Zu leaned against the half wall surrounding the amphitheater and watched the workers unearth yet another drum. A few of the townsfolk milled about, supervising the task. The cobbler, an aging orc with calloused fingers and failing sight, squinted at the younglings preparing for the ritual. He explained that there were six ‘big booms’ and twenty-eight ‘baby booms.’ The twenty-eight smaller drums, already surfaced, surrounded a raised dais at the base of the pit. The workers had moved on to the six ‘big booms’ looming over the imposing circle of tiered stone seats that ringed the platform.
“In the First Age,” the old man said, “this town here was the religious capital of the Zegret Empire. All the important rituals were performed on that very stage.” He pointed into the yawning basin. “Six and twenty-eight are sacred numbers for us. Did you know that, youngling?”
Zu shook his head, even though he did. The cobbler wanted to speak his piece, and it wasn’t in Zu’s nature to deny a man past his prime the chance to feel of worth.
“Oh, aye. Six for the goddesses and twenty-eight for the demigods who do their bidding on Ex’ala. The three goddesses of the greenskins: Koruzan the orc general, Korzha the goblin trickster and Kaza the ogre mage—a right nasty piece of work that one. And then, of course, Eroa, goddess of fate; Algernica, goddess of war; and Hlenice, goddess of the moon. It is said that Solonia cast a curse upon the greenskin goddesses during the Time of Treachery, but Hlenice intervened. She stymied the curse, much as she could, and became a champion for our peoples. That’s why our power waxes and wanes along with her. The greenskin goddesses can’t be caught in Solonia’s glare without Hlenice’s protection, else the vengeful sister will smite them dead. She sure knows how to carry a grudge, does Solonia.”
The old orc continued to have his fun, regaling Zu with more nonsense about the First Age and magick and the gods. Zu had never heard half the stories the man recounted, nor could he judge the truth of the cobbler’s words.
Three of the workers slid aside a massive stone slab on the outer ring of the pit, revealing another drum. From the strain on the orcs’ faces, Zu easily imagined the barrel’s immense weight. A clever mechanism lifted the remaining pieces from the hole in the ground, and they set about assembling the instrument, stretching a bison skin taut over its frame. One of the men glanced over at Zu, a sympathetic smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he rolled his eyes at the doddering cobbler. He snatched up a mallet and pounded on the drum, producing a rich, sonorous boom that echoed off the mountain cliffs to the west, then caught up to his two partners to repeat the entire process at the next one.
“…That’s why the lunatics come out and ravage the land when the moon is full and wait until Hlenice is hidden to share their secrets, when whispers can’t be heard, nor conspiring uncovered.”
Once the cobbler had worn out his stories, Zu asked, “Have you ever witnessed any rituals?”
“Last one performed here was the Gar Hira. I’d know. Lived here as long as any orc. Me and Kezza’s all that’s left from our generation, the first to leave the mountains after Qish Grusk took control of these lands. Takes a consequential person to dig up the Zegret drums, it does. The last time were nigh on four decades back. Not many alive today who remember it, I’d wager.” He frowned.
“But you do?” Zu asked with hesitation.
“Oh, aye,” the cobbler replied. “The girl they tried to save was a humie princess from the old country. Forced our clan down from the mountains to help. When it were all finished, they killed our shaman and banished the rest of us back to the cold. T’weren’t his fault though. The arrogant humie king refused to listen. Kezza told him they needed more energy, more witnesses, but there were only a few dozen in the end. Hard as Kezza and her Daboo tried, you can’t squeeze a river from a blade of grass.”
Concern furrowing his brow, Zu continued to survey the unearthing of the drums as the old man spoke.
“Don’t you worry, youngling. Every single orc, blooded and humie here will be giving their last drop of energy to save your friend. The gods will have no choice but to listen.” He patted Zu on the arm and wandered back toward his shop, disappearing through the wooden doorframe.
Zu turned back to the amphitheater, imagining what was to come that night: the crowd, the dance, the drums, the chant. Much as he longed to find comfort in the cobbler’s assurances, he couldn’t shake this ill feeling.
Four ramps divided the round pit into sections, each leading to the platform at the center from a cardinal direction. Standing on the stone seats, staring down at the stage, Zu was reminded of the theater in Brogh. That one was only a semicircle; the stage where the actors performed butted against a wall to project the sound toward the spectators. Here, there was little distinction between actor and spectator. Here, everyone was expected to take part.
Zu had kept Kezza up until dawn asking question after exhaustive question about the ritual, its chance of success or failure, its likely ramifications, and most importantly, why she believed she had discovered a better way to perform it than her predecessor. Her Daboo, she had called him. She had explained, “We are all magick, and because of that we are often drawn to certain places, certain climates and company and ambiance. Go’hai attracts the magickally inclined, both those who might have had the talent to be shamans or sorcerers in the First Age and those who are simply more attuned to the soul of Ex’ala. I will use that untapped reservoir during my ritual. My Daboo relied too heavily on the two of us, and so, when our reserves were depleted, the magick was snuffed out like a fire starved of air. The ritual failed.”
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Zu had wondered why she had no apprentice. If the magickally inclined flocked to Go’hai, would she not have been keen to pass on her knowledge?
“We shamans only train one in a hundred hundred who come through our towns. Not because we couldn’t train more, but because of the Corruption. It takes a particular sort of person to practice the arts these days. It is rare indeed to find a child of the right age and temperament. Too eager and the youngling would burn through the magick, no doubt dying in the process, or worse. Too timid and the power would waste away like a smoldering coal. Too attuned and they might overreach, tapping into the chaotic magicks of the Corruption. Too old and the flower refuses to blossom, much like seeds planted too late in the season. A shaman may take on only one apprentice at a time. With so few of us left, if another promising youngling comes along while we are engaged, that talent will wither and die inside the child. With our brand of magick, a female shaman may train only a boy, and a man must train a girl. The proper balance must be struck—no exceptions.” Her voice took on a mournful tone. “I had an apprentice once.”
He had died long ago. She’d been close with the boy and had felt his passing keenly but had continued her diligent search, in service to her people.
After her Daboo had been killed, Kezza realized that the shamanic approach to magick must change. She had compared her magickal reserves to her breasts: serviceable, but too small and too often untapped. While she couldn’t teach her people to wield the magick, she had taught them the language, the essence, respect for its awesome power. She had taught them when it was useful and when mundane measures would suffice. They had all become her apprentices in a way.
Zu ran a hand along the cool, smooth dais. He cringed when he thought of all the ways the magick could go wrong, but Kezza had unerring faith in her people. The men and women of Go’hai were busy preparing for the ritual, setting up chairs around the drums, dusting off the stones, painting ancient and unrecognizable runes in what appeared to be blood on the nearby buildings.
The bustling excitement aside, the day felt inauspicious to Zu, no matter how hard he wished for the contrary. Hlenice would be almost completely hidden that night, her aid beyond the reach of her subjects. Even Algernica’s fire waned. Although her day, the longest and hottest of the year, was less than a turn away, it was unseasonably cool. Zu had asked to postpone the ritual until the solstice, but Kezza insisted that Yechvan was fading, that it must be tonight or not at all, though her own power had waned with Hlenice.
A dense cloud of dust listed toward the mountains in the stagnant air, signaling the arrival of the rest of the party from the treaty negotiations. With one final appraising scan of the amphitheater, Zu walked up the southern ramp. He turned his gaze to Solonia, just past her zenith. The sky had been wiped clear of clouds. All the gods in the heavens would bear witness to their ritual that night, and Hlenice would only be peeking in, not strong enough to lend her protection to Yechvan should a more deceitful god wish him ill. Zu offered a silent prayer to Koruzan, hoping she was listening.
“Head in the heavens, as always.” Roog’s baritone rumbled through the streets like the wheels of a cart.
“Did Ulula and I miss anything after we left last night?” Zu asked.
“They fed us and wished us well in the morning.” Roog clapped a hand upon Zu’s shoulder and lowered his voice. “Gods be damned, there only be a few of us who know how lucky we are. Your father was prepared to sue for peace a quarter turn before you and Yechvan saved us. Again,” he added with a laugh. “I don’t think I’ll have another chance to tell you in private, so be sure to pass along my gratitude to Yechvan. How is he?”
Zu shook his head. “The shaman is preparing for Gar Hira. Are you familiar with it?”
“I’ve read about it,” Roog said, scratching his fringe of grey hair. “Risky, eh? Do you think it will work?”
“I pray to all the gods who will listen that it does.”
“Might want to send a word to those who won’t as well, to be safe. Either way, Yechvan will live on in the legends. He has proven himself worthy of that.”
“I’m not so sure he will, if he lives on,” Zu said. “Yechvan has a way of sabotaging himself. He is a good man, the best I have ever known, but he is haunted.”
Roog snorted, the wrinkles on his brow deepening. “We all are. By Koruzan, how could you not be after what we’ve seen?” He sighed and stretched. “Gods be, I’m ready for a bed and a—”
He stopped himself when Little Grask rounded the corner. As Eroa would have it, Grusk strode into the town center at the same time. The townsfolk in the courtyard bowed low, not once but twice. The respect that Zu and Roog commanded paled in comparison to the reverence shown by the commoners to their qish and qince.
“Grask,” Grusk said, causing the boy to smile.
“It is good to see you, father.”
“What is this?” the qish asked, ignoring Zu. He’d been ignoring Zu since issuing his empty threat outside the tent on the first day of the peace talks and would continue to do so for as long as he deemed necessary to make his point.
“Gar Hira,” Roog said. “It seems Yechvan is in dire need.”
“And you authorized this without my approval?” Grusk’s nostrils flared as he turned on Little Grask.
“Yechvan is dying, father.”
“We couldn’t wait for you to give your consent, not that we needed it,” Zu said, defending his brother.
“Fancy yourself the qish, do you, boy?” Grusk growled.
“What?” Little Grask stammered.
“I’m not dead yet,” he said, shouldering past his heir.
Roog tossed his hands up in defeat and trailed after Grusk toward the town elder’s house, their lodging for the evening.
“Worry not, Little Grask,” Zu said, wrapping his arm around the boy’s tiny shoulders. “You made the right call, and it was yours to make. Let us hope the stubborn fool dies soon, so we will no longer have to bow to a qish who refuses to see your worth.”
Little Grask stared up at Zu, stunned silence parting his lips. Zu patted him once more and watched their father disappear down the crowded street, engulfed by throngs of bowing onlookers.
