Rhaif frowned within his hood. Before he was sentenced to Chalk, there had been rumblings of a conflict between the northern Kingdom of Hálendii and the lands of the Southern Klashe. Apparently, over the past couple years, tensions had worsened.
One of the Shriven attempted to answer Laach’s query. “We will need further study, but what we have fathomed—”
He was cut off by the Shrive who had led Rhaif here. “Best to let our conjectures and speculations rest, Skerren,” he intoned. “Until we know more.”
The other’s eyes narrowed to slits, but his head bowed. “Yes, until we know more,” Skerren repeated. “You are indeed correct, Wryth.”
Clearly the leader among them, Wryth turned to another of his brethren. “Now that we have confirmation, go prepare what we need.”
A nod answered him. “We’ve already consecrated a bloodbaerne.” He motioned to the Shrive next to him. “We’ll fetch it here.”
“Very good.”
The two set off toward a small door on the far side of the room.
As they waited, Wryth turned to Archsheriff Laach, but his gaze fixed to the statue. “We registered its stirrings seven days ago. It’s what drew us all here.”
“Why was I not alerted at that time?”
“We wished to be certain first. And as you’ve witnessed, you arrived at a fortuitous time. What with the quake erupting as you entered the mine. Maybe your presence even played a fateful role. If so, it would suggest the Lord ?reyk deems you one of great importance and worth.”
Laach stood straighter. All of Anvil knew that the archsheriff held himself in the highest esteem and absorbed praise like a watered weed. Still, the sick set of his lips revealed a measure of his uneasiness at this particular honor.
All knew, it was seldom good to draw the gaze of the dark god.
Laach swallowed hard and pointed to the statue. “What do you propose to do with it now?”
“A simple test. To ensure the ancient texts prove true.”
“And after that?”
“I suspect we’ll need at least another moon’s time—maybe twice that—before we will know if there is any value in this artifact beyond academic.”
The door at the back opened again, and the two Shriven returned, leading a huge Gyn. Rhaif gaped at the hulking servant who had to bow through the doorway. Bald-headed and craggy-faced, he looked more like a boulder that had sprouted rocky arms and legs. He was naked, except for a loincloth. His muscles rolled under the hairy mat of his chest and legs. Rhaif had rarely seen such tribesmen. They hailed from the steppes of northern Aglerolarpok, a land far to the west. The Gyn were considered dull-witted, often used for the hardest of labors. But this man bore a hundred brands scarred into his flesh, ancient alchymies of submission and control.
The figure pushed a rolling cart, twice the size of those used to haul ore. Atop it rose a complicated stack of steel, bronze, and copper structures, like a tiny version of a shining city. Each was connected and intertwined to its neighbor by a baffling labyrinth of copper tubes. Throughout, toothed gears turned in some arcane spectacle, perhaps driven by magick or alchymy.
At the back rose a glass cylinder bubbling with a golden elixir. It reminded Rhaif of the fluid coursing across the inside of that infernal copper egg. Only here, there was no glow or sheen.
The Gyn and two Shriven drew abreast of their group. Only then did Rhaif spot what lay at the heart of the contrivance. A young woman, barely older than a girl, lay on her back, imbedded within the monstrous contrivance, as if she were the foundations of this dread city. But that was not the worst horror.
Rhaif gasped and backed away. He couldn’t help it. But his reaction was ignored, especially as Keel did the same. Even the archsheriff paled and lifted a hand to his throat.
The Gyn pushed the cart alongside the bronze figure.
Rhaif wanted to look away, but dismay gripped him. The girl had a window cut into her chest, exposing a beating heart and a pair of lungs billowing in and out. A tube ran into her mouth, connected to a set of moving bellows, not unlike those found at a smith’s forge.
The only bit of mercy found here was that the girl looked gone from this world, alive but not here. Her glassy eyes stared blankly at the domed roof. Her entrapped limbs did not fight the steel and bronze that bound her in place.
“What … What is this?” Laach asked, stepping forward and lowering his hand from his throat as his horror faded.
“A bloodbaerne,” Shrive Wryth explained. “You need not understand. Few do beyond our circle. But it will serve as the test I mentioned.”
Wryth circled to the tall cylinder and manipulated something back there. As he did so, a darkness flowed into the golden fluid. It spiraled and spread. The exposed heart of the girl began to beat faster, as if in panic.
Rhaif returned his attention to the darkening cylinder and recognized what contaminated the golden fluid.
Blood.
Pumped into the chamber by the girl’s own heart.
As they waited, the Shriven whispered in their arcane tongue, occasionally pointing or peering closer. It did not take long before the beating heart slowed and finally diminished to a shivering quiver—then stopped. The lungs lost their air and sank into the chest.
Wryth nodded, clearly satisfied. He stepped around, drawing forth a tube that draped back to the dark cylinder. He crossed to the statue, and with the help of the Shrive Skerren, the two connected the tube to the figure’s navel.
Wryth then nodded to another, who pulled a lever.
With an ominous moan, the cylinder drained, emptying its elixir through the tube and into the hollows of the statue’s belly. Once it was finished, Wryth unhooked the tube and tossed it back to the cart. The Shrive’s attention remained on the statue.
“What’s supposed to happen?” Laach asked.
“Patience,” Wryth whispered. “We shall see.”
Rhaif held his breath—then a soft sheen brightened the bronze, so subtle only Rhaif seemed to note it. None of the others reacted. He gulped and wanted to back away, but feared drawing attention.
The sheen seemed to warm the coppery bronze. While the metal remained unmoving and hard, the reflection of the room’s lanterns off its surface shimmered and flowed, refracting the light into brighter hues of crimson, azure, and emerald, like oil spreading over water.
Gasps rose from the others now. Some drew nearer, others retreated.
Rhaif kept his spot.
As he watched, one of the folded hands lifted, drawing up an arm.
Stunned, they all withdrew, except for Rhaif. He remained transfixed at the wonder of it all. He remembered those eyes opening earlier. As if stirred by the memory, those lids parted again, shining forth with a golden light.
I hadn’t imagined it.
The bronze head turned, swiveling slightly to one side.
The archsheriff shifted away, as if to avoid that gaze. He kissed his fingertips and touched each ear in a warding against evil.
Rhaif simply stared, suddenly wanting to see what was behind that golden glow. But it was not to be. The brightness dimmed in those eyes and the lids sank back closed. The arm fell back to its side. All the magick seemed to fade from its form. Even the shimmer of radiant oil returned to a dull bronze.
No one moved. No one spoke for several stunned breaths.