This Red Sky

Chapter Twenty-one

 Wagon wheels crunched on the dirt. The sun shone through the canvas covering of the wooden vehicle. Sonia blinked sleep from her eyes. Men were shouting, and oxen grunted and strained against their harnesses.

She sat up, wincing a little as she felt the bruises from the night before last.  Sonia tightened the binding on her hair, looking around.

She had fallen asleep between the three trunks from Syralth's room as a company of Faithful made their way up the twisting, narrow paths to their hidden village. It was dawn when she'd finally dozed off, and now the golden autumn sun was high in the sky.

Horses plodded ahead of the wagon. Sonia could hear the guttural sound of voices speaking the Faithful tongue. Peering out the flaps in the back of the cart, she could see a haze of smoke filling the sky. She could smell it too—a mix of flesh, wood and herbs burning away in a fire's hot maw. The chatter of voices was loud and harsh.

The wagon creaked to a stop. Sonia immediately jumped out, her shoes hitting the ground hard. The men's clothes still left her feeling exposed, and she pulled down the hem of the tunic as she looked around.

The village of Cordath was unrecognizable. Tents of sheepskin, canvas and leather had sprung up between the houses, and the basin-like compound was crawling with burly warriors. A new stone furnace blazed, two shirtless blacksmiths hammering swords and axes into shape. Sonia saw different symbols painted on banners that hung on the walls of the clay houses.

"Men of Faith have come from every cult in the hills," Syralth called back to her, dismounting from a horse at the front of the group.

Sonia followed her towards the center of the village, her heart sinking at every new sight. A group of men sparred, their weapons clashing together. The blood of a broken nose spattered the ground, glistening in the sun. A woman passed, hollow-cheeked, arms stained red up to the elbows. Sonia looked down.

Her heart stopped as they reached the center of the village. The houses had been cleared here, and now men and oxen drenched in sweat dragged heavy stone boulders towards a circle that was forming, the stones painted with runes. A spiral was carved into the ground. At the center, was a flat stone altar, a skull affixed into each corner, connected by a strange web drawn in chalk. The flat surface was stained red.

"It feels strange, doesn't it?" Syralth noticed her looking. "Seeing the spells of centuries past being performed again?"

It felt like being plunged into a horror story that would once be told by the fire in Blackhost. Sonia shrugged, refusing eye contact with the shifter.

Syralth moved away after a moment. Sonia tugged at the hem of the tunic again, looking around.

A woman staggered by, a covered basket balanced on her head. She was emaciated, hooded, hands veiny and clawlike. The basket slipped precariously.

"Let me help," Sonia hurried over, grateful to have something to do. Her stronger hands reached up to take the basket. The woman startled, her wild dark eyes meeting Sonia's. Both froze.

It was Szandra who met her eye. The priestess was barely recognizable. Deep scars marred her face, dragging down the corner of one lip, splitting an eyebrow in half. Sonia could see the same on her forearms, raised and shiny. A strand of greasy hair hung over her forehead.

They stared at each other for a long moment, as if waiting for the other to move first. Sonia quickly took the basket in her arms, balancing it on her hip.

"A face I never thought I'd see again," Szandra said in a hoarse voice. She put her arms down, and her sleeves fell to cover the scars.
Sonia didn't ask what had happened to the fanatic priestess's skin. Even as Falscha moved among the cultists, harmless-looking in her flowing red cloak, the image of the dragon's claws remained in her mind.