Ashroot poison was a dark liquid, almost devoid of colour whatsoever. It was thick, like honey or mud—the tribes-people of Razaad added some resin from mathhar roots to thicken it—and adhered to the stone edge of Arn’s small knife. Usually, he only applied it to his spear point, but today was not a usual day.
Though there was still no rain, salty water from swamp streams dripped from Arn’s shins as he strode through the foliage of the forest tracking his target. Today was the day Garem had said. When Arn returned to the village, he would see what had become of their plots. He only had to worry about the hunt right now.
His fellow hunters were spread out through the woodlands around them, tracking small birds or wide-winged gulls or rodents. There were water scales out here somewhere, but they were only allowed to kill two or three this month. No one had caught any yet, so they were fair game. Arn kept his eyes trained on the ground around them but listened keenly to the footsteps that clumped the muddy island ahead of him.
Torr tensed when he saw the winding branches of a mathhar give way, but relaxed when it was just Arn shoving through the draped brown vines. “Have you caught anything yet?” Torr asked him. The chief hunter had given him respect and rank since the duel against Ollinar, but Arn was still a few notches down the totem pole.
“Nothing,” Arn replied, quietly. He planted his spear in the dirt, so Torr did the same.
Torr pulled out a handful of berries from his belt pouch and offered Arn some. The berries were sweeter than expected after the morning spent knee-deep in the salty bog. Arn nodded as he ate them. Torr snacked in silence.
Arn stepped closer and Torr held out his hand to offer more berries. Ashroot poison on a pointed stone knife jabbed between Torr’s ribs. It slid in easy, but jerked to the side as the man’s body clenched around it. “I—betrayed!” Torr screeched, before Arn shoved his jaw closed with his other hand.
“I killed Loklar first,” Arn said, with a small smile. “Now you. How many chief hunters must I?”
“You—” Torr mumbled. Blood bubbled past Arn’s knife and dripped down the tanned leather armour he had punctured. Poison had already coursed through the blood stream and Torr’s eyes twisted, each pointing a different way before his spine tensed. He was dead.
Arn pulled out his knife. Vines cracked behind him and he spun away from Torr’s body. His palm found his stationary spear and yanked it free as he faced the newcomer. It was Crezik, smiling as he watched Torr’s body fall to the ground.
“Good work,” Crezik said. “But you’re lucky it was me who heard.”
Arn nodded, and stuck his spear into the mud again. He knelt beside Torr’s body and claimed the corpse’s dagger. Crezik watched him tuck it into his belt, and then search Torr’s body for more. There was a key in a small leather sleeve buckled to Torr’s forearm—probably to the hunter’s storehouse. Arn stood up.
“I’ll take the key,” Crezik said, holding out his hand. The green war-paint on his face extended as he showed Arn his grinning teeth. Arn held the key out for the larger man. When Crezik put his fingers around it, a dagger cut the air.
Crezik caught Arn’s attack with his other hand; with iron gripped fists clasped, they faced each other. Arn squirmed to the side. He had to use his speed, his agility. Crezik’s knee brushed his hip as Arn dodged to the right, his hands still locked with the other’s. With a snarl, Crezik smashed his forehead against the smaller man, sending him tumbling.
Arn skidded on the mud. His left hand snatched his spear shaft as he stepped over Torr’s body, and his right hand steadied himself against the rough bark of a mathhar tree.
“Knew you would betray us,” Crezik growled. His face frowned now, but the green lines on his cheeks made it look like an animal snout. He slid his hands down to the base of his spear and snapped the point toward Arn. The blow clacked off the wooden trunk as Arn duck and jabbed forward.
Crezik stepped back warily, and knocked aside Arn’s third spear thrust with his hand. Seizing the opening, the big man raised his spear to hack downward. Arn lowered his head and charged Crezik with his shoulder.
Hands grabbed the pack of Arn’s neck as Crezik’s released spear danced off his back and clattered harmlessly to the forest floor. Crezik’s grip did more harm. Arn found himself spun to the left, smashed against a mathhar stump. Crezik pulled a knife from his belt with a leather whisper.
The puddle Arn lay in tasted of sand and bitter mathhar sap. Arn shoved himself up to his knees. Crezik’s forearm approached with an underhanded swing and Arn caught it with both hands. The strength of the stab continued through his grip, shocking his muscles and pushing him back through the mud. Crezik’s blade point sliced the leather tunic and grazed a rib. Crezik’s mouth showered spittle as he hissed against his adversary.
Arn let Crezik’s arm go when the other hunter pulled it back for a second stab. He scrambled to grab his own dagger from his ankle sheath. He turned, in the mud, from knees to hip, trying to jab at Crezik’s shins with the weapon.
Crezik stepped to the side, avoiding it. He slammed his sandal down on Arn’s forearm. Through his black face paint, Arn watched his dagger disappear into the muddy puddle. The burly hunter dropped to one knee and drove his knife downward. This time, Arn squirmed backward, against the mathhar tree he had earlier struck. A sharp blade gashed his left arm, then plunged into the mud.
Torr’s dagger had left Arn’s belt. Arn shoved the blade across Crezik’s throat and watched the blood splatter down. He twisted out of the mud to look Crezik in the eyes as he died. It was personal. It was always personal for Arn, death and life were his closest friends. Crezik tried to speak, but his mouth was full of red. He sank backward, and muddy water washed his face clean.
Arn gasped for breath as he stood up. He collected the weapons that had been littered through the clearing and searched for the discarded key until he found it. Torr’s berries were still held in his stiff hand. A few gashes and probably a broken rib—Arn had emerged from the two fights quite well, he considered.
With difficulty, he heaved Torr’s body up over his shoulder. It was a brutally long, painful walk back to the village. Arn’s shoulder was soon soaked by Torr’s blood, and the rest of him covered in quickly hardening mud. He didn’t see any other hunters, just wide-winged gulls circling overhead. They mostly ate fish, but would stoop to carrion if Arn left Torr for them. He did not.
The first street into the village was abandoned. Arn suspected the rest of the plotters had made their moves, then, drawing commotion to wherever those fights went down. As he neared the village centre, he found himself surrounded by women and children and the occasional old man. He broke through the crowd amidst murmurs and questions and fell to his knees at the sight of Stone Spear, Logern, Keeya, and a few of the Home-makers, his mother included.
“Arn,” Keeya said, quietly. “What’s the meaning of this?”
Not only was he not supposed to make a scene, he was certainly not supposed to have brought Torr’s body. Arn panted, and let Torr fall onto the rock ground beside him. “I tried to save him,” he exclaimed. He looked to Stone Spear, the massive bearded elder who governed them. “Assassins,” he gasped, “I tried to save Torr…”
“Good work, young one,” the leader said. “And Crezik? He was the assassin.”
“How did you know?” Arn asked.
Stone Spear shrugged. “Your sister killed Malla. Imik tried to kill Logern, and he would have replaced him. Crezik was in line to be next hunting chief.”
“He’s dead,” Arn said. He looked down at Torr’s paling corpse. Stagnant poison still filled the knife wound. “But too late.”
“Chief hunter, then.” Stone Spear folded his arms. “I’ll speak with you and the others in private.” Without waiting, Stone Spear led Keeya, Logern and Jorik, the village wise man, away from the crowd.
Arn stumbled to his feet and followed, noticing suddenly the body of another man slumped against a nearby house. It was Imik, he realized, one of Garem’s plotters tasked with taking out the fishing chief. “What happened to him?” he asked. Logern had been defeated by Taran in a duel a few weeks earlier, making him look weak. Her certainly would not have survived a skilled warrior such as Imik.
“My friend Taran helped me kill him,” Logern said, quietly.
“Your friend…?” Arn asked. Logern had outsmarted them all. He had intentionally made himself look weak, while Taran and Bravar both backed his position as chief hunter. He was safer than Stone Spear, likely.
Keeya looked back at him as Arn hurried to keep up. Rays of sunlight between the buildings lit them up repetitively, making it hard for Arn to focus on her. She smiled, impressed by his twist of Garem’s original plot. Though everything had not gone according to plan, they were still siblings. Arn considered her position. She must think we’re in this together then, he though, but he couldn’t care any less about her wellbeing.
At last they reached Stone Spear’s hut, a large building overlooking the cliffs on the south side of the village. He could survey the lagoon where the fishers worked from here, or the beach, or even part of the swamp inland. Arn entered the hut quietly, ready for anything. They were all invited to sit on wooden seats on a floor carpeted in woven long grass. Arn was relieved to be off his feet, but ready for anything.
“I will not be punishing anyone,” Stone Spear said, quietly, once they were within. The man’s dark brown beard and wrinkled brow turned to face each of them as he spoke. “I know a take-over was staged, and I know it went awry. Do not act against me, and we will have peace. Act against me and you will die.”
“Very well,” Keeya said, with a small smile.
Stone Spear grinned. “You’re brave,” he told her. “Your sister is brave, but you accomplished a lot more than she today, Arn.”
“Thank you,” Arn said, quietly. “I’m surprised my sister is involved in all this.”
“Lies,” barked a voice from the curtained opening of the hut. Garem stood in the doorway, his face red with anger. Oh no, Arn thought. Garem spat to the side and continued, “Lies. Our plots may have failed, but let us be clear—Arn was a part of the plan too.”
Arn stood up. “I tried to save Torr,” he snapped. “You’re the one who is lying.”
“Stone Spear, you owe me a favour by your own admission. Believe you me—Arn killed them both,” Garem declared.
“That’s slander,” Arn said. “You’re lying, trying to cost me my new position. Take your deceit back—last warning.” Protection of reputation was as legitimate a reason for violence as any. In Razaad, bloodshed was often evidence of truth though no one cared much for the latter.
“Arn, you’re humiliating yourself,” Garem sneered.
A knife slid free of a sheath—Arn brandished it. “You are, Garem. Old man. I’ll take you.” He stepped away from the others, getting a nod from Stone Spear. Garem backed out of the hut, and the others all followed.
“We’re going to do this?” Garem asked, incredulous. “Betrayer?”
“Deceiver,” Arn said, if only for the sake of the others watching. His arms and legs were so sore they dragged as he moved. A third fight, he realized, warily.
Garem charged at him with a long stone dagger. Arn shoved it to the left and slashed at Garem with his own. They shoved back and forth, a dance of uneven footwork and uncoordinated balance. Arn soon bled from a cut on his shoulder, a nick in his thigh. Garem spat out a tooth after a fist strike to the face, a gash near his neck wept red, but not enough. They nearly fell from the cliffs, but Arn fell to one knee to avoid it. He shoved them back and the fight continued. Everything depended on his victory—if Garem won, Arn would either be dead or would wish he was.
“Liar,” Garem muttered again. Arn was too tired to reply to the taunt. He circled his adversary carefully. His movements were slower than usual, his muscles shouting at him in pain.
Garem rushed forward and thrust his knife at Arn’s face. Arn caught the man’s forearm in time, his own point held at a weird angle in order to stop the attack. Garem let go of his knife—it fell past Arn’s mouth, neck and chest, and right into Garem’s other hand. The point punctured Arn’s leather tunic, his calloused skin, his fleshy right side. It felt cold, and much harder than Arn. The dull force of it seemed more sensory than the pain itself.
Arn grabbed Garem’s hand, and slashed his dagger across the other man’s arm. The blade was released—Garem stumbled back, as did Arn. The latter fell to his knees, clutching his wound.
Garem grabbed a serious gash on his arm and stepped back again. He placed his foot on thin air, over the edge of the cliff, and tilted back, off balance. With a wordless cry, the old plotter flailed his bleeding arms for the rocks and roots around him, and tumbled over the edge. A moment later, his screech was cut short by the sharp, rocky beach.
Keeya knelt at Arn’s side to help him, but Arn whispered, “No. Not you.” She had been in on Garem’s plots since before him. He couldn’t trust her. “Thalla,” he said. “Or Raal.” His brother was loyal to Logern, and Arn had proven his loyalty to Stone Spear and current regime. At least, they all thought he had.
With a sore arm, he pulled the knife out and pressed his muddy palm over his bleeding side. Jorik the Embalmer, the village healer, mortician, and wise man, fell into the dirt beside him. “You’ll be alright,” he told Arn. “We’ll make sure of it.”