by C. J. Aaron
The beating ceased as the group reached the fence. Ryl unceremoniously fell to his hands and knees, his entire body sore from the continuous torrent of abuse. A stream of blood, from what had likely been a baton blow to the head, trickled down a matted clump of hair now plastered to his face.
Ryl spat out a mixture of blood and saliva, a small pool forming on the hard ground beneath his face. The attacks had happened so quickly and from all sides he had been caught off guard. His focus had been on defending his head as best he could using his arms. The volley of blows had hurt tremendously, but as far as he could tell nothing was broken. The inherent quality of the woodskin naturally diffused some of the impact. The noise of the falls that should have drowned out all sound at this distance was a whisper compared to the roar of the laughter from the guards.
His head was still spinning too fast to formulate much coherent thought. There was nothing inside his young mind that could comprehend the barbaric joy of the surrounding crowd.
The laughter quieted as the guards parted slightly along the fence and fanned out to form a rough semicircle around Ryl. With his peripheral vision, he saw the boots approach, stopping half a pace from each side of him. Ryl felt the cold, hard wood of the baton under his chin, the pressure forcing his head and eyes upward.
Sub-master Osir was squatting down in front of him, a contented grin spread across his face.
“Like spending the nights outside, do you, herd?” Osir whispered to Ryl. “Well, you won't enjoy this one. Maybe you'll think twice before taking the rules for granted the next time, eh? I expect you to be at the orchard by sun up on the morrow.”
Osir stood, arms spread outward, silencing the rabid crowd.
”For your crimes, you are hereby sentenced to a night in Osir’s Stocks,” the sub-master announced to the crowd. He rotated his body to play to the entirety of the gathering, finishing with an arm pointed fiercely toward the small dock. Frenzied cheers erupted from the assembled guards.
Ryl followed the tangent of Osir’s finger down the length of the pier. A step behind where the water buckets hung, a frame had been built extending upward to the height of two men. From the top of the horizontal bar that connected the two uprights, Ryl counted seven spikes, glistening in the sun, pointing downward toward the dock. His body shuddered at the sight.
A second smaller frame had been built underneath. Standing nearly chest high, two boards spanned the distance between the vertical posts, one large hole in the middle, a smaller hole a few feet away on either side.
The guards to his sides wrenched him forward, hands gripping him underneath each arm, squeezing their fingers into his flesh. Ryl clenched his jaw, focusing his mind, willing his woodskin not to form the noticeable crust it had before. He tried to get his feet under him, but couldn’t gain a foothold as they dragged him across the slick wooden deck.
The trip from square to the self-proclaimed Osir’s Stocks was blissfully short. The guard on his right hand let him go, stepping around the other side of the pillory, while the other tightened his grip. The guard dropped him crudely as he was passed under the framework. From his back on the wet deck, he looked up at the sharpened points staring down at him, wondering what role they would play in his upcoming punishment.
The guards wasted no time in securing Ryl, hoisting him to his feet. He watched as the top half of the board was lifted up from one end, his chest slammed into the lower half as he was shoved from behind. A hand forced his neck into the larger hole in the center, choking him against the smoothed wood. Each of his hands was thrust through a worn leather strap inside the outer holes of the board before being cinched tighter from below.
The top half of the pillory slammed shut, sending a jarring shock through Ryl’s body. The guards laughed as they inserted the locking pin. Craning his neck as best he could, he watched them casually stroll off the dock.
Triumphant heroes returning to the cheers of their comrades.
19
Thankfully, the cheers soon died down as the novelty of the punishment wore off. Guards still milled around the square in groups of two or more. Some passing through carrying out whatever their assigned duties, other prowled aimlessly, circling like sharks waiting to prey on the returning tributes. The looks of sheer animosity graced the faces of those that pointed his way.
The holes of the stocks that held him captive had been worn down to a smooth finish, thanks to a combination of overuse and the wet conditions near the falls. The wood gave off a pungent aroma, the slate mixture of rot, sweat, urine and blood.
Though the holes were smooth to the touch, there was no comfort to be found. The leather cords around his wrists were tight, practically biting into his skin. Too tight for his hands to gain any purchase on the wood to release some of the pressure on his wrists or neck. Allowing his neck to seek respite on the slick wooden support for more than a moment resulted in cutting off his ability to breathe.
Within a very short period of time, the answer to curiosity regarding the spikes hanging ominously overhead became painfully clear. The air surrounding the falls was heavily laden with moisture, so thick that it seeped through every available opening, saturating everything it touched. Osir, the proud creator of this addition to the standard stockade, utilized the saturated air to enhance his device’s torturous effects.
The downward facing points, while terrifying in appearance, personally inflicted no harm. The moisture rapidly condensed on the slick surfaces, forming into a bead of water that plummeted downward, striking roughly in the same position drop after drop after drop.
The true physical effects of the constant dripping water were inconsequential to the mental torture that plagued with every impact. The drops struck at seemingly random intervals, falling from each spike at a staggered rate. After a short period of time, every drop seemed to connect with a force far greater than it naturally possessed.
Virtually immobilized by the restraints, each droplet repeatedly hammered the same location. One drop struck the back of each hand. One struck each elbow. One for each shoulder. The final spike dropped its burden squarely on the nape of the neck, just below where the pillory secured Ryl's head.
He tried to focus his mind, desperately trying to block out the shockingly painful droplets. His stomach rumbled from hunger and the muscles in his neck quickly began burning from the constant strain of the position he was forced to maintain. This, combined with the constantly undulating roar of the waterfall at his back, was a maddening cocktail. He felt as if his mind were slipping further into delirium with every drop that struck him.
In truth, Ryl had been looking forward to spending the night in the boarding house. The comradery of his fellow tributes and meager pallet he would have called his own for the night now seemed like the epitome of luxury. He had been eagerly anticipating the time to think back on the occurrences over the last few days.
Ryl's view of the world he occupied and the history of how times have come to pass had been altered beyond his wildest imagination. He himself had changed beyond his current comprehension. Ryl hungered for the solitude, for the peace to put together the shards of information, to see the world and himself for what they truly were.
So quick was his time with Da'agryn that Ryl hadn’t the opportunity to question the changes that were occurring to him as well as around him. According to the old man, he was the catalyst. He was to play a crucial role in the prophecy of a dying sage. To what extent, he was unaware. If he was the harbinger of change, what change would he bring?
He was to set them free. Ryl cackled the laugh of a madman, the involuntary sound escaping his lips. How was he to save anyone? He was a prisoner of Osir’s Stocks, the brainchild of one who was appointed to be his guardian. Surrounded by those who joyously abused the tributes as if it were the true intent of their position. His position in life seemed hopeless.
His experience within the Erlyn had been enlightening, leaving him with a profound feeling of connection to the woods that loomed in
the distance. He longed to be back within their comforting embrace. He could feel the call of woods, felt its distress and hopelessness as it was unable to assist him even so close to the shadow of its knightly trees.
Ryl had yet the opportunity to comprehend the connection he shared with the other tributes. His first interaction after leaving Da'agryn and the Erlyn had been with the guards. He had no opportunity to speak with another tribute since. He had the profound sense that he was missing a critical piece of information, knowledge required to complete the puzzle of the power that flowed within his veins. He could see the solution in his mind, yet it slipped through his grasp, remaining tauntingly outside of his reach.
Ryl began to notice tributes returning from their assignments around Tabenville. He shuddered at the state of the tributes as they ambled back to the boarding house they called home. Their heads were hung low as they plotted the safest route through the net of hungry guards.
The number of guards in the plaza had increased since Ryl had been placed in the pillory. The hive now worked itself into a euphoric fury. Their verbal assaults met with laughter, their physical assaults met with cheers. Ryl watched as tributes were spit upon, struck with fists, boots or batons while being doused with a steady stream of verbal abuse.
Ryl felt the blood begin to boil within his veins. He struggled at his bonds, the rough leather biting into his wrists, the wood chafing the skin around his neck as the anger and the power grew inside of him. Ryl felt as if he were bursting at the seams, as if he would lose control at any second. The more his anger rose, the less pain he felt in his arms and neck. The freedom from the pain was exhilarating.
As if he were there with Ryl, the words of Da'agryn crept into his mind.
You must control your temper.
His anger, although justified, in the long run would serve no purpose if his powers were discovered now. The vision of cell after cell of tributes, rotting away until their Harvest in a dark forgotten prison sapped any fight left in his body. For a moment, he let his body go limp, temporarily releasing the pressure and the strain of maintaining the same position for so long.
Ryl had expected the choking sensation to return almost immediately. However, as the seconds ticked by, the pain failed to return. He noted that the pain from the rough leather straps around his hands was absent as well. Ryl chided himself for not thinking of it sooner.
The woodskin.
The pressure on his hands and neck were dulled as the skin around those areas had hardened into a thick bark. He stole a moment to rest his straining neck now that the stockade no longer choked him, focusing his mind on maintaining the thickened skin. Ryl had no concept of how long he would be able to maintain this state. In truth, he had no idea how he had initiated the woodskin in the first place.
While the discomfort in his hands and neck had been mitigated by the woodskin, the irregular pain of the water droplets hammering into him threatened to break his current concentration. Ryl focused his mind on forming a thick crust first on the most painful location of the water torture, the nape of his neck.
Another drop fell, sending out a wave of pain that started at the point of impact on his neck, radiating down his spine. A few breaths later, a second drop struck home with just as much force and agony as the last. Ryl exhaled slowly, focusing again. In his mind, he saw the droplet splashing off his skin, the smooth tanned surface replaced with a skin hardened with the patterned shell of a tree’s bark.
The third drop plummeted downward, connecting with Ryl with a force equal to the drops before. His muscles involuntarily flinched in anticipation of the pain.
The pain that never came.
Ryl heard the drop more than felt it, the sensation reduced to a mere vibration at the source. The sound was that of water striking wood. A muted tap like that of an errant droplet tumbling from a rain-soaked tree to the roof below. The sound brought Ryl back to his childhood before The Stocks. How many countless nights had he spent in his small loft bedroom listening to the patter of the rain on the slanted roof above his head?
Rly could ill afford to be distracted by thoughts of his childhood or his biological family at the moment. Those thoughts were dangerous, a slippery slope down into a darkness full of anger and fear. At the present, he had no idea when his skin would revert back to its original texture. Refocusing quickly, he began concentrating further, focusing on the droplets falling on his shoulders and arms. Although much less tortuous than those striking his neck, they were growing incessantly more uncomfortable with each passing moment.
Concentrating as he had with the skin on his neck, he was able to reduce the effect of the drops on his left arm. He struggled mightily to maintain the same level of toughness over multiple places at one time. Attempting to form a bark on his right arm as well resulted in a miniscule amount of comfort for that arm. At the same time, it released a portion of the barrier he had placed over the other areas of his body. Almost immediately, the pain returned to where his neck and wrists were confined to the stockade.
Fighting a losing battle, Ryl released the bark diffusing the impact of the droplets, focusing again on his neck and wrists. To his surprise, he was successful in alleviating the majority of the pain. Yet, try as he might, he was unable to reach the same level of protection he had enjoyed when he had subconsciously created the bark in the first place. As hard as he could concentrate, he felt as if there were a barrier within him that repelled his every attempt to bypass it.
Replacing a small level of insulation from the punishing drops on his neck and wrists, Ryl cocked his head to the side, looking down the pillory toward his right arm. Although his view of his arm was blocked by the wood, he was able to gauge the approximate time it took for the falling droplets to reach his right elbow. Struggling to maintain the hold over the rest of his protected body, Ryl concentrated on hardening his skin only for a split second to protect his body at the moment of impact.
He lost count of the number of times he attempted the feat. The minutes slipped away into hours, his focus remained centered on creating the rapid change. His efforts were rewarded with small yet minuscule degree of success. Although he needed to start the process seconds early, he was successful in creating a localized barrier that at least partially insulated his elbow from the falling drops.
Ryl was pleased with the small measure of success, yet a part of him was frustrated by the overall lack of understanding as to what was happening to him. His body felt stronger, more energized, more knowledgeable, yet the inability to see the whole picture ate away at him. Even with his relatively brief experience accessing the newfound powers at his disposal, there was a noticeable block inside him. He could feel it there every time he reached inside to control the woodskin.
Ryl was astonished at the length of time the woodskin had remained present around his neck and wrists. The respite from the abuse of the stockade had given his hands and neck time to slightly recover. He let his head slump forward, leaning into the stockade, pushing forward with his shoulders and arms. Ryl closed his eyes for what he had planned on being a brief pause. Instead, he slipped almost immediately into dreamless sleep.
20
Ryl awoke with a choking gasp from sleep that was anything but comfortable. Struggling for air, he pushed himself up off the stockade using his wrists for leverage. The momentary panic passed as he rapidly regained his breath. The feeling of the rough leather cutting into his wrists assaulted his senses with a palpable force. The drops of water from the condensing moisture on the spikes above hit their marks, an irregular onslaught of pain that made concentrating difficult.
Attempting to ignore the reinvigorated pain, Ryl worked to focus his distracted mind. His efforts were rewarded with a mild lessening of the pain around his neck and wrists. Again and again, he tried to extend the insulation of the woodskin to no avail. Exhausted, he admitted defeat, allowing the moderate protection to remain on his neck and wrists.
He felt more drained of energy now than he could ev
er recall. It was a weariness that seeped from within his very core. He felt empty inside while on the outside his muscles burned and his skin throbbed from the torture.
His body was screaming out the answer to a question from the night before. There was a definitive limit to the use of his woodskin. He had dangerously overused the gift.
The void that he felt inside his body was terrifying, reminiscent of the nightmare that plagued him for eight cycles. The light he had just recently felt, the power, the defiance, all gone. In their place a frigid, black nothingness filled his body.
Ryl craned his neck to get a better view of the sky. To the east, the dim glow of the rising sun was slowly creeping westward signaling the start of the day’s work for the tributes. For the first time since his incarceration in The Stocks, he was excited about the prospects of his work assignment.
The thought of being set free from his night of punishment was energizing. The Erlyn called to him and the solace of work in the orchard would be refreshing. The state of Tabenville was toxic, much more so than anywhere else in The Stocks. Ryl had barely been there a night and was already choking on its poison.
The minutes stretched on while the punishing drops continued their relentless assault. Ryl had been forced to abandon any extra protection for anywhere except his neck. That was now virtually nonexistent and failing rapidly.
As the sky brightened to the east, Ryl noted the shadowed figures of tributes silently escaping their waterlogged boarding house. They slipped out of their darkened entryway in groups of two or more, making haste down the road or into their assigned fields. The guards on duty, whether they noted the tributes hasty retreat, paid them no heed. Aside from the sluggish walking patrols, there was no movement from the guards’ side of Tabenville.
