by P. C. Cast
“It truly begins today!” With a movement filled with the strength and agility of a stag, Dead Eye lifted her and carried her to their thick pallet. “But first, I must have your blessing, Oracle.”
Dove’s soft, clever hands moved lower on his body. “Gladly I give it, and myself, to you. The God is dead, but the future of our People lives on in you, my Champion.”
Dead Eye meant to tell her that she was beyond beautiful—that she was his life and his breath, that she made him want to be a true Champion of the People—but her greedy mouth was on his, stilling his words and causing the blood to pound so fiercely through his body that he moaned in pleasure and the only word he could speak was her name, which he shouted over and over.
* * *
It was still raining when Dead Eye led ten of the strongest and bravest of his People to the edge of the boundary of the City.
The small group hesitated, sending nervous glances into the verdant green before them. The Hunter called Stalker was the first to speak. “Champion, we enter the forest during a blaze? I do not wish to question your authority…” He paused there, bowing low, hands to the earth in supplication as if to show Dead Eye great respect, though when he glanced up Dead Eye noticed that the Hunter’s gaze skittered nervously away. “I only wish to know what type of Hunt you lead us on. Are we to capture the Others as they flee the fire?”
Dead Eye waited several breaths before allowing Stalker to rise. He noted that the demeanor of the rest of the men seemed more watchful. They were silent, waiting attentively for Dead Eye to speak.
Dead Eye understood Stalker’s fear of the forest. Hunters and Harvesters were comfortable within the confines of their City. It was there they knew every section of the ruined landscape, both above and below the crumbling buildings and the strange iron structures. But there was a marked difference in Stalker’s attitude and the calm, respectful way the rest of the group looked to him. Something to consider for the future.
“We do not hunt Others today,” Dead Eye explained, speaking in short, clipped sentences. “We hunt sacrificial animals. I have plans for the Others. Many, many plans. But not today. Today we enter the forest and climb.”
Without waiting to see whether Stalker had more questions, Dead Eye sprinted away, heading up to Forest Park, the name the People had given the highest part of the hilly area northwest of the City. Up and to the north Dead Eye climbed, and as he jogged farther and farther toward the peak of Forest Park and the gorge that separated their City and the mountain range on which the City in the Trees had been built, he rejoiced in his powerful body. He did not tire. Instead of climbing laboriously over fallen logs and rain-swollen ditches, Dead Eye leaped easily over them, pushing himself as he came to each obstacle to see if he could run faster and jump higher.
He could.
Dead Eye realized that he had just begun to test the surface of his newfound abilities.
He reached the peak well ahead of the other men, so he stood, breathing deeply but effortlessly, at the edge of the ridge, staring across the jagged gorge that divided Forest Park from the mountain ridge that held the Tribe of the Trees.
The fire was out, but the damage done to the City in the Trees was extensive. From his vantage on the ridge he could see that the city still smoldered. It appeared as if a giant, or perhaps a God, had taken a burning torch and dragged it through the forest, leaving a swath of blackened rubble and destruction in its wake.
“More than half,” he murmured to himself. “More than half of the city is gone. Perhaps more than half of the Tribe have perished as well.” He expression was feral. “That helps to even the odds against us.”
The Harvester called Iron Fist was the first to join him. Iron Fist staggered up the last of the ridge, wiping sweat from his brow as he made his way to Dead Eye. When Iron Fist reached him, the Harvester bowed low, pressing himself into the earth, before he spoke.
“I see the mighty stag in you, Champion!” Iron Fist spoke in excited bursts between heaving breaths, his face still bowed to the earth.
“You may rise,” Dead Eye said as the rest of the group staggered to them. “Iron Fist, tell me more of what you say you see in me.”
“I see your skin does not crack. I see you grow more powerful by the day. I see that you are much like a God yourself!”
Dead Eye had begun to smile at Iron Fist when Stalker limped through the group to them, clutching his side and gulping air. “It is blasphemous to name the Champion, or anyone except our Reaper, a God.”
“And yet we all see he has been touched by our Reaper! His skin is healed. He has become mighty, like a great forest stag,” insisted Iron Fist.
“But it is not the way of the People to have more than one God,” Stalker insisted.
“And yet the God has surely shown Her favor by healing him, making him Champion, and mating him with Her Oracle,” another Harvester called Thunder added.
“It is not the way of the People,” Stalker repeated stubbornly.
Dead Eye thought it interesting that Stalker only flicked occasional glances at him and was speaking to the rest of the men almost as if Dead Eye weren’t even there.
“But the Oracle has proclaimed change. The old, sickened Watchers have been replaced by young, nubile Attendants—just as our Champion’s cracked, putrid flesh has been replaced by new, unmarred skin,” said a Hunter named Eagle Eye, and he bowed respectfully to his Champion.
“Indeed!” the Hunter, Serpent, chimed in. “He has the God’s favor. And that is enough of the way of the People for me.”
“Truth!”
“Yes!” the remaining men murmured agreement, sending nervous glances to Stalker before bowing respectfully to their Champion. Then the group fell silent as they waited for their Champion to speak.
Instead of words, Dead Eye decided actions would be heard much louder and last much longer.
With the speed of a forest creature Dead Eye lowered his head and charged Stalker. In a movement so fast that his hand blurred, Dead Eye unsheathed the triple-pointed knife at his waist and thrust it into the softest part of Stalker’s belly with such ferocious strength that his hand was driven into the warm, wet flesh, creating a fist-sized cavern in the Hunter’s gut. As Stalker screamed his shock and agony, Dead Eye catapulted the man backward so that he flew over the edge of the ridge. At the last instant, while Stalker seemed to be suspended over the gorge, Dead Eye wrenched his fist from the Hunter’s body with a terrible sucking sound, setting Stalker free to fall down, down into the chasm and the death that waited below.
Dead Eye wiped his bloody hand across his bare chest, adding a scarlet slash through the bold three-pointed designs already painted there by Dove’s Attendants. Slowly, he turned to face the watching men.
As one, all nine dropped to their knees before Dead Eye, pressing their faces into the ground.
“Does anyone else wish to question my authority?” he bellowed, feeling the hot blood of a mighty stag surging through his body.
Iron Fist lifted his head. “Never, Champion! I follow you as I would follow the Reaper Herself should She rise from Her balcony and walk among us.”
“And the rest of you?”
The other eight men raised their heads more slowly, though none of them hesitated in their response. “Iron Fist speaks for me,” said Serpent. “I follow you as I would follow the God Herself.”
“And I! I, too!” the rest of the men chorused their agreement.
“Do all of you see the God in me?”
Iron Fist glanced at the other men, meeting each of their eyes before he answered his Champion. “We do. Tell your Harvesters and Hunters what it is you would command, and we will obey. We will always obey.”
Dead Eye almost corrected the Harvester. He meant to. His intention hadn’t been to be worshipped like a God, as he was all too aware of what it was to worship a false God. He had only wanted to bring health and a better life to his dying people. But as he opened his mouth to speak, to tell Iron Fist t
hat there was no God within him, only the People’s Champion, the words would not come. Try as he might, Dead Eye found he could not speak them. Instead, something stirred and began to awaken within him as he stared down at Iron Fist and the rest of the men who remained on their knees, awaiting his command. The men’s supplication pleased Dead Eye as much as Stalker’s death had pleased him.
A thought, as elusive as fog, drifted through Dead Eye’s mind—Take that which is owed you.
“Harvesters and Hunters, what I command today is that you accept the gift I am going to give you, just as I accept your oath of loyalty. Come, rise and hunt with me.”
Iron Fist stood with the rest of the men. “But some of us are not Hunters. We are only Harvesters,” he said.
Dead Eye felt his chest swell with newfound strength as he replied, “Fear not—not your lack of abilities, not the forest. You were Harvesters or Hunters. I proclaim that by the end of this day you will all be known as Reapers in the company of their God!”
* * *
Making an effort to slow his pace so that he didn’t leave the nine men far, far behind, Dead Eye headed down into the gorge. Because today’s rain was the first in several weeks, the stream that ran through the bottom of the chasm was lower than usual, which made a crossing spot easy to find. As Dead Eye anticipated, they didn’t have to wait long before creatures, driven by the forest fire to find solace in water, began to make their way to the stream.
Mostly, the creatures were small. There were many rabbits and rats, squirrels and mice, that paraded past them after they drank deeply of the water. And that was as it should be. Large forest creatures were scarce, especially this close to the City.
From a makeshift blind he and the men hastily erected, Dead Eye sat in complete silence, waiting for a sign.
The sign came sooner than he had anticipated.
The boar was a red behemoth with a huge, wrinkled snout punctuated by two sets of pointed tusks—smaller, hooked uppers and long, sharp lowers. His chest was so wide and thickly muscled that he appeared to be wearing armor. He waded part of the way into the stream and buried his mighty head in the water, splashing and grunting in pleasure. Dead Eye was so close that he could smell the sharp tang of the virile male’s body. The boar snorted and shook himself, spraying droplets of water around him like an unfurling cloak. Then he started wading through the stream, picking his way around rocks and debris. It seemed as if he was going to pass almost within touching distance of where Dead Eye and his Reapers crouched, silent and hidden.
The boar stepped onto the bank. He stopped and lifted his massive head, turning so that his golden eye looked directly at Dead Eye. The boar froze and the dark center of his eye expanded so that within it Dead Eye saw his own reflection. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, the boar’s muzzle dropped to touch the earth, and he bowed his head.
“Stay here until I call for you to come to me,” Dead Eye whispered to his men.
Then he stepped from the concealment of the blind.
The boar’s reaction was instantaneous. He went stiff legged, the bristles on his back fanned and lifted so high they were like spikes along his spine. He began swinging his mighty head from side to side, spewing spittle in an arch around him as he ground his lower tusks against his smaller, knife-sharp upper teeth. His intelligent eyes gleamed with malice as he stared at Dead Eye.
Dead Eye knew the signs of a boar about to charge, and he readied himself. But instead of drawing his deadly three-tipped spear, he shook out the length of tightly braided hemp he carried over his shoulder, flicking the end so that the noose he’d fashioned there opened lazily.
With a deep, angry grunt, the boar charged.
Dead Eye had planned to stand his ground until the last moment and then snag the boar with the noose as he sped past, jerk him off his feet, and tie him in a Hunter’s bind so that he was immobilized.
But the sight of the charging beast caused the stag within Dead Eye to awaken. Battle! Defeat it! Death! The words echoed through Dead Eye’s mind, filling his body with the hot, fierce blood of a forest creature.
The stag within him answered the boar’s challenge with a deep bellow. Dead Eye lowered his head and ran at the boar, his feet tearing hunks of moss from the stream bank.
Everything happened so quickly that later Dead Eye was glad for the songs the People sang in remembrance of his clash with the boar so that he could relive the event, savoring it, over and over.
He acted solely on instinct, allowing the mighty stag to fill him with preternatural strength and speed. He and the boar met, and Dead Eye leaped up, twisting his body so that he hooked one arm around the boar’s huge neck as he landed in the middle of the raging beast’s back. Dead Eye dug his heels into the mossy ground while the boar squealed and grunted in rage, bucking and thrashing his head around, trying to sink his teeth into Dead Eye’s legs. But the strength of beast and man joined was greater than the strength of the boar. Dead Eye pulled the enormous creature’s head back and back and back, bowing his spine into a crescent and causing the boar to collapse in defeat on his side.
“Iron Fist! Come to me!”
Iron Fist obeyed unhesitatingly, but Dead Eye could see the fear in the gaze he kept focused on the straining boar, a fear that was mirrored in the eight men who crowded nervously behind him.
“Take the rope! Tie his front and back legs together. I’ll keep his neck pulled back so that he cannot gore you.”
Again, Iron Fist obeyed with a swiftness that Dead Eye appreciated, immobilizing the boar quickly.
“Now, each of you harvest three strips of skin from his belly. Long, thin strips. As quickly as you can,” Dead Eye instructed the group. Iron Fist was the first to follow his command. The newly made Reaper drew his own triple-tipped dagger and lowered it to the boar’s exposed belly, and Dead Eye shifted so that he could look directly into the beast’s eye.
Dead Eye expected the creature to scream and thrash in pain, as they all did. Not this boar. The only outward sign of pain that this beast gave was to pant and show the whites of his eyes. He didn’t flinch as the razor-tipped dagger sliced strip after strip of flesh from his living body as the nine Reapers took turns with him. The boar’s gaze remained locked with Dead Eye’s, even as his body grew weaker and weaker from loss of blood. And in that dimming gaze Dead Eye was shown what he must do.
He’d allowed the stag to live after he’d infected him and sent him into the territory of the Tribe of the Trees. This time Dead Eye saw that he must be more merciful to this boar. The stag’s suffering had been necessary, and it had served its purpose of spreading poison to the Tribe. Dead Eye would always honor the stag’s sacrifice. But the poison had spread, and the Tribe—whether it understood it yet or not—was already falling victim to Dead Eye’s plot.
The boar was different.
“Enough, Reapers.” Dead Eye spoke formally to his men. “I will make the killing cut.”
Iron Fist and the others bowed and, carrying the bloody strips of boar skin, they backed several feet away. Dead Eye continued to stare into the boar’s eye as he used his free hand to take the triple-pointed dagger from his waist sheath. He pulled the boar’s neck back farther so that his throat was stretched completely out. Just before he slit the beast’s neck from ear to ear, Dead Eye spoke the words that lifted from deep within, so deep that he didn’t recognize his own voice, and for a moment it was as if Dead Eye’s body were separated from that which stirred within him and he had been relegated to the role of observer.
“Death has called you. I honor and accept your sacrifice, your strength, your spirit. Behold Death’s merciful blow!”
Dead Eye drew the dagger across the boar’s throat. He relaxed his grip on the creature so that his neck wasn’t stretched so awkwardly, but Dead Eye kept his gaze locked with the boar, watching his life drain away with the red river that poured from his neck.
When it was over, Dead Eye gently lowered the boar’s head to the moss and closed the creature
’s sightless eyes. Dead Eye stood over the beast, head bowed in thanks as a maelstrom of emotions whirled within him. He felt triumphant and more powerful than he’d ever felt in his life. It was the boar’s death that had so moved Dead Eye. It had been glorious.
Glorious? Why would slitting a boar’s throat be glorious? The vaguely uncomfortable thought formed in Dead Eye’s mind, lifting briefly to his consciousness, but when he tried to hold the thought—tried to consider it, decipher it—his mind skittered away, returning instead to the glory of the boar’s death. Isn’t death just another part of life—perhaps the most important part?
“Champion, would you have us anoint you with the boar’s flesh?”
Iron Fist’s voice pulled Dead Eye from his reverie, and he turned to the Reaper and the men he stood before. Dead Eye’s original intent had been to go to the City in the Trees and catalogue the extent of their destruction so that he might decide the best path to follow for the People to claim their future, but Stalker’s rebellion and the boar’s sacrifice had changed everything. Dead Eye knew the City in the Trees would be his—that was inevitable. What was of the utmost importance now was preparing the People for their new life, their new Tribe, their new God.
“Your Champion will anoint each of you with the boar’s flesh, and then we are going to take the boar to the People so that we might feast in celebration.”
Iron Fist and the other men dropped to their knees in supplication before him, bowing their heads to the earth reverently. “Thank you, Champion. We gratefully accept your gift.”
Dead Eye went to his Reapers, taking the still-warm strips of bloody boar flesh from them, one at a time, trimming the strips, and then packing them into the terrible, puss-filled cracks that spidered across the creases in the men’s skin.
“Might I ask you a question, Champion?” Iron Fist asked.
“Of course.” Dead Eye spoke as he worked. “The group of you have given me your oaths of loyalty. As long as you hold to your oath, you need never fear asking anything of me.”
“You said tonight the People feast in celebration. What is it we celebrate?”