He pressed his hand against his friend’s shoulder. “Yes. Congratulations. I’m happy for you.”
Mykah stared the other way, toward the North Gate. His jaw slackened.
“What is it?”
Mykah’s hand rose, first to point, then to block the reflected light from his eyes. “The Acolyte,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “He’s here.”
4
Daman watched as the Procession of the Acolyte strode through the North Gate and entered the crossroads of the village in shimmering splendor. The light of the midday sun reflected off the sea of white robes, momentarily blinding all onlookers. Five attendants walked on either side of the Acolyte, who wore a simple robe with the gold braid that designated him as one of the Sentinel’s chosen. He wore a tall peaked hat upon his head, predominantly white but fringed with lines of purple. A Black Sentry contingent circled around the Procession.
The Acolyte waved to the dumbstruck spectators as he passed by, smiling and making the gesture of blessing. People fell to their knees, faces buried in the dirt.
The merchants closed their booths. Families gathered, and although no formal instruction was given, all fell in line behind the Procession.
He found his parents and followed with the others. No words were spoken, not even whispers. Everyone seemed spellbound, caught up in the magnitude of the moment.
At last they arrived at the public entrance to the Arena. The Procession moved to the center, while the villagers scrambled for seats in the gallery. A large object, almost the size of a shed, rested near the place where the Procession stopped. A large canvas covered it so no one could tell what it was.
When at last they found their seats, the Acolyte stepped out from the ring of attendants, faced the gathered throng, and lifted his hands high into the air.
He spoke in a clear, booming voice. “The Sentinel is our heart, our soul, and our salvation.”
The congregation repeated his words in unison. “The Sentinel is our heart, our soul, and our salvation.”
The Acolyte continued. “The Sentinel protects us from evil, and the evil in our own hearts.”
“The Sentinel protects us from evil,” the people of Merrindale chanted back, “and the evil in our own hearts.”
“May the Sentinel be with you, always.”
“And also with you.”
The Acolyte made the sign of blessing and finished the lengthy litany all those present knew well.
As Daman gazed about the Arena, he saw many tears. This surprise visit from the Sentinel’s own representative moved some of the villagers more than words could express.
But his heart was strangely unaffected.
After they completed the appropriate litany for the Spring Festival, the Acolyte lowered his arms and gazed out toward the assemblage with a warm, soothing smile. “Children of the Sentinel, thank you for joining me today to celebrate the rich and fertile bounty of our patient Master.”
“Long live the Sentinel!” someone shouted. A tumult of cheering and applause followed.
The Acolyte’s smile broadened. “It pleases me to see that the Sentinel is loved here. I wish everyone felt as you do.” A trace of darkness crept into his voice. “Alas, it is not so. Unbelievable though it may seem, there are those who rebel against the Sentinel, who struggle with their patient Master. They resist his Laws and his Ways. Many of these foolish Rebels have banded together to restore the malevolent weapons of the past and use them against the Sentinel and his people.”
“No!” a woman shrieked from the stands. Several more cries followed.
“Your anger is understandable, but it is not the way of the Sentinel. We must live in peace—and order—as we always have done. But be aware that Rebels are amongst you even as we speak. Dangerous exiles have been spotted outside the gate to this very village, men hunted for heinous crimes.
“There is one man in particular,” he continued, “a very old, very foolish man, who has taken something that belongs to the Sentinel, something he hopes to use for his own savage purposes. If you see this man, you must report it immediately to the Black Sentry, so that order may be preserved and justice may prevail.
“Remember,” the Acolyte said, raising a finger, “this old man is crafty. He is the Great Deceiver. He and his imps will try to fool you. You must not listen. You must remain true to the Sentinel. He has always cared for you. He is our only hope for survival.”
The Acolyte laid a hand upon the huge draped object. “You must never forget that we live in a hostile, evil world. The Creepers swarm just beyond the fence, flinging their tentacles at all who come within their grasp. The Savages infest the untamed forests, perpetuating their unspeakable barbaric acts. At one time, the Constructs, the sworn enemies of Man, thrived everywhere. They dominated us and controlled our every movement. The Sentinel vanquished these demons and restored the world to order. But do not be fooled, brave Children of the Sentinel. Those enemies are only dormant, not dead. They could rise again. They lie in wait for their opportunity.”
He grabbed the canvas with both hands. “Peer into the face of evil.” With one sweeping gesture, he jerked the canvas off the huge hidden object.
The crowd gasped as if their breath had been stolen from their lungs. All eyes were fixed on the horrible...monstrosity...in the center of the Arena.
This huge hard object was unlike anything Daman had ever seen before, unnatural in design and clearly malicious in purpose. Most of it was green, though partly yellow, with two large wheels on either side and smaller wheels in front. A rectangular cab rested at the top, and through transparent glass he saw a chair such as a man might sit upon. In front of all this, low to the ground, an array of glistening curved blades hung like the teeth of this ravenous beast.
Children cowered, covering their eyes. Many adults did the same.
“Behold the Construct!” the Acolyte cried. “These hateful creatures once ruled the earth. They chased Man and herded him like beasts. Only the Sentinel saved us from their evil dominion. And only he prevents their return.”
More squeals flew from the gallery. The thought of that hideous Construct advancing toward them, carving humans with its cruel blades, sent shivers down his spine.
With the help of two attendants, the Acolyte replaced the canvas, masking the green and yellow abomination.
“Today, thanks to the Sentinel, we are free,” the Acolyte continued. “Free to live noble, orderly lives, fulfilling the works of the Sentinel, furthering his great Laws and Ways. Children of the Sentinel, do not provide safe harbor to those who let these evil beings dominate us. The Constructs have been vanquished, banished, and forbidden, and they must remain thus always. So saith the Sentinel.”
“So saith the Sentinel,” the crowd chanted in response.
“Keep the faith, my blessed people. May the Sentinel be with you, always.”
“And also with you.”
Questions riddled Daman’s brain. Evil or not, he wanted to know more about the Construct in the center of the Arena. What was it, exactly? What did it do? It did not appear to have a life of its own. Why would it chase or herd people? Was it some sort of weapon? A tool? If it were an enemy to men, why did it have a seat for one?
He knew these were vile questions. He had been taught all his life that people were better off knowing as little as possible about the Ancients. All they needed to know was that it was a time of horror and that the Sentinel had saved them from it. His curiosity should end there.
But it did not.
What’s wrong with me? he wondered, as he gazed at the enraptured faces around him. Do I have some sort of deviant, twisted personality? Why don’t I worship and adore the Sentinel like the others do?
Or was it simply the fear of the Winnowing that perverted his thoughts?
“Enough,” the Acolyte pronounced. “This is a Celebration. So let us celebrate. Bring forth the Combatants.”
The attendants parted to make way for two young men from
the village. He knew them both. One was called Victor. His father had a small mill near the river. The other was Evan, whose father kept sheep and other feedstock. He had known Evan all his life. He, Mykah, and Evan had often spent summer nights swapping stories about the Creepers.
The Acolyte stepped between the boys and laid a hand on each shoulder. “It is the right and duty of these two boys, the two oldest in the village who have not yet achieved the age of Winnowing, to enter into combat on this day. In this manner, the Sentinel’s will shall be done.”
The Acolyte guided the two boys to the large octagonal grid with intersecting areas of red and yellow.
“Victor, you shall fight upon the red.” He placed Victor in the appropriate starting area. “And you, Evan, shall play on the yellow.” He moved Evan to the opposite side of the grid. “Bring forth the winnowers.”
The Acolyte weighed each winnower in his hand, ensuring that they were of equal heft and strength. Then he handed one to each boy. He stepped out of the grid and once again raised his hands into the air.
“Just as the Sentinel once fought for you, so you now shall fight for the right to carry on his great plan, to ensure that his work is never forgotten. You are our future. Let no man forget the importance of what is done in this blessed Arena.
“When I give the signal,” he continued, “the Winnowing shall begin. When I drop my hands, the gong will sound and you will fight—to the finish.”
5
Daman heard the gong sound and the Winnowing commenced. The people in the gallery shouted and cheered, some for a particular champion, some simply caught up in anticipation of the bloodshed that would follow.
Victor and Evan circled each other within the octagonal grid, each keeping a careful watch on his feet, making sure he did not blunder into his opponent’s territory. This was the Patience Gambit, where the combatant played a cautious opening, biding his time, hoping the mounting pressure would impel his enemy to make an unwise attack.
Victor and Evan were both strong fighters. The Patience Gambit went on for almost five minutes, the tension mounting with each cycle around the multi-colored grid.
Victor made a sudden change of direction, from clockwise to counterclockwise, catching Evan off-guard. He lost his balance and nearly stepped onto the red. The crowd drew in its breath, gasping at the near miss.
Evan appeared to tire. He held his stick lower.
Come on, Evan. Daman knew his friend could stand watch over the flocks for hours. But a day in the fields was probably the equivalent of ten seconds in this Arena.
Victor rushed toward Evan, swinging hard with the bulb end of his winnower. Evan faltered. The winnower clubbed him on the back of his head. He hooked Victor’s winnower with the blade end of his own. The two sticks were interlocked, one wrapped around the other. The boys engaged in a fearsome tug-of-war, each pulling with all his might to yank his opponent onto the other color.
The crowd roared. Victor appeared to have the advantage. Evan staggered, reeling from the blow to his head.
Daman found himself thinking of Evan’s parents, both kind and friendly people, and what it would mean to them if Evan lost.
And then, without warning, the balance shifted. Evan dropped to the ground, as if his legs disappeared. Victor was unprepared for the sudden move. He lost his equilibrium and teetered, just long enough for Evan to jab his stick between Victor’s legs and twist, throwing his opponent even further off balance. Victor tumbled precipitously forward.
His right foot hovered over the yellow.
The shouting from the gallery reached a fevered pitch. Even those who lacked any personal involvement with the players shouted and cheered. At the last possible moment, Victor flung himself back onto his own color, but as he did so, Evan whirled and caught Victor with the sharp end of his winnower. The blade cut into Victor’s side, just below the ribs. Victor cried out. Blood splashed down on the grid.
The tumult from the stands reached a thunderous high.
Victor struggled to his feet, one hand clutching the gaping wound. He seemed wobbly, uncertain. He knew what they all knew.
The Winnowing would not last much longer now.
Victor, both hands on his stick despite his wound, bravely blocked and parried his enemy’s blows. Each thrust knocked him lower. His resistance weakened.
Evan landed another blow to the bleeding gut, and Victor tumbled to the ground. A cry rang out from the gallery. The crowd leaned forward, anticipating the final moment.
Evan raised the bladed end of his winnower and ran at Victor for a final lunge. A second before he connected, Victor rolled out of the way.
He had not been as exhausted as he led his opponent to believe.
Evan’s stick rammed into the ground where Victor had been with such force that Evan was completely thrown off kilter. He tottered, twisted sideways, did everything possible to hold his position.
But nothing worked. He fell forward, his left foot touching down on the red.
The penalty gong sounded.
For one turn of the glass, while Evan remained limited to the yellow, Victor attacked from all directions. With newfound energy, and despite his seeping wound, Victor came at Evan from every position at once, poking and prodding and piercing him in more than a half dozen places. Finally, Victor feinted with the pointed end of the winnower, then whirled around with the bulb end, smashing Evan in the face.
Evan fell, his body a blanket on the multi-colored Arena floor.
In the stands, Daman clenched his hands, his heart in a knot. This was not right. This was simply not right…
Victor placed the sharp point of the winnower on Evan’s chest, then raised his hands in triumph.
The Acolyte signaled the end of the Winnowing. “Congratulations, Victor Timmons. A lifetime of glorious service, doing the Sentinel’s most important work, lies before you.
“Evan Martel,” the Acolyte continued, “you have been winnowed. You know the choice that lies before you. Do you choose death or transportation?”
Evan hesitated so long observers wondered what he might say. “T–T–Transportation,” he finally managed.
He would be taken by the Black Sentry–blindfolded–to another village, far from his friends and family. There he would be assigned some menial work or hard labor, which he would perform day after day until his eventual passage to Balaveria.
Victor, still dripping blood from the wound beneath his ribs, limped out of the Arena to cheers and applause.
The Acolyte was not finished. “There is one matter more. Sentence has been passed against a member of this village, a man called Joseph Anton. Step forth, Joseph Anton.”
Several members of the Black Sentry dragged Mister Anton from the side of the Arena.
Daman’s heart fell. He knew Mister Anton well, and he knew why he was being sentenced. He had a barn near Blaine River where he kept pigs. This year, however, the river overflowed and flooded his barn. Most of his animals were killed.
“The Prosecutor has found this man guilty of failing to pay tribute to the Sentinel. We all must give our Master the first and best part of the bounty. But Joseph Anton did not. He hid his wealth and evaded his duty.”
“If I had given all that the Sentinel demanded,” Anton said, “my wife and daughters would have starved.”
“The time of choosing is upon you, Joseph Anton,” the Acolyte boomed. “The Laws and Ways of the Sentinel permit no exceptions. What will it be—exile or execution?”
As Daman knew too well, exile was even worse than transportation. It meant total separation from this or any village, living alone with no access to food or protection from the Creepers and the Savages. Most villagers considered exile a coward’s way out, or a fool’s. Death was a certainty either way. The only difference was that execution would be quick, while the death resulting from exile might be protracted and painful.
“Execution,” Anton said.
But what would happen to Anton’s children? They would be
left without a provider. Their only hope was that his former wife would be assigned a new husband, but that seemed unlikely, since she was no longer of childbearing age.
Anton was led to the center of the Arena. A canvas drape was placed over his head. “This is the Shroud of the Sentinel,” the Acolyte intoned. “From this day until the time of your execution, you are no longer a part of this community. You are no longer of the Sentinel.”
How harsh that must be, Daman thought, to be irrevocably separated from everything you’ve ever known. Despite the fact that he had been told since birth of the wisdom of the Sentinel’s Laws and Ways—it didn’t seem right.
He hated the feelings swelling up in his heart—but he couldn’t make them go away. This wasn’t right. This simply wasn’t right.
“So it is now and ever shall be for those who fail the Sentinel. The Laws and Ways are wise and must be obeyed.”
The crowd repeated his words. “The Laws and Ways are wise and must be obeyed.”
This litany continued for several minutes. Although he knew the words, he found he could not make himself repeat them. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw the parents of Evan, the boy who had lost the Winnowing, slinking out of the Arena, their eyes streaked with tears. How could they endure the pain of knowing with absolute certainty that they would never see their son again?
He glanced to one side and noticed that, once again, his own father was looking at him.
“It is the Way of the Sentinel,” his father said, without much feeling, answering the question he hadn’t asked. “The Sentinel is a good and kind Master.”
He didn’t reply–because the thoughts boiling in his brain were too unformed to express. He had always admired his father, and he had always valued his opinion. But how could his father blindly accept what was so unjust? How could he respect someone who was willing to live with such inequity?
And what was happening to him. He did not remember even feeling this way about the Sentinel before. But now his anger all but overwhelmed him.
A moment later, Anton disappeared from sight. The cloak that had been placed atop him fluttered to the ground.
The Black Sentry Page 3