THE HUNTER'S DILEMMA

“The Hunter’s Dilemma”
                 Charles Ankhers was a Big Game Hunter. The twin-barreled musket he held so dearly was his instrument of choice. With such a firearm, he had taken the lives of monstrous beasts for sport, and for valiance. He’d saved towns and families from savage, undulating animals, whose primal rage urged them to consume. With these works, he had gained quite the reputation for himself. He lived a life of luxury, in a venerable mansion at the hilltop of an affluent city, with much money and coin to spare.

                        One day, as he sat at a workbench, tending to his rifle, he heard a loud knock on his door. Somewhat annoyed by this, he answered it, and was greeted with the sight of a King. Not just any royal, but the same King which ruled over his land, and had given him the funds to live lavishly.

                      “What is the meaning of--your highness!” He bowed immediately, regretting his annoyance.

                   The king let out a chuckle. “Rise, Sir Anhkers. This is no palace party. Though...your estate seems like one. After all, I constructed it.”

                     “Of course, your majesty. Might I ask, what brings you here?”

                    “Oh, I’m not here on my own accord. He is.”  The King gestured to a looming figure, making his way to the front porch. It was a man, towering above the royal and the hunter at nearly seven feet tall. He wore blackened armor, stained from countless bloody battles. His left eye, wrapped in bandages, along with the left side of his cranium. In his hands, were not weapons, but a quill and a contract.

               “Sir Ankhers, this is Kerrand Typhus. You may know him as The Slayer. The mercenary whose work extends throughout the Eight Kingdoms, the one and only--”

                     “Your majesty.” The giant interrupted. “I am not here to attend to a dying fan. I am here for formalities. Ankhers. You will join me on an expedition to purge this land of all dark and otherworldly magics. That is not a request. That is an order.” The killer said, in a menacing voice.

                       “If it is firepower you seek, you shall receive it. Count me in. Those Cultists and Witches will pay.”

                       A week had passed since the hunter signed the contract. They had been briefed by the High Council of Magic that these dark forces are the creation of unsavory figures, and that they must be halted before corruption seeped into the minds of all the kingdoms’ people.

                        Charles had no qualms against such orders. After all, he had slain countless vile beasts and abominations in the past. Surely, these people were no different. He and other soldiers-of-fortune were led by Kerrand into the darkness, into the realms of unknown magic.




                       For months, they had tracked down the Warlocks and Witches who roamed these lands, and freed them from this mortal plane. Caravans, sacked and burned to ashes. Temples, reduced to rubble. Dungeons, caved in and sealed, along with the horrors within it. They had beaten, slashed, and shot them until their dying breaths. Kerrand, among all of them, was the most fervent in doing such. Blood and rage fueled him, like water flowing a flashing flood, crashing against all those who stand in its way.

                  It had seemed that, after countless deaths, that the influences of the dark arts waned. The company of mercenaries had been walking down the dirt path of a quiet, idyllic town, on their way to another slaughter.

                       “Kerrand, may I ask you something?” Said Charles, his rifle slung on his shoulder.

                       “You are already asking. What is it?” He replied, monotone and uncaring.

                       “How is it that you are able to track these dark forces without instruments, or even guidance from the Magi?”

                       The Slayer stopped in his tracks, and the others soon followed.

                  “As you know, the Gods imbue exceptional souls with a mere fraction of their powers. I was given such a power. The power to detect...fear. These undesirables exhibit fear at a level I have never seen before. It must lie in desperation and hopelessness. These wretched hexers must be desperate for power, no?”

                        “I suppose so. Perhaps, they got what they--”

                    “Silence.” The Slayer interrupted. He raised his hammer, and sniffed the air. The other warriors readied themselves. What could possibly be lurking in this town, on a sunny, peaceful day?

                       The black-armored man turned his head to a house. It looked innocent, and somewhat small. He began walking down a stone path, Charles and the others in tow.

                        With a singular blow, his warhammer crushed the front door into wooden shards.

               “Reveal yourselves, fiends! Your journey ends here.” Charles chimed, loading his double-musket.

                        Weak footsteps were heard, and a woman stepped into the room, quivering in horror as a giant knight and a marksman stood at her door. She wore humble clothes, and held no staff nor wand, nor candle.

                           “Your offspring, hag. Bring them out. Lest we do it ourselves.” The Slayer commanded.

                            “I--please! What harm have we done against you? W-we--”

                           Kerrand swung his hammer downwards, cracking the floorboards of the home.

                           “Bring. Them. Out.”

                           “C-children! Please...come to mother..” She stuttered, tears falling from her eyes.
                             A boy and a girl, not even adolescents, walked to their mother in sheer terror. They could not speak, only sob. It was the end.

                           ‘How can this be? Can such people practice...dark magics?’ Charles thought to himself, shocked at the sight of the family.


                              “Charles. You are an excellent marksman. Tell me, can you hit three targets with two musket balls?” He grinned devilishly.

                               “Kerrand, I see that you detect fear--but how are you sure that these are your culprits? Surely, they would have not dwelled in such an arcana.”

                               “These people...they emit fear like a censer emits holy smoke. It is undeniable. The greatest fear of all. Death. We are here to soothe them of such stress. They know of their crimes, and they must pay for such misdeeds. To elude such fate is...impossible. Shoot them.”

                                “I have killed many beasts and abominations. With your aid, I have killed people who have brought darkness into these lands. Those people were malevolent. They wished to sate their desires in any manner or method possible. Perhaps, they are not unlike you.”

                                 “SHOOT. THEM.” He commanded, raising his hammer.

                                   “You kill those with fear. I do not fear death. I have been acquainted with it countless times.” He said, grabbing a sack of musket balls from his satchel. He dropped them on the floor, and they rolled into the cracks. He unloaded his rifle, and slung it across his back.

                                   “If you are going to murder you ought to do it against someone who accepts it. Someone with nothing to lose. We have lived lives of destruction, so it is apt that I end myself with such things.” With arms wide open, he invited his hammer to be swung at him.

                                   Kerrand raised the weapon, and swung it, splattering blood and gore all along the walls. Charles opened his eyes, and saw the sight of three pulverised corpses, clutching hands even in death.

                                   “They accepted their fate. They were complacent. You will not question me again, lest you will be reported to the King himself! Come, men. I can sense more of them in the basement…”  The killer said, turning away from the marksman.

                          As the rest left the room and continued their killing spree, Charles could not help but remain in that room. He clutched his rifle, a few tears running down his face.

                          ‘What have we become? We are not heroes...Gods know if those other people were equally desperate and defenseless.’ He thought to himself.

                                With a heavy heart, he grabbed the contract from his satchel, and tore it to shreds. As it fell to the ground, he walked out of that house, not to his venerable home, but to somewhere far away. Where people did not know of their actions. His rifle was his only ally, as only it truly understood his intentions.

 “He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.”
                -Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil