The Primeval Era-Chapter 38: Blood and Stone III

They were arriving.

As they did, Damian felt multiple auras surrounded by strong waves of Mana in the far distance. The signatures were unmistakable to his enhanced senses, bright points of power in the darkness of the Lands of Stone.

He frowned.

Because he could also somewhat sense auras of Mana that were familiar.

But it was only three of them.

Three.

The Chieftain had left with more than three. He had taken several Warriors and several Tribesmen who would pose as Warriors. Where were the others?

Damian frowned deeper as he took larger strides, overtaking the figure of Grandmother Essun and coming to be ahead of her. He waved his hand behind him in a gesture for her to slow down.

She did so without complaint, her ancient eyes sharp with understanding.

The darkness of the Lands of Stone was a heavy one. There could be many things prowling around at this hour, beasts and men alike who used the night to hunt what they could not claim during the day.

Right now, they were among those things prowling around.

And it was always wiser to get a grasp of exactly what they were heading into before charging forward blindly.

Damian moved with the silence that Uncle Adam had drilled into him over eight years of hiding. His feet found the quietest paths across the stone, avoiding loose pebbles and dried vegetation that might crack beneath his weight. Grandmother Essun followed with equal stealth, her bent body somehow making no sound at all despite the gnarled stick she carried.

They came upon a massive Ancestor Pillar, its trunk wide enough to hide a dozen men standing abreast. The tree rose impossibly tall into the darkness above, and its crown of luminescent leaves cast a pale green glow that illuminated a significant distance ahead.

Including the encampment that lay beyond.

Damian and Grandmother Essun got behind the Ancestor Pillar, pressing their backs against bark that thrummed faintly with absorbed Mana. The tree shielded them from view while also providing that light of illumination for the scene ahead.

When they peered around the trunk to see what awaited them...

Damian’s blood ran cold, and then it ran hot!

A temporary encampment had been established in a clearing between jagged Spirit Stones. A bonfire crackled at its center, casting dancing shadows across the jagged purple rock formations. The flames were large and bright, clearly built by those who feared nothing in the darkness.

Twelve Flesh Awakening Warriors moved about the camp.

Damian counted them automatically, his enhanced perception noting their positions, their weapons, their levels of alertness. Some stood guard at the perimeter. Others sat near the fire, eating or resting. Two stood watch over a group of huddled figures near another Ancestor Pillar at the camp’s edge.

The group of scared women.

Damian recognized none of them, but he recognized their terror. Young women clustered together, holding each other with the desperate grip of those who knew what awaited them. Their clothing was torn. Their faces were streaked with dried tears. They did not look toward the fire or the Warriors.

They looked at nothing.

The hollow gaze of those who had already accepted their fate.

And then Damian’s eyes locked onto the barely recognizable figures bound at the opposite side of the camp.

The Chieftain.

Or what remained of him.

Chieftain Ayala’s face was swollen beyond recognition, his features distorted by bruises and breaks that made him look like a different person entirely. One eye was sealed shut. The other barely open. Blood had dried in crusted streams from his mouth, his nose, his ears.

Beside him sat two Warriors of the Purple Stone Tribe in similar states of ruin. Broken. Beaten. Burned!

Fucking burned even!

And crouching in front of them, committing torture in real time, was a Bone Tempering Warrior.

...!

The scene instantly caused Damian to feel a sense of lividity and rage coursing through him. The words of Grandmother Essun rang in his mind.

He stifled the sensation of guilt that tried to rise alongside the anger.

How had this happened?

It was supposed to be such a simple thing. Disguise as the Butcher. Visit a few tribes. Create a false trail. Return home safely.

How had it gone so wrong so quickly?

As they watched from behind the Ancestor Pillar, the words of the Bone Tempering Warrior echoed out across the encampment. His voice was casual, almost bored, the tone of someone performing a tedious task rather than inflicting agony on another human being.

"Come on, just tell me what I want to know."

The Warrior straightened slightly, rolling his shoulders as if his back was stiff from crouching.

"Where is the Butcher? How did weak things like you manage to get his weapon?"

He reached down and grabbed the Chieftain’s broken jaw, forcing his head up.

"The only logical conclusion is that he may be dead, but it would not have been done by you. You are Dross. Waste. You could not kill a true Warrior if your pathetic lives depended on it."

He released the Chieftain’s jaw and stood fully, turning to gesture toward the huddled women.

"So just let me know. If your own pain is something you can withstand, I want you to look at the young women over there. The animals over there. Your fellow Dross."

His smile was visible even from this distance, cruel and anticipatory.

"There are multiple there, and I can have any of them accompany me later tonight. But I can always kill one or two first. Is that what you want? More filthy Dross dying on a night like this?"

He turned back to the prisoners, crouching again to bring his face close to the Chieftain’s.

"Do you know the ones that were with you? The ones wearing the garb of Warriors but were lesser things with no Mana?"

His voice dropped to something almost intimate.

"Did you know they defecated themselves when I cut through them? Soiled themselves like infants in the moment before death. In the end, all of you Dross will do the same. I just want to spare you the pain of watching it happen to others and to yourself."

He patted the Chieftain’s cheek with mock gentleness.

"So make this easy for me, why don’t you? I want to get to the good part of the night and not waste all of my time here."

...!

The words and expression of that Bone Tempering Warrior were vile.

Damian could not help but feel the rising anger inside of him, a fury that burned fucking hot. He felt the Mana across his flesh and bones and blood and marrow and organs begin to vibrate in response to his emotional state.

Even in his anger, he broke down what everything meant.

That Warrior was gleefully looking down and degrading those here by calling them Dross.

Dross never referred to each other as Dross.

The term was used by the Anointed and the Sworn to describe the Unbound Tribes. It was an insult, a declaration of superiority. No one who lived as Dross would use the word to describe themselves or others like them.

This Warrior had to be someone not from these regions.

And seeing the level of power and how they were dressed, the quality of their garments and weapons, they should be those from Vassal Tribes. The Sworn. Warriors who had pledged allegiance to a Neolithic Empire and received resources in return.

Why would forces of Vassal Tribes be in these regions?

What were they doing so far from imperial territory?

At this time, Damian felt the gnarled stick of Grandmother Essun land on his back.

It steadied him.

Her voice came out calm and cold, barely above a whisper but carrying weight that seemed to press against the air itself.

"I do not sense the marker of death on you or I just yet, Tokoloshe."

Her ancient eyes glittered in the ambient light of the Ancestor Pillar.

"It means that we will survive this. Which also means that those motherfuckers over there need to die."

Her yellow teeth showed in something that was not quite a smile.

"Could you haunt them, Tokoloshe?"

...!