A Tribute at the Gates

by C. J. Aaron

  Had the twins been in view, they were sure to have questioned Ryl’s sanity. He found the easiest method of practicing solidifying his skin was to drop small pebbles, sticks or fruit from the orchard onto various parts of his body, primarily his arms and legs. His reaction time was sluggish at first. The impact was made moments before he was able to defend himself. Day by day, his timing improved to the point where, at the end of the moon, he was able to call upon the woodskin within a fraction of a second.

  Ryl was overjoyed at his progress, yet he still had a profound feeling that he was missing a crucial piece to the puzzle. It felt like there was a wall inside of him blocking his progress, preventing him from reaching his true potential. He had accomplished something no one had achieved in hundreds of cycles, yet he yearned for more. The thirst for knowledge had sunk its teeth into him, spurring him onward. If he was to help the tributes, if he was to survive life after his inevitable Harvest, he would need to be stronger.

  While on one front his successes were invigorating, his failure in regard to the soulborne wind, proved to be a constant source of disappointment. Again and again he tried amplifying the wind created by the motion of his hand, connecting the energy in his blood to the latent energy that surrounded him.

  Again and again he failed.

  Ryl’s emotions were a whirlwind of frustration. First with himself for failing, second with Da’agryn for leaving him filled with overwhelming hope, and virtually no instruction. In his heart, he knew he was wrong for doing so, but he cursed the old man for leaving him alone.

  For abandoning him.

  The misplaced rage fell on Da’agryn while the specter bearing his father’s grinning face cackled maniacally from somewhere deep inside. By his own admission, Da’agryn had been waiting for ages to find one with active alexen. What had been so pressing a task to have pulled him away so soon after their meeting?

  Ryl ended day after day slumped in front of another rotten fire, a torn strip of his shirt tied over his nose and mouth. The recovery time that Mender Jeffers had mandated worked as an effective ruse, explaining his extreme exhaustion at the conclusion of each day. Tending the fires was tedious yet required virtually no energy. Ryl exaggerated his weakened condition to cover the exhaustive toll his training required.

  Tash and Palon emerged pushing another overloaded cart from the orchard several trees down the aisle. Ryl had noted their approach and rose with the assistance of a worn shovel, walking to greet them. The overburdened cart squealed with every rotation of its rough wooden wheels.

  “I’d say another week and we’ll be done with this cursed orchard,” Tash said, throwing a rotten fruit toward Ryl. Without thinking, Ryl spun the small shovel in his hand, swinging it to meet the fruit in mid-flight. The softened projectile disintegrated into a shower of rotten particulate that rained down on the three of them.

  “Fancy trick,” Tash said with a smile, wiping away a stray piece of fruit that had stuck to his cheek. “Practicing that one all day, have ya? Gonna need a bath now.”

  “Sorry about the mess,” Ryl said, sympathetically. “Might as well call it a day now.” The view of the sun was blocked from their position inside the orchard, yet the stretching shadows and the slightly darkening sky proved that the daylight hours were nearly spent.

  “No sense in burning this lot until tomorrow,” Ryl stated. “Let’s wash up in the river then head back to Tabenville.”

  The twins nodded in unison. Ryl helped them deposit the fetid contents in a heap near the smoldering remnants of the day’s fire. Relieved to be done for the day, they walked leisurely down the aisle toward the main road and the river.

  Leaving the cart and tools off the side of the road, they made their way toward the water. The river here meandered lazily along its path to the sea. Its slightly sloping bank was soft, a product of soil redistributed when the rains forced the water up over its edges. Ryl took off his shoes, his feet sunk slightly in the sandy bank. He waded a few steps into the shallow water, making his way to the large flat rock whose surface formed a miniature island in the river. The twins were already rinsing off slightly upstream from his location.

  Ryl knelt on the rock splashing water onto his face, washing away the foul-smelling soot from the fire and the chunks of rotten fruit. A small slick of grime coated the water's surface before being carried off downstream. The fresh, cold water of the river was invigorating as it swept away residue from the day’s toils. The air here was fresh, no longer choked with the acrid smell of burning insects and rotted fruit. He sat back, wrapping his arms around his knees, drawing them in toward his chest. The river quietly lapped at his rock island.

  The serenity of the moment was broken by the distant neigh of a horse. The low thunderous rumble of multiple hoofs on the hard-packed road crescendoed as the unseen party rapidly approached. Ryl looked upstream at the twins. Both were frozen in place alerted by the unexpected sound. All three exchanged worried glances before rushing from the water to collect their shoes. Only guards were permitted to ride horses in The Stocks. As innocent an act as washing one’s face after a long day's work, this would undoubtedly be viewed as a dereliction of duty, an offense that typically carried a physical punishment.

  A small copse of trees and a slight corner blocked the view of the road leading from the south. It wasn’t until the two riders thundered around the corner that Ryl was able to grasp the pace the party was setting. Ryl and the twins were still putting on their shoes when the two guards thundered past. Tash dove off the road, sliding to a stop on the soft bank of the river as the horseman made no attempt at diverting course. The closest guard snarled at the tributes as he raced past. Ryl hastened to help his friend, arriving a moment before Palon, happy to find Tash dirty, yet unscathed.

  The pace at which the two horsemen had passed was concerning to Ryl, horses and their riders having already disappeared into the gloom of the Erlyn. With the exception of the slow moving patrols and guards delivering the weekly treatments, horse traffic on the main road was infrequent. As treatments had just been given out the day before, the cause for the pair of riders was unsettling. The distant sound of additional horses even more so.

  “Wonder what that was about?” Tash questioned as he tried to wipe the sticky wet sand off his arm.

  “I don’t know, though it can’t bode well,” Ryl stated. “We should hurry back.”

  “Whatever it is, please don’t do anything foolish, Ryl,” Tash chided with a wink.

  Ryl shook his head, hurrying back across the road to collect the cart. He lifted one handle while Palon took the other. Tash grumbled to himself as he continued to wipe the sand off his body. The sounds of the approaching party grew steadily in their wake as the trio hurried toward the Erlyn.

  Not knowing the disposition of the riders, Ryl and the twins had moved themselves and their cart well off the road as the next group came into view. A pair of large draft horses pulling a large black carriage approached at a measured gait. As they rounded the corner, Ryl could see the large white symbol painted on its side.

  He felt his heart skip a beat.

  It had been nearly nine cycles since he'd seen that design, yet it was forever burned into his memory. The large, white gate, one of the two doors stood wide open. Nearly as potent as the brands on his neck, the white markings were a physical manifestation of the evil that had stripped him of his youth. He shuddered as he still smelled the oppressive, foul odor of sweat, urine and feces. He could still feel the sweltering heat withering him away until he was a broken shell of the child he was before.

  The ominous-looking black carriage was built differently than the last he'd seen. The present one was constructed for comfort, while his had been a prison. There were double doors on the side, each holding a small window shrouded with a dark red fabric. A single wooden runner hung halfway to the ground along each side acting as a ladder for the carriage’s passengers.

  There were two guards riding at the front of the carriage. The driv
er slowed as he made to pass the tributes. Ryl shuddered as he recognized the pair.

  Master Delsith's personal bodyguards.

  Ryl looked down, doing his best to hide his face from the wicked eyes that were undoubtedly glaring out from within. The carriage slipped slowly past, cautious of the soft, sloping riverbank along the side of the road. The call from within sent a chill down his spine.

  “Driver, stop. Now,” an all too familiar voice screamed in rage.

  The carriage ground to a halt several paces past the tributes. The horses bleating in protest stomped their feet at the sudden stop. Half of the two panel door exploded open, slamming against the side of the carriage with a startling slap. The Master of The Stocks practically flew out from within, charging toward Ryl the instant his feet hit the ground. The door ricocheted back, slamming into the face of the second passenger attempting to exit the carriage. The unlucky man let out a pained squeal in response.

  “Thought you could hide here forever, did you, herd?” Master Delsith screamed as he foamed with rage. “Thought I'd forget all about you?”

  One of Delsith's bodyguards pointed his baton menacingly toward Tash and Palon, holding them in place. The other slithered out from around the opposite side of the carriage, baton in his left hand penning Ryl between him and the master.

  “Your antics cost me,” Delsith screamed, closing the vise between himself and his bodyguard. “Cost me good, it did. Far more than your pathetic life is worth. You’re still mine for more than a cycle and I will make every second as painful as possible.”

  Ryl knew enough about the master to know that, unlike the former sub-master Osir, he wasn't a man to strike first, choosing to let his lackeys draw the first blood. He guessed that the first strike would be coming from the bodyguard before the master would get his hands dirty.

  “Master Delsith, what are you doing?” Mender Jeffers bellowed as he stumbled out of the carriage, holding a bloodied hand over his leaking nose.

  Ryl was as surprised by the sudden appearance of the mender as Delsith was. The master turned his head toward the bloodied mender. Distracted, Ryl was a moment too late to dodge the attack coming from the bodyguard at his rear. The guard chose the momentary disturbance to launch his attack diagonally down toward Ryl's shoulder.

  Ryl twisted his body, falling backward, bringing his left arm up to meet the blow, frantically calling on the protection of the woodskin. His skin reacted to his call, both baton and arm meeting perpendicular to each other with a solid knock of wood against wood.

  Ryl screamed in pain as he felt the bone in his forearm break. The baton shattered at the point of impact, showering him in wooden splinters that bounced off his toughened skin.

  The guard stood dumbfounded, still clasping the broken stump that remained of his baton. Jeffers was at Ryl's side before the guard could react, bloody hand still pressed against his face, stanching the flow of blood from his nose.

  “What have you done, you fool?” Jeffers screamed, whipping his head back and forth to glare at both the master and the guard. “The king will have our heads for this.”

  The mention of the king robbed the fight from the fuming master, who turned with a hiss storming back into the carriage. The guard who'd attacked Ryl skirted around him, still clutching the shattered remnants of the baton like a lifeline. The other guard backed slowly toward the driver’s seat, still holding Tash and Palon at bay with his baton in front of him.

  The mender looked at Ryl with a pained look in his eyes. Ryl clutched his broken left arm and winced as the pain shot through him.

  “Trouble seems to have a way of finding you,” Mender Jeffers whispered. “Let me take a look at that arm.”

  Jeffers gently examined Ryl's arm with his free hand before raising his eyes. A look of wonder replaced the pained look from earlier.

  “Luck must be on your side today, Ryl,” Jeffers exclaimed incredulously. “The bones in your arm should have been shattered from a blow like that. All I could find was one small break.” Ryl opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off.

  “Mender Jeffers,” Delsith yelled, poking his face, red with anger, through the window of the carriage. “Need I remind you we have a task of the utmost import that needs our attention in Tabenville? I think this pathetic herd’s learned his lesson that the trees in the orchard can be dangerous. He ought to be more careful next time so a fall like this doesn’t happen again.”

  Ryl had never witnessed the raw emotion that played out on the mender’s face. Jeffers looked conflicted, as if he were weighing the logic of taking on the master by himself.

  “We’re leaving now, Mender,” Master Delsith ordered. “Hurry along, herd. You’ll be needed in Tabenville soon, too. Wouldn't want to be out after curfew now either.”

  The master laughed to himself as he slid his head back into the carriage.

  Jeffers opened his mouth to apologize. This time, Ryl cut him off.

  “Don't apologize. It wasn't your fault,” Ryl said, guessing at the mender’s next words. “Go before you get yourself in trouble.”

  The mender inhaled and let out a deep breath.

  “Think you can handle making a splint?” he asked.

  “Aye,” Ryl answered, nodding his head.

  “Good. It doesn't need to be perfect, just enough to hold the bones in place.” Jeffers hurried through his words as he picked himself off the ground. “I'll be able to fix it for you in Tabenville.”

  The mender turned and hurried back toward the carriage. The single black door stood ajar, knocking against the carriage wall. The guards had already taken their places up front awaiting the mender’s return.

  Jeffers climbed wearily in the waiting carriage, the driver urging it on before the door had closed behind him. The carriage was soon swallowed up as it passed into the darkened maw of the Erlyn.

  Ryl leaned to his side, using his right arm to help push himself up off the ground. Tash and Palon arrived at his side steadying him as he rose to his feet.

  “Seems I can't catch a break these days,” Ryl said sarcastically. “I'm more concerned with what's happening in Tabenville. We should hurry back. Can you help me find a straight stick to make a splint?”

  Palon reached down, hefting the broken half of the guard’s baton. Flipping it in the air one time, he caught it and, in the same motion, tossed it to his brother. Tash fumbled the wood as he attempted the catch the slow-moving projectile. He picked the wood back up off the ground, offering it to Ryl.

  “Will this work for you?” Tash questioned.

  Ryl gladly accepted the broken baton, lashing it tightly to his forearm with the strip of cloth he had used to protect his mouth and nose from the smoke. The ties hurt, sending wave after wave of pain shooting up his arm. He gritted his teeth as he cradled the broken limb against his stomach.

  “Do you want to ride?” Tash asked considerately, pointing to the cart. Before Ryl could answer, he continued.

  “We’ve grown accustomed to hauling you around at this point anyway,” Tash joked with a smile.

  “Thank you, Tash, I’ll be all right. It’s my arm that’s broken, not my leg,” Ryl responded. A thought crossed Ryl’s mind. He focused on sending out the feeling of gratitude.

  “And thank you and Palon for helping over the last moon. You’ve been true friends,” he added, watching the twins for any reaction.

  Tash beamed with the compliment but showed no outward response to the feeling. Palon cocked his head slightly and cracked a half-smile as he slowly nodded his head. The lack of response from Tash and subtle cue from Palon were mildly confusing, leaving Ryl with more questions than answers. He’d only felt the waves of feelings from Tash, yet he showed no reaction to his. Ryl had never experienced anything like that from Palon, however, the twin rarely spoke. His investigations would have to wait. The overwhelming need to reach Tabenville again took hold.

  “Let’s get back to the village,” Ryl said, doing his best to remove any hint of worry from his vo
ice.

  The trio set a brisk pace with Ryl leading the way. The twins followed with the cart a few paces behind. Within moments, they, too, were swallowed by the open mouth of the Erlyn.

  34

  The trip through the forest was accomplished quickly and, thankfully, without further incident. The anxious feeling grew steadily in Ryl’s gut as they approached the exit of the forest. Darkness was closing in as they exited the woods, the great statue of Taben the Defender towering in the distance was lit from one side by the light of the final slivers of the setting sun, the other side shrouded in shadow and mist. The flickering lights of the village square illuminated a large gathering of people. Ryl closed his eyes searching for the signs of tributes with his mind.

  The square was full of tributes.

  The trio hastened the pace, quickly closing the distance between them and the village. Two guards were standing at attention in front of the stables, their normal indifferent look replaced with reluctant stares. Their eyes followed Ryl and the twins as they hastened past.

  The guard manning the waystation was no different as they paused briefly to return their supplies.

  “You three are late,” the guard grumbled. “All tributes are to report to the square immediately.”

  “What’s happening?” Ryl asked, not truly expecting an answer.

  “Square. Now.” The guard enunciated each word with slightly more force than necessary.

  Ryl and the twins exchanged uneasy glances as they moved their way toward the assembled tributes. The exterior of the square was ringed with the guards from Tabenville while the center was occupied by the tributes, milling around uneasily in an uncoordinated line.

  The head of the line ended in front of the officer’s quarters at a small table positioned off the rear of the ominous black carriage of the master. Delsith’s personal guards and the two lead riders stood in tandem alongside the carriage, menacingly glaring at the tributes with hate-filled eyes as they slowly made their way past. The guard who attacked Ryl had retrieved another baton. Both were holding their weapons in their hands, tapping them irregularly into their palms. Neither the master nor sub-master were anywhere to be seen.