The Demigod Proving (30 page)

Ignoring the thunder in his chest, Wrend turned uphill again. He began to run as best he could, pushing past people and trampling their feet or hands. He fixed his eyes on the scene at the altar, just as the Master opened his eyes, lifted his head, and raised both hands to the level of his ears, palms forward as if he were about to worship Steffan.

Wrend tripped on a child’s foot, crying out and sprawling forward on top of a woman who shouted in surprise.

Silence washed over the area, beginning at the altar and rolling down the hill. The people fell quiet as they mimicked their god’s gesture by straightening their bodies and lifting their hands to the level of their ears, palms out. The woman Wrend had fallen on pushed him away, and he fell to the ground. He scrambled to find his feet, but instead only found his knees.

Everything had stopped as if in a fit of reverence. The people had seemingly turned to stone. Their voices had stilled. From the oldest man to the youngest child, not a person spoke or moved.

In that moment—an opportunity to warn the Master—Wrend’s voice failed him as awe at the Master’s power overcame him. He could control entire crowds. Perhaps not with Thew Ichor, but with something more powerful: the presence of his godhood. For two thousand years he’d established his country, rituals, and dominion. The people worshiped him and knew his ceremonies. They knew that when he opened his eyes and raised his head, they were to still their bodies and voices. That was greater power than any Ichor. That was the power of love and respect.

The true power of a god.

Wrend scrambled to his feet and continued up the hill. The woman he’d fallen on had seemingly forgotten him, as had those around him. Every eye focused on the crest of the hill.

Steffan twisted his torso, and one of the priests behind him held out a book. Steffan took the book and turned back to the Master, holding the tome out to him, lifting his chin. All demigods gave an offering to the Master on the days of their Strengthening, a token of their dedication and love.

“Here is my offering to you,” Steffan said. Though he looked away from the crowd, his voice still boomed and rolled down the hill. “It is a book of praises to you, from the people of this district. I have collected them over a dozen years, documenting the stories of the people and how you’ve brought peace and joy to their lives. This is my offering to you on this, the last day of my service to you.”

The Master lowered one hand and reached across the altar with the palm up. Steffan dropped the book into it.

“I accept your offering,” the Master said. “And I praise your dedication. May your soul find rest in the firmament above.”

As one, the crowd murmured, “Amen.”

A woman near Wrend began to sob, and as he glanced over the hillside he saw that tears tumbled down the faces of many men and women.

The Master placed the book on a corner of the altar, and lifted his hand back over his head. He kept it there along with the other for only a moment before lowering them to the altar. His palms struck the smooth surface, and the sound of the slap filled the area like a thunderclap. It vibrated through Wrend’s heart as he continued up the hill.

The Master raised his hands again, and as he brought them forward the entire crowd followed his lead. As one, every person—the men, women, children, mothers, priests, and demigods—tilted forward and slapped their hands on the ground before them. If the noise of the Master’s hands hitting the altar sounded like thunder, this new sound felt like an earthquake. The ground and air shook. Wrend’s ears throbbed from the volume. The crowd chanted a prayer in unison.

“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.