A savage wind howled through the forest. Rustling the brittle leaves, it snapped the bowing barks and branches of the ancient wood into pieces, leaving a carnage of scattered twigs in its wake. Through the dim moonlight of winter, Declan sat around the campfire, shoulder to shoulder with his brethren, waiting for the Council of Elders to commence the Blood Rite. The Blood Rite was a traditional contest amongst the Mountain Men of the Highlands, that occurred a fortnight after every Chief’s death. Open to all warriors and families of the clan, the Blood Rite was a battle to the death, to become Chief. In this longstanding tradition, each challenger would enter the forest with nothing but the clothes on their backs. The goal was to get to the sacred stones first and be the last man standing. During this time, competitors must survive exposure to the elements, the feral creatures of the mountains, and each other. Tonight, on the darkest night of the year, Declan would take the Blood Rite. For the last five hundred years, Declan’s family had maintained the title of Chief and this year, would be no different. He would become Chief; at least that’s what he thought until he saw Urien, Brenin, and Wynfor step forward to join the Blood Rite, alongside him.
Declan felt his blood run cold. Never once in his two and a half decades of existence had he ever known fear. Never. Not when he led hunting parties in the forest in the dead of winter, or when he crossed the narrow seas in the height of spring, or when their father died a fortnight ago. He had not been afraid then, but now, looking from his little brother to the youngest of them, he felt it. Fear. Cold and oily in his stomach. His chest tightened, and Declan felt tendrils of fear slither around his heart. His blood had turned to ice, because when they stepped forward to join the Blood Rite, they had each stepped forward for their execution. Lambs to the slaughter each and every one of them.
“Stop!” Declan shouted, looking at the head of the Council of Elders. “Urien, Brenin, and Wynfor, what are you doing?” He held each of their gazes. Three pairs of emerald eyes glared back at him. Instead of answers, Declan was only given silence. Horror ripped open Declan’s heart. Urien was barely nineteen years old and newly betrothed, Brenin was on the cusp of sixteen and had recently completed his studies at the local school, and Wynfor, oh Gods, Wynfor was only thirteen and he had yet to go on his first hunting trip, let alone see the world. None of them had any business competing in the Blood Rite.
The head of the Council eyed Declan dubiously. “It is their choice to take part in the rite, who am I to stop them?” she said sternly. Cocking an eyebrow, she continued, “Your father was Chief and took the Rite when he was sixteen, a fortnight after his father, your grandfather died. You know better than anyone that this tradition is open to all, at any age. Let each man be the maker of his own destruction.”
Declan broke away from the line of opponents. “Wynfor is just a boy, he’s only thirteen, please you have to stop this!” Declan begged. Now standing in front of the withered crone he saw nothing but steel in her gaze. Ice blue eyes bore into his, and Declan saw the iron will and cunning that had kept her alive for so long. Eyes that did not compromise but conquered.
“No,” she said sharply, “I will not, and neither will you. Until there is a new Chief, we the council, are in charge, and this tradition has been part of our clan for millennia. It will not be broken now, or ever.”
Declan winced at her booming voice; the truth rang in his ears. “Please,” he begged, this time on his knees, “He’s the youngest and―”
“And he has chosen his destiny, now it is time to choose yours.” She motioned for him to rise, but when Declan remained kneeling she let out a breath and leaned down towards him. “I am sorry my boy, but there is nothing left to do, but win, or die trying. That is the way of the Blood Rite.”
Rising to his feet Declan stood, towering above the crone and his brothers. Taking his place in the line-up he took in the sight of his competitors. Declan knew that many of the warriors who entered the Rite often killed each other for food, clothes, vengeance, or glory. Old feuds were settled, new ones born, the Blood Rite was a chance to settle the tension between rivals. The elders thought that it was better to settle feuds in the Rite rather than risk war amongst the Clans. Looking at his competition he saw that some of them were friends he had trained alongside, others were simple strangers that he had never spoken to before, but in total there were about twenty that stood in front to the hearth, that stood on the cusp of death. Twenty warriors would walk into the woods, each from a different location, but only one of them would walk out alive.
Declan swallowed back tears as he looked into the horrified faces of his mother and sisters, and amongst the crowd he also found Vasilisa Oriel’s face. Vasilisa’s face was tearstained, as she looked at him. The two shared a look, a singular truth, in that moment. Declan would be the one to walk back out of the forest, not Urien. A childhood friend of the family Vasilisa had been betrothed to Urien a few months ago, and it was clear from the grief on her face that he had not told her about this. Placing a hand over his chest, on top of the embroidered raven, his family’s sigil, he whispered a prayer to the Gods, to Death. Declan prayed he would be forgiven.
He had studied, trained, and worked his entire life for this day.
Tonight, he would kill each of them with his own hands.
It would be worth it, it had to be.
-
Declan stood on a rocky outcrop, somewhere east of the sacred stones. He must be a few miles away he thought. Wiping the blood off his hands he listened to the wind, and the leaves, but was only met with an eerie silence. Looking at the embroidered raven on his chest Declan reminded himself why he was there. He had dreamt of becoming chief since he was a boy. He had studied, trained, and worked his entire life for this day. He had even been favoured by his father to be the next Chief. However he won, it would be worth it, it had to be. Armed with nothing but his knowledge of the forest and the animals, Declan had already killed six of his rivals, with a mixture of poisoned darts, and another two with his bare hands. He had fought in wars and skirmishes before, but there was nothing like the Blood Rite. Nothing like pinning blood against blood.
In the history of the Blood Rite there were only a handful of times in which siblings had competed against one another. The last time he remembered it happening was about two hundred years ago, when his great grandmother and her brother had taken the Rite. Of course, his great grandmother had won, she too was a master of poisons, but to hear the village elders tell the stories, her brother had been close to winning. Gathering his poisoned tipped darts, Declan wondered how she did it, how she killed her brother. Crossing a rushing stream of water, Declan prayed that his brothers had already met their ends at the hands of another, because truth be told, he didn’t want to kill them. He didn’t want to kill his brother, yet he had sworn on his father’s deathbed, over a fortnight ago, that he would become the next Chief. That he would continue the family legacy, and an oath like that would not easily be broken.
The freezing water sent shivers down Declan’s spine as he trudged through yet another stream. He had been in the forest for about five hours and it was another five until dawn would break over the horizon. Silently treading on the broken leaves of the forest floor, Declan saw the beginning of the first snowfall. Pausing to stare at the snowflakes he heard the sudden breaking of a branch and ducked just in time to dodge an arrow.
Lodged in the bark of the tree behind him, the arrow trembled. Looking back Declan saw Urien with an arrow notched and ready to fire.
“Stand down,” he shouted, jumping down from his spot in the trees.
Silence pounded though the air as Declan’s heart stilled, his blood hammered in his ears. “Urien, what are you doing here? Why did you―”
“Join the Blood Rite?” Urien questioned, relaxing his shoulders, keeping the arrow nocked in the bow. He circled Declan, keeping an eye on his brother’s hands, just as Declan himself had taught him to do.
“Yes! You have a betrothed, you have a wedding in a few months, you have future! Why this?” Declan roared. His hands in the air, Declan waited for an answer.
“Because father said that I could be the next Chief!” Urien said. Declan’s eyes grew wide, because to his knowledge their father had only ever favoured Declan to be the next Chief.
“When?” Declan shot back.
“On his deathbed.” Urien supplied, advancing towards Declan. As he approached Declan caught a glimpse of a stone. “He told me that I was just capable as you, smarter even.” Leaning to his left Urien brandished a sharpened black stone.
Declan ignored his younger brother’s taunts seizing Urien’s blindside. Lunging for the stone Declan threw Urien to the ground. Taking the black stone in his hand, he threw his brother’s bow and arrow aside, pressing a knee to his brother’s chest, Declan struck Urien between the ribs with the sharpened stone. Built of solid muscle, Declan had trained each of his siblings in hand to hand combat and knew all their weaknesses. Urien’s blind spot, was his left shoulder and flank, they were his blind spots.
Pinning his brother to the ground Declan watched the light go out from his brother’s eyes. Declan had broken his neck. The sickening crunch of bone and snapping sinew made his stomach turn. Declan had killed dozens of men in his lifetime, but this, this was the first death that he had ever felt. His brother’s lifeless body lay heavy in his hands. Tears welled in Declan’s eyes. It would be worth it, it had to be.
The world began to spin around Declan. The root ridden earth lurched up from under him and the stars above him danced. Bending behind a tree Declan retched. Questions bubbled up against the regret that seized his chest. Had their father really told his brother that he could be Chief? Had their father sent his sons off to death’s door? Had he turned brother against brother? Blood against blood?
-
The forest smelt of pine and blood. Trudging through the woods he noticed a thin layer of ice that had begun to coat the forest floor. Shadows danced on top of the small piles of snow. Shining like diamonds in the slits of moonlight, Declan saw the sacred stones through the gapes in the trees. It wasn’t far now; it would soon be over. Soon he would be Chief, the first and last son. It would be worth it, it had to be.
Striding into the clearing Declan stood in awe of the sacred stones. Moss covered and ancient, they stood tall. Declan breathed a sigh of relief. He had made it, he thought, Wynfor and Brenin had already met their ends and he had made it, but just as he was about to touch the sacred stones, Declan caught the flash of something metallic in the corner of his eye. Heat radiated down his arm. Clutching his bloodied arm in his hand Declan spun around, frantically searching the clearing for his assailant only to be met with a pair of emerald eyes. Standing a few feet away from him, covered in blood and gore, Wynfor stood tall, Brenin’s body at his feet.
Wynfor was alive, but Brenin was dead.
The youngest of the Kali family had survived, how?
“Wyn, did you?” Declan questioned, gesturing to Brenin’s body. He let the question hang in the air, they both knew the answer, but Declan needed to hear it. Brenin’s still bleeding body was probably still warm, and the tears of Wynfor’s cheeks still fresh. He was too late. It was supposed to be him, not Wynfor that killed Brenin. How had the boy done it?
“Wyn, why? Why would you join the Blood Rite to become Chief? Your―” Declan held his hands up, letting his blood drip on the freshly fallen snow. The wall of surrounding trees seemed to lean forward, as if they too were waiting to see what would happen next.
“Only thirteen? I am only thirteen? Is that the best that you can do?” Wynfor spat, holding his ground against Declan, Wynfor’s emerald eyes bore into his own. Emerald, Declan thought, the colour of their father’s eyes, their eyes.
“You’re still a child, you’ve barely lived yet,” Declan said, trying to reason.
“But I will outlive you,” Wynfor retorted. A smile had sliced itself into his lips. This was not the cherry-faced boy that Declan loved and cared for, this was a monster.
“Wyn,” Declan breathed.
“On father’s deathbed, the seer told me that I would be the next Chief, that I would lead the Clan to greatness. Not you. Never you.” Wynfor yelled, lunging towards Declan. Slashing left and right Wynfor cried, “You the golden boy of the clan, apple of our mother’s eye, our father’s favourite son. Today you will join our father and brothers in the afterlife.”
Declan caught the tip of the makeshift blade in his forehead. A gash now ran from his left brow to just above his right eye. The diagonal cut leaked blood into Declan’s vision. With shaking hands Declan seized his brother’s wrists and slammed them against the forest floor. The stone clattered to the ground and Declan stared into his brother’s eyes, his eyes. The unsettling snap of bone rattled through the air; and tears blurred Declan’s vision once more. Gripping both sides of Wynfor’s head Declan whispered a prayer to Death, as he snapped Wynfor’s neck. The sound echoed through the clearing.
This was it. He had won. He was Chief.
Striding towards the sacred stones, Declan squeezed the gash on his arm, dripping blood onto the ancient monument, watching as a dim halo began to blossom from the rock. It was prophesied that when the true Chief bled on top of the stones the rocks would glow in response. The brighter the glow, the more favoured the Chief was, but Declan wasn’t surprised when the stones glowed a pale gold in the dark of night. He had sacrificed his brothers, to become Chief, he would live with the weight of their deaths forever. Dropping to his knees Declan’s tearstained face looked up at the head of the Council of Elders. She had been watching the whole time, waiting patiently for the victor. Her face was as hard as granite, but her eyes had softened in the glow of the stones.
With a wrinkled hand she cupped Declan’s cheek, “it’s time to take your place as Chief. Come with me.”
-
A savage wind howled through the forest, ripping at Declan’s hair. The rustling of voices hummed in the air as he and the elder walked out of the forest. Lightening cracked through the air and Declan’s veins.
In the Great Hall, thunder shook the silverware and chandeliers, leaving behind an uncomfortable stillness. Candles flickered against the chilly breeze, and a blanket of snow covered the ground. Declan knelt at the front of the room, waiting. The head of the Council of Elders approached him, her bare wrinkled hands did not shake or shiver in the cold night air. She revealed a crown of laurels and antlers from thin air; placing it on top of Declan’s raven black hair. She declared Declan the next Chief of the clan. As she gestured for him to rise, Declan watched every member of the clan kneel before him, with their fist raised to their chest, they murmured well wishes and prayers for his long reign.
Staring into the crowd, Declan was met with pale green eyes, Vasilisa was staring at him. Crying no longer, she had her fist clasped to her chest like everyone else, but her lips didn’t move. Declan and Vasilisa shared a look of knowing, almost as if she knew what he had done, and maybe she did. At that moment Declan let himself feel the frayed jagged edges of grief.
He had done it, he was Chief. He was Chief and none of his brothers were there to cheer and jeer him on. He had told himself that it would have been worth it, but he was wrong. He was wrong. He was wrong. He was wrong. It was not worth it, and if could take it back he probably would, but he couldn’t. Death never returned a soul. In the soft ochre light of the Great Hall Declan wore a smile that never met his eyes.
Declan was Chief, and all it had cost him was his family.
