Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [108]
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.
The chief priest gestured at the guards. “Get him out of here. Quickly!”
The guards dragged Caelan over to the fire spirit and released him with a shove. “Pass through!”
The fire was still blazing in the mouth. Caelan hesitated.
Another guard kicked him. “Do it or we’ll throw you on the fire.”
The flames died down, and Caelan ducked through. As he did so, he could feel the radiant heat from the coals beneath him. He hopped down to the floor on the other side and found himself alone in a small, featureless room. An open passageway led from it.
Surprised, Caelan stood there and glanced around. There was nothing in here to fear or light.
Suddenly the walls seemed to till. He sank to his knees, feeling