Macster - The Missing Links

Birdsong faded into silence, deer froze in their tracks, the brush remained still, even the wind seemed to die in his presence, and this was as it should be. For he was the Huntsman, this was his forest...and he was the master of every animal in creation.

He wore a gray-green poncho adorned with leafy branches as camouflage, and his broad-brimmed hat overhung his face, shadowing his eyes. He made no sound as he walked, disturbing no leaf or branch or root, not even a single blade of grass. He was one with nature, he had dominion over it, and nothing that happened here could escape his notice. Anyone who felt differently was a fool.

Brushing aside an offending bush, he stepped into a low hollow along the path and descended, beginning to turn the corner. Suddenly his doeskin boot came down on something soft and yielding, something that did not belong. Gazing down, he moved his foot aside and saw a half-eaten bacon sandwich. His cold pale eyes narrowed. Yes, they had been here.

Farther along the rutted trail, he discovered a patch of brush that had been disturbed by something's passage. Fingering the broken branches, he stared penetratingly into the dark and concealing foliage, trying to use his heightened senses to divine why the ones he sought would leave the only safe road. Ah. To escape him. To throw him off the track. A clever move, but as usual his prey had underestimated him.

It mattered not which way they went. He would find them. He always did. A distant rustle in the forest caught his attention. The Huntsman lifted his head and regarded his surroundings carefully. How far, he wasn't certain, but something was nearby. But the distance made no difference to his crossbow.

The Huntsman unslung the bow from his shoulder, lifted it from under his poncho, and extended the sight toward the faraway sound, the ruby eyes of its hawk's head glittering in the light. Then he gripped the stock and fired.

The bolt leaped from the bow with a wild surge and a shrieking whistle like a hawk's cry. He could almost see it the entire way in his mind's eye, whizzing through the air, bypassing all the trunks and limbs that obscured the way, speeding through the brush--until it finally found its mark.

As soon as his keen ears heard the thunk of the bolt in flesh, the Huntsman was off, dodging through the trees, sometimes along well-worn trails, sometimes more faded ones, and sometimes where there was no trail at all. Heedless of the branches and limbs, he hurdled gullies and streams, tireless and ceaseless, until, like his bolt, he slid to a stop where his prey lay dying.

He gazed at the grassy soil of the small glade, where his latest victim lay shuddering, bleeding, moaning, and then breathing its last breath. A deer. A doe, to be precise.

Any other man would have been angry, would have cursed, silently or aloud, at his failure to kill his intended prey. But not the Huntsman. All prey was the same to him. He served the Queen, and sought Prince Wendell and his companions now, but this deer would have eventually been his prey in any case. Everything was. It was their destiny.

He leaned down to pluck the bolt from the deer's heart, then stood, appraising the still silent forest around him as he rolled the cool metal in his hand.

Besides, they were near. He could sense it. And he would find them. Yes, he would find them.

As he had told the Queen, nothing escaped the Huntsman.