Sacrifice

by Vicky Walklate

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One | Thassa

  Chapter Two | Libby

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven | Rhetahn

  Chapter Eight | Libby

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen | Rhetahn

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen | Libby

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One | Rhetahn

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four | Libby

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six | Rhetahn

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine | Libby

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three | Rhetahn

  Chapter Thirty-Four | Libby

  Chapter Thirty-Five | Rhetahn

  Chapter Thirty-Six | Libby

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty | Mhaljett

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  Chapter One

  Thassa

  Thassa stared at the campfire flames, his ceremonial robes encasing him like armor. The bowl of broth sat like a ball of ice between his hands. Some distance from him, his fellow sorcerers kept glancing his way. The hate inside him grew stronger with each look. Hatred for them, for himself, for what they allowed to happen yet again. Most of all, for the so-called gods who demanded it.

  High Sorcerer Breibern’s quiet approach prompted respectful nods from his companions. Tightening his grip on the bowl, he averted his gaze. The others tensed at his insolence, but Breibern ignored it and patted his shoulder.

  “Walk with me, my friend.”

  You’re not a friend. She’s dead because of you. Because of us.

  Discarding his untouched supper, he followed Breibern through the encampment. The gathering had departed, leaving the Council of Sorcerers alone at Flat Peak’s base. While their servants dismantled their ornate tent, the sorcerers huddled together in the mountain’s shadow.

  The two men negotiated the winding path to the summit. Thassa shuffled like a sleepwalker, his mind as numb as his frozen hands. The acrid smell of campfire smoke dissipated, replaced by highland grass and mineral rock. When they reached the top, a sharp gust of wind jarred him back to reality. He trailed after the high sorcerer; his gaze drawn to what lay beyond the edge.

  Flat Peak signified the boundary of Paskyll, the human territory of rolling hills and verdant pastures. Beyond it lay the Shifterlands. A jagged landscape awash with forests, rapids, and mountains that dwarfed the one on which he stood. Home to ground, water, and air shifters, and the ruling race: the dragon shifters.

  His fists clenched when he recalled the dragons taking flight with the woman he loved. The sacrifice, they’d called her when they’d dragged her from his embrace at dawn. They hadn’t cared enough to ask her name.

  The wind billowed their robes, intensifying the fresh alpine scent as the sun descended. Shadows crept toward them, the dusky sky blazing crimson. A choked sob escaped him, the lump in his throat swelling by the second.

  Breibern bowed his head. “Her eternal peace has begun.”

  “Peaceful or not, I will never see her again.” Thassa spat the words at his leader.

  “I am sorry. If there was any other way—”

  “There is another way.”

  The high sorcerer pursed his lips. “That is not an option, as you know.”

  Thassa covered his eyes with one hand. “I was so certain my love would protect her. When the spell chose her—”

  “I understand. Nevertheless, we must obey our own laws.”

  “Our laws?” Righteous fury rose, alongside an idea so dangerous he could scarcely comprehend it. “The decrees of those bastards we are forced to worship?”

  Breibern flinched at the blasphemy. “They are gods.”

  The wind snatched Thassa’s answering snarl, flinging his words over the cliff edge into the abyss. “Fuck the gods.”

  Chapter Two

  Libby

  So those were the Shifterlands.

  Libby crouched on the summit’s edge, the wind tugging her clothes as if coaxing her away. A white-frothed river smashed against a narrow gorge, fed by other rapids roaring in the distance. Shadows twisted amongst forests and ravines, with mountains looming on every side. Some peaks rose so high they vanished into the clouds. Others gloried in revealing every ridge and bluff. Danger branded the shadows, the crests, the sprawling canyons, and mysterious forests.

  She bowed her head. Beyond the horizon were the exalted dragon gods who ruled the realm from Trivium, their castle stronghold.

  “What are you doing here, Lissabet?”

  She spun to find Thassa hovering behind her, his black robes flapping and his stare narrow.

  Conjuring a meek expression, she sidestepped from the edge. “Forgive me, High Sorcerer. I merely wished to observe the homeland of our divine lords.”

  “Flat Peak is off limits to all but sorcerers.”

  “Plus the sacrifice,” she pointed out, unable to resist correcting him.

  “Indeed. Accompanied by sorcerers.”

  “And The Three can come whenever they wish.”

  He crossed his arms. “They send emissaries to collect the sacrifice and that’s it. Now come, unless you wish me to inform your parents of your waywardness.”

  Sighing, Libby obeyed him, skittering over the ridge with the squalls driving her onward. She slowed her pace when they reached the other side, hoping for a final peek at the Shifterlands. He stayed beside her and gestured at the trail, making it impossible to linger without disobeying him. Biting her tongue, she stepped onto the path. He said nothing as they descended, his disapproval hanging in the air like damp fog.

  The campsite at the mountain base teemed with life. Fabric tents dotted the stony ground, each with a fire burning outside. Some occupants rotated spits above the flames, others strolled back with water from a stream, where cobbled horses cropped at the grass. Several people packed luggage on carts in readiness for departure in the morning. Everyone acknowledged the high sorcerer with deferential nods as he ushered her through the encampment.

  The Sanctellium sat in the camp’s center. The huge ornamental tent, trimmed with bronze cord, housed the council for the gathering’s duration. Each sorcerer resided in one of the eight modest compartments surrounding an enormous central chamber. A rectangular spire rose from the roof, supported by wooden pillars dug into the ground. Swathes of material enveloped its sides to create a chimney, allowing smoke to escape from the exposed top. Upon her arrival two days ago, Libby had wondered what stopped the chimney from catching fire. The answer was obvious: magic. The Sanctellium was so covered in spells and enchantments, it pulsated with power.

  The smell of roasted meat and wood smoke increased, along with the comforting sound of chattering laughter, although four tents remained silent. They housed the aspirants, the twenty prospective sacrifices. One was Karlo, her childhood friend and the aspirant of her province. She drew to a halt, straining to peer inside his tent.

  Thassa followed her gaze. “The blessed aspirants are close to learning their fate.”

  She bit her lip. Being chosen was a tremendous honor, so much that some, like Karlo, volunteered for
it. However, it meant death was certain for one. And death, even at the hands of their revered gods, wasn’t something sane humans longed for.

  “Do you think they’re afraid?” she ventured.

  “Of course,” he snapped. “Wouldn’t you be?”

  She raised her brows at his bitter tone. She knew Thassa better than most. He had lived in her village before his ascent to high sorcerer last summer. A human sorcerer, blessed with the power to command the magic simmering in the realm, he devoted his extended lifespan to The Three. To hear him utter anything other than piousness was rare. Her adopted father, leader of the South Brecks province, held him in high esteem. Libby herself wasn’t keen, finding him too intense, too watchful.

  “There is no greater honor than to die at the hands of The Three,” she recited, half-wondering if he was testing her with his inflammatory tone.

  His expression blanked. “Praise The Three.”

  “Praise The Three,” she repeated.

  He jerked his head toward her parents’ tent. “Return to your father. Ensure you are present in the Sanctellium tonight for the ceremony.”

  She swung around in surprise. “I wasn’t aware I needed to be there. Isn’t it only the council, the principals and their aspirants?”

  “Are you not training to be your province’s principal?” He strode away, tossing his final words over his shoulder. “You will ensure your attendance.”

  She ground her teeth. Although some autocracy was expected from him as high sorcerer, his decrees were extra short-tempered when directed at her. She’d given up complaining to her parents. Despite their love for her, Thassa was godlike to them and his actions were not to be questioned.

  Stomping to her tent, her annoyance faded at the sight of two rabbit carcasses roasting on the spit outside. Her stomach rumbled in appreciation. Her father sat by the fire, rotating the handle with steady precision. Some principals of the bigger settlements had brought servants to cook for them, but Jasco Donaire was a simple man and came with just his wife and adopted daughter. He gave Libby a fond smile – one she returned.

  Her mother, Alasia, hovered behind him with her hands on her hips. “Where have you been, Lissabet?”

  She hesitated. “Helping the high sorcerer prepare for the ceremony.”

  Her father’s smile widened. “Excellent. A principal should always stand ready to aid the council.”

  Settling on the stool beside him, she warmed her hands near the flames and inhaled the tangy aroma of rabbit meat. “He wants me to attend the ceremony. Is that normal?”

  Alasia frowned. “To my knowledge, just the principals attend with their aspirants. Are you sure you didn’t misunderstand him?”

  “He was as cranky and concise as ever.” Her quip earned her a censorious tut from her mother.

  “Very well,” Jasco declared, “you’ll attend the ceremony with Karlo and I. He’ll be pleased to have you there and you can help me stand up at the end. My old knees aren’t what they used to be.”

  She grinned, edging closer to the fire as the night’s chill loomed and the shadow of Flat Peak crept farther across the camp.

  Chapter Three

  “Stand still, Lissabet.”

  Libby winced as her mother pinned her hair into a bun. Jasco waited outside their candlelit tent, chatting to another principal. Biting her tongue as another pin scraped across her scalp, she folded the cuffs of her maroon gown, borrowed from her mother. She was shorter than Alasia and it was far too long, yet more elegant than anything she owned. At least the pooling skirts hid her worn ankle boots.

  Once her mother finished fussing, Libby went to join her father, lifting the skirts to avoid tripping. The aspirants waited in two silent rows outside the Sanctellium, their simple, cream-colored garments easy to spot in the darkness. Karlo was near the front, clasping his hands together and staring at his feet. She uttered a silent entreaty that her friend wouldn’t be chosen, then inwardly apologized to The Three for her blasphemous prayer.

  The lingering principals increased in number until all twenty presented themselves, murmuring their greetings. Servants and family members retreated to their campfires to observe the proceedings. Mist snaked around the tents and clouds covered the stars from sight. She shivered, edging closer to her father. She was debating whether to get her cloak when the Sanctellium entrance flaps swung apart, revealing one of the sorcerers. The young man’s gold and turquoise ceremonial robes swirled, producing gasps from the onlookers. Libby gawked too, as spellbound as everyone else.

  He waited for the awed whispers to fade then spoke in a clear, strong voice. “The time has come when an individual will be chosen to yield their life to The Three. There is no greater honor.” He scanned the observers for a moment, as if daring someone to challenge him. “The blessed aspirants may enter the Sanctellium.”

  The potential sacrifices filed inside one by one. Karlo’s broad shoulders were stiff, his movements lacking their usual easy grace. Many other aspirants were shaking. One woman was weeping. Libby glanced at her father; her pang of sympathy reflected in his eyes.

  After much rustling from the tent, the young sorcerer re-emerged. “Those who accompany these aspirants, will now enter in humility and worship.”

  “Praise The Three,” echoed the spectators in one voice.

  Heart pounding, Libby followed her father into the Sanctellium. Gold and silver tapestries adorned the ceiling and encircled the huge chimney rising above the fire in the chamber’s center. Sparks hissed and fizzed, the scent of wood-smoke blending with sweating bodies and cloying incense. The flames were intense enough, she was relieved to be cloak-less. Smoke billowed from the spire, enough escaping into the chamber to make her eyes sting. Several people coughed into their hands. The sobbing woman from earlier cowered next to Karlo, clutching his hand, her gaze fixed on the ground.

  Around the outside of the massive chamber, eight openings led to the sorcerers’ living quarters. A different council member stood in each threshold, holding a flickering candle. The sorcerer who bid them inside took his place with his own flame. She blinked. They weren’t candles, but pure magic. Orbs of glimmering light, hovering in their cupped hands.

  Magic bubbled like invisible lava beneath the realm, waiting to be exploited by the few who could summon it. To her limited knowledge, The Three were the only dragon shifters with magical ability, although the ice dragons, who ruled the frozen North Sleets, were also rumored to possess some power. Human sorcerers held the same ability, as did some of their descendants. Demons could utilize dark magic, a mysterious element that abetted their pursuit of death and destruction.

  Sidling to a rug on the right of the fire, she compared the older sorcerers’ vivid orbs to the one stuttering in the youngest man’s hands. He mumbled to it, as if encouraging it to stay alight. Experience and confidence seemed a significant advantage when dealing with magic.

  She and her father hunkered in the back row, farthest from the fire. The aspirants faced them on the other side. She caught Karlo’s attention for the first time, returning his rueful smile with her own. Did he regret his decision to volunteer for this? Unlikely. Whether he was selected as the sacrifice or not, his aspirant status meant his family would be cared for by their people. And if he was chosen, the blessing of The Three ensured his spirit was protected from the dark magic hungering for human souls.

  The tent flaps closed on the cramped chamber. She wrinkled her nose. Based on the gathering’s pomp and formality up to this point, even for simple things like erecting the tents, she wasn’t holding much hope for a swift finish to this ceremony.

  Thassa strode from his ornate chamber opening, an amber sphere oscillating in his hands. His glorious ceremonial robes were different from his usual somber attire, lustrous peacock-blue in color, embellished with tiny jewels. His blond hair hung to his waist and his hazel-brown eyes appeared black in the flickering light.

  “Welcome, friends. On this glorious night, we give praise to our hallowed
gods, The Three, who rule Jothesia with wisdom and mercy. To remain in their good favor and maintain peace across the realm, we will select an individual to gift them with death, restoring their power anew and continuing their illustrious reign. First, the prayer of The Three.”

  She bowed her head with everyone else.

  “Oh holy Three,” they intoned as a group, “your mercy provides bountiful lands to sustain us; your wisdom guides us into lives of truth and humility, rejecting hate and sin; your strength protects our mortal existence and our eternal sleep. Accept our prayer, Lords; sustain, guide, and protect us, and we will serve you with devotion. Praise The Three.”

  When the prayer ended, the sorcerers processed through the throng, coming to a halt in a circle by the fire. They sank to their knees, clutching their orbs.

  “Two thousand one hundred fifty years ago,” the high sorcerer intoned, “brothers Rhetahn, Mhaljett and Storren led their warriors into battle to destroy Jothesia’s persecutor, the demon overlord Kalid’har. The Three were armed with magical amulets, created by this council using human blood and the mighty Rondure stone. Since that triumphant day, they have ruled this realm. In place of the Rondure, destroyed during the amulets’ creation, we offer them one sacrifice every twenty-five years, to renew their power and maintain peace across Jothesia.”

  Hmm.

  She shifted, glancing around the tent. The tales she’d heard since childhood differed from the official chronicle Thassa recounted. According to legend, the original council refused to relinquish the Rondure to The Three after the battle, frightened its power would corrupt the dragon shifters. As punishment, the brothers slew the high sorcerer’s daughter and discovered their magic could be renewed using the blood of a dying human, with no need for the Rondure. They allowed the sorcerers to hide the stone away, on the understanding that in return, Paskyll would provide sacrifices when required. If the council refused, the gods would take the Rondure and subjugate the humans, like Kalid’har before them.

  Some didn’t believe those rumors, for how could their merciful gods be so cruel, so callous? How could they demand their followers die when an alternative was available? The more pragmatic amongst them admitted it could be true, for their gods were not gentle deities, they were dragon warriors, not known for their compassion. A few even sought the Rondure, although none found it, and the council never strayed from their official assertion that the stone was destroyed.