The Demigod Proving (29 page)

No blood gushed, although small rocks of nitrate spilled out. Both of the paladins flew backward and landed on their backs almost at the same time her feet hit the ground. Before they could stand or move to trip her—even a torn-open face wasn’t enough to stop a paladin—she ran on, toward the tall guard and two others.

They kept their ground. As she advanced, she smacked the tips of the halberds in quick succession with the haft of her weapon, pushing them upward. It created an opening for her, and she darted in, swinging the halberd with both arms enhanced with Thew. The axe-like blade found the neck of the left-most paladin, severing the head and sending it spinning away in a shower of nitrate.

The blade cut into the shoulder of the tall paladin, and she released her grip on the haft to leap in close and wrench the sword away from him. Surprised by her speed and off balance because of the weapon sticking out of his arm, he could do nothing. She shoved him to the side, applying Flux to make him fall harder into the third paladin. They both cried out and tumbled to the ground as Leenda ducked past them, into an intersection.

Ahead, more paladins came at her. To the right, even more filled the tent street. To her left, only a few blocked her path. She ran that way, and in a burst of Thew and Flux leapt over their heads.

As she landed, she found the street ahead of her empty.

Finally, she could get to the Strengthening, and to Rashel.

She darted forward, only vaguely worrying that Athanaric and many demigods would also be at the hill. She would just have to adjust her plan as she went along.

And sure enough, she did.

Chapter 34: The Strengthening

The Strengthening, in which the people unite in massive worship as a demigod willingly gives up life for those people and their god, is the most sublime and sacred of all ceremonies. It’s a pity it’s so bloody.

-Wester

Wrend reached the sacrificial hill after the ceremony had begun, but he continued in his determination to warn the Master.

Perhaps ten thousand people covered the area in a sea of crimson. The Master knelt atop an opposite hill at a white altar, his hands palm up on the surface of the stone, his head bowed in meditation. Except for the golden roots embroidered over his chest, he wore black from his wrists to his neck to his feet, and his face bore a solemn cast, an expression of regret over what blood he must shortly spill.

The hill below the Master stretched down a hundred yards, and the ground shifted upward into a ridge that wrapped around the first in a natural amphitheater. People crowded the area, and from where Wrend stood atop the ridge opposite the Master, the place undulated like a windswept field of wheat. The worshipers knelt and adored the Master by alternately sitting up and raising their hands to him, then lowering their torsos forward to touch their palms to the ground on both sides of their heads. The men, women, and children all performed the same motion as they chanted the sacrificial prayer. Wrend caught snippets of it in the roar of the crowd, for the people didn’t chant in unison, but each at a singular rhythm. He knew the prayer. Everyone did.

“God of our fathers, we pray thee this day, to bless our land with the blood of thy seed, that our crops may be strong, and our children have meat. Praise to thee by the sanctification of our lives to thy cause, and the obedience to thy laws.”

The murmur of the thousands of prayers hung over the area like a holy cloud. Dozens of priests moved among the people near the top of the far hillside, holding out silken sacks already bulging. The people paused their worshiping to deposit a handful of seeds into the sacks, and returned to their bowing.

Near the head of the altar, three priests dumped full sacks of seeds into three large bins that surrounded three sides of a great silver bowl. When Athanaric slit Steffan’s throat, the blood would spill into the bowl and the priests would lift it in goblets, pour it into the bins, and mix it with large wooden paddles, coating as many seeds as possible.

Behind the Master, flowing over the crown of the hill to its back, demigods worshiped. The men wore black pants, white shirts, and red vests, while the women wore black skirts and red blouses. Down their shoulders and arms, golden thread formed the likeness of tree branches bearing fruit. They worshiped much like the rest of the crowd, except that they chanted and moved in unison, slapping the ground each time they came forward. Their rhythm punctuated the chaos with order. Their unified voices lifted over the din like a chorus of angels.

“God and father, we pray thee this day, to bless our people with the blood of our brother, that their crops may be strong, and their children have meat. Praise to thee by the blood in our veins and the obedience of the days and years of our lives.”

Most of the way down the hill, Steffan led the priests who bore the sacrificial knife and incense. He walked through the crowd, and it parted before him. As the worshipers slid out of his way, he held his hands out to the side, at an angle toward the ground with his palms down. As he moved by the people, they reached up and touched his hands. His lips moved in blessings lost to Wrend. The people wept where he passed.

And well they should.

He’d served them for thirty years. He’d helped them build their barns, plow their fields, and dig their ditches. He’d cut their stone, delivered their children and calves, and protected them from monsters of the land. He’d expended untold amounts of Ichor on their behalf, healing their sick, ripping tree trunks out of the ground to clear fields, and hefting burdens they couldn’t move. He’d lived his life in their service, at the command of their god, and now would die to the same end.

The people clamored to touch his hands one last time.

Yet, he planned to betray the Master. His apparent obedience was a ploy to lull the Master into the careless routine of a ceremony the god had performed a thousand times or more.

“Wrend, get on your knees.”

He started at the voice, and looked around for the source.

“Wrend, don’t commit blasphemy.”

Rashel knelt to his right and ahead. She’d twisted her back and neck around to look at him. All around her, the other mothers knelt and bowed over and over, their prayers rising in sweet adoration of their husband and god. Calla, usually by Rashel’s side, wasn’t nearby.

Wrend shook his head. “I can’t,” he said, but probably not loud enough for Rashel to hear over the din. “I have to warn the Master.”

Steffan continued up the hill at a slow pace, priests following, swaying and chanting. Behind them, the gap closed up, so it seemed they waded through a field of people, pushing them aside like grass, only to have them shift back into place when they’d passed. Wrend had no way of knowing if the priest who’d shed his robe in the city had rejoined them.

Several priests who’d been gathering seeds reached the crest of the hill. They poured their sacks of seeds into the bins, and each picked up a chalice from the altar and lined up in a semi-circle that stretched around and behind the Master. Before long, they would have him pinned in against the altar. If all the priests were cultists, they could attack him from three sides all at once. Of course, he stood eighteen feet tall, and the altar only five; he could leap it if needed.

Wrend started forward. Better to die a blasphemer than to watch the Master die. Yes, the Master had defended himself against an ambush of demigods, and could probably fend off the apostates, but what if Steffan surprised him? Killing the Master would only take one well-timed blow.

“Wrend,” Rashel said. “Get down!”

He shook his head and waded past her, his eyes intent on Steffan’s back. She reached for him, half standing to grab one of his hands. He shook it off.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“The Master’s in danger.” He turned to look into her eyes and saw frustration before heading on. “I have to warn him. The rebels are going to attack him any moment.”

“Then let him handle it!”

He pushed through the throng of mothers, bumping several and stepping on the hands of some.
 
He had to watch his feet, but at every chance cast a glance at the priests surrounding the Master with their chalices, or at those winding up the hill, following Steffan. They were more than halfway up. Wrend would have to hurry to make it before them.

He accelerated, trying to jog through the crowd of worshipers, but found he couldn’t move with any significant speed. There were simply too many people, packed too tightly, and they either didn’t see him or saw no reason to let him by.

But he had to get past them.

The chanting pressed around him, thundering in his head like the beat of war drums. The churning sea of adulation made him dizzy for an instant, and he nearly fell because he couldn’t see the ground ahead of him. Only shifting red.

Clenching his fists against the sensation, he fixed his eyes on the Master and began to push the worshipers aside, not caring if he jostled them or stepped on their hands or feet. The women and men he shoved past gave him angry looks and shouted out their protests of his actions—until they saw he wore the garb of a demigod. Then they let him through, though their annoyance didn’t entirely fade.

By the time he reached the bottom of the ridge, the last of the dozen priests had taken their positions around the Master, each holding a chalice and wearing a hooded cowl. Steffan and his procession had almost reached the altar, and the Master continued to meditate with his head down and his eyes closed.

“Master!” Wrend called.

The chanting of the crowd swallowed his voice. He started to ascend the hill, ignoring the people he pushed past.

Steffan reached the altar and paused opposite the Master, in front of the stairs leading up to the downhill side of the altar. The priests stopped behind him, but continued to sway. Smoke wafted from the swinging cisterns.

Someone grabbed Wrend’s hand, and the strength of the pull stopped him. He looked down, to his left.

Directly into Teirn’s eyes.

“What are you doing?” Teirn said.

“Did you warn him?” Wrend said.

“I never found him.”

“He has to know.”

“We can’t interrupt the ceremony.”

Wrend pulled his hand away from Teirn, but then in turn grabbed Teirn’s forearm and started to pull.

“Come with me.”

Teirn wrenched his arm free.

“That’s suicide.”

Wrend didn’t care. Scales materialized in his mind, and he saw his life on one side, and his proven dedication to the Master on the other. Though the Master would levy the blasphemer’s punishment, he would see Wrend’s dedication. He would understand his son’s love. Wrend would rather save the Master’s life and lose his own than live without his father and god. Some might look upon him afterward as a fool, but none would question where his heart lay. That tipped the scales.

He continued forward, striding past several people before looking back. He half believed Teirn would join him. But Teirn stayed kneeling and shook his head. His eyes seemed to moisten, and his jaw roiled to fight off tears. Yet determination also touched his face—the resolve to do something unpleasant.

He knew. He knew as well as Wrend that something had to be done. And he knew Wrend would suffer because of it, and sorrowed for the inevitable punishment. Wrend could see all of that in Teirn's eyes.

Teirn nodded, and waved Wrend onward. “Do it.” Wrend more read his lips than heard it over the din. “Go.”