A Tribute at the Gates

by C. J. Aaron

  Against undefeatable odds, Taben’s force held strong, stalling their advance, preventing them from sweeping across the all of Damaris. In the myths, Taben was said to have ridden on the wind, killed hundreds of thousands singlehandedly and defeated the leader of the Outland army. He was credited with raising the Haven Mountains. The range erupted from the earth in a nearly vertical wall that spanned the length of the kingdom, forming an impassable barrier, broken only at The Stocks. The palisades had shored that divide, sealing the Damaris off from the threat of the Outlands.

  Ryl shook his head as he thought about the stories. Nothing more than myths swollen to exaggerated proportions by active imaginations, pieces added by each passing generation.

  The settlement of Tabenville seemingly sprouted out from under the massive statue’s elevated foot. It lay in a clearing pressed between the mountain and the woods. Stretching several miles along the Haven’s front and extending outward nearly a half-mile at its widest point where the road emptied out from the Erlyn, the cleared soil was home to various plots of lettuce and sweet potatoes that thrived in the damp conditions.

  Bordering the village’s southern side was the Erlyn Woods. The woods were the mythical safe house of Taben and his warriors. The Erlyn was location from whence they carried out their raids on the Outland Horde, before melting back into the safety of the forest. The woods that spanned the distance between the two palisades, stretching south for over a mile, were by all accounts ancient. Neighboring the woods’ southern border was the orchard, the destination of Ryl’s current assignment.

  Having added distance between himself and Cadsae, Ryl felt little sense of urgency in rushing to Tabenville. He planned to spread the travel out over two days, a task he was confident he’d be able to accomplish given his early morning start. The sun had just begun peeking over the top of the eastern palisade.

  At sixteen cycles of age, Ryl was still imbued a small fraction of the limitless supply of energy one possesses in childhood. He was of average height with a well-defined physique due in part to the last eight cycles’ worth of manual labor in the fields. His hair was an unkempt mess of straight brown locks not yet long enough to tie back that frequently fell over his face, obstructing his dark brown eyes. Combined with the short stubble starting to grow in on his face and chin, it gave him a semi-feral look. The same could be said about all the tributes. The trivial concerns over style weren’t a priority when given the choice between that or survival.

  Ryl made good time on the hard-packed road. Aside from waving pleasant greetings to the few tributes he could see in the fields close to the road, he saw no one else on the road. Being permanently within sight of the surrounding palisades, the ever-present feeling of being watched remained. To the north, the jagged line of the Haven Mountains thrust upward into the sky, the silhouette of the great statue of Taben the Defender still featureless from this distance. For the second time in a day, he arrived at the small boarding house at Thayers Rest, pausing only long enough to fill his water skin from the refreshingly cool, clear stream before moving on.

  Just past midday, Ryl came upon the small the waystation utilized by the guards and Menders as a dispensary for the tributes on assignment that couldn’t make it to back to Cadsae for their weekly allotment. Three guards were lounging in the shade under the humble roof that jutted out from the building playing cards, a favorite way to pass the time and break the monotony. One of the guards noticed Ryl’s approach. Within seconds, all three were regarding him with alert eyes, no longer intent on their game. Ryl subtly shifted to the opposite side of the road giving them a wide berth. He could feel the intensity of their glares as he strode silently past.

  Three horses quietly grazed in the small detached paddock to the side, tails swatting at flies.

  “A horse would have made this a whole lot quicker,” Ryl muttered to himself.

  With the exception of the small mules and carriages that were used exclusively to haul the crops back to the storehouse in Cadsae, tributes were forbidden from having any contact with them.

  Each waystation maintained a copy of Mender Jeffers’ meticulous official ledger that noted the Harvest number and House brand of all the tributes who had received their weekly treatments. The tributes who received their treatments from one of the two waystations would be noted on copies of the log that each station maintained. A rider from Cadsae and one from Tabenville would converge on the waystation north of Thayers Rest daily, updating each ledger to show the accurate tally of treatments dispersed before returning to their respective villages.

  If, for some reason, a tribute was missing from the list at the end of the final tally, a search party of guards would be organized to determine the cause. Typically, tributes missing from the list were found sleeping in their beds, or dragged out of the fields due to a clerical error on the part of a careless guard incorrectly updating their copy of the ledger. On very rare occasions, tributes were found injured or deceased due to natural or self-inflicted causes.

  There was only one way out of The Stocks alive.

  The Harvest.

  Between the brands, the sheer number of guards that were constantly patrolling, escape was impossible. Even if a tribute was to escape, their freedom would come at a cost. That being an excruciating death at the hands of the sickness.

  The road north of the waystation and the land surrounding it was much the same as to the south. Plots, planted and fallow, dotted the land, broken by the occasional copse of trees. Narrow irrigation streams and pathways cut across the gentle undulating hills. The miles passed quickly underfoot as Ryl made his way further north, following the road as it ran alongside the river. The sun had nearly dipped below the upper lip of the western palisade when Ryl arrived at his destination for the night.

  Ryl’s plan was to spend the night at the Stillwater camp, a little over half the distance to Tabenville. Stillwater, like Thayers Rest, was comprised of not much more than a boarding house for the tributes, a small tool shed, a well and a shack for any passing guards that needed respite from weather or to bed down for the night.

  The river widened here forming a small lake. Being built on its shores, Stillwater contained a small dock, its two small boats rested upside down, propped up off the ground on squat wooden legs. Once a cycle, shoals of migratory fish from the sea swam up the river to spawn in the lake’s shallow waters. The normally placid waters of the lake would boil with activity. During the span of a moon, the light reflecting off the scales of the large white fish shimmered through the clear waters, making it appear as if the lake was burning.

  The bounty from the lake granted a highly anticipated reprieve from the typical fare served to both guards and tributes alike. The Pining Gate would open to allow a guarded stream of carriages to enter The Stocks. For a short time, guards worked side by side with tributes loading fish into carriages. The grueling work was not done out a respect or compassion. The necessity to return the fresh fish to the facilities outside of The Stocks where they could be cured in bulk drove the cooperation. The guards and soldiers manning the palisades dined on fish for weeks, the tributes were left with nothing but the unwanted scraps.

  The guard house look uninhabited, although Ryl wasn’t about to check. The rest of the Stillwater appeared deserted as well. Ryl knocked on the door of the boarding house, genuinely surprised to hear a muffled reply from within. The boarding house, as was the case with most of them in the tiny seasonal villages, was set up almost identically to the one at Thayers Rest. A fireplace open to all sides stood in the center of the single room habitation. The small fire burning inside it crackled away softly. A meager kitchen and table sat to the rear, while crude beds lined the wall.

  The tribute crossing the room from the kitchen to greet the unknown guest smiled heartily upon realizing who his unexpected visitor was. His was a face Ryl knew well, yet one he had not seen recently.

  “Quinlen, my friend,” Ryl said happily as the pair shook hands. “It’s been far too lo
ng.”

  In fact, it had been almost half a cycle since he had seen him. Since his incident with the guards.

  “How’s the leg holding up?” Ryl asked.

  Quinlen (H1353), was a few cycles older that Ryl and the only remaining tribute left from the first work assignment he’d been sent on. The younger tributes were typically sent out with groups and given the easier tasks like weeding between rows, or helping to pick fruits or vegetables.

  Even back then, Quinlen was tall. Given eight cycles to grow, he now stood easily a head taller than Ryl and, although slightly emaciated, he had filled out dramatically. His mischievous blue-green eyes seemed to be asking for trouble. Proud of his muscular physique, he rarely wore a shirt. His skin was now tanned to a golden brown from cycles of exposure to the sun. His long, dirty brown hair was tied into a ponytail behind his head.

  “Eh, at least it doesn’t hurt all the time anymore,” Quinlen shrugged. “Mender did the best he could. Didn’t think I was gonna make it for a while there. You should have heard it, first time I ever heard anyone raise their voice to the master. Delsith turned so red, thought he was gonna throttle the mender. I was afraid I was gonna have to crawl over there and take care of him next.”

  Ryl laughed at the thought.

  “Still, it didn’t heal completely straight.” Quinlen forced a sarcastic smile. “Bastards did a number on me. I’ll have this limp for life.”

  “I’m really sorry to hear that,” Ryl lamented.

  Quinlen had skirted the boundaries of the regulations piled on the tributes on almost a daily basis. He was frequently out past curfew, and maintained a dangerously defiant attitude toward the guards and master. His downfall had come from his uncontrollable adolescent yearning to spend extended time with the opposite sex.

  Guards had stumbled upon Quinlen with Castara, one of the female tributes he’d taken a fancy to, quietly picnicking in the shade of what they had thought to be a secluded grove of trees. She was given a mild beating, he was nearly killed. One of the guards had struck Castara with an open palm. Quinlen jumped to her defense, striking the unprepared guard in the face, a small rock squeezed within the palm of his fist. The guard dropped like a log and would nurse a broken jaw for moons. The beating he received by the guard’s companions nearly ended his life. Three fingers on his hand were broken from the punch he threw, while several ribs, his wrist and leg were broken by the guards. The latter shattered nearly bad enough to threaten removal. The internal bleeding nearly killed him, resulting in close to a three moon stay in the small clinic.

  “Got me out of the hard labor though,” joked Quinlen. “I’ll be on light duty from now on.”

  Ryl again laughed at his friend’s sense of humor. Somedays it was all any of them could do to get through the monotony and struggle of their unfair station in life. A laugh could go a long way to making their lives seem less hopeless, a principle Elias had believed in until the end.

  “Staying so close to the master for that long was a challenge,” Quinlen continued.

  He looked around as if assuring himself there was no one eavesdropping on their conversation.

  “But Mender Jeffers let slip a piece of information that's come in handy,” he whispered. “How to make ale.”

  Ryl was astonished, not sure if Quinlen was joking or not.

  “I’m officially the first brewmaster of The Stocks,” Quinlen beamed sarcastically. “I was headed to get my first batch when you knocked. Come along, you’ll be my first customer.”

  “Lead on Sir Quinlen,” Ryl joked, rewarding his friend with an overly dramatic bow before following the enthusiastic Quinlen from the building.

  Quinlen led them back outside and toward the docks on the lake’s shore. The pair stopped at the first overturned boat.

  “Give me a hand with this,” he said, motioning for Ryl to lift up one side of the heavy boat from the gunnels. Once they had the boat tilted up on its side, Quinlen ducked under, using his shoulder to support the weight while he untied one of the two rough wooden casks that were strapped to the bars of the small seats spanning the width of the boat.

  “Impressive,” Ryl quipped.

  “You think the lazy bastards would dare bend down to look under here?” Quinlen answered, clearly proud of his hiding spot.

  It was true. Most guards, while they seemed perpetually searching for a cause to instill undue pain or discomfort upon the tributes, wouldn’t lift a finger to do much else. Barrel in hand, Quinlen practically skipped back to the boarding house, eager to sample his maiden batch.

  Placing the barrel delicately down on the meager table, Quinlen hurried to collect a pair of wooden cups. Ryl marveled at his friend’s ingenuity. The barrel was made from the hollowed center of a tree trunk. The top was a thinly sliced cross section of that same tree, sealed to the barrel with sap. A small wooden plug was hammered into a hole chiseled in its side. The barrel had been suspended from the boat by a crude rope basket of sorts, most likely pilfered from the netting used to catch the fish that was stored away in the small tool shed.

  Triumphantly, cups in hand, Quinlen returned.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, carefully twisting the plug.

  “You wouldn't stop even if I said no,” Ryl teased his friend, eliciting a chuckle from each of them.

  The plug came free with an audible pop, followed immediately by a stream of golden amber-colored liquid. Quickly filling both cups, Quinlen tipped the barrel on its back and sighed in relief. A pool of his precious ale slowly trickled its way across the uneven dirt floor.

  “Care to do the honors,” he asked Ryl reverently, passing him a cup.

  “It's your handiwork and labor. Please, you first,” Ryl insisted, patting his friend on the back. “And besides, I want to make sure it's drinkable first.”

  His friend snorted out a laugh. He raised the cup to his nose to smell the fresh ale. After a deep sigh, he lifted the cup to his lips, taking a small sip of the precious brew.

  After a moment of swishing the liquid around in his mouth, Quinlen swallowed, followed by a quick twist of his head to the side and a cough.

  “I suppose it's not the worst,” Quinlen said. “But she's passable.”

  Ryl stared blankly at his friend, who was now eying his cup and nodding at him encouragingly. Ryl shrugged his shoulders, raising the cup for a toast.

  “Here's to the finest ale in The Stocks,” Ryl proclaimed.

  9

  The morning had come too soon. Ryl gingerly forced himself off the dirt floor of the boarding house. From the light seeping through the cracks in the wall, he could tell that it was already later than he had hoped. Looking around, the majority of the tributes that had trickled in before the light had completely faded were still asleep on their pallets or bedrolls on the ground.

  Ryl stretched and let out a yawn. They had stayed up much later than normal the night before, Quinlen’s brew tasting better and better with each passing sip. For a few hours, they had forgotten about their pitiful station in life. Gone were their daily toils in the fields. Their abuse at the hands of their protectors. The sorrow of friends and family lost. Their abandonment by the ones they had grown up loving.

  Quinlen was stirring as Ryl quietly padded over to his pallet beside the small kitchen and dining room. Two empty barrels lay next to his bed. Ryl smiled at the thought that the next batch would probably be ready by the time he finished his current assignment. Quinlen staggered roughly to his feet, momentarily balancing himself against the wall.

  “That brew packs quite the punch,” he smirked while whispering. He was clearly pleased with his achievement, beaming like a proud father over his child.

  “Surprised we weren’t paid a visit by the guards,” Ryl added quietly. “Us herd aren’t usually that loud or animated.”

  The comment elicited a quiet laugh from his friend.

  “I need to make up some miles after the late start. You’ll have to get this lot up,” Ryl said, motioning to the rest of t
he tributes with a wave of his arm. “You’ll be here through the fishing next moon?”

  “Aye, they have me readying the gear and nets. They figured I don’t need two working legs for that,” Quinlen added.

  “Not going to catch many fish with all the holes you're putting in the nets to hide your ale,” Ryl said, partially in jest. “I hope to catch you here on my way back through. It's been far too long. Stay safe, and save me some of that ale, all right?”

  With that, Ryl clapped his friend on the shoulder. Quinlen drew him into a hug hard enough to squeeze the air from his lungs.

  “Be careful out there, Ryl,” Quinlen said, a tone of seriousness crossing his voice.

  With a nod, Ryl gathered his small pack and water skin and exited the boarding house. He wasn't more than ten steps from the door when he heard the muted hammering and cries of his friend, banging on a table and screaming at the rest of the tributes to get up. Ryl shook his head and smiled as he turned north up the main road.

  The sun had already risen over the eastern palisade when Ryl began the last leg of his trek to Tabenville, casting long shadows across the road to his left. The previously featureless statue of Taben the Defender glared like a specter through the morning haze. He would have to travel fast if he wanted to make it the nearly twenty-five miles to the village before nightfall. Not only did he not want the ire of the guards, who were always active around the small village, he had no desire to get stuck in the Erlyn Woods after dark.

  Morning gave way to afternoon as Ryl continued his steady pace to the north, Taben and the mountainside becoming clearer and more defined with each passing mile. The giant statue’s face had, for miles, been nothing more than a silhouette. Now, it featured distinctly defined eyes that held their steadfast gaze forever west. The Haven Mountains exploded out of the ground in the distance to the east at which point they were joined by the eastern palisade. To the west, their peaks stretched out, continuing as far as his eyes could see, a jagged grey line where they met the blue of the sky.