Shkai'ra could hear the harsh rustle of their breath as she entered the hall, and the sound of the shaman's rattles and low chanting:
Ahea-hea-he-he-he
… Pausing at the gate, she shrugged out of her robe and stood naked save for her headband. A chant started as she paced by, low-toned, in a dialect so archaic that only one trained could have given the true meaning. Behind her came the three closest to her in rank; they led a horse between them. It was a shaggy little forest pony, not one of their tall rawboned steppe-chargers, and its eyes were already glassy with the drugs that ensured no ill-omened struggle would occur. This was no great sacrifice such as folk made on the prairie at the four Year Turnings. Then, each of the gods got the offering most pleasing: sheep for Jaiwun, hounds for Zailo, horses for Baiwun. Zaik Godlord was last and greatest, Begetter of Victories, and for that one only humans were enough. Here the pony would do for all, and they would join in the rites pleasing to the whole kinfast of the Sundwellers.
Across her palms Shkai'ra bore a spear. It was made to a pattern that had been sacred since memory faded into legend: a two-meter length of hardwood dark with age, tipped by a narrow steel head graven with symbols of power. The original of that weapon had been a bayonet lashed to a pole; lives without number it had drunk, and through her hands she could feel the numinous awe of the thing, an aura of blood and fear and godhood. Now she was priest and Chief in one, and the Carrying was on her. At the fire's edge she swept the spear through an intricate pattern and thrust it upward. The chant rose to a shout and ceased, as if cut off with a knife, but from somewhere she could feel the straining tension of her followers' fear and adoration and hopelessness.
Aloud she shouted, "
Ztrateke ahkomman
!"
The rolling voices of the warband answered: "
Gods of Sky, of Storm, of War
!"
The ceremony continued in a rhythmic pattern of statement and response.
"Ward the folk! From the Zoweitz of the Dark, Zaik Godlord deliver us!"
The first of the praise-names answered: '"
You of Might! Victorious
!"
Zaik, remote and terrible, god of warriors and chieftains, overlord of the battlefield and winnower of the slain. All would go and face that One to be judged before their next life.
"Baiwun Thunderer! Seek out the foe!"
"
You of Terror! Avenger
!" That came raggedly. Of all things, lightning was the most terrible to these dwellers on the empty plains. The heavenfire sought out oathbreakers, hated of the Avenger of Honor; likewise the clean flame was a barrier to all evil magic and creatures of the dark.
"Zailo Unseen!" Shkai'ra's body was sweat-slick and gleaming in the firelight, eyes dilated and staring sightless at a vision beyond the rafters. "From sickness, from drought, from feud and kinstrife protect!"
"You
of Earth! Shield! Protector
!" Not the god most dear to these wild and reckless youngsters, mostly still single, but worthy of respect still.
"Jaiwun Allmate! Send cattle, send grain, send children! Give pleasure, keep holy the kinfast bond!"
"You of Blood! Fruitful!"
Every Kommanza brought a booted heel crashing down and clapped clenched fists together. Fear struggled with awe on every face, for by their beliefs now the Mighty Ones
came
. Only freeborn Kommanza of warrior age could witness these rites, and only the god-begotten ofzarz, the Chiefkin, could lead them. All through the Zekz Kommanza, the Six Realms, this ritual held. From distant Kai-Gara under the Westwall range, through Paizrav, Rh'eginz, Maintab, their own Grantor down to southerly Ihway, it was the same, cementing the world of humans with the World Beyond the World.
All watched anxiously. The slightest misstep could signal the worst of luck, enemy attack, drought, sickness, hostile spirits breaking free. But tonight nothing went amiss.
Far otherwise. Shkai'ra threw back her head and sought.
You
Above
, she prayed silently
. Take what I offer. Blood and slaying, cunning and craft
and powerhunger, all these are pleasing to You. Sweet incense rising to the Sun. All these I
bring to You, whose blood is mine. Give me then what I desire: protection to these my
people, to me victory and undying fame
!
Then suddenly PAIN. The pain lasted forever, and less time than she could grasp.
COLD.
There had never been warmth. She was blind in a universe of torment, yet she could perceive as never before, raw data pouring through a nervous system never designed for such overload:
highhigh-earth-curves-energyflowsthroughairiseepastfuturebranching-maybemaynotselfspre
adearthdeathskydarkness-sunstarscalllngtouchingdown
intohazywet
…
For a moment she saw herself from an impossible perspective: a long blurred worm of potentials, possibilities, narrowing from the future/past to a single hard definite
now
that was the fixing gaze of the creature humans had called a god. And she felt with emotions too vast and wild for human nerves; amusement, need, pleasure, they were the faintest and most misleading analogues.
She felt decision.
And was herself; boards beneath her feet, smooth wood in her hands, the bent neck of the Sacrifice before her. Impossible memories fled from consciousness more swiftly than the mists of dream.
In a corner Walks-with-Demons stood, mind unshielded, arms and legs making a tau-cross that barred the place of sacredness from spirit presences. Almost, he screamed aloud at the sudden wrenching torment, worse than any he had known in the shattering ordeals of his training. Only that training kept him erect. He knew what this meant, knew from old legend among his kind what this presence was. Without names such as the common ruck used, for names were human, and this… Was. He willed unbeing on himself, far from that single Eye.
Across forty kilometers that was no distance at all the Wise Man sprang erect at the tearing of the Veil. The shock ran through world and Otherworld, as a thing alien to both reached downward, vastness narrowing to a point finer than a hair, stretching from a blazing energy that was cold with a coldness that made this winter's night like a crackling fire. Time and possibility twisted, stirred, then settled back as the Presence withdrew. Knowledge faded from his mind, but not wholly. Vaguely, faintly, he could sense the turning of the earthlines, and laughter. A hunger and cruelty vaster than worlds.
"Steel Spirit, Horse Spirit," Shkai'ra chanted. "Bring our offering to the Mighty Ones."
Turning, she leveled the spear and thrust hard and swift, with a
huff! of
expelled air. The helpers turned the sacrifice's neck, and the bright steel went in to withdraw red-black.
The shoulders of the blade severed jugular and windpipe as she twisted; the drugged animal gave a single heave before sinking to its knees. Blood spurted into a bowl of soapstone, red and steaming. Ritually she touched the bloody steel to brow, breasts, and loins. Then the horse was butchered: the severed head would be impaled on the spear to preside over the feast to come, the entrails left out for the scavenging beasts that were the Eyes of Zaik, the flesh roasted and eaten.
Handing over the spear, she took the bowl and poured down a long salty-pungent draft.
Raising it on high she shouted:
"See the sacrifice! O you who will in the end devour the world, you have given us victory!
So shall we put our boots on the necks of all the peoples!"
The carved soapstone vessel passed from hand to hand as each dipped a finger to mark his forehead and touched lips to the cooling redness. With that, the formal part of the ceremony was over. Now they would be glad to show their thankfulness to their gods.
The Stonefort warriors sprawled about as the new slaves came in bearing smoking platters. There was food in plenty, albeit less wheat bread and beef than they would have liked. But there were roast pigs hacked into savory heaps, venison, bear meat, eggs, sausage heavy with garlic and herbs, milk, cheese, blood puddings, onions, broth, great loaves of fresh ryebread, potatoes and turnips and sauerkraut and dried fruit and nuts.
And drink-barrels of honey-mead and good Minztan whiskey, a few kegs of southland wine, even some of their own fiery-clear Kommanz lifewater. Joyous, the clamor lifted to the rafters. This was a time to let down the barriers a warrior normally had to maintain, when words could be spoken that otherwise would end in deathfeud. Talk, song, japes were swapped back and forth; here two rose for a friendly wrestle; there half a dozen were playing
ban-nak
, the knife game, taking turns to see who could stab a blade most rapidly between the spread fingers of one hand. These were youngsters, on their first warfaring in the outlands; they meant to make the most of it.
A would-be songsmith stood before the company could grow too fuddled to listen:
"Bright as sunlight our banners flew,
Now black and crusted with battle-dew
Sun-born Chieftain Wisely leads us
The cunning killer
To plunder flies Scalps of foefolk
Clatter hard-frozen—"
Propped on one elbow at the head of the hall, Shkai'ra threw a string of gold southland city-made coins to the praise-singer, an extravagance that brought a yen of acclaim from the band. It was well to have a name for being an open-handed giver as well as lucky and skillful; that was expected of a chief. From time to time one warrior or another would stand to praise the deeds of a friend or lover; to each she gave their due, in words and gifts. It was important to gauge the cries that followed; what was for the praised one, and what for the reward. Too little or too much could arouse murderous jealousy, start feuds or
leave resentment festering against her. In fact… yes, suddenly the importance of getting the band back quickly seemed clearer.
Better to cut cross-country if it was possible at all; that conviction formed clearly in her mind. The fighting had been too easy; there was too much pent-up bloodlust still swirling around.
Maihu watched the sacrifice through a hole in the carvings. The sight was disgusting.
Her people made no animal offerings. For a moment, unwillingly, she resonated with the massed emotion that welled out at her, then she turned with a shudder as she felt a touch of rage and hunger that seemed almost inhuman. No spirit within the Circle would accept blood offerings; she supposed that the Kommanz gods must be of the outer realm, the
saaitisfor
beyond the mantle of life that surrounded the earth. Or … what had that philosopher in Raddock, in the southland, said? That if horses had gods, they would give them hooves and manes? Either the Ztrateke ahkomman had made their worshipers in their own image, or was it the other way around? Shocked, she put the impiety out of her mind: all the Otherworld was part of the Harmony, even the darker side. Only conscious will could put a creature outside that unity. She turned to her work. There was an endless line of Minztans swinging through from the kitchen, and she had been put in charge of a section of them. A mark of favor, she thought wryly, and saw the scowls and mutterings many aimed at her. That hurt.
But what can I do
? she thought. Now there was hope for those the Kommanza would leave behind. Surely the hunters had made Garnetseat by now. The rescue party would come, and if only she could leave word for them there would be hope for all her people. She did not expect outright attack on the village while the westerners held it. That would be an invitation to another disastrous defeat.
For a moment, red fantasies of victory and revenge ran through her mind, to be rejected with a shudder. Long ago, her ancestors had been pacifists. They had shed that, along with much other foolishness, those pampered children of machines and cities and crowds, those of them that lived through the terrible years and the thousand years it took the wounded earth to heal. Their descendants were tougher, far less sentimental; in a sense, they had become in truth what their forebears had played at being. But much of the original philosophy survived. Maihu would do what was necessary, but she vowed to herself that even now she would do it with regret and without pleasure. Small victory, to fight and overcome if you became what you battled.
As to what would happen in the woods, that would depend on her, on how much she could lull the suspicions of her captor, and what advantage could be taken of that. She would have to be cautious. The Kommanza was cunning and wary, and came of a people skilled in deception.
The noise within the hall rose as the food was finished and the serious drinking began; dice came out, couples and groups fell to loveplay with each other or the servants, and the weaker heads were rolled into furs and stowed in the corners. Maihu took a deep breath, hefted a tray with a jug, and walked into the room.
Shkai'ra had been drinking lightly.
Just enough
, she thought, sipping at her wooden bowl of juniper-scented beer.
I'd not want to booze myself into a stupor tonight
. Sighing with contentment, she lit a pipe
of dreamweed and drew the acrid smoke deep into her lungs. That was better for a night like this; it enhanced the senses instead of dulling them, made her aware of every hair pressing against the body she had not bothered to clothe again, of fire-warmed air moving over her skin, the rustle and mutter of her followers, crackle of hearthfire, smells of smoke and meat, sweat and blood and spilled beer. It was just as well the weed was so expensive, she mused: otherwise folk would spend half their time on it. There wasn't even a hangover.
That struck her as somehow very funny. She was giggling helplessly when Maihu passed by. For a moment she was content to watch the sway of Maihu's body as she dodged grasping hands; tonight she was wearing a long shirt, southland silk worked in Minztan animal patterns.
"Hoi, what've you got there?" Shkai'ra called over the uproar.
"Wine, Chiefkin," Maihu replied, sinking down beside her.
The Kommanza passed her the pipe. Maihu hesitated. Her folk used dreamweed only on holy days, to bring spirit visions.
Better to take it
, she decided. Disobedience would undo her work, and the weed would help her relax and do what was needful. She puffed, and cooled her throat with some of the iced drink: white grape wine, a rare luxury here in the northlands. Soon she felt the floating, detached languor: fear turned into a faintly pleasurable sadness, weariness and disgust became things outside herself.