Day of the Hunt (The Faun Quartet Book 2)

by Chris J Edwards

  DAY OF THE HUNT

  Chris J Edwards

  DAY OF THE HORN. Text copyright 2020 by Jaryd Palfrey.

  Illustration copyright 2021 by Kayla Kowalyk

  Map by Author

  Published by Alpine Sky Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-7772847-5-6

  ISBN (paperback): 978-1-7772847-3-2

  ISBN (ebook): 978-1-7772847-4-9

  To my family

  With you, the adventure continues

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  1: Bram Tan Heth

  2: Herace

  3: Dawn

  4: Ortham

  5: Daz

  6: Herace

  7: Dawn

  8: Ortham

  9: Herace

  10: Dawn

  11: Daz

  12: Bram Tan Heth

  13: Ortham

  14: The Slave

  15: Herace

  16: Dawn

  17: Daz

  18: Ortham

  19: Bram Tan Heth

  20: The Slave

  21: Daz

  22: Dawn

  23: Herace

  24: Bram Tan Heth

  25: Ortham

  26: Dawn

  27: Daz

  28: The Slave

  29: Herace

  30: Dawn

  31: Ortham

  32: Bram Tan Heth

  33: Daz

  34: The Slave

  35: Herace

  36: Ortham

  37: Bram Tan Heth

  38: Dawn

  39: Daz

  40: Herace

  41: Bram Tan Heth

  42: Dawn

  43: Ortham

  44: The Slave

  45: Herace

  46: Ortham

  47: Daz

  48: Bram Tan Heth

  49: Dawn

  50: The Slave

  51: Ortham

  52: Herace

  53: Bram Tan Heth

  54: Daz

  55: Dawn

  56: Ortham

  57: Bram Tan Heth

  58: Herace

  59: Dawn

  60: Ortham

  61: Bram Tan Heth

  62: Daisy

  63: Dawn

  64: Herace

  1

  BRAM TAN HETH

  “Ever closer the stinking rot of our dread enemies approaches, and yet still you insist on idleness,” Avaxenon raved.

  He held his head high, keeping his back stiff while making broad, sweeping gestures with his arms. The surrounding scholars whispered behind their upheld hands or even hissed openly. The Grand Speaker called for silence and respect, attempting to quell the growing dissent.

  To his credit, Avaxenon pushed forward with his oration, paying no heed.

  “You are wasting your time, each and every one of you! Every moment we spend in idleness is another moment they grow more powerful. And yet still you insist on patience!” he cried, voice booming through the chamber.

  He raised an arm skyward, letting his robes dangle from his elbow.

  “The time for patience is over! We must have war, active war! It is our solemn duty to cast off the unseen tendrils of evil which coil out from over the mountains and unlit places. Or else this land will be poisoned beyond all repair, a battleground of the Twin Pillars of Woe.”

  The dissent in the college chamber grew to a fever pitch. Some of the scholars stood up, arguing loudly one with another.

  I leaned back in my chair and watched the room passively behind half-shut eyes.

  It was all a charade, of course. Anyone with half a brain knew that Avaxenon spoke truly; the rest were simply myopic, ignorant politickers. Their feeble minds were shackled by fear or confusion or pride, or perhaps they were simply stupid. A small laugh escaped my throat, almost too quick for me to swallow it back down.

  After a long chorus of shouting and arm flailing, the Grand Speaker of the College of Valethucia regained order. From his vaulted pulpit, eyes cloudy and back bent with age, he motioned to Avaxenon.

  “Silence now, silence,” he said in a reedy voice. “You may keep the floor, but allow an argument to come forward…”

  Avaxenon bowed in deference to the Grand Speaker’s order and looked out with a stony look to the surrounding benches, challenging any to rise and debate him.

  I suppressed a smile.

  Those who opposed his truth were cowardly, content to hiss with scorn en masse but afraid to take up the mantle of debate alone.

  Passively I studied the cavernous white-streaked walls, the simple elven pillars that held up the high ceiling. Benches and chairs, hewn of wood, were occupied by perhaps a hundred scholars from every corner of the Vindayan Empire. In the centre was the orator’s floor, slightly lowered, and above us, the Grand Speaker’s pulpit. The heads of the scholars bobbed and nodded beneath hat and hood, bare or long-haired. Elves, ur-men, even a long-eared hobgoblin nestled in the crowd.

  How cosmopolitan, the college inviting so many non-elvish.

  Silence reigned for a time before a willowy elf rose from the middle tier of benches.

  He gathered up his robes and padded down the marble steps to take the floor with Avaxenon. The Grand Speaker nodded to him, giving him permission to address the chamber.

  “My name is Sarahm Livae, from the High College of Outer Vindaya,” he said in customary greeting. “And I seek to argue against the resident Avaxenon Orn,”.

  I did not recognize this Sarahm character. A Vindayan, clearly, a true city-dweller. How long he must have travelled to appear at this council, held on the ragged northern coast of the Violet Ocean.

  The Grand Speaker nodded again, allowing Sarahm Livae to proceed.

  Sarahm cleared his throat.

  “Firstly, I admit to Avaxenon’s claims of encroaching evil. None, I assume, would deny that our empire, our homeland, is beset by treachery most foul…” he said, scanning the chamber and being met with hushed mumblings of assent. “Yet, I believe Avaxenon’s panic is misplaced… it is no secret that our lands are frayed at the edges, bled white by unsolicited and tragic warfare. His focus, thus, on waging some sort of fanatical, metaphysical crusade against an unseen enemy is preposterous in light of the very real and very immediate threat posed by those just over the Bulwarks, and of course, from across the Southern Sea.”

  Sarahm’s last words were shrilly shouted in order to compete with the growing rumble of voices that gathered like far-off thunder.

  I grimaced. Sarahm’s mannerisms were dangerously diplomatic. A true Vindayan.

  The voices died down and Sarahm began again.

  “If we wage war, let it be real war –not some suicidal crusade against two enemies at once. We have not the strength to wage war on both the Witches and the worshippers of the Void who, might I remind the council chamber, ravaged our lands not too long ago.”

  More mumblings.

  Sarahm bowed his head to Avaxenon, who was clearly unmoved and ready to respond.

  “The Empire of Un is, of course, an enemy,” replied Avaxenon, addressing the chamber more than his opponent. “I do not debate this point. Many lives were lost at their invasion. But might I remind the chamber, the ogritic and trollish invasions from across the Southern Sea were equally devastating – “

  “And likely launched in concer
t with the Empire of Un!” interjected Sarahm.

  “Hearsay. Naught but hearsay,” Avaxenon shot back, waving a hand dismissively. “I contend it was more likely that the Unmen, by sorcerous means, were able to see the imminent trollish and ogritic incursion and used those southern invasions as a convenient but uncoordinated distraction from our eastern borders… but that isn’t the point! That isn’t the point at all,” he said, glaring out at the surrounding scholars who were whispering amongst themselves once again. “The point is that, if we do not address both of the Twin Pillars of Woe now, it may be too late. And recall that the worshippers of the Void, the very Empire of Un, is merely a trifling and corpulent entity in comparison to what lies even further afield…”

  Avaxenon was right. There was a black power stirring, far in the east, a black power whose appetite was insatiable and whose persistence was unmatched. I could feel it. It was clawing at the edge of my mind, seeping in through the cracks in my soul. My eyes were tainted by the putrescence of the great enemy, my brain cauterized by the horrid scouring of the lesser.

  The word Witches exhaled from every mouth, discordant as the susurrations of ocean surf.

  “Yes, brothers, yes! The Witches, spreading their vile filth from awful fortresses far in the east. A place where not even the sun shines and the moons hide their faces for shame at what blight we have allowed to grow! Evil unrelenting, evil unchecked!” he trumpeted, voice thundering.

  With an accusatory finger he swept the crowd, eyes aflame with passion.

  “Daily the Witches grow stronger, as they have for a thousand years! Promulgating the Shade, causing the living essence of the very ground we till to wither and decay, the waters we ply to sour and foul… they will not be stopped by our politicking, they will not be stopped by our cautious attempts at diplomacy. Diplomacy!” he guffawed, seeming to hold the word in contempt. “Do we hold councils with the insects upon which we tread? Do we consider peace with the fish we snare? This greatest enemy has no bearing upon our cultured ways, no concept of peace, no understanding, no use for peace…”

  The chamber was becoming a frenzy of heated debate. Somewhere in the back a physical altercation was brewing, coming dangerously close to blows.

  I leaned back further in my seat and crossed my legs, sighing as I did. Another unexpected chortle forced its way out of my throat; I clapped my hand to my lips. Mustn’t have a breakdown, not here, not now.

  I looked back up to the near-brawl. For all our pretensions of civility, we certainly had a considerable capacity for barbarity.

  From his perch the Grand Speaker called for calm, his old voice quivering with strain as he competed with the din below. With gnarled fingers he gripped the railing and I observed he looked not unlike an unhappy bird, crying frantically – and fruitlessly - from his nest.

  I rested my gaze upon Avaxenon. His eyes caught mine and he bent his lips into a mock grimace. I responded with a shrug. Wordlessly we communicated our mutual exasperation.

  Avaxenon was one of the few from the College of Valethucia who I had remained in contact with. He was one of the only ones who understood me, who didn’t treat me as a leper. My only friend left in this world.

  Long had I sought – long had I wandered in strange lands. Long had I suffered in seeking the truth.

  And yet, looking out to the surrounding scholars, I saw not a single soul who might listen with ears unguarded aside from Avaxenon. Perhaps I had been naïve to believe that such educated folk could rise above politics, above factions, above selfish things, above blind philosophies and simply listen.

  For Avaxenon and I were certain of one thing – the Witches were coming.

  The Empire of Un was a threat, of course; one that was clear, one that was immediate; and the southern realms, far across the ocean, could invade our homeland at any time, just as they had mere years ago; but in the grand scheme of things, compared to the life of even an oak tree, these things would pass. They were mere trifling annoyances. For despite the considerable puissance of the Empire of Un, the true danger of those fanatics was their project of a ‘sacred cleansing.’ They were locked in an endless struggle against the Witches, just as we should be.

  But was the Empire of Un really all that preferable a victor? Or the ogres and trolls from southward, or again, threats from even further afield? Or was that like deciding between being drowned or hanged, burned or broken?

  I closed my eyes and breathed deeply.

  Perhaps this was simply one’s lot in life. To be surrounded at all times by misery, menaced by evil, threatened with death or worse.

  I looked up to the tiny windows carved high, high up on the smooth stone walls. Dappled light streamed in, illuminating particles of fine dust floating lazily down.

  Knowledge was just as much a burden as a boon, and for a brief moment I longed for the relief of ignorance. Some knowledge is best unknown.

  Perhaps it was better not to know, not to see the imminent doom, the coming horror. Was every future, every eventuality, destined to be bleak? Were we forever cursed to struggle against our own encroaching ruin? Was this the terrible price of mortality, to be locked in endless combat against sorrow and death?

  I watched the motes of dust float down from the window, their path aimless and slow, heedless of the surrounding clamour. The scholars continued to argue bitterly, pointlessly, endlessly.

  Another laugh bubbled up from my chest. This time it escaped, and I was helpless to stop it. No one noticed amid the ruckus anyway, so I let it flow out like pus from an infected wound.

  I laughed and laughed and no one cared, least of all me, and a shudder rose up from within, from between the rips in my soul, black and terrible, and no one cared, because everyone was too busy arguing.

  And they called me mad.

  2

  Herace

  I turned around to look back at Plin Oèn one last time before riding away.

  There was a bend in the trail, not far from the edge of the woods, where one could get their first glimpse of the high-walled keep atop its hill, swimming in a lake of golden grass. I remembered the spot from my youth. It was a spot I always loved; the place of goodbye, the place of return. A doorway between my ancestral home and the wide world beyond.

  I turned away and rode on into the wood.

  Soft green light shimmered from the canopy of broad-leafed trees. The kingdom was in the throes of midsummer; the air was warm and fragrant, the sun hot and the days interminably long. It was a glorious time of year, perfect for long rides through the snaking paths that laced my estate.

  The only downside was the hunting… midsummer hunts were never quite as satisfying, unless the quarry was bear. I had missed this year’s hunt, what with the imprisonment and rebellion and all. My friends were all far too occupied, anyway. I was bored half to death because of it.

  Things had certainly been exciting for a while, though. Very exciting. About as exciting as when I had gone to fight at Safon a few years ago. Unlike Safon, however, there was no victorious sentiment, no celebration afterward. I was simply stuck here with all that remained – memories and shortened antlers.

  At least I got Plin Oèn back.

  Somewhere up in the arbor birds chittered and sang, flitting from one branch to the next. Their song was the only thing interrupting the silence of the woods.

  Stupid birds… all they do is sing and eat. Did they think at all? Did they wonder about tomorrow? Did they remember what happened yesterday?

  I looked up and watched their shaded forms pass through the glowing leaves, headed to nowhere in particular.

  Stupid birds.

  I slowed my horse and sat watching. The birds paid me no heed.

  I slipped off the saddle and reached for my bow. Gripping it with both hands I strained against it to put on the bowstring. Once done I gave it a light twang with my index finger; it vibrated, humming in my ear. I peered back up into the canopy and spotted a dark-feathered bird
perched idly amongst the leaves.

  My decision almost made, I withdrew an arrow from my quiver and weighed it in my hand, contemplating the worth of the arrow against the worth of the bird. At the very least it would be good sport to take a shot.

  I leveled my bow to the bird sitting dumbly high above and drew back until the feather tickled my cheek – and then I hesitated.

  I let the bow slowly relax under my grip.

  The bird cocked his head, unaware of how close he had just been to a sudden end. Then he flew away.

  Sighing, I unstrung my bow and packed it away again. The birds continued to sing.

  I hated being bored.

  Soon I was off again, riding through the woods, watching passively as the world went by. Motes of cotton floated on the warm air. The hooves of my horse clip-clopped rhythmically on the dirt trail. It wasn’t a very well-cared-for path; it was the only one that linked Plin Oèn to the rest of the kingdom, to the rest of Céin Urthia. And since half the inhabitants of Plin Oèn had been forced away during my absence, much of the usual upkeep had been abandoned.

  Clip-clop, clip-clop.

  The afternoon dragged on. The sun was at its zenith, somewhere far above, hidden by the leaves. Honeyed sunlight dripped down from between the arching branches. The birds were either gone or very quiet. Only the sound of hooves remained.

  It was unusual for me to travel alone. Riding alone was one thing; perhaps a trip to enjoy the morning’s solitude, or a day’s ride to see a friend. But today I was really travelling, and all alone, no retinue or friends at all. I had a sleeping roll and a bit of food and some clothes and whatever else I might need for a journey. Hopefully there would be room at a road warden’s hut, or better, an inn. The highways of Céin Urthia were nowhere near as busy as those further abroad, especially compared to the southern coasts. King Aral’s road reforms had changed that to a degree, but it would likely take many, many years. At least they were well patrolled. No skullduggery in these parts. Just wild animals. The north and east fringes were a different matter, however.

  I wondered how the north fared. Was the rebellion really gone? I hadn’t heard even a whisper of news. I suppose the whole rebellion had collapsed in its infancy. At quite a cost, though. One sacked town, one dead king, and a few thousand dead.