THE BLOODIED MASK
The forest was silent. Not the silence of peace, but the silence of the hunt. The silence of waiting.
The breeze barely managed to move the black leaves of the trees, and the ground was a sea of intertwined roots, wet with mud and rot. The Ancient Forest was a tomb without tombstones, and they had entered it willingly.
Four young men walked through the undergrowth with stealthy steps, their weapons in their hands, their eyes always moving. They wore tanned hides and necklaces of claws and teeth, though they still lacked the most important mark: the dark mask. Only the men and women who had passed the test wore it.
The Black Face did not give up that honor easily. It was not enough to kill an enemy, it was not enough to shed blood. To be one of them, one had to face death and wrest victory with one’s own hands. And this was his test: to kill the Wurm of the Bloody Roots.
It was a monster as old as the forest, as thick as a log, with scales as black as obsidian and jaws full of yellow fangs like daggers. It had killed dozens before them. Perhaps it would kill them too.
-When I have the wurm’s head in my hands, I will use it as a drinking cup tonight. -Gorath broke the silence, his voice hoarse with ambition. He was the strongest, the tallest, and the arrogance was pouring out of him with every word.
-Only if you outrun me. -Kaela smiled coldly. Her eyes were like the blade of her spear, sharp and cruel.
-We should save our strength,” whispered Rava, the youngest of them all. His voice betrayed his youth.
-Let them be. They think they are invincible. -Jorm shook his head. We’ll see if they’re still so confident when the wurm rips out their guts.
Rava found a feather on the ground.
-A black feather. It’s a bad omen.
Kaela and Gorath laughed defiantly. But their gazes met again. They were trying to hide that in reality their bodies were trembling with nerves and fear. They knew that many or perhaps all of them would die. There were always those who did not return. The ordeal did not spare the weak.
When night fell, the cold of the forest chilled them to the bone. There was no fire. Not in the Old Forest. The flames attracted things no one wanted to see up close.
They took shelter among the roots of a fallen tree. The breeze howled through the branches.
They felt the wurm before they saw it. The ground shook, a dull, slow vibration, like the beating of a monstrous heart buried underground. Then came the stench, a breath of rotting flesh and rancid blood. And then it emerged from the gloom.
The creature was bigger than they imagined. Faster. They had no time to admire it, for it lunged at them with impossible speed.
Rava didn’t even manage to scream. The maw closed over her waist and her body disappeared in a wet snap.
Jorm tried to run, but the wurm’s tail struck him like a hammer of flesh and bone. His skull smashed against a rock, and his body lay motionless in the undergrowth.
Only Kaela and Gorath were left alive. They looked at each other and understood instantly that if they wanted to live, they must fight together. They did not speak. They did not need to.
Kaela moved like a shadow, circling around the wurm, looking for a weak spot. Gorath charged head-on, drawing its fury. The monster lunged toward him, its fangs inches from his neck. But Kaela leapt over its head and plunged her spear into its eye. The wurm’s roar shook the leaves of the trees.
Gorath seized the moment and plunged his knife into the beast’s soft belly. The wurm thrashed furiously, thrashing the ground with its tail, tearing up roots and stones, destroying the forest around it. But it was wounded. It was dying.
With a final thrust, Kaela slid under its throat and plunged her knife to the hilt. The wurm collapsed. The two young men were left standing amidst its remains, covered in its black blood. They had won.
They returned to camp as heroes. Two of the four had died, but that didn’t matter. They had survived. The elders of the Black Face were waiting for them by the campfire.
Then the witch appeared. No one had seen her arrive. No one ever saw her. She wore rags of old skins, and her bone mask had no eyes. Her voice was a whisper of dead leaves blown by the wind.
-Two killed the wurm. But only one will receive the mask.
Kaela and Gorath looked at each other.
-We fought together. -Gorath said.
-We both deserve the mask. -insisted Kaela.
But the witch slowly denied.
-Only one. Tradition demands it.
The elders did not intervene. They could not. The Black Face was forged in blood.
Kaela and Gorath looked into each other’s eyes. Just hours before, they had fought together, had saved each other’s lives. But now, only one of them could walk back to the tribe with the black mask on his face.
Kaela adjusted her grip on the spear.
Gorath unsheathed his knife.
-You don’t have to do this. -She muttered, her jaw tense.
-Neither do you.
The witch stepped back and raised her staff.
-Begin.
And the battle began.
Kaela moved first. She slithered to the right with the speed of a snake, her spear hissing through the air. The blade brushed past Gorath’s cheek, who ducked in time and responded with a slash of his knife. Kaela leapt back, light as a shadow. Too fast.
Gorath knew he couldn’t let her move freely. He charged head-on. She was stronger. Bigger. If he could hold her down, the fight would be over in seconds.
Kaela saw the onslaught coming. She spun on herself, narrowly dodging and throwing a slash to her side. Gorath felt the tip of the spear split her skin open. He did not stop. He drew her arm toward her, pulling the spear brutally. Kaela lost her balance.
Gorath struck her in the face with his elbow, and the young woman fell backward onto the wet ground. But before he could finish her off, she rolled to the side and swung her spear at him in an upward slash. The blade sliced her leg open and blood dripped out. Gorath grunted and stepped back.
Kaela was already on her feet again. They were both breathing heavily. They measured each other’s every move.The drums kept pounding the air, beating out the rhythm of death.
Gorath knew that if he didn’t finish the fight quickly, he would lose. Kaela was too agile. Her fighting style was a dance, each blow flowing into the next, giving him no chance to counterattack. But he didn’t need many chances. Just one.
Kaela attacked again, but this time Gorath did not retreat. He advanced straight ahead, absorbing the blow in his arm, letting the edge of the spear sink into his flesh.
Kaela opened her eyes in surprise. But Gorath already had her pinned. He grabbed the spear with a bloody hand and thrust with all his strength. Kaela staggered backward, losing control of her weapon. Then he struck her.
The impact threw her to the ground. Her back hit the hard earth, and her breath escaped her lips in a choked gasp. Gorath lunged at her. Kaela reached out, reaching for her knife. She didn’t get there in time.
Gorath held her by the throat, pinning her down. His weight crushed her chest.
-Surrender. -he snarled. Blood dripped from his wounded arm onto his face.
Kaela looked into his eyes. There was no hatred in them, only weariness and pain. The young woman shook her head.
-No.
And then she plunged the knife into his side. Gorath tensed and his grip weakened. His weight became lighter and taking advantage of this Kaela rolled with him to the ground. Now she was on top of him and the knife was still in her hand.
Silence fell over the tribe. The drums stopped beating.
Kaela was breathing heavily. Gorath writhed beneath her, the blade sinking into her flesh. For an instant, their eyes met. There was no anger in them, only resignation.
Kaela held his hand as he plunged the knife into her heart. He said nothing to her, for there were no words for this. When his breath died, she let it fall. The Black Face did not forgive weakness.
Kaela was silent, kneeling over his body. All was quiet. The tribe said nothing. The witch approached.
-Don’t cry for him.
Kaela looked up.
-I’m not crying.
The witch nodded.
-Now is the time.
From among her rags, she pulled a plain dark mask.
-But you’re not worthy of it yet.
Kaela frowned.
-I’ve killed him. What more do you want from me? How many more fucking tests do I have to pass?
The witch leaned down and dipped a finger into Gorath’s still-warm wound.
Blood gushed out.
-Look at his face. Take a good look at it. Because you will never see it again.
Kaela looked at Gorath one last time.
Her only friend. Her true test.
-Take his blood. -The witch said.
Kaela did not hesitate. She plunged her hands into the wound and brought them to her face. The still warm blood covered her skin, sticky, thick.
-Repeat the words.
The fire seemed to die out in the camp and all was silent.
Kaela whispered the oath. The words were ancient, older than the tribe itself.
-With this blood I pay my debt to the dead.
The wind roared.
-With this face I cease to be who I was.
The shadows danced.
-With this mask I am one of us.
And then it happened.
Kaela screamed as something ripped her from her body.
Her soul separated from the flesh and she saw her own body from above, her face still covered in blood slowly fading away as if it had never existed.
His soul was pulled into the smooth black mask, which was changing shape as if sinister forces were shaping it. Horns emerged from the bottom, lines were carved into his cheeks, hollows were formed to allow him to see. And when she opened her eyes, she was no longer Kaela.
Her name disappeared from the memory of her people. The shamans chanted the ritual of oblivion.
The tribe would never call her name again. They would never again remember who she had been, for now only the mask showed who she really was.
She was now a warrior of the Black Face.
That night, she sat alone before the fire. Her hands still remembered Gorath’s blood. She still felt his hands clutching her. Inside the mask, she knew she had killed the only friend she had ever had in this cruel life. She wept without anyone being able to see her, not because guilt would torment her, but because it would soon leave her.
She no longer remembered her own face. And it didn’t matter. It never mattered.
In the morning, she would hunt with her own. She would be one more. A shadow. A specter. One of them. And the world would never remember her name again.