The Legend of the Hunter
Ptrashul

Ptrashul read the message again. The Silent One who had delivered it was standing off to the side of the Supreme Speaker’s chair, waiting patiently and very respectfully for instructions. All the Silent Ones knew to remain even more quiet than usual when the Supreme Speaker was contemplating a response or reaction to a challenge. The letter was not a challenge, but it was not good news either.

“Ragar has lied to us,” Ptrashul read the message aloud, “about the Elf healer and about his ability to grant us eternal life. He tricked us to get us to capture the Elfling for him, as he needs the Elf to cure him of a terminal disease. He has deceived you, Supreme Speaker, and therefore disrespected and insulted you. He has thus offended every Silent One and must pay with his life. Mrunial and I are on our way to confront and hopefully kill the Brute, but I leave this letter in the hopes that it will reach you. If we should fail in our mission, we implore you to mount an assault against the Brute. He has dishonoured the Silent Ones, and payment must be exacted in blood and guts. I remain your faithful Syllable, Hruss.”

The Supreme Speaker rose slowly from his chair, his tattooed torso rippling with muscles as he straightened up to his full height. Ptrashul looked out upon the assembled Syllables, his dark green eyes taking in each and every Silent One standing at attention in front of him. He was wearing his favourite black mesh sleeveless vest, and he now clenched his hands, making his biceps flex in a show of strength. He wore a short leather wrap to display his muscular thighs and hard calves, and he was bare feet. Not for him the comfort of shoes or sandals.

Every aspect of his body and appearance bore testimony to the power within him, and during the entire length of his twenty-year reign as leader of the Silent Ones, he had not once been challenged by a would-be usurper or aspiring successor. However, what also counted in his favour and cemented his complete authority over the Silent Ones was the fact that he was the only one in nearly half a decade who had been born without a stutter. Among a people of stutterers, he was an evident Superior.

Ptrashul was angry; in fact, he was enraged, but he displayed not a shred of his fury. He ardently wished to slice and slash at Ragar, to cut him into strips of flesh which he could feed to his marsh pets, but he had to maintain a serene composure for now. His time to abandon his tranquil demeanour in favour of savage slaughter would come soon enough. For now, he had to address his Syllables and ready them for an attack that Queleuq would never forget.

He was filled with immense pride as he looked at his People, at each one who would without the slightest hesitation lay down his or her life for him, their Supreme Speaker. He knew it would be difficult for him to select his assault team without causing a riot, as every Silent One would demand to go with him on the raid. Yet, he also knew they would accept his decision with absolute obedience.

“Syllables, you have heard what one of your brothers has written, and you bear testimony to the insult thrown at us,” Ptrashul began. “I know you feel it is each and every one’s duty to storm Ragar’s compound and destroy the Brute without mercy,” he said but had to stop when the Silent Ones roared their approval. Once the crowd had grown silent again, Ptrashul continued, “But I will take only fifty Syllables to Queleuq and show that city and its cowardly Thugs how powerful the Silent Ones are. We don’t need an army to ruin them; we only need a fistful of brave, fearless Syllables!” he shouted. Unsurprisingly, everyone roared their approval and Ptrashul made his selection quickly and efficiently. Within the hour, the Supreme Speaker and his team were ready to depart.

Ptrashul called over the Silent One who had brought the letter from Hruss.

“Where did you find the message?” he asked the man. The Silent Ones had drop points spread all across the land, but if he knew where the message came from, Ptrashul could estimate how much of a lead Hruss and Mrunial had over him and his men.

“It was hidden in the rocky drop point on the edge of the Doondé,” the man now revealed. This immediately informed Ptrashul that the two men had probably already arrived in Queleuq and would either have succeeded in their mission, or been taken prisoner by Ragar. Whatever the case might be, Ptrashul would avenge them and exact revenge upon Ragar for deceiving him.

“We run now, and we run fast. I want to reach Queleuq before this day sinks into the waters of the marshes,” he declared and without waiting for anyone’s response, he sprinted in the direction of the city. His fifty murderous Syllables followed hot on his heels.

The Drakheen awoke for the second time when he heard the name Rachmin clang in his mind like a bronze bell tolling doom. This time he woke fully, his mind sharp as a knife edge, his body twisting and stretching in rage, murderous desire and purpose. He knew his time had arrived, and he rejoiced. The purpose for which he had come into being all those centuries ago had finally dawned, and the Drakheen relished the bloodshed to come.

He rose up to fill the cave with his monstrous size. He took his time to unfurl his brown, leathery wings to their full extent, and then lazily stretched his supine, muscular body until his bones and ligaments creaked and snapped. He yawned widely, showing his serrated teeth and hooked tusks, while his snout sniffed the air hungrily. The two slits that passed for a nose were moist, and saliva drooled slowly from the monster’s maw. His sense of smell was so acute that he could pick up the scent of prey on the surface far above his tomb, and what he had tasted on the air increased the flow of saliva. He had smelled man flesh.

His brawny legs ended in heavy slit hooves, while his fur-covered arms had razor-sharp talons that he now used to dig his way out of the earth. He emitted a foul miasma of stagnant water and rotting meat, brimstone and lye, and each breath he took sounded like bellows being inflated. He painstakingly and inexorably dug his way to freedom.

The Drakheen finally exploded thunderously from the top of the peak, as if the mountain had erupted from inside, sending rocks, boulders and dust spewing out in all directions. The nightmare monster perched on top of the devastated pinnacle and roared loudly and at length, flapping his massive wings to stretch the nearly atrophied muscles. Once his wings were powerful and strong enough to lift him, the Beast took flight, soaring over the mountain range like a slithering serpent, spiralling ever downward out of the thin, icy air into the warm rising surface air of the desert to the south of the mountain range. He then turned back in his flight and passed low over the Gillipo Marshes at the foot of the Warlock’s Woe range; he purred in anticipation of a meal.

The Drakheen landed with a tremendous splash in the centre of the marshes, destroying some of the Silent Ones’ bamboo huts. Pandemonium erupted as the Syllables ran for their weapons while the women hastily carried their children to safety further in the marshes. The Silent Ones had seen the approach of the monster, but they were still unprepared for its sudden arrival. The Beast towered over the scuttling humans; they were nothing to him but food, and he was ravenous. He snaked out a taloned arm and snatched up an unfortunate Silent One, one of the elders who had been unable to move fast enough out of his reach. With a powerful wrench, he tore the screaming man’s body in half, and stuffed the halves into his maw.

By then, the Syllables had organised themselves and fearlessly attacked the monster, flinging themselves upon him from all sides. Many of them the Drakheen simply swatted away like annoying gnats, but many others got through his defences and stabbed, cut or speared him. The Beast’s intelligent brain warned that these humans could cause him serious injury, thus he decided to grab one or two more of them and flee, to enjoy the meal in safety and at his leisure.

While the Silent Ones threw themselves recklessly at the monster, the Drakheen thrust his arms out serpent-quick, snatched up two of the Syllables and lifted off with them, holding one of the doomed men in each paw. As he rose up over the still attacking men, he snatched up another Silent One in his maw, killing the man instantly as he bit through the prey’s head and held on to his body. The Beast flew back to his mountain lair, relishing the taste of blood in his mouth and the sensation of food in his belly.

The Silent Ones stared in horror and despair at the fast disappearing monster. Then the women started keening loudly in misery and shock at the catastrophe that had befallen them.

Zenia was keeping her Zidoo company, as usual, and it was while she was feeding the geese in their small encampment that she fell down in a violent seizure. The little girl collapsed so suddenly that Zidayt was unaware for some minutes of what was happening to her granddaughter. Then her instincts kicked in and she looked up from where she had been feeding the chickens to see where Zenia was. She saw the child lying prone in front of the geese pen, her limbs shaking uncontrollably and her eyes rolled up into the back of her head.

“Get the healer!” she screamed at the top of her lungs as she rushed over to Zenia. Zidayt quickly lifted the girl’s head off the ground and put her finger in her mouth to ensure that her tongue was not obstructing her trachea. The Weaver woman cradled Zenia, who was still caught in the grip of the seizure, but her spasms were becoming less violent.

“Here, hold my bag,” Zagrah the healer instructed Zidayt when she arrived a minute later. The old woman quickly smeared some herbal paste on Zenia’s tongue and then vigorously rubbed her arms and legs with a fragrant oil. By now a crowd of Weavers had gathered around the scene, and the healer ordered them to move back and give the little girl some air. Zenia’s involuntarily jerks soon subsided and within a minute of the healer’s arrival, the little girl could focus her eyes.

“There now, Zenia. Breathe and stay calm. All is well now,” Zagrah told the Ripple in soothing tones while Zidayt stroked the girl’s hair and forehead. Zidayt’s ministrations stopped cold though when Zenia spoke.

“He’s coming. The Drakheen is coming. He’s coming for me, Zidoo. He wants me!” she shouted the last and then mercifully passed out.

Zagrah and Zidayt stared at each other in horror, then both looked as one at the surrounding crowd. Every Weaver mirrored the expression on the two women’s faces, for they had all heard Zenia’s declaration.

“Sweet Spirits help us. The legend is true,” Zounith said in fear and dismay. He stepped forward and carried Zenia to Zidayt’s cabin while Zagrah briefly detained Zidayt to speak to her.

“Zidayt, as one of the Council members, you must call a gathering forthwith. Our people must know what happened so that we can prepare for the Beast’s coming,” the healer implored.

“Yes, of course,” Zidayt agreed, “but Zaghrah, we are defenceless! We must send runners to the various Elf League outposts to ask for assistance, but with two of their Commanders off on their own missions, will we get help in time?” Zidayt asked doubtfully.

“We can only do what we can, and the rest is up to the Spirits,” Zaghrah said. “I will inform the rest of the elders immediately so that we can collectively gather our thoughts and compare notes about the legend.”

“What if the Saviour, Rachmin, hasn’t been born yet? How can we hope to defeat the Drakheen without his aid?” Zidayt asked in dismay.

“Then, my girl, we will fight to the last man, woman and child to stop the Drakheen from taking Zenia. He will have to go through every last one of us before we will ever allow any harm to befall that girl,” Zaghrah said with ferocious passion.

While Zidayt hurried to see to Zenia, Zaghrah went to gather the elders. In short order, all five were seated in Zaghrah’s modest cabin, and the atmosphere was a sombre one indeed.

“Are we absolutely certain that the time of Rachmin and the Drakheen is upon us?” asked Zinistral, the eldest of those present. She was three years shy of a century, but she was still hale and hearty.

“Yes, I heard it myself,” confirmed Zaghrah. “Zenia is a Ripple, as all of us are aware, and also one of the powerful ones, as the Battle Elf attested. She said the Drakheen was coming for her, and to doubt the word of a Ripple is perilous,” she added.

“I came across something important,” Zhijaar suddenly declared, “but I didn’t ascribe much relevance to it at the time,” the old man admitted. “After we learned that Zenia is a Ripple, I consulted our texts about her kind,” he continued. “I found an obscure reference to an Elf that could see but was blind. The text stated that the Warlock Azlotlin would return when the blind Elf that sees travelled the land, but I thought it was just some kind of nonsensical rambling. It was only later that I heard about the Elves going to look for their kin, the one called Lathlin, and that he was indeed blind. I didn’t understand how a blind Elf could be a ‘seeing’ Elf, until I discovered that his magic allows him to see the life force surrounding every living creature on Verahasti.”

“It’s too late for recriminations, Zhijaar,” said Zeyba. “We need to focus on what we must do now to ensure the survival of the Weavers,” the elder said. She was a diminutive woman of very little patience and known for her short temper, but she was respected for never failing to see to the very core of every problem.

“I agree,” Zurfarush stated. “Our best chance is to organise our fighters in all haste, to fortify Zanderon on all sides, and to send our fastest runners to every Elf League outpost to beg for help,” he explained. He was the youngest of the elders, but well-known for his strategic skills.

The elders reached a consensus soon thereafter and Zinistral assigned tasks to each elder. They dispersed to complete their various errands while Zaghrah went to the Council to report what the elders had decided. She also needed to inform them about the revelation Zhijaar had come across in their ancient scrolls. They agreed to all meet again in the Council Chambers.

As Zaghrah entered the Council Chambers, Zidayt had just completed her report and she gestured for the healer to come and sit next to her. Zaghrah softly informed Zidayt what the elders had decided and a few minutes later the other four elders entered the room. When Zando noticed that all the elders were present, he indicated for Zinistral to address the Council.

“As all of you are no doubt aware, we are facing the possible end of our way of life,” Zinistral declared, causing many of the Council members to murmur in concern. “Yes, I say the end of our life because this is how great the threat of the Drakheen is. The Beast won’t come knocking politely on our doors and ask us kindly to hand over Zenia to him. No, he will come in savagery, in violence and in brutality. He will spill our blood because it is his nature to do so; he will mutilate and devour the living to increase our terror of him; and he will gorge himself on our dead to make us despondent.”

She looked at the assembled Weavers to gauge their reaction, then she gestured toward Zhijaar. “Zhijaar has discovered an extremely important detail in our scrolls that is incontrovertible proof that the Drakheen will soon be upon us. I will let him tell you in his own words.”

“Zinistral is correct, Council members and fellow Weavers,” the old man began, his voice firm and resolute. He knew he had to convince every Weaver present of the veracity of his discovery to impress upon them the urgency of their situation. He did not want anyone to waste any more time in discussion. He agreed with Zurfarush: they had to take immediate and decisive action.

“I came across irrefutable evidence in the Scrolls of Zaasisha, she who was named the most powerful Ripple of her time. In it, I found reference to when the evil Warlock Azlotlin would return in the form of the Drakheen to exact revenge upon those who had denied him what he had coveted and lusted after. The Weavers of his time had foiled him by siding with his own kin, the Elves, when he had tried to take Zaasisha by force when she had spurned his advances. She had seen the evil and corruption in his heart, and she had warned the Elves about him.

“The Elves had branded him a traitor to their kind and their ways and expelled him as an Outsider when they had witnessed for themselves the depravity and iniquity he had embraced. He had performed unspeakable horrors and torture upon his own kind and thought himself too ingenious to be unmasked, but his hubris was his undoing.

“When he first wooed Zaasisha, she was smitten by his charm and flattered by the fact that an Elf had fallen in love with her. However, when he took her to his citadel high in what we now call the Warlock’s Woe mountains and revealed his plan of becoming the ultimate ruler of Wrochcia by combining her powers with his, she saw him for the monster he was, and fled.

“Zaasisha sought refuge with the Elves who were living within the mountain range and the environs surrounding it at the time, and a company of Elves went to Azlotlin’s redoubt to witness for themselves what Zaasisha had claimed. When they discovered Azlotlin’s dungeons and the captives within, they fought bravely against the Warlock. Of the seven who went to the fortress, only two escaped to warn the other Elves about Azlotlin’s descent into insanity and malevolence.

“Fearing that he was far too powerful within his own mountainous domain, the Elves retreated in all haste from their mountain home to protect Zaasisha, for they were certain he would come for her. And come for her he did, in fury and frenzy. With him he brought his small force of transformed humans, the ones he had tortured and experimented on, changing them into the ones we now call the Hollow People and the Silent Ones. The Weavers and Elves were fully prepared for him though and fought him in the area we now call the Gillipo Marshes.

“In his arrogance and overly confident of his magical powers, Azlotlin underestimated the prowess of the Battle Elves. While the Weavers and Elves engaged the Warlock’s army in combat, the Battle Elves attacked Azlotlin himself. The conflict was so intense and the magic that was expended so catastrophic that it changed the very shape of the battlefield. The two parties fought fiercely, the Weavers not only fighting for one of their own, but also for their very existence, while the Elves fought out of shame that one of their own had turned into something anathema to their way of life. Ultimately, the Battle Elves subdued Azlotlin while the Weavers and other Elves soundly defeated his army. Those who were still alive fled – the Hollow Ones into the Forsaken Forest; the Silent Ones back to the mountains. Azlotlin was named a traitor and Outsider, and the Elves banished him to his citadel. His mountain retreat became a cursed place. In his defeat, the Warlock swore to avenge his humiliation and vowed to return one day to reclaim what he felt was rightfully his.

“Zaasisha was still connected to Azlotlin, and she later revealed that the sorcerer had turned his magic upon himself, in an attempt to change into an invincible Master Mage, but his magic had been perverted and instead, he had become the Drakheen. His pride would not allow him to let anyone see his failure, thus he chose to pull his citadel down upon himself, to lie buried in gloom and eternal night until it was time for his victorious return.”

Zhijaar finally ended his narration, noticing for the first time that many more of the Weavers had entered the Council Chambers. Everyone sat as if stunned into immobility and silence, even though most of them knew by heart the tale Zhijaar had just related. They were all waiting to hear what it was that Zhijaar had found that revealed when the Drakheen would return.

It was Zurfarush though who revealed that dreadful news.

“The scrolls revealed that the Warlock Azlotlin would return as the Drakheen when the blind Elf that sees travelled the land. And that Elf is none other than the healer Elf who is even now among the Hollow People, unaware that his kin is on a rescue mission to secure his freedom,” the elder said concisely and bluntly.

Zidayt then interjected. “But we do have a slim glimmer of hope. The legend also mentions the One who would come to aid us in our greatest Hour of need: Rachmin, the Hunter of Truth.” The assembled Weavers whispered and murmured in agreement and some relief. “We must believe and trust that if one legend has come to life, then it stands to reason that the other one will, too,” the Weaver woman ardently claimed.

“But we must act now to ensure the survival of our people,” Zeyba added, “and to protect our Ripple, Zenia. We cannot afford to sit and wait for the Saviour to come to our aid. If we waste another second, it could be one second too late for all of us,” she claimed.

Zando stood up and addressed the room in a sombre but authoritative voice.

“We will send runners immediately to the various Elf League outposts to appeal to them for succour. All able-bodied men will set up defensive barricades around the village, while the women, children, old and infirm will retreat to the grasslands beyond the Doondé. The Council will oversee the erection of the fences, while the village elders will organise a calm but hasty evacuation of Zanderon.

“Our Weaver fighters have the responsibility to distribute our weapons and arrange perimeter guards. They will be our first and perhaps only line of defence against the Drakheen. However, anyone who wishes to remain behind to bolster our fighters may do so, for we will fight to a man and woman to protect what is ours against a creature that has no rightful claim to anything!”

The Weavers gathered in the room raised their voices in shouts of agreement, and within minutes the room had emptied as everyone rushed to complete his or her assigned task, while others spread the word to those who had not been privy to the meeting.

In Zidayt’s house, Zenia remained in a coma, feverishly fighting off nightmarish images from an ancient past. One word, however, escaped her lips at unpredictable intervals: Rachmin.

The leaden sky unexpectedly erupted in lightning and thunder, and the heavens unleashed a raging rain storm. Far to the south, ominous black clouds gathered and towered darkly above Warlock’s Woe.

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