Zyndalia walked over to where Liani stood and placed a tender hand on her shoulder. “Do not fret over this, Liani,” she said.
“I do not know what happened? I was trying to tell him, to show him all the confidence I had in him, when we just started yelling,” she said as she turned to face the younger woman.
“I know,” said Zyn, “sometimes when you really care, passion takes over for sense.”
“I hope he is not mad with me,” said Liani as he wiped her face of tears.
“No, he is not. He is more mad with himself. He always has been.”
“How can he be mad at himself? He has done nothing wrong,” she said the small woman.
“That, my friend, is a long story, and one he would be best suited to tell,” she said.
“What should we do now?” asked Liani.
“The only thing we can do, wait until morning and hope he is in more of a mood to listen to reason,” said Zyndalia as she embraced Liani in a warm and comforting hug.
“Thank you.”
“Of course. We are like sisters,” said the younger woman with a broad smile.
“Yes. Yes, we are,” responded Liani as both Inglorca and Graloralynn slowly walked over to them.
“Now, let us tend to our wolves and then get some rest. Rony might not be right about not wanting to help, but he is right about one thing,” she said.
“What is that?”
“I am tired.”
It was late and the night’s argument hung on him like a forge master’s anvil. His head throbbed in time with the same forge master whose heavy hammer relentlessly pounded out all the rough imperfections of his mind’s tempered steel. Though his throbbing head was enough to keep him awake, it was the lingering vision of his mother’s hideous transformation into the shapeless mass of solidified evil that haunted him. Zyndalia and Liani had not seen what he saw. They did not see her face as her skin turned into a charred and blackened mass of grotesque tissue. They did not hear the awful crunching as her body transformed into its original shape, or shapelessness. Nor did they look into her eyes the moment before the transformation was complete and see the horrified fear of whatever was left of the woman within. It was that fear that told him she was dead, or had died right before his eyes. It was that panic that made him see that his mother and the demon had become one. In that moment, he knew she was gone.
How does one reconcile such a horrific scene? How does one keep going in the face of such a traumatic event? As much as he needed answers, those were questions he was incapable of considering as his head lay on his bed with his covers pulled up subconsciously high around his neck. Xunmerco was laying at the foot of his bed, barely able to fit between it and the wall. The wolf was sharing the sadness with Rony through the bond. Had it not been for the Xunmerco’s presence, his tears might have overcome him. But because Xunmerco was there sharing Rony’s burden, the young man was able to still himself by focusing on his its breathing. With each deep and full exhalation, Rony exhaled a portion of his despair. And with each life-giving inhalation, Rony breathed in more and more of Xunmerco’s calming peace and tranquility. Such was the effect, that the young man was able to pass from a conscious desire for sleep, into sleep itself. That is not to say, his slumber was peaceful, for it was filled with dreams and visions and consequences. And the first one was good.
“Drahin, what is evil?” asked a young Ronialdin to his father as both of them walked through the forest. It was the second time he had been invited to accompany his father on one of his hunting expeditions. Although it was not going to be a prolonged trip, only two days, it nonetheless seemed so for the young boy who had not been on an overnight hunting trip before.
“That is an odd question? Why do you ask?” replied the elder hunter.
“Well, I heard one of the merchants last week say something about how the clouds looked evil,” he said.
“What do you think it is?” asked his father.
The young boy thought for a moment and said, “It did not sound so good. At least, I did not think so.”
“Oh, and what made it sound bad?” asked his father again.
“The merchant made his face all squinty when he said it,” said the boy as he mimicked, or at least tried to mimic the merchant’s facial expression.
His father laughed heartily, and replied, “If he made that face, I believe you are correct. The clouds could not have been good at all.”
“But what IS evil?” asked Rony again.
“That is not so easy a question to answer, young one,” said his father as he motioned for Rony to crouch low. “Shhh, did you hear that?”
“No. What was it?” he asked.
“It might have been nothing, but I thought I heard something scurry away,” his father answered. The two of them were as motionless they could be and waited to hear any sounds confirming the presence of their prey. But when no sound returned, his father looked to the ground and then back to Rony, “Perhaps I am starting to hear things. Let us keep going.”
“Can people be evil?” asked Rony after a minute or two of silent walking.
“I suppose they can,” said his father.
“Drahin,” said the young boy.
“Yes, Rony.”
“Are we evil?”
“Not at all, why do you ask?”
“Well, we kill a lot of animals. I do not think killing is good,” he answered sadly.
“Yes, we do kill a lot of animals, but I take no joy in killing them, nor do you,” answered his father.
“But are you not happy when you come home with a lot of animals?”
His father chuckled, “You are a quick one are you not? Yes, I am happy when I bring home many animals. In fact, the more I bring home, the happier I am,” he answered.
“Does that not mean you are happy about killing them?”
“No, it does not,” answered his father. “Listen. Come here,” he said as she stopped walking and squatted down so he could better look at his son at eye level. “There is a large gap between killing because we need food and money and just killing for fun or sport. Yes, I am happy when I can provide for you, your sister, and your mother. However, that does not mean I am happy I have to kill the animals to do it.”
“I do not understand,” said the young Ronialdin.
“Life is sacred, all life. But all life has its role as do we; and we must fulfill our role within it. If we do not, then we will unbalance all of life,” he said.
Rony stayed still for a brief moment, but then asked, “What is my role in life?”
But his father did not answer audibly. The only response he would give would be a slight grin followed by a subtle and quick wink. The young Rony was about to ask his question again when he was stopped by his father’s gesture for silence. “Do you hear that?” he asked.
“Hear what, Drahin?”
“Change, little one,” he said as he stood up and looked around. “Change is coming.”
Rony copied is father and looked around to the trees and then up to the sky. “What is changing?” he asked.
“Everything.”
But before the young Ronialdin could ask anything more, he watched his father dissolve into a black cloud of thin smoke. Once his father’s image was floating away on the subtle currents of wind driven by the dream of a perfect day, so too did the surrounding landscape dissolve. However, unlike his father, the trees, sounds, ground, and the very sun itself was replaced by another scene, one of unspoken dread and finality. Rony knew he was dreaming, but that revelation did nothing to ease the horror of seeing both Zyndalia and Liani in chains as they walked through a country side that was burned black by the charred remains of his inaction. Everywhere he looked, there was nothing more than desolation and solitude. He was imparted with the distinct realization that life, though it still continued, was lived separately by all those who lived it. He turned to see both Zyndalia and Liani again, but as they walked, they held no familiarity with each other. As such, the
re was no communal understanding that they were together. Although they walked with only the smallest of distances separating them, they were existences apart. Indeed, each walked in their own lonely estimation of complete isolation.
He soon became aware that the two women were not alone in their solitary existence, but part of a large caravan of like bounded individuals. As he found the faces of all those shackled by more than just the metal of chains, he saw several representations of the peoples of Avendia, though he did not recognize any of the individuals. Elves, Dwarves, Orcs, Ogres, even the immense Trolls, and some peoples he could not identify, were all likewise bound around the neck, feet and hands with the same heavy chains adorning the defeated hopes of Zyn and Liani. There was nothing to them, their hopes, for he could see in their eyes that all who walked were void of it. He first tried to call out to Zyndalia, but she offered him no response greater than a slight acknowledgement. As if a small and inconsequential insect had attempted to land on her exposed flesh, she brushed off his request the way a storm might when confronted by a tiny butterfly requesting it to divert its course and allow the butterfly safe passage. A storm was a storm and would not be diverted by a request of anything less. He repeated his attempt with Zyndalia, and then Liani to no avail. Neither of the women acknowledged his presence with any amount of effort suggesting they were little more than enthralled, mindless slaves. So impotent were his efforts to engaged their attention that he submitted to his inability and watched the caravan trudge slowly and joylessly away.
He looked up to the sky expecting to see the dark grey clouds mimic his despair. However, he was surprised to see it completely blue and unobstructed by anything less than the brilliant hue of perfect clarity. He had to squint to protect his eyes from the radiant glare of the sun shining in all of its brilliance. Turning his confused attention to the surrounding landscape, he was likewise stunned to see it perfectly restored to what he had understood it to be. Turning yet again, he was further amazed to see that he was standing in front of his childhood home. Rather than going inside, he began walking into the woods. However, the farther he walked into them, the more he understood his action was not being directed by his own intent, but by something directing him the way gravity directs a fruit to fall from its tree branch.
The woods of his youth were exactly how he remembered them to be years and years ago; unsoiled, unspoiled by the changes affecting the land he now called home. The trees were exact replicas right down to their imperfections. He smiled when he saw the tree inscribed by his sister, but his smile quickly faded when he heard a rustling from the thicket behind. He reached for the dagger on his thigh, but it was not there, neither was his longsword or boot dagger. He heard the rustling again, this time closer. He backed away from its direction and gathered himself to face whatever dread emerged.
The rustling had grown so close that it had become mixed with the slow, heavy breathing of a predator. Judging by its depth and pace, he thought the predator to be a bear, but not one of the common bears of his home. He knew well the sounds of their breaths. Theirs lacked the low rumble at the trail end of the exhalation. This predator, however, breathed with the depth and innate ferocity of one of the great bears in the childhood stories his father had told him. He crouched low, preparing himself to react to the inevitable lunge that was soon forthcoming.
He saw the snout first, large, impossibly large; however, it was unlike any bear’s he had ever seen. Thin and long, the jaws yielded the largest, sharpest and most brilliantly white fangs he could possibly imagine adorning the mouth of a wolf. Its head, the full portion of it emerging between the trees, stood a full foot taller than Rony at his full height. A pure white body followed with no less of a predatorial presence than its massive head. Sleek and silent, its muscles rippled with each step. As its powerful body emerged fully from the cover of the brush, a brush that seemed somehow insignificant to shelter such a powerful entity, Rony was overcome with a sense of regality. As just enough sun had broken through the leafy umbrella to shine down and highlight this already magnificent creature, Rony could do nothing else but bow low and long.
“Rise,” commanded the wolf, but when Rony obeyed and raised his head, he saw that the powerful visage of the wolf had been replace by that of a brilliantly perfect man standing in robes of pure white that seemed to glow from their own magnificence. The porcelain and perfect skin, while enthralling, was not the most overwhelming characteristic of the man, nor was it his impossibly deep blue eyes, rather, it was the beautifully white-feathered, unfurled wings that jutted from his back in defiance to everything evil and imperfect. As Rony gained his bearings and humbly stood, he found that the height of the man reflected that of the wolf. This being, man, or whatever it was, stood no less than seven feet tall, his presence forcing the smallness of all things mortal to be understood.
“Who are you?” asked Ronialdin, struggling to maintain eye contact with the manifested radiance.
“I am Michael, Leader of The Hunt,” said the man as his wings furled into him and his robes stunning glow faded into a faint luminescence.
“What are you?” asked Rony.
“I am what you refer to as an Angel,” said Michael.
“An Angel? I thought those were just stories,” Rony said.
“Indeed, they were stories, but stories born from truth,” said the Angel as he smiled warmly. “Come, let us walk in the woods. You have questions, yes?”
Rony fell in stride with Michael who set a slow and comfortable pace, “Am I dreaming?” he asked.
“Of course. Now, what is it you wish to know?”
“What is happening?”
“We are walking,” said the Angel with a wink.
“No,” responded Rony, “I mean, what is happening to us?”
“You are being called,” answered Michael.
“Called to what?”
“To The Hunt,” answered Michael.
“What is that? The Hunt,” asked Rony who was feeling no less confused in this first few minutes with Michael.
“Since the mortal concept of time began, and He called forth into being those who are His children, the greatest of we who serve Him, the one called Lucifer for his unrivaled ability to bring light, esteemed himself worthier than what He created. In doing so, the bringer of light allowed the subjective conditions of mortality to govern him over the objective dictates of Our Father. This naturally gave rise to such things as pride within Lucifer. Not right away, but in time, that pride grew and he, the greatest of our kind, openly challenged He Who Created All believing that worthiness should be defined by such illusions as power instead of the honesty of purpose. Trying to rise from his fall, Lucifer waged a war against Heaven and God attempting to claim heaven as his own. He was beaten then, and each time thereafter,” Michael said to the young man, though he felt more a boy in the presence of the angel than a man.
“Wait. Are you telling me that all those stories my parents told me were true?” asked the young man.
“Well, I am not sure about all the stories, but at least this one is true,” said the Angel smiling.
“But what is The Hunt?” asked Rony again.
“I was just about to explain that,” said Michael affectionately. “As you can expect, Lucifer was not pleased to say the least. He vowed to have his revenge and has continually sought ways to subvert God’s own Creation. But what he desires most is not just the destruction of Avendia and the other worlds created by God, but the transformation and assimilation of them into his own Realm of Hell. Over time, he was able to discover an immortal link that provided a connection between his realm and the mortal realm. Sort of a passageway. By utilizing his discovery, he was able to summon his demons into the mortal world. At first, they needed to directly possess a mortal body though its soul. However, as his power grew, he was able to summon them in their own physical form without the aid of an immortal soul as a host. At first, this did not pose much of an issue. But after he learned how to create gat
es between his world and yours, we were forced to summon The Hunt,” Michael said as they continued walking.
“So, what is happening to us? To my sister and I? To Liani?” he asked.
“What is necessary, little wolf,” answered Michael. “That is all I can tell you for now.”
“Necessary? Necessary for what?”
“For Avendia,” answered Michael with compassionate eyes.
“Why?” pursued Rony.
“I cannot say more, for now. This is not the last time we will meet, little wolf,” said Michael as he turned to face Ronialdin.
“But I have more to ask. More I need to know,” he said.
“Yes, you do. But it will have to wait until we meet again.”
“When will that be?” asked Rony.
“Seek me out in the Swamps of Gabbon. I will be waiting for you there. After you have traveled to Pretago Cor, seek me out,” said Michael as he put a hand on Ronialdin’s shoulder.
“Pretago Cor? Why do we have to go there?”
“For the same reason you have been called to The Hunt,” answered the Angel, “because it is necessary. Now go. It is time for you to wake. The sun is moments from rising and you must get an early start. Farewell, young wolf. Much is set at your feet, but much more has been given to complete.”
Unlike his father, the Angel Michael, did not fade into a wisp of black smoke. Instead, he vanished in a blinding display of pure white light, the kind of purity that answers all questions of faith, for the flash of brilliance was such that only authentic trueness of belief could exist. And even for the tiniest of moments, that trueness was enough to return Rony’s belief, if not in himself, then in something greater than him. Perhaps that is what he needed, an adherence to a power greater than what he believed he was in order for him to engage everything that he was, or at least was capable of being in this moment.
As the light faded into the darkness of his slumber, his eyes opened to a freshness and resolute conviction to the purpose set before him, a purpose that promised more doom and more fighting, more demons and monsters. However, he no longer felt the soul weary tiredness that plagued him only the night before. Invigorated with what could only be called a predatory hunger, Rony woke to the potential of the day, a potential that promised death, a potential that promised a feast, a potential that promised The Hunt.
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