Judging by the dull ache in his arms and legs, Arn knew the poison still affected him. He watched the sun rise through his window, unable to sleep. He had only been able to slightly increase his dosage since he began this horrid process. There were many stories of past leaders who had become immune to toxins by this process, but there were no clear instructions. Arn could have spoken to Jorik the Embalmer, if he trusted another living soul. But Arn did not.
Today was the day he was done Garem’s task. He had given it a few extra days; his own poison supply was larger than it had ever been, even after he gave another jar of ashroot to Garem. The Embalmer was the only one to produce the stuff, hence the necessity of stealing it form pre-existing storage.
He went on his hunt, as was his responsibility. With black paint on his face and arms, and a poisoned spear, Arn prowled the swamp lands, waded through the leeching grounds and gnarled mathhar forest, and returned with a dead rabbit, a scaly saltworm from the seawater bog.
This time he found Garem on the waterfront, fishing with a thin spear instead of a meat one. He jabbed it into the ocean twice as Arn approached and deposited dead fish each time, into the bucket at his feet. He saw Arn coming and smiled weakly, tilting his pulled-back hair to look at the hunter. “Arn,” he said. “Good tidings.”
“This is for you,” Arn said, and handed Garem the jar. There were fishers out on the water, on the rafts and craftswomen in the roads of their village, but Garem and Arn were alone.
Garem nodded, and slipped it into the pouch at his belt, before spearing the Deep once again. “Very good. Thank you, Aralim. Are you serious about helping out more?”
“I am,” Arn said, quietly.
The man nodded and jabbed his spear into the mud near the water. “I want you to be the one to poison Torr,” he said. “Make sure you remain anonymous. Crezik is in on it, but if Torr is taken out indirectly, his leadership of the hunting band will be more secure.”
“Crezik is in on it?” Arn asked. He had spent the last week making sure that Crezik wouldn’t notice his theft of ashroot poison. “If I do this, I want to know everyone who is involved.”
Garem scoffed. “Very well,” he said, folding his arms. “Crezik will replace Torr. Your older sister Keeya will replace Malla. We’ve anticipated there may be more work to arrange that change, but Keeya has been involved in this plan since day one.”
Arn shook his head. “Of course. And Logern?” At least Keeya would be an easy one to kill if it came to it.
“We suspect that Bravar, Logern’s right hand man, is loyal to Stone Spear because of a family debt,” Garem said. “It’s a long story. There’s another fisher, a man named Imik. He’s related to Home-maker Colaad, so no issues with allegiance. He’s an excellent fighter so we needn’t worry about Bravar after Logern’s dead.”
“Good,” Arn said. “What about Stone Spear himself?”
“If we have to eliminate him, we will,” Garem said. “But when he’s surrounded by our group, he’ll be forced to concede his authority. We’ll turn him into an easily manipulated leader yet.”
There were plenty of other options that Arn knew of; Garem didn’t voice them on purpose. Stone Spear could kill them one by one, in open duel, eliminating each Chief and appointing his own. Stone Spear might surrender completely, or have enough insight into the tribe to target only Garem, fracturing the leadership of the opposition. Blood Peace could be declared too. If enough deaths occurred, an enforced and often-respected truce could be declared for the good of the tribe. After all, Razaad only consisted of only several hundred people, and more had died in the last six months than Arn could count on his fingers. It wasn’t unusual, and there’d been a few births too. The people of Razaad valued cunning and ambition over everything. But, in the instance of a Blood Peace, the leaders recognized that further bloodshed would jeopardize the future of their very survival.
“Will you do it? Eliminate Torr?” Garem asked.
Arn nodded. He had let Loklar die, a few Moons earlier, granting Torr the very position he would now lose. “I will.” He leaned on his hunting spear and picked an itchy bit of hunting paint from his hairless arm. “When?”
“Now that we have what we need,” Garem patted his pouch, “We can proceed with preparations. I’ll say the tenth of next Moon, unless something happens.”
With a nod, Arn started to walk away. His spear butt brushed the dark green ferns as he walked. “It’ll be done,” he called back. He heard Garem plunge his narrow stick into the lapping waves again, and deposit a flapping fish into the wooden bucket. Soon, Stone Spear would be a fish on the end of that man’s spear, and Arn could get whatever good favour he wanted, likely. But Arn’s contributions to the tribe had only just begun.