A Tribute at the Gates

by C. J. Aaron

  Ryl struggled to maintain his footing as the wind increased in intensity. He shielded his eyes from the stinging dirt and debris. Da'agryn, eyes still closed, turned slowly in spite of the wind to face him. The eyes that greeted Ryl were turbulent, churning like a storm. His irises and sclera were a writhing mass of dark grey clouds rapidly seething and spinning around his black pupils.

  Their eyes met for an instant. Da'agryn winked and mouthed the word fly, barely a whisper, yet the volume elevated to a roar carried on the wind. The gale slammed into Ryl with greater might, forcing him to his knees. He buried his face in the crook of his elbow. The rotating winds shifted straight upward for an instant, then vanished, leaving an eerie stillness.

  When he opened his eyes, Da'agryn was gone. Ryl looked skyward, a lone bird circled the canopy’s opening high in the sky. The old man was nowhere to be seen.

  The memories of Da’agryn’s mysterious disappearance had broken Ryl’s concentration. The effort required to ask the Erlyn to open a pathway had left Ryl out of breath. He’d sought an opening to a location on the winding path that he knew well. Just out of sight of Tabenville, there was a curve in the road. The river separated from the path, making a sharp easterly turn into the forest.

  He would be reporting for his assigned work detail much later than expected and would assuredly face questioning. Although the storm that had screamed through the day before should provide a believable excuse for his delay. Should anyone from the patrol the night before recognize him, a severe punishment would be guaranteed.

  Ryl stopped in his tracks. How far had the patrol traveled the night before? He didn't want to risk running into them unprepared again. Closing his eyes, he focused his thoughts, quieting his overflowing mind. Following the same process as commanding the Erlyn to open a specific path, Ryl this time concentrated his thoughts on the road, seeking knowledge of its travelers.

  For a moment, Ryl wasn't sure if he had succeeded. He bent over, hands on his knees, panting from the exertion. He looked around, noting the forest appeared unchanged.

  The tidal wave of information that crashed into him caught him off guard, sending him reeling. His brain struggled for a moment to make sense of the overload of new sensations. That he was connected to the forest, he was sure. Ryl felt every tree as if it were an extension of his own body.

  The roots of the trees and vegetation that bordered the road stretched out underneath its surface, relaying information like nerves to the brain. Ryl could feel the individual grasses swaying gracefully as the gentle wind brushed past them.

  Leading from Tabenville, the road was empty save for a mild breeze carrying droplets of moisture from the waterfall. Ryl scanned further down the road to the south. The road was deserted until just inside where it met the forest's end. There, the heavy, thumping impacts told of steel-tipped boots. Ryl counted the even gaits of six guards, likely the same guards that he’d fled from the night before.

  Ryl was confident that he could slip into town before the guards arrived, though he was doubtful that he could explain himself and gather supplies from the sub-master so easily. The sub-master at Tabenville was not as overtly cruel as the master was. Yet, as with many guards, he vehemently resented his placement in The Stocks, taking his displeasure out on the unfortunate tributes.

  Ryl prepared himself as best he could as he severed his temporary connection with the forest. The sudden loss of the extra senses was nearly as jarring as the initial effect. He knelt down, shoving his head into his hands, squeezing his eyes shut while massaging his temples for momentary relief as he regained mastery over his senses.

  The absence of the connection with the Erlyn was a disturbing feeling, like phantom pains from a severed limb. Ryl opened his eyes, observing the forest. The world appeared muted in comparison to the view he was afforded moments earlier. He hoped this was only a temporary feeling.

  Rising to his feet, Ryl knew there was little time to waste. He walked briskly down the thin winding path in front of him. He hadn't been traveling for long when the path made a sharp corner around the trunk of another large tree. Rounding the bend, the underbrush and brambles thickened, choking the path into a narrow opening. Maybe it was his imagination, but the plants seemed to bend out of the way as he carefully slipped through.

  After a dozen paces, the pathway abruptly opened as it intersected the road. The sound of the river babbling a short distance away was a surprisingly welcomed sound. Ryl looked in both directions, his mind demanding confirmation of that which his heart already knew. The road was empty.

  Ryl turned to glance down his hidden path once more. To his surprise, he was greeted by a dense wall of underbrush. The path he had exited from a matter of seconds earlier was no longer there. The hanging vines overlapped the dense bushes making a nearly impenetrable curtain into the forest. Ryl shifted the vines, peering through the tangled underbrush, the forest beyond looked untouched and overgrown. There was no sign a path had ever existed.

  With a shrug of his shoulders, Ryl turned north on the road and headed toward Tabenville. The river running alongside the road was still swollen from the previous day’s storm, eagerly rushing to reach the coast and freedom from The Stocks.

  The hard-packed road made no noise as Ryl walked quickly toward the town. It would be well past midday when he arrived, most likely too late to make the return trip to the orchard to begin his work assignment, a dereliction of duty that would be rewarded with some amount of discomfort.

  The light grew brighter as Ryl continued his path northward, one last bend in the road and Tabenville would be visible.

  In the past, the proximity to the village would have spurred him to greater speed to end the unease of the forest that, up until yesterday, had plagued his trips through the Erlyn. Ryl now felt a profound sense of security in the woods, a reassuring peace in a life riddled with uncertainty.

  His focus at the moment rested solely on mitigating the punishment that he knew was ahead of him. Ryl regretted having to leave the security and harmony of the Erlyn, but he could not let his selfish desire for peace be the harbinger of a more merciless life for the rest of the tributes in The Stocks.

  Ryl hugged the treeline as he rounded the final corner, avoiding the reach of the overflowing river. Just ahead, the forest ended abruptly, forming a massive exit to the road. The sun had fallen well past what he had expected. Late afternoon was upon them, the sun was already working its way down toward the western palisade, spreading slowly lengthening shadows off to his right.

  Having grown accustomed to the gloom within the Erlyn, the sunlight was blinding. Ryl squinted, holding a hand up to shield them from the glare. The village of Tabenville lay several hundred paces in front of him, its well-maintained fields of lettuce and sweet potatoes spread out nearly two miles to either side.

  That was not the image that commanded Ryl's attention though. Looming over the village was the awe-inspiring statue of the village’s namesake, Taben the Defender. Being this close to the massive statue was unnerving. Taben's gigantic foot, frozen aloft mid-stride appeared as if it would make contact with the ground any moment, crushing them all. The mist from the waterfall that plummeted just to the right of his shoulder floated skyward giving the scene an ethereal look.

  The roaring of the water was an ever-present noise in the village. The constant sound was far from the soothing, lapping of waves on the shore or the gurgling of the river. For the first few days in Tabenville, the noise of the crashing water grated on the unaccustomed, resulting in sleepless nights and shortened tempers. After a while, the noise became just another extension of the dreary, uncomfortable life in the village.

  Over the ages, the falling water had bored out a large crater, creating a pool at the base of the falls, from which the river began its course. The deep pool churned with dangerous currents caused by the pummeling falls, making it perilous for even the experience swimmer. A large wooden fence was built surrounding it, and the waters were avoided if at all possi
ble.

  The statue itself was a wonder of engineering, although Ryl had never truly been given the chance to study it closely. The entirety of the statue appeared to have been carved directly from the nearly vertical face of the mountain and polished to a crack-free perfection. The excess stone had been harvested to assist in the building of the palisades.

  The few tributes tending the fields close to the road offered a muted wave in greeting before quickly returning to their work. The hint of welcome was barely perceptible to Ryl over the chilling feeling of the cold eyes watching him from inside the village.

  Tabenville was the second largest village in The Stocks, behind the main village of Cadsae. The road ended in a diminutive square, its far side bordering the fenced off pool. The two opposing sides segregated the tributes from the guards.

  In appearance and attitude, the two sides were juxtaposed like night and day. To the western side lay the guards’ quarters, the eastern side bordering the pool and the river, was home to the tributes.

  To the left, the guards were housed in two large, half-stone, half-timber buildings each stretching two stories high. The stone sealed with mortar, the wood sealed with pitch, prevented the ever-present moisture from the falls from seeping into their comfortable abodes. Their surrounding hedges and lawns were well maintained and neatly manicured.

  Between the two barracks, a single-story stone home, complete with a gated entrance and modest fenced garden served as the residences of the sub-master and officers. A carefully guarded warehouse held the necessary supplies to tend the crops and ration out the daily meals. It also served as a waystation to dispense the weekly treatments. Set on the outskirts of the village, a small stable held whatever mounts accompanied the patrols and messengers.

  To the right side of the square rested the tributes single common house, a replica of the inn-like common houses in Cadsae. Like the others it could easily sleep over one hundred tributes, although there were seldom more than a few dozen there at one time. The number of tributes required to tend to the surrounding fields as well as the orchards and crops bordering the far side of the Erlyn was not great. As was the norm within and around The Stocks, the number of tributes was dwarfed by the number of guards that were present throughout the village.

  The common house was made entirely of loose-fitting timber and visibly slanted from front to back toward the waters of the pool. The cracks in the walls allowed the bulk of the moisture from the falls access to the interior, providing a poor respite from the damp conditions outdoors. After heavy rains, like the storm deposited the day before, the rear half of the first floor would typically be submerged under inches of icy cold water.

  Adjacent to the common house, an inadequate, run-down smithy served to maintain the poor quality equipment the tributes needed to complete their work. A steady thump of hammer on anvil broke through over the roar of the falls.

  Ryl moved to the far side of the road, lengthening his stride to increase his pace as he approached the stable. So far, he was pleased to have seen no sign of the guards. He hoped to make the storeroom before drawing attention. Luck was not with him as the door to the stables lurched open just before he could pass. Ryl kept his head down, pretending not to notice.

  “Where in the hells do you think you're going, herd?” the guard snapped. His irritated tone drew a pair of comrades from the stable’s interior. “Why aren’t you at your assignment?”

  Ryl could feel the angst radiating off them. He took a few steps before stopping and turning to face the trio that was quickly approaching. Two of the three had batons in their hands, fingers curling and uncurling as if eager for action.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Ryl said meagerly, trying to give off a calming feeling. “I was assigned work on the orchards. The storm yesterday delayed my arrival.” Whether it was the feeling he had attempted to use, the believability of the excuse, a combination of both or just luck, the guard that had stopped him slammed his baton back into the loop on his belt.

  “Take him to the captain,” the guard hissed, waving to his companions before turning abruptly, heading back into the stables. The guard with his weapon drawn used the flattened tip of his baton to prod Ryl in the chest, pushing him toward the center of the village.

  “Move it, herd.” he spat, an afterthought having already physically forced Ryl in the direction of the stone building.

  The trio made their way up the road in silence, Ryl flanked by the guards, who now both had batons in their hands. A small group of guards was gathering outside the barracks, watching with poorly disguised amusement as Ryl was paraded toward the officer’s quarters. As he was forced past the first group, one of the guards took the opportunity to spit on him.

  “Disgusting herd,” he cursed.

  Ryl was accustomed to the verbal abuse, suffering from one form of another on virtually a daily basis. His blood, however, began to boil as he wiped the spit from off his face. He clenched his right fist, squeezing it together tight enough to make his knuckles white. The realization of the change in texture of his hand thankfully distracted him from the anger that was rapidly brewing inside him.

  Days prior, clenching his fist as tight as he did now, Ryl would have felt the give of his skin, would have felt the bite of his nails digging into his palm. He slowly squeezed his hands together in succession. Once. Twice. Three times. Each time the result was the same. His hands felt as if they were gripping a branch, the solid wood having absolutely no give, denied his nails any hold. The weight of his hands was noticeably heavier, as if it were no longer skin and bone, but tree.

  The words of Da'agryn flashed through Ryl's head, the desperate advice not to endanger the rest of the tributes.

  Control your temper

  Ryl took a breath, unclenched his fist, noting the extra weight in his hand evaporate as he regained control of his emotions. The guards on either side used their batons not only to steer Ryl, but to dissuade the other guards, now gathering in greater numbers from causing him more undue harm.

  It had been nearly a cycle since Ryl had been sent to Tabenville. The attitude here was toxic far beyond what he had recalled. As was true to the vast majority of the guards stationed within The Stocks, the longer they remained inside, the more impetuous they became. Their distemper over whatever punishment had landed them inside The Stocks boiled over into acts of senseless violence.

  Nearly two dozen had gathered by the time they reached the gated stone building that made up the officer’s quarters. A tribute tending the perfectly-manicured garden within the fence, looked up, flashing Ryl a worried look as the group approached. Ryl knew not what had brought about the change in Tabenville since his last assignment to the misty village.

  Before the group reached the gate, the door to the house burst open, shaking in protest as it slammed against the building’s stone facade. A lanky soldier, dressed casually in an unbuttoned uniform coat barreled out the door approaching the group with unveiled anger and disdain.

  Sub-master Osir.

  Ryl had very limited dealings with the sub-master in the past. Those he did had been benign. The animosity that emanated off Osir now was palpable, the wolves surrounding him, salivating at the prospects of a fresh kill.

  Osir was a tall man, somewhere in the range of his thirtieth cycle. He stood nearly a head taller that Ryl and moved with a speed quicker than expected, loping closer in a disturbing catlike gait. His hair was disheveled, his face bearing the product of several days without shaving. The vertical scar from right cheek to chin, split the facial hair, leaving a straight gap of exposed white scar. The tribute tending the garden shrank back, fear written across his face as Osir prowled up to the group.

  “What do we have here?” Osir demanded, leaning heavily on the gate to the garden. The hinges creaked in protest at the added weight.

  “I don’t recognize this one,” he announced, projecting his voice out over the crowd as if performing. “What brings you to Tabenville, herd?”

  Ryl qui
ckly looked from side to side as the muted chuckles arose from various mouths on either side of him.

  “Assignment, sir,” Ryl admitted, struggling to hide the annoyance in his voice. “I'm here to tend the orchard.”

  “I asked the master to send help half a moon ago.” Osir bristled with anger. “And this is what he sends. One pathetic herd. No supplies. Clothes are barely more than threads. Tell me, herd, what took you so long to get here?”

  Osir cleared his throat, spitting his phlegm at Ryl's feet.

  “Sir, I received this assignment only three days ago,” Ryl retorted. “I would have been here yesterday, but was caught out in the storm and had to shelter in the orchard.”

  “Oh, spent the night in the orchard, did you?” Osir hissed, not expecting an answer. A wicked smile crept up from the corner of his mouth. “So you chose to disobey the curfew?”

  Sub-master Osir brought himself up to his full height. The gate sighed a quiet groan of relief as he removed his weight. Ryl opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by Osir who called out to the gathered crowd of guards.

  “This one likes to sleep outside under the stars. What do we do with the petulant herd that disobeys a simple rule?” Osir raised his voice so all could hear.

  “Osir's Stocks,” the crowd cheered in unison.

  18

  The mob of guards jostled Ryl away from sub-master Osir and the officer’s quarters dragging him further into the dirt square. They formed a tight circle around him propelling him forward. Striking him with their hands, feet and batons, they throttled him back and forth between the impenetrable walls of guards. Their faces were awash with a mix or disdain and pure ecstasy.

  The brutal procession painfully made its way across the square toward the fence bordering the pool. The guards seemed to be enjoying the beating far too much to rush, savoring every last punishing strike. The fence separating the square from the pool was split in the middle where a small wooden dock, barely wide enough to fit two men abreast extended several paces out over the churning waters. Ryl remembered using the buckets tied off to the side of the dock to haul water up from the pool. The roar of the falls at that point was practically deafening.