In the night, more bloodbirds flying east clashed into howling packs. Meanwhile, Fortune was having a wonderful dream. Millions of writhing bodies like waves, faces tossed between hunger and suffering, the groans, the smell of decay wafting up from the depths of the human flood. He saw the Sea of the Dead again. That enormous stomach consuming itself. He had only been there once, for a few hours. No one could stay there long, only until a hungry mouth found their throat. Since then, it floated among his thoughts like the memory of a one-night stand that would never be repeated.

  When he awoke, only the feeling of hunger remained, gnawing deeper into his mind. Sitting on his horse, he watched the trees drop their leaves one by one into death. Despite the rains that drowned the landscape, the sound of the leaves’ rusty, weakened bodies snapping was still clear. It reminded him too much of the sweet crack of breaking a finger joint. He envisioned the pain flowing from the eyes, heard the crunch of neck vertebrae. Whenever he looked at his hired slaves, his gaze immediately latched onto them. Their eyes also latched onto him, each day hungrier. But they hadn’t slit his throat while he slept. At least not yet.

  The path worn between the soaked trees led to the open gate of Cippo village. With his hood pulled up, he passed through it, his slaves behind him. The village was not an impressive sight. Surrounded by a wall of mud, wood, and stones, a few tattered flags waved farewell to the arriving visitors, displaying a red arrow. On the vast land relative to the village, furballs were grazing. Their round bodies nearly rolled. Their fur was fluffy, pale white; their heads small, their legs thick and slow, barely able to run; atop their heads, two twisted, stunted horns. Their bodies were driven by hormones, the males mounting one female after another with their sizable genitalia, resulting in many calves. Every part of them bore the marks of decades of breeding work. A single dog herded them. One bark was enough to direct the massive flock wherever the owner wanted.

  Several groups of well-fattened furballs were herded into a small pen where the butcher cheerfully sharpened his blade. They were caught one by one, and their blood was collected; some flowed onto the path, but they didn’t care; the workers immediately started skinning the hides. In the village center, the results could be admired on the stalls. The dried meat was sold at a good price; hats and coats were also available. The stream of blood flowing through the village was fed by many pens, and many traders arrived, leaving with loads of meat and hides.

  Looking around, the observer could see almost nothing but steps leading deep into the earth and stone tablets standing like tombstones beside them, along with a few remaining trees. A stranger might think most people spent the night under the open sky, but Fortune knew this village well. Back then, it wasn’t the market’s bustle that filled the air. People were driven out of their lovely little underground cesspits into the field, where they were nailed to the ground. They burned beautifully and screamed even more wonderfully. The man burned along with his coat made from furballs. Fortune laughed at the memory. His eyes hungrier from the memories.

  The sky was wrapped in gray; it was unclear when the rain would start, but the workers kept diligently at their tasks. Blood flowed from their hands in small streams onto the path, joining the little blood rivulet that flowed south through the village. The pens were filled with bleating, and the excited play of sharpening stones cut through the crowd. The blood rivulet swelled, guiding Fortune around the village. Carts rumbled along the path, carrying meat to the village; at the market, vendors laid out their wares, craftsmen offered necklaces made from finger bones, and the aroma of smoked meat mingled with the bloody mist in the air. Cloths were sold, axes were bought; thieves also prowled among the wandering goods, hoping to find something. Fortune watched them, focusing on one after another, then letting them go like a browsing shopper. He followed the blood rivulet over small stones, mud, meat, bones, smoke, noise, and an increasing crowd. He read the signs: "Soaker," "Builder," "Women for Hire," "Wine and Whore." His slaves stopped at the latter and hurried down the stairs. He read nothing good in their eyes. Fortune stroked his neck, as if to check it was still there.

  The blood rivulet turned left, but the human flow stopped at a hill. At the top, a small group had gathered. Eyes met: human with human, flesh with flesh.

  At least two dozen ragged, tortured, beaten convicts stood at the top, flanked by two fluttering flags.

  Some onlookers gazed at the convicts with strange, confused looks, as if imagining themselves there. Their mouths silently moved, then they turned away, hastily departing after a few stumbling steps.

  And why didn’t they kill the criminals where they caught them? Well, fresh meat is better.

  At the top, behind the convicts, were experienced hands waiting for the command. Guards watched with bored expressions. The gathered crowd murmured as they waited for the event. They measured and mocked the convicts. On the hillside, guards climbed the stone steps, a man in a bright red coat just ahead of them. At his presence, the murmuring stopped, replaced by something else: People exchanged looks, shook their heads in disbelief, a lip touched an ear to whisper secrets. He stood at the top, surrounded by guards in his red coat. Like a ruby stone in a crown of people. His face was clean-shaven, his hair cropped short. The man waited, his gaze silencing the gathered crowd. When it had grown large enough, the command came from his mouth. The hands were swift and sure. The convicts were forced to their knees; they clenched their teeth, closed their eyes, swallowed one last time, and then the pre-sharpened blades went to work. The air was filled with animalistic moans, then the convicts fell silent. The butchers directed the gushing blood into pots on the ground. Despite their efforts, some blood flowed onto the ground, joining the animal blood rivulet. Their blood found its place in it, and the stream continued to flow.

  The butchers, carvers, and craftsmen quickly began skinning, cutting out the tasty organs, and peeling the scalp and hair from the skulls right there. The fat was already boiling in cauldrons. The man in red gave permission for the cooks to start their work. Blood sizzled into the cauldrons, spices were added, spoons and knives turned, meat cut into small pieces mixed with the spices. The man waved to the crowd, who burst into cheers, shouting his name, then he left, surrounded by guards. Fortune just watched as he walked proudly away, imagining those proud legs gnawed to the bone by the hero mice’s tiny, sharp teeth.

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  Among the people gathering around the cauldrons was Fortune. He didn’t really like it, but it was cheap. He chewed on the last bite.

  "They died too soon and," he looked around, "there were too few of them." He looked over the fattened animals and the grinning vendors. He had seen enough.

  He was about to decide it wasn’t worth spending another minute in this village when he saw a couple by the little blood rivulet. Their left hands looked as if dipped in tar up to the elbow. Holding hands, they headed toward the "Wine and Whore." Fortune followed them.

  ***

  The underground space seemed unimaginably large compared to the tiny entrance. Inside the cave, torches glowed with a red light, and the air was filled with the alcohol-laden breath of the drunk. The tables were spaced comfortably apart, surrounded by drunken eyes blinking at each other, shouting, and the mercenaries enjoying the safe idleness, tearing shanks to shreds. Wine sloshed in their glasses and dripped from their beards. The slave-waitresses' breasts, in the red light, looked like ripe clusters of grapes that no one could bite into. They only teased the eyes until enough was paid for them to the innkeeper, who was contentedly counting the coins behind the counter.

  A guest shoved a slave-waitress towards a room hidden by a red curtain. A stream of alcoholic drool trickled down his chin, his crooked teeth waiting to sink into the grapes; not long after, the sounds of satisfied groaning could be heard from behind, but Fortune cared little for this. Nor for the contented belches of his slaves. What really interested him was the fighting pit beyond the tables. One of the fighters was the man with the black hand. His partner cheered loudly for his victory. The other guests did the same, watching as the fighters’ skin swelled and split from the blows. Blood and sweat mixed on the floor, the black-handed man’s bare feet occasionally slipping on it. Even so, he managed to elbow his opponent in the chin, forcing him to the ground and extinguishing the small lantern in his eyes with blows to the back of his head.

  The victorious hand, missing a finger, was raised high. His supporters praised him with fanatical, slightly blurry eyes from the alcohol. Some kicked the defeated fighter, easing their disappointment. The black-handed couple received the coins for their victory, settled at a table, and the innkeeper had two portions of pre-prepared, juicy shanks brought to them.

  The muscles twitching on the face, the spasms that he loved to see, betrayed the man's pain. His injuries were not permanent, but he needed care. His eyebrow was split, blood dripping from his face onto the table, and the rest of his body was dirty with wounds. The woman sitting opposite him just watched. It was as if the wounds on his face were jewels she wanted to seize. With a trembling hand, the woman’s finger touched the small blood lake on the table’s plain, over which a red torch shone. She touched her bloody finger to her lips. She closed her eyes and said something. That was when Fortune noticed the woman was missing a thin finger from her right hand. The same finger was missing from the man's right hand. Sweet questions floated up in Fortune's mind.

  Fortune tried to ignore the noise around him. The man still lying on the ground was dragged out of the tavern, and the blood trail was quickly wiped away by one of the slave-waitresses. New fighters entered the ring. Around their necks was a collar, and outside the ring, their owners held the matching part on their fingers.

  Barely had the last piece of meat been gnawed from the bone when the black-handed man returned to the embrace of the arena, bordered by tables and the rabble.

  The fighters fell upon each other again, the noise mixed with sweaty smacks and the fighters’ panting. It was quite different from before, where both had defended, trying to dodge each other’s blows. The black-handed man now only attacked, letting the oncoming punches crush his face; he let the blood flood his face. He just hit, ignoring his swollen face, the wounds, just pressing forward.

  From behind the red curtain, the pained cries of the slave-waitress could be heard, the fighters’ bodies smacked, and the guests murmured and shouted:

  "Don’t offer it to me, don’t reach out your hand."

  "I hope you kicked him."

  "Of course I did, and how! I kicked that worthless gray priest so hard he rolled away."

  Their laughter almost tore at Fortune's ears. At another table, they were chatting jovially:

  "I thought Parricida would take over, he was everywhere."

  "Well, you see, today his blood was boiling in the pot..."

  "He finally showed up. Although many said he was poisoned, that he went crazy. He burned his servants in the fire. All of them."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Then what did they burn?"

  "Rufi isn’t like that, anyway..."

  The conversation quieted into a whisper. Fortune stepped closer to hear better:

  "Anyway, maybe a damned mouse bit you or something?"

  "Of course not, buddy, but you know, I bought it, so if a plague comes, I’ll just drink it, and I’ll be fine, right?"

  "Of course, but the Holy Healer will even regrow your hand, even if it’s cut off at the root. But we don’t have enough to stand before her. But blessed be!"

  Fortune’s ears bled, his face crumpled.

  He imagined the face of the Holy Healer, covered with scarves, the jewels hanging in her hair. He crumpled it, tore it in half, the pieces bled.

  He continued to tear the face in his mind. He ripped off the silk, cut up her face, and gouged out her eyes.

  In his thoughts, only a bloody spot remained of the Holy Healer’s face, with a gouged-out eye socket.

  He took a deep breath, and the torn face disappeared from his sight. He was back in the tavern. The fighters were choking each other on the ground, the man emerged from behind the red curtain, and satisfiedly buttoned his bloody trousers, then cautiously, suspiciously headed for the door.

  Only a few drops of blood remained at the table where the two black-handed people had sat, which a slave-waitress was wiping away with a cloth while leaning over the table, the surrounding guests longing for the grapes. Meanwhile, the man continued to sidle towards the door, trying to hide his bloody trousers, the innkeeper called for the missing slave-waitress, but she didn’t respond. The guards chased after the man, but Fortune was no longer in the tavern; something else had caught his interest.

  ***

  Outside, the little blood rivulet slowed, barely trickling. He looked around, and luckily for him, the village's open landscape made things easier. They walked hand in hand down beside the blood rivulet, their bare feet squelching in the mud. As they descended the hillside, they stopped under a tree shedding its leaves. Fortune moved closer to the couple. Soon, more black-handed people appeared. They seemed similar. They, too, had wounds, their eyes strangely familiar and gentle. He ventured even closer. He saw them, and they saw Fortune.

  In the small group, hands gently caressed each other’s wounds with slow movements, smiles spreading across their faces.

  "I see you’re excited," the man said to the woman.

  "Yes! Because I love you so much and so much has happened to you today. I want to experience everything." She touched the fresh wounds with her fingers, breathing rapidly, touching only the wounds, looking only at her partner. "I want to feel everything."

  "We love you too! We want to feel you too! Share your pain with us. We love you," chanted the others, holding her hand, touching her back.

  "I love you too, Amanda. I want us to be one."

  "Then let’s be one here and now, give me your pain!" she sighed.

  The woman looked at her partner with admiration, blushing. She watched as he struck her with his fist. The wind tore leaves from the tree. It did with them whatever it wanted. The woman let her face be covered with bruises, her eyebrow swell and then split open. She could have left, she could have defended herself, but she just stood there, getting up after each blow, just looking at her lover. The wind wildly tore the leaves from the tree.

  The woman’s face turned red. Fortune smiled.