At last the head priest let out a shriek that nearly matched the horns.

“The dark, the dark!” he cried out. “We must light the dark!”

Other priests shoved the prisoners forward. They struggled, twisted, but the priests forced them to their knees. In the glittering torchlight silver swords flashed up and swung down. The dead Meradan fell forward, their heads dangling from strips of skin and spine, as blood gushed. The bronze horns screamed over and over as the priests lifted the bodies and placed them on the altar. Ranadar stepped forward and flung his torch into the firewood.

The assembled crowd waited, gasping for breath, as the flames flickered, nearly died, then caught with an uprush of fire. The gongs clanged and clashed as the assembly let out its collective breath in a sigh of relief. The torchbearers hurried forward in long lines and began to cast their torches into the blaze.

Rhodorix looked toward the east. Although the stone walls of the fortress blocked the horizon, he could see the faint first silver of dawn. The stars were beginning to disappear at the sun’s first lighting. Well, there! he thought. It’s back for another year.

The priests and the prince had drawn back from the blazing altar where the prisoners burned. Ranadar turned from the altar and motioned to his men to follow him. Andariel and Rhodorix collected the guards and marched off behind their rhix in an untidy mob.

Ranadar led them all the way back to the new stables, where they clustered around him at his command.

“I want you all to know,” he said, “that I forced the priests to kill those men before they were thrown onto the fire. They wanted to lay them alive on the altar.”

Rhodorix’s stomach twisted in disgust. Andariel shook his head and shuddered. Several of the guardsmen swore.

“They told me,” Ranadar went on, “that the times demanded sacrifices beyond the usual. The cows weren’t enough, they said, since the gods were so obviously furious with us. I told them I wouldn’t take part unless the men died first.” His rage vanished, and his voice suddenly wavered in self-doubt. “They kill the cattle first, don’t they? I haven’t cursed us all, have I?”

“They do, my prince,” Andariel said. “I think you’ve saved us all from a worse bane than any priest could lay upon you.”

“My thanks.” Ranadar paused, gathering his breath. “And the sun is rising. Well, it’s done, no matter what the outcome may be.”

Rhodorix had been hoping along with Gerontos that his brother’s leg would heal up straight and sound. As the winter days wore on, each a little longer than the last, his hope vanished. A month or so after the solstice rites, Gerro started walking without leaning on a stick, but he limped with a sideways roll from a frozen knee. Though neither wanted to voice it, both men knew he’d never fight on foot again at his former level of skill. Eventually, however, when the snows turned soft during somewhat warmer days, though they still froze again at night, Rhodorix brought the subject up.