Bad Blood

Ch’Truta had heard of the rituals and traditions of the Bloodletters. There were many.

Besides the letting of blood to promote healing from illnesses and infections by using leeches, the Bloodletters also believed there was the power of life in the blood. Ritualistic ceremonies took place by self-cutting the palm of the hands and drinking the blood of others for the blessing of their life source.

As Ch’Truta approached the encampment, the Bloodletters recognized the swamp man and that he was traveling alone.

“Are you traveling alone?” they probed. “Do you plan to join the mighty army marching east?”

“Yes!” Ch’Truta announced. His knowledge of the Common tongue was crude.

“Alone?” There was laughter in the small group banding around Ch’Truta.

Ch’Truta observed the small band. There was one, who sat by the fire, quietly observing the men’s banter with this newcomer.

“I fight for Still Valley,” Ch’Truta insisted, forcing his words.

The speaker and the others turned toward the quiet one. He nodded, and they continued. Ch’Truta acknowledged that the quiet one was the leader of this band, not the one speaking to him.

“But you have no army,” more laughter. “Perhaps you would like to join blood with us?”

“I have bad blood,” Ch’Truta dismissed the thought.

The speaker turned again to the quiet one. The quiet one observed Ch’Truta, then the speaker, giving him a look as if saying, “Keep going!” This man would either freely give them his blood or they would take it.

“All blood is good,” the speaker argued. “It gives life!”

“Mine, death,” Ch’Truta revealed.

“All blood is good!” replied the speaker.

One of the men, recognizing the look upon the quiet one’s face, drew a dagger with a menacing grin. Ch’Tulla returned the stare with his dark eyes peering through his painted face.

The heron feathers and belt of power announced that he was someone of importance. So did the flint knife with a bone handle. It was this ceremonial blade that Ch’Truta hamstrung his brood’s captives and left them alone in the swamp unable to run at the coming of Uctilo'rhu. Ch’Truta placed his hand upon the bone handle.

“If I must,” he insisted, “I chose to do it with my own blade. His free hand, Ch’Truta placed in the pouch with the red ripened berries, grabbing a couple.

The speaker smirked and motioned with his hand. “By all means.”

Ch’Truta ran the blade slightly through his enclosed palm, which held the berries. He not only put a small slice into his palm, causing little bleeding, but also sliced the berries. He squeezed the juice from the berries, creating a thick blood red juice to run out of his enclosed hand.

He lifted it into the air. “Remember. I warned you!”

The speaker placed his lips under the hand and sucked. “The sweetest blood I have ever tasted. It is full of life!”

He began to jovially laugh as others lined up for their share. No sooner had they, than the speaker began to convulse and foam at the mouth. He keeled over in sudden death. The others backed away, fearful of the blood of death.

“No?” Ch’Truta probed. Again, he insisted, “I warned!”

The fear upon the faces of the small band turned to look at the quiet one, who showed no emotion upon his face. He looked to the warrior that had now put his dagger away. With a slow nod, the quiet one gave his approval.

“Yes! You warned!” another took the place of the speaker. “You May join us to replace him,” he answered, pointing at the now dead man, whose lips turned black, leading to the cheeks.

Ch’Truta bypassed the speaker, walked to the quiet one who sat and observed. He knelt before him, showing his willingness to follow him. “I will fight with you. We must stop these people. They bring change with them. I have foreseen it.”