Page 31 of Warrior of the Wild
Piles of broken wood line the base of the mountain. Seven piles, to be exact. I spot immediately which wagon carried all the precious stones, because the crumbled bits of wood still bear the weight of gems, as if the wagon just collapsed and the stones fell down with it. They’re untouched. Unused. Out in the open where anything could claim them.
A man died because Peruxolo decided that pile of gems wasn’t large enough, and he’s left them here as if they were a trash heap.
But then, I guess he doesn’t demand tribute from us every year because he needs anything from mortals. It’s about keeping villagers scared and under his rule. Keeping us weak. Making us suffer.
My fear turns to anger, which I welcome, since it will be much more useful in ending the god.
Rather than stay out in the open, I cross back to where the line of trees and undergrowth will keep me hidden. I use the cover as I follow that line of wagons and then continue around the base of the mountain. It’s possible the god went up, rather than around. But he’s on foot. And the food, water, and everything else that was held in those wagons, save the gems, is missing. Granted, Peruxolo doesn’t have to touch things to move them. So perhaps he floated them and himself up to the mountain’s peak.
Either way, I’m not about to start the climb until I’ve thoroughly explored the bottom. I don’t need anything sneaking up on me.
My efforts are rewarded ten minutes later.
I find an opening.
Right into the mountain. A seam large enough for three men to enter side by side. But of course I can’t see into it. It’s much too dark.
So I find a sturdy tree. I climb it, find a good spot to sit, and I wait. I watch. I listen.
Sometimes I convince myself I hear talking, but then it disappears like a rough wind. Sometimes I think I see flickers from firelight play along the walls of that opening, but those, too, are probably imagined. There’s nothing prominent enough for me to truly believe I’m seeing signs of life.
Until a figure steps outside.
It’s the same tall frame. The same black cloak and large ax strapped across the back.
It’s him.
It’s the god Peruxolo.
And his face is uncovered.
Even with the distance from my hiding spot up in the tree to the seam in the mountain, I can see the sharp angles of his face. He does have the face of a man, with hair the color of dark sunlight, held back in a band at the base of his neck. Thick eyebrows give him, well, a godly look. Thin lips are pulled into a straight line as he walks toward the tree line.
Toward me.
My muscles freeze as I try to think of what to do.
I can run, hope he doesn’t catch me, hope he doesn’t know I’m here. Or I can hold very still and hope he doesn’t hear me breathing, hope he can’t sense a mortal’s heartbeat nearby.
But then, why would he head straight for me if he doesn’t know I’m here?
I spend far too much time deliberating, and the choice is made for me.
I hold my breath when the god is directly below me.
Only then do I notice the well-trodden trail through the plants. Oh, he comes this way often. A beat of hope passes through me.
But the god pauses. Right. Underneath. Me.
My limbs start to tremble. My breath escapes my lips, despite my best efforts to hold it in. But amidst the fear, through the horror of being near the most terrible being known to my people, a thought creeps in. I imagine a course of action I could take right now.
If I could silently slide my ax from my back—if I could perch myself in just the right position on this branch—if I could angle my fall just right—and hold my ax just so—
Maybe I could strike the god?
Peruxolo turns in a slow circle, watching the surrounding wild with narrowed eyes.
My heart is in my throat. I try to swallow it back down. But the sound is so very loud.
