upon the Hollow People. Give him a chance to explain, Weaver,” he gently chided the abashed man.

“I’m sorry, Sir Elf. Forgive me my discourtesy, please,” he apologised sincerely. Lathlin waved his apology away and explained.

“Just now, when you answered my question, I witnessed a sickly yellow beam of energy stream away from you and outwards, verifying that the Curse is indeed connected to you,” Lathlin said and continued. “When you were plucked from your mate, it was as if the two of you were physically severed. You share such a close bond with her that over the years, the two of you have come to be one on the emotional and spiritual plane. Consequently, when the Hollow People ripped the two of you apart, they also inadvertently tore but did not shear your bond, but that had an unexpected result.

“The sorrow your separation caused each of you formed a physical but invisible link, still connecting you on an emotional level, although both of you were unaware of it. As the months passed and neither you nor your mate could forget each other or give up on the fragile hope of some day being together again, the link of mourning thickened and strengthened. And it started to become corrupted by the heartache both of you were experiencing. It turned into a Curse of Sorrow, one of the most powerful Curses that is never intentionally cast, but one that seeks revenge upon the creators of the grief.” Lathlin looked drained from his explanation, but he was not yet finished.

“The Curse of Sorrow fell upon your tormentors and captors, draining their lives as your separation from each other drained your mate’s and your spirit. The Curse becomes stronger and more powerful each time you yearn for your mate, or she remembers you. Then the bands of energy surrounding every Hollow Person turns upon them and instead of being a life force that nurtures, it drains random Hollow People. However, since their Queen is in essence truly responsible for your incarceration, she is suffering the effects of the Curse most mightily. It is only her royal blood and her formidable inner strength that have enabled her not to succumb to the effects of the Curse. Instead, the poison which is primarily targeted at her is filtered down to her hapless subjects. Yet, its potency affects her by aging her faster than is normal.

“There are but two ways in which the Curse can be destroyed, and one of those would not be beneficial to you,” the Elfling concluded.

“I bet that one is to kill the Weaver, right?” Talat asked, his expression showing his disbelief at Lathlin’s explanation. But the Thug had learned that the Elfling never lied about, or was ever wrong, in his interpretation of the energy forces of others.

“And the other would be to reunite him with his mate,” Belac stated perfunctorily.

“So that’s why you asked for him to attend to us tonight!” Talat exclaimed, delighted at having figured something out for himself. Lathlin smiled at the Thug’s child-like glee and nodded in agreement.

“Yes, I needed him so that he could leave with us when we escape, and flee we must. I fear the Queen and Mistress Pain have no intention of letting any of us leave the Shrine. They are either unaware of my talent for reading intention as well as energy flows, or they are supremely confident that they have deceived us into thinking we can trust them,” the Elfling stated.

“Escape?” Zaherain asked in panic. “No one escapes the Shrine. Anyone who is brought here can only escape this foul place through death. There is no other way,” he claimed, his voice rising slightly in distress.

“We will. We are not just ‘anyone’. We are three individuals with unique skills, and it seems Fate or the Spirits have brought us together for the express purpose of saving you,” Belac said in a voice that would brook no argument. The Weaver could only stare at the Hunter, and then he smiled. It was a slow smile at first, but it became wider as he realised who was speaking to him.

“I know the Elfling has profound skills, and you are the legend come to life, but what about him? What skill does he possess?” the Weaver asked, pointing at a frowning Talat. The Thug had been wondering the exact same thing and he was keen to hear Belac’s response.

“Him?” Belac said and grinned mischievously. “He has the ultimate skill – he is a survivor. Also, didn’t you hear what he said about his lover’s father having escaped the Shrine? If one captor could get away from here, who knows if others might also not have escaped?”

“If you ask me,” Talat volunteered, “the Hollow People allowed Zapherine’s father to escape to spread even more terror about them. If others were told about the horrors committed here, especially by escapees from the Shrine, then it would ensure that the Hollow People are held in far greater dread,” he reasoned.

Unexpectedly, there was a soft knock on the door. They would have missed it if anyone had been speaking at the time. Then the person knocked a second and third time, each knock slightly louder than the preceding one.

“Who would come around this late at night?” Talat asked nervously. “It’s already well past midnight. This can only be bad news,” he started to rant before Belac silenced him with an abrupt downward hand slash. The Hunter walked unhurriedly to the door and opened it … to find a particularly agitated Hollow Person standing on the doorstep.

“Feels like déjà vu to me,” Talat commented and looked at Zaherain, the last person who had come knocking earlier.

“Apologies for disturbing you this late, but it is crucial that I speak with all of you now. May I come inside, please?” the stranger pleaded.

It was Lathlin who once again spoke first, convincing Talat even more that they had been through this before. He let out a low moan and sank down further into his chair.

“Enter, quickly!” the Elfling commanded and Belac swiftly closed the door as soon as the Hollow Person was inside.

It was a young female, probably in her early twenties. She had the usual pale skin, bald head and huge eyes of her kind, but she was fidgety and was wringing her hands in obvious anxiety.

“My name is Torment,” she said, “and I’ve come to warn you that your lives are in danger. By morning, Mistress Pain will lock the Hunter up in the breeding pens, the Thug will be experimented on, and the Weaver… the Weaver will be sent to … to … the Torture Chambers,” the young woman revealed reluctantly. She avoided looking at Zaherain and instead focused on Belac who was standing with crossed arms in front of her.

Zaherain shot to his feet and looked fit to run the door down in his terror while Talat cursed vehemently and smashed a fist into a wall. Lathlin held on firmly to Zaherain’s arms to prevent the terrified Weaver from making a mad dash to who knows where.

“I knew it was bad news when I heard that knock! Didn’t I say it’s bad news?” Talat ranted, his eyes huge in his head and a thick vein on his forehead pulsing rhythmically, making it look like the tattoo there had come alive.

Belac, always the pragmatic one, asked Torment bluntly, “Why have you come to warn us? Why should we trust a word you’re saying?”

In answer, the young Hollow Person walked over to Zaherain and rested her hands on his upper arms. The Weaver was much calmer now, as Lathlin had soothed his turbulent energy flows, and he looked serenely at Torment.

“Because of him; because he returned to me what my people lack: a soul. His kindness, intelligence, tolerance and patience showed me the error and horror of our ways. He was assigned to work with me in the operation theatres because of his dexterity. Although I knew he was revolted by the work, he tried to bring some form of comfort to the unfortunate ones by using his nimble hands to perform the required tasks as rapidly as possible, and without causing too much suffering,” she explained, wiping away her tears.

Zaherain suddenly pulled the contrite Torment into his arms and hugged her, causing her to break into fresh sobs.

“And again you work powerful magic,” Lathlin said with a smile playing on his lips. “Your forgiving heart has embraced this young woman and bound her to you with invisible tendrils of pure love. She has now become the daughter of your heart, and this bond is nigh indissoluble,” he declared.

Torment stepped out of the embrace and faced Lathlin. “We need to leave now,” she advised the Elfling. Then she turned to Belac and said, “Hunter, I will lead the way, but you must protect the others, for I promise you, once Mistress Pain learns of our escape, she will send every able Harvester and dreiche in pursuit of us.”

Talat suddenly re-entered the room; no one had even seen him leave. He was carrying all their equipment, and stood looking at them, his hands full of their gear.

“So what are we waiting for?” he asked, one eyebrow raised high. “I say let’s go already!”

Belac helped the Thug distribute their belongings, then faced the young woman.

“You will henceforth be called Release,” he informed her, “never to be tormented again. I will take point, for I know the way better than you can imagine. I shall put such distance between us and this cursed Shrine that no Harvester or dreiche will find even the slightest trace of our passing,” he said confidently.

Not a single person in the room doubted the veracity of his words. They slipped silently away just as the first sliver of dawn broke above the immense, towering Shrine.