Chapter 65: Judgment at the Gates
The wooden gates of the village swung wide open, allowing the hunting party to enter. The clan’s crowd gathered instantly along the sides of the path, letting out cheers and shouts of triumph at the sight of the Great Crocodile’s colossal carcass being hauled across the snow.
Among the people, Maya, Mila, and Meli waited anxiously, their eyes fixed on the procession. Kellar walked in the center, exhausted and covered in dried blood, but without stopping to bark commands at the gatherers to keep the sled steady and check that the icy compresses on the four recovering men remained in place.
The crowd’s cheers died down abruptly when the Shaman and the Clan Leader pushed their way through the people to receive them with curious gaze.
The Shaman approached the sled and, upon inspecting the four warriors’ open wounds, knit his brow intensely as cold sweat ran down his forehead. In all his life, he had never seen anyone survive gashes of such magnitude; in his experience, the survival rate for lacerations of that scale was a flat zero. Losing four of the clan’s top hunters would be a devastating blow to his prestige and the tribe.
Desperately seeking to deflect attention from his own inability to save them, the Shaman turned toward Kellar and pointed a trembling finger at him in rage.
"Look at this weak, scrawny trash!" shouted the Shaman, confronting him before everyone. "It is all his fault! Such a pathetic, puny creature brings nothing but curses and misfortune upon our tribe! Surely his very presence sapped the strength of our best warriors!"
The Clan Leader stepped forward, seizing the unrest to further incite the crowd, crossing his arms with a glare with contempt.
"The great Shaman speaks the truth!" shouted the Clan Leader, raising his voice so it echoed across the square. "Look at him closely! He lacks the muscle of a true hunter; he is just a useless burden who shouldn’t even set foot on this land! Are we going to let a helpless weakling cause the death of our brothers while he walks away unscathed?!"
"He doesn’t deserve to be among us!" shouted a hunter from the crowd, caught up in the hatred.
"Get rid of him! Kill the useless runt!" several clan members began to roar, clenching their fists and stepping toward Kellar with faces full of fury.
The mob, manipulated by the fear of losing four of their strongest men, began to corner Kellar with shouts and insults, desperately seeking a scapegoat to vent their desperation.
Kellar watched the tide of enraged faces surging toward him and analyzed the situation in a split second. He knew exactly what the priest was pulling: using him as a scapegoat to cover up his own incompetence before the people realized he couldn’t save the wounded.
Far from backing down, Kellar took a step forward and confronted the priest directly with a cold, defiant smile.
"You can judge me for my actions and kill me if you want!" shouted Kellar, causing the mob to halt in surprise. "But first, display your great power and heal our brothers if you actually can!"
A dead silence fell abruptly over the village entrance. Every pair of eyes shifted instantly away from Kellar to land on the Shaman.
The priest, backed into a corner by Kellar’s words and the crowd’s mounting expectations, felt a drop of cold sweat run down the back of his neck. With trembling hands, he stepped over to the sled where the four hunters lay. He pulled out his staff, began making exaggerated gestures in the air, and closed his eyes, desperately crying out for a divine sign.
"Oh, mighty Bear God, grant your grace and heal the flesh of your warriors!" shouted the Shaman, pressing the staff against Brak’s chest.
Seconds ticked by in sepulchral silence. The priest prayed harder, mumbling chants and waiting for the crimson energy to manifest, but nothing happened. The hunters’ wounds remained gaping beneath the cloths, and the god’s energy failed to respond altogether. The Shaman didn’t have the faintest idea how to treat gashes of that scale without healing magic.
Finding himself exposed in front of the entire clan, the priest’s face flushed red with rage and humiliation. He whirled around and pointed at Kellar once again with unbridled fury.
"It is this wretch’s curse!" shouted the Shaman, spitting in anger as he stepped toward Kellar. "His mere presence here has blocked the Bear God’s blessing! His rotten soul blocks my prayers and destroys the divine will!"
"Enough with the lies!" shouted Krag, stepping forward and positioning himself firmly in front of Kellar with his mallet drawn.
Marty, Lupar, and Grok immediately flanked Kellar, drawing their weapons under the stunned glares of the priest and the Clan Leader.
"If these four men are still breathing, it is solely because of Kellar!" shouted Krag, his voice echoing across the entire square. "He was the one who stopped the bleeding and showed us how to move them without killing them on the trail! We will not let a single one of you lay a hand on him!"
At that exact moment, the first hunting unit that had already made it back to the village pushed through the crowd, led by Mark, Tor’s uncle. Taking in the scene and hearing the hunters’ defense, Mark’s face distorted with rage upon seeing the boy he despised earning the veterans’ respect.
"Damn this useless runt and every last one of you defending him!" shouted Mark, spitting on the ground and unsheathing his battleaxe. "You’re shielding the maggot responsible for this tragedy!"
"Dare to take one step closer and I’ll split your head open, Mark!" shouted Marty, confronting him with his blade raised.
The two factions of warriors locked into a fierce clash of insults and shoves, raising their weapons against one another. The crowd backed away in sheer panic as the village entrance devolved into a powder keg on the brink of erupting into strife.