AC -Slow Fever Ch1-

Chapter 1: Nightmares

He had not seen so much as tracks for the past week, and as the storm closed low upon him, the hunter stood motionless upon the invisible border that the sachem had drawn. Nothing concrete marked it; yet the boundary shone clear to his memory, rang in his mother’s stern tone. His people did not dare tempt fate, not with so many souls lost after crossing too close to the King’s cities.

Still, the full quiver upon his back stung him, and he only hesitated briefly before pushing forward into the settled lands.

He lifted his steps through the snow, taking every precaution not to disturb the predators that lay here. There had never been doubt that those of the tribes were being stolen away - indeed, not always unwillingly.

As winter clawed them all, entire families had sighed and stepped hollow-eyed into the mad King’s reach. Hearsay warned that servitude was all that awaited them, but surely anything was better than watching their children starve.

Recalling this utter despair set an ache to the Mohawk’s heart, though he held resolutely to his responsibilities. It was only the efforts of his people’s warriors, himself among them, which spared their own from such a fate. Every man or woman strong did their part, taking up either the bow of a hunter or the strength and black brands of the sacred tea.

These latter were held in high regard, but equally with caution. Not all warriors survived their sky journeys, and those that returned never did so alone. Their voices and faces remained unchanged, but all could see that a stranger lurked within them, staring out with unearthly eyes.

Still, even with all their sacrifices, the land itself was growing thin and twisted from the colonies, which lapped its rivers and swallowed its game into numberless mouths. The King looked only to his enemy across the sea, and did not seem to realize that his preparations for a glorious war only ate the country from within. Soon, there would be nothing left.

Fortunately, that day was yet to come, and it was with great relief that the hunter came upon the scarred tree. His Sense drew an image of a deer gnawing at the bark’s meager nourishment, and he immediately unslung his bow and set upon its trail.

However, the chase was piteously short. Perhaps impatience or his empty stomach had dulled his focus, but he had only followed the doe for a few minutes when he made a costly mistake.

He halted far too late as the deer’s head lifted abruptly, the shifting wind carrying his scent to it. With a bound, it slipped out of range, and the hunter sprinted in close pursuit. He had barely gone a few steps though when he heard the doe squeal, saw it fall in a tangle of hooves. A strange weapon - no more than a simple barb on a rope - protruded from its throat.

He slowed, following the cord with a cautious eye to find a slight, elderly man emerging from a hunting blind.

“I thought she’d never come close enough,” the stranger admitted, prodding at the deer with a walking stick before turning to him. “You have my thanks.”

The Mohawk could not return the gaze, could barely keep the irritation from his face as he stared upon the kill, knowing that he had no right to it. He respectfully kept his distance, despite thinking bitterly that honor would not fill his brothers’ stomachs.

The old man seemed to notice his indignation and he chuckled gently. “I suppose my gratitude means little to you. I have a proposal, then. I’m not as young as I once was, so if you’re willing to skin the beast, I’ll give you half the meat.”

The hunter looked up, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. ”You trust that I will not steal from you?”

The other shrugged and answered simply, “You don’t seem the type.”

The Mohawk frowned at the unexpected generosity, but knew that he was in no position to doubt. He stepped forward and knelt beside the deer, habitually murmuring his thanks before cutting into the belly.

The man leaned both hands upon his walking stick as the hunter worked, watching him with interest. “You have a name, boy?”

“Ratonhnhake:ton.” After a noticeable pause, he glanced at the other’s blank stare and sighed, ”Kehton, then, if you must.”

The elder nodded, tilting his hat to him slightly. “Achilles.”

There was no real need to, but when he had finished, the hunter packed Achilles’ share for him and helped him heft the satchel onto his bent back. The old man smiled at this and thanked him, though Kehton only responded with an impartial nod.

“I’d hurry home before sunset, Kehton,” the other spoke, not unkindly, a cloud upon his brow when he turned to depart. “There were hunters of a rather unsavory sort prowling near here. I wouldn’t cross them.”

The Mohawk offered a short bow as Achilles left, before slinging his own load of meat across his shoulders. The food was not much, but he knew that his tribe would appreciate the respite from the usual rats and spindly hares. He smiled slightly at the thought and headed for home.

As he neared the border, his Sense picked up on hushed voices nearby, speaking in a native tongue he was only distantly familiar with. Kehton lifted his head curiously and, after a moment’s pause, climbed swiftly into the trees.

He hung his kill upon a sturdy branch and threaded towards the conversation. As he drew near an encampment fenced in by three covered wagons, he started at a sharp peal of wood on metal. The voices halted immediately at the scolding, and Kehton realized with shock that the wagons were actually wheeled cages, filled with men and women of varying tribes.

The colonist stepped away from the cage he had banged his rifle against, seeming satisfied with the silence, and the Mohawk snarled unseen above him. Kehton glared upon the dozen or so men lounging about the camp, and knew that these were the ‘hunters’ the old man had referred to.

He glanced back to the cages and tilted his head slightly when he realized that one of the captives had noticed him, evidently possessing the foresight to look up. The set of the man’s shoulders and the empty sheath at his side marked him as a warrior, but Kehton saw none of the fire in his eyes. Such emptiness drew him, as if to a wounded brother, and the Mohawk carefully dropped to ground level.

He crept to the edge of the cage and silently took up the metal lock that sealed it, drawing the attention of all the prisoners, though they knew enough not to speak. The warrior who had first seen him threaded through the tight crowd while Kehton scratched at the lock’s mechanisms, but he seemed far from pleased. He crouched to the Mohawk’s eye level, a stern furrow at his brow as he shook his head once and waved him back.

Kehton scowled stubbornly and ignored him, turning his full concentration on the lock picks. This, perhaps, was his mistake.

“The hell--? Oi lads, get over here!”

He flinched back as if burned, turning wide eyes over his shoulder at the colonist staring upon him with equal shock. Kehton drew a sharp breath and was running before the other had finished speaking, but the damage had been done and the camp had woken.

Those sitting by the fire all surged to their feet when they caught sight of him, their eyes reflecting an eerie hunger. The Mohawk fled toward the tree line and struggled to evade the many bodies closing around him, but a well-placed boot threw him into the snow.

They surrounded him with raucous laughter and dark, triumphant grins. Kehton stumbled upright, teeth bared and knife drawn, but the colonists seemed unconcerned. For a moment, there was only the sound of panting breath, and the hesitant clatter of metal as the caged tribesmen strained to watch.

“Quite a prize, eh? It looks nothing like the usual mongrels,” one man remarked, raking the hunter with an appraising eye. “Might even last an entire month before it drops.”

Kehton struggled to ease his nerves, the grip on his blade wavering. He took a step back, but the colonists matched him swiftly and hemmed even closer.

“Careful, don’t let it run. I hear these wilder ones can be a handful, but they’re worth some ten times more.”

The Mohawk saw his chance as the slavers deliberated on which of them would take him and he lunged the circle, preempting any decision. Rigid panic granted him the first spilled blood, but those that snatched at his arms to stop him were lit with equal desperation.

Fear birthed anger, and Kehton snarled as he twisted viciously, his blade laying open fingers and outstretched palms. He painted the snow in lashes, yet every attempt to break free came to nothing. Though the Mohawk shied from the very idea of it, he knew that he was not strong enough to escape them.

It steadily became a struggle simply to stay on his feet, and a blow to the head from a rifle stock condemned him, throwing him forward into waiting ropes. Kehton lost his knife as the cord tightened about his wrists and he dropped his head, choking back any sound of pain.

He pulled violently against his captors, once, twice, each jerked movement indignant. However, the colonists’ grip was obstinate, and an unfamiliar helplessness began to poison his heart. Kehton strained against the ropes that he could not break, and realized blankly that he was beginning to tremble from the rising dread.

The two at his sides dragged him forward once they had steadied themselves, half-panting, half-laughing as they wrestled him towards the line of cages. The hunter fought them the entire short distance, digging his boots into the dirt and keeping his panicked gasps clenched behind his teeth. He could not show fear, much as he held it in his chest.

As they skirted one wagon, Kehton lifted his clouded gaze quite by chance, and was surprised to find the warrior - the same he had attempted to free moments ago - staring at him urgently, giving a subtle gesture for him to draw closer. Only here did he notice that the colonists were completely disregarding the caged natives as a threat, their eyes focused solely on him. The Mohawk set his jaw and nodded, before lunging sideways and slamming himself and his two captors against the bars.

Many hands reached past the irons and snatched at the slavers, only able to pin them to the cage for a few seconds, but that was enough.

Kehton wrenched free and was running again, closing his ears to the outraged cries all around him. Though still unable to free his hands, he managed to sweep up his fallen blade and reach the safety of the forest.

He threw a final glance over his shoulder towards the many somber eyes peering past the bars, unable to follow. Kehton dropped his gaze to the snow as he sprinted away, knowing that he could not save them alone, had no choice but to leave them behind. It nearly tore him in two all the same.

Only instinct led him back onto familiar paths, as the shame blinded him like a wound.

The Mohawk pushed on, ignoring the imbalance of his steps and the painful rasp of his breath. He could not bring himself to halt until he had returned to his people’s lands, still feeling the acrid breath of the pursuing colonists at his back despite having lost them long ago. The faces of the ones he had abandoned, too, haunted him.

He stopped in the hollow of a cliff to cut his bindings, but found with frustration that it took him much longer to ease the tremors. He was a young man now, but the terror he clutched was that of a child woken by nightmares. His weakness was inescapable, and he loathed himself for it.

What if those captives had been his tribesmen? His mother? Would fear have driven him away just as easily?

Kehton knew dully that the answer did not matter, would not lessen his guilt. The people he had left behind could have been a mother to someone else, a son, a brother. And still he had saved himself and damned them all.

When he had calmed enough to shakily gather his bearings, the hunter was startled to find himself within sight of the Great Willow. The ancient tree spread its leaves into the bone white sky, staining it as if blood on water.

Kehton distractedly touched the bruises at his wrists and knew that his desire - his cry - for strength did not have to go unanswered. After all, every Mohawk who had come of age knew how to brew the tea, though many did fear its consequences. His mother as well had adamantly forbidden it.

Still, what kind of warrior was he really, he who could not even protect himself?