The Punishment of the Guilty

Lobu Makane sat in his tent, surrounded by the silent camp. His men had settled into an exhausted but restless sleep after their hours-long march through the Northern Alliance.   

With every mile they travelled, the air became sharper. Its cold, usually welcomed, just filled Lobu with dread the closer they got to their borders. 

More troops had joined up with them bringing more soldiers, strangers that looked upon their retreat with apprehension, even judgement.

Defeat like theirs had been heard of, even witnessed by many before him, yet none ever had to fear the same repercussions that awaited them on their return. The Tribes had a code for war, a set of rules to guide them on their path to honor and glory. Now that code was whispered among the  soldiers, their actions were measured against it and it was concluded that Lobu Makane had brought dishonor upon them. He had tarnished the name of A’odon and his mission of conquest. Once again, he had retreated from a fight, fearing for the lives of insignificant soldiers for they were not graced with the same gift as he was; Death never kept his company for long. When Lobu Makane dies, he returns. 

A curse masked as a blessing, granted not by their lord, their tyrant A’odon, but by the marks he wore on his body. Due to them he learnt to appreciate life in a different way than the other chiefs, who never hesitated to muddy the grounds with blood. They called it a necessary sacrifice for their war and their victory, but Lobu knew better than to believe that wars will be won by fanatics.   

Lobu rubbed his hands together, feeling the rough skin of his bloody knuckles. He stared into the small fire in front of him, saw the blackened twigs snap and break as fire burst and heard the crack of breaking bones ring in his ears. The other chiefs had spit his name like an insult, called him a coward and had thrown accusations around that were only encouraged by the whispers in camp and the ale flowing heavily last evening. Fingers were pointed and most of them had landed on Lobu.

It had taken four men to drag him away from the chief of the Vaga tribe, the loudest and biggest among them, and the one with the least restraint. When Lobu saw the fear in the eyes of the men that had witnessed his rage, he relished in it. The burden of his punishment was heavy, but all of them should know that above all, Lobu will remain standing. Their fear will teach them respect as he is the only one who will keep his mind against A’odon. He will not bow before a god without reason.

He sat with dry eyes, aching knuckles and silent thoughts, waiting until the first rays of morning thawed the frosty dew, when he heard the booming voice in his head. 

“He calls for you, Makane.” said the Speaker. Lobu closed his eyes, let air escape from his lungs in a deep exhale and felt the cold snow burn the soles of his feet. He opened his eyes again.

The wide grin of the Speaker of A’odon welcomed him atop the mountains. Its sickly yellow eyes stared at him and into his head, unblinking and relentless, and Lobu had to widen his stance when deep growls shattered through the ground. The air in his lungs felt like thin blades that cut into his throat with every breath he took, and the wind ripped at his clothes like long claws meant to tear him apart. 

“Explain yourself,” the Speaker said. Its mouth opened, revealing more of the sharp yellow teeth lining its jaw, and its freezing breath stank of rotting flesh and death. “A’odon demands it.”

Lobu Makane bowed.

“The fight was lost, the raid failed. When the black griffin showed up I had to order a retreat or my men would have died on the ships,” he said while trying to keep his voice steady, even though his teeth were trembling uncontrollably. 

“You chose to take away their martyrdom instead. Your men would have found honor in death.” 

“There was no honor in that fight!” Lobu felt his eardrums pop at the echoing growl. “Sending my soldiers after them would have been senseless suicide,” he yelled. 

Lobu slammed into the ground as his head exploded with pain. Images of the woman he had fought in his challenge, her companions and their retreat from the burning ships after they recovered her were brought to the forefront of his mind, and the Speaker saw all of it. He felt the way his pride had swollen in his chest at having encountered opponents worthy of his respect and the acceptance of his defeat when the black knight struck his men down from upon his griffin. He called for the retreat while feeling satisfied, and the Speaker knew. 

“They fled!” it roared, and the mountains surrounding them trembled. “Their souls were to be reaped and you denied A’odon their corpses.” 

The wind died down, the echoes of the Speaker’s voice were the only thing in Lubo’s head as he tried to get back onto his feet. The air in his lungs was thin and his body felt weak as the blood in his veins froze. 

“It is not our way,” he said while his vision slowly blackened. “They were retreating.”

“Mercy? Is that your claim before A’odon, the End of All, the Last Winter, the Cold Embrace?” 

Suddenly the wind around Lubo picked up again as a whirlwind of ice and snow enveloped his body. He felt his lungs seize to function and collapse as his hands clawed at his throat. Lubo Makane felt the grip of death tighten around him and his heartbeat became erratic before slowing down. Every pump was painful, every breath rattled and sharp in his frozen lungs.  

“You must learn, Makane.” said the Speaker, “A’odon will have his corpses. And you won’t be a sentry any longer.”

Lubo clawed his way back to life one more time, only for the torture to continue. The marks on his body faded whenever the Speaker decided to renew the cycle and Lubo’s body suffered, pierced with cold death over and over again. He forgot what warmth felt like. His next heartbeat no longer offered him comfort but became a ticking clock until the next cycle of death began.

Pain consumed him. The borders between life and death blurred completely and only then, with one last mark remaining, the Speaker allowed him reprieve. Lubo’s body was broken, frostbite covered him and his veins were thick and blue against the unusual gray tint of his skin. 

He knelt before the Speaker, felt its gaze pierce into his mind again and only showed it cold, numb nothing. Lubo felt the satisfaction rumbling through the Speaker of A’odon.

“A’odon is the only to grant such gifts,” said the Speaker, “go now and serve in his name. Use this last life to prove that you have learnt your lesson.”

Lubo Makane awoke back in his tent. The sun had risen over the horizon, but its warmth did nothing to lift the cold from his skin. He watched with glazed eyes as thin columns of smoke rose from the remains of the fire in front of him. A’odon’s cold had smothered everything, but in between the black ash, embers waited. Lubo waited.