“Glory to god.”
For an instant, the hillside was once again covered with people kneeling with their backs straight, a sea of red grass. But it stood such for only a moment, and once again every body bent forward. Their hands hit the ground. As they straightened, they shouted the next words of the prayer.
“Praise his power and might.”
The Master struck the altar again. In unison, the people bent and hit the ground before them. Dust rose up around many of them.
“Laud his generous heart.”
Wrend faltered. He needed to warn the Master, yet the draw of the ceremony pulled him. He wanted to kneel and worship, become one with the crowd in its devotion and get caught up in the passion of deific love.
Or was that an excuse? Maybe his will had simply failed him. Maybe his dedication to the Master stopped at chopping off his own hand. He wasn’t willing to sacrifice his life to save the Master, and would use the ceremony as an excuse. Maybe he didn’t want the Master to live, so the proving would end, and both he and Teirn would live. He valued his own life and his brotherhood more than the life of the Master.
Again, the Master and the crowd repeated the undulation. The earth quivered under the impact.
“Bless his sacrificial son.”
Wrend was a coward. A selfish coward.
Fifty yards up the hill, Steffan turned to the priest behind him, who bowed his head and extended his hands, palm up, with the sacrificial knife lying across them. Just like Wrend’s knife, it was a straight piece of metal, perhaps six inches long and with a plain hilt of pure black ebony. It glinted in the sunlight as Steffan took it up, turned back to the altar, and began to climb the steps.
The horde slammed their hands on the ground.
“May the blood flow strong and pure.”
Wrend willed himself to take another step.
Steffan reached the top of the stairs and stood on the altar, facing the kneeling Master, their faces even. The demigod’s body blocked Wrend’s view of the Master’s face.
The people bent again, this time hitting the ground twice in rapid succession before lifting their bodies.
“May the blood bless our land.”
Wrend gritted his teeth, and took another step. A dusty haze had risen over the area.
The Master reached out and embraced Steffan one last time. His face, drawn in solemnity, became visible over the demigod’s shoulder. Steffan wrapped one arm around the Master, but held the blue blade between them. It would’ve been a perfect opportunity to slide the knife into the Master’s heart.
But he didn’t. The two parted and the Master leaned away as Steffan lay down on the altar, stretching his body out along its length, so his head hung over the bowl at one end. He didn’t let it flop backward, but held it level with his body.
The pounding continued in a cardiac rhythm. The people had finished the prayer, and between each bow shouted the same phrase: praise our god.
Why hadn’t Steffan killed the Master during that embrace? There would be no better time.
Wrend began to doubt the Master’s peril.
And it happened.
A priest—no, a demigod dressed as a priest—threw back his arms and his cloak fell away. He held a long dirk in each hand. Before his cloak had even begun to crumble he leapt forward and up, knives raised toward the Master’s back.
The Master turned to meet the attack, moving so fast it seemed he’d anticipated the betrayal. He swung both arms across his body, fists clenched together, and intercepted the attack. One blade bit into his forearm, but his blow sent the demigod flipping to the side, in a direct line toward the crowd of kneeling demigods.
In mid-air, the demigod righted himself, halted, and headed back toward the Master.
All eleven of the other priests leapt into motion. Six proved themselves to be demigods and jumped high, brandishing blades, while others simply shed their robes and rushed forward. In comparison to the others, the priests moved like old men.
The crowd faltered. Half of them didn’t lower on the next bow, and the rhythm of pounding sounded weak.
The Master met the attack by standing and lashing out with his fists in separate directions, sending two demigods rebounding away. He kicked one of the priests in the head.
His voice filled the hillsides. “Continue the prayer!”
Most of the people obeyed, and once again bowed to the ground.
Steffan still lay on the altar, motionless, arms to his sides, knife on his chest.
The note had said that the priests would distract the Master. Then Steffan would kill the god.
It could happen at any moment. Steffan could stand and use the knife that was meant to kill him to instead slaughter the Master.
The thought pushed Wrend forward. It quashed all fear and any question of cowardice. He hadn’t faltered out of spinelessness, but out of respect.
And now, out of love, he would save the Master.
No matter the cost.
He continued forward.
Chapter 35: Too many options for death
Killing a god requires one swift, fatal blow. Many small wounds will not have the power to slay him.
-Athanaric
Athanaric had everything under control. He didn’t need any help to defeat these rebels. The information he’d gathered over recent days had suggested that an attack might come during the Strengthening. He’d prepared for it. But he had not prepared for rashness on the part of one son, in particular.
His senses throbbed with overpowering inputs. The worshiping of his people and children filled his ears. Every grain of dust they’d stirred stood out in his eyes. The reek of their sweaty bodies made his stomach churn.
It was not always an advantage to have such strong senses.
But he could hear, smell, and see the movements of those attacking him, and that helped. They came fast, from many sides, and he stood his ground by the altar, his back toward Steffan. He couldn’t defend against the swarm of blows—there were just so many it was hard to keep them back all the time—and several blades dug into his flesh: his arms, legs, and even his stomach. At each cut, he bound Thew to that area of his body and applied.
He fought back the initial attack with his fists and feet. His foot smashed the head of a priest that sprawled backward and didn’t rise, and each of his fists connected with a demigod in midair. They tumbled away. As they righted themselves, the entire group fell back, fanning out around him.
He didn’t move. He would not leave the altar in Steffan’s moment of triumphal sacrifice.
He recognized each of the priests and demigods, knew their faces. He hadn’t known that four of the demigods had defected to the evil cause, or that they’d enlisted priests. But he knew each of them. Knew their faces.
Each of them produced a weapon consisting of two foot-long blades joined by a handle in the center. One blade curved up, the other down. Athanaric had seen this weapon before. These traitors probably thought they’d come up with something original, some new way to kill him, but in his two thousand years he’d seen it all, and these blades were millennia old. They cropped up every several hundred years.
And they always proved far more perilous than most other attacks. The one time he’d almost died, it had been due to these weapons.
Looking down at them from the top, one curved up, and the other curved down.
The demigods threw them at him, so they spun. Six of them from six different directions at various elevations. He couldn’t avoid them all.
The priests came at him like little dogs nipping at his legs.
He took one step aside and dodged most of the blades. Their rapid chopping sound thumped in his ears. They spun fast enough that he had to make sure than none severed an arm or leg, or hit him in the neck. So he turned enough that the one blade that hit him would glance at an angle off of his side, just above his hip. It cut through his clothing and flesh with a sharp noise, and continued flying off past him along with the rest of the
blades.
He applied a gush of Thew to the wound.
Thirty feet out from him, the blades slowed, stopped, and came back toward him, still spinning. The demigods who’d thrown them controlled them with Flux, and would keep them airborne as long as possible. They would alter the path of the spinning blades, try to make them unpredictable so that they came at him from unusual angles, or curved in midair so he couldn’t predict their paths.
And at the same time, they would attack him with their swords.
He would take many wounds, but as long as he didn’t lose a limb or his head, he would be fine.
They leapt at him even as the blades whirred around and past him, like little insects buzzing at his head and chest. He worked with patience, killing his attackers one at a time. He crushed one priest’s head with a fist, and the spirit lifted out of the body. He picked another and bent him in half, backward, so that his spine shattered and he went limp. The spirit rose up and away, emanating a floral scent.
He tossed the man’s shell aside, and it slid to a stop in the dirt, right in front of the demigods atop the hill—his loyal children, who loved him enough to not join the fray. They kept their faces toward him even when they bowed and beat the ground. Their eyes shone with dedication, an eager willingness to save him from the swarm. But he didn’t call them forward. They knew their places and his philosophy, and understood that as god he had to overcome this challenge on his own.
Except, even as he smashed the life out of a priest, he realized that these renegades still had power over his heart. They’d killed his wives and children at the nursery. They’d slaughtered some of his other children and betrayed his trust. Like so many before him, his greatest weakness was not himself, but his connection to others.
Perhaps he deserved it. He’d used the same tactics during the time of chaos, when taking down his brothers one at a time. He’d first killed those they loved, driven them to rage and rashness, and killed them.
From behind him, beneath the chanting and the chopping of the air by the blades, he heard the sound of footsteps—barely audible, yet unmistakable. Someone was coming up the hill.
A demigod—Planen, thirty-six years old and living for the past sixteen years in the border town of Arad—lifted into the air and brought a sword down toward Athanaric’s head. Athanaric leaned to the left and forward, also dodging a blade that spun from behind. In the same motion, he caught the demigod in both hands and squeezed his torso. Before Planen could raise his sword for another blow, the air rushed from his lungs. His ribs cracked. His body collapsed. His spirit, shimmering white, floated in the air before Athanaric, pushing out the smell of flowers.
He couldn’t look at it except with sorrow. Such a good son, so faithful in so many things, had let pride enter his heart and he’d thought to make himself god. Athanaric had cherished this son as much as any other, and had poured years of his life into teaching him the right. He pushed the tears down as the soul lifted heavenward and a priest drove a blade into his left side. Another spinning blade dug into his right thigh.
The person coming up the hill continued. Athanaric heard his footsteps and even the sound of his hands pushing people aside. He could smell him. It was Wrend.
He bound Thew to the newest wounds and addressed the attack by swinging Planen’s body down on the priest, who screamed and fell away, but lost his grip on the dagger in Athanaric’s side. So Athanaric pulled the dagger out and threw it at its owner as three more traitors came at him from the right. He didn’t wait to see if the dagger struck home, although he heard it penetrate flesh.
Wrend had nearly reached the altar. What was he doing? He knew he shouldn’t interrupt the ceremony.
Athanaric kicked the priest coming at him, collapsing the man’s chest. He bound Flux to the heads of two demigods flying toward him. As they swung their blades, he applied a gush of Ichor so their heads halted and slammed together, crushing each other like two melons. Their legs swung out before them. Their blades flew out of their hands. Using Flux to speed his own hands, Athanaric twisted his wrists and caught the two swords. His sons’ spirits separated from their bodies.
The spinning blades they’d controlled flew out of control and plowed into the crowd of worshipers.
Asan and Reddick. Once good children. As a twelve-year old, Asan had cracked a joke about priests and serving girls that had made several pregnant mothers wet themselves. Reddick had been an expert woodworker, and had carved several detailed draegons for Athanaric. They occupied a place of honor on a shelf in Athanaric’s chambers back at the Seraglio.
And his sons had gone bad. Athanaric had done all he could to train them and love them, and they repaid him like this.
He ducked under a whirring blade, but couldn’t avoid another. It struck his back and dug into him, sticking in. Just a few inches over, and it would have severed his spine. He roared in agony and rage, and with a burst of Flux forced it out of his body. He applied Thew to the wound.
Twisting his hands back so the swords pointed upward, Athanaric turned to the altar. Wrend was there, climbing the stairs, an unreadable fire burning in his eyes.
“Wrend,” Athanaric said in warning, but couldn’t say any more as the three remaining demigods converged on him from behind. Their spinning blades whirred past him in quick succession, just missing an arm, a leg, and his neck.
He turned back to them and brought one sword parallel to the ground, at the level of his thighs. He applied Flux to it, moving it faster, and it severed the head of one demigod and a priest. Blood gushed in acrid fountains. Their spirits lifted out of their bodies as they collapsed, producing the scent of roses.
A spinning blade flew at the crowd of worshiping demigods. One of the demigods leapt in front of his siblings, and with his sacrificial knife knocked the spinning blade down to the ground.
As Athanaric brought his other blade around to the remaining demigods, he heard Wrend take up Steffan’s sacrificial knife. It made a quiet sound, inaudible to most people—just the brush of a hand closing over a blade, and the slight hiss of azure steel rubbing against clothing as it lifted up and away.
For a moment everything stopped for Athanaric. The chanting and bowing worshipers and demigods froze. Sparkling gray souls, churning over their bodies, paused. Headless bodies hung in the air, blood spouting from their necks in crimson pillars.
One of Athanaric’s most beloved sons, one that he’d thought might assume godhood, had betrayed him. He’d lifted the sacrificial blade to commit patricide.
Was there no end to this torment? If even his draegon son would raise a blade against him—if evil sons had snared even him—was it ever possible to find someone worthy of his throne? Would Teirn, with his scaella’s soul, prove nobler and truer than a draegon? Athanaric could only hope.
The moment passed, and the world snapped back into motion. His swords cut through the two remaining Caretakers, and he let the momentum of the blow spin him back around to the altar. The final two chopping blades flew out over the crowd of worshipers. Athanaric extended an arm and sword, so that the metal would slice Wrend in half.
He had no choice. His beloved draegon son had betrayed him. He needed to die. Athanaric’s heart seemed about to burst. How could this be? How could this precious son turn on him?
Wrend had raised the sacrificial blade, but his eyes were not focused on Athanaric. And the weapon was not aimed at his god. Wrend wasn’t trying to kill him.
He was attacking Steffan.
In an instant of panic, Athanaric feared he would kill Wrend. The momentum of the blade was too great for him to stop.
He bound Flux to the metal and applied it.
The blade halted as if it had hit an invisible wall just outside Wrend’s body. It bounced back and away.
Wrend lowered the blue knife toward Steffan’s neck. Why? Why would he do that to an honorable sibling? Steffan had lived true to his duties and deserved to die as a sacrifice to the people. Even as Wrend attacked him, he didn
’t move, but kept his eyes looking up at Athanaric in adoration, his body still.
Athanaric bound Flux to Wrend’s chest and applied a torrent—that was what it took to move something not part of his own body. As Wrend flew backward off the altar, the knife pierced Steffan’s arm, slicing deep. A dozen feet back, Wrend collapsed with a grunt onto the ground. Blood oozed from Steffan’s wound.
Enraged at injury of his faithful son, Athanaric leapt over the altar toward Wrend. He may have been a favored son, but he’d dishonored Steffan, who’d lived faithfully for fifty years. Wrend had tainted the greatest moment of Steffan’s life, with thousands of people watching. At Athanaric’s display and movement away from the altar, the bowing and chanting faltered again. Those people nearest him, close to where Wrend had fallen, started to scatter away from his fury.
Athanaric, almost blind in his rage, lifted his sword over Wrend.
“Father!” Wrend said. He raised an arm over his face, to protect himself. “I wanted to protect you!”
The plea made Athanaric falter. He looked back at Steffan, who still lay on the altar, with one hand covering the gash as the precious blood oozed out from between his fingers. He looked at Athanaric with tearful eyes and resolved countenance.
Athanaric’s love swelled.
“Athan, help!”
The cry filtered through the din to his ears. He heard it over the scrambling of the people and the chanting of those who still held to the ceremony. It sounded over the thundering of blood in his head.
He knew that voice. Only one person called him Athan.
Rashel.
He cast his gaze out over the crowd, across the ravine to the top of the opposite ridge. In the midst of the kneeling crowd, a redheaded girl—the draegon in a human’s body—had pulled Rashel to her feet and now tried to drag her away. Rashel struggled against her, trying to escape and looking across the space to Athanaric. Even at the distance, he clearly saw the fear in Rashel’s eyes. Those beautiful green eyes.
The Demigod Proving Page 19
