Darkness Beneath the Dying Light

by R. T. Donlon

  She inhaled, then released through her nose. Velc had taught her well.

  Only with the animal’s first attack can you calculate its weakness. You will have only seconds to determine whether you can serve it its fatal blow. If not, you must revert to wuru and wait for the next…

  The sound of Velc’s voice echoed in her mind. She must perfect the throw.

  Wait. Be patient, she thought. Not too quickly. It’s watching your movement. It’s listening to your heartbeat. Calm everything. Allow your training to take hold.

  The voice in her head sounded like her own now, but remnants of Velc’s teachings remained. She brushed the thought of Velc away and narrowed her focus.

  The cat pounced. Her entire body seemed to flex with untapped energy. All else bled into the wind—the voices in her head, her father, the rest of her pack, the Darkness pumping power through her veins, the amulet—everything dissipated in order to pinpoint her single moving target. Time slowed. The spear at her side raised slightly, enough to change the feeling of it in her hand.

  Defense first, she thought. Find its weakness.

  She flicked her wrist, pushed the spear into the air and caught it overhead. Shoulder muscles flexed into ropes. She knew the attack radius. She could see the path her spear should travel, but at this distance, it seemed a long shot to land the kill shot she wanted.

  The cat landed behind her and circled back. It hesitated, if only for an instant, to turn.

  The weakness! she thought. It’s old!

  Her calculations? Flawless. Kyrah had already let the spear fly from her grasp. The cat turned perfectly into its path, oblivious to the oncoming spear. A spray of arterial blood sent the cat into a screech of agony. It hissed and squealed while the weapon shot through the creature’s neck and pinned it to the ground. Rivulets of blood began puddling under its body, spreading in all directions.

  She stood over the dying cat with animate pride, but something felt tainted with this one. Her chest rippled. Her heart fluttered. Suddenly she felt as if she were floating out of her own body, grasping at anything to keep her from losing control.

  “H…Help…” she muttered, clutching at her chest, but none of the others seemed to notice her sudden change.

  Velc’s voice returned to her mind.

  You’re training will guide you through this. You’ve felt this before. The Darkness…it’s always the Darkness.

  “Not like this,” she spoke out loud. “This is…different.”

  She clutched at her chest, grasping at the amulet between her fingers, then pressed it hard against her sternum. She felt the attar metal warm against her skin, then cool gradually as the sensation within her passed.

  “Kyrah!” her father yelled. The other Warriors had already left their posts and joined Jae at the site of the fallen elk—all but Kyrah. “Ky? Are you okay?”

  The Darkness within her passed completely, subsiding back into her core. It left her with nothing but the odd awareness of her own gritting teeth.

  “Fine,” she said. “I’m fine.”

  Her father joined her in the center of the pack, unsheathed the dressing dagger and held it out to her. He pointed to the cat at the edge of the clearing hanging from her spear.

  “Your kill,” he said. “Your responsibility.”

  “But father—” she blurted.

  Her father’s empty hand rose to eye level, palm out.

  “Velc trained you well. If you can kill a cat of that size, you deserve to celebrate its homecoming. Turisic will be pleased.” His voice trailed off only slightly as he mentioned the name of their god. “Your mother would be proud, too. She would be more than proud…”

  She spent the next hour cutting slabs of meat from the cat’s flesh and when she finished, the pack dangled their tired legs over the edge of a jungle cliff, and ate a meal of elk heart and liver, telling stories from lore.

  As the others fell asleep—bellies full and hearts restored—Kyrah kept her stare fixated to the stars. Their blinking seemed to calm her, but not enough to relax, just enough to heighten her curiosity. She wondered how many Warriors before her had asked the same questions of wonderment she asked herself—Is there something more than this Portizu life? Are the gods watching? What lands lie beyond Relu’s Wall?—and as she faded in and out of consciousness and thought, as the first visions of dreams emerged, that she heard someone speak five of the most foreboding words she had ever heard:

  Soon. The Prophet will come.

  The stars gave way to a blanket of unsettled gray clouds. The morning lit like a candle at the end of its wick. If it were not for the sun poking through the gray, the jungle’s usual vegetative glow would have seemed morose at best—near-death even—but instead, the hue of reaching sunlight burned away the fog and cleared a path for the pack of Warriors hauling bundles of meat on their weary shoulders.

  They reached a precipice at the edge of the Jungle Territories where the northern expanse of the Portizu Lands stretched wildly before them. Their village—their home—spread into a green-brown square of land across a number of hills and valleys. It dove deep into a particularly extensive bowl nestled amongst overlooking hills. It was a perfect place to nestle—away from the masses, away from the rest of the Range. To an onlooker, the cluster of huts and buildings may have seemed small and unappealing, but to Kyrah, this was all she ever needed. She admired the wooden fences, the clay-colored matte of it all, the thin ribbons of smoke still rising from extinguished fires of the evening before. There was a comfort in it, an estranged sense of beauty.

  Her entire body burned with the weight of animal meat. She tugged at the sack over her shoulder with fatigued fingers, struggling to travel the final stretch of land to the awaiting crowds of the temple of Turisic.

  “Will the prayers work?”

  Kyrah turned to meet the eyes of the question. It was a girl neighboring her, who seemed only to be thirteen years of age. Her face seemed too young and childish, but the question matched the innocent glimmer in her eyes. Her dark coffee hair wove through itself, sending a tightly fit braid between her shoulder blades, dropping dead in line with her spine. Her eyes, among her other soft attributes, stood out prominently against the rest of her face. Splinters of gold rushed through irises, backdropped by a canvas of textured turquoise. Such colors in her eyes were more than rare. They were considered sacred.

  No wonder why she had made the pack so quickly, Kyrah thought. She is of Turisic blood.

  But Reana had the assertion of someone shrouded in disbelief, someone who had been discounted for the majority of her short life.

  “The prayers always work,” Kyrah said. A part of her understood Reana’s doubt. Another shrugged it away. “Whether Turisic believes we are worthy is a different story. We will find out soon enough.”

  The others scoffed at Kyrah’s vanilla response.

  “Turisic understands our needs,” barked Kyrah. “He does not have to acknowledge them.”

  Another scoff.

  “When was the last time Turisic blessed our hunt? Five years ago? Ten?” Razz asked.

  It was true. Turisic had not given the blessing in seven years, leaving the Northern Portizu living on winter berries and mashed Eldervarn barkmeal for months at a time. Kyrah turned to Reana, who lowered her eyes to her feet. Was she embarrassed? Confused?

  “You must have faith,” Kyrah said, “both of you. If this is going to work, you must.”

  But the disbelievers were not alone. Others in the pack showed that same wane in their eyes, as if what she had just said had broken their collective spirits. Her father, of all people, even sensed a bit of despair.

  It was in this moment that Kyrah did not think. She only acted.

  Her legs propelled her to the front of the group, bouncing the heavy bundle of meat strung over her shoulders. It swung as she turned to face them, but she steadied herself.

  “I know you are all worried,” she began. “I know we have not had the best of luck these past yea
rs, but when I am elected as Elite, things will change. We will restore order and peace to the lands, even if the Chieftain feels it is a waste of time and resources. We know what is happening behind the Wall. We know what we are dealing with, but I am not sure our Chieftain does.”

  She observed the grimace on her father’s face as she finished her thoughts. He raised his eyes and shook his head.

  “You still have much to learn before you are elected,” he whispered, hoping the rest of the pack could not hear him. By the way they perked, however, they could.

  “Velc has taught me well,” Kyrah said heatedly. “You have said so yourself. I am ready.”

  The sack over Jae Laeth’s shoulder had slunk to the ground. Kyrah’s held much more meat, but for an older Warrior of her father’s stature—one who had lost his youth and charm some time ago—the weight would serve as a formidable gift to the god of the Temple. Pride filled Kyrah’s heart. Her father held true to Portizu custom, to Portizu tradition. He had never faded from it.

  Kyrah bowed into minjori, but her father shook the gesture away. The others in the pack stood silently against Jae’s sudden upholding of strength.

  “My daughter,” he continued. “You are stubborn. You are too quick to solve unnecessary problems. You find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time too often. I know this because you have received all of these traits from me.”

  The blood behind Kyrah’s face suddenly began to boil, blending a deepening red with the already almond shade of her skin.

  How can he embarrass me like this? she asked herself. In front of the pack?

  “But you also have the strength of twenty Warriors, the will of a hundred, and the concentration of countless more. You will do great things as the Elite, Kyrah, but you must not let your weaknesses disguise themselves as strengths.”

  Her father’s words sent shivers through her spine, through every bone of her aching body. There, in front of the pack, she allowed a single tear to roll down her cheek.

  Reana widened her eyes at the sight of it. She turned, whispering to another named Taela. Kyrah heard what she said.

  “She cries.”

  “Thank you, father. Thank you all. I hear your words. I will head your warnings.”

  Razz walked passed father and daughter, clipping Kyrah’s shoulder as he fought his way down the rocky hillside. Anger surfaced from inspiration, calmed by her father’s gentle hand against her shoulder.

  “No emotion,” her father whispered. “Not here.”

  “The day an Elite sheds a tear will be the day I shit myself in front of the village,” he barked. “Kyrah of the North! Pah! A joke.”

  “If you don’t trust in me, then who will you trust? Curala the Forgotten?” Kyrah asked.

  Razz, already fumbling down the hillside, ignored her question.

  “Turisic awaits!” he yelled.

  “Allow it to motivate you,” her father whispered. “You cannot gain everyone’s acceptance. At least not yet.”

  They will follow me, Kyrah thought. One day, they will know me as Elite.

  The hillside steepened as they reached the decline valley, but the Warriors had grown accustomed to the weight strapped against their backs. Rocks angled from the dirt in sporadic directions, littering the hillside with beige and deep browns. Sweat dribbled down foreheads, shoulders, chests, and backs. Grunts and heavy breathing broke nature’s buzzing silence.

  “Almost home,” Kyrah mumbled.

  Her father sighed.

  Reana grunted.

  Razz scoffed.

  The temple of Turisic came into view like a hand ushering them closer. There was hope in its structure, optimism in its strength.

  “There it is!” Reana said.

  Excitement rang through her words. The others glared at her.

  “Control your emotions, Reana. You are in the presence of the god himself.”

  She silenced almost instantly, falling backward within herself.

  “This serves for everyone. Clear your minds. Open your hearts,” her father said. “The people must know we uphold their traditions with absolute precision. The excitement of the Hunt must never blur your vision of Turisic’s power.”

  Reana blushed.

  The entirety of the North crowded the Temple’s entrance. Most stared in awe at the Warriors, who dragged themselves the final stretch of land. Still, others—the most religious of the people—kept their eyes transfixed to the Temple doors.

  “Turisic guide us!” someone spoke from the crowd.

  “The blessing!” someone else spoke.

  “They have come with so much,” another said.

  The Temple heightened as they approached, shading the pack’s eyes from the harshening sun. Jae stopped. The others Warriors followed suit. The crowd quieted and waited.

  “Turisic!” Jae screamed. Eyes, like a sea tide, focused intently on him, his blood tattoos. “We have hunted for your glory. We have brought you respect! We have brought you honesty! We have brought honor to you and your people! Please bless our food as winter comes!”

  A chilled breeze ripped through the people.

  “Warriors,” said Jae. “Follow.”

  Wooden doors swung open at the hands of two Turisic priests, shrouded from head to toe in black tunics and smeared in ink-black makeup across foreheads, cheekbones, and eye sockets. Their lips moved through a series of whispers. Eyes fixed to the pack emerging from the crowd.

  “The pack enters,” a priest spoke.

  “We enter only if Turisic allows,” Jae replied.

  The priest bowed his bald head, whispered. He edged forward, shuffling bare feet until he stood only inches from him. Dirty, uncut fingers stretched to brush the tattoos across Jae’s skin.

  “These,” the priest began. “These are fresh. You have done well, as I can see.”

  Jae bowed into marjhi, careful to never allow his eyes to falter from the priest’s eye line.

  “You bow marjhi to me in front of your people, as if I am one of them. I serve Turisic. I am the keeper of his Temple,” the priest continued.

  “Minjori is reserved for the altar. You may be the gate, but you are flesh and bone. Turisic is who I serve, as well.”

  A sharp-toothed smile broke clear from the priest’s mouth—not from joy nor cleverness, but from only acceptance.

  “The Warriors shall enter and, you, people of Turisic shall follow, for we are mere flesh and bone and Turisic is god!”

  No roar broke from the crowd. No excitement surged in them. Only acceptance.

  “Enter.”

  From outside, the room’s size deceived even the most unimpressed of onlookers. Two high-positioned windows cut shapes into the far opposite interior wall. From them, sunlight flooded into an otherwise empty room, spare an altar positioned inconspicuously at the center of it all. Nothing else—no chairs, furniture, or decor. Only stale dust fluttered from one place to the next, settling onto the dirt floor from where it had once come. It was a place used only once a year for the return of the Great Hunt, but a place revered by all in honor of the god for which it stood.

  “The altar of Turisic. I’ve…never seen it,” Reana whispered. “It’s so…empty.”

  Kyrah offered her nothing but a stern gaze. Now was not the time. Only tradition mattered now. Only strength.

  Sunlight descended upon the altar like the arms of Turisic himself. Only three words had been scratched into the altar’s table slab: Anar Ellser Evasc.

  Pain Overcomes Death.

  Eldervarn wood comprised its entirety, preserved with its own sap and shellacked until it glistened against the light.

  “Is it supposed to be like this?” Reana continued. “Is it supposed to be so crude?”

  “Quiet,” Kyrah growled. “We are in the midst of Turisic now. Show your respect.”

  Jae emerged, once again, from the rest of the Warriors. He lowered his sack slowly in front of the altar, bending at the knees into a crouch to unhinge its flap. Inside, thirty-
five pounds of elk meat bled through. He rose with each piece in his hands, holding it over his head with outstretched arms, whispering, “Theada”—the Portizu word for hope.

  Kyrah had never heard the sacred Turisic word before—she, avoiding the Pack Leader title, was not allowed to know it—but the way her father spoke it now felt comfortable, as if the word itself had always been a part of her.

  When he had finished with every slab of meat, her father remained between the Warriors and the altar, but turned to Kyrah.

  “Come,” he spoke. “Do not be afraid. Let us offer our Hunt to the one who watches over us.”

  Kyrah released the sixty-two pound sack slung from her shoulder.

  “This Hunt is mine,” she began. “This Hunt is ours. This Hunt is for Turisic.”

  She watched as her father performed the same ritual, sliding his hand under a brick of flesh, rising from his crouched position with arms overhead, speaking that one word with eyes focused only upward. His methodical movements never changed, never deviated from the course of action. And when he had finished hers, his eyes met the next in line—Razz—and did the same.

  “Come,” he spoke. “Do not be afraid. Let us offer our Hunt to the one who watches over us.”

  This continued until the entire pack had done its part. Piles of meat filled the altar. Jae knelt quietly at the base of it. Only silence and upturned dust filled the room.

  “Now what?” Reana whispered.

  “Have you no reverence?” Kyrah answered. There was anger in her voice. “Quiet. Be quiet and wait.”

  Hours passed.

  Nothing.

  Several more.

  Still nothing.

  Two more. Twenty total hours of standing.

  Nothing.

  “How much longer must we—?” Reana asked.

  Kyrah sensed a familiar pang swell somewhere within her. It was not anger, although Reana had surpassed that particular emotion, but it forced her heart to pump wildly.

  “Reana,” Kyrah whispered. “It is clear you are not ready for such a ceremony. Leave if you cannot control your urges.”

  “I’m…I’m sorry,” the girl said, suddenly awkward and scared, “but—”