The Legend of the Hunter

It was pouring on the morning the Elf League Commander, Juathlin, set out with his Quiver 7 team to travel to Queleuq to aid Lathlin. Rhinihr had arrived the day before with Lathlin’s letter, and since then the League had been very busy getting the rescue mission underway, and sending word to the other Elf League outposts spread along the Queleuq route.

“You are certain that this Hunter, Belac, can be trusted not to go back on his word and betray Lathlin?” Juathlin had asked Rhinihr when the old man had finished his narration of the events.

“As certain as I am of the sun comin’ out tomorrow mornin’,” he had replied. He had then added, “What I mean is that it can be trusted to rise, but there is always the possibility that it might not.”

“Stop speaking in riddles, man,” Juathlin had said, not unkindly. He knew the ex-Thug was worried about Lathlin, and he could see how it was affecting the man’s senses.

“Apologies, milord. I meant to say ’e can be trusted, yes, but not fully. After all, ’e was sent to capture the Elfling, no?”

“Yes, you make a valid point, friend Rhinihr. Fine, we will go to Queleuq, but we will go on the assumption that we will have to fight to free Lathlin. If that is not the case, all the better, but prepared we shall be.”

The Commander had the typical Elven features: fair skin, pointy ears, long straight hair, and a slim physique. What set him apart from the rest of the Elves though were his arresting eyes: they glowed a bright gold, as if twin suns had been captured and placed within his eye sockets. Under the gaze of those eyes, no mere mortal could remain unaffected for long. There was definitely a tale worth telling behind the acquisition of his strange eyes, but Juathlin had never volunteered to share it with anyone outside the Race of Elves. As humans were too timid or downright frightened to ask Juathlin how he had come to have such eyes, it remained a tantalising mystery.

Juathlin had wasted no time on selecting his team; in short order he had assembled Quiver 7 and relayed the mission to the Elves. Quiver 7’s team leader was Hojuthlin, an experienced veteran who was loved by one and all. He was tall, unusually muscular for an Elf, and had a distinctive white patch of hair that curled over his left eyebrow. Dasethlin was his first lieutenant, while the rest of the team consisted of twins – Marethlin and his sister, Qarethlin; Rusthlin, Borethlin and Gavurothlin, three Elves who had the gift of battle magic. Quiver 7 had a reputation for being both resilient and exceptionally lethal.

The weather had turned nasty early on the morning of their departure from Habelaterna, and the worst of the storm hit as the company was travelling through the Mandolan Pass, a tricky passage that led from the plains of Habelaterna to the marshes of Gillipo that lay just beyond the Razor’s Ridge. The pass provided a shortcut across the mountain range, but it was risky. Not only was the avenue completely covered on both sides by overarching trees, but it also provided an excellent opportunity for an ambush. The Elf League was acutely aware of the latter.

Raindrops pattered noisily on the leaves, making it even more likely that any traveller using the pass would be ambushed, as the sound of the rain effectively hid the stealthy approach of bandits, or worse.

“High alert, everyone!” Hojuthlin whispered curtly. He looked warily about and above him, all his senses keenly attuned to anything out of the ordinary. He could see the Battle Elves in front, all three carefully scouring the path ahead. Every Elf was a tensely coiled spring, and each one was just as ready to launch into action.

The twins and Dasethlin made up the rear guard, with the Commander immediately behind Hojuthlin. The team crossed the midway point of the pass unharmed, but as they reached the last stretch leading out of the crossing, the ambush was sprung. It came not from above, as the Elves had expected, but from the sides. Within seconds, the attackers were swarming over the Elves.

They were Silent Ones, professional assassins who had taken a vow not to talk to anyone except other Silent Ones. They were infamous throughout the land; and their infamy was built on their cruelty and insatiable lust for killing. They lived exclusively in the Gillipo Marshes in stout bamboo huts on stilts, and they allowed no outsiders anywhere within the marsh ranges. They were mindless killers who attacked any unwary travellers simply for sport. They had made a grave mistake though in falling upon a company of League Elves.

Three of the Silent Ones had pounced on what they had perceived to be the weakest of the party: Qarethlin. She was the only female, thus presumably the most vulnerable. The three hardly had the luxury to discover just how mistaken they were. Qarethlin slit the first killer’s throat and simultaneously disembowelled the second one who was trying to stab her eyes out. It happened in such a flash of speed that both killers were dead before the third one had time to realise he was the only one remaining. He had jumped onto Qarethlin’s back, and she simply fell backwards, effectively pinning him to the ground. The fall knocked the killer off balance and caused him to lose his grip on the Elf’s waist. Smooth as silk, Qarethlin slipped from his grasp, stood over him and crunched his throat with her foot. She didn’t even bother to see if the killer was dead, but turned her attention immediately to finding Marethlin.

He was surrounded by five of the Silent Ones, but they were keeping their distance from him. In a blur, he threw his knife at a killer on his left, who gave one horrible yell before he toppled backwards.

“Not so silent now, are we?” Marethlin mocked. His flippant remark infuriated the rest of his attackers who en masse went for him. Marethlin somersaulted over one, grabbing his neck as he vaulted over him and snapping it. As he landed next to the third man, he punched his nose into his brain. The remaining two assailants were upon the Elf, each grabbing an arm, but suddenly they were flung away from him as if they had been pulled back by cables. Both men landed sickeningly against a tree, the cracking of their spines announcing their sudden deaths.

“They have definitely been permanently silenced,” Marethlin joked and winked at his sister, who shook her head in disgust. The twins both nodded in gratitude to Rusthlin, as he had been the one who had magically plucked the two attackers from Marethlin.

The last of the assailants were quickly dispatched by the other two Battle Elves, but Dasethlin had been grievously injured. Juathlin was tending to him while Hojuthlin had captured two of the Silent Ones alive.

The twins reached Juathlin in time to witness Dasethlin take his final breath. An arrow had neatly speared the Elf through a lung. It was an agonising injury, but Dasethlin died without a single sound of pain. Quiver 7 huddled quietly around the body while Juathlin closed the dead Elf’s eyes and said a ritual prayer of farewell. Then he turned his focus upon the two captives. Both of them visibly paled when they saw the Commander’s blazing eyes.

“I am glad you captured these two, Hojuthlin. Although they will refuse to tell us anything, we do not need you to talk to reveal why you attacked us,” said Juathlin, the last part of his comment aimed directly at the two Silent Ones. They had both composed themselves and stared arrogantly at the Commander, confident that the Elves would get nothing out of them. It was their second mistake of the day.

One of the Battle Elves, Gavurothlin, stepped forward and took the head of the nearest assassin in his hands. The Elf closed his eyes and tipped his head slightly back. Suddenly, the assassin went rigid and strained to free his head from Gavurothlin’s grip. While he was twisting and thrashing like a snake held by its head, Borethlin stepped up to the second assassin, slapped him hard across the face and stared fiercely into the man’s eyes. The assassin soon started to whimper and before long, he emitted a drawn out moan of agony.

While the two Battle Elves were delving into the minds of the Silent Ones for answers, under the unflinching gaze of the Elf League Commander, the other Elves were gathering whatever dry wood they could find and built a funeral pyre for Dasethlin. They had selected a fairly dry space at the end of the pass, up against the side of the mountain. The rain had stopped by the time the Elves reverently placed the body of their fallen comrade upon the bier. Rusthlin solemnly set the pyre alight with magic, also softly chanting a dirge of farewell. The rest of the Elves joined him in the chant, their voices rising slightly as the smoke drifted upwards. Each Elf felt the loss profoundly, and all wept unashamedly.

They would hold a more formal burial ceremony for Dasethlin once they had returned to Habelaterna, to help his soul journey to its next existence. However, the least they could do to honour their fallen fellow now was to start him off on that passage with a heartfelt funeral.

“We shall not lose another Elf on this journey,” Juathlin declared, his jaw clenching in fury and sorrow, “and payment for Dasethlin’s death will be exacted.” He turned to the Battle Elves who had interrogated the assassins, and waited for their report.

“They were hired by Ragar the Brute,” Gavurothlin stated simply, to which Borethlin added, “Apparently, the Thug Master did not trust his man Talat to succeed in tracking down and capturing Lathlin. He hired these Silent Ones as a contingency.”

“Ragar is widely known to be paranoid, but I fail to see how he could have thought these assassins would only seize and not kill Lathlin,” Marethlin said. “I mean, these louts are not exactly discerning in who they kill, right?” he asked of no one in particular.

“That is correct,” Qarethlin agreed. “They live to kill, so why would the Brute have sent them to capture Lathlin if he surely knows they are killers to the core?”

“I think I can answer that,” Gavurothlin stated. “From what I saw in the mind of this despicable rat,” he said and pointed to the assassin whose mind he had invaded, “Ragar had promised them something they have always craved and it is what they constantly strive to obtain.” He paused for dramatic effect.

“Oh, come on!” Marethlin shouted. “Are you seriously pausing for dramatic effect now?” he asked and lifted an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Well,” Qarethlin said, “it is kind of the right moment for a pregnant pause, would you not agree?” she asked tongue in cheek.

“Children,” Rusthlin chided them mockingly, “let Gavuroth finish what he was trying to say. So, what did Ragar promise these cretins?” he asked.

“In a word: immortality. He told them that Lathlin has the ability to manipulate their energy force in such a manner that they would live forever, and that once he had altered their physical energy, they would be impervious to any weapon, and even death itself,” Gavurothlin ended.

“And they believed this drivel?” Hojuthlin asked, utterly incredulous. The expressions on the faces of the other Elves echoed his sentiments.

“Desperate creatures will believe anything, if what they are being told concurs with their inherent desires,” Juathlin calmly stated. “The Silent Ones have for centuries tried to lengthen their lifespans, have they not? We know from first-hand knowledge to what extremes they are prepared to go if it means extending their lives. Have they not attempted time and again to capture Elves in order to study our longevity? No, it does not really surprise me that they would believe Ragar’s ridiculous claim. As far as the Silent Ones are concerned, they have finally ‘discovered’ why we seem to live forever,” the Commander concluded.

“What would you have us do with these two?” Borethlin asked, gesturing to the still kneeling assassins.

“It was indeed fortunate that you did not kill them,” Juathlin said and walked over to the two captors. “On your feet, vermin!” he commanded. They stood insolently and stared daggers at Juathlin. In the blink of an eye, Gavurothlin was upon them. He punched one in the face and the other in the stomach, flooring both of them with his magic-imbued power.

“You will show the requisite respect to all of us, or you forfeit your miserable skins right now!” he spat at them. The two made another attempt at being disrespectful, spitting in Gavurothlin’s direction, but then Qarethlin unexpectedly cut off the right ear of what seemed to be the higher ranking assassin.

“And there he goes again, not being silent,” Marethlin quipped as the now one-eared man screamed in anguish. “Why call yourself ‘Silent Ones’ if you are going to be so noisy?”

“We can cut off other unnecessary parts if you refuse to cooperate,” Qarethlin said with a sweet smile as she threw the offending ear aside.

“Have we an understanding now?” Rusthlin asked mildly. Both assassins nodded, although their eyes were still aflame with hatred for the Elves.

“Now, hear me well, scum. You will accompany us to Ragar, where you will witness the truth: that he lied to you in order to get you to do his work for him. Once you have been given undeniable proof that Lathlin can grant none of you immortality, you will be permitted to return to your tribe to inform them of Ragar’s treachery and deceit. Make no mistake though; I only really need one of you alive, so misbehave or try to escape, and one of you dies,” Juathlin declared. The Silent Ones knew from the Elf League Commander’s tone and body language that he meant every word he said. The assassins shared a look, and both suddenly seemed to visibly deflate, their shoulders sagging and their eyes downcast.

Pointing from one murderer to the other, Marethlin cheerfully said, “Ah, now that speaks volumes!”