The Chieftain set off with a few remaining Warriors and a few Tribesmen with no Mana who would simply look the part of Warriors.
They were big and bulky, as most men had to be in order to survive in the Lands of Stone. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. The kind of frames that came from hauling stone and wrestling beasts and doing whatever was necessary to see another dawn.
Unless they got in a fight with an actual Warrior, it would not matter too much.
From a distance, wearing the armor and carrying the weapons of the fallen Golden Tribe forces, they would pass for the most part.
They would play the role of The Butcher and his men well enough to be believed as...who would even dare to take the identity of The Butcher? Nobody should question it...unless others who had seen The Butcher before saw them in passing.
'We will see...'
Damien shook his head and focused on what immediately lay ahead.
The Dance of Crimson Departure finished as the last notes of humming faded into the morning air. The Tribesmen who had swayed with the bodies of their loved ones now stood still, their faces drawn with exhaustion and grief.
But there was work to be done.
There was always work to be done!
Damian watched the Tribesmen gather the dead. They lifted the bodies with careful reverence, cradling them as one might cradle sleeping children. They took them toward the farmlands on the other side of the tribe.
They would do a practice common for many tribes in the Lands of Stone.
The Planting of the Departed.
It was exactly what the name suggested. The bodies of the dead were buried beneath the soil of new farmlands, their flesh and bone serving as fertilizer for the crops that would feed the living.
The Mana that had once flowed through their veins would seep into the earth, enriching it, making things grow faster and stronger.
Damian was a bit skeptical of this practice.
He had been raised in different traditions, in an empire that had built grand burial mounds for its honored dead. The thought of his parents being planted like seeds to grow grain sat uneasily in his stomach.
But he understood how the Tribesmen felt.
To them, the bodies of their loved ones were sacred. Even in death, they honored them by allowing them to benefit those who remained. A father's body might grow the wheat that fed his children. A mother's remains might nourish the vegetables that kept her family strong through harsh seasons.
It was not disrespect as it was the deepest form of love these people knew how to express.
And Warriors whose bodies were rich in Mana made the best fertilizer.
At this moment, the Wisewoman of the Purple Stone Tribe was already commanding others to carry the corpses of The Butcher and his fallen Warriors. They handled the bodies tenderly, as if they were treasures to be planted rather than enemies who had come to steal their women and slaughter their people.
Grandmother Essun's copper rings clinked as she directed the work, her gnarled staff pointing toward the choicest plots of land.
The monsters who had killed their loved ones would now feed their children.
There was a certain justice in that, Damian supposed.
He shook his head at this scene.
Even without turning, he knew he was being watched.
"I can feel your gaze on me, old man."
His voice was calm.
"Should you not focus on your injuries?"
Uncle Adam was staring at him so intensely that it caused the hairs on his neck to stand. The old Warrior had not moved from where he sat, but his eyes had not left Damian since the fighting ended.
The Bloodmoss Paste covering his wounds glistened in the morning light.
"Is it okay if the Young Lugal and I talk?"
Uncle Adam's voice was careful, hopeful.
"I would love to know exactly what happened to you."
"Mm..."
Damian stretched, feeling his restored body respond smoothly. No aches. No pains. Just the lingering fatigue in that invisible muscle he had strained by speaking the word of power.
He nodded.
For now, there was not really much else to do apart from waiting for the Chieftain to come back as they played the part of The Butcher and his forces. The deception would take a day, perhaps two. Until then, the tribe would have to wait and hope.
The day was already progressing.
He did have to figure out more about The Primordial Tongue and how to go from here. The letter he had spoken had saved his life twice now, but he knew almost nothing about it beyond the fact that it existed and that it worked.
He needed to understand and he needed to grow!
He looked toward the distant mountain behind the tribe. The Roaring Stone Mountain dominated the horizon, its peak shrouded in that perpetual purple mist. Even from here, he could feel the difference in the air, the way Mana concentrated more thickly as one approached its slopes.
"Let us go toward the Roaring Stone Mountain."
His voice was decisive.
"Mana is always richer there anyway."
As he said this, he began walking toward the distant mountain, away from the tribe and its grief and its strange practices.
He did not even have to turn his gaze as he added:
"Elena, stay behind and help the others."
...!
The young woman who had already been trying to follow them froze mid-step.
Her muddy face twisted into a pout that she quickly fixed as after a moment, she became serious. She turned back toward the other Tribesmen who were carrying bodies and preparing for the Planting.
There was work to be done, and she was the Chieftain's daughter.
---
Damian and Uncle Adam passed across the huts of the Purple Stone Tribe.
The dwellings seemed quieter now, their hide-covered thresholds hanging still in the windless air. Smoke no longer rose from cooking fires. The sounds of daily life had been replaced by the sounds of mourning and labor.
They passed the farmlands where the process of digging and using corpses as fertilizer had already begun.
Tribesmen worked with stone tools, opening the earth to receive the dead. They worked in silence, their movements heavy with purpose. Some wept as they dug. Others wore expressions of grim determination.
The Wisewoman stood at the center of the largest plot, directing where each body should be placed. Her staff struck the ground in rhythms that seemed almost ceremonial, and her voice rose in low chants that Damian could not quite make out.
As Damian and Uncle Adam approached, she looked up.
Her ancient eyes found his.
She nodded, deep and respectful.
"Tokoloshe."
The word was spoken with reverence.
...!
Others noticed the exchange. A man digging a grave paused to nod as well. A woman carrying water looked up and dipped her head. A young boy who should have been too young to understand repeated the word under his breath, staring at Damian with wide eyes.
"Tokoloshe."
"Tokoloshe."
The acknowledgments followed him as he walked.
At this point, Damian did not even bother to correct them.
If they wanted to do this, so be it.
It seemed he was now the Tokoloshe of the Purple Stone Tribe!