Hero Risen (Seeds of Destiny, Book 3)
Page 32
The woman had been led to the vacant altar, and both sat on the stone, legs straight before them and torsos upright, faces slack and eyes unblinking. The four male priests brought a golden goblet each and, as they were held to their lips, the man and women drained two apiece without pause. Within moments they sagged and were caught by the waiting arms that laid them gently on the smooth stone. Chests rose and fell gently, but otherwise they were dead to the ceremony. Fortunately so, Brann thought.
The light was dimming; the brazier was stoked and fed with dry wood, its flames casting a dancing eeriness over the prone figures. At the sight, the humming from the crowd began again, although this time with a fervour that spoke of rising anticipation. Two male priests stepped to the altars holding long-handled tools, hinged near their gleaming blades of the same black stone that he had seen before, their sharp points curving to meet at the tip. The clerics stood on the steps to the side of the altars and raised the clippers high, prompting the humming to surge louder. The priestess stood behind, turning to the mountain and raising her arms aloft. She chanted, louder and faster, louder and faster, louder and faster. Her arms dropped and, with them, the tools in the hands of the priests did likewise, the separate points of the blades cutting effortlessly into the skin on the chests of the young man and woman. The handles were worked, and a rib was clipped as if it were no more than a brittle twig.
‘No!’ The word burst with horror from Brann, drowned by the drone from a thousand throats. ‘No!’ came with each rapid and coldly efficient snap of the clippers. He felt his eyes wide, his breath catching, his legs weak. He had seen barbarity, had caused much of it himself, but this…
They were still alive.
The four priests stepped one to each side of the young pair and, in the sharp proficiency of practised movements, the ribs were hauled upright, like the rotted hull of a boat Brann had seen wrecked on a beach while he sailed with Einarr. But these were no boats, those were no timbers.
The priestess swayed, arms on high but this time her right hand reflected the firelight. Shaped black stone wrapped around her closed fist, fingers linked through the grip on the back of a blade with the contours of the new moon.
She stepped forward, staring at the crowd from her mask of a snarling big cat. Her blade swept first into the chest of the woman, and then the man, swift cuts made with deft precision. She stepped back and handed the knife to a priest. The flames on the brazier were coaxed higher by another priest, bathing her in dark yellow. She reached into each chest of the young man and woman and stepped towards the crowd.
When her hands swept aloft, blood streaming red down her bare arms, she held their hearts. Brann felt he could see them beat yet.
Violently, bent double by the force of the spasm, he vomited.
Marlo was already slumped on the ground, vacant shock in his eyes. Brann was wrenched upright. The last he saw was the two hearts cast upon the brazier, the flames leaping high, before he was dragged below, the humming reaching a crescendo as he staggered from it, tripping on the chain at his feet.
He was a third of the way from the bottom of the stairs when he fell. His mind was too numb to care, but unconscious reflexes turned his body to strike the stone floor at an angle and in a tumble. It did not prevent the back of his head from striking a wall, however.
He opened his eyes, gasping, as icy water dripped from his face. He could feel his wrists and ankles manacled once again to the wooden posts. He blinked while his eyes focused, as much trying to hasten the process as shake water from his lashes. The Messenger stood before him, a wet bucket in his hand.
Loku was behind the man. ‘He is injured?’ The Messenger shook his head. ‘I am glad.’ He stepped forward to Brann. ‘I would rather this was resolved with no harm done.’
Brann shook water from his head in a spray of droplets, and his vision began to swim again. He let it settle, snarling, ‘No harm? What about those two people out there, or what’s left of them?’
Loku shook his head sadly. ‘Sometimes, to save a body you must cut off a finger. They were that finger.’
‘They were people. With lives. With families.’
‘They were, they were, it is true. But their sacrifice was intended to save a population.’
‘Why them?’
Loku stooped to pick up a stray feather from the floor. He stared at its detail as he spoke. ‘The sacrifice was powerful. Two, not one. Young, not old. In love, which itself has great power. That love consummated for the god, which holds even greater power. The vessel of their souls, holding all of that power and still beating with life, given to fire, the very element that envelops Texacotl. It is the strongest of all sacrifices.’ He turned his eyes to Brann, crushing the feather abruptly and dropping it casually behind him.
Brann was aghast. ‘And you honestly believe that this will calm the fury of your god, or hold back the contents of that mountain?’
Loku chuckled. ‘Of course not.’ He shook his head in amusement. ‘What you witnessed was the final resort of a desperate people who have tried everything less than this. They would never contemplate such an act under any normal circumstances.’ He looked directly at Brann. ‘Do you now see the extent of the desperation here? Can you understand why I must do what I must to save them? Will you help me save them?’
‘Me? You hate me. You have tried to kill me.’
‘Of course you.’ Loku smiled gently. ‘I know I developed a dislike for you, based upon the difficulties you caused me. And I did, as we know, place you in positions where it was likely that others would kill you. But they did not.’ He stroked the front of his cloak, aligning feathers precisely. ‘When I returned here to my home, when I immersed myself once more in my faith, I saw things more clearly. If the gods did not want you dead, then They must have a purpose for you. And if They think you can help me in saving my people, I will gladly follow Their will.’
Brann spat on the floor. ‘How could I help someone who butchers two innocent people and rips the hearts from their living bodies, in the name of pleasing an angry god?’
Loku shrugged. ‘I do not believe it will give a god even a moment’s pause for thought. But what is important is that the people believe it will help. We are a highly religious people – our priests have spent centuries ensuring that this is the case – and so, as their leaders, we must show them we have taken the ultimate step, we have given the god the most potent offering there is. And they must see that it has failed. That it was not enough.’
Brann stared at him wild-eyed. ‘What atrocity greater than that could you perform? Although I notice that you didn’t have the stomach for the work you ordained in that square tonight.’
Loku carefully picked up his bird mask, tucking it under one arm. ‘Would you expect a general to hack in the front rank or to direct the battle? Would you expect the king to cook the hog for the feast or the high priest to delve in the chest of a sacrifice?’ He laughed, a merry sound. ‘Of course not, and neither would a god. A god would see the value of the sacrifice, not the simple act that makes it, and so do the believers who witness it, and those who are told of it.’
‘And those who are the meat of your sacrifice? What do they see?’
‘They are told they must be a part of a rite, but not the form that rite will take. Once the draught takes effect, they know nothing at all. We are not savages, after all.’
‘You are not…?’
Loku continued, talking over Brann with an amused smile and a sigh. ‘Look, being the High Master of a religion has several advantages other than the ability to decide that I must travel abroad in my duties and represent my people. To these people, I am their leader and their ambassador. To the Emperor, I am his trusted Source of Information, having travelled to Sagia as a young man and giving two decades of my life to proving worthy of that role, my stature in the priesthood rising on the back of my accruing power at the Empire’s courts, and the Emperor’s opinion of my value increasing with my growing influence in the pr
iesthood of the lands that supplied the gold that underpins his administration; each feeding on the other. And latterly, to the network of terror that I orchestrate, I am a simple agent of the cause, and who would suspect one so lowly to be a danger?’
‘And yet you control them all.’
‘Of course. In every case I am at the heart of the activity, while still placing the pieces on the boards of all three games. And soon the three boards will become one, and the pieces will link. It is what I must do, for my people.’ He looked thoughtfully at Brann. ‘I did notice that you also did not have the stomach for it. Which is surprising considering what acts you have managed yourself when your next breath is at stake.’
Brann’s eyes flared with fury. ‘Only because I had to. And never… that.’
Loku shrugged. ‘Regardless, I would have you contemplate my invitation.’
Brann shook his head in disbelief. ‘Work with you? You are insane.’
A strand of Loku’s oil-slicked dark hair had dropped over his face, and he swept it back, sighing with regret. ‘It seems that the gods must merely have meant you to supply me with answers. There are certain things I would know.’ He ticked off questions on his fingers. ‘I would know who is my enemy, the one who sent you, the one at the Imperial Palace who dictates your actions? What you wanted with the Tribe of the Desert? And what is known of my plans?’ He leant forward, and Brann saw something in his eyes, something he had not seen there before, something he never expected to see. Sincerity. Tenderness. Loku spoke softly. ‘The gods are everything to us. They have given us everything we have. But all my people have now is me. I do not know why the Great God threatens us with His doom, and I do not know what He wants from us to avert it. Our scriptures say we must face His judgement face on, and not falter in our adoration as we redeem ourselves in His eyes, else we will pass from the gaze of the gods, and our culture, our time in this land where we are privileged to live in the shadow of the gods, will wither and die.’ He paused, his breath catching in his throat. ‘I do not know what Texacotl wants from us, and I cannot lead my people from His shadow and condemn all in these lands where our very essence is rooted centuries deep. And so I have failed them. I have failed them, unless I can find the truth; unless I can find the source of the truth. And I know the truth is kept safe, hidden, protected. I will have it, and I will take it with all I can muster, for this one last hope is all I have. Is all my people have. I cannot fail them again. I will save them. I must save them. I have hated you; I have wanted you dead. But for this, I can love you. If you can so powerfully stand in my way, time after time, the gods have put a power within you. Stand with me, and bring that power to save these lives. Men’s lives, women’s lives, children’s lives: innocents all. Can you not see this? Help me save my people. Please.’
Brann was taken aback by the earnestness that extended from Loku’s voice to the man’s eyes. He allowed his gaze to slowly drift around the room as if assessing the situation, trying to hide the fact that he bought time to assess instead Loku’s questions. That Loku would guess someone influential at the palace was involved was expected: too much had been influenced contrary to Loku’s plotting during Brann’s time in Sagia for there to be anyone behind it less than highly placed in the Empire. Loku knew that Brann and his companions had travelled the desert for he had sent men after them, but he would wonder what had made the band go there instead fleeing to their homelands: they must have had a compelling reason. And the most obvious question was the last: what is known of my plans?
There was little that was surprising there, and even less that was likely to be answered. His eyes caught Marlo’s; the boy’s shock at their situation and the scene they had witnessed outside was clear in the frozen face, drained of colour. He knew Marlo must have one thought foremost in his head, pounding with increasing terror: if they can do that to their own…
He also knew what would follow when Brann had done what he would do next. But there was nothing else he could do.
Loku cleared his throat. ‘At times, we all must do things we never before contemplated, if there is a greater good.’ He smiled encouragingly. ‘The Royal? The Tribe? The plans?’
Brann spat at his feet. ‘There are some things no man should ever do. There are things no man should see, or has a right to see. There are limits to what a man can justify.’ He looked into Loku’s eyes. ‘Go fuck yourself.’
Loku shook his head sadly. ‘You may not see the error of your thoughts, but you must see that we will have the answers soon enough, one way or another. And that the other way is not so unpleasant for you.’
Brann glared at him, trying to cover his fear with aggression. The image of Marlo’s face slipped through his mind. Pure, innocent Marlo. He spat again. ‘You are insane, the lot of you,’ he snarled. ‘A pox on you all, and a pox on your Texacotl. I don’t know what’s worse: a shit of a god who would destroy the only people who worship him, or the thick-as-shit people who would let him destroy them and praise him as he does it.’
Loku’s composure faltered for the merest instant, fury flitting behind his benign facade like a shadow behind gauze. But he smiled coldly, and nodded. He looked at the Messenger, flicking a finger at Brann. ‘Start with him.’
Brann sighed imperceptibly. The longer they were concerned with him, the longer before Marlo, who was less accustomed to pain, would be introduced to it. Still, as two of the men lifted a table to sit it in view of both captives and the Messenger unrolled a cloth bundle to reveal a gleaming array of instruments designed clearly for cutting, piercing, clamping, and striking, and several small vials of liquid, he couldn’t help wondering at his decision, guilty as the thought made him. He swallowed, his stomach knotting, as the Messenger calmly lifted a rod bearing several lengths of differently coloured cord with an assortment of knots on each. He placed the ends of the rod on two hooks set into the wall close to the table and peered at one of the cords, tracing a finger down it as a clerk might when searching for a passage on a page.
Loku pulled a small chair back to the wall and swept his robe around him to sit. He smiled at the Messenger, and the man carefully selected a long-handled blade, much like a healer’s scalpel.
The Messenger faced Brann, his voice as even and devoid of emotion as his face. ‘Pain is, of course, the objective. Reaching the point when you would rather say the things you would rather not say than feel the sensations you would rather not feel. But you know what is the biggest influence here?’ He stepped close and tapped the tip of the instrument on Brann’s head. Despite himself, Brann felt his breath catch. ‘Your own imagination is your greatest enemy in this, and the one you cannot avoid. Pain is bad, but worse is the anticipation. Knowing it is coming, knowing what is coming, and that you cannot prevent it. Even worse is knowing what is coming, but not where, nor when.’ Brann was already acutely aware of this himself.
The Messenger held the blade before Brann’s face, then traced it down his chest. He felt his muscles tensing at the touch. The metal moved to his left side, then up to his arm. ‘Recent injuries, tended well and healed better. They may be useful.’ The blade moved to his stomach. Without warning or pause, it pressed into and sliced the skin, sliding in just the depth of a fingernail but enough to make Brann clench his teeth and set sweat seeping as he fought not to shout. ‘A sweet spot of pain,’ the Messenger said, ‘and a taster. Texacotl sends his regards.’ He moved behind Brann. ‘And now the anticipation. There are several such spots.’
Brann was so tense that he started to shudder. Control taught by combat stilled it after the briefest moment, but the edge of his vision caught Loku leaning forward in interest. Sick bastard, just as when the young sacrifices had been butchered.
Pain lanced from his shoulder and down his back as the blade was pushed into the top of his shoulder. ‘A most helpful spot,’ the Messenger explained calmly. ‘A place where pain is more keenly felt, and generously distributed. There are several such spots around your body, as you will learn.’
The Messenger spoke softly. ‘The Royal? The Tribe? The plans?’
Brann stared at the ceiling in silence.
The blade trailed across his back again. It lifted. Paused. The Messenger was right: he could not stop his mind wondering where, when.
But Loku cleared his throat. ‘I am thinking. He could take a while.’
Brann cursed his misreading of the man’s reaction. It has not been his fear that had piqued Loku’s interest, but his control of it.
‘It is possible to bring suffering without actually touching.’ He flicked a diffident hand towards Marlo. ‘Let us move your attention to our young friend over here. He may know less of value, but his worth to us is in the nature of what our more knowledgeable guest will be able to bear. Let us test what he will be willing to let his dear companion suffer. Let the brave one see if he can be brave for his friend.’
Brann’s eyes widened in horror, as Marlo’s did in animal fear. ‘No!’ Brann shouted, but realised his mistake as he did so.
Loku smiled.
The Messenger gestured to one of the men and a large mirror was carried behind Marlo, propped against the wall and angled to let Brann have an unimpeded view should the Messenger stand directly behind the boy. The Messenger himself moved to Marlo and without preamble stabbed the blade into the big muscle at the front of his thigh. Marlo managed to half-stifle a shout of pain and shock.