The Legend of the Hunter

The bedraggled and sodden group consisting of Belac, Lathlin, Talat, Zaherain, Release, Qarethlin and Gavurothlin emerged from Ghoshal Forest just as the rain finally tapered off and dawn was breaking above the Phoenix Mountains in the north. They were footsore and heart sore, and all of them were still reeling from the devastating deaths of Juathlin and Borethlin. The Elves, in particular, were nearly inconsolable, but they maintained a façade of stoicism, for they intensely disliked outsiders seeing them display emotions that were extremely private to their Race.

Lathlin seemed to have withdrawn into an inner sanctum though, while Qarethlin exuded a nearly palpable aura of fury and frustration. She blamed herself for the deaths of her kin and although she knew she was being unreasonable and even unfair to herself, she couldn’t find a way to expel the guilt which had lodged in her heart. The only thing that offered some solace for her tortured soul was Lathlin’s presence. She constantly touched him in small ways to assure herself that her love was indeed with her, but also to absently draw strength flowing off him in calming waves. Gavurothlin was a study in secrecy. The Elf had said not a word since the disaster at the bridge; and he kept his gaze firmly fixed on the path ahead. Thus, when he spoke as they reached the edge of Ghoshal Forest, everyone was surprised but also immensely relieved. In Juathlin’s absence, leadership had automatically passed to him.

“It seems as if the entire village of Zanderon is awake. Why are there so many lights and fires burning at this early hour? What have we walked into now?”

At his comments, the travellers looked anew at Zanderon and realised he was right: there were far too many lights on, and they could now also faintly hear a fair din emanating from the village. As one, they all picked up the pace and hurried towards their destination.

Zenia emerged from her coma so abruptly that her mother, who had been keeping vigil at her side, shouted in wonder. “Rachmin,” the Ripple said loudly and clearly as she sat up in her bed, her blankets thrown off her in a rush. “He is here. The Hunter of Truth has arrived,” she proclaimed and made to get out of bed.

“No, child!” Zabida admonished her. “Stay in bed. Let me call your grandmother and Zaghrah first to see if you’re strong enough to be up.”

Zenia ignored her mother as if the woman hadn’t even spoken. She donned her clothes, stepped into her sandals, threw on a coat and left the cabin, all in the space of two minutes. Zabida was stupefied by her daughter’s behaviour … until she remembered that Zenia was now a Ripple of some reckoning. By happenstance, Zidayt had been on her way to check up on Zenia and thus met her granddaughter as she stepped out of the house. The Weaver woman instantly perceived the change in her beloved Zen-Zen. Her heart clenched painfully in sorrow and terror. Zenia looked as if she had matured overnight into a woman far beyond her nine years.

“Zidoo!” the little girl shouted upon spying her grandmother. She ran to the woman and threw herself into her arms, breaking into sobs that shook her young frame. Zidayt was terrified by her behaviour, for her granddaughter had never displayed such raw fear as she was doing now. Instinctively, the Weaver woman knew her outburst must be connected to the Drakheen and Rachmin.

As if to confirm her suspicions, Zenia pushed herself away from Zidayt, looked with eyes far too wise for their years at her and said, “The Drakheen is coming. I can feel his suffocating and foul presence on my soul, and it terrifies me. We don’t have much time, Zidoo!”

Ever the practical one, Zidayt asked, “How much time, Zenia? Hours or days?”

“A day at the least; a day and a night at the most,” Zenia replied.

“Good. That’s more than enough, little one,” Zidayt said. Before she could continue saying anything more, Zenia interrupted her.

“The Rachmin: he is here, grandmother. I sense him to be very close,” Zenia added.

“What? Are you certain of this?” the Weaver woman asked in disbelief.

“Yes, Zidoo. And he has Elves with him,” the Ripple revealed.

“Well, then we have hope that our salvation is at hand. Thank the Sweet Spirits! Now stop your crying and be brave. I know you’re my little warrior, so it’s time for us to act like it, yes?” Zidayt asked, offering Zenia a reassuring smile.

To her credit, the girl grinned and briefly nodded her head in agreement. Zabida had run after her daughter and Zidayt now took Zenia to her and said, “Take her inside. I need to inform the Council about her news. I will come get her soon.”

“Where will you take her, mother? Is there anywhere safe for her?” Zabida asked, her eyes overflowing with tears of despair.

“Peace, daughter. Everything will be all right. If the Rachmin is truly nearby, and I have no reason to doubt our Ripple, then there is a chance that we can survive this. Go now. I will return shortly,” Zidayt said and hurried off to Zando’s house.

Zanderon had become an incredible hub of physical activity. As Belac and his companions neared the brightly-lit village, they were astonished by the feverish pace at which the Weavers were working. The younger men were constructing huge barricades of wooden walls while older men were caulking these with pitch. Other Weaver men were fortifying strategic areas of the village by setting up fences and wooden spikes and often blocking roads with overturned carts, implements and even furniture. However, as Belac and his group entered the village, the Weavers stopped what they were doing and went down on one knee when they spotted the Hunter. Zaherain smiled at this show of respect and before Belac could voice the question, the Weaver said, “They recognise you, Rachmin. They are paying homage to you and displaying reverence for a living legend.”

“Well, I don’t want them to do that,” Belac said in obvious displeasure, the Weavers’ obeisance making him feel decidedly uncomfortable. He was used to being unnoticed and unknown, and felt too exposed by the Weavers’ unexpected actions.

“My friend,” Lathlin said in his quiet, reassuring voice, “you will have to get used to far more than this. You have been thrust by Fate into the heart of a saga, and I assure you that you will emerge a different man.” The Elfling smiled to soften the undeniable truth of his words, and Belac was able to partially ignore the discomfort he felt at seeing the Weavers’ genuflection spread out in a wave ahead of them.

As the Hunter and his entourage passed the Weavers, they started to follow the newcomers, for they had seen Zaherain and were amazed that he was alive and back in one piece.

“It looks as if they are readying themselves and the village for a war. I am relieved that they have somehow been forewarned of what is coming their way,” Qarethlin said as she observed the Weavers still busy at their various tasks, “but I am afraid that these fortifications will not be enough against the Drakheen,” she added glumly.

“At least it will serve as a delaying deterrent,” Gavurothlin said. The Elf was keenly studying what the Weavers were doing. “It seems that they have decided to retreat to the centre and the barriers they have erected appear to direct whatever attacking force they are anticipating into a specific area,” he added. Just then, the company reached the place to which the barricades seemed to be herding the as yet unseen and unknown army.

It was a vast open space at the back of the village, stretching from the village proper northwards towards the distant mountains that overlooked Queleuq. This was the parade area where the Weavers usually set up stalls for their merchandise, and food kiosks during their annual Weaver Festival. The Weavers had decided to turn this open meadow-like area into their battlefield against the Drakheen. Gavurothlin heartily approved of the decision.

The group had inadvertently gathered nearly the entire Weaver village population behind them; only the older women and children were missing. As Belac and his companions gazed upon the silent Weavers, all of whom were once again on bended knee, a lone female figure stepped out from the crowd, moving hesitantly towards the company. As she drew closer, Zaherain gasped and rushed towards her.

Zidayt thought she must be seeing a vision, for the man running towards her, his arms stretched wide to embrace her, could not be her Zaherain. And then she was in his fierce embrace, and her doubts evaporated like the actual mists being even now dissipated by the rising sun. Zaherain kissed his wife all over her face, tasting her salty tears and rejoicing in being reunited with his soul mate. Zidayt clung to him as if afraid he might turn into a disappearing wraith, but also knowing that it was undoubtedly her husband who was holding her so tightly.

“When Zenia told me that you were alive, I was thankful for it, but I dreaded what the Hollow People were doing to you. I can’t believe that you are here, whole and not mutilated as I feared you would be,” Zidayt told her mate. Zaherain once again crushed her to him before he replied.

“I was fortunate, beloved, that they wanted me for the skill of my hands. But I don’t want to talk or think about that now; let me just look at you and quench the thirst in my soul.”

The two gazed lovingly at each other until Zenia threw her arms around Zaherain’s waist and shouted, “Grandfather! I knew you would return. Didn’t I tell you he would come back to us, Zidoo?” the little girl enthused. Zaherain lifted her into the air before holding her tightly to his bosom.

“Thank the Sweet Spirits for returning you to me,” Zidayt said as Zabida also joined them in their reunion. Behind them, Belac watched the joyous family and abruptly felt the loss of his own. Typical of his Elfling friend, Lathlin placed a comforting hand on the Hunter’s shoulder and pressed it lightly in sympathy.

Surprisingly, it was Talat who stated what had been on Belac’s mind from the moment they entered Zanderon.

“Well, this is all great and wonderful, but we need to speak to the Village Council. I can’t help but feel that we don’t really have too much time for lengthy reunions. Aren’t we up against the clock?”

Although Belac or anyone else would have voiced his concerns more diplomatically, the ex-Thug had a point. They needed to meet urgently with the Council if they were to be fully prepared for the coming battle. Right on cue, Zando and the Council Elders approached the group. As one, they all dropped to a knee and Zando said, “Welcome, Rachmin, Hunter of Truth. The Sweet Spirits be blessed, for our Saviour has come to us in our Hour of need.” Suddenly every Weaver shouted, “Rachmin! Rachmin! Rachmin!” Once the Council had risen, they reverently escorted Belac and his companions to the Council Chambers. The assembled Weavers stopped their chanting and dispersed orderly to continue with their tasks.

“So, what does it feel like to be worshipped like a god?” Talat asked Belac, smiling mischievously at the Hunter’s obvious distress.

“Talat, leave him be,” Release chided the ex-Thug gently.

“Well, at least we can now start discussing how best to prepare for the Drakheen’s coming,” Qarethlin stated as she hooked her arm through Lathlin’s.

The Elfling looked at her adoringly and said, “I do not think we can ever be fully prepared for that Beast, but we will not be caught unawares. There is comfort in that.”

“We need to call for reinforcements from all the Elf League outposts,” Gavurothlin declared. “Messenger birds need to be dispatched this day if we have any hope of mounting a force large enough to repel the Drakheen. We do not know who or what he will bring with him as his army, but we should be ready for the worst.”

“He will bring my people with him,” Release stated matter-of-factly. She looked forlorn and despondent, and Lathlin’s heart went out to the tormented woman.

“It is the purpose for which he had created us.My people will have no choice but to obey him, but that is irrelevant for they will willingly assist him. It is the very reason why he made us without souls,” she ended.

“Then we will face them and the Drakheen without fear. We have souls and free will, and every single person here will confront that Beast and his army out of choice, not through compulsion or threats,” Belac stated in his deep voice. “We will fight to protect life, even if it means sacrificing our very own.”

The Hunter looked at his friends with pride, and they saw that he had finally decided to take up the mantle of responsibility that legend had lain at his feet.

“Friend Belac,” Talat said, “the Drakheen is going to have his butt handed to him. He has never met the likes of you, Hunter!”

Above the Shrine in the heart of the Forsaken Forest, a dark shadow gradually coalesced into the ominous figure of the Drakheen. The Beast had come calling for his children, whether they were ready or not, and he descended slowly and purposefully to the forest floor. He relished seeing his slaves again and eagerly anticipated their abject devotion to and worship of him. The Drakheen licked his lips, power coursing through his body like molten lava. He began to project an undeniable call to his servants, a command for them to attend him. The Beast grinned at what he knew to be a magnetic summons that no Hollow Person could ignore. After all, had not the Warlock Azlotlin created them without the luxury of free will?