Sacrifice

by Vicky Walklate

  “On behalf of Jothesia, we thank the sacrifice for the gift she offers us. We bless her mortal life and bestow protection on her eternal sleep.”

  Despite her awed piety, her infernal curiosity won out. She glanced through her lashes at the speaker, the brother in the middle. The symbol on his throne was a kite, with a curved, horizontal line through the center. Rhetahn, the eldest god. She studied him, unable to tear her gaze away as he voiced more formal words in his rich, velvety tone.

  He was tall and muscular, with dark brown hair cut short and a shadow of stubble on his jaw. He looked in his late twenties, although of course he was much older. His eyes, midnight blue with the tiniest hint of red encircling the irises, held her spellbound. He wore simple, nondescript clothes compared to the overweening congregation, a plain white shirt atop black pants and buckled leather boots. An amulet hung around his neck; the godly kite symbol carved into smooth stone. It was small and unremarkable compared to its striking owner.

  She surveyed him dreamily. His body was nothing short of magnificent, his face sculpted, and his expression... bored.

  Wait. Bored?

  She renewed her examination. He slouched in his throne, tapping his foot and intoning the monotonous, prescribed words in the manner of a schoolboy reading dictation. She balled her fists. She was on her knees, surrendering her life to rejuvenate his magic, and he looked like he’d rather be anywhere else?

  She risked a peek at the other gods. Mhaljett sat on Rhetahn’s right, under a pentagon symbol. Taller and rangier than his older sibling, he carried the same muscled form, with jet black hair and cornflower blue eyes. He was staring past her like she was invisible, fondling his amulet. On Rhetahn’s other side sat Storren, with light brown hair tied in a ponytail, a trimmed beard, and pale, grayish blue eyes. He wasn’t looking at her either, instead regarding his fingernails with a grim, resigned air.

  A wave of anger washed away her awe. These men wouldn’t worry about the duration or painfulness of her death. There was no gentleness or compassion on their chiseled faces. She was nothing more than a tool to them, a device they needed for their ritual. An anonymous human no different from any other.

  She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t succumb to her fate without a fight.

  “What’s that?” she gasped, pointing at a random corner of the room.

  Every single individual, the gods, sentries and even Captain Brand, turned to look.

  Leaping backward like a fawn, she raced across the carpet toward the rear of the room, keeping the flimsy shoes on by sheer luck. Locking on to a silk-covered door to the servant stairs, she lengthened her stride. She was almost there, she was going to make it...As she bounded on to the podium, a taut rope whipped against her legs.

  “Shit!” Pain ricocheted through her shins and she fell flat on the floor, barely avoiding smashing her face on the marble.

  Stunned, she twisted to see what she’d slipped on. There was nothing there, but as Rhetahn lowered his hand, azure magic dissolved on his fingertips. Some sort of trip spell. Damn it.

  “Bring her back,” the eldest god snapped.

  Someone yanked her up. Bewildered and swaying, she regarded Brand.

  “Are you mad?” His voice was a furious whisper. “What did you think you’d achieve with that stunt? The Three will show mercy, but some of these ministers would have you whipped if they held the authority.”

  She swallowed. “I had to try. They don’t care about me—”

  “They can’t let themselves care.”

  At that flat statement, he hauled her back to the rostrum and forced her to her knees. The people in the front row muttered under their breath, some with red-tinged cheeks. The sentries glowered too. Despite her fear and aching body, she couldn’t hide her smirk. Then a guffaw made her jump.

  Much to her shock, Storren grinned at her. “I can’t believe we fell for that. Three gods, their elite guards and the esteemed Shifterland ministers, fooled by the ‘look behind you’ trick.”

  He burst out laughing, a few spectators joining in. Biting her lip, she locked on to Rhetahn’s glare, half-expecting more violence to come her way. However, as Storren’s amusement continued, the eldest god’s expression softened, and a tiny smile appeared on his face. Mhaljett, on the other hand, paid no attention to the commotion, staring into the middle distance as if peering at something only he could see.

  “She should be punished.”

  Storren stopped laughing and silence replaced the merriment. The speaker was a tall, dark-haired minister, his gangly body draped in velvet brocade with a heavy gold chain around his neck.

  Captain Brand placed himself in front of her, a deliberate, unspoken warning in his movements. The minister was too busy puffing his chest to notice.

  “She should be punished,” he repeated. “Such rebellious disrespect should not be tolerated—”

  “Minister Bhethard.” Rhetahn’s tone was mild yet tinged with rebuke. “The girl will die soon. We can allow her one final spirited moment.”

  Her retort rang through the chamber. “Like I gave you a choice.”

  Brand cuffed her lightly ’round the head and she yelped, furnishing him with a glare.

  The brothers seemed startled by her bold words and whispers emanated from the onlookers. Bhethard leaned around the captain to scowl in her direction. She held her head high, determined to show no further fear.

  Rhetahn addressed Brand. “Take her to the Zenith. The night approaches.”

  Finality hit with the force of a sledgehammer and her shoulders sagged. She was going to die.

  The captain bowed, then threw her over his shoulder like a bale of straw.

  “I can walk on my own,” she protested.

  Her struggles met only with a tightened grip and an irritated grunt. Dangling upside down, she craned her neck for one final peek at The Three. Storren was chuckling with some of the onlookers. Mhaljett stared at his feet, apparently lost in his own thoughts. And Rhetahn...

  He was scrutinizing her as if stripping her bare, mind, body, and soul. She tore her gaze away, yet the weight of his cerulean stare remained, even after he disappeared from her sight.

  Chapter Ten

  Atop the keep, reds, ambers, and golds streaked across the darkening sky like the sun itself was crying. The Zenith floor was bare, save for the stone altar in the middle and the iron grates hiding some sort of defense system. Wind gusted from the surrounding peaks, barreling across the castle walls.

  Slung over Brand’s shoulder, Libby’s hair whipped in every direction and her silver gown flapped around her legs. She couldn’t control her shivering, and it wasn’t from the cold. The dais was stained dark crimson, remnants of previous rituals. Her stomach twisted at the faint, metallic scent when the captain placed her upon it.

  “Move down a little,” he ordered her.

  She complied until the flimsy shoes rested against two jutting pieces of stone. “What are those bits for?”

  “The table will be tilted during the ritual. He bound her wrists and ankles with thick rope as he spoke, fastening them through slots on the dais edges. “The footrests will prevent you slipping.”

  “Why will it be tilted?” Realization hit. “It’s to expedite my blood flow, isn’t it?”

  Brand’s expressionless face told her she was right. Her shaking increased when she locked on to the leather strap he held. “No. Not a gag, please.”

  He didn’t stop. She snapped at his hand and he grasped her jaw, squeezing until she opened wide enough for the material to be inserted.

  He tied the gag at the back of her head. “Do you wish for a blindfold?”

  She shook her head, glowering.

  For the first time, his gaze softened. “You are an unusual one. I will not forget you.”

  She blinked back tears as he strode to the head of the dais. Gharrick, the soldier from earlier, was next to him in a similar cobalt uniform. She attempted to catch his attention. He stared straight ahead as if dete
rmined not to acknowledge her.

  The chill of the night closed in as she laid prone and trembling on the altar. Beyond the low wall encompassing the tower, the massive valley lay to her right, shadows from the mountain range obscuring its features. Firelight from hamlets and farmsteads dotted the growing darkness and the nearby river churned above the sound of the wind.

  Her gaze drifted to the sky, with its vast carpet of stars. At least she would die viewing peace and beauty above her. She remembered Thassa’s words in the Sanctellium the previous night, when he bade her to let hatred fill her heart. She couldn’t do it. She didn’t want her last thoughts to be those of hatred.

  She recalled her parents’ desperate attempt to save her on Flat Peak – relived the timid kiss she shared with Karlo last winter. She sifted through memories like playing cards: romping with her friends through the countryside, curling up with her mother by the hearth, laughing and joking with her father. She’d lived a good life. Short—far too short—but good. Happy. Safe.

  Footsteps on the staircase interrupted her reverie. Eight sentries appeared first, their armor reflecting their torches. Five men and one woman from the throne room followed, including the cantankerous Bhethard. Each sported a thick, fur-lined overcoat over their fancy clothes of earlier. Bringing up the rear were the gods themselves, who strolled out in their thin shirts as if impervious to the cold. At the sight of their gold-hilted daggers, she couldn’t hide her moan of fear.

  The sentries took their places by the wall, inserting their torches in low brackets and turning to stand guard. The six witnesses halted a few paces away from the foot of the table. Brand and Gharrick bowed as the brothers stopped in a row to her left.

  “As the sun fades on this day,” Rhetahn intoned, “this blessed human will restore our magic anew, so we may keep peace and order in our realm.”

  The gods approached in unison, Mhaljett and Storren removing their amulets as they did so. Libby stiffened as the middle brother placed his below her breasts without meeting her eyes. Storren stationed his above her bellybutton, at the base of the gown’s V-shape. He flicked her a somber glance and retreated with Mhaljett to allow Rhetahn to take their place. The eldest brother’s dagger glinted in the torchlight. He whispered some unknown words and blue magic flashed across the metal.

  Her pulse roared in her ears as he approached, her panicked cry muffled by the gag.

  To her surprise, he met her gaze. “Hush. You were a bold little thing earlier. Hold on to your courage.”

  She whimpered, yet somehow, his soft words soothed her into stillness.

  “I will do this as swiftly as possible,” he added.

  At the first bite of his blade, her keening cry resounded through the gag. She sobbed from start to finish, agony throbbing with every heartbeat as he carved his kite symbol above her breasts. Shadows hovered in her vision and the scent of blood filled her nostrils. Her jaw ached from biting the gag, but it was nothing compared to the slicing of his knife.

  After what felt like an eternity, the god stepped back and handed his blade to a guard.

  The table shuddered and she jerked, her involuntary scream stifled by the material. Brand and Gharrick lifted the top of the altar, muscles bunching and faces tight with effort. They slotted it into place, enough to cause her blood to run downward. Hot, wet trails snaked across her stomach toward the amulets and she retched, vomit filling her mouth before she swallowed it with a revolted choke.

  Rhetahn had removed his own talisman. He averted his gaze, placing the amulet on the raw wound on her skin. Hot pain lashed through her and she cried out again, through the gag. Did he flinch, for a moment? She wasn’t sure, and he turned to Mhaljett too quickly to check.

  “Your turn, brother,” he said, quietly. “Use haste.”

  Her skin burned where the eldest brother placed his talisman. There was a strange prickling sensation too, like the stone was coming to life. A similar tingling began above her bellybutton when the crimson liquid touched Storren’s amulet. Between them, Mhaljett’s amulet pulsed with sluggishness, different from the others’ tickling power. There was no time to wonder why as the middle god lifted it from her. Blood dripped on to his pristine shirt when he reattached it ’round his neck. He didn’t seem to care.

  She waited, shaking, and braced herself for more pain. Mhaljett stroked his bloodied amulet, crimson staining his fingers. He tilted his head to one side, like he was listening to something. At his command, ebony and teal magic slithered down his blade.

  His smile was cold and vicious enough to make her furrow her brow. This wasn’t right.

  He laughed, an ugly bray of sound. His brothers glanced at each other and the sentries shifted in their posts. Mhaljett continued to chuckle, the sound alien and disquieting. He whirled to face the dark valley, his expression melting from amusement to triumph. Then, sheer horror overtook his features, his eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled to the floor.

  “Mhaljett!” Storren dropped his dagger and rushed to his brother’s side.

  “Brand, send for a healer.” Rhetahn strode to his siblings.

  The captain barked an order at a sentry, who dissolved into mist and formed into a huge dragon. The great beast leapt onto the wall and soared from the tower, disappearing into the darkness.

  Mhaljett stirred. His siblings helped him back to his feet, while Libby and the spectators gawped.

  Storren steadied him. “Are you recovered, brother?”

  Mhaljett bent to collect his dagger.

  “Oh yes,” he said, calmly.

  Without any hesitation, he sank the blade into Storren’s heart.

  Libby screamed through the gag. Storren collapsed to his knees, staring at his brother in shock. Mhaljett twisted on his heel and raised the knife again, this time toward Rhetahn.

  The seconds slowed to a crawl as the eldest god threw himself sideways, too late. Far, far too late. Mhaljett shrieked in triumph, plunging the dagger into his sibling’s chest. Rhetahn’s gasp became a roar. Ripping out the blade, the middle god raised it again, but Brand and Gharrick jumped in front of him with swords drawn.

  The god attacked like an enraged animal, his bloodstained blade in one hand, ebony-flecked teal magic in the other. The onlookers stampeded for the stairs, Bhethard at their head. The horrified sentries brandished their weapons at the crazed god. Storren lay in a pool of blood, staring blankly at the sky. Rhetahn, too, was slumped on his back with his eyes closed and shirt bloodied, heedless of the chaos, his breath rattling dangerously.

  Trapped and helpless, Libby could do nothing except observe the carnage until Summer’s wide-eyed face loomed above her.

  “Something’s gone wrong,” the young woman gasped. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  She sawed at the bonds with a tiny paring knife, her forehead gleaming with sweat. The battle raged around them.

  More sentries joined Brand and Gharrick, but Mhaljett fought like a man possessed. As two guards began to shift into dragon form, he swept away their transforming mist and killed them where they stood. Seizing a third, he threw him off the tower like a pebble in a pond, giving the man no time to shift. The guard’s cry echoed as he fell to his death.

  “More soldiers!” Brand swung his sword at the god, who blocked it with a bolt of magic effortlessly. “Get more soldiers up here, now!”

  As Summer sliced through the last rope, Libby ripped off her gag and stumbled off the table. The two remaining amulets fell from her bleeding upper body and she threw them over her head automatically. They nestled between her breasts, tingling with excitement. Clutching Summer’s hand, she raced for the staircase.

  Mhaljett loomed in front of them, his malevolent gaze locked on the amulets. Magic crackled in his palm.

  “No!” Summer planted herself in front of Libby. “Leave her alone.”

  The god snarled, then a tremendous roar made everyone turn. Brand had transformed into his dragon form and taken flight, Rhetahn hanging limply from his talon
s. Mhaljett gave a thundering bellow of rage.

  Gharrick clutched Libby’s arm with grim determination. She shrieked and raised her hands...and magic shot from her fingers, slamming into the warrior and knocking him clean off his feet. They both gaped at each other but there was no time to analyze it, for Mhaljett was advancing on the immobile Summer. His eyes blazed hypnotic blue as an eerie scent rose from him, a powerful, compelling aroma of ash, smoke, and wild, alpine forests.

  “Come, pretty one,” he crooned. “Come to your master.”

  Out of nowhere, Mhiri leapt on to his back. “Run, Summer!”

  The young dragon shifter fled for the stairs, her wide, terrified brown eyes melting into crimson. The god tossed Mhiri to the floor and stamped on her with all his might. The sickening sound of cracking bones made Libby flinch as she stumbled in Summer’s wake...and wind gusted above her.

  She ducked in desperation, but talons plucked her from the rooftop. She recognized the bronze scales of Gharrick as he flew them into the night sky, the wind whooshing like a wave of ice.

  The last thing she heard, as they soared away, was Mhaljett’s enraged scream.

  Chapter Eleven

  With Libby grasped in his talons, Gharrick flew the entire length of the massive valley then banked east toward the encompassing mountain range. The moon bathed the bluffs in eerie, golden light. Halfway up one craggy slope, torches, and a campfire came into view as the dragon descended. For one heart-stopping moment she foresaw them crashing into the mountainside. Instead, he angled his wings and soared between the torches into a shallow cave, dumping her on the ground and skidding to a halt.

  The outpost contained two narrow cots, weapons stacked in a rack, and some wooden shelves full of supplies. Torches flickered on the stone walls and a campfire blazed in the entranceway, where two bewildered sentries lingered. Libby scrabbled away to cower at the back of the cave, her heart pounding.

  Captain Brand, already returned to human form, laid the comatose Rhetahn on a cot and placed a folded blanket under his head. Ripping away part of the god’s ruined shirt, he pressed on the exposed stab wound with gauze from the supply shelf, muttering under his breath.