The Legend of the Hunter
A Secret Revealed

Fahmerelin and Shuarlin were relieved beyond words when their father entered Hulya with the Elves and two strange creatures. However, nobody had much time for a proper reunion, as messenger birds had brought tidings from Zanderon.

“Gavurothlin has requested that we get back to the Weaver village in all haste,” Shuarlin informed Kloneithlin once the Commander had had a change of clothes and was having a sparse breakfast. Marethlin was lounging with the two unfamiliar creatures introduced as byrgreme in the sitting room, while Rusthlin and Hojuthlin had gone to see the Commander of the Hulya outpost.

Fahmerelin added, “He explained that they had found and safely returned Lathlin to Zanderon, but there is a new threat, Father.”

Marethlin had moved towards the kitchen and he now asked, “When is there not a threat? Did he mention what the trouble was?” the Elf asked. Before Fahmerelin could reply, Rusthlin and Hojuthlin returned. It was Rusthlin who answered the question.

“The Drakheen has returned,” he stated bluntly. Marethlin cursed with feeling while Kloneithlin stopped eating. His appetite had vanished when Rusthlin had mentioned the Drakheen. Krauwyk and Kunkuna both looked on in confusion, and Hojuthlin took them back to the sitting room to explain about the Beast.

“This is portentous indeed,” the Commander said, rising to his feet and hastily cleaning his hands. “We should leave now, and encourage everyone here to leave with us to offer aid to those in Zanderon,” he suggested.

Hojuthlin had returned to the kitchen and now said, “Yes, Rusthlin and I have just spoken to Maniglin and he has already made preparations for the departure of his troops to Zanderon. They leave within the hour,” he revealed.

“We cannot wait for them,” Marethlin said. “If we leave within the next five minutes, we can be in Zanderon by late afternoon.”

“I agree,” Rusthlin said. “Time is of the essence and we have no idea how ready the Weavers are to face the might and magic of the Drakheen. They will need all the Battle Elves we can muster.”

“Then it is decided,” Kloneithlin stated. He was already buckling on his sword and moving towards the entrance of the house. “Daughters, you may travel with us. We will give you three minutes to gather your belongings, and then we set off for Zanderon.”

Both Elf women looked at each other, rolled their eyes as one and then Shuarlin said, “We have been ready since you arrived, Old Man! It is we who have been waiting for you to get moving,” she claimed and gave her father a wide-eyed smile. Kloneithlin’s chest swelled with pride at his daughters, but Marethlin couldn’t resist a jibe at their smug attitude.

“Really? Then why did I see Fahmerelin just now stuffing some bread rolls and pastries into your travel bags? The day the two of you are ready on time for once is a day that will never dawn!” He laughed and smartly dodged the kick Fahmerelin directed his way while Shuarlin attempted to trip him on his way out.

As one, the two girls chorused, “Incorrigible!”

Belac was sitting under the wide canopy of a tall pine tree growing next to Zidayt’s cabin. Her house was built next to a friendly, bubbling river that eventually flowed into and became part of the Naddi River. He liked the isolation of the cabin and had needed the tranquillity of the place to help him come to terms with the fate foisted upon him. He had just restrung his bow when he heard the unmistakable tap-tap-tap of Lathlin’s staff. Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ (F)indNƟvᴇl.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

The Hunter smiled when he saw his friend approaching him down the dirt and gravel lane that led to Zidayt’s house. He was still amazed by how unerringly Lathlin walked, as if he had full use of his sight, but then again, he wasn’t blind in the true sense of the word. Belac rose and extended a hand to the Elfling when he reached him. He helped him seat himself on one of the tree stumps Zidayt or Zaherain must have placed under the tree for just that purpose.

For a while the Elfling said nothing and the two friends listened companionably to the bird song, the babbling brook and the soft rustling of the pine needles above them. Then Lathlin extended a parcel wrapped in soft leather to Belac.

“The Weavers say this belongs to you … or rather, to Rachmin. They say it was forged specifically for you by the Elven blacksmiths after the battle with Warlock Azlotlin. It has been the responsibility of the Weaver Village Head throughout the centuries to keep it safe for when the Hunter of Truth one day came to them in their Bleak Hour,” the Elfling healer explained.

From its shape, Belac already knew it was a sword, but he was left speechless when he saw it. It was a finely crafted silver sword, its elegant blade decorated with swirls and esoteric patterns all along the length of it. A blazing green stone was embedded in the centre of the hilt, which fit Belac’s hand perfectly. Then the Hunter noticed cursive writing etched into the crosspiece of the hilt: Hunter of Truth, it read. The sword was exquisitely balanced, and Belac marvelled at the craftsmanship.

“Zando felt it would be best if I presented the sword to you, as the Council knows how much you dislike pomp and ceremony. And because he knew you would not refuse it if a friend offered it to you,” Lathlin added with a hint of laughter in his voice. Belac knew his friend was trying to ease him into this role that was tightening itself around him at every opportunity, and he lightly pressed the Elfling’s shoulder in gratitude.

“I have to confess something to you, Lathlin,” Belac suddenly said. This was the reason why he had sought solitude here along the cheerfully running stream; he had needed time to think of a way to reveal something to his friend that he had thus far denied even to himself.

“You know you can tell me anything, Belac,” Lathlin said unnecessarily, for this was something the Hunter had long since realised. Nevertheless, Belac appreciated the sentiment.

“Yes, I know and this is why I felt it was time for me to accept an undeniable truth about myself.” Belac took a few breaths while Lathlin waited in his customary patient silence. “Ever since I escaped my slave masters and struck out on my own, I have known there was something fundamentally different about me compared to others. Maybe it was something I was born with, or maybe it occurred as a result of the things the slave masters did to me. I tend to lean towards the latter, for this thing I am about to speak of only manifested itself once I gained my freedom.

“I knew Ragar was lying to me about you being his slave, but I accepted his money because I didn’t know you and didn’t care about the truth. When I met you in the Forsaken Forest, I knew you were telling me the truth from the minute you started your tale. I only pretended to need convincing to hide this ‘gift’ or ‘curse’ I have. You see, this title of ‘Hunter of Truth’ has forced me to face my own truth: that I have some kind of magic of my own.” Belac stopped speaking and turned his gaze up to the smoke lazily curling from the cabin’s chimney. He couldn’t yet look at his friend’s face.

“Belac, all of us have magic of some kind or another. Perhaps yours is an inherited one, or one created by your trials with the slavers, but there is nothing to be ashamed of. Magic does not taint the wielder; it is the desire of the magic user that determines if he or she is cursed or blessed by it,” Lathlin said kindly. “Tell me what your magic is, my friend.”

“It is simply this: I know without fail what the truth is, no matter how persuasive someone is in his lies. I can see through illusions as if they were nothing more than gossamer screens. I can penetrate deceptions like my arrows pierce flesh. This is why I finally had to face that this legend business and this title are indeed meant for me. I have stopped deceiving myself and confronted my own truth,” the Hunter said in finality and resignation. “I’m sorry I deceived you in the forest and took this long to confide in you,” Belac added.

Lathlin rose and walked over to his contrite friend. “There is no reason to apologise, Belac. You did not deceive me in the least. You only exercised caution which was a wise and reasonable action. I thank you for confiding in me, and I will not betray this trust. I am relieved though that you have accepted this mantle of responsibility, and I promise to help you shoulder it in any way I can.”

The two friends clasped each other’s arms and smiled in relief at the honesty that had blossomed between them. When Belac spotted a Weaver running towards them, his heart missed a beat or two. He thought that the Drakheen might have arrived earlier than expected, but the messenger informed him and the Elfling that Kloneithlin’s group had returned. The three men hastened towards the village centre to learn what news they had brought, but Belac fervently hoped that they had brought reinforcements with them, too.

Kloneithlin, Marethlin, Rusthlin and Hojuthlin stood in sorrowful silence with bowed heads upon hearing of the deaths of Juathlin and Borethlin. Qarethlin was next to her twin, her presence at least softening the blow somewhat, but the atmosphere was subdued and funereal. Lathlin started to softly sing the Elven Lament of Loss, his clear, sweet voice growing stronger as he sang. Soon, all the Elves joined him in the dirge, and their mournful voices touched the listeners so profoundly that it brought them to tears even though none of them understood the words. When the song concluded, the last crystal note lingered a while in the glade before it faded into the ether.

“I just remembered what Juathlin had said after Dasethlin was killed,” Qarethlin suddenly stated. “He had said that we shall not lose another Elf on this journey, yet ironically we not only lost him, but Borethlin as well,” she said forlornly, but then she added something else. “I make another promise now, and one I intend to keep at all costs. More Elves will die in the battle we will soon be facing, but we will slay far more of our enemies!”

Everyone roared their support, and Krauwyk growled menacingly, “Krauwyk kill all enemies who come fight Elf friends. Krauwyk will slit throats, chomp bones and crush skulls!” Kunkuna hooted and added, “Byrgreme make enemy remember us! Kunkuna feast on enemy blood and make snout run with gore!”

It was then that Belac stepped forward, solemnly and purposefully. When he spoke, Lathlin was proud to hear the authority in his friend’s voice, and his heart swelled in joy at what he saw reflected in the Hunter’s colours.

“Rachim, the Hunter of Truth: this is the name you have given me. You say I am a legend come to life, and I say to you: it is the truth! Let the Drakheen come with whatever army the foul Beast has managed to scrounge together! Let him attempt to enslave us and make us cower under his cruel rule. He will find resolute men, women, Elves and byrgreme waiting for him with drawn weapons, bared teeth and a fierce fighting spirit. Let him dream of possessing the Ripple, for that is all it will ever amount to: a pathetic, unattainable fantasy, for not a single one of us will allow so much as a wisp of his vile breath to touch her. Let him come in arrogance and savagery, for we will send him back to the nether pits of perdition in humility and humiliation! We will fight for honour, for freedom, for love, and for life itself!”

The thunderous shout that followed Belac’s impassioned speech shook the walls and roofs of the nearest houses.

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