The Legend of the Hunter

The guards at the compound gates had been tripled after the Silent Ones had so easily dispatched the two unfortunate ones who had been guarding the entrance that morning. All of them were also instructed to be on high alert for anything suspicious, thus when the knock came at the gates, every single Thug held their swords at the ready and took up defensive stances. Two were positioned at the gates themselves, while two more were stationed back some paces. The last two guarded the entrance to Ragar’s personal abode. Inside though, Ragar had assembled a veritable army to protect him: 60 guards crowded the foyer, each one armed to the teeth with swords, maces, daggers, clubs, dart guns and spears. Ragar was determined to leave nothing to chance.

When the knock was repeated, the gate guards cautiously slid open the viewing hatch, something the two dead guards had neglected to do, and saw a bound, miserable-looking and hunched over creature, an Elf holding the rope leading to the creature’s secured hands. The Elf was smiling broadly at them and before the guards could close the hatch, he had stuck his head through it, making both guards jump back in astonishment.

“Hello there, my good fellows,” the crazy Elf said. “I bring a unique item to your leader, whom I have heard is a collector of precisely such fine acquisitions as this here byrgreme. And I have another on standby. Any chance I could get an audience with Ragar the Brute?” the Elf asked the stunned guards.

The older of the two finally regained his senses and said, “Here, you! Get yer head outta that hole! It ain’t for heads to pop through, you idiot!”

“Yes, yes. I understand,” Marethlin said, thoroughly enjoying himself, “but you still have not answered my query. Could I see Ragar the Brute, please?” he repeated his request.

The two guards looked at each other and at the other four in the courtyard. All of them knew about Ragar’s fondness for weird items; naturally, they all simultaneously reached the same conclusion that he would definitely be interested in the creature.

“Fine, we’ll let you in, but get yer pointy-eared Elf head outta that damned hatch now!” shouted the guard irately.

From their hiding place, the three Elves and the byrgreme saw the gates open, saw Marethlin and Krauwyk enter, and then waited for the gates to once again be opened for them. Three long minutes passed, but the gates remained sealed.

“I have a kashtunk feeling about this,” Hojuthlin said, unknowingly echoing Marethlin’s earlier comment in the tavern. “They should have opened the gates for us by now.”

“Let us give them a few more minutes,” Kloneithlin advised.

“If they do not unseal those gates within the next minute, I am going to blast them off their hinges,” Rusthlin said fervently.

“Blast now, yes!” Kunkuna agreed.

The gates stayed firmly barred.

As one, the group sprinted out of their hiding place to the compound gates, Rusthlin in front and already creating an energy blast to fling open the gates. The area in front of Ragar’s complex was clear of people, thus no one hindered them. Just before the Battle Elf could unleash the explosion, one of the gates was flung wide open. Krauwyk stood grinning from ear to ear and beckoned for them to enter.

“Took your time about it,” Rusthlin complained as he walked past her, only to stop dead in his tracks when he saw what littered the courtyard.

The six guards had been flung into various corners of the area, one guard even lying in the upper reaches of a large apple tree. All of them appeared lifeless, but then the one in the tree groaned faintly. Marethlin was standing under a pergola, leisurely sharpening one of his daggers on a decorative metal statue placed in the garden. The Elf was bleeding from a minor gash on his right arm, but aside from that he looked as satisfied as a cat that had just polished off an entire saucer of cream.

“My apologies, brothers,” he said and bowed to the approaching group, “I did not foresee that there would be this many sentries,” he added and gestured around the yard. “It took us slightly longer than expected to subdue them, but mostly because they kept running away from us.”

“Krauwyk scare silly guards,” the byrgreme added and giggled. “It fun throw them ’round like pieces of shrtoi,” she said, using the byrgreme word for straw in her excitement. Hojuthlin noticed that her command of English had also lapsed slightly in her enthusiasm for violence.

“You not leave any for Kunkuna?” the male byrgreme complained and sulked.

“Is this the entire force Ragar had assembled to stop us? I kind of doubt that,” Kloneithlin said, to which Marethlin replied happily, “Oh, no! Behind those doors there are probably 100 Thugs waiting anxiously for us. Shall we oblige them?” he asked cheerfully.

“I do not see why not. After all, we cannot disappoint Ragar who is undoubtedly eagerly anticipating our meeting with him,” Kloneithlin replied, surprising everyone with his flippant reply.

“Then I say let us make him wait no longer,” Rusthlin commented and without any further delay, blasted the front door to Ragar’s den of iniquity to smithereens.

Those hapless guards who had been standing right in front of the door were violently smashed into those immediately behind them, while others were sliced by flying splinters and shards. Two unfortunate guards were killed instantly by large pieces of sharp splinters lodging in the eye of one and spearing the throat of the other. Hojuthlin was among the rest in a blur of speed, grabbing a strapping Thug by the front of his jerkin and head butting him; knocking another Thug into oblivion; kicking the legs out from under a third and then efficiently slitting his throat.

Kloneithlin was death personified. The Commander blocked knife thrusts, evaded sword slices and knocked away darts fired at him. He cut into the men like a hot knife through unresisting cheese with his thin blades, stabbing one Thug through the heart and simultaneously disembowelling another; he cut across a third guard’s face and on the down stroke, pinned another’s foot to the floor. Leaving the knife buried in the man’s foot, he punched two more guards out in rapid succession before retrieving his knife to slit the throat of the man whose foot he had used as a pin cushion. And he once again threw himself into the fight, killing men as fast as they came at him.

Kunkuna hooted with pleasure as he decapitated Thugs with his claws or smashed heads in against walls and floors. The byrgreme was in the midst of a circle of attacking Thugs, lashing out with his long arms to grab weapons and turn them against their users, or ripping out throats whenever these came within reach of his long arms. And all the while he was hooting and grunting in unrestrained delight.

Marethlin somersaulted over three Thugs, slitting the throat of one as he passed over him and stabbing another in the back as he landed behind them. He left his short sword in the dying man’s back and used his noose to throttle the third Thug. Planting his foot against the second man’s back, he freed his sword in time to block a vicious cut to his face from a veteran Thug. The man was huge, towering over the young Elf, which he had assumed would be an easy target to dispatch. Marethlin laughed at the man, which infuriated the giant, causing him to roar in anger as he charged the Elf. Marethlin took the blow on his sword, feeling the power of the man’s strength vibrate down his arm, but then he nimbly swept under the man’s arm and hamstrung him. The giant managed to land a wicked punch against the Elf’s kidney, causing him to drop to the floor and gasp in pain. The huge Thug rose up, leaning all is weight on his uninjured leg, and gripping his sword with both hands, he raised his hands up over his head to bring the weapon down in a death blow. Big mistake. As swift as a swooping swallow, Marethlin cast his throwing knife into the man’s armpit, then jumped to his feet as the Thug dropped his sword. Marethlin picked up the discarded weapon and with one smooth, unhurried stroke, separated the surprised Thug’s head from his shoulders. The decapitated head rolled off to end up against another dead thug, the eyes in the head still wide open in disbelief.

Krauwyk was in ecstasy, relishing the slaughter as only a byrgreme can. She was even humming a catchy ditty as she crushed heads, ripped out spines, gouged eyes and bit out throats. Many of the Thugs ran away from her, but the byrgreme gave pursuit to slay them with the utmost savagery. Rusthlin was fighting off his own share of guards, but he was undeniably grateful that the creature was on their side.

“That is a truly delightful tune,” Marethlin told the byrgreme as he kicked a Thug so hard under his chin that the man’s neck snapped. “You must teach it to me once we are done with this here skirmish,” he said in obvious understatement.

The byrgreme giggled while she bashed a Thug’s head repeatedly against a wall. The man was weeping unashamedly and begging the creature to let him go. “Krauwyk teach Elf song, yes, but Elf not able sing words. Elf only hum, like Krauwyk,” she said over her shoulder to Marethlin.

Then there were no more Thugs left to fight. Kunkuna overturned furniture and looked in wardrobes for more of the guards, but to his disappointment, he found none. The fight had spilled over into other areas of the house, and the blood-and-gore-splattered company found themselves standing in front of a large, lavishly decorated but smoke-filled room. A huge sofa dominated the left side of the chamber, while the right wall had a number of metal rings, a Silent One chained to two of these. He bore the bruises of a recent beating or torture. At the far end of the hazy room, the group could discern a pair of windows that opened out onto an expansive back garden.

Reclining on the couch as if he had not a care in the world sprawled Ragar, his bulk filling nearly the entire length of the sofa. He was surrounded on three sides by his honour guard, six mean-looking men dressed completely in black, and bristling with weapons. The Brute gazed at the Elves and byrgreme as if they were dirty, uninvited vermin who had dared to invade his sanctuary. On the right, the Silent One hissed in alarm or fury when he spotted Krauwyk and Kunkuna.

“I assume you are here to thank me for sparing your lives,” the Brute said with not a hint of humour. “If I had wanted you dead, you would never have left the tavern. Those guards I had posted in the house were to serve as a distraction while I set my greater plan in motion,” he bragged.

Kloneithlin looked at the Brute in disdain and flippantly said, “It seems your illness has touched your brain and addled it. But no matter, we have a most efficient cure for what ails you. Death,” the Commander intoned bluntly.

“Death would be a mercy to one such as you,” Rusthlin said, “but we are prepared to extend it to you if you are willing to come with us to the Silent Ones to confess that you lied to them about Lathlin’s ability.”

“By doing this, you will effectively end their hunt for Lathlin, as they believe your filthy deceit about his ability to grant them everlasting life,” Hojuthlin added.

“Let us just kill him, please,” Marethlin begged.

Ragar roared in laughter and stood up with great difficulty, assisted by three of the guards. “You will discover it is not as easy as you think it is to kill Ragar the Brute, not while I have you surrounded by the entire Queleuq division of Thugs. Your journey ends here, and it will end in your most gruesome of deaths,” the Brute stated. “Please, have a look out of those windows at what I have assembled specifically for you in the garden,” Ragar said and gestured toward the rear windows.

Fearlessly, Krauwyk went over and opened one of the windows. She gave a drawn out whistle and said, “Krauwyk think Elf need see this.”

The group cautiously moved towards the open window and gazed in silence at the rank upon rank of a motley army of assembled Thugs. There seemed to be about five hundred of the men, and all of them were armed to the eyebrows.

“And just when I thought the fun was all over,” Marethlin quipped, smiling broadly.