As the first halberd neared her—followed closely by a pair of unblinking eyes—she applied Thew and Flux as she jumped. But this time she didn’t jump back. She leapt forward and up, twisting her body and reaching for the halberd. Her palm closed over the shaft, and she used her momentum to tear it out of the paladin’s hands.
She soared over the heads of the paladins. They became a blur of masks below the fluttering hem of her black dress. She pushed herself with Flux, simultaneously harvesting it and applying it to carry herself higher and further. Several of the guards jumped and jabbed at her, but she flew too high and too fast, and in just a moment landed with a grunt on the ground beyond them.
Again, everything paused. The dozens of paladins she’d jumped over gaped in shock. Leenda stood there for a moment, tightening her grip on the halberd, threatening the paladins with her eyes, wishing she hadn’t donned the now-awkward dress.
Paladins weren’t known for fear. Only for dedication and fervor. And besides, most of them stood half again as tall and wide as her, and they outnumbered her more than thirty-to-one. So, of course, they roared and surged forward.
She considered engaging them, cutting them down, but decided that she had to find Rashel, not kill guards—although the world would be better with fewer of them. She turned and ran, darting between the tents and leaping over the ropes that secured them to the ground.
Before ten seconds had passed, paladins were everywhere, charging from every direction. They swarmed, trying to cut off her route. She dodged right or left, or rounded corners at top speed as she ducked under this halberd or jumped over that helmet. The guards shouted out her position as she leapt over them or tents. They tried to surround her, cut off her route as they forced her to take detours.
The dress hindered her movement and caught more than one halberd’s tip. It snagged on ropes and tent corners, and once the haft of her halberd became tangled in it. By the time she’d become completely lost, the dress already hung in tatters. Unfortunately, she needed to be rid of it. It figured that the dress she liked wouldn’t even last five minutes, but she’d worn the ungodly yellow one for over a week.
In the confusion, she found herself cornered against the side of an extremely large tent—probably Athanaric’s. Five paladins approached her with caution. Somehow, the tall guard who’d ordered her death stood at their back. He pointed at Leenda with his sword.
“There she is. Hold steady. Kill her.”
Two of the paladins advanced, halberds lowered toward her chest. She had a moment and would need freedom of movement, and so with a grunt ripped the skirt of her dress away, leaving her legs covered only in the white undershorts. Horizontal frills edged in blue ran up her thighs and hips in layers, and she found herself blushing.
Stupid human body and customs. She’d lived her entire life as a draegon naked, and now that she had to work in her underwear, she was embarrassed. Ridiculous.
In a fit of rage, she flung the skirt toward the guards. It furled, spun with a flutter, and fell short by ten feet. But it caught the paladins off guard. They faltered. She seized the instant and jumped forward and up, applying Ichor. As she passed over their heads she twirled the halberd. The haft’s end connected with a thump to one guard’s face, and a heartbeat later the opposite end—the hooked side of the blade—tore into the mask of the other guard with a sharp crunch. His mask and head split open as she pulled the hook free.
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.”
Ignoring the thunder in his chest, Wrend turned uphill again. He began to run as best he could, pushing past people and trampling their feet or hands. He fixed his eyes on the scene at the altar, just as the Master opened his eyes, lifted his head, and raised both hands to the level of his ears, palms forward as if he were about to worship Steffan.
Wrend tripped on a child’s foot, crying out and sprawling forward on top of a woman who shouted in surprise.
Silence washed over the area, beginning at the altar and rolling down the hill. The people fell quiet as they mimicked their god’s gesture by straightening their bodies and lifting their hands to the level of their ears, palms out. The woman Wrend had fallen on pushed him away, and he fell to the ground. He scrambled to find his feet, but instead only found his knees.
Everything had stopped as if in a fit of reverence. The people had seemingly turned to stone. Their voices had stilled. From the oldest man to the youngest child, not a person spoke or moved.
In that moment—an opportunity to warn the Master—Wrend’s voice failed him as awe at the Master’s power overcame him. He could control entire crowds. Perhaps not with Thew Ichor, but with som
ething more powerful: the presence of his godhood. For two thousand years he’d established his country, rituals, and dominion. The people worshiped him and knew his ceremonies. They knew that when he opened his eyes and raised his head, they were to still their bodies and voices. That was greater power than any Ichor. That was the power of love and respect.
The true power of a god.
Wrend scrambled to his feet and continued up the hill. The woman he’d fallen on had seemingly forgotten him, as had those around him. Every eye focused on the crest of the hill.
Steffan twisted his torso, and one of the priests behind him held out a book. Steffan took the book and turned back to the Master, holding the tome out to him, lifting his chin. All demigods gave an offering to the Master on the days of their Strengthening, a token of their dedication and love.
“Here is my offering to you,” Steffan said. Though he looked away from the crowd, his voice still boomed and rolled down the hill. “It is a book of praises to you, from the people of this district. I have collected them over a dozen years, documenting the stories of the people and how you’ve brought peace and joy to their lives. This is my offering to you on this, the last day of my service to you.”
The Master lowered one hand and reached across the altar with the palm up. Steffan dropped the book into it.
“I accept your offering,” the Master said. “And I praise your dedication. May your soul find rest in the firmament above.”
As one, the crowd murmured, “Amen.”
A woman near Wrend began to sob, and as he glanced over the hillside he saw that tears tumbled down the faces of many men and women.
The Master placed the book on a corner of the altar, and lifted his hand back over his head. He kept it there along with the other for only a moment before lowering them to the altar. His palms struck the smooth surface, and the sound of the slap filled the area like a thunderclap. It vibrated through Wrend’s heart as he continued up the hill.
The Master raised his hands again, and as he brought them forward the entire crowd followed his lead. As one, every person—the men, women, children, mothers, priests, and demigods—tilted forward and slapped their hands on the ground before them. If the noise of the Master’s hands hitting the altar sounded like thunder, this new sound felt like an earthquake. The ground and air shook. Wrend’s ears throbbed from the volume. The crowd chanted a prayer in unison.
The Demigod Proving Page 18