by Richard Nell
"Shaman!" The Godtongue blinked from his corner but did not respond, or even seem to see her. "We must try to escape," she hissed. "You can break the bars, and we can run. It seems the whole city is drunk with revelry, now is the time."
The golden pupils flicked towards her, as if surprised to be disturbed. "Some things cannot be escaped, young skald. I am sorry, but I will watch."
Zaya curled her hands around the bars, knowing she could pry them with a good spear, and that the shaman could surely break them with his bare hands. The man seemed so resigned, yet watching in judgment—so calm, yet his jaw clenched as if every moment were a struggle. She wanted to scream, to run away, to fight, anything but sit and wait for whatever would happen to happen.
"We cannot stay here. Now is the time to act. I won't watch this madness!"
Ruka's intense gaze broke for a moment as he smiled. "A single choice of courage can change everything, Zaya, daughter of Juchi. But today is not your day."
Zaya realized the crowd was cheering, the priests and royals had their arms and voices raised. At last Yacat emerged from the temple in his ritual clothes, painted, and armed, his son at his side.
Chapter 28
Yacat walked through the holy square as if in a dream. As a boy he had played ballcourt here with his brothers, running up and down the temple stairs if they kicked it off the edge. There had not been a festival of stars in fifteen years, and his memory of it was through a child's eyes, filled with sights and sounds made even blurrier by the alcohol he'd been allowed to drink. A feeling of utter change now consumed him—the cages and slaves that had in his youth been a small sideshow were now the main event.
Unlike most of his family, Yacat was stone sober, hot and sweating, and the people around him seemed mad and monstrous. He saw his wife in the stands with the other women swaying to the music, lost to the poloat plant. He didn't blame her for this, but still he sensed the beginnings of hatred, and looked away.
For his son he knew he must be strong. He put a hand on the boy's shoulder and lead him forward, allowing no concern on his face. The boy was breathing hard but walked on bravely, and Yacat was proud of him, which only made the agony worse. When they reached the square he met the eyes of his brothers one by one, then Uncle Anatzi, and finally his father. The great king of Copanoch stood next to the altar, just as he said he would. Many vile things could be said of King Etzil Mar, but coward was not amongst them.
The priests of Centnaz were chanting their nonsense. Yacat looked at the cages and the slaves, their hands trembling on wooden bars, eyes wide in terror. He blinked, and wiped water from his smoke-filled eyes, because he thought he saw the golden light of Ruka's stare deep in one of the cages, and on inspection realized it was so.
With a snort, he understood. The king believed the strange man was an evil spirit and wanted him gone, and while killing an evil spirit on the day of the gods didn't seem wise, Yacat's father had always been more practical than pious. Yacat considered what he might do, if it mattered. If anything mattered. The strange eyes seemed to be watching him in the chaos, passive, calm, still in judgment.
"The time has come." The king was gesturing to the circle of blue and green paint already stained with blood. Nearby listeners shrieked and cheered, the sacrifice of a prince's son unheard of. No one in Copanoch had ever done it, and perhaps no one in the whole of the valley. As if the ramifications had not yet dawned on them, the lesser nobility cheered at the spilling of royal blood, ecstatic and proud of their king, and no doubt Yacat, for their great display of piety.
Yacat felt the urge to vomit. He looked at the corpses already piled behind the altar, wondering how any sane man could destroy the lives of others so casually and call it righteous, whatever their sins. Why the gods would let these priests push such lies without punishment he had no idea, yet they did. The men of the Devourer were the heralds of Copanoch's doom. Long ago they had planted their seed of evil into the people, their dark ambitions ignored, their contradictions and awful deeds masked behind a cloak of fine sentiment. Now the city would reap its rotten harvest.
The noise of the revelers made speaking difficult. Yacat looked to Anatzi, begging for him to see the horror, to understand, to help, knowing he wouldn't. He knew any impassioned speech he made now would change nothing, accomplish nothing—that it was too late when faced with a mob to appeal to their reason. There must be blood. He called over the din. "Take me, my king. I, Yacat, general and prince of Mar, called Mahala, I offer my life freely. Let it appease your god. Not the boy."
Enough people heard. A grin spread across the cheeks of High Priest Nahua, even as the others sneered and Uncle Anatzi's face reddened. Only Etzil did not flinch, or balk. Only the king.
"Come to the altar, Zolya," he said as if he hadn't heard. Yacat's blood pounded in his veins, pulsing like lightning in his vision. The crowd began to blur. Sound became far away, and again Yacat looked to the cages, to Ruka's golden eyes burn like tower fires guiding him home. Yacat swayed, and held the boy's shoulders.
"I'm ready, Father," said Zolya, pushing forward against his hands. Still Yacat did not release him. He felt the weight of the sword on his belt, allowed even here in this holy place because of his rank and past glories. The priests saw his hesitation. High Priest Nahua stepped forward, cruel triumph in his eyes, spittle on his lips.
"Wisdom requires sacrifice, my lords." He called, as if educating a sinful child. "Do not let your faith waver in the decisive moment."
Yacat shivered, warmth spreading down his spine. That such darkness could hide behind empty words galled him, and struck him with fire. That it should be ignored or accepted as wisdom by otherwise brave men broke his heart. Strange, that a lecture by fools should be the thing that finally saved him.
"There we agree," he shouted, feeling a strange confidence build. "And if you and my father were to cut off your own flesh, I would serve you faithfully. But to sacrifice others for your own gain is not holy, priest, it is cowardice." He looked to the king. "This is wrong, father, and always has been. I will not let you kill my son."
Etzil's calm vanished, anger coiling like smoke around his face. "I am king! You are all mine to sacrifice, here or in battle, in any way I wish!"
"Please, father." Zolya tugged at Yacat's hands. "Let me go! It's my duty. I am honored."
Still Yacat held the boy fast. "You are king," he said, recognizing he ignored the boy as his father ignored him. "He is my son, and the bond of fathers and mothers to their children existed long before kings. I will not break an ancient vow for your politics." He looked to his child. "One day you will be a man, my son, free then to give your flesh to any cause you wish. Until then, you will obey me. Step back."
The boy looked from Yacat to his grandfather, pale and trembling as he did as commanded. The king's honor guard sensed conflict now and moved a step closer to their king—Uncle Anatzi amongst them.
"Bring him, Yacat." The king's voice had lost all trace of a man arguing with his kin. "The time for talk is over. If you are too weak, stand aside."
Yacat shook his head, and did not move. The king turned his face away, and Uncle Anatzi stepped forward, sweat dripping down his temples.
"Little Yack, please…" he said softly, crossing the square until he was but a few steps away.
Yacat met his eyes and loved him no less now then he had as a child. "I'm sorry, Uncle. But reach for my son, and I'll cut your arm off."
The moment froze at the threat of violence, and three more of the king's guard came forward. Anatzi's eyes flickered upwards, ever so slightly, and Yacat drew his sword as he spun. In an arc of violence practiced ten thousand times, he spun the flint-edged blade at a soldier reaching from the stands, and cut through half his neck. Unable to scream, the man fell face first and curled grotesquely on the stone.
Onlookers cried out in confusion now. A mixture of drunk and sober guards stepped from the stands or the prison or stairways as the king stared, his men surrounding Yacat on th
ree sides.
"Nephew…" The pain and fear was obvious now on Anatzi's face.
Yacat felt the blood dripping down his sword. "I'm sorry, Uncle. But good man or bad, it matters only what you do. Stand aside."
The priests were spitting in rage, assuring the Devourer's wrath and shouting obscenities. The king's face was puffed with rage, his eyes deadly.
"Throw yourself at my feet and beg for your life!" he roared. "Do it now."
Yacat's breathing had calmed, the decision made. He would fight and die now, and be at peace. It would not save his son, but he would go to whatever gods existed with a lighter spirit. He had failed in the past, but in the end, they would know he had risen, and honored them.
"When I am gone, Father," he met the man's eyes. "Ask if these priests bring your people goodness, or evilness. Ask what has become of your city, and your house. Ask what killed your most loyal son, who serves you even now. That is all I wish."
Etzil's jaw trembled until at last he looked away. "Kill him," he said, voice low and torn with fury. "Kill him and take the boy."
Warriors who had known Yacat for years stepped forward, but did not charge. The strangeness of such a moment was too much for them to act quickly, and they looked to Anatzi and each other, unwilling to be the first to strike.
Anatzi came first. Yacat had sparred with him a thousand times as a child, grown under his tutelage as a warrior even after his first battles. But that was long ago. The big man came with sweating hands, his grip too loose and unpracticed. Yacat did not meet it. He swerved with all the speed and strength earned in a decade of war, twisting past the razor edge of his uncle's sword. In a moment's work it was over. Anatzi stumbled back, his chest opened from waist to shoulder, eyes wide as he stared.
Another guard forced Yacat back with a thrust of his spear, yet another from the stairs swung a club for Yacat's head in a downward arc with great speed. Yacat barely ducked in time, the air whipping past his face. He heard his son cry out but he could not look away.
There was only battle now. All thoughts of regret, past or future fell away. Guards attacked from Yacat's other flank but he was ready now, and there would be no mercy. Twisting his wrist, Yacat swung his sword upwards and nearly cut the closest man's arm at the elbow. Blood sprayed as the warrior cried out, and Yacat pointed at the closest temple wall. "Keep your back to the stone." He commanded his son, pointing at the rise beneath the stairs, then turned back to face his attackers.
More guards were ascending the steps, yet more using the paths from the stands. Half the army was likely in the temple grounds. The king looked on, his eyes first on his brother lying on the stone, then again locked on his son.
Yacat almost laughed. The great and powerful lord of Copanoch, furious, and helpless, just as he was against the madness of his priests. Though Yacat knew he was going to die, he felt for the first time in many years and perhaps all his life, truly free. All his life he had held his tongue. All his life he had warped his life to accept a thing he found monstrous, losing bits and pieces of himself along the way. But not anymore. That truth made him more powerful than a king, or the priests, or the crowd. His soul had called, and he had answered. There was no greater victory.
Yacat touched the four feathers of his armband, earned over a lifetime of blood. There was so much pride and shame and regret in the simple touch, all the deeds that had made him who he was. He knew then it was an illusion, meaningless save for the strength it gave him now. There was only one truth, one reality that required no words or gods or advocates—Yacat's son stood behind him, and those who would harm him ahead. Yacat gripped his sword, and charged.
* * *
Zaya watched the prince's exchange as long as she could stand, then gripped the prison bars.
"Shaman!" she cried over the noise of the crowd, and the musicians, and the men arguing in the square. The great hero sat still and calm, staring out at the royal family. Zaya didn't spend the time to look to see if she was noticed by the other slaves and servants. "They are distracted, shaman, and the night is dark enough. Now is the time. Let's leave."
"And where would we go," the shaman almost whispered.
"Anywhere, Godtongue! The jungle. The sea."
"We came from the sea, and I have told you to call me Ruka." Here the shaman shifted and one hand clenched to a fist. "I sought paradise once. Now I know life is the same wherever it is found. The strong rule, the weak obey. There is no escaping it."
"Please." Zaya felt a kind of panic she couldn't explain. She felt as if time itself was hunting her, that she had mere moments to avoid disaster. She searched for the bar that held the cage doors, but felt her hope drain as she realized there was a thick bronze lock. She turned as a man cried out in terror, and Zaya saw Yacat had severed a priest's arm in the square. Many in the crowd gasped or yelled in anger, and the king's men moved from every direction towards the prince. "Please, Ruka," she said, her eyes impossible to close as emotions warred in her heart. "I don't want to see him die."
At last the shaman stood. "Death comes to all things. But I will help your lover, for all courage must be rewarded." The man's huge hands wrapped around the bars, and he closed his eyes, breaths quickening as he spoke with strained calm. "Some things cannot be escaped, Zaya, only faced. Let us both learn from the prince's example."
Zaya felt a hum on the air as if before a storm. She wanted a knife, or a spear, to be out of her long, foolish dress and wrapped in leather and mail rings. She ripped at the seams to free her thighs and shoulders. "You are still one man, shaman. You cannot save him from so many guards."
Ruka smiled. "You wish to know the truth of legends, skald, then here it is: to the great heroes of your book, if the cause is righteous, the odds make no difference." He swallowed, then all but whispered, his voice husky. "If they can stop me, they deserve to. Come, brother. You are needed."
The bars shook in the shaman's hands. His lips curled in a snarl, revealing his angled, jagged teeth. When he opened his eyes, it was as if he'd forgotten where he was. He squinted away from the square's firelight, golden eyes drifting over Zaya as if he didn't know her. The exhaustion that had haunted him for weeks seemed to vanish, his shoulders straightening as he breathed deep, long breaths.
"Imprisoned again, brother, and everywhere the scent of blood and terror. How familiar." The smile vanished just as fast, the eyes dulling as even the voice changed.
"We save the warrior, and the boy." Ruka pointed, and clenched his jaw. "The others in that square are yours. I will need your strength."
The sounds of fighting had increased, and Zaya tore her eyes away to look at Yacat sparring with a dozen warriors. He raced across the ground hacking at any who followed, using the cluttered square and confusion to keep them from surrounding him, his son forgotten against the temple.
Ruka laughed, and though the sound was rare enough, it was not even his. The tone was harsh and cruel. "My dreams are dark and crowded, and I missed your weakness, brother. Your rules."
"Just swear it," said the other shaman's face, then transformed and smiled again.
"As you wish. Let the sons of Beyla unite again. It would make our mother so proud."
With that he stepped away from the bars, until only his golden eyes shone in the gloom of the cage. He spoke again with his own voice. "Run, Zaya. Escape as you wished in the chaos. They won't notice you soon."
"I won't leave you," she answered, also stepping away from the bars. "My fate is bound to yours."
The eyes crinkled as the cruel laugh again sounded in the dark. "There, brother, is a proper servant."
Sparks flared in the gloom as if a torch had struck. Embers sizzled and lit the shaman's body from nothing as the air shimmered, and Zaya blinked from the sudden light. Ruka stood impossibly garbed in iron armor from shoulders to shins. He held out his hands, and a pole the length of a man formed in his grip, ending in a razor sharp spear.
"I never wanted servants," he said, his voice returned. "I wis
hed only for heroes to stand at my side." He held out the weapon. "You may need this, skald, before the end. I do not know what will happen." He blinked over and over, his eyes searching the night. "It's too strong…and there's no room…I don't know if I can control it much longer…" he clenched his jaw, and met Zaya's eyes. "Perhaps it is not just Yacat's day of judgment after all. Remember the courage of your people, daughter of ash. I will leave my neck unguarded."
Zaya took the weapon with trembling hands, then Ruka seized the wooden bars and roared, ripping them apart with nothing but his mailed fists. The slaves sprawled over each other to get away, and the shaman stepped from the cage with the sharp thud of iron on stone.
"Run and hide, little things!" he yelled to the square. "The night is black, and the sons of darkness come."
Chapter 29
Yacat fought for the first time in years without a moment of conflict. As a young warrior he had killed with idealism but little skill; as he'd gotten older, he had became a craftsman of death, but lost desire. Not today.
The sword felt a piece of his arm, his muscles fired with righteous purpose, all fear of death or error or misdeed some distant memory. In this moment, any man who came against him was the fallen servant of a lost god, and deserved no pity, mercy, or hesitation. Yacat gave them none.