The Legend of the Hunter

A full moon shone down upon Grief’s Spire, limning the finger of rock thrusting up to the heavens in a bright nimbus and dispelling the black clouds that had been gathered above throughout the day. A sharp drop of thousands of feet led dizzyingly from the top of the cliff to the ravine at the bottom. At the nadir of the pinnacle was a small cave entrance. The opening led down for some metres before it expanded into a massive underground chamber, the roof of which was lost in gloom. The cavern had a roughly circular shape and right in the centre was a square slab of smooth basalt that thrust up from the floor. It served as a natural altar for the Raajat Cabal, and upon it Zounith had spread-eagled Zenia on her back and tied her hands and feet to metal rings set in the igneous rock. The Ripple was still unconscious, but she was stirring to wakefulness.

Most of the four hundred Cabal members had already arrived, and the atmosphere was alive with maniacal fervour and zealotry. Although the air was dry, it was fresh, as the cave had good natural ventilation. However, it was getting quite warm inside the confined space because of all the Weavers, and because they had lit a number of torches for illumination. Consequently, the cavern started to resemble some hellish torture chamber, and Zenia awoke into this nightmare image.

In spite of her physical age, she had mentally developed apace within the last few months, thus inside she was an ancient Ripple once again coming into her own. The little girl could feel the powerful adult residing within her slender frame, but she was unafraid for she knew it was simply another aspect of herself. This older version now cautioned the younger one to feign insentience, and to continue reaching out telepathically to the Hunter of Truth. Zenia could feel that he was very close to where she was, and the hope that she would soon be rescued flared brightly within her like an out of control conflagration. The Ripple also listened in rapt but horrified fascination to the ravings of Zounith.

“Praise the Master! Glory be to our Saviour and Lord! Brothers and sisters, tonight we will ascend to a unique and privileged position. As our reward for delivering this Ripple to the Master of the Depths, all of us will be granted immortality, and we will live as eternal beings serving the one true plenipotentiary Ruler of Wrochcia!

“We have had to live in secret and in the shadows for centuries, unable to reveal our true allegiance to Warlock Azlotlin for fear of persecution and being murdered; but no more! The time has come for us to shed our guises and live without any fear or tyranny. With the Dark Master as our protector and benefactor, no one would dare harm us in the slightest. Our time is now, and we will show Wrochcia no mercy for having forced us to live like cowards and beggars simply because we have pledged ourselves to the Drakheen.

“Our allegiance is to the Master, and any who is foolish enough to attempt to hinder or stand against us will be scythed down without compassion like stalks of wheat or mindless cattle!”

The nearly full complement of the Rajaat Cabal madly applauded Zounith’s speech, some screaming like banshees while others stamped their feet, clapped their hands or whistled loudly. They were working themselves up into a violent frenzy in anticipation of the copious blood that was about to be spilled.

“Bring forth the sacrifices so that we may call upon the Master, the Drakheen, and summon him to us. Let the blood of his victims serve as a beacon for him, and a reminder of our obeisance, dedication and centuries-old loyalty to him,” Zounith commanded.

From an especially gloomy recess, two of the Rajaat members dragged forth four young children who looked to be between the ages of seven to ten. The children were resisting their captors, but they were weak and couldn’t put up much of a struggle. There were three boys and one girl, all of them filthy and covered in purple bruises. The little girl was in tears of misery and terror while the three boys appeared stunned senseless.

Without much fanfare or ceremony, the two Rajaat men lined the children up in front of a wooden trough set upon the ground and forced them to their knees.

“Come forward, Venerable High Priest of the Drakheen, and spill the blood of these innocents to succour our magnificent Master!” Zounith decreed. The Weaver was unrecognisable, as he had altered completely from the mild and innocuous-seeming man into a zealous and depraved cultist. He had finally flung off his perfidious camouflage and revealed his despicably true identity.

Zenia lay still as a corpse and took great pains not to move a single muscle. She feared to draw attention to herself and passionately prayed to the Spirits to guide Rachmin to her in all haste. She also fervently hoped he would be in time to save the lives of the four innocent sacrificial victims.

About an hour after midnight, Zanderon was fully fortified; the defenders were stationed at all the strategic areas, and those who would not join in the fighting had left for the sanctuary in the low hills west of the village. No sooner had all activity within the village ceased when the hordes of Hollow People appeared like magically conjured wraiths outside the walls. The Elves estimated the army to be under two thousand souls and this initially seemed promising, until Release quietly but sombrely drew their attention to the numerous packs of dreiche. Everyone knew this did not bode well for them, but their resolve did not falter.

Kloneithlin had been asked to serve as the Commander of the defenders, and he calmly dispatched teams of archers to specifically target the monstrous beasts. Hojuthlin and Maniglin had been placed in charge of protecting the east and west flanks of the village respectively, while Gavurothlin and Rusthlin were guarding the northern entrance. The Elves knew this was the most likely place for the Drakheen to enter the village, thus they had opted to place the Battle Elves there. Talat had decided to join the Battle Elves, as he reasoned it would be the safest place for him.

“After all,” he had said to Release, “I might as well be where the magic will be to make sure I survive this craziness.” After kissing her lovingly, they had parted to go to their respective posts.

Those guarding the front of Zanderon stared in silence at the gathering Hollow People. The Soulless Ones seemed to all be in some kind of hypnotic trance, as they all moved synchronously. They made not the slightest sound, but they exuded great menace and evil intent. Their dreiche packs made the only noise in an otherwise hushed night: a continuous growling, hissing and spitting rumble. The beasts were baying for blood and the scent of so many prey gathered in one place was driving them into a murderous fever. The onlookers were amazed that the monsters hadn’t already attacked.

Swift-footed Elven and Weaver runners served to carry messages from Kloneithlin to the rest of the army, and he dispatched these now with orders to loose fire arrows at the dreiche the minute the beasts attacked. However, it was a squadron of Hollow People who mounted the first assault upon all sides of the village in perfect unison. The attack was so sudden and executed in such silence that the defenders were nearly caught completely by surprise. Fortunately, the sharp-eyed Elven lookouts cried out in time, and the defenders jumped into action.

They cut down the first line with arrows and dart guns, but somehow the Hollow People managed to scale the walls like the nimblest of lizards. Before the defenders knew it, they found Hollow People on the ramparts and were forced to engage in hand-to-hand combat. Some of the Hollow People had even blasted holes through the bottom of the wooden walls and were already inside the village itself. The slaughter was horrific. The Hulya and Ghoshal Elves fought courageously and slew Hollow People as fast as they could. The Weavers sprung hidden traps and captured Hollow People in pits, nets and snares, and then summarily executed them.

On the northern flank, where the majority of the Elven army had camped, only a token line of Hollow People had made a short skirmish. It was as if they were only testing the site, for they quickly withdrew with hardly any of their kind killed in the raid. They seemed to be waiting for someone or something, and went back to standing in silence just beyond arrow range.

“I do not like this at all,” Rusthlin told Gavurothlin. “I have an ill feeling about it,” he added.

“As do I,” Gavurothlin agreed. “I suggest we ready our magical defences and charge the protective shields,” he advised.

Both Battle Elves stretched out their hands and traced patterns in the air to initiate their spells. Gavurothlin prepared a wall of fire while Rusthlin constructed a few webs of compressed air. They didn’t have long to wait to put their spells to use though, for the Hollow People suddenly charged en masse. Thirty of them burned to ashes as they passed through the wall of fire; the twenty following them were violently repelled by the compressed air. They kept coming though. Their constant assaults were draining the Battle Elves, and the other defenders knew it would soon be their task to keep the Hollow People from gaining entry into the village proper. Kunkuna was hooting softly in agitation and curling his talons eagerly. The byrgreme wanted to rend flesh and rip out throats, but he controlled himself and waited for the order to be given before he could let loose his murderous tendencies.

As suddenly as it had started, the assault was over. The remaining force of Hollow People stood back and only stared at their opponents. The defenders got a whiff of the unpleasant smell of sulphur and lye before they inexplicably felt a strong breeze upon them, and then they heard the unmistakable beat of heavy leathery wings. As one, they all turned their faces up to see a dark vision from hell descend slowly, leisurely. The Drakheen settled with a heavy thud upon the ground, the force of his landing flinging up clouds of dust and small stones. The Beast stretched out his wings to their extreme before folding them upon his back. He grinned wickedly at the group of defenders, his moist nostril slits opening and closing convulsively as he breathed in the intoxicating scent of his foe. The Drakheen opened his teeth-filled maw and roared in challenge at the Elves and Weavers alike, and many of them knew their lives were forfeit.

“This used to be an Elf? A Warlord Elf, no less?” Talat asked in disbelief and disgust upon his first sighting of the Drakheen.

The Beast towered over the defending group of people, making them feel the futility of attempting to fight such a monster. And yet, not a single one of them turned away in fright or attempted to flee. On the contrary, the smallest of them, a humble byrgreme, stepped forward and laughed loudly in the face of the arrogant Drakheen.

“Beast make noise like rust pots,” Kunkuna said in his limited speech. “Beast stink bad-bad. Make Kunkuna think dirty pigs here. Kunkuna cut Beast belly open. Maybe then stink be of good blood, not bad-bad pigs,” he concluded. The Drakheen was enraged beyond reason. It screamed vilely at the short byrgreme.

“You I will crush into a pulp! You are not worth being eaten, but I will nevertheless swallow you whole and shit you out as nothing but the excrement you are!”

“Oh, using bad words. Not sign of intelligence, you know?” the byrgreme taunted the Drakheen. The defenders were astounded by the byrgreme’s bravery, and some of them couldn’t help but grin or giggle at his insults. What they failed to realise though was that the clever byrgreme was playing for time to allow the Battle Elves to recharge their nearly depleted energies, and his ploy worked.

In a blinding flare, Gavurothlin once again erected a wall of fire flush in front of the Drakheen’s face, very nearly succeeding in scorching the Beast, but he was too quick and simply took a step back. He stared maliciously at the Battle Elf, but made no move to step through the burning fence. The Drakheen knew the Elf couldn’t maintain the wall forever; he simply had to wait him out. Not being a patient Beast at all, the Drakheen instead decided to hasten the collapse of the firewall by signing to his servants to assail it. Their lives were his to expend, and they were mindless enough to follow his command blindly. Group after group stormed the flaming barrier. Both Battle Elves knew it was simply a matter of when and not if before they would have no magic left to use against the glaring, malevolent Drakheen.

A satisfied and wholly iniquitous smirk formed upon the visage of the Drakheen. In a sibilant voice dripping with venom he said, “As this wall burns, Elf, so your magical energies are consumed. I could extinguish this inferno with a mere thought, but it amuses me to look upon your feeble attempts to avert the inevitable. Soon, all of you shall feel my wrath and taste my fury, for I shall bloody this entire village, these pathetic walls with your bleeding corpses!”

Rusthlin’s brow was dripping with perspiration, but the Battle Elf maintained his magic, not prepared to allow the Drakheen the slightest opportunity to venture forth himself. He glanced over at Gavurothlin and saw the strain the Elf was under. Huge veins stood out starkly against the Elf’s fair complexion; sweat poured freely down his face; his hands were shaking from the extended labour of sustaining the wall of fire. But Gavurothlin, too, was not submitting to his limitations.

Both Elves knew the inexorable depletion of their powers was mere minutes away. With nothing else to fall back on, they silently prayed to the Spirits for a miracle.

Their prayers were unexpectedly answered when the Drakheen froze, tilted his head to the northwest as if listening intently to something only his ears could hear emanating from that direction, and then spread his massive wings wide. Without even a final comment, insult or threat, the Beast took to the air and sped off towards the Doondé.

The defenders were astounded by the turn of events; the Hollow People lost their automaton movements and fell back into their individual personalities. It was glaringly apparent to everyone that the Drakheen had released his hold on the Hollow People, and hope flared anew in all their breasts.

At the southern wall of Zanderon, Kloneithlin and Release watched the departure of the Drakheen with dread.

“He knows where the Ripple is, and he is going after her,” the Commander said.

“His hold over the Hollow People and their pets have been severed. The dreiche is no longer chained. Now, the real slaughter will begin,” Release intoned as the dreiche packs finally sprinted like unleashed hounds of hell towards Zanderon.

“Sweet Spirits protect us,” a young Weaver standing next to Release upon the ramparts whispered in abject terror.