David Drake - The Gods Return

Ilna said, spreading the pattern she'd knotted. The King stumped another step forward. Ilna realized with a sudden shock that his eyes were closed. Usun jabbed the pointed staff into the ape's instep. He bellowed and opened his shrouded eyes in surprise, then went stiff. It was like he'd been struck by lightning. Ilna backed. She folded the pattern between her hands so that none of the human slaves would see it. It would have a different effect on them than it did on the King, but she presumed it would be a differentbad effect. The details of the future depended on the person, but the basic facts would be the same: everyone died. Everything died. All existence ended in death. "It cannot be," the King said in a wondering voice. "This is a dream, a sending from an enemy." Ilna sniffed. "It's quite true, whatever you've seen," she said. "That's the future, your future." She hadn't been sure how the ape would respond, but she hadn't expected denial.

Partly because avoiding the truth wasn't something she would do herself, but largely out of pride: Ilna assumed that a pattern she wove would penetrate to the soul of whoever saw it, beyond the ability of his conscious mind to deny. Her mouth quirked into a wry smile.

Perhaps she'd been wrong and would very shortly pay for that pride with her life. Mistakes should be punished, so she wouldn't complain.

"It's a dream," the King said. "Adream!" He lowered his arms to his sides, but his muscles were knotting and his fists clenched into hairy mallets. Spittle bubbled at the corners of his jaw. It appeared that the pattern had worked after all. The prisoners kneeling in adoration began slowly to get to their feet and move back. They'd drifted forward since Ilna entered, but the behavior of their king and god was visibly repelling them. The King screamed like a rabbit in a leg snare, but louder. Even in this vast chamber, the impact of the sound made Ilna want to clasp her hands to her ears. She continued to hold the folded sisal pattern. The great ape shook his head as though he'd been hit on the forehead with a mallet. His ruby crown winked in the foul green light; he raised his hands to it. "Your majesty?" said Prince Perrin. "Your majesty, what should we do?" The King flexed his arms, pulling the gold wires of the crown apart. He flung the pieces blindly to either side, the silken strap fluttering behind one half.

When they hit the wall, rubies popped from their settings and clicked across the stone floor. Princess Perrine fell to her knees and began to cry. Ilna sneered at her in disgust. The ape grasped his robes and ripped them off with a jerk. Ilna raised an eyebrow. She knew it took strength to tear metal, even a soft metal like gold, but sheunderstood how tough silk brocade was. This beast could have pulled her apart by main strength if he'd grasped her by thigh and shoulder. The King's scream turned to a series of explosive grunts. He fell onto all fours, then lunged forward as suddenly as a racehorse when the bar lifts.

Ingens shouted and jumped aside. The ape's shoulder caught him a glancing blow nonetheless. He sprawled into Hervir, who'd been running for the wall even though he hadn't been in the way of the beast's charge to begin with. The men spun spread-eagled in opposite directions on the polished floor. Perrin and Perrine screamed. The King's thunderous grunts smothered that human sound. The prisoners flattened against the wall; some of them faced the stone, others covered their eyes with their hands. The King's lowered head smashed into the pillar left when the chamber was pounded out of the living rock. Bone cracked like a maul pounding a cliff face, only louder. The ape bounced back and onto the floor in a sitting position. Blood smeared the black stone, and the beast's face was a mass of blood.

Prisoners bawled in horror and amazement. The King rose slowly onto his hind legs. Ilna fingered her lasso. It wouldn't be of the least use against the huge ape, but if he came at her she'd try to drop it over his tree-trunk neck regardless. The other choice was her utility knife. She wasn't sure its blade was long enough to reach the beast's vitals. If she had to choose between two useless weapons, she'd pick the cord. The King had stopped grunting, though his breath blasted like that of an angry ox. Instead of turning to Ilna, he lurched forward and gripped the pillar between his spread arms. With his hands to anchor him, he slammed his head against the stone, slumped, then whipped his head into the pillar again. This time there was a splintering overtone to the hollowWhock! The beast collapsed slowly, its long arms still about the pillar. Its legs, no longer gripping the floor, splayed to left and right until the massive chest lay flat on the stone. Blood and brains leaked from the broken skull. There was a moment of silence. Then the prisoners began to keen in amazement.

Interlude Nivers, high priest of Franca, chanted, "Erebani akuia pseus!" and stabbed with the dagger of gray-green volcanic glass. The man face up on the altar shrieked in the grip of four ratmen. Nivers dragged the blade from neck to belly along the victim's breastbone, where the ribs were still cartilage; the victim's screams gurgled to silence. The ratmen carried his body, still sloshing blood, to the edge of the terrace and flung it as far out as they could into the fire filling the plaza below. The priest slumped, waiting for the next sacrifice. He'd had to use the strength of both tired arms to finish the cut. He'd need a fresh knife soon, another fresh knife. The ratmen kept bringing them, but only Nivers could carry out the rites since Salmson had accompanied Emperor Baray and the army. Gangs of ratmen carried timbers-whole trees, often enough-to the tops of the buildings on the other three sides, then hurled them down into the great fire in the plaza. Though the wood was green, the fire's immense heat exploded it into instant ravening life. The corpses of the victims flung from the fourth side burst, then shriveled in black, oily smoke. Even the bones burned. Ratmen were bringing another victim up the steps on the back side of the pyramid. The blaze sent its red glow through the crystal of all the surrounding structures. When Nivers looked down, it was as if he were standing above a lake of fire instead of being on the topmost terrace of the Temple of Franca. It didn't matter to Nivers where he looked or what he saw; the waking world existed for him only as a problem to be solved. The ash and stench of the holocaust swirled, and the heat of the fire hammered him even though he was shaded from its direct radiance. This was a crisis which threatened the return of the Gods. Nothing mattered save that. Four ratmen carried the next sacrifice, one on each limb; they'd given up trying to get the victims to climb the steps by themselves. The smell of burning flesh made their coming fate obvious; indeed, many of them fainted before they reached the top. "Your holiness, it's me, Marisca!" this one screamed. She still wore the short jacket and diaphanous pantaloons she'd been given when she became a member of the high priest's harem. "You remember me! You can't do this!" Nivers did remember her when he cast his mind back, though he couldn't have put a name to her. Names didn't matter, and she didn't matter. "Ilove you!" the girl said. Her eyes were open but empty, cold blue chips of terror. The ratmen threw her onto the altar which the fires below jeweled garnet and topaz. "Erebani akuia pseus!" Nivers chanted. He chopped down, then ripped the knife toward himself. A spurt of blood blinded him. He tore off a leg of Marisca's pantaloons to wipe his face, then blinked until tears had cleared his eyes enough that he could see again. The rest of his harem had gone before. There were almost no humans in Palomir save Nivers himself. On those few potential sacrifices depended the return of the Gods. One more sacrifice being carried to the top of the temple. The steps were steep, but the ratmen seemed indefatigable. Their individual strength wouldn't be enough, though, not now that the Gate of Ivory had been closed. Only the Gods Themselves could tip the balance. The ratmen reached the terrace; Nivers straightened and took a firm grip on the glass knife. It would do for one more sacrifice, and that a slip of a girl. "You senile old pervert!" the victim said. He blinked. The girl was Anone; he remembered her from the days he'd been only Nivers the high priest, not the avatar of Franca. Anone had been his favorite, the youngest and freshest of his harem. But now… The ratmen spread-eagled her on the altar. It was crystal like the rest of the temple, but days of blood baked by sunlight and fire had coated most of it with a crusty black. Her body gleamed in nude white contrast.