Chapter 44. A Taste of It (Patreon)

They overshot their aims. Hours later, they ended up returning with five Vordors in tow. Dorian played the anchor while letting the others unleash on their victims. It was, all in all, a very effective strategy. Almost too effective.

After being stuffed with three full-grown adult Vordors, Dorian’s Interspatial Ring was just about filled up. He guessed it was a low-grade Ring; to be expected of this Realm and of this Tribe especially. These rings were basic: throw things in, take things out, suspended in a small space. The more advanced rings allowed for things like compartmentalizing, live settings, even time dilation… at their most powerful, he’d seen Interspatial Rings act almost as their own self-sustained worlds.

This one, meanwhile, wasn’t even a sufficient meat locker. So they had to drag the last two back by hand. Kuruk and Nakai hauled one and Dorian, Hento, and Hanska took the other. All the while Dorian felt Aloc’s gaze trained on him, like the man was recording each minute detail onto a mental notepad.

By the time they returned the sun was bisected by the horizon. Dorian, leading the group on their way, took an indirect route on purpose; he dragged it in an arc around the periphery in full view of the camp. Tuketu was waiting at the east side of camp alongside a full crew of cooks and the Head Chef, each of whom stood in front of an assortment of pots atop fire pits. Their instruments were crude: big knives and skewers, mostly. Seasoning was nonexistent.

I know it’s hardly the golden halls of Xanadu, but come on. Doesn’t bland burnt meat get old?

Most of the cooks seemed surprised as they came in. Even Tuketu had an eyebrow raised.

“You’ve returned on time, and with double the assignment?” He broke into a smile. “Impressive. Good work! You have the rest of the day off. Prepare yourselves well.”

With that he made a dismissive motion. The rest of the crew looked at each other, then left; with the exception of Dorian, who was still pretty fresh, they’d all been worn out—if not from the fighting then from the dragging. Hento flicked his wrist in a gesture to Tuketu, stretched out his back like a cat, and gave Dorian a glance. He motioned to Dorian’s ring.

“Will you show him the rest?”

Dorian gave him a thumbs up. Hento sauntered off. Kuruk and the rest nodded and left wordlessly. Only Dorian was left.

“Yes?” said Tuketu. “What is it?”

“The Tribe can only store, like, three weeks’ worth of meat, right?” said Dorian.

“Correct. Any more and it’d go bad before we got to it.” Tuketu cocked his head. “Why?”

“Well…” Dorian tapped his ring.

Three Vordors materialized in a heap. Tuketu leapt back, eyes widening. When he looked back to Dorian, his brows were drawn together in a confused pinch.

“You did this?”

“Our team did,” smiled Dorian.

“That’s…” Tuketu paused, then chuckled. “I suppose it’s to be expected. You continue to surprise, Chosen Io.”

Dorian scratched at his head. “I dunno. We got some extra time, so we tried for some more!”

He gestured to the corpses. “Anyhow, that’s more than we can hold. So I was thinking… why not use it for a feast?”

“A feast?”

“Yea. For the whole Tribe,” grinned Dorian. “Something to bring us all together before the big Festival.”

Something to grease my wheels with the rest of the Tribe, too.

Tuketu appeared to consider it. Say yes. Come on. I didn’t parade those carcasses across half the Tribe for nothing, did I?

“Intriguing! You’ll need to take it up with the Head Cook, I’m afraid,” said Tuketu. He gave Dorian a light tap on the head. “Two new Vordors for a massive feast? I fear it may be more than the cooks can handle on such short notice… but I commend your eagerness to help the Tribe, young Io. Your spirit is in the right place.”

Tuketu nodded, a slight motion that managed to contain both a smidge of approval and a dollop of patronization, and left a frowning Dorian.

Dorian went over to the Head Chef to check, just in case. The man was well-built, bald, nearly hairless, and had skin so rough it looked like someone had welded a series of boulders together. His curt reply—“No.”

So maybe my parade was for naught. An idea prickled him from the back of his mind.

Or maybe not. He scratched his chin. If you won’t throw a feast, I’ll do it myself! These tribesmen seldom ate to excess, and when they did it was wolfing down days-old rations, usually; fresh meat, grilled by a seasoned hand, was to die for. His magical skills, all his Techniques and prior Bloodline intuitions, had all been wiped out. For mundane things like cooking, though? The muscle memory might not remain, but the regular memory did. He’d show these brutes what a real meal was like; he wouldn’t pull out the full heft of his cooking skills—that might really get him burned at the stake—but he needn’t pretend to be a cooking virtuoso to show them a flavor other than charcoal. At the least he’d give them a taste of something new. It was not unlike alchemy.

Speaking of which. First things first…

The sun was setting, dinner was two hours away. That left him a brief window in which to get a little brewing done.

***

It was a productive stint. He finished up brewing the rest of his side project with the ingredients he’d bought from Hu. In the remaining time he put another small dent into the rest of the week’s brews, too. He left with a satisfied Hu and a crate-full of his own brews in tow.

A proper feast needed all the right components. He’d gotten the food earlier today. He’d supply the drink too. In those crates lay jars upon jars of a variant of the Heart-Quickening draught, diluted immensely and altered for taste. In short, he’d invented a sort of pepper-up drink; it’d stimulate the qi and bring forth new energy. Paired with fresh Vordor meat the tribesmen usually got—a departure from the usual dry jerky, which was the leftovers after the Tribe’s higher-ups nabbed the best meat—and it’d make for a boon for their cultivations like they wouldn’t believe.

The center of the village was a meandering walk from where Hu pitched his tent. Dorian pulled his new drink along on a rickety old cart, the kind destined to drum up intrigue. As it went it jostled the glass jars around; the air was filled with that head-turning glass-on-glass clanky goodness as Dorian made his way across. When he finally got to the center, he dusted off his hands and pulled out a wood table from his Interspatial Ring.

Then he chucked out one big ol’ Vordor corpse and plomped it right behind him in a whump. After that he started pulling out wood for a fire, then a series of knives. By the time he finished his setup he’d drawn a small crowd.

He whipped out a knife and started sawing from the Vordor in sharp chops.

Then he looked to a nearby tribesman and made a ‘come closer’ motion with one hand.

“Come, come! I had some meat and elixirs leftover. So I’ve come to share with the Tribe,” he said, smiling. He gestured to the drinks. “Want some?”

***

Chief Rust’s spare tent was even more bare than usual. All his trinkets had been taken down and stashed, his valuables locked away. Only his bookshelves and desk adorned the space. A trickle of waning sunlight broke past the door flaps and the walls of the tent glowed warm orange-red in the light. Outside, the bustle of the evening filled the air.

Three people filled the space: the Chief himself, Tuketu, and Aloc. Aloc was nearing the end of an account of all he’d witnessed that day. The information only left Rust more confused. Tuketu was nodding and humming, nonchalant as usual, but Rust could tell something weighed on his mind.

“—nothing unusual,” said Aloc. “He fought more unselfishly than I’d expected. The powers he’d shown were great, but not shocking. I suspect the best of our Hunters would still have our way with him in a straight duel. A talent, but raw.”

Aloc’s chest was puffed out, his head held higher than standard. He might’ve been the wrong man for the job, thought Rust. Sharp as he was, he was also still young—close enough to Io’s generation that a competitive streak might arise. Cloud his judgment. Somehow Rust suspected the boy was more dangerous than he let on.

“Thank you, Hunter Aloc,” said Tuketu, inclining his head. He turned to Rust. “Have a riddle. A boy comes from nothing. He spends years as a lackey. He’s an object of ridicule and summarily trampled on. Then, by a stroke of luck, he discovers Heaven-sent talent. He ascends the ranks very quickly with the Tribe’s help. He’s designated a possible—nay, probable Tribe Elder in the future.”

“A meteoric rise,” intoned Rust. “For an unknown quantity. A combination of note.”

“Then, he chances upon a bout of Heaven-sent luck once more,” said Tuketu softly. “He snatches a Prime Bone of stupendous strength. In two weeks he’s risen to Hunter, and he’s deserved it. What are the odds?”

He folded his arms. “What do we make of such a strange creature?”

His eyes glinted. “Perhaps the Heavens have blessed him! Or perhaps it’s less luck than we’d like to believe.”

Rust frowned. “What are you saying?”

“Nothing,” said Tuketu with a shrug. “It’s mere speculation. I’m throwing strikes to the sky.” He paused. “It is strange, though, the what all has happened and portends to happen. The Ugoc attack. This year, a Festival of unusual strength. This new Io development. Something is different. You can feel it in the air.”

“You suggest a twisting of the River of Fate,” said Rust, brows raised. “Meddling by a higher power. Truly? Is this sufficient grounds?”

“I suggest nothing,” reminded Tuketu gently. “We don’t know enough for that.” He pursed his lips. “Although—perhaps it’s worth reaching one of our contacts at the Oases. What have the Oracles said?”

Rust narrowed his eyes. “They’ve said nothing to me. But that does not mean it hasn’t happened. I will…monitor things closely.” He took a breath. “You’re right. Something is off. I have the distinct feeling we shall soon know what.”

For a few moments, none of them said a word.

Then—“Say,” said Tuketu, inclining his head. “Hear that? Has an Elder called a meeting of which I’m not aware?”

Rust frowned, listening harder. The sounds outside—voices, clamor, clinks—were distant but swelling in number. A crowd, at this hour? “Shouldn’t be…”

“Hm…” Tuketu nodded to the door, looking amused. “Shall we check it out?”

The command tents were pitched a little ways from the center. It took some walking to get there, but they needed no directions; tribesmen from all around filtered in, streaming toward the source of the noises. Largely they were rank tribesmen, but Rust also spotted a handful of Hunters in the mix. What?

They reached the center and stood in consternation.

A crowd was gathered. They chattered and laughed. They ate juicy slabs of meat off skewers. They drank a concoction he couldn’t identify. At its center, seated behind a table and roasting three massive chunks of flesh, was the boy they’d all been speaking of. The anomaly. Sitting there chatting to a small circle of tribesmen as he roasted.

“What is he doing?” said Tuketu, blinking. Rust stared. Was this a play at political capital? An assault?

He caught sight of Rust, Tuketu, and Aloc, and waved. Waved! The gall! Then his face broke into a smile so guileless and so sincere that even Rust couldn’t hold it against him. All his suspicions melted away like frost under a noontime sun.

Maybe the kid was just that—a kid.

“Chief! Master Tuketu! Aloc! Welcome, welcome!” he called. He held up the skewers in his hand. “Want some?”