The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [109]
“It be so, truly. It will house hundreds of our folk when they do finish it.”
As they drew closer Salamander got a better look. While the fort might well be grand when finished, at the moment it spread a scrappy sort of mess along the edge of the cliff, which fell away in a sheer drop to the river. Wooden walls, patched in places with blocks of stone, surrounded a wooden tower, some fifty feet high. Salamander noticed little windows at the top and assumed that it was some sort of watchmen’s post. Over the walls he could see the roofs of scattered wood buildings and, here and there, parts of half-finished stone structures.
Even in this partial view the layout struck him as somehow familiar. As they drew near, he realized why. The Horsekin had modeled their fortress on the dun of their old enemies in Cengarn. He dismounted and led his horses while Rocca walked a little ahead. She was hurrying to the open gates, made of timber bound with iron bands and iron hinges. A wooden palisade of roughly-hewn logs surrounded a jumble of buildings also made of logs, some low and crude, others built more stoutly with more attention to windows and proper doors and the like.
Off to one side, however, lay an uneven circle of open ground, approximately a hundred yards across, and in its midst stood a small building made of polished and precisely cut stone. Slate tiles covered its peaked roof, and over the door he could see a carving of a bow and arrow. On either side of its door stood two young trees, protected by fences made of narrow boards.
“That must be the shrine.” Salamander put excitement into his voice. “It’s beautiful.”
“The Inner Shrine it be, truly,” Rocca said. “We did finish it first, as was right and proper for our goddess.”
At the gate Horsekin guards, typical soldiers of their kind, armed with long spears as well as swords, stepped forward and blocked the view inside. They stood over six feet tall, and their huge manes of hair, braided here and there and decorated with little charms and talismans, emphasized their height. Their faces, bare arms, and hands sported solid masses of tattoos covering all but a few traces of their milk-white skin. Salamander noticed that some of the tattoos displayed their goddess’ bow and arrow, along with stylized flames that might also have been a holy symbol. When they recognized Rocca, they greeted her in their language, and she answered in the same, gesturing toward Salamander as if telling them who he was.
The guards ushered them both inside. One turned and called out in a booming voice. At this signal others came running—Horsekin and human men dressed in the same brown leather clothes as the guards, a handful of human women wearing tattered tunics and the iron band around one ankle that marked them as slaves. Mostly, however, Salamander saw Horsekin warriors, standing in little groups by what seemed to be a covered well, walking back and forth on the walls, sitting on the steps of a long wooden barracks. There must be hundreds of them here already, he thought.
A group of Horsekin and human women walked slowly and with great dignity to join Rocca and Salamander. The two humans and the pair of Horsekin all wore long doeskin dresses, heavily painted with symbols and abstract designs, that fell to their ankles but left their tattooed arms bare. While the Horsekin women had shaved their heads and wore little leather caps, the humans had kept their hair long.
“See you the elderly woman there?” Rocca pointed at a women with gray hair piled up high on top of her head. “That be Lakanza, the high priestess. Behind her come some of my sisters in the faith.”
“I thought they must be holy women,” Salamander said. “They walk with such gravity.”
“They all be worthy of the faith. Well.” Rocca’s voice turned sour. “Except for one. But this be no time for that. Look you just beyond the shrine itself. See there that circle marked out with stones?”
“I do,” Salamander said. “That flat boulder in the middle? Is that an altar?”
“It be the neophytes’ holy altar