Chapter 28

November 30th, 2020

They didn't see Angra for the rest of the day. It was past dark, when he finally returned to the house. Everyone had puttered about tending to small tasks here or there, and round the back, Gerb got to work in the garden. Zechariah shook his head at the man. Working the ground? When he knew they were to leave in a few days? He was a weird grouchy one.

Zechariah grabbed some firewood and, with knife from the kitchen which he honed for good measure, began to whittle. He sat on the edge of the well, facing away from the house, chipping away at the wood sending small curls flying as he deftly carved away, holding the log in his left hand. By the Gods he missed this. It was simple, beautiful and had a very peaceful presence around it. He emptied his mind, not thinking at all. Thoughts flitted to and fro in his mind, like humming birds anxiously debating whether to land for a flower or not. However with the casual wave of a mental hand, he brushed those though aside, and allowed more to flutter into his unconscious mind. Flashes of blood. Screaming. The smell of a farm. The arms of his mother. The screams again, the look of the boy as he died. None of it stuck. They came and went, and he paid them no attention. He wasn't sure if he wasn't able to, or simply didn't want to. Whatever the reason, they refused to stay. So he whittled and whittled.

Chip after chip, curl after curl, flying through the air. He missed his tools. By the Ten, he missed his tools and, he bemoaned the loss of that silver white chisel and hammer. He couldn't carve like wanted to. He could do a bit but, it was unwieldy and no where near as fine as he was used to. He was sure that with practice, he would be able to do so but he would never have the same craftsmanship as he had had with his tools. As it was, he whittled away more to keep his hands busy, and his mind blank rather than work on a certain project. As it was, he whittled further and further, slimming the log down smoothly and thin.

Eventually, the log was shaved down to a slowly narrowing rod about an inch thick in diameter at one end, and a quarter inch at the end. He held it idly in his hands, before he deciding to carve some designs into the wood. A curve here, a square here, a vine running the length, blooming with leaves and flowers, all intermingled and created by geometric shapes.

“What are you doing?” Zechariah nearly jumped out of his skin, dropping his knife and wood as Lalita spoke directly to his side. She quickly scooped up the wood he was carving, inspecting it with a curious eye.

Picking up his knife, he extended his hand. “Can I have it back? I'm not finished with it yet.”

December 1st, 2020

Lalita squinted at him. “Depends.”

“On what?” Zechariah sighed, not really caring but playing along anyway.

She held his eyes for a long time, before looking back at the stick in her hands. “It's pretty. Where'd you learn to carve like this?” she asked changing subject. Zechariah frowned at the change of topic, but wasn't interested in any conversation.

“I didn't learn. I taught myself.” Zechariah said raising his hand again. “Can I have it back?”

Lalita handed the stick back to him. “You're pretty good. Why are you a farmer and not a carpenter?”

“Hyran already had carpenters and my father needed the hands on the farm.” He shrugged. “So I worked the farm. Never really, thought about doing anything other than farming.”

“You like being a farmer?”

Zechariah snorted in disdain. “Not one bit but, it's the family business. Like father, like son.” He said, his hands slowing as he gazed into the distance.

“So what happened between you and your father?”

“Why do you care?” Zechariah asked turning to her. “What's your purpose here?”

This time, it was her turn to look away and, for the first time, she looked timid. “Because I'm trying to figure out what your angle is and,” she picked at some moss growing on the rocks beside her, “I've been thinking about what you said. Going through Sil de Morro.”

Zechariah's eyebrows raised in surprise. “Really? I thought I was being rather offensive saying you'd be a good whore.”

She smirked at him. “I take it as a compliment. Even after knowing what I am, you're still attracted enough to me to fantasize about controlling me in the bedroom hmm?” she asked slyly tucking her shoulder up and lightly batting her eyelids at him.

“With you? Not a chance. You'd likely cut off my manhood and shove it down my throat.” He said looking away and returning to his whittling though he failed to hide the blush that rose on his cheeks making Lalita laugh softly. As he continued his whittling he asked, “Why talk to me about it though?”

Her laughter died quickly, as her mind turned back to more serious matters than flirtatious teasing. Sighing, she looked off into the growing darkness. “I can't figure out if you're really smart, and intentionally are trying to turn us against each other, or just an honest hopeful fool who spoke his mind.”

“Turn you against each other?” He asked but paused and thought for a while. “Well...not exactly that. I wouldn't exactly say innocent fool either. I hoped that, if you all decided to go to Sil de Morro and give up raiding, that I might be able to take a portion of this food Angra would let me go. As it is...” He gestured over his shoulder to Dáithí who crouched on the roof with his back to the chimney, “I have a rather lethal leash around my neck.”

December 2nd, 2020

“It's a pretty convincing leash isn't it?” She said dryly. Zechariah hummed his affirmation and continued carving. “Well,” she said crossing one leg over the other and bouncing it up and down, fidgeting, “whatever your purpose was, you certainly did something.”

“Why would another option turn you against each other?”

“You haven't really seen it but...there's been a lot of arguments growing in the gang. It's one of the reasons why Gerb is so grumpy these days. Angra really needed this haul. Thought it would bring us together again but then you go and stab a knife right into our open wound.” She met his eyes, neutral, but intense.

“What do you want?” Zechariah asked, meeting her gaze, wanting to show her that he wasn't afraid.

“I don't want to rot in a cell.” She said simply as she abruptly stood up. “Keep an eye open Z. Not that you need to be told to do that but...” She shrugged. “whatever.”

Zechariah watched her wander off back to the cabin. He turned back to his carving, considering her words but couldn't continue much more as the dimming sun was already dark. As he walked back to the cabin himself, he saw the shadow of Dáithí climbing off the roof. The cabin had a pot bubbling over the fire, and Zechariah helped himself to some hot stew and sat by the fire as the cool night air began wafting in. Gerb was looking through the place for tools, pulling out a whet stone here, some lamp oil there. Lalita was cleaning her saddle, and polishing it a gleaming shine. Dáithí came in and, unstrung his bow, taking care to wax his string and polish the bow, hanging it from a rack away from the fire. All of this and more, was done in silence.

As they began to make bed, some sleeping on the chairs in the kitchen, some taking the beds. Zechariah laid out his bundle, and laid by the fire, gazing into it's crackling heat. Dancing and flittering about in the casual majesty that only calm ferocity can achieve. But he felt no warmth. He was cold, through and through, and though he could feel the blood pulsing through his veins, his heart was still. He listened idly to the sounds of a whet stone being drawn across metal, coming from outside and wondered who would be sharpening steel at night, but thought of it no more. Let them be about their pointless tasks. He saw no purpose in it.

The door opened, and a cool breeze rolled in followed by footsteps. They were quiet, that of someone walking quietly but not stealthily. They paused for a moment and Zechariah forget them, staring into the entrancing flames until they resumed once more, walking towards him. Part of his mind itched, twitched and his spine tingled. His instincts roared at him to turn around, to look at who was approaching him, to prepare himself for defense! But he did none of it. Just laying there, feeling paralyzed. He felt the urge, the need, but was unable to move. A part of him hoped, wished or wanted to die.

They were close, only a few steps away. Before another set of footsteps was heard. There was a pause, and then the first set walked away. That was odd enough, that Zechariah turned then, he had to know what had transpired. He saw Angra walking into another room, and Gerb standing in the doorway. Gerb looked at him, and then headed outside. Rolling back over, Zechariah fell asleep uneasily.

He awoke to the repetitive 'shick, crunch, thump' of a shovel in dirt. A sound that was very familiar to him. The coals had mostly died and only a few embers remained, but it was still dark outside. Judging by the death of the fire, it had been several Darks since he had drifted off to sleep, but the first Shine was yet to come. More curious however was the question of who was digging at this hour? Dreary but curious, he got up, pausing for only a moment as he considered the shadows around him. He couldn't even say that the shadows hadn't hurt him, for they had. However, much to his own satisfaction, it was only a momentary pause, and he soldiered on. If the shadows came, they came. There seemed to be little he could do to stop them.

Behind the house, he saw Gerb, lit by lantern, covered in dirt and sweat, shovel in hand and, chest deep in the dirt, a three large piles of it around the pit. Zechariah walked up to the edge of the pit and squatted down, watching the large man labor away.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Digging graves. What does it look like?” Gerb said grumpily as he continued his arduous task.

“I can see that but, why?”

“To put the corpses in, why does anyone dig graves?” He grumbled tossing more dirt over his shoulder.

He sounded like Zaki. Zechariah's heart skipped, remembering the crunch of bones beneath his arms as he killed Zaki, and he shuddered, but continued. “I'm asking, why do you care?”

Gerb stopped shoveling, burying the head in the dirt and resting his arms upon the long handle, he looked up at Zechariah. “What? You want to hear some woeful tale? Some shred of humanity? Or to laugh at a man's superstitions? Why do you care Z?”

Zechariah scoffed as he stood up, “I was just curious. If you don't want to talk you don't have to.”

“My big question is, why aren't you doing this? These were innocent people that you murdered. You don't think they deserve a grave?” Gerb gave him an accusatory look, and resumed digging.

Why wasn't he helping Gerb? The accusation sank deep in his heart. He had murdered these innocent people, and hadn't even though about giving them a decent burial. Just, let them be piled up into a heap of soon decaying flesh. Part of it made his stomach twist, some part of him that still rioted against his actions, against the cage he was shoving it inside. The part of him that was doing the pushing, was dispassionate, and cold. Useful but...terrifying.

“What do you care!” Zechariah suddenly cried, the fear of who he was, wasn't and was becoming boiling over in anger. “You're a fucking murderer, long before you knew me, and I didn't have a choice!”

Gerb stopped again, and looked up at Zechariah, with an angry frown on his face. “All men choose Z. You can't ever escape that reality. You can die out here,” he said gesturing to the pile of corpses, “or you can die in there.” He then gestured to Zechariah's chest. “In the end, it's all death. But the question I have for you, isn't whether you'll die. The question is, whether you'll accept the death, or embrace it?”

“What's the difference?” Zechariah asked confused. “For that matter, what difference does it make?”

“All the difference in the world Z.” Gerb said returning to his work. “You can die for real, whether by your own hand or at the hand of another, doesn't make no difference. You're still dead. Dying inside though, that's what matters. You're already dead.” He tossed some dirt out and struck again, prying a large stone out of the dirt and heaving it over his head. “But you can accept that death, and move on. Or, you can embrace the death, and revel in it. One makes you a murderer who's trying his best. The other makes you a monster. Like them.” He said nodding his head towards the cabin. “Question is, will you accept it? Or embrace it?”

He wasn't sure if Gerb was making any sense. Then his chest tightened, and he knew that Gerb was making sense, but his dead side didn't want to see it. It wanted to say that Gerb was being foolish, and walk away. Hide itself from this truth. But the part of him that he hadn't yet caged away, protested angrily at the notion. He writhed inside, two parts of him battling. One that wanted to deny it all, and not feel, the other, that protested at this death of self.

Looking around, he saw another shovel. Taking it up without speaking, he jumped down into the large pit with Gerb, and began shoveling. It became difficult to see, as his hands shook, and tears rolled down his cheeks.

December 3rd, 2020

With a steady hand, Zechariah placed the final rock on the cairn, and stood beside Gerb. It was the a quarter to the third Shine, and they were both tired and sweaty before one grave and one cairn. Gerb had worked through the night, and though Zechariah had gotten some sleep, he was exhausted. His muscles had atrophied more than he'd have thought possible. Still, it was work that he needed to do, for his soul, and for his body. Once he had caught his breath, he hoisted his shovel again, and struck it into the dirt once more. Four more graves to go.

“Take a rest.” Gerb said with a low rumble.

“We have more to do.”

Gerb scratched his bristling beard, nodding. “Yeah, that we do. Go ahead then, I'm taking a break though.”

“We got four more to dig. It'll take quite some time. You're not in a rush?” Zechariah asked dropping his shovel and heading over to the bucket of water that Gerb was holding out to him.

Swallowing his gulp of water Gerb shook his head. “Nope. I decided, I'm going to see this done right.”

Frowning, Zechariah took a drink of the water, relishing the taste of it's freshness. “Don't we have to leave tomorrow or the day after?”

Gerb began stretching his shoulders and his back, in the experienced fashion of years of practice, but he didn't answer. Zechariah took another deep drink and then began to try and mimic the moves that Gerb was doing, respecting his silence.

“What'll you do in Uthar?” Gerb asked.

Zechariah didn't reply at first, simply continuing his stretches. He was sure he didn't like any of these bandits but, Lalita's words last night were still in his ears. He was stirring up trouble, which meant there were some who didn't like how things were. “I don't understand you Gerb. You don't mind killing, you've made that much clear, but you seemed to take no joy in it, took no part in the raping, and now are burying the dead. Are you a monster, or not?”

“I never minded killing. There was little difference to me between killing a beast and killing a man.” He replied popping his spine. “I've been killing since I was big enough to throw a strong fist. Made me a lot of good money, and I used that money well.” Finishing his stretching, he laid down in the dirt and looked up at the clouds, tucking his hands behind his head. “One day, some fucking shit head of a lordling came into my ring. Figured a noble could outclass a lowborn in any area. At the time, I didn't know who he was. It was only after I beat his face through his skull that things got bad. News got out, and it was myself who killed him. So I became a wanted murderer. Never mind that it was his dumbass that came to fight me.”

Gerb fell silent for a moment, reliving some old memories that were hidden to Zechariah, some old scars that don't heal nearly as well as the scars of the flesh. Zechariah sat quietly, after finishing his own stretching, and waited for Gerb to continue.

“Outlaw. Your name and face plastered on every wall, announced on every stand. You need food and water, so you start stealing. You get caught, so you kill. Before long...you turn into Angra. Well, me and Angra never saw eye to eye.”

He stopped then but this time Zechariah wasn't able to contain his questions. “How so?” Gerb never talked this much.

“Angra saw being an outlaw as freedom. The ability to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. He loves being an outlaw. For me, it was necessary, but a curse. I don't mind killing but...I only ever killed people who were wanting or forced to fight me. These people? They didn't have to die, nor did they want to fight. That...is what Angra and I see differently."

December 4th, 2020

“So?” Zechariah asked. “Why are you riding with Angra?”

“Habit, I guess.” Gerb replied as he returned to his more quiet mannerisms.

“How long have you been riding with him?”

“'bout a Revolution I think. I've been doing this for nine.” He said with a weary sigh.

“You've been an outlaw for nine Revolutions?” Zechariah asked astonished.

“Yup. First few Rotations was the hardest, as they hunted me relentlessly but...as the trail got colder and colder, it was easier. Eventually, the hunts stopped and I had to kill a few bounty hunters. I still have to deal with a few of them but it's not bad.

December 6th, 2020

“Bounty hunters?” Zechariah asked incredulously, “And you took care of a stranger like me?”

Gerb shrugged. “Like Angra said, we searched you. Had we found any weapons, poisons or something of value or a letter or a picture of one of us or some shit like that, we'd have offed you in your sleep.”

“That makes sense I guess. If you don't 'see eye to eye' with Angra, then why do you ride with him? Why don't you just leave?”

Gerb didn't reply. He stayed staring at the clouds before asking once again, “What are you going to do in Uthar?”

“Going to get some answers.” Zechariah said quietly as he opened his left palm once again. Gerb didn't ask with his voice, but the quizzical look had a slight accusatory tone to it so Zechariah explained, “I'm going to try and speak to the Channelers or...find an Arcanist or someone who might be able to explain what my hand is all about.”

“Yeah? You know them magical folk are real stingy and expensive don't ya?”

“What? What do you know about magic?” Zechariah asked suddenly wholly focused once again.

“Nothing really, but I lived in the underground of Uthar. The magically inclined, as questionable as they were, were extremely expensive. Of course, they also were the only ones you could go to if you wanted illegal services. I know they charged us an arm and a leg but the regular ones are still expensive. Like, if you think a physician is expensive, try buying magical healing.” Gerb laughed quietly.

This left Zechariah deep in thought for a while and, not for the first time, he cursed the loss of his inheritance. As he thought however, his brow furrowed as a question nagged him. “Why did you want to know what I was going to do in Uthar?” He asked somewhat suspiciously.

Gerb grunted and chewed on some grass for a moment before answering. “I suppose it's fair that I tell you. I'm tired. I'm tired of traveling, I'm tired of hiding, I'm tired of not getting to speak to anyone but these murder, rape hungry hobos.”

“So...?” Zechariah prompted as Gerb fell silent.

Growling lowly in annoyance, he continued reluctantly, “So...I'll take you to Uthar if you want.”

“What?” Zechariah asked loudly in shock, earning a glare from Gerb. He quickly quieted his voice asking again, “What? You'll take me to Uthar? Why? You barely know me. Besides, it's not like I can just leave. Angra doesn't strike me as the man to take a slight lightly.”

“You let me deal with Angra.” Gerb said quietly, his face relaxing once again, “And as for why...well...I'm done. I have family there and even if it's only for a moment, I'd rather see them once more before getting beheaded, then dying out here.”

“If you think you can convince Angra to let me go, then you I'll gladly accept your help in traveling to Uthar. Who knows? It might have been long enough now that you'll have been forgotten?” Zechariah said though he couldn't bring himself to believe it either. In face, his only hope that he'd keep his head was in getting there before Sirpa got word to King Malik.

Gerb scoffed at his forced optimism but said nothing about it. After taking another drink of water, they headed inside, getting some food. They walked passed Angra who had begun shouting angrily at one of his followers. “No chance in the fucking hells am I going to ride Peakward!” Zechariah received angry glares from Angra and Dáithí as he grabbed some sausages and pickled eggs for breakfast. Soon after, he and Gerb were back in the dirt, digging once again.

Stalling brilliantly in it's Zenith, the Sun began to drift once more down towards the Peak on it's journey to whatever lay on the other side of the world. Fall after Fall, rapidly towards evening and to whatever mysteries lay there on the Underworld. The land of the dead. They dug these graves to help the dead on their journey, as they dig down, for Revolution after Revolution until they finally reach the underworld. The grave, the little kick start, was the last kindness the dead received before they departed from this world. 'Yet the Sun must shine upon them as brilliantly as it does us.' Zechariah thought as he continued digging the third grave, as the sky began to darken almost imperceptibly.

“Gerb!” Angra came around the corner of the house, looking exhausted, and violently energetic at the same time.

“Yeah?” Gerb said leaning on the shovel with a fed up expression.

“Get the cart loaded. We're heading out in the morning.” Angra ordered.

Before he even turned half way round, Gerb replied, “Nah.” freezing Angra in place. Zechariah could feel the tension in the air and rather than leaning on his shovel as Gerb was, gripped it in both hands like a staff, but not at the ready, lest he make Angra wary.

“What?” Angra said stalking toward Gerb. “What do you mean 'Nah'?”

“Nah.” Gerb answered simply, looking up at Angra who stood above them. They were only thigh deep in this grave, but it still made Angra stand tall over Gerb.

“I wasn't asking you a favor Gerb! I was giving you an order!” Angra hissed.

“And I'm letting you know, you stupid cunt, that I'm not taking your orders anymore.” Gerb said evenly.

In a flash of hate and anger, Angra's foot came crashing into the side of Gerb's head. Neither Zechariah or Gerb had any time to react, and Gerb dropped, smacking off the side of the grave as he fell hard. Zechariah hadn't even moved and Gerb was down.

“I wasn't asking!” Angra yelled each word individually. “Do I make myself clear?”

Gerb pushed himself up slowly, and spat blood out of his mouth from a busted cheek. Kneeling and not looking at Angra, he grabbed the edges of the grave, and climbed out. Standing to his full height, he breathed deeply, and Zechariah followed his actions, climbing out as well, shovel still in his hands. He wasn't sure what to do, but he was ready should things escalate. From around the corner of the house, the others slowly came, interested and anxious about the outcome of this confrontation. Lalita, and Dáithí among them.

Angra stood where he was glaring at Gerb as the large man turned toward him. “I'm the leader of this band, and you do what I say. Do I make myself clear?”

“Nah.”

Angra lept forward, knives materializing in his hands from some unknown place. He had drawn them so fast Zechariah hadn't even seen from where he had drawn them.

December 11th, 2020

Fortuitously, Gerb was prepared after the kick, and quickly stepped back out of reach. He raised his hands, retreating as Angra advanced on him. Knives ready, expertly held in front of him, with quick aggressive stabs and cuts. Being an unarmed combatant, Gerb was at a serious disadvantage, being unable to get in close due to his opponents speed. He dodged and retreated biding his time, looking for a flaw or weakness to exploit but saw none.

Zechariah took a step forward but hesitated as they drew away from him for, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. Dáithí knocked an arrow and raised his bow, not yet drawing the string. Teeth gritted, Zechariah looked from Dáithí to Angra and Gerb, his knuckles white on the shovel, brow dripping dirty sweat. Lalita dashed forward as Gerb deflected a stab, earning himself a cut on the arm but saving his heart as he recovered from an uneven patch of turf. Zechariah stepped forward intercepting Lalita. He wasn't sure he could directly go against Angra without getting an arrow in his neck but there was nothing against fighting the others.

As she approached, Zechariah swung the shovel in two hands at her head. Caught off guard she ducked low but threw her balance off and tumbled to the ground. Zechariah stepped forward swinging again but she scrambled away shouting curses at him, and a cry bellowed through the glade. Lalita jumped at Zechariah and though he swung once again, she got hold of the shovel and began trying to wrest it from his grip. She kicked at his crotch, trying to quickly put Zechariah out of the fight, but thanks to Nawfa's teaching, he twisted his hips and kicked her leg aside, firmly planting his stance, he heaved on the shovel, trying to throw her off balances. She stumbled a step back but ground her heels in, refusing to tople. Once again, Zechariah cursed his recent loss of muscle. Another cry drew his attention and he saw Gerb stepping back grasping his leg around a protruding knife.

Angra became frustrated in not being able to close the distance safely and so quickly after thrusting one knife, he flicked his wrist and flung a knife into Gerb's leg. As Gerb grabbed his leg he lunged forward trying to bury his other knife in the chest. Gerb flung himself to the side, dodging the stab and raising a fist into Angra's stomach throwing him to the ground. As Angra recovered his breath and crawled back to his feet, Gerb yanked the knife out of his leg, and limped over to kick Angra back down. However, Angra threw himself in, battering Gerb's open wound and in the pain, knocking him down. Angra threw himself trying to stab Gerb but got tangled in his hands and they began to wrestle over the blade.

Zechariah trying to win the shovel from Lalita, Gerb trying to win the knife from Angra, both parties tangled in a sudden and furious fight to the death. Cursing at each other, shouting and then...a wooden snap. In a sudden hiss, and arrow flew between Zechariah and Lalita and following the path of the arrow, eyes wide, Angra gurgled and spat blood upon Gerb as an arrow protruded from his neck. Eight eyes turned the other way, and gazed in shock at Dáithí who shrugged.

“Missed.” was all that Dáithí said, as he unstrung his bow and walked away.

“Angra!” Lalita screamed and ran over to him, laying on the floor twitching, grasping at his neck as blood poured out of his wound and his mouth, eyes bulging, full of fury. “No! You can't! You can't die!”

Gerb stood hissing in pain as he did so. He spat on the ground, and limped off, holding his leg, letting the man choke out his final breaths, as he made his way back to the cabin to get bandages. Zechariah went over and wrapped an arm around Gerb and helped him into the house.