Reign of Shadows (39 page)

Caelan
wasn’t interested in what the priests were doing. Their incense stunk, and he
tried to breathe as little of it as possible. Going up the steps, he felt his
heartbeat quicken and his palms were suddenly damp. He glanced back once for a
quick look—probably his last—of the compound.

The
interior was cool and slightly dank, all dim and shadowy, with ramps leading up
to the stone seats that circled the entire structure. To his surprise, Caelan
found the arena was shaped like a bowl, with the fighting area at the bottom
and the spectators ranged above. He had never seen such a place before, but he
had no chance to study it, for the guards were shoving them along as quickly as
possible.

The
veterans branched off through an open door, leaving only the trainees to follow
the priests along a dim passageway and finally down a broad flight of stone
steps. In the near darkness the steps were treacherous, and the air smelled
strange and unhealthy.

As
the air gusted up into their faces, Caelan’s nostrils wrinkled with revulsion.
It was more than dank. It carried smells of oiled leather, mildew, blood, and
death.

He
shook his head, angry at his own vivid imagination. Nothing had died in here
for at least three months. Corpses were cleared away immediately to hold down
the chance of disease.

Still,
there was something odd and unusual to the mingled scents in the air . .
something he could not identify, yet it sent involuntary shivers through him.

Caelan
stopped, all his instincts warning him against descending farther.

A
hand shoved him forward so hard he nearly fell. “Get on!” Orlo said angrily. “None
of your Traulander nonsense about the dark here.”

Given
no chance to protest, Caelan was crowded down the steps along with the others.

At
the bottom they found themselves pushed into a
large, vaulted chamber lit
by flaring torches. Stone columns carved in twists supported the ceiling at its
highest point. Carved into the far wall was an enormous, tormented face of a
demon. At first glance Caelan thought it was the fire spirit himself.

Caelan’s
blood congealed in his veins. He glanced around swiftly, trying to back out,
but Orlo shoved him forward with the others. The door was slammed shut and
bolted, sealing them in with the chanting priests.

Already
the stench of incense was chokingly thick. Caelan smelled blood again, fresh
and warm. But now he realized it wasn’t his imagination. Across the room stood
a stone altar flanked on either side by two vats of copper. Both held a thick,
shimmering liquid that darkly reflected the torchlight.

The
face of the fire spirit on the wall had a fire kindled inside the open hearth
of its mouth. The flames burning there made the empty eyes of the horrifying
visage glow, and every darting shift of the fire made the face appear to move
and gaze back at the men.

Overhead,
Caelan could see the snarling faces of wooden beasts carved into the support
beams, shadowy and all the more menacing. The fire hissed and licked the stone
lips of the fire spirit, and if Caelan closed his eyes he could hear unworldly
sounds in the steady chanting from the priests, a whispering of vile
blasphemies from the ways of antiquity.

From
infancy Caelan had been taught the lessons of ancient times, when the world had
been ruled by the shadow gods and their spirits of chaos, also called
shyrieas.
Then they had been sealed
away and the world had been placed under the rule of mankind. Such unholy
carvings as Caelan saw around him now were said to be small breaks in the seal,
creating tiny gateways for evil to return.

Caelan’s
forehead was beaded with sweat. His  uneasiness grew, and he backed up until he
stood behind all the others al the very rear of the room. The door was stout
wood, bound with iron straps and bolted from the outside. He had no way to
escape from this place, and he felt as though he had entered hell itself.

The
stone floor was black with ageless grime. The burning torches sent dark streaks
of soot up the walls. The torches themselves smoked fearsomely, emitting fitful
pops as though they’d been soaked in bad pitch.

The
chanting stopped. In silence the priests arranged themselves behind the altar
in a semicircle. One priest in a saffron robe stepped forward to the altar and
raised his hands.

“Here
in the halls of death stand condemned men, O Gault.”

Caelan
held back a gasp. He had never known the father- god to be worshiped like this.

Again,
Caelan involuntarily glanced around for a way out. There was none.

“Their
blood is your blood, our father. Their lives are forfeit by the will of their
masters. By your will, we have come to prepare their souls for the journey into
your hands. We are your avengers, O Gault.”

“Avengers,”
the other priests chanted.

“We
are your punishers, O Gault.”

“Punishers.”

“We
are the chosen faithful, who lead others to your understanding, O Gault.”

“Chosen.”

“Vindicate
us, oh great one, as we vindicate others.”

The
priest lowered his arms and picked up a plain copper bowl, which he dipped into
one of the vats of fresh blood. lifting it high so that the blood dripped onto
the altar in small, dark spatters, the priest looked around him with bright,
fanatic eyes.

“Who
will be the first to come?”

No
one moved.

Caelan
had long heard it said by gossips that the emperor permitted perversions of all
kinds to flourish in Impe- ria, that the emperor—in his own desperate search
for immortality—had opened the gates to the dark spirits. But this was Caelan’s
first real encounter with any such practices. Of course he knew who the
Vindicants were. He had heard his father and other men in the hold shake their
heads over the most powerful faction of the priesthoods. There were almost no
Vindicants in Trau, and scant tolerance of such rituals as this.

Disgust
rose in Caelan. He scowled and planted his feet, crossing his arms over his
chest. Whatever they intended, he wasn’t going to participate.

The
priest was speaking again, softly, cajolingly. Whether pushed by a guard or
drawn forward by curiosity, one man stepped up to the altar and bowed.

“I
am afraid to die,” he whispered.

The
priest smiled and put his hand on the man’s head. He spoke something aloud,
then put the bowl to the man’s lips. “Drink,” he commanded.

Caelan
swallowed hard, his revulsion stronger than ever. It was forbidden to drink
blood. By all he’d ever been raised to believe, such was not allowed.

The
priest was not satisfied with merely a sip. He insisted until the man had
swallowed the entire bowlful, gagging on it. Then the priest seized the man’s
wrist and made a swift cut with a copper knife. The man screamed and tried to
twist away, but the priest held him with unexpected strength. Blood bubbled up
from the man’s wrist, and the priest collected several drops of it in a second
bowl, chanting all the while.

“From
fear is born obeisance. From despair is created belief. You have taken the
blood of the god and given your blood in return. Such is your passage into the
brotherhood of life-takers. Gault be praised.”

Another
priest bandaged the cut efficiently and gestured at the large face of the fire
spirit. “Pass through the mouth of the god,” he said, “and receive your
blessing in the next room.”

Miraculously
the fire blazing inside the mouth of the carving died down as though by
command. Hesitant, the man finally ducked low and stepped through, hopping over
the glowing coals. As soon as he vanished from sight, the fire blazed up again.
It was as though the god had consumed him.

Everyone
waited, but no sound came from the other side—not a scream, not a whisper. It
was as though the man had vanished forever.

Someone
crowded next to Caelan, his face pale. “What in the name of the gods do you
think is beyond that?” he whispered.

Caelan
shook his hand, unwilling to utter a sound in this place of evil. He had never
witnessed such blasphemy, such a twisting of the truth or the old ways. Even
witnessing these acts made him feel unspeakably tainted. He wanted to cry out
condemnation at what was being done, but he kept silent, afraid of punishment
from the guards. His own fear shamed him.

One
by one the trainees went forward, sweating and fearful, forced to the altar if
necessary. Some drank the blood with bravado, pretending to enjoy it. Others
spat and choked. Again and again the priest dipped the bowl for more. Not one
trainee failed to flinch as his wrist was cut in turn. Bandaged, each man then
stepped through the mouth of the fire spirit and vanished until there were only
five men left, then three, then one.

Caelan
stood alone, the last man, and he would not budge.

The
guards sighed and gripped his arms. “Always causing trouble, you are,” one
murmured. “Come now, Giant. Move your big feet.”

They
force-marched him to the altar, with him planting his feel at every chance.

“Bow
to Gault,” the priest commanded.

Caelan
glared at him, tight-lipped and defiant.

“Blasphemer!
Bow to the father-god!”

“Gault
is not worshiped this way,” Caelan retorted. “I will not defile him with such
evil.”

Fury
twisted the priest’s face. He struck Caelan across the mouth before the guards
could react.

“You
dare defy us, slave! You are a condemned man. You have no choice but to serve
as you are bidden.”

“Go
to the hell you serve,” Caelan said.

The
priest stepped back, glaring. He snapped his fingers, and the guards closed in
on Caelan. One socked him in the stomach, doubling him over.

While
Caelan was still gasping and choking, trying to draw in air, the other man
twisted his left arm behind him and gripped him by the hair.

Caelan
gritted his teeth with all his might, struggling and kicking, but with four
guards on top of him even his strength was not enough. One of the guards pried
open his jaws while the priest poured the blood down his throat.

Choking
and drowning in the stuff, Caelan thought he would be sick. Gasping and
shuddering, he was released and sank to the floor at their feet. The priest
chanted grimly over him, then gestured. Caelan was kicked.

“Get
up,” the guards told him.

Slowly,
resentfully, he rose to his feet and towered over the priest. The man lifted
the copper knife, its tiny blade stained with the blood of all the others. At
the last second, Caelan jerked his wrist so that only the skin was cut and not
the vein. A few small beads of blood welled up, but not enough to be collected.

“Hold
him,” the priest said to the guards.

They
grabbed Caelan’s arms, but he lifted his feet and kicked at the altar, sending
bowls and implements flying. Blood splashed across the robes of several
priests. Their chanting stopped abruptly.

Still
kicking and struggling, Caelan condemned them at the top of his lungs.

The
chief priest glared at him while others knelt on the ground, hastily trying to
scrape up the spilled blood. The man’s face was taut with fury. Spots of color
blazed in his cheeks.

“Gault’s
curse be on you!” he shouted. “Defiler, know now the true meaning of
condemnation, for you shall face death without the protection of the gods. All
blessing is stripped from you. Gault’s face shall be turned from you, and when
you die the
shyrieas
will shriek acclaim at another soul lost to all damnation.”

Even
the guards looked shaken.

But
Caelan did not believe in the religion of the Vindicants, and he laughed
scornfully at the curse.
“Teiserat huggen fieh ein selt ein fahrne teiseran!”
he shouted, using the old
words spoken to drive wicked spirits away from the walls of hold, house, and
hearth. It was the only ancient countermand he knew.

Whether
the priests understood it or not, it had the effect of freezing them in their
tracks.