They’d be from one of the farming regions to the near west. It had been a shock for Siris to discover that people even in nearby areas dressed quite differently from those he’d known in Drem’s Maw. The newcomers stopped on the road after seeing Isa and Siris. Their chatter quieted.
They’re trying to decide what to make of us, Siris thought. Isa had a horse-a mark of someone rich, lucky, or favored. But, true to her suggestion, the lack of arms seemed to convince the three that Isa and Siris were not a threat. The peasants continued their trek, carrying sticks with bundles and walking cautiously.
“Ho, travelers,” one called when the two groups grew near. “You come from the east! What word?” The man’s voice sounded nervous.
“It’s hot,” Siris called back. “And dusty. What word from the west?”
“Much of the same,” the man called, voice growing more calm. “With a little bit of wind.”
“That will be nice.”
“Well, it is a hot, dusty wind, mind you.”
Siris laughed, walking up to them. The three men had relaxed, and one pulled out a canteen, offering him a drink. All looked to be of their middle years, but hard work in the sun could age men quickly.
“Thank you,” Siris said, taking the canteen. It likely held only water, but sharing anything with a stranger was unusual.
“It’s a fine day, young traveler,” one of the men said. “Tell me . . . have you come from paying homage?”
“Homage?”
“To the Sacrifice,” the man said.
“Has that come, then?” Siris asked, taking a sniff of the canteen, then lifting it to his lips. He made as if he were drinking, but barely let the water touch his lips. Best to be careful.
“It has,” one of the other men said, whispering in a solemn tone. “A mortal has been sent to face the God King.”
The third man gestured to his bundle. “Three villages’ worth of spices. An offering for the Sacrifice’s grave. We were chosen. If he has not yet been buried, we will see the job done.”
Everyone knew the story, the legend. By tradition, the God King would dump the Sacrifice’s body outside of his castle, and would not interfere with those who came to remove it. One or two from each village or town would be sent. The God King would not molest them as they stripped off the armor and shield, then buried the fallen hero. The armor would be returned to the Sacrifice’s home city, where it would be passed on to the next chosen sacrifice. Usually his son. Siris had broken that tradition by not marrying or siring a child before he left.
It had always bothered Siris that the God King allowed the harvesting of the armor, but it now made sense. The God King had wanted these Sacrifices to continue. Somehow, they had been what he needed to make the Infinity Blade work.
All this time, the people had thought they were showing defiance. A hint of resistance against the beast that oppressed them, worked them, taxed them nearly to starvation. Turned out that all this time, even this one little act of rebellion had been controlled by the creature they hated.
What would these men do when they found no body to bury, no corpse to revere?
“You did not know it was the time?” one of the men said.
“I . . . heard a rumor,” Siris said. “But people are always speaking of the Sacrifice; I didn’t believe the time had really come.”
“It has,” the man said. “Our elders counted the days with extreme care. All three villages agreed.”
“Come with us,” one of the men offered. “You can tell your grandchildren that you saw him. Only one Sacrifice comes each generation.”
Siris handed back the canteen, and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I have other tasks. But I wish you luck.”
They parted ways, the men continuing toward the God King’s castle. Siris watched them go, solemn, until Isa rode up beside him.
“I worry for them,” he said. “What will the God King do to them?”
“Probably nothing,” she said. “He’ll need them, and the others that come, to spread whatever propaganda he decides fits his return. He might even toss out a corpse and pretend you never defeated him, that he killed the Sacrifice.”
And the tradition will continue, Siris thought, disturbed. Only I will know the truth.
Another reason for the God King to hunt him. “You didn’t join the conversation.”
“My accent may have been memorable,” she said. “Besides, I have a way of being off-putting to those I just meet.”
“It might be the crossbow bolts you shoot at people before introducing yourself,” Siris said. “You might want to, you know, look into not doing that.”
“An astounding revelation.”
“Well, I’ve been told that my people skills are admirable.”
“Actually,” she said, “they seem to be.”
He glanced at her. She sounded sincere.
“They trusted you right off,” she mused. “People don’t do that to me. They assume I’m lying to them, cheating them, or smuggling something.”
“And are you?”
“Always,” she said absently. “Hell, I’ve got six pieces of contraband farshot magics in my saddlebags right now.”
“Wait, really?”
“Can’t make the toorim things work,” she said. He didn’t know that word she used. Was it some kind of curse? “You need a magic tube to activate them. Anyway, that’s beside the point. People don’t trust me.”
“You could try being honest.”
“It doesn’t work,” she said. “The more honest I am, the less they believe me. Like our discussion about those rings. I really don’t know anything about them, by the way.”
Siris hesitated.
“You’re skeptical,” she said.
“I . . .”
“It’s all right. I’m more than used to it. But you . . . you’re genuine.” That, oddly, seemed to trouble her. “What is this Sacrifice thing they spoke of?”
“You don’t know?” he asked, shocked as he turned to her.
“No.”
“Everyone knows.”
“Humor me.”
“One man each generation is chosen to fight the God King,” he said, starting to trek down the road again.
“Chosen? How?”
“It’s the nearest relative of my family line,” Siris replied. “Usually, the Sacrifice marries and has a child before he leaves.”
“You’re married then?”
“No,” he said.
“But-”
“Things were different for me.”
He hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it. The girl the town elders had chosen for him had been nice enough, but Siris hadn’t been able to force himself to marry her, only to leave her a widow one year later, so he’d backed out of the marriage. His mother had instead sent word to her husband’s family, so the new Sacrifice could be chosen from the children there. Poor kid.
They continued on their way. About a half hour later, Isa suddenly started laughing-a quick, exuberant bark. He glanced at her, and found her reading in her dictionary.
“Ah yes,” she said to herself, still chuckling, “I see. Peens. No. Pens. Yes, I must learn to pronounce that one right.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “Damn, I wish I’d done that one on purpose . . .”
Siris let Isa pick the camping spot for the evening. He wanted to be off the roadway, but otherwise didn’t know much about picking a campsite. Isa seemed to find that amusing-she had an expectation that people from ‘rural villages’ should be capable trackers and wilderness experts.
Siris shook his head. He’d never even worked the stalactites, let alone left the village to wander the wilderness. His every moment had been needed to train. Leaving Isa for a moment, he went off to test the transportation ring with the sword. It still worked, even though they were away from the castle. He was relieved to find that; since the elemental rings had stopped working, he’d worried that eventually this one would as well.
That confirmed, he went and helped unload the horse, passing Isa with the saddlebags. He began to undo the saddle, and then noticed the crossbow sitting in its strap. A deadly weapon; he’d heard of its type, but hadn’t ever seen one. It was easy enough to figure it out from a short inspection.