Servant of the Empire. Janny Wurts
The chosen man closed his eyes and silently jumped down into the hole, which was deep, and wide.
Then the act was repeated with another man, whose wife hid her face in a most unseemly way. When the second hole was occupied, the priest gave a tortured shriek. Then he intoned, ‘Oh Turakamu, who judge all men at the last, welcome to your service these two worthy spirits. They shall stand eternally vigilant over this, your monument. Look upon their families with charity, and when their children pass at length through your hall, judge them kindly and return them to life with your blessing.’
Incomo heard the opening ritual with a rising unease. Human sacrifice was rare in the Empire, and while no longer common, it was still a practice in the Red God’s temple. Obviously, these two workers had volunteered to become sacrifices for the gate, in exchange for the hope their children might return to their next life born to higher station: warriors, or perhaps even lords. Incomo considered that a thin bargain at best. If a man was pious enough, should the gods not grant him favour, as temple aphorism stated?
Yet only a fool would speak against an offering to the Red God. Incomo watched in stony stillness as the volunteers were tucked into their holes, knees under chin and hands crossed in semblance of eternal prayer. The priests screeched a paean to their divine master, then signalled work crews to hoist the massive timbers that would support the arch of the gate. Ropes creaked under the strain as the workers hoisted the first upright high; they chanted and swung the beam, and a scythe of shadow crossed the pit as the end was jockeyed into position. Now the crowd of Minwanabi supporters was frozen, awaiting the moment of sacrifice. A foreman with a squint judged the position correct; he signalled to the head priest, who touched his bone whistle to his lips and blasted the quavering note that would summon the god.
As the call faded, and a hush claimed the gathering, two lesser priests raised a sacred axe of shining obsidian and slashed the ropes. The carved pole was released, thudded downward into the waiting hole, and crushed the first servant like a bug. A spatter of blood sprayed up from the earth, and the sobbing child tore from her mother’s hold and threw herself against the post that had slain her father. ‘Bring him back! Bring him back!’ she cried repeatedly as Minwanabi soldiers dragged her away.
Incomo knew the Red Priest counted this an inauspicious start. In an attempt to appease his god, the priest revised the ritual from first-level sacrifice to second. He clicked his bone rattle with his fingernails, and his acolytes donned ceremonial masks. The second victim was dragged from his hole, confusion plain in his eyes. He had expected his end to be the same as his predecessor’s, but apparently this was not to be.
The first masked acolyte stepped forward with a bowl and an obsidian knife. He said no word, but at a gesture from the head priest, the men gripped the farmer spread-eagled over the bowl. The acolyte raised his knife, chanting, and called for the god’s favour. He laid the blade first on one side of the pinioned man’s temple, and then the other, consecrating the sacrifice. The unfortunate farmer trembled under the touch of the stone knife; he flinched as its keen edge cut a symbol into his forehead, and strove to endure without outcry as a slash from the priest opened his right wrist.
Blood pattered into the dust like obscene rain. Acolytes became spattered as they rushed to catch the drops in the bowl; and like a litany of the damned, the whistle of the priest shrilled again. The second upright was hoisted. The obsidian knife darted again and drank from another vein. Now the farmer whimpered. He felt his life draining away, but the end could not come quickly enough to deaden his fear. He stumbled against the priests as they lifted him and lowered him head downward into the pit. The beam swung overhead. The whistle wailed, entreating the god to grant his favour. The head priest signalled, hastening the ceremony, since, for the gift to be acceptable, the waiting sacrifice must not lose consciousness and die before time. Yet haste cancelled precision. As the ropes were slashed, one acolyte hesitated, and the massive timber turned slightly as it fell. Its bole crashed against one lip of the hole; dirt and rock cascaded downward, bringing an involuntary yelp of terror from the victim. Then the full weight of the trunk sheered down the sidewall. The timber crushed the legs and hips of the farmer but did not kill him outright. He screamed uncontrollably in pain, and the ceremony became shambles.
In vain Desio shouted for workers to right the tilted trunk. Pale in his rings and finery, he threw himself face down on the bloodied earth and begged the Red God’s forbearance. The head priest advanced, his whistle silenced. Before all the waiting company, he rattled his beads and bones and solemnly announced his divine master’s displeasure. Over the wail of the maimed sacrifice he demanded to hear what the Lord of the Minwanabi would pledge to regain the Red God’s favour.
Behind the tableau of Lord and priest, slaves strained at ropes, and the gate timber was slowly dragged upright. The farmer’s screams changed pitch but did not stop. Workers rushed forward with baskets of earth and upended them into the pit, and gradually the cries became muffled; no one dared end the farmer’s agony. His life had been consecrated to the god, and to interfere would bring curse.
Sweating, his face smeared with dust and gore, Desio sat up. ‘All-powerful Turakamu,’ he intoned, ‘I pledge you the lives of my enemies, from the highest of noble blood to the life of the lowliest relations. This I promise if you will stay your wrath and allow Minwanabi victory!’ To the priest he said, ‘If the all-powerful sees fit to grant my humble appeal, I promise a second grand prayer gate. Its posts shall be consecrated with the lives of the Acoma Lady and her firstborn son and heir. The path beneath shall be paved with the crushed stone of the Acoma natami, and polished by the feet of your devoted worshippers. This I will give to the glory of the Red God if mercy is shown for the transgressions that have happened this day.’
Desio fell silent. The priest stood over him for a moment, unmoving. Then he assented with a sharp jerk of his head. ‘Swear your promise,’ he boomed out, and extended his bone whistle for Desio to seal his pledge to the god.
Desio reached out, convinced that once his hand clasped the bone, he was committed irrevocably. He hesitated, and a hiss from the priest warned he was close to bringing the Red God’s wrath. Feverishly he grasped the relic. ‘I, Desio, Lord of the Minwanabi, swear.’
‘Upon the blood of your house!’ commanded the priest.
Onlookers could not help but gasp, for the priest made clear the Red God’s price for failure. Desio embraced the same destruction for his entire house, from himself down to his most distant relative – the same ruin he promised the Acoma – should he fail. Even should both sides come to desire truce in the future, no quarter was now possible. Within the near future one of two ancient and honourable houses would cease to exist.
‘Turakamu hears your offering,’ the priest cried. As Desio released the relic, the priest spun and gestured to the incomplete gate, which arose like blackened pillars against the sky of sunset. ‘Let this gate stand incomplete, from this day forth. Its posts shall be carved into columns with the promise of the Minwanabi inscribed on each side. Neither shall this monument be changed or taken down until the Acoma are ashes pledged to the glory of Turakamu!’ Then he looked at Desio. ‘Or the Minwanabi are dust!’
Desio dragged himself to his feet. He seemed shaken, overwhelmed by a poor beginning to the grandiose oath he had sworn. Incomo’s lips thinned with anger. If there was an Acoma spy in the Minwanabi household, he had more to worry about than rumours as aftermath from this day’s affairs. The First Adviser studied the expressions of the family members as they departed; most showed strain, a few looked frightened, and here and there a noble swaggered with his chin jutted aggressively. Many would seek to advance themselves in the family hierarchy if Desio proved a weak ruler, but no one seemed particularly satisfied by the terrible turn of the day’s events. Abandoning the attempt to divine the spy by naked will, Incomo sought his master.
Tasaio stood at the side of his Lord, supporting Desio’s elbow. Although the Lord was the one wearing armour, there was no mistaking which was the warrior. Tasaio’s carriage held the unthinking and deadly grace of the sarcat. Incomo hurried closer. Words reached his ears, blown on the rising winds of an incoming storm.
‘My Lord, you must not look back upon the mishaps of today as ill-omened. You have sworn our family to a powerful oath. Now let us see