The Providence of Fire
“The blood-drenched spectacle wasn’t just some arbitrary ritual carried out in accordance with the chieftain’s whim or the phases of the moon: it was a particular sacrifice begging Meshkent’s favor as the Urghul rode to war.
Long Fist’s army had since crossed the White River north of the confluence, avoiding the Annurian forts to the east. The rafts ferrying the horses and their riders were ridiculous, precarious craft, crudely lashed and awkwardly balanced, but there were hundreds of them, hundreds upon hundreds, the numbers alone betraying months of preparation; Gwenna felt sick to her stomach when she saw them lined up along the shore. Long Fist didn’t need rafts to defend his land. He needed them to attack.
By the time they’d crossed the river, the shaman had dropped all pretense of their “honored guest” status. Their tent was ringed with guards each night, and they weren’t allowed out except in the evening, when they were forced to take part in the bloody nighttime rituals.
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