Hunter's Legend_A Baylore High Fantasy Read online

  Copyright © 2018 R.J. Vickers

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  Cover by Deranged Doctor Design

  Map designed by Cornelia Yoder http://www.corneliayoder.com

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  ISBN: 1721055711

  ISBN-13: 978-1721055715

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  I cannot claim that Hunter loved me, but I, of all people, knew him best. I have set down these accounts of his most publicized years to offer a second opinion. The Hunter I knew was not mad. His death was not a suicide.

  - Cady Fenwood, 1227

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  W e had been traveling for years. We had journeyed to Larkhaven and back at least five times, and had paid repeat visits to every small town and village scattered throughout Itrea. The only pockets of civilization we neglected were the pirate’s town far to the south, and the fabled mountain city of the Icelings, if you would count that.

  His face was recognized everywhere. Hunter was a handsome man, undeniably charming and brilliant at captivating a crowd.

  If you listened for long enough, though, you would realize he never gave himself away.

  He could sit with a girl and flirt for hours, flattering her and debating the merits of her quaint village, but she would walk away with nothing but the memory of his voice. Even I had spent years of fruitless probing before I gleaned any fragments of his past. At the time, I knew his upbringing had been rocky, possibly violent, yet his keen wit and sharp mind had given him grand opportunities in Baylore.

  That was where I first met him—in Baylore, while he was apprenticing the city treasurer and I was serving as a scribe. Though he revealed nothing to me at the time, I knew from the start he was running from something—running, or hiding—for he had no surname, no family, and no residence outside of the city council blocks. He never asked for time off, never missed a day for illness, and even volunteered to work during public holidays.

  I first entered his life as a shadow, always present, always silent, scribbling records of every transaction overseen by the royal treasury. My task was to witness each exchange and negotiation, on constant lookout for any sign of corruption or misconduct.

  I was the only untalented member of a family of Weavers, and I had taken the job to prove myself worthwhile. It was weeks after Hunter started work before he looked at me and registered that I was another living, cognizant creature. That evening he stayed after the treasurer left and approached me, asking my name and my story. I was not surprised he had taken no notice of me before. I was a timid, plain woman, with short brown hair like straw and a pale complexion that in itself suggested a lack of magical blood. Hunter, for his part, was assuredly the most attractive man I had ever encountered. His dark hair curled about his ears, his skin was a rich brown, and his black eyes were curious. He never revealed much about himself during those years, but most nights we stayed late at work, simply talking; he must have recognized a kindred spirit in me.

  And when he announced, utterly without warning, that he would be leaving Baylore, he asked me to come along.

  I agreed, of course.

  *

  We had come again to the town of Valleywall, halfway between the forest and Baylore, and I could tell Hunter was getting restless. He had been speaking of his return to Baylore for many spans now, inviting every passerby to follow and witness his grand stunt (my word for it, not his) on Midsummer’s Day, yet I could see the restless years of wandering had gotten deep in his skin. It would never be enough to settle and live out a comfortable life in the city.

  “It’s too hot in here,” Hunter griped, not for the first time. It was late evening, and we had been sipping from a tall flagon of ale since sundown, tucked in a corner of the Gypsy’s Palace. Voices hummed around us, and boots stomped across the floor, tracking in dirt from the road. For once, Hunter did not want to be seen. I had a feeling that would change after he had a few drinks in him.

  “Go sit outside,” I suggested brusquely. He had been too brooding of late. I had suggested more than once that he change his plans and avoid Baylore altogether, but he was set on the idea.

  “I’m reminding myself what it will be like in the city. No empty grasslands and stars to escape to, just stuffy taverns and suffocating alleys.”

  I said nothing while he crossed his arms and put his feet emphatically on the bench opposite him. Repeating myself would accomplish nothing.

  “That pretty thing from Larkhaven. Do you think she’ll come watch the midsummer show?”

  “Why would she?” I asked. “You were nothing more than a passing fancy. I’m sure she would be amazed to know you still think of her.” I would never admit it, but I was jealous of every girl who caught his eye. I had never dreamed of becoming more than his traveling companion, his assistant, but each new girl stung.

  Hunter shrugged. “I’d never seen such red hair before. I bet it would be hot to the touch.”

  Now he was getting ridiculous. “Can we please go outside?”

  Hunter took the flagon in both hands and stared at the ale for a long time. At last he downed the dregs in one and stood. “Fine. Have it your way.”

  As usual, I followed just a half-step behind him; it was one of the rules he had established to prevent anyone from assuming I was his sweetheart. He usually passed me off as his sister or his cousin, or sometimes even as a mute handservant inherited from his (wealthy, of course) parents. His alluring mystique depended on him remaining perpetually single.

  The night breeze sifted about us as we stepped outside, carrying the scent of freshly growing wheat and sunbaked earth. Not a cloud obscured the full dome of stars. We walked down the main road until it narrowed and wended its way past the town and into the farmland beyond, not speaking, simply allowing the clean air to settle in our lungs. As we passed the last of the houses, I drew even with Hunter, and he hooked his smallest finger through mine. That was an uncommon gesture. He must have needed reassurance more than he let on.

  When the hill dropped away before us, leaving an empty panorama of grasslands ahead, we sat cross-legged and gazed at the vastness beyond.

  “Why do you want to return to Baylore?” I asked. “Tell me the truth for once.”

  “I have reasons,” he said. “I can’t live forever on the run. I have a score to settle.”

  “And someone you need to bring back from the dead, apparently,” I said. As we traveled, Hunter had been spreading rumors and prophecies of increasing magnitude. What had started as a shapeshifting act, aided by a Snake-Man and a few magical garments nicked from my Weaver family, had turned into prophecies of a flying man and the One Prophet with the ability to release a worthy few from death. I knew the whole thing was a massive stunt, but I was the only one. I still could not tell if the death-reversing boast was something Hunter had pulled out of nowhere, or if it was born from a deeper desire to undo something in his past. He certainly could convince me to fake my own death and later save me; there were simple potions that could be used to imitate death for a time.

  “You’ll hate living in Baylore again,” I said. “You’ll feel claustrophobic. The world has become too large for you to settle in one place.”

  “I know,” he said dully. “But I’m not doing it for myself. Trust me, this whole act isn’t just a ga
me.”

  I had surmised as much, though this was the first time Hunter had admitted it aloud. I think the strain of his prophetic-hero guise had begun to overwhelm him.

  “We—you—could settle here,” I suggested, though without conviction. “Valleywall is just as wealthy as Baylore, and you could easily escape to the open countryside.” The village was fed by a series of prosperous mines to the north; most of the precious metals were processed and crafted here, so Valleywall saw the bulk of the wealth coming from the mines. In daylight it looked a bit gaudy—every house and garden had its own patterned fence, with an intricate gate that would put the palace gates in Baylore to shame, and every metal surface was coated in gold or silver leaf. It was a pointless show of wealth.

  Hunter chuckled; he seemed to have picked up my thoughts. “This is the last place I’d ever choose to settle. But that’s the entire problem—settling. Why would anyone pick a single location and never leave?” He sighed. “It has to be Baylore.”

  For a long time, I was silent. I anticipated a final piece he might add to that thought, so I gave him time to draw out the words. Sitting here in the dark, with nothing but the wind rustling through the wheat and the stars winking overhead, it was easy to forget the cares of the day. Crickets were beginning their rusty melody, harmonizing with the gentle breeze.

  At last Hunter spoke. “It may not be forever. I’m making a big gamble right now. If I don’t win before midsummer, everything will be lost.”

  “Care to elaborate?” I asked.

  “No.”

  I had expected as much. “And what are we to do in Baylore? Am I to find a job again?”

  “Not if you don’t want to.” Hunter leaned back on the grassy slope and folded his hands behind his head. “We have enough to buy ourselves a manor and live comfortably for years. We’ll be styling ourselves as nobility.”

  I did not like the idea. I would not make a very convincing member of high society; my knowledge of etiquette and fashion was nonexistent. “Be honest. If you could do anything you wished, with no obligations tying you down—not to me, not to this ‘crucial’ mission of yours—what would you do? Where would you go?”

  “To Larkhaven,” he said at once. I realized he had given this a good deal of thought. “And then across the sea to the Kinship Thrones. One of the nations there is said to be a land of wild magic. I’d very much like to see that.” He glanced at me and added, as an afterthought, “You would come too. I would be a bloody mess without you.”

  Never, in all of our years, had he said something this sweet aloud. I wanted to cry.

  *

  In the morning, he was back to his usual self. While Hunter shared a few final words with the barman downstairs, I tidied up the room, packed our few belongings, and slipped a handful of coins to the housekeeper to pay for the chair leg Hunter had broken when he stumbled upstairs two nights before, so drunk I had been amazed he found the room at all. By the time I finished, he was deep in conversation with a local watchmaker and his wife, his stance resuming the swagger I knew so well. It was tempting to slip in beside him, tug at his sleeve, and beg him to leave; instead I saddled the horses, strapped on our bags, and leaned against the stable wall until Hunter emerged from the Gypsy’s Palace.

  “And here we go,” he said by way of greeting when he joined me at last. No thanks, no apology for keeping me waiting. I was used to it. “I kept hoping we could delay this a bit longer.”

  “As did I.”

  As we ambled toward the country road, Hunter spotted a pair of young women he had been intent on charming two nights ago. “See you girls at Midsummer’s Day!” he called, widening his eyes suggestively when they turned. “One of you lovelies might be lucky enough to win a kiss.”

  The girls clutched at each other, giggling. “How could we stay away?” one called back, though she was doubled over and laughing too hard to be taken seriously. The other girl lifted a hand to Hunter as he passed, and he obligingly pressed it to his lips.

  Then we were away.

  Chapter 2

  B aylore was larger than I had remembered it. Even from a distance, the wall loomed cliff-like over the surrounding farmland, casting a deep shadow on the rolling fields of wheat, and taller still were the spires of the palace and cathedral rising from the center. After two years of avoiding the capital and even skirting warily around the nearby Twenty-League Town, it made my skin itch with apprehension to draw near once again. Hunter must have been feeling the same, but not a whit of it showed in his demeanor. He sat confidently astride his horse, gazing at the highest of the palace towers with a smug look that almost claimed ownership. He seemed a conquering hero returning home to his spoils.

  As we neared the gates, I fell behind Hunter, resuming my role as his inferior—his servant. One of the two guards standing on either side of the archway hollered, “Dismount, please!” as we approached, and Hunter leapt gracefully from his mount. I clambered down behind him, trying not to attract attention. “Are you residents of Baylore?”

  “We will be tomorrow.” Hunter tipped his ridiculous plumed hat to the man. “Surely you’ve heard of me. Hunter, the Wandering Prophet.”

  The men’s eyes grew bright with understanding. “You’re here for Midsummer’s Day!” one said. “Where you’ll reveal the last member of the lost race that can raise the dead.”

  “Right in one,” Hunter said smoothly. “Now, my sister and I are in need of a decent place to spend the night. What’s the finest establishment you can recommend?”

  The second guard stepped forward, one finger twisting the ends of his scraggly beard. “Nowhere better than The Queen’s Bed. Directly opposite the palace. Can’t miss it; looks like a piece of the royal building itself.”

  Knowing how mismatched and ungainly the palace was, I could not tell whether this was meant as a positive recommendation.

  “As for our horses,” Hunter said, “we were hoping to sell them. Could we take them directly to the stables, or do we have to set up an appointment first?”

  One of the guards whipped a handkerchief, embroidered with what must have been his family’s crest, out of his coat pocket. “Go straight to the stables. Give them this—they’ll know I sent you.”

  “This is a better welcome than I could’ve hoped for,” Hunter said. “You’re a pair of fine young men, make no mistake. This city should be honored to have you working in its service.”

  I ducked my head to hide a smile. The “young men” had to be Hunter’s age, if not older. But they were flattered nonetheless, and waved us through the gates with much smiling and bowing.

  Once we had sold our horses for a tidy profit—and I tried not to gawp at the stables, which were the size of a small village and reeked of manure and leather—Hunter marched straight up Market Street. This was the life-blood of Baylore, and it bustled with all manner of people—farmers dressed in homespun, nobles picking their way over the cobblestones with silken shoes, craftsmen haggling for supplies, and merchants calling out wares. The main street itself was clear of stalls, since it was not Sullimsday, but every side street buzzed with industry. We passed my family’s street in the Weavers’ Guild, the spool-and-silver-thread crest emblazoned on the side of every building for several blocks, and as we drew near, I caught the sweet smell of cinnamon scrolls from the bakery opposite the Weavers’ Guild. Nostalgia hit me; that same scent had often drifted through my bedroom window when I was a child.

  Continuing on, the ringing of a blacksmith’s hammer rose over the bustle, and past that, the syrupy smell of a hundred bouquets filled the air. Most buildings in the Market District were built alike—from brick, with the owner’s residence perched above the shop—yet this stretch of town was so familiar I could spot every subtle difference.

  The walk was farther than I’d remembered, and the sun had vanished behind the city walls before we arrived in the central square. In the deepening twilight, the diamond-shaped cathedral and haphazard palace were no more than silhouettes ag
ainst a rich sky.

  As the guards had promised, the Queen’s Bed was unmistakable. I didn’t know if the name implied the establishment housed an actual queen’s former bed, or that by staying here a wealthy man would feel as though he were sleeping with the queen, but the place was every bit as eccentric as the palace. From outside, multicolored lights shone through lace curtains, and the dark wood walls around the main door were carved with patterns of leaves and flowers. Within, the ceiling was brightly patterned, and the walls were hung with artwork and armor in a variety of mismatched styles.

  As usual, we dropped off our belongings in the bedroom, changed into our most respectable clothes, and returned to the dining room to settle in for the evening. This time, though, Hunter asked for a fresh-pressed cider to drink, forgoing his usual ale. That meant he needed his full wits about him. While we waited on dinner, Hunter sidled up to the sturdy, polished communal table in the center of the dining room. Most of the people sitting here appeared to be wealthy men gathered for an evening out; I doubted many were staying at the inn. This was exactly the set of patrons Hunter needed to call upon.

  “Evening,” he said, settling into a vacant chair. With his casual grace, he could easily be mistaken for nobility. “I’ve been traveling for some time now. What’s the latest news from Baylore?”

  The wealthy men accepted Hunter into their company without hesitation. I settled gingerly on a chair at the far end of the table, trying to become invisible.

  “The royals have been putting up a fuss,” said a man with a well-oiled mustache. “Word is that Valleywall is close to surpassing Baylore in profit. Before long, Valleywall will be erecting its own palace.”

  “The king wants to add a new wing,” added a young man with a strong Larkhaven accent. “Something built of all the gold that comes out of the mines in the next year. I’m sure it’ll be a beauty.” He smirked.