The pieces of the hunter were roasting over the fire, while the four slaves, eyes blazing with hunger, waited to grab, hold, and bite into them, their teeth sinking deeply. When they finally began tearing and ripping the tendons, Fortune turned away from them, knelt, and clasped his hands. He stared at the clouds gathering in bloody tatters before the sun.

  "Darkness, take into yourself the sin within me. Light, thank you for giving me life and forgiving my sins. Bless and help everyone who chooses you, guide the good out of darkness, and give them a place in the light. Darkness, bring suffering to those who stray from the path of light, let them burn in fire, let your corrosive stomach acid sear their sinful skin, consume them for eternity. Allow me to be your whip, let the sinners burn between my fingers, those who walk the path of damnation yet call themselves holy. Let me burn their hearts in your fire; let me sate the appetite with which you have blessed me. Thank you for hearing my prayer."

  The lips kissed the gnawed bones with bittersweet farewells before tossing them aside. There was nothing left to love about them. The slaves rubbed the collars around their necks, constantly fidgeting with them, turning them, and slipping their fingers underneath. They exchanged silent messages with each other. From the deepening shadows beside the ashes, they glanced at Fortune.

  He looked back at them. He touched his ring and then looked at the hunter's remains. A few hero mice sniffed at the white bone piles before scurrying back into the leaves, disappointed. The hunter's dagger, bow, fur cap, and clothes already had new owners. Just as with his body, these items were also seized and divided among them. Now that nothing was left of the Hunter, they rose from their places and eyed another piece of flesh.

  Fortune's solitary death march continued. He didn't know which step would be his last.

  The small stream that showed Fortune the way was already painted red by the rays of dusk. Behind him, the leaves rustled, and his slaves, tugging at their collars, watched him from the shadows of their eye sockets.

  He searched the landscape, projecting his sweet memories onto it, the searing heat, the faces frozen in pain on the ground, the fire.

  Fortune just followed the stream. Up a hill through the trees, then down. Up, down. Meanwhile, the clashing of swords grew louder behind him. He didn't even look back. Up, down. He had already gone over what would soon happen to him: first the pain in his back as the sword was thrust in. Then he wouldn't be able to breathe. Then another stab in his stomach, and probably a few more; in, out. The sword goes in, then out. In, out. This thought pattern ran through his mind. In, out.

  They passed a hollow ironwood tree. Fortune stopped, squinting at it as a memory crawled into his head. It was bigger than it had been. Much bigger. But that marvelous, gaping darkness in the center of its trunk was still there. Like a mouth crying out in pain. Fortune reached into the hollow hastily, and his hopeful fingers indeed caught hold of something. He placed it in his palm, raised it to eye level, and brought it close to his face. He looked into the eye socket of the skull, which grinned back at him. The slaves watched him, pacing like shadows around him.

  Before his eyes, flesh crept back onto the skull, blood began to flow in the veins again, skin covered it, a mane of dark hair grew over its head, its face became bearded, its eyes dark brown, and the head reattached to the body, standing before him once more. Trembling, he tried to get as far away from him and the fire as possible. The mouth of the cave yawned a few steps away from them, as if the screams filling the air came from there. For a moment, Fortune pondered what he should do with the trembling man, but he quickly found the answer. He burned the hair off his body; he flayed the skin; he looked into the man's eyes, which wept blood. The man came closer to him and the fire. His touch caused the eye to collapse, melting down his face. The man still screamed. Fortune breathed fire into him. He watched the writhing, twitching man, the muscles contracting in his body, his chest heaving up and down in a frenzied, erratic rhythm. Up, down; then stopping forever. He severed the head from the body. The bloody ball steamed in his hand. He raised it to eye level, examining the distorted, bare, blood-wrapped remains, looking into the dark eye socket before tossing it into the tree hollow.

  His slaves cursed around him as the skull gleamed white in his hand. He put it back in its hiding place.

  "You fucking bastard!" The man reached into the tree hollow, yanked out the skull, threw it to the ground, and stomped on it. The bones cracked and crunched. "Is this why we came here? For another damn bone? Where's the loot?"

  Fortune turned to face them, looking at the reddening ground. He had to say something. In, out.

  "Underneath us."

  "Then let's dig it up, let's see!"

  "With what? And," Fortune counted backward from eight on his fingers, "there aren't enough of you for that."

  "We'll dig with our hands, I don't care!"

  "It wouldn't be lucky if another hunter came by while you're exhausted and hauling out the loot."

  Fortune started back down the path, and they snarled at him, the rings tightening around their necks.

  In, out. In, out. Waiting for the thrusts.

  ***

  By the time they returned to the village, it had grown dark. The settlement was bathed in a strange light. Lanterns burned on the ground; they hung from poles, from branches of trees, at the entrances to the depths, and beside the stalls, around which people buzzed.

  "Let's meet here tomorrow at sunset. All of you," Fortune said to his slaves, who merely nodded before heading towards the inn. He would have done the same if he hadn’t heard something. A familiar sound. The marvelous sound of suffering. The guards looked at each other and laughed:

  "Those idiots are gnawing at each other again."

  Fortune wanted to see the pain bring tears of joy to their eyes. The little blood rivulet cheerfully trickled down the hillside in the torchlight, leading him to the tree. The wind tore more leaves from it. There was that delightful couple who shared the joys of life so eagerly. Their faces were swollen and bloody, with smiles beneath the swelling. The other members, both women and men with black-painted hands, their skin glistening with sweat and fresh wounds, extended their arms to each other. The blade moved across their skin like a paintbrush, the blood pooling in bulging puddles.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The knife stopped, and those marvelous, pleading eyes all turned to Fortune. They called to him, gathered around him, stroked him, and demanded he choose one of them.

  "What do you want?"

  "We saw you watching us."

  "We all saw the joy in your eyes. You longed to be here with us. You wanted the pain."

  "The pain?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, to which one of them smiled.

  "We saw it in your eyes."

  "You are not alone; you never have to suffer alone."

  "Share it with me!" one of them said, taking his hand. Fortune looked at the face. That kind face. The calm, misty blue eyes, the black locks framing the face, the wounds on the body. Looking into those blue eyes made his stomach tighten, his muscles tense. The longer he gazed, the more he saw a gray cloak around them. He turned around; the blue eyes all watched him, each wearing a gray cloak, the holy prayers whispered in the wind. He took a confused step backward.

  Fortune blinked. He stood before the tree, facing the bloodied, broken face of the black-handed woman. One of her eyes was swollen shut, barely revealing the blue gaze, but it was still there. His fist was sticky with fresh, warm blood. He turned his back on them, but after the first step, something pulled his arm back. He looked back. It was the woman whose blood dripped from his hand.

  "Thank you for sharing your pain with me!" she said with a smile on her face.

  For a moment, he saw the gray rags on her again. He yanked his arm away, then left them without looking back.

  Fortune's ears caught the sounds of the tavern as he descended the steps: laughter, murmuring, clinking mugs, and footsteps. And a woman's scream that dissolved into the tavern's humid atmosphere as he opened the door. He stepped over the threshold, slammed the door behind him, threw a handful of coins on the counter in front of the tavernkeeper, and headed to his room. The crowd was smaller now, but the slave servers were still busy. They walked up and down among the guests, including his own slaves, who glanced at Fortune with satisfied looks. They watched him silently, as if it was forbidden to speak in his presence. A pool of blood extended from behind the red curtain. When it slowly moved aside, a short man stepped out from behind it with a searching, cautious look. He sneaked toward the entrance. Fortune recognized that look. The same look, the same face. The look of a novice thief who couldn’t hide that he had done something and drew attention to himself with his cautiousness.

  The man headed for the door, eyeing the handle. His steps quickened, but despite his haste, one of the guards grabbed his wrist. The tavernkeeper rushed over, cursing.

  He pulled the red curtain aside, revealing the rest of the blood pool. A pair of brown eyes, forever open, stared at them from the floor.

  "Goddamn scoundrel! I warned you, Rudis. But that’s it!"

  The man knelt, begging the tavernkeeper.

  "Shut up!" The guards surrounded the man. "Damn thief. You took advantage of my good faith."

  "No! I would never do such a thing, I just..."

  "You paid to fuck the whore, not to kill her. You didn’t drop a single penny for it."

  "I’ll pay, I promise!"

  "No, you won’t," the man knelt, begging. "You didn’t pay now, and you didn’t pay before. And who knows when else," he looked at him in disgust. "Get him out of my sight!"

  The two guards dragged the man away.

  Fortune walked down the tavern’s passages to his room, which was a mere dead end in the cave system. There was only a bed in it, with a lantern on the floor, which he didn’t light; he just sprawled out. His facial muscles were still moved by anger.

  "They deserve it," he said his last words, thinking of the black-handed ones, and then anger lulled him to sleep.

  ***

  Fortune's awakening was like having his head pushed underwater.

  "Our esteemed leader, Rufus Atrox, has an important announcement. Failure to attend will result in decapitation. Everyone to the judgment hill. Decapitation!" the messenger repeated the key word once more.

  His anger hadn't lessened a bit, but he crawled to the surface, where the scents of wine, spices, and roasted meat hit his nose. The Moon hovered at the top of the sky between two clouds. People emerged from the underground, trickling from all directions and swelling into a crowd before the hill. At its peak, looking down at the crowd, stood Rufus in his radiant red coat.

  The smell of roasts hung in the air.

  Fortune looked around. He saw nothing but sheep.

  He clenched his fist. Rufus finally began to speak:

  "I have been through a difficult time. I fought the dreaded mouse plague, but now I stand before you, healthy, strong, and ready to continue leading the village. The mice, like the freaks, are fed by the gray monks," Rufus spread his arms wide, as if missing the reaction.

  The crowd began to jeer and curse, shaking their fists above their heads. Rufus lowered his hands again.

  Fortune's neck muscles tightened as he pushed forward through the crowd. His palms tingled, his fingers curled longingly, tensing and flexing. They wanted something to squeeze, something that wouldn't allow any more air through, something to break in their grasp. Arms stretched from his eyes.

  "They come down to us from the Light to mock us, they shelter our enemies and spread disease among us." He gave a signal for the crowd to express their opinion again. "They worship the god who banished us here. I reject this god! For he does not come to our aid, does not protect us!" Rufus raised his hand, and the crowd shouted their agreement. "Someone else does this. One of us, an outcast like anyone here. She suffers with us. She fights the diseases and the pain on our behalf. For she has power over these." He paused. "She is the Holy Healer."

  "From now on, it is forbidden to speak the name of the traitor god, forbidden to recite his word, for he is no longer our god! We do not worship him anymore! We serve only the Holy Healer; She is our god. Anyone who acts otherwise, who worships the traitor god, must be burned at the stake." Rufus signaled, and the crowd erupted in wild cheers.

  The guards brought out prisoners. Fortune pushed forward. Among the three prisoners was the man who had been caught today at the tavern for not paying for killing the slave server. The short man seized every moment to try to escape and run. His face was drenched in tears, and he screamed at the top of his lungs that he would pay, that he did nothing. Rufus looked at one of the guards, who picked up a torch stuck in the ground.

  The guard stepped to the pile of wood behind him, and the torch's flame caught hold. The pyre blazed, its light illuminating a previously hidden wooden statue. The statue of the Holy Healer towered over the crowd, the flames, and the village leader. The screaming man was thrown into the fire, his screams carried by the rising wind to the crowd, while the statue of the Holy Healer spread its arms lovingly.

  The two remaining prisoners' expressions were calm at that moment, like the surface of a lake on a warm day in the iron season. Fortune's eyes burned. The two gray monks did not twitch, did not resist. The fire consumed them, gray rags and all, as if they had never existed. Silently, without any resistance.

  He trembled, staggered back, a wave of heat running through him. The arms in Fortune's eyes no longer stretched, the sight burned them, and they bled as they retreated deep into his eye sockets.

  He looked at Rufus, then at himself.

  The thought choked him, the air stuck in his lungs.

  "Long live the Holy Healer, our only living god!" Rufus shouted with a raised fist. The crowd echoed his words, their shouts carried far by the wind, while the village's old flags were replaced and unfurled. The newborn flags greeted the crowd proudly, their fabric now bearing a small red arrow alongside a sprawling red star, like an octopus.

  Fortune turned and broke through the crowd, slipping away like a wounded dog. His teeth chattered, his lips trembled, his breathing became erratic. He rushed to the tavern, down into the depths where the light of the pyre couldn't reach; into the darkness where no one but him resided, where he let that sharp feeling coursing through his body, through his throat, force a scream out of him. He clawed at his neck, scratched his face, anything to ease the feeling within him. He screamed, the image of the pyre before him with Rufus, the Holy Healer, and the flames consuming the gray monks. He repeated one thought like a prayer:

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