IV Orion: Tribute

Carved from pure marble, the god does not so much as twitch. His gaze is paternal, yet stern.
His full, sculpted beard and short hair, bound with a golden circlet, are flawless. Hollow eyes glowing azure sweep across those who have been herded together.
They settle on Orion, seem to pierce straight through him, before his gaze moves on.
A laurel wreath rests upon his head. Not a single crease mars the white tunic, not a blemish stains the green sash. Golden bands hang from his wrists, and a necklace set with red jewels adorns his neck.
Aeolus looks every bit a god.

A gunshot shatters the silence, and the guard beside the god collapses.
“Damned pack of looters,” the mayor curses, reloads Sharpeye, and kills another guard with a precise shot through the heart. “Why are you frightening these men and women who mean so much to me?” he asks, reloads again, and this time aims at Aeolus.
Soldiers raise their weapons and take aim at the furious man, but lower them again at a gesture from the god.
The cracked spectacles tremble on Theophilus’s nose, and with tears in his eyes he screams, “What gives you the right to attack us?”
“What right?” the god repeats calmly, never taking his eyes from the barrel of the rifle. “The divine right, of course! I am a god descended from Olympus, come to gather worthy disciples around me.”
“You don’t fool me,” the mayor spits, his arms trembling. “You’re a man of flesh and blood, no matter how you dress yourself up.”
Aeolus shakes his head in disappointment. “I cannot tolerate such blasphemous words. Anyone who doubts me or attacks one of my men is condemned to death.”
Through clenched teeth, Theophilus replies, “Then I suppose I’ve got nothing left to lose.”
“Anyone who challenges me will be granted a fair fight. Man against god.” He points toward the crowd around them. “No one—guard, disciple, or novice—will interfere. Your death will be just.”

Without waiting another moment, the first shot rings out.
The bullet strikes Aeolus directly in the heart, lodges in his black skin, and drops harmlessly to the ground.
Cursing, the mayor reloads and mutters, “Seventy,” as the god sweeps a hand through the air and the wind obeys his command.
A gust tears the old man from his feet, and he crashes into a wooden shack with a thunderous impact, bringing it down around him.
His face and arms are bleeding badly, yet he fights his way out from beneath the wreckage. Trembling, he straightens his bent spectacles, finds his target, and pulls the trigger.
Again, the bullet strikes the god’s heart. Again, it fails to pierce the ebony-colored skin.
“Sixty-nine,” the old man prays.
Aeolus raises his hand, extends a finger, and points at Theophilus.
Desperately, the old man gasps for air as his skin turns blue.
Trembling hands reload Sharpeye, fumble the cartridge, and let it fall. It hits the ground with a metallic clink and disappears among the rubble. Summoning the last of his strength, his hands search through the wreckage until they find the cold metal.
Lift it.
Push it into the chamber.
He raises the sights from the heart to the head.
Straining, he can barely support the rifle’s weight anymore.
“Kill him,” Philo whispers.
“Shoot,” Helen pleads.
“Pull the trigger,” Orion prays.
For an eternity, Theophilus holds his aim, wheezing for air, his finger pressed firmly against the trigger.
In silence, Orion watches as the dark blue face of Paragon’s guardian tilts to one side.

He hits the ground dead.
Dead, Theophilus lies still.

Aeolus stands untouched, flawless as before. His arms raised in triumph, he basks in the stunned silence of the crowd. His face bears the same marble mask as before.
No pity. No emotion in that grave expression.
“As I said, I seek new disciples. Men and women who will devote themselves to me and spread my teachings. Surely you understand that I can take only the worthy among you. I demand strength, ingenuity, and determination, and so I call for the divine tribute. Before I explain this trial, I ask something simple of you: kneel before me in reverence!”
Aeolus raises both arms toward the heavens, and one by one, everyone sinks silently to their knees. Heads bowed, careful not to draw the god’s wrath.
Secretly, Orion lifts his head and looks across the kneeling villagers toward the last man still standing against Aeolus.
Constantine hides his trembling hands behind his back and says in a breaking voice, “The old man you killed was the best thing that ever happened to this settlement. How am I supposed to worship a god who took my father from me?”
“Your father was a foolish but courageous man. Do not dishonor him by throwing away your life. I have no thirst for meaningless bloodshed. Death should serve a purpose: to strengthen the survivors and lead them toward true power.”
Furious, Constantine clenches his fists and reluctantly raises his chin.
Barely perceptibly, Aeolus nods toward one of his men and steps back.

Orion once joked that no man could possibly be larger than Philo, yet the stranger towers even a head above him.
His face is hidden beneath a bony goat skull crowned with curved brown horns. Dark eyes regard the troublemaker wearily, while his smile is a sea of fangs. Matted, greasy black hair hangs to his shoulders, and unholy scars crawl across his dark red skin like those of a demon. They form strange, grotesque patterns: runes and symbols carved deep into the flesh.
A tight black vest covers his muscular torso, and beneath it he wears dark, worn trousers.
He lumbers lazily through the crowd, grabs Constantine by his short blond hair, and drags him in front of the town hall. With obvious pleasure, he runs his tongue across his sharpened teeth, delighted to have resistance to crush.
“I am Notos,” he calls in a bored voice. “An Anemoi, one of Aeolus’s Four Winds! As the South Wind, I serve as chief judge and executioner. Surely no one here will dispute that heretics and rebels must be punished appropriately.”

No one answers.

Constantine struggles against the iron grip.
Sparks dance across Notos’s hand, forming flames that lick their way along his arm. At his command, the fire leaps onto Constantine’s head and spreads across his body.
The burning man rolls across the ground in panic, but the flames cling to him, devouring flesh and clothing alike.
The stench of burning skin and hair fills Orion’s nose. Makes him turn away from the torture and hope it will soon be over.
“Kneel and experience the mercy of a god,” Notos preaches, savoring the suffering of his victim.
Screaming, Constantine bends the knee, and with a sweep of Notos’s hand, the flames vanish. Raw, burned flesh remains across Constantine’s face, and Orion exhales in relief.
“Back to your flock, sheep,” the Anemoi barks, kicking the cowering man back toward the villagers.

Aeolus clears his throat. “The tribute I demand requires your life for another! Every family bound by blood will choose one representative. Strong, skilled, and determined they must be, for when two chosen ones fight, only one will survive. Death means the extinction of your bloodline…”

Horrified screams.

A murmur passes through the villagers as they begin to understand what the god is demanding of them.
“See it as an opportunity,” Aeolus says, trying to calm the outraged crowd. “Only in the face of death, when more than your own life is at stake, does the true potential of your blood reveal itself.”
“How can the gods demand that we murder one another?” a woman shrieks.
“You have no choice,” Notos calls, raising his assault rifle. “Those who refuse, I execute. Those who flee, I punish. The unworthy, I purify. Death by bullet is quick and painless.”
Aeolus continues his sermon. “Pass this trial and fly aboard the scrap barges to my flagship. The Storm will carry you to my realm, where you will begin a new life devoted to me. In the service of a god!”
Orion and Philo stare at one another in disbelief. What have they done to deserve such punishment? Have they not always prayed to the gods? Offered them sacrifices?
Soldiers clear the square and separate families not bound by blood.

The tribute begins.
Notos steps forward, a knife in each hand. Slowly, he walks along the rows of chosen ones. Looks into their frightened faces as though savoring their uncertainty.
Suddenly, he stops and presses one of the knives against Gregor’s chest.
Gregor takes it, says goodbye to his wife and three children, and lets his friends wish him luck.
Lost and alone, he stands in the square, watching Notos shuffle along the rows until he places the second blade into the hand of one of the traveling merchants.
Calling what follows a fight would be generous. Seconds after it begins, Gregor lies dead in the dust. Overpowered by the stranger. A few moments, and an entire family has been erased. Soldiers carry the bodies of the losers aside and pile them into a heap that grows with every round.
Silvana is chosen. So is little Emilie.
Since their parents died, she and her sister have lived as orphans, cared for and supported by the community. The girl clutches the weapon desperately, tears running down her young face.
“I don’t want to do this,” Emilie stammers, and for the first time, Orion sees a warm smile on Silvana’s face.
“I swore an oath,” she says, looking at Aeolus. “To protect those entrusted to me from suffering and to do them no harm. No one, not even a god, can force me to break that oath.”
Letting her knife fall, Silvana kneels and beckons Emilie closer. Whispering something into the girl’s ear, she guides the child’s hands over her own heart.
Orion cannot see who delivers the thrust.
Emilie and her sister live.
Silvana is dead.
Another body on the pile.

Notos chooses more pairings: Dimitros and Ela. Melina and one of the strangers. Georgio and Sergey. Many of the encounters are decided before they even begin. Battle-hardened mercenaries cut down farmers who have never held a blade in combat. With a heavy heart, the burly blacksmith defeats the barber, whose body has been ravaged by serious illness.
But there are exceptions. Some, backed into a corner, discover strength they never knew they had. Overpower opponents who should have been superior.
It changes nothing.
Every victory erases lives until Notos stands before Orion and holds out the blood-smeared knife. “Your turn,” the Anemoi snaps before moving on in search of a suitable opponent. “Are you related?” he asks one of the men.
Orion does not want to look. Does not want to know who the other chosen one is.
“We’re brothers,” the man answers.
“Don’t look much alike,” Notos replies.
“Brothers in spirit. A bond deeper than blood,” Philo says.
“Fantastic,” Notos exclaims with delight. “Now that is a pairing!”
Orion pulls his loved ones close. Helen whispers something into his ear, but he cannot understand her. Everything feels unreal, impossibly far away. He cannot remember walking into the square, yet Philo is standing opposite him.

Orion tries to find the right words. To tell his brother that everything will be all right. That any moment now he will wake up and this nightmare will be over.
Philo speaks first. “Whatever happens. We stay brothers.”
Orion searches for an answer, wants to tell him what he feels. Give shape to the emptiness inside him. He nods and wipes a tear away with his sleeve.
“Get on with it,” Notos barks impatiently, aiming the assault rifle at Helen and Scylla.
Philo takes a hurried step forward and thrusts with the knife. Orion dodges and cuts a deep wound into his brother’s outstretched arm. Philo blocks the second strike.
A fist comes from nowhere and smashes into Orion’s face, sending him stumbling backward in a daze. The giant charges clumsily forward, throwing all his weight behind him. Orion steps aside.
Dust burns in his eyes.
He hears a roar as all the air is crushed from his lungs. He hits the ground hard and loses his blade in the chaos. His hands race across the earth, searching for anything that might help him.
Scylla screams as Philo bends over Orion.
Philo wraps both hands around the knife’s handle, ready for the final thrust. Orion’s fingers feel and search.
And find something solid.
Philo looks away. Looks toward those he loves.
Orion grabs hold and puts all his strength into the thrust.
Philo stares down at his chest in surprise. Sees the dagger buried in his heart. His arms sink powerlessly to his sides. Pursing his lips, he whistles one final song. His eyelids look so heavy. His brown eyes search for Scylla and Bella.
Notos, the executioner, puts the losers to death.

One gunshot, then another.

Blood pours from the wound and clings to Orion’s hands.
“Brother,” Philo breathes with a smile twisted by pain. He can no longer keep his eyes open and slumps to the side.
Bodies hit the ground with dull thuds.
Soldiers step into the square and carry the dead away. Throw Scylla’s limp body onto a pile.
Scylla, the fury with the good heart. Orion never would have believed anyone could tame Philo and curb his reckless nature. After their wedding, he became calm, thoughtful, settled.
Someone roughly lifts Bella and carries her away.
The little girl.
Far too young, her whole life still ahead of her. There could not have been a purer creature beneath the sun. She was always worrying about her clumsy father. Usually with good reason. Before bed, she always demanded one more story, eager to learn everything she could about the world.
The most beautiful flower among all the weeds.
One of the soldiers grabs Philo and drags the heavy body across the ground. Furious, Orion shoves him away and throws himself protectively over his brother.
“Leave him with me!” he screams, threatening anyone who comes near them.
His best man.

Aeolus applauds. “That is true strength.”

The hand that pulled Orion from the freezing water.

Aeolus continues. “His death was not meaningless.”

The man who approached Helen on his behalf.

“Honor the fallen! Admire the living!”

His son’s godfather.

Red blood covers Orion’s hands, branding him.
“Get that corpse out of here already,” orders Notos, the South Wind.
Rage gathers in Orion’s stomach, boils into his arms and legs. A deeper, truer fury takes hold of his otherwise peaceful nature. His legs begin to move almost on their own. Walk. Run. Charge.
For the briefest moment, Aeolus looks surprised. The stone mask appears bewildered in the shifting shadows.
Consumed by rage, Orion raises Philo’s knife, ready to strike the god. Only a few meters remain. Everything around them freezes, time stretches thin, and every breath becomes an eternity.
Aeolus’s white tunic flutters in the rising wind, and suddenly Orion’s feet find nothing beneath them. The world turns upside down—no, he is flying headfirst through the air before crashing painfully to the ground.
Soldiers seize Orion from all sides and drag him upright. Their voices sound impossibly far away.
Aeolus stands before him. Every word he speaks only feeds Orion’s fury until he can bear it no longer. Helen, Illias, Grandfather, the farm. Everything has been swept from his thoughts. Revenge against this god consumes him completely.
He tears himself from the soldiers’ grasp and stumbles forward, refusing to release the knife.

This time, Aeolus remains composed.
He raises one hand, and an invisible wall stops Orion from advancing. Gusts nearly tear the clothes from his body before hurling him backward. His head strikes hard stone.
Orion tries to breathe, but he cannot.
It is not his aching ribs or the adrenaline. All the air seems to have vanished from him. Aeolus stands before him, one finger pointed in his direction. Azure eyes glowing dimly, roaring water behind him.
“Anyone who attacks me or one of my men is condemned to death.”
Darkness closes around Orion, and standing becomes almost impossible. His arms and legs weigh tons, yet he rises.
The knife slips from his weary hands.
He stands there swaying, his fate sealed.
The strength leaves his body, and he falls.

Falls into the depths of the shaft behind him.

Darkness welcomes the farmer.
Orion’s lungs greedily fill with fresh air as Aeolus’s hold breaks. Cold water closes around his battered body, and the underground river sweeps him away with a roar.
Water, everywhere.
His face, his mouth, his nose—it forces its way into everything.
He is the little boy again, kicking helplessly for his life.
No light shows him the way, and Orion loses consciousness.