A Tribute at the Gates

by C. J. Aaron

  “Please help that boy learn his place here before he gets himself hurt,” the mender pleaded. “And let’s hope no one else attempts any grandiose stunts like yours anytime soon.”

  Not waiting for a response, Jeffers turned and left, muttering something unintelligible to himself as he crossed the room. Sarial and Ryl let out a collective sigh of relief as the mender walked out of earshot. She moved to the foot of Ryl’s bed, gently sitting down, carefully passing him the bowl of stew.

  “Thank you, Sarial,” Ryl said appreciatively.

  “We’re all happy you’re awake finally,” she confessed, rubbing her hands on her lap, flattening out the wrinkles in her rough dress. “Please promise me you won’t do anything like that again, Ryl. You had me worried sick. I’m afraid you’ve made yourself into a legend among the tributes and a pariah among the guards.”

  Ryl forced a smile, looking down at the blankets over his legs. In all honesty, his last second plan hadn’t counted on an aftermath with him still in it. He was grateful to be alive yet deathly afraid of the cost to himself and the other tributes. Had he put an end to one atrocity and given way to the start of another?

  At least for the present moment, his actions had bought a moratorium on the open abuse. How long would this last? How long would it take for the fear instilled by Captain Le’Dral and the added focus from the sponsors to subside? For as long as it lasted, though, the peace would be a blessing all would enjoy.

  Sarial stayed with Ryl as he wolfed down the small portion of stew. The warmth of the food filling his stomach atop the strain of the day’s activity proved too much for his weakened state. The pair talked for a short while before he laid back and closed his eyes. Sleep took him immediately.

  27

  Ryl woke early the next day. The hot meal and the sleep the night before had done wonders to his weakened body. His chest remained terribly sore but the ache in his head had finally subsided sometime during the night.

  He slowly and laboriously worked himself to a sitting position, gently sliding his legs over the edge of the bed. A tingling sensation started in his feet, working its way up through his legs as his feet made contact with the ground for the first time in a moon. Ryl rested his hands on his knees, mentally preparing himself to stand.

  Pushing himself up off the bed, Ryl wasn’t overly surprised to see how well his balance was, the agility taking over where his strength had failed him. He grabbed the shirt that had been left draped over the edge of his bed, uncomfortably working it over his head.

  Ryl was less concerned about his outward appearance than the tattoo on his chest. The moon he'd spent lying in bed had left him severely emaciated and the bruises were shocking in both their coverage and colors. The quality of the tattoo was shocking in its own respects.

  A good number of the tributes had tattoos, whether self-imposed or inked by one of the few tributes more skilled in their application. The rudimentary process was oftentimes very painful and yielded mixed results in terms of the quality of the finished product. Ryl had yet to field any questions regarding the tattoo on his chest, though he’d noted the stares.

  The clothes ill fit him. He felt as if he were swimming in the fabric as he made his first shuffling steps toward the window. The sun had yet to crest over the top of the eastern palisade, the torches from the night before were still burning low. The sky, however, was beginning to lighten from black to dark blue as the sun made its slow ascent over the horizon.

  His legs were stiff from disuse, joints refusing to bend as they once did. With effort, Ryl reached the window, leaning forward with his hands, allowing his arms to take some of the burden off his weakened legs. Propping himself up on his left leg, he lifted his right working to flex it further and further with each subsequent try. The process was painful and tiring. He switched legs to allow the other to rest.

  “I know I said I'd have you up and walking today, Ryl,” Mender Jeffers chimed in from behind him.

  Ryl hadn't heard him approach. The suddenness of the voice startled him. He twisted his body on impulse to face the unseen speaker, both legs giving out simultaneously from the action. His arms on the windowsill slowed his fall. Jeffers reached him in time, catching him before he hit the ground.

  “I thought it was implied that you would be walking with support,” Jeffers chided. “I see where the boy gets his stubbornness from.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Ryl responded, embarrassed. He wasn’t accustomed to needed help from anyone. Although the mender had never been unkind to him during the cycles that he’d known him, he was still a representative of the society that had chained him to The Stocks.

  “Please, Ryl, there’s no need to call me ‘sir’ when the guards or the master aren’t around,” the mender said, smiling. “Jeffers will do.”

  The mender worked his way under Ryl’s arm, letting it rest on across his shoulders, slowly leading him toward the door. Jeffers surprised him with that statement. It had been drilled into his head since that fateful day, now almost nine cycles ago, that he arrived in The Stocks that the guards were to be referred to as “sir” and nothing more. The habit would be a difficult one to break.

  “Since you’re up and walking so early, do you think you can make it to your common house?” Jeffers asked plainly.

  “Aye, sir. Eh, Jeffers, that is,” Ryl corrected himself. The name felt strange as it rolled off his tongue.

  “Good, good. Now that’s a start,” Jeffers laughed. “I’m sure Sarial will have food ready soon. You can eat and rest there for a spell. Please don’t go trying to walk around until I return for you, ok?” Ryl nodded his head in agreement, focusing on bending his legs to a greater degree with every shuffled step now that Jeffers bore the bulk of his weight.

  The journey cross the square to the common house was painfully long. The pair had to make frequent stops as Ryl’s legs continued to cramp. He was amazed at how much mobility he’d lost over the last moon. The simple task of walking was proving to be a monumental undertaking. He wondered how long it would take for him to recover to his previous state.

  The pair reached the common house without any further interruption. The door opened with an audible complaint as the rusted hinges announced their entrance. The familiar feeling of welcome surrounded Ryl, along with the smell of freshly baked bread. He closed his eyes to breathe it in, multiple soft yellow lights in varying degrees of intensity appeared through the darkness.

  Since meeting Da’agryn in the Erlyn, Ryl had yet to be around this many of his fellow tributes. Although he’d grown accustomed to the feeling, the intensity of the sensation was altogether new to him now. He opened his eyes, knowing that Sarial was approaching from the kitchen to their right.

  As always, her smile was infectious. Sarial was a light in the blackness of The Stocks that never dimmed. She hustled over to the pair, gently sliding her way under Ryl’s other arm, leading them to a table close to the kitchen.

  “This is quite the surprise, Ryl,” Sarial spoke softly, exchanging a thankful look with Jeffers to his left.

  “Ryl will be joining you for the morning while I have other matters to attend to,” Jeffers commanded weakly. “Please try and make sure he stays off his feet. He almost took quite the fall already this morning.”

  Sarial shot a motherly look of displeasure in Ryl’s direction.

  They seated Ryl at a bench along the wall closest to the kitchen. The activity felt invigorating, thought his lack of flexibility and fatigue ate at him, frustrating him to the core. Jeffers must have read the irritation written on his face.

  “Don’t fear, Ryl. Your strength and mobility will soon return,” Mender Jeffers said compassionately, placing a comforting hand on Ryl’s shoulder. “Do not overwork yourself now. Your body’s been through quite the ordeal in the last moon. You must give it a chance to recover.”

  Ryl laughed internally at the statement. The Mender was oblivious to the happenings prior to Tabenville, how close he had truly come to perishing in the
Erlyn.

  “If you want to be out of here before the master returns, you’ll do as I say,” Jeffers continued sternly. “I’ll be back for you later this morning.”

  Ryl nodded his head in thanks. Jeffers returned the acknowledgement, giving Sarial a warm smile, hesitating a moment before turning and leaving the room. The pair watched the Mender depart in silence.

  “Well, now that you’re in my care, how about some breakfast?” Sarial broke the silence with a smile.

  28

  Ryl spent the remainder of the morning as a carefree patient under the watchful care of the Gran of The Stocks. His belly full and his heart content, he was able to greet his fellow tributes without the pressing need to hurry to the next assignment. For the first time since he’d entered The Stocks, his task involved the absence of manual labor, a feeling that he knew would not extend past the day.

  He was not, however, completely idle throughout his morning. Although Ryl was calm and relaxed on the surface, his mind churned with activity and thought. From a seated position, he was able to flex and stretch his legs. The constant, oftentimes painful activity helped to increase his flexibility, reigniting in him the hope that his recovery could be accomplished, and accomplished rapidly.

  Ryl’s mind was also in a state of perpetual motion. He found that by focusing, and closing his eyes for slightly longer than a standard blink, he could quickly discover the presence of any tribute within a range of nearly ten paces. The power they emanated could be seen as a golden yellow light that varied in intensity from individual to individual.

  Ryl guessed the brightness was relative to the concentration of alexen in each tribute. Laj, one of tributes destined for Harvest at the conclusion of this current cycle, shined bright, while Sarial, who would call The Stocks her home for another fifteen cycles shined with a dull yellow glow.

  The peaceful morning passed entirely too quickly. Ryl was enjoying a conversation with Sarial when the mender again entered, large wooden crutch in hand.

  “Begging your pardon Sarial, I'm here to collect this wayward tribute,” Mender Jeffers said, accompanied by an overdramatic bow.

  “He's all yours, sir,” Sarial mused, “We'll have no food left if he stays much longer.”

  “Sorry this took longer to find, Ryl,” Jeffers said apologetically, handing the Ryl the crude wooden crutch. “I know it may come as a shock to you, but we are pitifully stocked here in Cadsae.”

  Mender Jeffers and Sarial helped Ryl to his feet. His legs were already considerably less stiff than earlier, although they pained him still. The walk to the door was accomplished in a fraction of the time it had earlier in the day. Along with the mender’s assistance, the rudimentary wooden crutch which was in essence nothing more than a moderately straight section of wood with a small cross piece fixed to the top, made moving around less of a chore.

  Bidding a brief farewell and sincere thanks to Sarial, the two made their way out of the common house and across the square to the mender’s quarters. Almost immediately, Ryl sensed that something wasn’t right. The air was choked with a profound feeling of animosity. The focused hatred shot at him like an arrow from a bow. He stopped in his tracks, nearly tripping Jeffers with the sudden change of speed.

  Two groups of soldiers stood in front of the gate to his left. Soldiers frequently traversed through the Pining Gate, so the presence of small groups waiting wasn’t altogether surprising. The group closer to him was made up of a dozen gate guards, batons resting quietly at their hips. Their commander was in discussion with the small figure at the center of the group standing closer to the gate.

  The second party, a group of seven, was unlike any Ryl had witnessed before. All were covered head to toe in black, the hoods of their cloaks were pulled down low obscuring their faces in a menacing shadow. The hoods created a darkness so thick that no features of their faces were visible through the black. Each had a large black shield strapped to their backs and a longsword fixed to their hip. Metal weapons were forbidden in The Stocks. Aside from the small knives carried by the master and his personal guard, Ryl had never seen it before inside the walls.

  The man at the center whom the commander was addressing was clothed in a similar black cloak as that of the soldiers, yet carried no visible weapons. The malice that the group was exuding sent a chill through Ryl, covering his arms with gooseflesh. Their bodies seemed to exude an inky blackness that stained the air around them.

  “Lei Guard,” Mender Jeffers whispered, his hushed voice filled with a panic. “Don’t look and do not stop until we’re inside.”

  He gripped Ryl tightly by the arm, dragging him toward the clinic. It took the first few steps until his legs caught up with the motion. Although Ryl couldn’t see their eyes, he could feel their penetrating glares.

  The name, Lei Guard, struck a chord with Ryl. Da’agryn had told him of the Lei Guard, the king’s elite troops that had been tasked with hunting down the phrenic.

  The pair made the clinic without another word, continuing on until Ryl had been deposited onto his cot at the rear of the large room. Both he and Jeffers were breathing heavily from the ordeal. The muscles in Ryl’s legs screamed in protest. Jeffers moved to the window, closing the curtains without a glance. His face was as white as a ghost.

  “What’s happening?” Ryl asked the worried mender.

  “I don’t know, Ryl,” Jeffers whispered between breaths. “The Lei Guard here is an ill omen.”

  “Have you dealt with them before?” Ryl asked curiously.

  “Thankfully, no,” Mender Jeffers said, his voice growing stronger as he regained his courage. “I saw them around the capital a few times during my studies there. They answer directly to the king and interact with only an unlucky few. Fewer of those survive to tell the tale.”

  Jeffers crossed the room, pouring himself a cup of water from the pitcher next to Ryl’s cot.

  “Always travel in groups of seven like that, and always armed to the teeth,” the mender continued. “Never seen the small one in the middle though. Though I can’t explain why, that one terrifies me.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by the echo of heavy boots at the entrance to the building. Ryl looked toward Jeffers. The kender was frozen in place, as if he’d been petrified by the sound.

  A single set of footsteps approached slowly, each footfall echoing throughout the room. Ryl scanned his surroundings, there was no flight from the room save for the window leading back to the square.

  The steps reached the end of the curtain partitioning off his area of the room.

  A man rounded the corner and Jeffers let out a sigh of relief. Although they’d met only once, Ryl would never forget the man’s face.

  Captain Le’Dral.

  29

  Ryl could feel the tension evaporate as Captain Le’Dral smiled at the mender. The smile still carried the same compassion that Ryl remembered from the night he was introduced to The Stocks.

  “Everything all right, Mender?” Le’Dral spoke, a hint of mischief in his voice.

  “I think you know the answer to that,” Jeffers snapped back at the captain, more harshly than his position should have allowed, although the captain paid it no mind.

  “What are the Lei Guard doing here, Captain?” Mender Jeffers whispered, looking around the room as if he were being observed.

  Captain Le'Dral took a deep breath, calculating his response before speaking. The captain looked similar to the last time Ryl had seen him, although his dark hair was now flecked with streaks of grey. His bright blue eyes still shone with the intensity he remembered. Le'Dral had remained fit, not allowing his position as captain to breed complacency.

  “The king has been less than pleased with the situation here as of late,” Le'Dral responded to Jeffers before turning to Ryl. “He sent his Lei Guard to ensure we grasped the severity of his displeasure. He will not suffer another repeat without retribution.”

  The last statement was directed at Ryl with a commanding forcef
ulness that broached no argument. The silence that punctuated the end of the captain’s words hung in the air.

  “Whether you intended it or not, you've caused an uproar in more circles than you can imagine,” Le'Dral continued. “The nobles, the sponsors, the guards. All these add up to the king sending his shock troops here to ensure our obedience, and that amounts to a huge headache for me.”

  “All due respect, sir,” Ryl snapped back at the captain. “It would be a safe assumption that your discomfort means nothing to any of the tributes here.”

  Ryl knew that he was overstepping his bounds, straying into dangerous territory, but he needed his voice to be heard. The captain listened earnestly as Ryl continued.

  “As children, we were abandoned or kidnapped, watched our families butchered before our eyes.” Ryl voice was nearing a shout. “We live through torture on a daily basis. You’ve imprisoned us here to work your fields and be abused by our erstwhile protectors. And what do we have to look forward to? Our blessed Harvest. We just exchange one horror for the next. While I had no desire to cause it, you'll have to excuse me, you’ll get no sympathy from me for your headache.”

  Ryl could feel his blood heating. As the pain in his body disappeared, the urge to fight became severe. His eyes scanned the room as a predator would hunting for a kill. The look on the face of the mender gave him pause. The normally calm and collected man’s face was contorted into a mix of awe and pure terror.

  Ryl had no idea when he had risen to his feet. His eyes met the captain’s and there they stayed, neither giving an inch as the world carried on around them.

  The moment passed. Ryl gave up his defiance, sinking back down onto his bed, putting his head in his hands.

  Captain Le’Dral dropped to his knee before Ryl, bringing the pair eye to eye once more. The words he spoke were neither harsh, nor judgmental. Ryl had a strange sense of deja vu, a flashback to the moment he arrived at The Stocks. The captain’s kind voice was the first of any sort of compassion he had experienced since being torn from his family.