Respect
LeYorn arrived at the gathering hall where the Hunters came and went as they pleased, dropping off food and retrieving weapons or clothing. It was a social place to some degree, but more than anything, it was a place that all the Hunters would pass through at one point or another each week, without Cast interference.
As he climbed the stairs to the entrance of the upper hall, he was approached by two others on their way down.
“Master LeYorn, we were all so saddened to hear of your family being reallocated. Please let us know if we can assist in getting your supplies back to expected levels. No other man should lay claim to your woman or children, we owe you so much.”
The second man nodded in solidarity and offered his hand. LeYorn took it out of respect but with an air of impatience.
“I value your offers and I appreciate them a great deal, but I have a task I must complete outside of the zones we normally travel. So please look to the welfare of my family, rather than concern yourselves with me.”
Their caring gaze deepened with understanding.
“There is something I could use your help with, however ... ”
The two men perked up immediately.
“What can we help with?”
“I need to know if you have seen anyone using a Veil weapon.”
The two looked at each other wide-eyed.
“A Veil weapon, I don’t think there has been one of those in the Ohun since ... Grand Master Morvik. Why is that on your mind?”
“I have reason to believe that someone has collected a cub claw and may still have it.”
The two men developed a grave look.
“A cub’s claw ... but that would be abject idiocy. What kind of Specter-beaten Slop Brain would ever have a cub’s claw? That’s a path to a truly horrible death.”
LeYorn could barely conceal his expression of sarcasm, and took a few more steps up.
“Yes, that is all true, but what I need to know is if you see someone with one—because the male will still be hunting them—unless by some Godslike blessing he is dead. So, we need to find out who has it and get it away from the Village.”
He carried on to the door of the dusty, rough wooden building, a chorus of response behind him confirmed acknowledgement.
“Yes sir, absolutely.”
The two men carried on down, still muttering about the lunacy of taking a Veil cub’s claw.
As he entered the Hall, the Hunters gathered there took immediate notice and most stood up to acknowledge him.
“Master LeYorn.”
The main Hall was a large room with a scattering of tables. It was set down the equivalent of two stories below the entrance door. Being so far below the entry provided the Hunters respite from the outside world, as they could always see who came in, from any point in the Hall while they shared their meals and stories, undisturbed.
A particular table of younger Hunters proved the exception to LeYorn’s otherwise warm welcome, and the snub was noted by those who stood, as well as LeYorn himself.
Chances are, these four know between them who cut the finger from a wounded cub and called it a Hunter’s trophy.
He decided to shortcut the inside stairs leading down to the gathering area, and jumped directly to the floor. Barely bending his knees, he landed like a boulder and walked towards the table of men who refused to acknowledge him. The air was dense with the discontent evident at the table he approached.
“Hello, boys.”
Two of the Hunters changed their position as they reconsidered and stood up. The other two, however, stayed in place and barely looked up from their drinks as he approached. This was almost all the confirmation he needed.
Ignoring those who had stood, he sat at the table in their place. Looking across the table he waited for one of the men to look at him. They made no attempt to make eye contact.
“So, here you are.”
The rougher, more heavily scarred of the two spoke up, his hair more a length of matted fur than the carefully arranged braids of the other men.
“What are you doing at my table? We don’t have any stools for men who can’t feed their family.”
He begins to laugh, still refusing to look up at LeYorn.
The insult has its effect, as the great man rises from his stool with evident sadness on his face.
“I’m not here ... to be insulted by lesser ... disorganized trash, like you.”
The rest of the room begins to pay attention as the Master moves slowly toward his malcontent.
Having gotten his desired response, the ghastly looking man jumps quickly from his stool and draws his sword.
All the remaining Hunters react.
“What are you doing, AnCort?!”
“Stay your weapon, you cannot draw against Master LeYorn.”
The room feels tight as the descension rattles through the men and their weapons.
AnCort holds his weapon firm and refuses to give any ground.
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“You are the failure, LeYorn. You are the one who trained a defiant, anguished idiot who brings the Cast to our door. You!”
He adds a second hand to his sword and raises it, pointing forward, as though he would rush to stab his senior.
All the Hunters close in to stop the fight, until the more experienced LeYorn lifts his hand.
“Hold there, my brethren. AnCort is disrespectful, rude and smells terrible … ”
A chatter of laughter rattles around the group.
“But, he is not wrong. I did lose my family due to my actions, and drew Cast attention. For that, I carry deep regret. But, although Theor made a mistake, he is no failure. He is a better man now, than you would be in two hundred cycles, AnCort!”
There sits a stillness in the air as the group waits to see how AnCort reacts.
At once, he lunges at LeYorn, making a piercing strike for his upper body, but the point does not land.
As quickly as he moves, AnCort still finds a hand on top of his sword hilt.
LeYorn stands at his side.
“Do you really feel that you must kill me? Because if that is your chosen path, it would seem your first footfall has doomed you.”
AnCort twists the sword free of LeYorn’s grip and takes a sideways slice at his neck. LeYorn turns his body and immediately stops the sword against the Veil dagger he holds in his left hand.
The sword does no damage as it hits the claw and slides harmlessly, caught in its curve, stopping the room in a gasp.
“Slop Brain, I’ve had enough. Were you to fight like this against a Soldier, you would have lost your stupid head before you could have thought up such a juvenile attack.”
With his pulse barely raised, LeYorn coils his right arm over the sword, and grabs AnCort’s wrist, splintering the bone.
His sword falls to the floor as he cowers away from the steady and imposing Master Hunter.
“I see I have your attention now.”
LeYorn addressed the whole group, ignoring the wounded man glaring at him. He held the claw aloft for the room to see.
“I want to know where this came from, and who else has one. And I want to know right now.”
His tone drew focus, as his voice exuded a low growling sound amongst the words he formed.
The group muttered and murmured as the idea circulated, a respondent voicing their collective question.
“Where did you retrieve it?”
“I collected this from a thief, and he confided in me that there may be more.”
AnCort spoke up again through the pain of his badly broken wrist.
“Why ... should we ... tell you anything?”
His words fell on deaf and irritated ears as the rest of the group ignored him.
“Do you really know what this means, you careless sack of blood?”
LeYorn turned his attention back to the angry man before him.
“Because you would have no chance of surviving the resulting MONSTER that will come looking for the one that took ... its infant’s fingers.”
As he finished the statement, the air in the room went from tight to sunken, and many of the Hunters sat back on whichever stool they were closest to. AnCort’s indignation continued unabated.
“What are you talking about, old man? Veils don’t come into Villages and—”
“The reason Veils don’t come into the Villages is because they are smart—brilliant in fact—and they make careful choices. But that changes when a ridiculous lifeform like you, butchers one of its young.”
His face contorting in fury faster every moment, AnCort scrambled to his feet.
“You have no right to accuse me of that. What proof do you have?”
“You’re right.”
LeYorn steps towards him.
“I have no proof, but I do have a feeling, and my feelings guide me.”
“Ha, like a woman!”
AnCort walks toward him laughing and trying to gather the support of his compatriots.
Other than a few mild chuckles, the group is staunch in its silence and waits for their Master to speak.
“Yes AnCort, like a woman, an instinct worth training, and if you draw breath to disparage women next ... it will cost you a hand.”
AnCort curls his mouth and makes a swift gesture with his hand.
“What if I tell you what I think of ... you, then?”
He presses the finger of his unbroken hand into the shoulder of LeYorn with no regard for his reaction.
“Well then, that ... will only cost you a finger.”
He spins his body, capturing AnCort’s finger, dragging him quickly toward the table.
“Listen to me, everyone! None of you has any idea what these things can really do to us.”
He lifts up the claw dagger.
“Watch!”
He holds the struggling AnCort down, pressing his palm flat and placing the dagger next to his forefinger.
LeYorn suppresses him so hard that his resistance is limited to wrenching a wrist that won’t move.
“Pay attention.”
He drags the claw slowly across the table and brings it into contact with the protesting man’s skin.
“We have strong bones and flesh. We are the most powerful and hardened of all those beneath the Cast.”
The group cheers in support of their universal strengths.
“We have the back that built this world. We have bone hard enough to break apart the Dust Cloth like dry Oil Brush.”
They’re constantly cheering now.
“All this ... ”
LeYorn waits for the noise to ease.
“All this ... is NOTHING compared to the Veil.”
He drags the claw slowly through AnCort’s finger in a zigzag pattern, slicing it as though it is soft mud.
The bone gives way like pure fat: the younger warrior struggles not to panic as he grinds his teeth, trying not to make any sound.
Watching as the claw cuts their brother’s finger up easily, the group begins to chatter.
“You all need to understand what it is that one of you has summoned to our home.”
“These claws come in lethal packs of twenty, driven by ferocity and focus like none of you have ever seen. All powered by an intelligence more sophisticated than many of you ... Do not treat this as a normal predator. Find me the one with the other claw!”
There was no longer any equivocation in the room. The Hunters knew that the Veil were the most significant natural threat they faced, but until now none of them had any idea why. There had not been any survivors of a Veil fight in many cycles.
One of the Hunters called out from the group.
“What do you mean intelligent? How can it be, compared with us?”
LeYorn let go of the mortified AnCort and stood to his full height.
“You need to know that it is intelligent in a way that’s different from us or the Dust Cloth. The Veil uses its mind without any doubt, it is focused and driven by Godsless will. It knows what you fear, and it will bring its hatred, as well as a truly torturous nature to a fight. A Veil does not fight human attackers to win, it fights to punish them in the cruelest way it can.”
The effect on the room was exactly what LeYorn wanted, morbid reverence as some sat back, while others lost the air in their lungs.
There was no longer any doubt about what was coming if they were to steal the claw of a slaughtered cub. The price they would pay was so high that none of them wished to be the reason for an attack.
“So, how do we find the one who has it?”
“He will make himself known to you when he hears that I am returning this claw to the male. If I survive, I will return the other as well, and for as long as I live, I forbid the hunting of these beasts.”
AnCort struggled to grip his hand, and stem bleeding.
“YOU do not dictate our lives!”
He turned and walked away, stumbling under the weight of his wounds. LeYorn watched him intently.
“I do think that he is where you should all start looking, but do it with subtlety, my brethren, make no unnecessary enemies.”
Some of the men sat back down and contemplated their drinks, while others talked amongst themselves, leaving LeYorn to continue up, and out the only door.
Visiting Hunter’s Hall had taken more time than he hoped. He was now at least a day and a half behind the girl, so he would need to press on.
His new information was broad: a Stalker to follow, a Veil’s claw to try and return, and still most significant of all, those liquid eyes to trace. The eyes that belonged to a child, a child he thought could only exist in the ramblings of delusional historians.
–Garrick M Lynch–