He looked up.
Had the masses been closer, they could have seen the tears in his eyes.
He knew they were aware of them.
“Yes, that’s exactly what this means.
They have no respect for our divinities any longer.
They have been bought by foreign interests that want to take over and exploit our country.
I ask you, my beloved countrymen; shall we let them?”
He raised his hands dramatically.
The crowd went crazy.
“I think we all agree, beautiful nation of Epos Olizobeo; if they’re not our friends; they are our enemies.
If they’re not with us; they’re against us!
Ezkimit, tiyirnissikit!”
“Gods, have mercy,” Bekka whispered the last words of the High Shaman to Louis.
“How original,” Vipra sighed.
“He must have copied his speech from the Tome of Demagogues,” Redbeard sniggered.
“Traitors! Kill them!”
Thousands of demands sounded from the crowd.
The drums joined in.
The High Shaman thought for a few seconds, and then spoke again.
“Calm yourself, True Areshadians. We have to respect the will of our Gods.
There will be no blood spilled tonight.
At least not the blood of the Protected.
We will let them go after the celebrations.
We will grant them the three days of immunity that they are entitled to.
After that, I will confer with Zarkan, the Patriarch of Epos Olizobeo to decide the fate of the traitors.
But now, let us all enjoy the offerings of the Five Tribes of True Areshadia, and even the ones of the followers of the Traitor Matriarch.
Ezkimzípit, vapobyókat órbasokoemtok!”
“Deities, receive our sacrifices,” Bekka finished translating the High Shaman’s words.
The drums started up again, but at a slow pace.
About three dozen chained people were led into the middle of the stage.
The selection seemed random; there were men and women between the age of twelve and seventy.
One single chain bound them together.
They were apathetic and emaciated.
“What will they do to them? Can’t we do something? This is barbaric,” Coleman-Bitter was in utter distress. Both Vipra and Redbeard shook their heads.
“Orferóp Ezkimmáyi íz Cholqaz, receive the sacrifice of the True Areshadian Tribe of the Snake,” chanted the High Shaman.
Four men and four women, clad in sparse leather attire, stepped into the middle of the stage.
Rather unceremoniously, they walked up and down in front of the chained, just looking at them.
Vipra, Redbeard, Sulli and Maxa knew exactly that they were doing; they channelled Fire from the victims, sapping them completely of their energy.
The sacrificial humans fell to the floor one after the other, never moving again.
Once the last one fell, temple servants piled them up, poured pitch over the corpses and set them on fire.
“What just happened? Why did they die?” Louis was agitated and confused.
‘Don’t tell him!’ Vipra projected to Redbeard when he was about to open his mouth.
“They bled them out before they were brought to the arena,” the Warchief said the first thing that came to his mind. An instant later, he wished he had let Vipra come up with an explanation.
“They died behind the stage? They are… walking… dead… corpses?” Coleman-Bitter stuttered.
“I believe that’s a tautology,” Vipra remarked.
The Kronurian looked at her uncomprehendingly.
“An unnecessary repetition of words with the same meaning. I do believe corpses are dead,” she explained.
Coleman-Bitter emptied a whole glass of a foul tasting brownish liquid. He didn’t care. He had just found out that some Areshadians were blood-drinking predators.
Another set of chained individuals were led to the amphitheatre. They were cut loose.
“Orferóp Ezkimmáyi íz Cholqaz, take the sacrifice of the True Areshadian Tribe of the Chacheímo,” the High Shaman spoke again.
A dozen impossibly large, white hyenas, carrying armed riders, entered the arena.
The captives tried to find a place to run to, except there were none.
The riders nocked their arrows; they hunted down every single one of their victims.
The procedure at the end was similar to the previous one.
“How can you just sit by and watch this?” Louis burst out, looking at the others.
“As you pointed out yourself, we’re outnumbered three-thousand to fifty-thousand,” Vipra said.
Redbeard smacked him on the back again.
“Calm down, that’s what they’ve been doing for centuries. We’ll change it in due time. But not tonight, I’m afraid. Drink. Three more to go.”
A huge pool was revealed on the left of the stage.
“Orferóp Ezkimmáyi íz Cholqaz, receive the sacrifice of the True Areshadian Tribe of the Yípgelomo,” the Shaman sang.
“What’s a Yípgelomo?” Coleman-Bitter turned to Bekka.
“It’s a small fish with a lot of teeth that devours everything it sees. Well, not on its own; they usually swim around in schools of thousands in our northern lakes.”
“Oh by the Gods, please don’t tell me they’ll do what I think they will,” Coleman-Bitter said in despair.
“A very unimaginative tribe,” Vipra shrugged her shoulders.
While the human sacrifices had been consumed by hundreds of the hungry little fish, Coleman-Bitter had to excuse himself to throw up behind the rows of seats that his party sat at. He returned as pale as the skulls that embellished the theatre.
When the offering of the Tribe of the Shark, which took place in the pool at the right side of the arena was over, he had decided to hand in his resignation.
Redbeard knew that he had to steel the distraught Kronurian for the last tribe’s performance. The Warchief filled him up with as much alcohol as he could, thus Coleman-Bitter was hardly aware of the Scorpion tribe simply flogging their sacrifices to death.
The ecstatic crowd had an entirely different sentiment about what they had just witnessed. As far as they were concerned, the Gods had been shown almost enough respect for the next twelve months.
Almost. Three traitorous tribes still had to ensure divine protection.
The High Shaman returned.
“Very unsurprisingly, the Traitor Matriarch hasn’t brought us any sacrifices. Nevertheless, she is willing to contribute to our sacred Gathering with three acts for the three tribes that her so called Alliance consists of. She chose three challenges,” he announced in the midst of the boos and whistles of the crowd.
“Apparently, the first challenge is called “The Way We Fought”.
Up to eight participants are invited to face Maxa, Daughter of Redbeard and Sulli, Son of Redbeard. They will show us traditional Southern fighting techniques. Remember, that Southerners now are allied with the traitors, thus the supporters of the Matriarch embellish themselves with the vibrant feathers of outsiders.
Would it be wrong to fight two of them with eight of ours?
Not if we have the numbers.
Let’s give them the taste of the majority,” the Shaman smiled benevolently.
Sulli, almost seven feet tall, equipped with a single weapon, and his half-sister, Maxa, more than a foot shorter, wearing a belt accommodating an arsenal of weapons, entered the centre of the stage.
“Maxa, Daughter of Redbeard and Sulli, Son of Redbeard.
You have entered an Arena Challenge of the Bone Temple.
Once you agree to the terms of the Challenge, you cannot back out.
Do you understand?”
They both nodded.
“Once you accept your opponents, the fight will start.
The fights
end with either party perishing, unless I decide otherwise.
If you are defeated and killed, your bodies will be burnt on the spot.
Do you accept these conditions?”
They nodded again.
“Do you have any final words before the fight?”
“Bloody start it already,” Maxa spat.
“You will oppose eight of our finest warriors.
Four of them are the Defenders of the Patriarch’s personal guards, the other four the Defenders of the Ramparts of the Patriarch’s Tomb,” the Shaman introduced the fighters.
Maxa and Sulli stood back to back in the centre of the arena.
“Four ranged, four melees. Which ones you want?” Sulli asked his sister.
“I’ll take those three shooters and the big one with the whip,” she replied. Sulli nodded.
“Once I sound the gong, you will start,” the Shaman said.
A second later, he banged his hammer against the huge metal disc.
Redbeard leant forward with excited anticipation.
Even from a distance, Vipra noticed the litch-lights of the siblings flare up in a vibrant red colour. They were channelling as much Fire on themselves as they could.
The Defenders of the Ramparts started loading their crossbows with bolts, as soon as the gong sounded.
“Pffft, crossbows. Can you come up with a slower weapon?” Maxa muttered derisively.
She crossed her arms behind her neck. A moment later, she moved her arms forward over her head, producing a nocked steel bow in one fluid movement. The first arrow left the bow-string a millisecond after she took aim.
She immediately grabbed another one from the quiver that was fastened to her back.
Just like the first one, the arrow found its target within seconds.
The two men were dead before they hit the ground.
Maxa tried to dodge the bolt of the third crossbow-man, but it caught her in her left shoulder. Even though her chain armour dampened the impact, the bolt wounded her.
She channelled even more Fire on herself, and shot the third man in the stomach, just out of spite.
In the meantime, Sulli took out the last shooter with a poisoned arrow. Not that the venom mattered; the man was dead within seconds.
Maxa took out a small, spiky disc from her belt and threw it at the huge, bold man readying his flail.
As soon as it got stuck in his arm, he cracked his whip towards Maxa.
It caught her around her waist.
The giant grinned, and started to reel her in.
As soon as she was so close that she could smell his foul odour, she kicked his legs apart, and slid through them.
Once behind him, she took out a morning star from her belt, and flung it upwards between his legs with all the power she could muster.
No sooner she could hear the sickening crunch of her weapon crushing the man’s pelvic bone and the adjacent organs; she unsheathed a small dagger, and slit his hamstrings.
He howled in pain, and sank to the floor.
She finally, and rather casually, smashed the giant’s head to a pulp with her miniature morning star.
‘Cutting the ham-strings might have been a bit of an overkill,’ she thought.
Sulli let the three fighters come closer.
The first one, unlucky enough to get to him first, immediately got a taste of Sulli’s weapon.
It was a pole-arm with double-bladed axe-heads on both sides.
It was his pride and joy; he had designed and crafted it himself.
At last he could try it out.
Sulli gave his weapon a twirl; it split the man’s head in the middle, shortly after it had sliced his right knee in two.
Once he sacked to the floor, Sulli threw the pole-arm into the air.
Once he caught it, he gave the weapon a quick twist with both hands.
It turned into two individual axes.
Sulli pressed buttons on both of them, making razor-sharp blades slide out of their hilts.
He spun the axes in his hands, and then aimed one of them slightly upwards, making it hit one of his opponents square below his jaw, half cutting his head off.
The other one he flung sideways, severing the main artery in the thigh of the last man standing.
The crowd was silent.
“I proclaim Maxa, Daughter of Redbeard and Sulli, Son of Redbeard the winners of the first round,” the High Shaman announced with some resentment in his voice.
“You have an arrow in your shoulder,” Sulli whispered to Maxa.
“It’s not an arrow, it’s a bolt,” she corrected him while she pulled it out.
“The second challenge is called “The Way We Fight,” performed by Maxa, Daughter of Redbeard and Sulli, Son of Redbeard,” said the High Shaman with a hint of surprise in his voice.
“The conditions of the challenge are the same as before.
Maxa, Daughter of Redbeard and Sulli, Son of Redbeard, do you want me to repeat them?”
“Don’t you bloody dare,” Maxa said.
“How many opponents do you require for this round?” the Shaman Igyo asked.
“Twenty-four,” Sulli replied.
“Don’t bother introducing them,” Maxa gave him a warning look.
Yet again, they stood back to back in the middle.
This time Sulli had a belt as well.
The gong sounded.
Maxa and Sulli simultaneously pulled out two elaborately crafted revolvers each.
They rather unceremoniously shot the two dozen fighters, who were either fiddling with their cross-bows, or trying to get close to them, within less than a minute.
Shocked mutterings were audible from the audience.
Temple servants dragged the corpses away.
“I announce Maxa, Daughter of Redbeard and Sulli, Son of Redbeard the winners of the second round,” the High Shaman said reproachfully.
Two large boxes were dragged into the amphitheatre.
“The third challenge is called “Run for Your Lives,” Shaman Igyo read out with distaste.
“The challengers are… yet again, Maxa, Daughter of Redbeard and Sulli, Son of Redbeard. How many opponents do you want this time?”
Maxa shrugged her shoulders.
“As many as you think you can spare,” she mumbled, revealing a metal device the crowd had never seen before.
Her brother did the same.
The High Shaman thought for a few moments, and called fifty people on the stage.
When the gong sounded, Maxa and Sulli lowered themselves on one knee behind their machines, pushing their left shoulders hard against the hilts of their guns, while placing their right index-fingers on the trigger.
The crowd had never experienced a bullet-storm before.
The opponents of Maxa and Sulli were torn apart within a few seconds by the infernal shooting machines.
At last, Coleman-Bitter had the first positive thought of the night. The steamguns worked like a charm.
The High Shaman was surprised to find Vipra standing next to him.
“Matriarch, do you wish to say anything?” he asked.
Vipra turned towards the crowd and raised her voice.
“Yes. Your new leader, Zarkan, has declared me and my followers traitors for having disrespected our traditions.
Yet, he is guilty of the worst crime that any Areshadian could have committed; he has compromised the neutrality of our Holy Lands; he has turned the shamans of the Bone Temple against their own.
What’s more, he had himself appointed as a Patriarch.
Your Zarkan is too impotent to even declare war on us, so I will save him this effort.
I offer pardon to anybody, who wishes to join our Alliance.
To the rest of you, I grant three days of immunity.
After that, there will be no mercy.”
Royal Palace of Stinger, Realm’s Heart Island
Gloria thanked the Gods that the Festi
valdays were over.
The Stinger Festival was unlike any other in the Realm. There was no ball or raucous celebrations. The two Festivaldays were spent by mourning the dead.
If Gloria could have prevented it, her coronation would have taken place any other day but during those, but there was nothing she could do to change it.
She had made sure, that the coronation ceremony was as short as possible, with as little hoopla as necessary. She had felt that she was intruding on everybody’s days of remembrance. Especially the Sunflares, who had been hit particularly badly this year because of the proof they got about Eldorine’s passing.
The bigger was her surprise to see the crowds of Pyonians who came to greet their new Empress and her fiancé, Prince Mordan.
The people had to be restrained and pushed back by the Realm Guard.
They were shouting and cheering. The ones who could get close to them, kissed her hands, and they tried to do the same to Mordan.
She could hear quite a lot of shouts cheering her, but even more of “Long live our future King Mordan”.
Gloria didn’t know what to do.
She knew that she only had herself to blame.
The way she had navigated herself into her new situation, was laughable.
Getting engaged to someone who was practically still a boy just to spite Octarian, was ridiculous.
Yet now, that she had experienced the enthusiasm of the Pyonians, she wasn’t sure, whether she could afford to break their engagement.
After Mordan had returned from Pyonia, he paid her a visit, and told her about the way he had been received. She thought that he was merely trying to impress her, but after what she had seen, she knew, he was telling the truth.
She suddenly realised that she had been staring at the wallpaper for several minutes. She squinted at it, and rang a bell.
Her lady in waiting appeared shortly.
“Dinah dear, please arrange a meeting with some interior designers, I can’t stand this ghastliness around me any longer. Get all the Cadentian ones, and if there are any Roditeean masters, invite them as well for… oh no, tomorrow will be my first Royal Council conference, and on Sageday my first official House of Houses meeting. Have them arranged for Preacherday, Loverday or Hermitday.”
Suddenly, her new responsibilities hit her. It was one thing to be a member of a Royal Council, but it was a whole different matter to be the leader of one.