Amdra handed Hawk both the baby and the ewe’s leash. “It’s your spawn. You make the Offering.”
“You won’t even offer our son your blood as a shield?”
“My blood won’t shield him. Trust me, he’s better off being offered by a worthless slave.”
“Maybe.” But Hawk sounded angry.
“I don’t understand,” said Finnadro. “Is the child in danger?”
“It’s not your concern,” said Amdra. “Hawk knows his duty. You, Finnadro, will accompany me.”
Finnadro did not like any of it. Sore with distrust, he followed his hostess, her slave, her baby, and her sheep up and down over winding stone steps. At a turn, they reached a precipitous drop. The next turn led down another stone path to another yard surrounded by walls and houses, until they reached the largest space yet, the Plaza of Eagles, which was filled with onlookers.
At one end of the plaza was a large, flat stone, like a Deathsworn altar, but streaked orange and white, as if the rock had wept rust. The War Chief and his retinue of Eagle Lords, in feathered warbonnets, plus near a hundred foot warriors in ram’s horn helms, stood upon a wooden platform behind the altar. Seeing so many of his enemies assembled formally, Finnadro felt unease layered over the deeper strata of anger. These were the brutes who had reduced his own tribehold to rubble and set his beloved forests ablaze. Perhaps it had been instigated by the Deathsworn—indeed he did not doubt that—but Orange Canyon had supplied the hands and wings who fanned the flames. Even if he was commanded to forgive them, how could he trust them?
The War Chief, known to Finnadro only by his bland Shining Name, the Great One, sat recessed from the plaza in a booth on an elevated dais, decorated in Raptor feathers as long as legs, which obscured him from casual stares. He kept one companion, a wisp of a woman. She was not masked, as far as Finnadro could tell, but it was impossible to discern her features, as her silhouette was eclipsed by the Great One’s massive robe and headdress.
The Great One’s War Leader and strongest Zavaedi fighter, Harcho the Bone Breaker (who wielded a wicked knife to prove it) conducted the ritual. He wore the stoutest feathered war bonnet Finnadro had ever seen, so long that it trailed to the ground along with his feathered robe. His muscular chest and clean-shaven square jaw were bare.
The rest of the Eagle Lords and Raptor Riders stood or sat in a long row to either side of the Great One’s tabernacle. Amdra went to stand with the other Eagle Lords, all of whom were Orange Tavaedies and not likely to let anyone forget it. Finnadro stood with her, ignoring their haughty sniffs of contempt in his direction.
A dozen men sounded their ram’s horns. The eerie, mournful sound curdled Finnadro’s blood. Drums sounded.
Some Orange Canyon tribesfolk, most of them women, formed a long line. Each woman or man in the line carried an infant or toddler, or, in some cases, a young child. They also carried, or drew on a leash, a pregnant ewe. The better dressed stood at the front of the line, the poorer and more ragged toward the end, and some finely dressed slaves, including Hawk, stood behind those. One by one, as dawn spread her white wings behind the eastern peaks, illuminating the whole tableau more luridly with the passing moments, the mothers (or fathers) set their babes on the orange stone. Then each mother in her turn knelt and pressed her head into the dirt and waited, trembling.
After a moment, at some signal from the Great One, the mother would reclaim the babe and leave a sheep in its place, which, tradition commanded, must be a newborn lamb. Since none of the ewes had dropped their lambs, many families found themselves in a quandary. They had to kill their pregnant ewes. Those who owned but a few sheep wept and begged to be allowed to wait until the dropping of the lambs. Harcho the Bone Breaker refused.
With his stone knife, Harcho cut free the
“You won’t even offer our son your blood as a shield?”
“My blood won’t shield him. Trust me, he’s better off being offered by a worthless slave.”
“Maybe.” But Hawk sounded angry.
“I don’t understand,” said Finnadro. “Is the child in danger?”
“It’s not your concern,” said Amdra. “Hawk knows his duty. You, Finnadro, will accompany me.”
Finnadro did not like any of it. Sore with distrust, he followed his hostess, her slave, her baby, and her sheep up and down over winding stone steps. At a turn, they reached a precipitous drop. The next turn led down another stone path to another yard surrounded by walls and houses, until they reached the largest space yet, the Plaza of Eagles, which was filled with onlookers.
At one end of the plaza was a large, flat stone, like a Deathsworn altar, but streaked orange and white, as if the rock had wept rust. The War Chief and his retinue of Eagle Lords, in feathered warbonnets, plus near a hundred foot warriors in ram’s horn helms, stood upon a wooden platform behind the altar. Seeing so many of his enemies assembled formally, Finnadro felt unease layered over the deeper strata of anger. These were the brutes who had reduced his own tribehold to rubble and set his beloved forests ablaze. Perhaps it had been instigated by the Deathsworn—indeed he did not doubt that—but Orange Canyon had supplied the hands and wings who fanned the flames. Even if he was commanded to forgive them, how could he trust them?
The War Chief, known to Finnadro only by his bland Shining Name, the Great One, sat recessed from the plaza in a booth on an elevated dais, decorated in Raptor feathers as long as legs, which obscured him from casual stares. He kept one companion, a wisp of a woman. She was not masked, as far as Finnadro could tell, but it was impossible to discern her features, as her silhouette was eclipsed by the Great One’s massive robe and headdress.
The Great One’s War Leader and strongest Zavaedi fighter, Harcho the Bone Breaker (who wielded a wicked knife to prove it) conducted the ritual. He wore the stoutest feathered war bonnet Finnadro had ever seen, so long that it trailed to the ground along with his feathered robe. His muscular chest and clean-shaven square jaw were bare.
The rest of the Eagle Lords and Raptor Riders stood or sat in a long row to either side of the Great One’s tabernacle. Amdra went to stand with the other Eagle Lords, all of whom were Orange Tavaedies and not likely to let anyone forget it. Finnadro stood with her, ignoring their haughty sniffs of contempt in his direction.
A dozen men sounded their ram’s horns. The eerie, mournful sound curdled Finnadro’s blood. Drums sounded.
Some Orange Canyon tribesfolk, most of them women, formed a long line. Each woman or man in the line carried an infant or toddler, or, in some cases, a young child. They also carried, or drew on a leash, a pregnant ewe. The better dressed stood at the front of the line, the poorer and more ragged toward the end, and some finely dressed slaves, including Hawk, stood behind those. One by one, as dawn spread her white wings behind the eastern peaks, illuminating the whole tableau more luridly with the passing moments, the mothers (or fathers) set their babes on the orange stone. Then each mother in her turn knelt and pressed her head into the dirt and waited, trembling.
After a moment, at some signal from the Great One, the mother would reclaim the babe and leave a sheep in its place, which, tradition commanded, must be a newborn lamb. Since none of the ewes had dropped their lambs, many families found themselves in a quandary. They had to kill their pregnant ewes. Those who owned but a few sheep wept and begged to be allowed to wait until the dropping of the lambs. Harcho the Bone Breaker refused.
With his stone knife, Harcho cut free the
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