A Tribute at the Gates

by C. J. Aaron

  The feeling was replaced with the realization that a wagon could pass by at any moment. Ryl jumped to his feet, hesitant to begin the task ahead. With little effort, he opened a path into the Erlyn. Staring with the headless remains of the guard, he grabbed the arms, pulling the remains toward the woods. His legs slipped on the wet road, now slick with blood. He dragged the first body into the wooded path, quickly returning for the second. He vomited again as he returned for the head, lifting it by the hair. Its lifeless eyes followed him as he deposited it in the woods.

  He closed the path. Their bodies would never be found. They would disintegrate into the soil, leaving no trace of their existence.

  Ryl quickly collected the Leaves, the scattered remains of his splint and the guard’s knife before heading to the bank of the river. He looked down at his ragged clothing; blood spatter dotted his shirt and pants. He gingerly touched the left side of his head and his hand came back colored in crimson. A gash oozed warm blood down his face staining the collar of his shirt.

  He plunged into the shallow, icy waters of the river. The cold water was a sobering shock to his system. He scrubbed at himself, frantically trying to remove any trace of blood from his clothing. Ryl was shivering when he emerged. His skin was clean, but many of the splattered traces remained on his clothing. His hands fumbled as they worked to lash the splint back to his arm. Not knowing where else to hide it, he tucked the small knife away against the bottom of his arm, hidden by the splint.

  Ryl stood looking at the chaos of the road. Even through the gloom of the forest, no one would miss the two large pools of blood and drag marks leading into the forest. Walking a few paces toward the exit, he connected with the Erlyn. Pleading for help, he issued another command.

  The branches high above shuddered and bowed inward, opening a gap to the sky above. Rain, along with the accumulation of water on the leaves and branches, poured down from above as the trees shook off the moisture. A momentary waterfall splashed down onto the road erasing the crimson drag marks, carrying the majority of blood and gore into the river.

  Ryl ended his connection. Again his body was spent. He stumbled, catching himself against a tree. There was no time to recover or delay. He staggered his way to the end of the forest path walking as nonchalantly as possible back to his assigned field.

  41

  The chill had long seeped into his bones, his movements were sluggish, requiring more energy to complete. The steady drizzle had not let up, though the fog had cleared, slightly improving visibility. Portions of the great statue towering over the village of Tabenville materialized in and out of view as the swirling winds forced the rain and mist through the air.

  Ryl dropped one last vegetable into his bucket, slowly making his way over the soggy earth, watching every footfall to avoid slipping. He was a good five paces from the cart when the wet thump of horses’ hooves on the road froze him in place.

  The wagon was nearly alongside his cart when he and the driver’s eyes met. Ryl recognized him immediately from earlier in the day, the reckless driver who'd stuck his wagon in the mud.

  The situation replayed in his mind. The guards that had attacked him had started moving toward him, had waved to him as soon as the wagon passed. The look of recognition in the driver’s eyes when he first saw Ryl. The perfectly-timed attack after the wagon got stuck, the driver beckoning for help. Was it just coincidence, or were the driver and wagon the diversion?

  As if he’d spoken the question aloud, the driver's eyes again went wide. This time, shock and horror were written across his face. He whipped his head to the right and left searching for his companions. Discovering they were nowhere to be found, yet Ryl still remained, his face went as white as a ghost as their eyes met for the second time.

  Ryl had his answer.

  Ryl squinted his eyes in anger as the blood inside his veins heated. Without breaking eye contact, Ryl reached into his splint, retrieving the dagger dropped by the guard. In one fluid motion, he flipped it in his right hand, catching it carefully by the blade and launching it end over end at the driver.

  The driver nearly toppled from the wagon as the blade bit deep into the wood to the side of his leg, its handle wobbling quickly back and forth. Ryl winked at the driver, crossing his arms defiantly. The raw fury that burned in his eyes was terrifying. The driver urged his beasts on to a reckless speed, casting nervous glances back over his shoulder as he disappeared into the woods.

  Ryl felt the chill creep back in as the excitement in his veins subsided. He pulsed his hands into and out of fists, blowing on them for warmth. He hefted the laden bucket, continuing to the cart at the end of the field.

  As the day wore on, Ryl became more concerned over the state of his blood-splattered clothes. He covered the spatter as best he could by rubbing his muddy hands over his soaking clothes.

  Ryl was overjoyed when the day’s labor finally came to a close. Chilled to the core, he kept his head down as he crossed the plaza heading directly for the common house. Sub-master Millis was in conversation with a group of guards outside the barracks. He stopped mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open at the sight of Ryl.

  A tiny trickle of blood leaked from his forehead where the guard had struck him. He was sure it would bruise by morning. He was soaked to the bone, his light clothing weighed down by the water and mud used to disguise the traces of blood.

  “Oh my, Ryl. What happened to you now?” sub-master Millis gaped.

  The guards accompanying him turned to view the spectacle. One guard couldn't help stifle a laugh at Ryl's appearance, immediately wiping the smile off his face when the stern look from the sub-master landed on him.

  “I slipped in the mud, sir,” Ryl said with a smile. “Must've hit my head on a rock. It's ok, just a scratch. I was clumsy.” He touched his hand gingerly to his head, wiping off the blood that remained onto his pant leg.

  “Slipped? Clumsy, you say?” Millis repeated skeptically. His head cocked somewhat to the side, his eyes squinted slightly, observing Ryl with a curious, penetrating gaze.

  “Corporal, please go issue this tribute a clean set of clothes,” Millis ordered, without taking his eyes off Ryl. His look showed an understanding that there were clearly some parts of the story that were being omitted.

  “Yes, sir,” the corporal answered with a salute.

  As the corporal turned in the direction of the storehouse, an idea flashed into Ryl’s head. A potential solution to an unresolved problem that had plagued him.

  “Sir. My arm has been hurting again since I fell,” Ryl said, sending out a feeling of genuine sincerity. “These straps are stretched and loose, could I also have a small section of fabric to help reinforce the splint?”

  The sub-master regarded him suspiciously for an extended moment before shrugging his shoulders.

  “I can't see any harm in that,” Millis sighed. “Corporal, see that our clumsy tribute has what he needs.”

  The sub-master sent them away with a wave of his hand, returning to the conversation he had left. Ryl followed the guard, satisfied with his victory.

  With clean clothes and the extra scraps of fabric in hand, Ryl moved quickly back toward the common house. Side-eyed looks and laughter greeted Ryl as he strolled through the main area, heading directly up the stairs to his room. He deposited the clean garments on his pallet before heading out around the back of the building to wash himself off in the frigid waters of the stream.

  He cupped his hands, collecting the clean water, splashing it on his face. He scoured his face with his hands, a brownish mixture of dirt and blood dripped back into the water. Was it all his blood? A wave of nausea punched into him as he remembered the events of earlier. The headless body, the faceless guard laying still on the road. He recalled the feeling of the bones crushing beneath his hands. His stomach had been empty for hours. He spit out the yellow bile that again forced its way out, stinging his throat and mouth.

  What could he have done differently? There would have been
no reasoning with them. What they represented was the dangerous epitome of society’s flaws. Generations upon generations had been forced to believe in a fallacy, that the phrenic society, one that was based in the peaceful sharing of knowledge, the creation of wonders, was a threat.

  The gluttonous thirst for power and the greed had propelled the elite few to propagate the lie. Thousands of tributes would die, families would be torn apart, children tortured, yet that cost to them was inconsequential. In the end, they would have their blessed elixir. They would have the power they coveted. They would outlast the rest.

  Ryl slammed his fist into the ground. What could he do? A single tribute betrayed by the world, locked away in a pen, forced to physically serve the masters he would eventually serve with his blood. His mind was made up. He would fight with every ounce of his being until his last breath.

  He embraced the possibility of the future he had been so skeptical of since talking with Da'agryn. He would be the catalyst.

  With added resolve, he finished scrubbing the grime and blood from his skin. He had work to do and only a few days left to do it.

  42

  The next morning dawned with clear skies over Tabenville. The ever-present mist from the waterfall was a relief compared to the rain that had fallen on the isolated village over the last several days.

  Ryl stifled another yawn as he set out from the common house. Returning at the end of the long day yesterday, he’d finished his meal quickly, avoiding all questions about the growing bruise on the left side of his face. Luck was on his side as he found that Luan had a needle and thread he could borrow, retiring to his room early for the night. He’d worked late into the night reconstructing his splint until exhaustion finally took its toll. His modified splint wasn’t yet complete, so he was forced to stick with the simple arrangement in the meantime.

  The sound of a horse-drawn carriage sent a momentary shiver down his spine. Even if the driver had pushed his horses and fully-laden carriage hard throughout the night toward Cadsae, there was no way a second set of assassins could have reached Tabenville already. The village would be shuttered and vacated in the coming days. The Harvest was in ten days’ time, four of which would be spent traveling as the tributes made the long, slow trip back to Cadsae for the Harvest and short winter moons. The storehouse would most likely be emptied within the next day, so the influx of new faces would soon cease. Ryl would still have to keep his guard up at all times.

  Sub-master Millis was standing outside the gate to the officer’s quarters, as was his norm. He hailed Ryl as he approached.

  “How’s the arm feeling this morning?” the sub-master asked politely.

  “It’s sore still,” Ryl said, rubbing his arm for effect. “I’ve yet to finish the new splint as well. Turns out my skills as a seamstress are poor at best.”

  The sub-master chuckled at the comment.

  “Not a surprise, seeing as how clumsy you are,” Millis said. Whether the feeling was warranted or not, Ryl had the sickening sensation that the sub-master was aware of more than he was letting on. The man was perceptive. Ryl guessed that his relative freedom to move about the village as well as working in close proximity to the Erlyn had come to an end.

  A guard trotted up the road from where the carriage had parked in front of the storeroom, saluting the sub-master.

  “Sir, it’s here,” the guard said.

  “Thank you,” Millis replied in his official tone. “Tribute, come with me.”

  Although they’d shared several conversations and drinks together, with few exceptions, the sub-master still referred to Ryl as tribute while in front of his men. This didn’t surprise him, yet he felt a tinge of sadness at the informality. Hearing his name used by Captain Le’Dral, Millis or Mender Jeffers had made him feel alive as if, in at least their eyes, he was more than just another crop, still ripening for Harvest.

  Ryl followed the sub-master to where the carriage was waiting. The horse nickered as they passed. The wagons from Cadsae were typically empty, yet two large barrels occupied the back of the wagon along with several bales of hay.

  “Lime powder and hay,” Millis said, pointing to the contents in the back of the wagon. “This is the most I could requisition on short notice. It should be enough to seal most of the cracks. I'm afraid building a barrier to keep the swelling river out will have to wait until next season. The water is still too high.”

  Ry was astonished. The sub-master had surprised him again, coming through on what Ryl had written off as idle chatter.

  “Thank you, sir,” Ryl said graciously.

  “You're welcome,” Millis said with a smile. “I’m pulling you from your assignment in the fields. You'll be sealing the common house until we leave for Cadsae. Hopefully, you'll be able to avoid any more accidents there.”

  Sub-master Millis ordered a pair of guards to assist with unloading the wagon in front of the common house before returning to his spot outside the gate to the officer’s quarters. The guards, along with the help of Ryl and the twins who'd just happened to be exiting the common house, unloaded the supplies to the side of the door.

  The significance of the favor from the sub-master was profound. Although Ryl would not be able to personally enjoy the benefits for long, the quality of life for the tributes in Tabenville had just improved dramatically.

  Ryl launched himself enthusiastically into the work. For the first time since arriving in The Stocks, he was working on a project that solely benefited the tributes. Comfort and respite from the permanent mist that hung in the air over Tabenville would be welcomed relief.

  There was undoubtedly a convenient ulterior motive for the sub-master’s actions. Ryl was convinced Millis couldn’t have known about the situation that had unfolded with the master’s assassins inside the Erlyn. The open animosity toward Ryl and the foolhardy nature of the master was common knowledge and a genuine cause for concern. As the only tribute in Tabenville to be made ready for this cycle’s Harvest, he was important. Ryl couldn’t imagine the repercussions of losing a tribute so close to their Harvest.

  It took Ryl three days to finish sealing the common house. Every moment he spent outside the walls of the house, he could feel the eyes of the guards watching him. He was sure that, at this point, the sub-master had a guard detail assigned to follow his every motion.

  The last of the wagons from Cadsae departed the following morning carrying with it the remaining crops from the storehouse. Normally, the emptying of the storehouse would have heralded the conclusion of work assignments in Tabenville. The tributes would have been packed up and marched under guard back to Cadsae, a trek that would span the course of four days. Millis had made the decision that this cycle, owing to the volatile relationship between the sub-master and the master and the undue risk to Ryl, they would remain in Tabenville, leaving at a point that would see their arrival in Cadsae the day prior to the Harvest.

  The tributes were given the balance of the next two days to spend at their leisure, as long as they remained within the confines of the village. With the exception of taking the vile weekly treatment, the tributes were left to their own devices. The sentries posted at both entrances to the Erlyn were bolstered for the remainder of their stay.

  With every passing moment, Ryl’s anxiety swelled. There was no freedom for a tribute outside The Stocks. He knew the disturbing truth of what life after the Harvest had in store for him. There was no life for a tribute outside The Stocks, only more suffering and pain.

  The constant attention from his fellow tributes did nothing to allay his fraying nerves. The family he had come to know had desired to fill every moment of his time with company and support. Ryl felt as if his passing was being mourned prematurely, as if he were a spectator at his own memorial.

  Luan and the twins were far and away his closest three friends in the small village and the group had grown virtually inseparable. They were his steadfast companions through his last days in Tabenville, all doing their best to maintain a sliv
er of normalcy despite the situation.

  In his spare moments between being doted on by the other tributes, Ryl had found it difficult to work on improving his splint. He finally finished modifying the design the eve of their departure from the small village that had been his final home in The Stocks.

  The length of fabric, so generously provided by the guards, had been folded over on both ends making a slot barely wide enough to slide each of the Leaves into. He’d closed the end closest to his elbow, leaving the fabric short enough so that they extended out an inch on the side nearest his hand. Ryl practiced pulling each of the Leaves out until he was confident they wouldn’t get stuck if he needed them in an emergency.

  Alongside each of the Leaves, hidden on the inside of the fabric, he’d created two narrow pockets that ran almost the length of the splint. He split the treatment into two even piles filling each of the rows before sewing the compartments closed. He’s added several loops in two rows to the exterior of the splint, through which he threaded strips of fabric, allowing him to tie the splint quickly and securely to his arm.

  Ryl held up the splint, turning it over in his hands inspecting his handiwork. He was proud of the design and the results. He felt as if his left arm had healed sufficiently. He hoped his ruse would be convincing enough.

  43

  The morning of their departure from Tabenville arrived at last. Ryl stretched his arms above his head before rubbing his eyes and rolling out of his bed. His fractured sleep had been plagued by the same nightmares again that had haunted him since his recent encounter with the master.

  Packing to leave was a trivial matter. Aside from the clothes he currently wore, the whole of his world possessions consisted of a small pack, the splint containing the Leaves and hidden treatments, the ancient phrenic cloak, and the remainder of the bottle of Milstead Rye. In the standing of any tribute, these possessions would make him as wealthy as a king.