A Tribute at the Gates

by C. J. Aaron

  Not long after the last of the tributes disappeared into the distance, Ryl watched as a trio of guards emerged from the morning gloom, steadily approaching his position. Ryl could tell all three were armed. One carried a bucket in one hand, a small pack in the other.

  The guard with the bucket stopped just shy of the gate, while the others carefully made their way onto the slick pier. Ryl stifled a laugh as one slipped, catching himself on the railing, nearly falling into the churning waters below. The two reached him without further incident, one circling around behind, while the other stood in front, hand wrapped around the hilt of his baton.

  “Try anything and you'll be sorry, herd,” the guard sneered.

  What could Ryl have done? He slumped down onto the pier as the guard released his hands and neck from their restraints. His body felt useless, the weight of his soaked clothes was enough to pin him to the pier. He let himself be hauled up to his feet by the two guards.

  Why were the guards in Tabenville so cautious? What had happened here to cause such a heightened level of anxiety and hatred toward the tributes? In the history of The Stocks, Ryl had never heard so much as a rumor of any attempted revolt or uprising. What could the unarmed tributes, who knew nothing of the true power that dwelled inside them, hope to accomplish against an armed and well-trained army?

  Ryl’s thought process was interrupted as the two guards dragging him to the small square dropped him painfully on the ground in front of the third. He crumpled to heap when they released him, his mind and body sapped of the strength to stand. He inclined his head, looking up at the third guard, who exuded a notable air of superiority over his peers.

  “Your assignment is the removal of the fruit-eating moths that have been feasting on our orchards,” the guard sneered as if the infestation was Ryl’s fault. “Shake the trees to remove the infested fruit. Climb each tree and pick them off one by one. I could care less how you do it, just see that it gets done. Remove the rotten fruit, collect the moths and burn them in piles every few rows. Supposedly, this will keep the sensitive little buggers away. Straight forward enough, even your pathetic mind should be able to comprehend it.”

  The officer dropped the bucket on the ground by his feet and threw the pack, hitting Ryl squarely in the chest.

  “I expect the flint, striker and bucket to be returned every night,” the guard snapped. “Oh, and Osir was generous enough to give you half-rations. Now, gather your things and get outta my sight, herd.”

  With that, he turned and stormed off, heading in the direction of the officer’s quarters. A tribute was already out front of the gate maintaining the perfectly-pruned hedges. He shrank away as the officer approached. Ryl shook his head in disgust as he forced himself up to his knees, slowly rolling his shoulders to stretch his back and neck.

  His respite was short lived. The unexpected force of the heavy boot struck his right shoulder, a jarring, painful shock that sent him sprawling out on the hard-packed earth of the square. The small metal bucket clanked loudly as it bounced several paces away.

  “Weren’t you listening herd?” the rough voice of the guard hissed. Ryl worked himself onto his hands and knees, clutching the rope of the small pack in his fist.

  A heavy boot caught him in the midsection, lifting him into the air. He landed hard on his side. Ryl rolled to his back. The blow had sucked the air out of him while sending an excruciating jolt of pain through his chest. For a panicked moment, he gasped as he struggled to breathe. The precious air had barely reached his lungs when rough hands dragged him to his feet.

  “Get on your way, now,” the guard demanded, pushing Ryl toward the bucket that had settled to a stop several paces down the road. Staggering forward, he expected his legs to give out on him as he stumbled along. The pack that was still locked in his vise-like grip dragged along behind him.

  Every breath shot searing pains through his torso, radiating outward throughout his body. He braced himself, placing a hand on the ground, staggering forward the few steps to the bucket. He coughed an agonizing, wracking cough, a wad of dark crimson blood drooled out of his mouth.

  Ryl could hear the guards’ celebratory laughter behind him. The urge to stand defiant in the face of their insults threatened to turn him around. He involuntarily rose up to his full height, shoulders rolled back, hands clenched into fists. For a second, the world seemed to grind to a complete stop and the pain disappeared. Ryl struggled internally to quiet the feeling. He knew nothing good could come of it. In his current state, despite the intense feeling to fight, he had barely the energy to walk. Breathing was becoming an increasingly laborious task.

  Ryl sucked in as deep a breath as his body would allow, bent down and collected the overturned bucket, wincing at the agony. Slinging the rope to the pack over his shoulder, he began shuffling slowly down the road. The friendly limbs of the Erlyn looked like an eternity away. He could feel their call growing stronger with every shuffled step.

  Keeping his head down, Ryl avoided making eye contact with the guards as he passed the barracks and small warehouse. The few he passed lazed around outside, barking out orders at the few unlucky tributes that were assigned to maintain the properties of the guards. He heard a few random insults cast in his direction, but he had long since learned not to pay those any mind.

  Slowly leaving the main village behind, Ryl again steered himself toward the opposite side of the road as he approached the stables. A habit formed out of hard lessons, he placed as much distance as possible between him and his last obstacle before entering the safety of the Erlyn.

  A group of three guards sat lazily playing a game on a small wooden table. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief as one stood up, a look of disgust and hatred written across his face. The guard was slightly taller than Ryl and, even from a distance, his well-defined arms bulged through his ill-tailored uniform. His tight-fitting sleeves were out of place in comparison to the loose-fitting torso.

  Ryl casually increased his shuffling pace, watching the guard out of the corner of his eye. The guard stepped around the others who made no attempt to move as he brushed past. The direction of his quick steps left no question as to their intended destination. Ryl turned to meet the guard who was fast approaching, carefully placing the bucket down to his side.

  “Stop right there, herd,” the guard hissed. His right hand appeared to be fidgeting with something on the lower portion of his shirt.

  “Yes, sir,” Ryl answered feebly as the guard reached him.

  The guard’s next statement came not in the form of words. He lashed out with both hands, pushing Ryl in the shoulders. Still weakened from the painful night and morning, Ryl went down, involuntarily curling himself into a fetal position, facing away from the stables. His bag slipped from his hands, sliding to the ground in front of him.

  “Really sorry about this, ain’t no other way,” the guard whispered as he knelt down over Ryl. All hint of anger and animosity was gone from his voice. Ryl turned his head slightly, looking up in shock as the guard made a mock show of violently roughing him up.

  “You’ll stay down if you know what’s good for you,” the guard screamed, more over his shoulder than to Ryl.

  “Gotta keep up appearances, eh?” he whispered, reaching into his shirt and pulling out a small flattened package. The guard roughly grabbed Ryl’s bag with his other hand, making an exaggerated show of rummaging through it, as he slipped the package inside with his other hand.

  “There’s dry cloths and some extra food in there,” the guard whispered calmly. “I’m not perfect, ain’t no monster though.”

  Ryl looked up at the guard in shock as he tore off a small piece of the hard, stale bread Ryl had been given for a meal. The guard was older than Ryl. He looked to be somewhere near his 30th cycle, his brown hair trimmed short as was the typical style with the guards. His slightly crooked nose, weathered skin, and multiple small scars told of a life lived in hazard. Gone from his face was the angered sneer and hate-filled hazel eye
s, replaced by a sympathetic smile and a look of sorrow.

  “Thank you,” Ryl mouthed the words, no sound coming from his throat, but the message rang out clear as day.

  “Stay safe,” the guard whispered with a wink as he tossed the small piece of bread into his mouth. He stood, dusted off his shirt and pants, made an overdramatic kick that landed just behind Ryl’s lower back, creating nothing more than a cloud of dust. With that, he turned back to his companions, throwing his arms out to his sides.

  “What?” he yelled back at the other guards. “I was hungry.” Laughter erupted from the pair as he strode quickly back toward the stable.

  For a moment, Ryl lay motionless on the road. The actions of the lone guard had taken him by surprise. The sentiment had shaken him to the core. In all his cycles in The Stocks, he'd never experienced anything quite like it.

  Never before had he seen or heard of a guard treating a tribute with kindness. Concocting an elaborate ruse by which aid could be given in the face of the other guards was a thing of legend. Ryl wondered who this guard was. For a moment, he smiled.

  His entire life up to this point had been a juxtaposition of two worlds. In one, he was a happy child living a carefree life in the arms of a loving family. In the other, he had been abandoned, stripped of his identity, traded as a commodity, hated and abused by all, including those who were there to protect him. The closest thing to kindness on the part of the guards up to this point had been to disregard his existence entirely.

  Ryl watched as this stranger sauntered back to the cheers of his peers. He was greeted as a returning hero with handshakes and jubilant claps on the back. His triumphant violence, undoubtedly a story to be told time and time again, exaggerated around the tables of the mess hall. How many more shared the same sentiment as this lone guard?

  Da'agryn had said not to give up hope, that there were allies out there. Ryl chuckled to himself as he forcibly hauled himself back to his feet. This couldn't have been who he meant.

  Ryl moved slowly forward, toward the entrance to the Erlyn. Even with all that had occurred throughout his short life, including the events of the last few days, this one singular action caused him to look at the world in a whole new light. Perhaps, there was still good in the world. Perhaps, this small view of life here in The Stocks wasn't a true representation of the overall societal sentiment toward the tributes.

  Step after step, Ryl plodded on down the road. He glanced back over his shoulder half-expecting to see guards in pursuit. The road between him and Tabenville was deserted. He nearly doubled over in pain as he forced out a painful, productive cough. He spit out a glob of mucus and blood. He didn't need to look at the red stain on the road for confirmation. The stale taste of iron filled his mouth.

  Every step was met with pain. His neck throbbed and his legs burned from maintaining the same position throughout the night. His wrists were nearly raw from the chaffing of the leather bonds. His ribs were bruised from the brutal kick from the steel-toed boots.

  The closer he got to the Erlyn, the greater her call was. In the pillory overnight, he could barely hear her, the pain and the roar of the falls drowning her out. Now as he approached the entrance, he could feel her song throughout his body. The Erlyn felt worried, as if the forest had felt his discomfort and could do nothing to assist.

  Ryl exhaled a painful breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in as he crossed the threshold of the forest. His breaths were growing shorter and more laborious, yet a profound feeling of relief washed over him as he was swallowed up by the shadow of the trees.

  No more than a dozen paces into the woods, a second small path had opened up to his right. The swollen banks of the river had receded slightly, yet still lapped at the left-hand side of the road. The path called to him, an irresistible gravity drawing him away from the main road.

  Ryl stopped at the entrance to the small path, resting his right hand on one of the trees framing the narrow opening. Leaning his weight against the sturdy tree, he placed his forehead for a moment on the back of his hand, gasping for breath, sucking in every last drop of the clean, crisp, earthen air of the forest.

  “It's good to be back,” Ryl said, looking up, taking in the sights of the forest and canopy high above. “I missed you, too.”

  21

  The brief gentle breeze and quiet rustling of the leaves were the only signs that there had ever been an entrance behind Ryl. The path before him into the Erlyn was unlike any he had traveled before. Beams of daylight broke through the canopy above in glowing pillars, striking the pathway at seemingly measured intervals as he staggered onward.

  Between the trees, the forest to either side was covered with large ferns and leafed pants which Ryl couldn’t readily identify. The floor of the pathway was covered entirely in soft moss that cushioned and muffled the sound of every step. Ryl glanced behind him, within seconds the springy moss returned to its natural shape, erasing all trace of his passage.

  The flat, well-lit pathway continued on for a short time before reaching the base of an enormous fallen tree, some thirty paces in diameter. The base looked ancient, an ashy grey color, as if it had been petrified ages ago. Ryl glanced skyward. The remains of the gargantuan tree stretched some twenty paces above him. A great beam of sunlight pierced the gloom landing directly on the top of the great stump.

  The path ended at an opening in the base of the tree. With nowhere else to turn, Ryl stepped into the narrow hole, ducking slightly although the roof was tall enough to accommodate his full height. Once inside, the walls and ceiling were made of repeating lines of slightly varied colors. Ryl ran his hand along the wall. Smooth to the touch, each line ended in a slight lip giving the walls a wavy feeling.

  The entranceway traveled through the tree for several paces before depositing Ryl in a circular clearing. The opening in the middle of the tree was perhaps ten paces wide. The walls were the same ashen color as the exterior of the tree and glistened with moisture. Small clumps of glowing moss dotted its interior.

  The ground was carpeted in short green grass, sloping slightly downward from all sides to the center where a small tree stood. Ryl approached the tree, examining it carefully. The slender tree stood nearly twice his height, its flawless, straight trunk broken by two branches, slightly longer than his forearm in length that extended out opposite each other. The top formed an almost perfectly round, flat roof of leaves.

  The branches that extended outward were at approximately eye level. Each limb was strikingly different in appearance. To the right, the branch was healthy, sprouting a green clump of leaves that protected a small, round green fruit. The branch to the left appeared devoid of life, a dead relic still clinging desperately to the trunk.

  Ryl gasped for breath, a spasm of pain began a coughing fit that brought him to his hands and knees at the base of the tree. The bucket and pack dropped to the ground as the blood poured freely from his mouth. Shaking from the pain, struggling desperately for breath, he rocked back on his heels, straightening his body, hoping to gather more precious air.

  Tears welled in the corners of his eyes as he lifted his vision up from the blood-soaked grass at his knees. The kick from the guard had wreaked enough havoc to his insides that he was slowly drowning in his own blood, each painful breath more difficult than the last. He would never be able to reach a mender in time.

  The chilling realization stuck him that this was the end. Ryl lifted his hand, running his finger around the circular brand of the House on his neck. He cracked a small smile at the thought of his sponsor and how irate he or she would be when their investment turned up missing. No guard would ever find him here, of that he was certain. The Erlyn would never allow it.

  The spiteful resolve turned to sorrow as he realized that his passing would amount to nothing more than a mere inconvenience in the life of the so-called righteous soul who had claimed his life for their own benefit. Another would be chosen. Another child would be torn away from his or her family to live a life of co
nstant mental and physical torture. Ryl slammed his right fist into the ground, driving it nearly up to his wrist in the earth, now softened by his blood.

  No.

  He would not go out like this. There had to be another way. Every fiber in his body screamed out in protest, the blood in his veins burned with an intensity he had never felt before. He tilted his head back, letting out a scream that was foreign to his ears. The guttural, savage cries of a countless number of voices coalesced into one massive roar shouting defiance into the silent forest.

  The scream was short lived. Ryl doubled back over as another spell of coughing riddled his body with pain, splattering blood on the base of the ashen tree.

  Ryl wasn't sure if he was hallucinating due to the pain and trauma. Between ragged breaths, he watched in a state of delirium as the droplets of his blood absorbed into the bark of the tree. From where the drops splattered on the trunk, fine red lines formed, snaking their way up the tree.

  The lines zigzagged their way northward until they reached the intersection of the branches. From there, the darkened veins split, flowing outward along the limbs. Ryl’s blurred vision was transfixed in wonder as they approached the outward extremity of the living branch. The blood flowed into the leaves, spreading out like a spider’s web in every direction, until the entirety of the leaf had changed to deep, crimson red.

  The tips of the leaves began to curl in on themselves. The wilting spread quickly throughout until each one was nothing more than a shriveled, brittle-looking shell of its former self.

  The dark vein paused momentarily before flowing into the fruit. A metamorphosis began as the green skin swirled like liquid. Drop after drop of the crimson mixed with the green of the fruit, rapidly overtaking it’s natural color. The fruit changed to dark crimson, bulging slightly at the bottom, stretching itself into the shape of a teardrop. The swirling ceased and the fruit detached from the branch, falling silently to the ground at Ryl's side.