This Red Sky

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The ringing in Syralth's ears was loud enough to block out all sound. Her sleep-deprived mind struggled to comprehend what she was reading. Her eyes travelled over the writing three more times. The parchment shook in her hands.

"Heh."

A small chuckle escaped her lips. The world came back into focus.  She was kneeling on the skins of the tent, shaking.  She could feel the cultists' eyes on her back. Her fingers tightened on the letter, crumpling it.  The parchment ripped as her hands balled into fists. A hot tear ran down one cheek.

Syralth's mouth broke into an uncontrollable smile, and a giggle bubbled forth from inside of her. Her eyes welled up with tears.

Syralth laughed. Her shoulders shook from it. Her whole body rocked back and forth. Her fists were clenched so tightly her nails drew blood from her palms.

Still doubled over with mirth, tears streaming down her cheeks, Syralth ripped the letter to pieces. The parchment fell shredded to the skins on the ground. She staggered to her feet, biting her lip against the gasps of laughter that still fought to escape. Her chest rose and fell with ragged breaths until she could compose herself. Slowly, she turned to face the flap of the tent.

Szandra held it open in shaking hands. As she stepped out into the bloody light, the sun hurting her eyes, Syralth saw that nearly all of the cult had gathered around the tent. Their faces watched her with a mix of fear, confusion and reverence. Four cultists were holding the two struggling guards who'd abandoned the stable and allowed the bowman to escape.

"Was battle's glory worth it?" Syralth asked in their direction. Her voice was quiet, hoarse, higher pitched than she expected. Suddenly she felt weak. She drew herself up to her full height, green eyes sweeping the crowd. "Lock them in the stable. They will pay for the blood they lost us."

The two guards fought desperately as their former comrades dragged them towards the prison they once guarded. Syralth wanted to cover her ears as she heard a young girl shriek and run after them. Two women pulled her back, holding her tightly as she dissolved into sobs.
There was no other sound. Syralth turned to Szandra.  

"We are completing the ritual tonight," she said in a normal voice. The cult village was quiet enough that all the hundreds who'd gathered could hear. "By sunset, my brothers will join me in the skies." She sucked in a ragged breath, raising her voice with the last strength she had left. "Brothers!" she shouted over the crowd. "Rest while the sun hangs above, for tonight will be a test of your strength. The blood of Palasotarr will colour the sky again! The true gods rise tonight!"

There was silence for another moment. For a moment, Syralth half-expected them to break into mutiny.

A cultist raised a bloody fist into the air, gripping an iron axe. He brought it down against his shield. The metallic clang reverberated in the mountain basin. The cultist beat his shield three more times, and then lowered the the axe slowly. Syralth met his black eyes over the crowd.

"Roh sz'aron dhar!" he shouted. Long live the king.

There was another pause. Another man hit his chest with a large hand, repeating the cry. A child's voice rose next, and then the raspy one of an old woman, slamming her staff into the ground.

The cult's voices rose all at once, deafening, united. It was like the roar of an enraged dragon. The warriors beat their shields and roared. Szandra joined them, shrieking the words high and shrill over the tidal wave of deep voices. Syralth felt the sound crash over her, closing her eyes.

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Flies buzzed around Sonia's face. They crawled on her neck, tiny wings flapping too close to her eyes. She swatted them away.