The House of Sacrifice

by Anna Smith Spark

  “How do you know?” Alleen Durith shouted at her. “Did you see her? Her tongue? That horse she was riding on? She’s a demon or a sorceress.”

  “How could I not know what she is?” said Thalia. Her face looking at Alleen was filled with disgust.

  “You can’t bloody fight her, Marith.” Osen said, “You’ve barely slept, you spent last night fighting gods only know what, you can’t fight her now. You should never have agreed to it. I should never have let you agree.”

  “I didn’t have much choice, did I? What could I do, tell her to go away? And the bargain she made was absurd, I could hardly refuse that, could I? A woman offered me her death or my retreat and I refused?”

  “You need to be careful of her promises, Marith,” said Kiana. “You cannot trust her to keep them. The mountain men have betrayed their promises, she rides one of their horses, she summoned them.”

  “Betrayal is something you, of course, know all about, Kiana,” said Alleen Durith.

  “What?”

  “The mountain men swore us fealty, and broke it,” said Alleen. “The mountain men got into our camp somehow. Did that man not say, back in Arunmen, that someone was betraying the king? Before Lord Fiolt your great admirer killed him.”

  “Are you saying that I am a traitor?” shouted Kiana.

  “You take that back, Alleen,” Osen shouted. “Take that back now.”

  “It was your men, Alleen, who had the watch last night,” Kiana spat back. “At the place where the enemy came in.”

  “My men died! Fought them off!”

  “Didn’t notice them coming. Men on horses, and they didn’t hear or see them…?”

  “Magecraft!” shouted Alleen.

  “Or treachery?”

  “Stop this.” A quiet voice. Angry. Weary. Thalia stood up. Something in the way she stood, the look in her eyes… the others fell silent, looked down at their hands in shame. “It will be dusk soon. Perhaps it would be best if you had a rest and prepared yourself, Marith. If your friends will leave us in peace.”

  She was terrified, Marith realized. She was more afraid of this creature he must fight than she had been of anything.

  When the rest had gone, he lay down on the bed holding Thalia next to him, put out all the lamps save one. This hateful false dark, here in his tent, the light picking its way in through the seams in the leather, dark even in the sunlight of a day. Only a little while to rest, dozing on her shoulder. Then Alis came to fetch him. All was ready: now they must bury the previous night’s dead. The Army of Amrath set to work hauling the bodies. Set up the funeral pyres and the marker stone. Marith sacrificed five horses, calling down vengeance. The soldiers processed beneath, shouting his name. The dragons came, flying low over the pyres, hissing out smoke. They settled themselves on the peak of a mountain, and fire could be seen there. The King’s Star shone very bright for a while, then the clouds came over and it was hidden. The sky grew very dark. Every man in the camp waiting now for dawn.

  The bodies of the enemy lay in a pile. The Queen of Turain had not asked for them to be returned to her. The men of the Mountains of Pain had not sent a messenger to ask for them. So they lay where they were left, stripped naked, stiff and hard and cold, dead and dying, horses and men. The crows and the flies and the vultures came down. A last few camp followers picked over them, searching for any scraps. The air was very cold, the ground was very cold, where they lay. A shimmer in the air, over them, the cold visible. It was said that a woman had placed her hands for too long on one of demon horses, and that her fingers were now numb and black. A woman was heard shrieking in pain, later, off on the edge of the camp.

  A funeral feast was laid. Roast meat and wine and spirits, on tables set beneath the dead bodies of the horse sacrifice, beside the stone.

  “I will have a great monument built, after Turain falls!” Marith shouted. He poured wine on the stone in offering. “Our hallowed dead! Always, always we will remember them! Avenge them!” It sounded thin and bitter. Absurd. Useless lumps who were hacked open in their sleep.

  “Once, we would have cut a man’s throat here,” Osen said.

  “We will cut the throat of every man, woman and child in Turain for them! Raise a vast monument, of gold and iron, capped with the Queen of Turain’s head!”

  The men roared their approval. Gulped down their cups of drink. The sword dance started up, the clash of bronze, the stamp of feet. Wild and fast. Some of them will die tonight, fighting each other, Marith thought. And indeed, he saw men fighting already, on the edges of the feasting place, wrestling and cutting at each other with hands or with knives; in the shadows at the edge of the feast near where the enemy dead lay he saw two men fighting and a man forcing a woman down, a knife at her throat. This will be a bad night. An evil night.

  “Come to bed, Marith,” Thalia whispered to him, clutching at his arm.

  “Should I not drink and shout and dance? Like my men? Mourn the dead?” He thought: you think that woman may kill me. Shall I try to get another dead child on you, Thalia my love, before I die?

  “She cannot kill you,” Thalia said fiercely. “Come away.”

  “Go to bed, Marith,” said Osen. “Please. This is not a good place to be, tonight.”

  He turned to go. The flames of the pyres roared up higher. The flames danced against the black sky looking like antlers and snakes’ heads. The dead men there burning seemed to writhe as if they were in pain. The flames spat and hissed, the fat spitting, the bones cracking. As if the men were screaming there as they burned. A great shower of red sparks went up.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  In the grey light before dawn, Marith and Thalia and Osen and Alleen Durith rode out to meet the Queen of Turain. None of them had slept. Marith rubbed his eyes. He felt sore and heavy, very slow, his eyes were gritty, stung him as they did when he had been in battle smoke. Two nights now with barely any sleep. He felt as though he could fall off his horse. He probably looked as though he had fallen off his horse. The rest of them were as bad, Osen’s eyes were red-rimmed, Alleen itched at his face and shook his head to try to clear it, Thalia’s shoulders were stiff and hunched. Brychan and Tal, riding behind them, looked grey like dead men.

  A long ride, down the foothills of the Mountains of Pain, onto the plain where the river ran fast and cold with snowmelt past the thick walls of Turain. The clouds had cleared, as they prepared to set out, the world was glowing with the blue luminous light before dawn. Black trees and black rocks against the morning twilight. The sky glowing waiting for the sun. The Fire Star was clearly visible, though the rest of the stars had set. The King’s Star, I mean, Marith thought. My star. The moon was huge on the horizon, a full moon shining very white.

  “If it were a sacrifice night,” Thalia had said, “a woman would die, tonight.”

  “Marith!” He blinked. Dozing in the saddle, lost in his thoughts. The sky was turning pink in the east before them, the moon had set. Birds were beginning to sing. The silver line of the river. There beyond it in the distance the walls of the city of Turain. At this distance the city was very still. The air smelled very sweet suddenly, heavy, sensuous: he looked down and saw that they were riding through a field of white hyacinths, crushing the flowers beneath the horses’ hooves. They were glowing white. The smell was like the taste of Thalia’s skin.

  There were torches burning, on the banks of the river. They rode closer. Came to a stone bridge. He could hear the water lapping around its pillars. Beside it a huge willow tree was growing, silver-green leaves brushed the surface of the water. A woman’s hair hanging down ragged. A gust of wind made the tree shiver, the leaves whisper to the water beneath. A beating of wings and a pigeon flew up from the tree making it shake and the water splash. Ripples on the water, the leaves splashing it. How lovely it would be, to swim in the river, in these warm southern days, swim in through the green leaves as into a green cave, float there. The leaves would shiver and whisper and the water would ripple and sing.


  The Queen of Turain was waiting for him before the bridge. She was crowned in hyacinths. Her armour was burnished gold. The bridge behind her burned blue.

  “Marith Altrersyr. The sun is rising.” She held up her silver sword. “Will you fight me?”

  Marith dismounted. Awkwardly, his head was so heavy, his foot almost caught in the saddle. The horse was skittery, shied as he dismounted. He had to step back quickly.

  “Careful!” Osen had dismounted, was grabbing at his horse’s head.

  “I’m fine. Leave it.” Gods, this was a farce. Thalia dismounted, squeezed his hand.

  “Come,” the Queen of Turain said. “Let us begin. The sun is rising. Kill me and be King of Turain. Or leave here and do not return.”

  Marith drew his sword. Joy, he had named it, after the sword he had once owned that had been called Sorrow, that had killed Carin. This sword Joy had killed his brother and his mother. Made him king. Thalia, he thought, had once thought about using this sword to kill him. He could smell the sea, the cramped ship, Thalia’s hands on the hilt, her face thinking. A little room in a tall house by Toreth Harbour, gulls screaming, a candle flickering into light.

  “Stop it.”

  “Stop what, Marith Altrersyr?” the Queen of Turain said in her beautiful voice.

  “A kindness, Marith,” he thought he heard Thalia say. “But I didn’t do it, did I?”

  The Queen of Turain strode forward, squared up facing him. She was very tall, as tall as a great green tree. Far, far taller than he was, she reached up to the sun as it rose. The earth smelled of crushed hyacinths and her breath smelled of fresh-mowed hay. Her hair was loose and it was the colour of ripe wheat, and her armour was gilded and patterned with flowers and leaves. She held up her sword, and he saw that the blade was worked with pictures, etched in green fire, women and children bringing in the harvest, men hunting and fishing and tilling the fields, and then the river ceases to run down from the mountains, the earth dries, the men and the women and the children starve, there is murrain in the fields, there is plague in the city and the people fall sick, the river runs in flood and drowns them, the ground is rent in earthquake. They all die, the people, all of them, in the end.

  “Stop!” He tore his eyes away from the woman’s blade.

  “Stop what, Marith Altrersyr?” She tossed her beautiful hair. “You think that you are stronger than I am? You think that you alone can kill?”

  He came at her. Their blades clashed. He struck and she warded it off and the shock of her strength, like striking a tree trunk, went all up Marith’s arm. He struck again. She warded it off. He struck again. The ground was slippery under his feet. Crushed flowers, he thought, and then he glanced down and the ground was slippery with blood.

  The Queen of Turain laughed, and attacked him.

  Crash of sword blades. He blocked it, stepped back, his body was ringing from the blow. Their swords met again and again. She struck him on the shoulder, wounded him. She struck him on the thigh.

  I cannot be harmed! I cannot die! I am as a god, he thought. Nothing can harm me.

  Pain there, in his body. She laughed. There was blood on her sword blade. She had wounded him.

  He redoubled his attack, slashed at her, the swords rang, she moved back. There was blood on her face. A strand of her hair was stuck to her cheek in a smear of blood. She was sweating.

  The ground beneath his feet was liquid with blood. He slipped, stumbled backwards. His shoulder hurt. His thigh hurt. Lashed out and maybe he had her, his sword met her armour, the metal rang out. She leapt away from him. She was so fast. She came at him. He shouted, because she was huge, and all gold and shadows. Lashed out at her; his sword did not even touch her. She slipped away from his blade. Like catching water in his hands, he thought. She jabbed at him, he felt her sword go past him, so close, he did not try to block it but only moved back. He drove at her. She warded it. He tried to close with her. She danced away. Drove at him. The weight of her stroke was like a rock. He slipped backwards, his body screamed out. He flailed with his sword, met her arm at the wrist. Grazed her. Perhaps. He felt her sword go into him. Deep in. Red pain, white pain, black pain, black in his eyes, his mind was blank and roaring, couldn’t hear, couldn’t see. Hurt him. He was down in the mud, scrabbling, he was holding his sword over himself to shield himself. The mud stank of blood. There were hyacinth petals stuck mushy on his face.

  She looked surprised. She too was bleeding. She spat blood at him. He kicked out, his foot caught her leg. She swayed, her leg buckled.

  He scrabbled backwards in the mud. Hurt. The sword fell from his hand. Tried to push himself away.

  She raised her sword over him. The blade there above him. Hanging there above him. Very close to him. And then it would come down. His blood, on the blade. It would cut him open. It was the strangest thing he had ever seen.

  He rolled, scrabbled in the dirt. Rolled. Crawling. Began to run. The sky was pale and pink and clear. He thought he could see a bird, very small, black in the sky. There was a great noise of crashing and shouting. Thalia’s voice was shouting. A voice screamed, “He’s dead! The king’s dead!” He could see the hyacinth flowers crushed up beneath him. His shoulder hurt.

  He ran from her and ran from her. Please.

  Arms were lifting him, holding him, he was hanging face down over a horse. The smell of the horse was in his face. The horse was galloping. Voices were shouting. His shoulder hurt. His thigh hurt. He closed his eyes, behind his eyes his head was white with pain. The feel of the horse galloping made him feel sick. He was back in the camp, and more voices were shouting; he was being carried into his tent. The sky again, he could see the sky. His body felt very odd and sticky. They were carrying him and it took forever, he was floating. He was lying on his bed. Thalia was bending over him. Hands were pulling and cutting his armour off.

  “What happened?” he said. They got the armour off him. A voice screamed. A voice swore. “I lost,” he said. “I lost. Didn’t I? I lost. I ran away. How can I have lost?”

  Thalia said, “Hush. It will be well.” There was a light in her. He turned away from her, afraid.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Tobias, briefly happy

  The camp of the Army of Amrath, very upset

  Bloody hells.

  I mean—obviously you kind of expected him to lose at some point—I mean, nobody wins all the frigging time, “even, um, that poet, you know, that poet whose name I can’t remember, wrote that dirty poem the boy’s so keen on, even that poet nods occasionally” as they say in Sorlost. But bloody hells. As ways to fuck up go, that was a fucking triumph. Get creamed overnight, rumour had it the buggers came fairly close to setting the king’s own tent on fire before the king almost fell over his own sword fighting them off, then get thrashed by a girl in a remarkably impractical gold breastplate. Glory to him! The king being carried off face down over the arse of Lord Durith’s horse like a sack. And that was frankly fucking cheating. She’d been whipping him. If he hadn’t run like a frightened rabbit, the boy would have had his head taken off. Wonder if you can come back from having your pretty head taken off, Marith, you little shit? What’s it going to do, grow back?

  The camp and everyone in it were in shock. Grown soldiers openly weeping. Three women were said to have miscarried at the news, another two had given birth. Two old blokes and five injured soldiers had died straight out. They said three people had committed suicide, but that was less convincing and if they had the army was probably better off without them. If they had, they would have been feeling pretty stupid if they could still feel anything, seeing as there’d been three proclamations in the last hour that Great King Marith Altrersyr Ansikanderakesis Amrakane King Ruin King of Dust King of Shadows King of Death absolutely categorically cross-my-heart-and-swear-it-till-I’m-blue-in-the-face wasn’t dead. No one making the proclamation looked like they’d noticed the irony of announcing that the King of Death wasn’t dead.

  “He’ll be
fine,” Tobias said to Lenae. She was crying. He killed your fucking baby, Tobias wanted to yell at her. Only except he felt… if Marith had died… did die…

  “They say he’s unconscious.”

  “They say all kinds of things. He’s Marith Altrersyr Ansikanderakesis Amrakane! He’ll be fine.”

  Gods: Thalia, widowed. Four unborn babies and a husband. Someone Lenae knew knew someone who knew someone who’d seen her going into the tent. She hadn’t been crying, they said. But you wouldn’t want to have looked into her face.

  Someone who knew someone who knew someone said Osen Fiolt had been crying, when he went into his own tent. “Marith, Marith, Marith. My life for yours. Marith.” Less romantically, perhaps, they also said that Alleen Durith and Osen Fiolt had screamed at each other and Alleen Durith had broken Osen Fiolt’s nose.

  “Mawifff, Mawifff, Mawifff. My vife vor vours, Mawiff.”

  “He can’t die.” Lenae looked genuinely quite terrified. “What will become of us all, Tobias, if he dies?”

  I’ve been wondering that myself, girl. Shit, I should think. A glorious new golden era of peace and prosperity, with us here in this army really not on the receiving end. Tobias moved a little closer to Lenae, thought about taking her hand. “I’ve got a sword, Lenae. I’ll protect you.”

  She rolled her eyes a bit but looked slightly more reassured.

  Maybe.

  Good if she was, because he really wasn’t. A whole fucking army, and no one in command?

  “You’ll be okay, yeah?” he said to her. “You’ve got money and that. And I’ve got my sword.”

  Rovi sat down beside them. Talk about timing. Death stink that made Lenae gag and that’s that. Off sex for life.

  “They’ve set up a shrine,” Rovi said. “To make offerings for him. Beg for healing.” Rovi laughed.

  “I’d like to go,” said Lenae. “Make an offering.”

  Make an offering for his life? “He killed your baby,” said Tobias. Flushed with shame as he spoke.