Fletcher examined the hieroglyphs closest to him. The symbols depicted the jungle’s animals and plants, a sort of alphabet based on the natural world. They bore no resemblance to the orc runes that he had seen on Ignatius’s summoning scroll, which were formed from jagged lines and dots.
It was impossible to decipher their meaning, so he turned his attention to the sacks of petals by his feet. After Jeffrey’s warnings of the jungle plants he avoided touching them, but a deep sniff revealed them to smell similar to tobacco, with an alcoholic tinge. What the petals of a plant like that were doing within the pyramid was a mystery.
‘Guys, I think you need to take a look at this,’ Verity said, looking up from her scrying stone with wide eyes. ‘They’ve reached the pyramid.’
So they had. The tablet showed the skull-shaped palanquin being lowered, the rhinos kneeling before the great stairs. Fletcher also noticed drums had begun to beat again – even this deep into the pyramid the dull thump could be heard, as if the ancient building had a pulse of its own.
That was when Fletcher saw him. The albino orc, leaping out of the skull to land on the steps, his body a perfect symmetry of power and athleticism. His appearance triggered roars and the stamping of feet from the crowd, until their fervour shook the very ground.
It was true that the albino orc was taller than the other orcs, standing at what must have been eight feet. He wore little more than a plain skirt, his white skin greased to gleam like polished ivory. In contrast to the plethora of stylings from the orcs around him, a simple mane of ashen hair fell over his shoulders, as long and thick as Sylva’s. He was less bulky than those around him, with rangy musculature suited more for speed than strength.
He raised his arms, welcoming the adoration of the spectators. Nodding and smiling through his savage tusks, he walked like a dancer up the steps, his pace fluid and controlled. Two shamans flanked him, their Nanaues vaulting back and forth along the stair with excitement.
Before they had reached the top, the crowd’s roar turned into a chant, a single word repeated over and over, muffled by the walls of the pyramid. The drummers punctuated the mantra with the beat, redoubling their efforts to keep in time with the masses.
‘What are they saying, Verity?’ Fletcher asked, trying to make out the word.
‘Khan,’ Verity said, her eyes closed with concentration. ‘It sounds like Khan.’
‘That’s his name,’ Mason said, shuddering. ‘That’s what they call him.’
The three orcs had reached the top of the steps by then, and as Fletcher watched, Khan withdrew a jagged, obsidian knife from a scabbard at his waist.
The crowd went mad, howling and screaming in a fanatical fervour. Only the score of blue orcs who had lost the pitz contest remained silent, kneeling at the base of the steps. Then, one by one, they were shoved up the stairway, making the long walk to the top.
‘This is too weird,’ Cress murmured. ‘There’s nothing up there. What are they doing?’
‘You’ll see,’ Mason said grimly, shuffling away from them. ‘But I’d rather not watch if it’s all the same to you.’
The first blue orc reached the flat top of the pyramid. Even though Ebony was far above him, Fletcher could see that the orc’s hands were shaking. He shuffled forward until Khan jerked him on to the altar. The blue orc lay there, spread-eagled, while the albino orc raised the knife. Fletcher looked away just in time.
Verity retched and handed the tablet to Sylva, running to heave in the corner. The rest looked on in horror. Only Jeffrey had been spared the scene, too fascinated with the etchings on the wall to pay attention to the tablet.
‘Sacrifices for the old gods, the forgotten gods,’ Mason murmured. ‘Orcs are scared of ’em, reckon they’re inside this ’ere temple. So they give ’em the most blood – more than they give to any of the others.’
The blue orc’s corpse was hurled down the steps, to tumble past the remaining victims and into the crowds below. The onlookers cried out once again, scrambling for the body then raising it above their heads and passing it backwards in a macabre celebration.
Another sacrifice lay down on the altar, his chest heaving with fear. The knife rose and fell once more. Khan held the still-twitching carcass by the ankle, crimson spurting from the gaping chest wound and on to the altar.
The group in the pyramid stood there for a while, watching the blood drip with grim fascination. Until Jeffrey spoke up.
‘Guys. You’re not going to believe this.’
40
They stared at the wall Jeffrey was pointing at, unable to believe their eyes. Malik snuffed out the nearest wyrdlights and replaced them with a ball of fire, so that the faded colours were not tinged with blue light.