Day 3

The sleep was almost pleasant. If not for the screams that cut through it, he’d keep dreaming. But the wails were too much. And why they were calling his name? Oh...

He shook his head, driving torpor out of his system. An insignificant throbbing in his skull awoke at the same time. Giliad remembered now. He’d been fighting or whatever it could be called when they managed to knock him out.

“GILIAD!”

The voice belonged to Zuma. Why they were trying to put him into a boiling cauldron? Zuma fought with all his might but the two tribesmen who held him didn’t seem to have much problem anyway.

“That’s not the end I wished for myself, Garhala.” Another voice joined. This one weaker and quieter. Ah, so the bandit was here as well. Okay, it didn’t look good. If Giliad had to guess, it seemed that the tribesmen were going to eat them. This was nothing new. Many tribes had tried to eat Giliad before he arrived at Cape Town.

The two tribesmen lifted Zuma in a definitive attempt to put him on the rim of the massive cauldron and then tip him toward the boiling liquid. The innkeeper screamed and trashed like a mad man. I better do something about this. He snapped the rope which tied him up to a post, then shot forward. There was no rain and so these strange folks couldn’t hide.

Giliad appeared amongst them before the first warning call was uttered. They went flying with a cry. Such a strange bunch, didn’t they remember how strong Giliad was? He caught Zuma and strolled forward the bandit. He couldn’t leave him as dinner. He’d cause them food poisoning.

“I thought you’d never wake up.” Zuma wiped his forehead, the sleeve was soaked and his voice trembled. “They were going to kill me.”

“They need to eat.”

Zuma blinked, some of his paleness receded.

“Are you serious right now?”

Giliad didn’t answer. Tribesmen were gathering, spears and bows in their hands. He was not in the mood to discuss the laws of the jungle. There was a fight ahead. And judging by the tribes’ feats so far, it was going to be a nightmare of a fight.

“Free the bandit and push for the south.”

“What? What are you planning?”

Giliad’s forehead creased as he considered the question. He still had Tzin to save. Only then he’d be free to leave them all behind and travel beyond Yr.

They made another few steps when more tribesmen poured from between trees. How many were there? Four of them put a knife to a bandit’s throat.

Zuma and Giliad stopped.

“I wish I could say that he deserves it ... but no,” the innkeeper said with a shadow of anguish. Clearly, the dirty innkeeper liked Izin. Her death should’ve made Giliad’s body shiver with rage but instead, only a faint echo reverberated within him. Too many things he’s witnessed. His soul wasn’t the same anymore. He couldn’t even feel ashamed of this. But he was not one to pity himself.

“This tribe uses alchemy, Zuma.”

Zuma spun as if behind them was a way out of this. But it was not that easy. They were surrounded. At least, fifty armed tribesmen, all adults. Giliad, Zuma and the bandit would’ve barely stirred in fifty hungry bellies. Hm. In this case, it means there must be more food around here. This lit up eagerness in Giliad to finish this off quickly and find something to eat.

Once more highly modulated voices awoke and rose high into the air. Were they trying to communicate with Giliad and Zuma or more like exchanging ideas about how they were going to kill them? It didn’t really matter. I just won’t let them hit me again. And though the question remained – how had they done it in the first place? – he was not interested in learning it.

“We have to go,” Zuma said urgently. “If the Rain Tribe uses alchemy ... red sand preserve us, you may not be enough to get us alive out of here.”

It mirrored Giliad’s thoughts, although they referred to Zuma and the bandit. It was unlikely that the tribesmen possessed means to trap a Royalblood. Aka Manahi had, but they belonged to a completely different league of evil. Something these people couldn’t even begin to imagine.

The voices suddenly dropped and the tribesmen untied the bandit. Four knives remained pressed against his skin keeping him quiet. The eerie silence lasted until the bandit was escorted to Giliad and Zuma, then the four tribesmen withdrew leaving the trio surrounded in the middle.

“We’re screwed,” the bandit rasped, massaging his throat. “If they only understood the Imperial language...”

“Welcome!”

They froze because everything was wrong with the word. It didn’t fit here, the tone was too cheerful, too young. A young man, no more than twenty—maybe thirty—stepped from between the tribesmen. He had only half the number of white tattoos in comparison to the rest. And his face seemed friendlier too.

“I can work with that,” the bandit said, regaining a bit of lost composure. He grunted and added. “You just tried to eat us!”

“I wouldn’t eat you,” the speaker replied. “I don’t eat outsiders anymore.”

“That’s ... good to hear,” the bandit admitted. “Couldn’t you tell your friends to not eat us earlier?”

He shook his head.

“If I told them to not eat you, they’d eat me. Easy choice.”

“What ... why would they do that?”

Giliad counted at least a dozen reasons but he’s left the show to the bandit and remained quiet.

“One must eat.”

“Even the man-eating tribes don’t eat their own,” Zuma joined the conversation. “And I fail to see why the Rain Tribe is any different from them.”

Some tribesmen raised their voices, discordant and angry. Their speaker nodded.

“Our time’s up. They ask that you jump into the cauldron. You’ll make good food.”

A large tribesman shoved the speaker behind and pointed at Zuma and the cauldron. It was only natural that the innkeeper shook his head. Who sane would jump into boiling water?

“Giliad can you get us out?” the bandit whispered. “They may decide to skewer us with the arrows first.”

“It’d solve one problem.”

The bandit and Zuma snapped and glared at him for these words.

“We have a Royalblood!” the bandit called out after the retreating speaker. The man stopped, squinted at Giliad. They clearly knew who Giliad was and still seemed unbothered by it. After all, these tribesmen had managed to knock him out once, who knows, maybe they had something else up their sleeve. I have no time for this.

“You mean, like the imperial Royalblood?”

“Yes!” the bandit confirmed satisfied.

The speaker then turned to the tribesmen and spoke in their strange language. It was a brief, emotionless exchange of unnatural sounds. The speaker turned back to the bandit and said.

“They won’t eat him.”

“That’s not the problem!” the bandit inched closer to Giliad.

“They’re hungry.” The speaker shrugged and was about to leave when Zuma said.

“I have a proposition.”

The bandit snapped his head toward the innkeeper, the speaker frowned and Giliad found himself curious as to how his friend hoped to avoid getting eaten. Zuma couldn’t fight, neither he seemed exceedingly bright. He was a good man though. A friend. This sufficed in Giliad’s eyes.

The tribesmen gestured to the speaker, mumbling something quiet. He responded to them and then nodded to Zuma.

“I will make you a drink that is going to blow your mind away. If you keep insisting on eating us after that, I will happily jump into the cauldron.” Although Zuma spoke with confidence, his body trembled with anxiety. In a matter of seconds, his clothes went from dry to soaked. So, the old—not that old but still—hoped to poison the tribesmen. This was nothing original and while the tribe had a little to none contact with the outside world, Giliad doubted they’d let themselves be fooled.

“Agreed.”

“For the record,” the bandit raised his voice. “I won’t jump into anything. He speaks for himself.” Without translation, the tribesmen understood the meaning of his words because as one they made a step forward, their spears leveled at his head. He squeaked, raising his hands and cursing the imperial gods, then he asked Giliad for help. But the Royalblood considered Zuma’s idea. They accepted it without hesitation. Were they this gullible? But maybe a poison wasn’t the innkeeper’s intention? The bandit didn’t seem to think so and people of his sort should be first to expect the worst. It was worth a try.

“We stand by the innkeeper’s proposition,” Giliad said. The bandit froze and the innkeeper paled to an unhealthy level.

“But ... but you are ... free.”

“Let’s call it a friendly encouragement.”

“It’s really ... not.” Zuma’s mouth worked for a moment after the words stopped coming out of it. The speaker relayed Giliad’s promise and they nodded eagerly, showing teeth and tapping their bellies.

“You people are mad,” the bandit mumbled. “What kind of a joke is this, Garhala?”

Giliad didn’t reply, neither he regretted agreeing to this insane idea, he only hoped that Zuma’s poison was a tasty one.