Post by scintor on Apr 3, 2008 22:05:56 GMT -5
This is a story that I started quite a while back, and I am going to dust it off and give it another go. I would like any suggestions as to what direction to go with it, what works and what doesn't. As always, be brutal.
Scincerely,
Scintor@aol.com
The Story of Hunter
In the days of the Third Age, while the threat of Sauron yet lay sleeping, there came out of the lands of the West a man, past the realms of Gondor and Mordor, into the East. He looked to be of great age, for his beard was long and white, and his face clearly showed the signs of many seasons. Yet he was unbowed by the weight of years, instead, he wore them like a fine cloak. His eyes were like those of an eagle; missing nothing that passed into his sight, and seeing far things clearly. He wore a sword at his hip and a bow on his shoulder and carried a staff in his hand. He wore neither mail nor helm but a tunic and breeches of leather and a cloak of blue. His appearance was fair and noble, as if some king of good heart was going out secretly among his people to see if all was well.
He had many names among all of the kindreds; Elves called him Qualingwe which can mean either weaver or wind of death. The Dwarves named him the Crafter of Armies, which in their own tongue is Gratch-nach-Tahc. Even among the Orks, Trolls, and other foul folk, he was named Breaker, and that name was spoken with great fear. He was called the Hunter by men, for he would often track even the most elusive beast or fell creature over great distances for many weeks. It was said that no creature had ever eluded him once he had taken up its trail. Not that every creature he tracked was doomed, for he would often track an elusive creature for days; Once he found it, if it was noble of spirit or fair to look upon, he would laugh and tell it to be on its way with his blessing. For he loved any man or beast that had great spirit within it.
He passed slowly into the East, staying for a season with each new people he found. In each village or encampment in which he stayed, he would root out evils that dwelt among the people and encourage that which was fair and bright. If evil folk or fell beasts threatened the people he was with, he would rally them to war and lead them to victory. Ever would he seek to heal the rifts (and forge alliances) between Men, Elves and Dwarves. But to the servants of the Enemy, he brought death, swift and sure. For this, he was also named Peacebringer, and Shadowbane.
At last, when he had passed far into the utter East, he turned northward and journeyed to the Orocani (or, in the tongues of men, the Red Mountains). There he sought out a mountain known to the Elves as Hisendöl, and to Men, the Mountain of Mists.
Often would the terrible voice of this mountain shake the earth for many leagues around, and all would seek shelter in their strongest places until it was silent once more. Many times in the memory of the Elves had it spit out rivers of fire and belched out a great dark cloud of ash that blotted out the sun, moon, and stars and covered the land like a foul parody of snow. It was a place of fear and dread, and had been so even in the earliest songs of Elves. Few were those who had dared to dwell in the lands at its feet. Those who were brave enough were doomed to die a horrible death, destroyed ever and anon by the fire and ash when the voice of the mountain sounded its terrible roar. To this place he steadfastly went, even though the peoples among whom he dwelled, warned him ever more urgently to avoid the place, as he drew closer.
The last to warn him was Hürgor, son of Huigon, who was a great Chieftain among the People of the Plains. They had just finished a war, the tale of which is told elsewhere, in which the People of the Plains had made an alliance with the Dwarves of Karadz and driven the Orks and Trolls from the Weathered Mountains. After the celebration feasts were finished and the last of the dead had been burned to send them on their journey beyond the rings of the world, Hürgor found the Hunter preparing to leave in secret.
Hürgor entered his tent, saw his pack being readied, and said, "Where are you going, Hunter? The feast is but lately finished and the council of chiefs has not yet met to decide what is to be done. Even though our victories were great, our losses were grievous. Surely you are not going to leave us bereft of your counsel?"
The Hunter heaved a sigh, and in that moment, he looked like one who has been wearied by carrying a great burden for a long time. But he stood and smiled at his friend, stretching out his hand to clasp his shoulder. "My friend, I told you long ago that I am bound to go to the Mountain of Mists and that my stay here would be brief. I swore an oath when I started this journey that I would go there. Long have I been delayed on my course and many things have I found along the way that have diverted me. But the end of the long road is at last in sight, and I am impatient to reach it. Besides this, prudence tells me that it is time to move on. I would stay to give you council, but I have received word of the plot that the People have hatched against me."
Hürgor was aghast, and cried, "Tell me who has plotted against you, lord, and I shall lay his head at your feet by morning."
His hand was on his sword as he was preparing to swear an oath to this, when the Hunter squeezed his shoulder firmly and rebuked him, saying, "Swear not any oaths in this matter, for you are named among the plotters, and are yourself the source of the plot."
At this accusation, Hürgor fell to the ground at Hunter’s feet and said, "If I have ever so much as whispered within the depths of my soul to harm so much as the least hair on you head, I beg you to end my life here, for the dishonor is more than I can bear."
Hürgor lay there for a long time as the Hunter struggled to gain mastery over himself. But he shook not with anger as it might seem, but with laughter, for he did not want to injure his friend further. "Hürgor, my friend, arise and do not call me lord." And Hürgor arose and saw that the Hunter had a great smile upon his face, which seemed to shine with an inner light. "I spoke not of a plot to bring me harm, but rather to give me the greatest honor you could think of. I have heard that the chiefs have it in mind to make me king of the People of the Plains. But I will not have it. I am deeply honored by this thing, especially since I have dwelt with your people for less than a year. I have developed a great love for your people in the time that I have dwelt among them. I love them more than any people in Middle Earth, but it is not my way to stay in one place or to rule any people. Besides that, I have an appointment set at the Mountain of Mists that was made before the bounds of the world were fully set.”
But Hürgor pleaded with him and said, "Who among men is as wise and worthy as you to rule, Peacebringer. Who among mortal men knows the destiny that lies in store for him. Fate has brought you to us. I tell you that the people love you better than bread and wine and would sooner do without them than you. You say that you have been among us for only a short while, but I say that the deeds of bravery and valor that we have seen more than make up for a lifetime. Stay with us and rule us and our people will never want for anything. Our people will swear fealty to you and your line forever.
"Do not go this road at this time, for I feel that this road leads only to death. Take up the crown and rule. When our people have recovered from this war, take up the road again with an army at your back. You have no need to go alone, for our people would follow you to certain death.”
The Hunter sat upon his couch and shook his head sadly while he chuckled to himself. "Hürgor, my friend, I know that the People of the Plains do love me--I love them too. I know that they would follow me no matter what the cost.” He sighed heavily. "This is the reason that I know that I must leave. I love the people too much make them my slaves, even if that is what they want. If I were to stay, the people who are now powerful and free would become like the thralls of the Enemy. They would do even my slightest whim in order to gain my favor. I would become a mother and they, infants. In even the smallest things they would look to me. I would become a god to them. Soon I would grow to detest this people whom I love, for they would become small-spirited and weak. Hürgor, my friend, I must not stay, for I would be the destruction of the People of the Plains.”
All of the color had drained from Hürgor’s face as he listened. He began to tremble as he spoke, "to lead and inspire our people, they could only become stronger and more noble. Your tale is darker and more menacing that the blackest night. My people are strong and tall. Surely, there is no way that they would become petty and small? You see farther than other men. Could you not see a way to avoid this thing so it does not need to come to pass?”
Hunter arose and locked his eyes with those of the great chief of the People of the Plains. Hürgor could feel his soul being revealed to the Hunter as he was pulled into the great depths behind the Hunter’s eyes. In their depths, Hürgor saw a fire; a fire so hot and powerful that it could consume even cold and lifeless stone. There was power there which could command him to unhesitatingly rip out his very heart and offer it as a tribute to this being. Hürgor felt that if he looked any longer he would be pulled into the fire and consumed like a dry leaf. Suddenly, Hürgor was released and fell to his knees, gasping for breath. He felt a gentle touch upon his head, and heard, "I have seen the way to avoid this doom. The best way for me to aid your people now is for me to leave. I go with a heavy heart and will always remember you and your people.” Hürgor heard a pack being shouldered, and the tent flap allow someone to pass. When he had finally recovered enough to look up, the one known as the Hunter was gone. He was still staring at the entrance of the tent, with tears rolling down his face, when his guard found him. Even when, after years had passed, he became the Great Chief of the People, he would not speak of this last meeting to the singers or the storytellers. Only to his heirs did he tell the tale, for he could never tell it without weeping and trembling.
******
The people of the plains are very sharp of eye and keen of ear. It is a rare thing for a predator to take one from their herds, or an enemy to catch them unaware. Those who watched were especially on guard that night, for they knew that many Orks and Goblins had been scattered during the battle, and there were a few Trolls wandering about. Despite this, no man was seen leaving the camp that night. It was many days before the people believed that the Hunter was gone. From this a legend arose that the Hunter had never left. He was said to dwell secretly among the people, watching to see if they are worthy.
*****
And so, the Hunter finally turned his face toward the Orocani and Hisendöl. A journey of two weeks and four days it was from the Great Camp to the Vale of Hisendöl. Through the Plains of the People and the Weeping Wood to the plains of the North (where few now dwell), at last to the feet of the Orocani (where it was said that many unwholesome things dwelt). Most who had trodden this road were full of gloom, but the Hunter walked as one wrapped in a dream. Often he would speak to those who were no longer present, asking them questions, and seemingly unaware that they went unheeded.
Thus it not until the tenth day of his journey that he noticed that he was being followed. When he did notice, he cursed himself for being seven kinds of a fool, for the follower was clearly visible upon the plain for any child to see.
He assumed that it was one sent by Hürgor until he looked closely. The hunter was skilled at seeing at a distance. He could tell any man or beast he knew by their stride as far as the horizon, and thus he always knew who to expect well before any features could be could be seen. When he saw who his follower was, he sat down on the ground and put his head in his hands. He looked to the west and asked aloud just what he had done to deserve this. When he received no answer, he got to his feet and continued on his journey. The Weeping Wood would be reached by nightfall. He weighed whether he should confront his pursuer or simply leave no trail in the forest, thus losing his pursuer. He argued the point with himself until he reached the edge of the woods. There he made his decision and began his preparations.
*********
The Hunter’s pursuer ran to the edge of the woods as night fell. For ten days she had followed him, seemingly in vain. She had thought that catching him would be the least of her tasks that she had set for herself. She was wrong. His pace was swift and tireless. He seemed to take no rest and he made no camp at night.
Her greatest mistake had been in making camp at nightfall, assuming that he would do likewise. In the morning, she was dismayed to find that he was now many leagues ahead of her, for had not slowed in the night. Each day, she ran until she could run no more in a vain effort to make up the distance. When she could not run, she walked. Only when she could no longer walk would she rest.
She was a warrior of the People of the Plains, strong and skilled. There were few things on the earth that could deter this maid once she had made up her mind, but she was still a woman of flesh and blood. When she reached the edge of the Weeping Wood, she knew that she had met defeat. She knew all the ways of the plains. There are trees on the plains, and she knew them. There are large copses of trees that some might even call small forests, and she knew them. But, this is a true forest, mighty and ancient. She was wise enough to know that if she ventured in blindly, it would devour her and none would ever know her fate.
As she stood there, her breath still labored from her last run, she was startled to feel tears starting to flow from her eyes. She had not cried since she was a small child. She angrily told herself to stop. Neither wounds of flesh or the heart have ever wrested tears from her eyes. But her tears defied her and they threaten to turn her ragged breathing into sobs.
She was a warrior, but how does one fight tears? Her anger rose up to fight her opponent, but found no one. Her sword came into her hand and her eyes searched for that which opposed her. Yet, only the silent trees stood before her. The trees ... which silently stood there mocking her, not even deigning to notice this small thing standing before them.
With a stream of defiance, she attacked this silent, mocking sentinel. After she has struck it several times, the tree did take note of her attack, and seized her sword within the notch that she herself has cut. Strong is the daughter of the plains, but puny indeed is her strength compared to that of the mighty pine that she has just challenged. She began to curse the tree and to attack it with her bare fists.
The rage that she felt was greater than any she has ever felt in her life. She was angry because the tree wouldn’t give back her sword, because the forest thwarts her, because she was exhausted and defeated. Most of all, she was angry because she was crying like a child.
Again and again, she struck the great tree in vain. She may have continued this way all night, if the blanket of exhaustion had not smothered the fire of her anger. Her fist, poised to strike, fell to her side. A wave of dizziness crashed over her and she slumped to the ground at the feet of her opponent, cradling her bloodied fists to her breast. All that was left of her rage was tears, for they require no effort.
After a time, she realized that she had stopped crying. Taking stock of her situation, she realized three things. She was exhausted, her hands hurt, and the tree she was leaning against was very uncomfortable. She decided to devote her remaining energies to setting up some sort of camp. Tomorrow, she told herself, will be soon enough to decide what course to take from here.
As she brought herself slowly to her feet, a groan escapes unhindered from her lips. Pain has come from an unexpected direction. Her toes are badly battered if not broken from kicking the tree. She did not remember doing so, but the body keeps its own records of such doings. As she was mentally taking stock of her injuries, she glanced up to take in her surroundings ... and saw someone standing silently right in front of her.
With a yelp of surprise, she reflexively jumped back and reached for her sword. Unfortunately, she found her sword, not in its scabbard with her hand, but lodged in the tree with her back. She hit the hilt just below her shoulder blade and the impact turned her so that her other shoulder and her head hit the tree with bruising force. Dazed and off balance, she stumbled directly into the arms of the of the man before her. As she began to struggle, he rebuked her in a gentle but firm voice, &"Easy, warrior. The battle has not favored you.”
She looked up into his face for the first time, "Hunter it is ...” Her words were interrupted by a grunt of pain as her battered toes announce their displeasure.
"Gently, Lady. I think that a dozen Orks would have been far kinder foes than this one sentenial of the Weeping Woods. Your wounds, although not threatening, are serious.”
The lady bit her lip to keep from making any sounds of pain or angry retorts. The Hunter helped her to a seat on a fallen log. He carefully removed her boots, so as to cause the least pain. Seeing her as comfortable as possible, he began to set up a camp.
He removed from his pack herbs and ointments that will speed the healing of her body. Only after tending all of her wounds and retrieving her sword did he speak again. "Well, Elsara daughter of Hürgor, what brings you to the Weeping Woods.”
She looked at him with a timid hope in her eyes. "I wish to journey with you, my Lord.”
The Hunter gave a long-suffering sigh, "Please do not call me Lord. I have many names, and you may call me any of them or you may name me anew. But, I am the lord of no man within the bounds of the world.”
Elsara simply stared at him in confusion, for this was the last thing that she expected him to object to.
The Hunter smiled at her to take the sting out of his words. "Do you know where my path leads me now?”
Elsara nodded, "Yes m... Hunter. You are heading for the Mountain of Mists, which lies far to the north, beyond these woods and the Plain of the North.”
"Do you wish to go there?”
"No my ... Hunter, for it has an evil reputation, but if it is where you are going, I would have no other destination. I wish to be at your side, even if that path leads beyond the bounds of the world.”
The Hunter sighed once again and looked into her eyes, and is surprised, though he should not have been. For in the place where he expected to see the devotion of a thrall, he found the love of a woman who has finally found a man worthy of giving herself to.
The Hunter began shaking his head and chuckled to himself and said, "Elsara, my girl, there is no fool like an old one. I would ask that you give me a short time to think about this.”
The Hunter found his dilemma thus: Elsara was a woman of noble and proud spirit. A great warrior and a leader of her people. But, at that moment, she was exhausted, hurt and vulnerable. On top of this, she is in love, which softens even the hardest of hearts. To send her away would shatter her spirit, and this he cannot do. But, to take her with him is to raise the hope of something that can never be. The higher such a hope goes, the greater the damage when it is dashed upon the rock of truth. In the end, this could be worse that the first, for it could embitter her spirit beyond recovery.
In the end, he decided that he must allow her to continue with him because to refuse her would be certain to destroy her, while the future is not yet set.
The Hunter gave a short, resigned sigh, "Very well, You may come.” He notes her smile of relief and triumph and says, "Make no oaths to me or to yourself about how long you will accompany me. For, the path that I am travelling is so fell that even I may not survive to see its end.”
Elsara looked at him questioningly, "If this path is so dark, then why do you travel it?”
The Hunter smiled to himself, "I must keep a vow that I made to myself ages ago, so I know of what I speak when I warn you against such things.”
"How can I help you to fulfill this vow?”
"I must speak to an old friend and you cannot help me in this.” He held up his hand before she could interrupt again. "You must sleep warrior, and give your body an opportunity to heal if we are to travel at all tomorrow. No more questions this night.”
She reluctantly hobbled over to where he has laid out her bedroll. After setteling herself into a position that is the least disturbing to her injuries, she says, "Good night, my Hunter.” A worried look crosses her face, "Will you be here in the morning?”
"Rest easy, daughter of the plains. I have agreed to allow you to be a companion on this journey. I do not abandon my companions.” With that reassurance, she relaxes and quickly falls to sleep.
*****
PS I know that this could probably never be published, but I am wanting to use it as a writing exercise and because I like the story.
Scincerely,
Scintor@aol.com
The Story of Hunter
In the days of the Third Age, while the threat of Sauron yet lay sleeping, there came out of the lands of the West a man, past the realms of Gondor and Mordor, into the East. He looked to be of great age, for his beard was long and white, and his face clearly showed the signs of many seasons. Yet he was unbowed by the weight of years, instead, he wore them like a fine cloak. His eyes were like those of an eagle; missing nothing that passed into his sight, and seeing far things clearly. He wore a sword at his hip and a bow on his shoulder and carried a staff in his hand. He wore neither mail nor helm but a tunic and breeches of leather and a cloak of blue. His appearance was fair and noble, as if some king of good heart was going out secretly among his people to see if all was well.
He had many names among all of the kindreds; Elves called him Qualingwe which can mean either weaver or wind of death. The Dwarves named him the Crafter of Armies, which in their own tongue is Gratch-nach-Tahc. Even among the Orks, Trolls, and other foul folk, he was named Breaker, and that name was spoken with great fear. He was called the Hunter by men, for he would often track even the most elusive beast or fell creature over great distances for many weeks. It was said that no creature had ever eluded him once he had taken up its trail. Not that every creature he tracked was doomed, for he would often track an elusive creature for days; Once he found it, if it was noble of spirit or fair to look upon, he would laugh and tell it to be on its way with his blessing. For he loved any man or beast that had great spirit within it.
He passed slowly into the East, staying for a season with each new people he found. In each village or encampment in which he stayed, he would root out evils that dwelt among the people and encourage that which was fair and bright. If evil folk or fell beasts threatened the people he was with, he would rally them to war and lead them to victory. Ever would he seek to heal the rifts (and forge alliances) between Men, Elves and Dwarves. But to the servants of the Enemy, he brought death, swift and sure. For this, he was also named Peacebringer, and Shadowbane.
At last, when he had passed far into the utter East, he turned northward and journeyed to the Orocani (or, in the tongues of men, the Red Mountains). There he sought out a mountain known to the Elves as Hisendöl, and to Men, the Mountain of Mists.
Often would the terrible voice of this mountain shake the earth for many leagues around, and all would seek shelter in their strongest places until it was silent once more. Many times in the memory of the Elves had it spit out rivers of fire and belched out a great dark cloud of ash that blotted out the sun, moon, and stars and covered the land like a foul parody of snow. It was a place of fear and dread, and had been so even in the earliest songs of Elves. Few were those who had dared to dwell in the lands at its feet. Those who were brave enough were doomed to die a horrible death, destroyed ever and anon by the fire and ash when the voice of the mountain sounded its terrible roar. To this place he steadfastly went, even though the peoples among whom he dwelled, warned him ever more urgently to avoid the place, as he drew closer.
The last to warn him was Hürgor, son of Huigon, who was a great Chieftain among the People of the Plains. They had just finished a war, the tale of which is told elsewhere, in which the People of the Plains had made an alliance with the Dwarves of Karadz and driven the Orks and Trolls from the Weathered Mountains. After the celebration feasts were finished and the last of the dead had been burned to send them on their journey beyond the rings of the world, Hürgor found the Hunter preparing to leave in secret.
Hürgor entered his tent, saw his pack being readied, and said, "Where are you going, Hunter? The feast is but lately finished and the council of chiefs has not yet met to decide what is to be done. Even though our victories were great, our losses were grievous. Surely you are not going to leave us bereft of your counsel?"
The Hunter heaved a sigh, and in that moment, he looked like one who has been wearied by carrying a great burden for a long time. But he stood and smiled at his friend, stretching out his hand to clasp his shoulder. "My friend, I told you long ago that I am bound to go to the Mountain of Mists and that my stay here would be brief. I swore an oath when I started this journey that I would go there. Long have I been delayed on my course and many things have I found along the way that have diverted me. But the end of the long road is at last in sight, and I am impatient to reach it. Besides this, prudence tells me that it is time to move on. I would stay to give you council, but I have received word of the plot that the People have hatched against me."
Hürgor was aghast, and cried, "Tell me who has plotted against you, lord, and I shall lay his head at your feet by morning."
His hand was on his sword as he was preparing to swear an oath to this, when the Hunter squeezed his shoulder firmly and rebuked him, saying, "Swear not any oaths in this matter, for you are named among the plotters, and are yourself the source of the plot."
At this accusation, Hürgor fell to the ground at Hunter’s feet and said, "If I have ever so much as whispered within the depths of my soul to harm so much as the least hair on you head, I beg you to end my life here, for the dishonor is more than I can bear."
Hürgor lay there for a long time as the Hunter struggled to gain mastery over himself. But he shook not with anger as it might seem, but with laughter, for he did not want to injure his friend further. "Hürgor, my friend, arise and do not call me lord." And Hürgor arose and saw that the Hunter had a great smile upon his face, which seemed to shine with an inner light. "I spoke not of a plot to bring me harm, but rather to give me the greatest honor you could think of. I have heard that the chiefs have it in mind to make me king of the People of the Plains. But I will not have it. I am deeply honored by this thing, especially since I have dwelt with your people for less than a year. I have developed a great love for your people in the time that I have dwelt among them. I love them more than any people in Middle Earth, but it is not my way to stay in one place or to rule any people. Besides that, I have an appointment set at the Mountain of Mists that was made before the bounds of the world were fully set.”
But Hürgor pleaded with him and said, "Who among men is as wise and worthy as you to rule, Peacebringer. Who among mortal men knows the destiny that lies in store for him. Fate has brought you to us. I tell you that the people love you better than bread and wine and would sooner do without them than you. You say that you have been among us for only a short while, but I say that the deeds of bravery and valor that we have seen more than make up for a lifetime. Stay with us and rule us and our people will never want for anything. Our people will swear fealty to you and your line forever.
"Do not go this road at this time, for I feel that this road leads only to death. Take up the crown and rule. When our people have recovered from this war, take up the road again with an army at your back. You have no need to go alone, for our people would follow you to certain death.”
The Hunter sat upon his couch and shook his head sadly while he chuckled to himself. "Hürgor, my friend, I know that the People of the Plains do love me--I love them too. I know that they would follow me no matter what the cost.” He sighed heavily. "This is the reason that I know that I must leave. I love the people too much make them my slaves, even if that is what they want. If I were to stay, the people who are now powerful and free would become like the thralls of the Enemy. They would do even my slightest whim in order to gain my favor. I would become a mother and they, infants. In even the smallest things they would look to me. I would become a god to them. Soon I would grow to detest this people whom I love, for they would become small-spirited and weak. Hürgor, my friend, I must not stay, for I would be the destruction of the People of the Plains.”
All of the color had drained from Hürgor’s face as he listened. He began to tremble as he spoke, "to lead and inspire our people, they could only become stronger and more noble. Your tale is darker and more menacing that the blackest night. My people are strong and tall. Surely, there is no way that they would become petty and small? You see farther than other men. Could you not see a way to avoid this thing so it does not need to come to pass?”
Hunter arose and locked his eyes with those of the great chief of the People of the Plains. Hürgor could feel his soul being revealed to the Hunter as he was pulled into the great depths behind the Hunter’s eyes. In their depths, Hürgor saw a fire; a fire so hot and powerful that it could consume even cold and lifeless stone. There was power there which could command him to unhesitatingly rip out his very heart and offer it as a tribute to this being. Hürgor felt that if he looked any longer he would be pulled into the fire and consumed like a dry leaf. Suddenly, Hürgor was released and fell to his knees, gasping for breath. He felt a gentle touch upon his head, and heard, "I have seen the way to avoid this doom. The best way for me to aid your people now is for me to leave. I go with a heavy heart and will always remember you and your people.” Hürgor heard a pack being shouldered, and the tent flap allow someone to pass. When he had finally recovered enough to look up, the one known as the Hunter was gone. He was still staring at the entrance of the tent, with tears rolling down his face, when his guard found him. Even when, after years had passed, he became the Great Chief of the People, he would not speak of this last meeting to the singers or the storytellers. Only to his heirs did he tell the tale, for he could never tell it without weeping and trembling.
******
The people of the plains are very sharp of eye and keen of ear. It is a rare thing for a predator to take one from their herds, or an enemy to catch them unaware. Those who watched were especially on guard that night, for they knew that many Orks and Goblins had been scattered during the battle, and there were a few Trolls wandering about. Despite this, no man was seen leaving the camp that night. It was many days before the people believed that the Hunter was gone. From this a legend arose that the Hunter had never left. He was said to dwell secretly among the people, watching to see if they are worthy.
*****
And so, the Hunter finally turned his face toward the Orocani and Hisendöl. A journey of two weeks and four days it was from the Great Camp to the Vale of Hisendöl. Through the Plains of the People and the Weeping Wood to the plains of the North (where few now dwell), at last to the feet of the Orocani (where it was said that many unwholesome things dwelt). Most who had trodden this road were full of gloom, but the Hunter walked as one wrapped in a dream. Often he would speak to those who were no longer present, asking them questions, and seemingly unaware that they went unheeded.
Thus it not until the tenth day of his journey that he noticed that he was being followed. When he did notice, he cursed himself for being seven kinds of a fool, for the follower was clearly visible upon the plain for any child to see.
He assumed that it was one sent by Hürgor until he looked closely. The hunter was skilled at seeing at a distance. He could tell any man or beast he knew by their stride as far as the horizon, and thus he always knew who to expect well before any features could be could be seen. When he saw who his follower was, he sat down on the ground and put his head in his hands. He looked to the west and asked aloud just what he had done to deserve this. When he received no answer, he got to his feet and continued on his journey. The Weeping Wood would be reached by nightfall. He weighed whether he should confront his pursuer or simply leave no trail in the forest, thus losing his pursuer. He argued the point with himself until he reached the edge of the woods. There he made his decision and began his preparations.
*********
The Hunter’s pursuer ran to the edge of the woods as night fell. For ten days she had followed him, seemingly in vain. She had thought that catching him would be the least of her tasks that she had set for herself. She was wrong. His pace was swift and tireless. He seemed to take no rest and he made no camp at night.
Her greatest mistake had been in making camp at nightfall, assuming that he would do likewise. In the morning, she was dismayed to find that he was now many leagues ahead of her, for had not slowed in the night. Each day, she ran until she could run no more in a vain effort to make up the distance. When she could not run, she walked. Only when she could no longer walk would she rest.
She was a warrior of the People of the Plains, strong and skilled. There were few things on the earth that could deter this maid once she had made up her mind, but she was still a woman of flesh and blood. When she reached the edge of the Weeping Wood, she knew that she had met defeat. She knew all the ways of the plains. There are trees on the plains, and she knew them. There are large copses of trees that some might even call small forests, and she knew them. But, this is a true forest, mighty and ancient. She was wise enough to know that if she ventured in blindly, it would devour her and none would ever know her fate.
As she stood there, her breath still labored from her last run, she was startled to feel tears starting to flow from her eyes. She had not cried since she was a small child. She angrily told herself to stop. Neither wounds of flesh or the heart have ever wrested tears from her eyes. But her tears defied her and they threaten to turn her ragged breathing into sobs.
She was a warrior, but how does one fight tears? Her anger rose up to fight her opponent, but found no one. Her sword came into her hand and her eyes searched for that which opposed her. Yet, only the silent trees stood before her. The trees ... which silently stood there mocking her, not even deigning to notice this small thing standing before them.
With a stream of defiance, she attacked this silent, mocking sentinel. After she has struck it several times, the tree did take note of her attack, and seized her sword within the notch that she herself has cut. Strong is the daughter of the plains, but puny indeed is her strength compared to that of the mighty pine that she has just challenged. She began to curse the tree and to attack it with her bare fists.
The rage that she felt was greater than any she has ever felt in her life. She was angry because the tree wouldn’t give back her sword, because the forest thwarts her, because she was exhausted and defeated. Most of all, she was angry because she was crying like a child.
Again and again, she struck the great tree in vain. She may have continued this way all night, if the blanket of exhaustion had not smothered the fire of her anger. Her fist, poised to strike, fell to her side. A wave of dizziness crashed over her and she slumped to the ground at the feet of her opponent, cradling her bloodied fists to her breast. All that was left of her rage was tears, for they require no effort.
After a time, she realized that she had stopped crying. Taking stock of her situation, she realized three things. She was exhausted, her hands hurt, and the tree she was leaning against was very uncomfortable. She decided to devote her remaining energies to setting up some sort of camp. Tomorrow, she told herself, will be soon enough to decide what course to take from here.
As she brought herself slowly to her feet, a groan escapes unhindered from her lips. Pain has come from an unexpected direction. Her toes are badly battered if not broken from kicking the tree. She did not remember doing so, but the body keeps its own records of such doings. As she was mentally taking stock of her injuries, she glanced up to take in her surroundings ... and saw someone standing silently right in front of her.
With a yelp of surprise, she reflexively jumped back and reached for her sword. Unfortunately, she found her sword, not in its scabbard with her hand, but lodged in the tree with her back. She hit the hilt just below her shoulder blade and the impact turned her so that her other shoulder and her head hit the tree with bruising force. Dazed and off balance, she stumbled directly into the arms of the of the man before her. As she began to struggle, he rebuked her in a gentle but firm voice, &"Easy, warrior. The battle has not favored you.”
She looked up into his face for the first time, "Hunter it is ...” Her words were interrupted by a grunt of pain as her battered toes announce their displeasure.
"Gently, Lady. I think that a dozen Orks would have been far kinder foes than this one sentenial of the Weeping Woods. Your wounds, although not threatening, are serious.”
The lady bit her lip to keep from making any sounds of pain or angry retorts. The Hunter helped her to a seat on a fallen log. He carefully removed her boots, so as to cause the least pain. Seeing her as comfortable as possible, he began to set up a camp.
He removed from his pack herbs and ointments that will speed the healing of her body. Only after tending all of her wounds and retrieving her sword did he speak again. "Well, Elsara daughter of Hürgor, what brings you to the Weeping Woods.”
She looked at him with a timid hope in her eyes. "I wish to journey with you, my Lord.”
The Hunter gave a long-suffering sigh, "Please do not call me Lord. I have many names, and you may call me any of them or you may name me anew. But, I am the lord of no man within the bounds of the world.”
Elsara simply stared at him in confusion, for this was the last thing that she expected him to object to.
The Hunter smiled at her to take the sting out of his words. "Do you know where my path leads me now?”
Elsara nodded, "Yes m... Hunter. You are heading for the Mountain of Mists, which lies far to the north, beyond these woods and the Plain of the North.”
"Do you wish to go there?”
"No my ... Hunter, for it has an evil reputation, but if it is where you are going, I would have no other destination. I wish to be at your side, even if that path leads beyond the bounds of the world.”
The Hunter sighed once again and looked into her eyes, and is surprised, though he should not have been. For in the place where he expected to see the devotion of a thrall, he found the love of a woman who has finally found a man worthy of giving herself to.
The Hunter began shaking his head and chuckled to himself and said, "Elsara, my girl, there is no fool like an old one. I would ask that you give me a short time to think about this.”
The Hunter found his dilemma thus: Elsara was a woman of noble and proud spirit. A great warrior and a leader of her people. But, at that moment, she was exhausted, hurt and vulnerable. On top of this, she is in love, which softens even the hardest of hearts. To send her away would shatter her spirit, and this he cannot do. But, to take her with him is to raise the hope of something that can never be. The higher such a hope goes, the greater the damage when it is dashed upon the rock of truth. In the end, this could be worse that the first, for it could embitter her spirit beyond recovery.
In the end, he decided that he must allow her to continue with him because to refuse her would be certain to destroy her, while the future is not yet set.
The Hunter gave a short, resigned sigh, "Very well, You may come.” He notes her smile of relief and triumph and says, "Make no oaths to me or to yourself about how long you will accompany me. For, the path that I am travelling is so fell that even I may not survive to see its end.”
Elsara looked at him questioningly, "If this path is so dark, then why do you travel it?”
The Hunter smiled to himself, "I must keep a vow that I made to myself ages ago, so I know of what I speak when I warn you against such things.”
"How can I help you to fulfill this vow?”
"I must speak to an old friend and you cannot help me in this.” He held up his hand before she could interrupt again. "You must sleep warrior, and give your body an opportunity to heal if we are to travel at all tomorrow. No more questions this night.”
She reluctantly hobbled over to where he has laid out her bedroll. After setteling herself into a position that is the least disturbing to her injuries, she says, "Good night, my Hunter.” A worried look crosses her face, "Will you be here in the morning?”
"Rest easy, daughter of the plains. I have agreed to allow you to be a companion on this journey. I do not abandon my companions.” With that reassurance, she relaxes and quickly falls to sleep.
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PS I know that this could probably never be published, but I am wanting to use it as a writing exercise and because I like the story.
