As the tribe danced and mourned, Damian looked over to the Chieftain.
He could see the eyes of guilt on him as Damian was far too familiar with such a gaze.
He had worn it himself for years. The look of a man who believed he had failed those under his protection. The look of someone counting the dead and wondering if different choices might have saved them.
He thought for a moment.
Out of everyone here, he was the only one not injured. Apart from that invisible muscle he had tired by speaking that grand letter, he could move around well enough. His body was whole. His flesh was unmarked. The blue flames had seen to that.
He looked at the other Warriors of the tribe who held varying degrees of injuries. Gashes across arms and chests. Broken bones hastily set. The pallor of blood loss on faces that had been ruddy with health this morning.
Then he looked over to Chieftain Ayala.
The man stood apart from the dancers, his hand still pressed against his side where his wound continued to seep through the makeshift bandages. His stone sword hung loose in his grip, as if he had forgotten he was holding it.
"Hey, Chief."
Damian called out calmly.
Chieftain Ayala looked over and focused on him. His eyes held the weariness of a man who had fought too hard and lost too much, even in victory.
Damian continued while others danced and mourned around them. His voice was measured, cutting through the grief with cold practicality.
"The Golden Tribe sent The Butcher here with eight Warriors. That is not a small force. It is the kind of force you send when you expect results."
He let that settle for a moment.
"When results are expected, reports are also expected. The Butcher was supposed to return with tribute. Women, as he said. When he does not return in a day, perhaps two, the Golden Tribe will wonder. They will send scouts to trace his path."
Chieftain Ayala's expression shifted from grief to dawning horror.
"Those scouts will learn that his last known destination was the Purple Stone Tribe. They will come here. They will see the blood we cannot wash from the stones, the wounds on your Warriors that speak of battle."
Damian's dark eyes were steady.
"And when they confirm that The Butcher died here, they will not send another Butcher. They will send something worse. A Warrior at the Second Circle, perhaps. Or multiple Warriors who exceed The Butcher's strength. They will come not for tribute, but for extermination. To make an example of the tribe that dared to kill their enforcer."
...!
The Chieftain became ashen as the implications crashed over him like a wave.
The mourning continued around them, but Ayala now looked at the dancing Tribesmen with new eyes. Eyes that saw not just the dead of today, but the dead of tomorrow if nothing changed.
Damian continued with a calm gaze.
"So, let us make sure The Butcher of the Golden Tribe did not die here."
"..."
The Chieftain blinked and looked at him.
Confusion mixed with the faintest glimmer of hope on his weathered face.
Behind the Chieftain, a familiar figure poked her head out. Elena's face was still smeared with the mud Damian had rubbed on it, giving her the appearance of some chubby creature that had crawled from the earth. Her eyes were suspicious as they moved from Damian to the standing corpse of The Butcher and back again.
"Are you really a Tokoloshe?"
Her voice was wary.
"Are you going to... bring back the ghost of The Butcher?"
...!
Damian frowned toward this girl.
She quickly hid again behind her father, peering out at him like a child watching something dangerous from a safe distance.
He grabbed his throbbing head and sighed.
The invisible muscle he had strained still ached, and dealing with accusations of being a ghost was not helping.
"I had no idea what The Butcher looked like before he arrived here."
His voice was patient, the tone of someone explaining something obvious.
"Other tribes will not know either. His reputation traveled farther than his face. What people know is his armor. His weapon. His cruelty. Oh, and of course when he shouts out...I am The Butcher of the Golden Tribe!"
He gestured toward the standing corpse with its distinctive garb and serrated bone blade.
"We need someone to put on everything The Butcher is wearing. Strip him. Take his weapon. Send a few of the Warriors here to pass by two or three tribes nearby. Act as The Butcher. Demand food at most. Maybe injure a few Tribesmen here and there, nothing fatal, just enough to be believed."
His eyes sharpened.
"And then, publicly announce that you are going to climb a nearby Treasure Mountain filled with Primal Beasts. Make sure witnesses hear this."
He let the plan settle into understanding.
"It is much better that The Butcher and his Warriors disappear into a mountain than disappear in this tribe. The Golden Tribe will assume he grew overconfident, as men like him often do. They will assume the Primal Beasts claimed him. They will mourn him or curse him, but they will not come here seeking vengeance."
A pause.
"That way, we can escape a cycle of violence. Well, or at least buy as much time as we can in the case we are found out."
...!
His words caused Uncle Adam behind him to rise up.
The old soldier looked at Damian with shining eyes, the expression of a man watching something he had hoped for finally manifest. Despite his wounds, despite his exhaustion, there was pride in that gaze!
Damian also rose up and stretched, his restored body responding smoothly despite the lingering fatigue in his mind.
The Chieftain and others gave him similar gazes. Looks of reassessment!
A moment later, Chieftain Ayala straightened.
He thumped his chest with his fist, the gesture of a Warrior accepting a duty.
"I will take on this task."
His voice had found its strength again.
"Warrior Adam, Tokoloshe... if you can stay here and protect our home, I will make sure this is done well."
...!
Damian's eye twitched.
The Tribesmen really seemed set on calling him a ghost.
He opened his mouth to protest, but the Chieftain had already turned away. Without waiting for anything else, Ayala moved toward the standing corpse of The Butcher.
He began to strip the body with efficient, practiced motions.
The hide armor reinforced with bone plates came off first. Then the ornaments of teeth and trophies.
Wait.
Damian blinked.
Teeth as well? My guy, what the hell kind of hobbies did you have?
The process continued.
Then the belt that held pouches of unknown contents. Finally, the serrated bone blade was pried from dead fingers that had not yet stiffened.
It was a heavy scene that exemplified the Lands of Stone and what happened to Warriors who died.
However mighty you were, however wealthy you were, in the end, your corpse would be thrown to sand and stone. That would be your only remaining memory.
The flesh would rot. The bones would scatter. The Mana that had made you powerful would seep back into the earth from whence it came.
And life would continue without you, as it always did!