Free The Dragon God (Book 2) by Brae Wyckoff

stood shoulder-to-shoulder around each of the structures, humming a low dirge and swaying side-to-side in rhythm. The chieftain, with red stripes painted on his cheeks, yellow on his forehead and nose, orange streaks on his arms, and black tribal markings on his chest and stomach, waited for the appropriate moment and then raised his arms above his head and declared, “Our fathers and oldfathers taught us the ways of our tribe, Yavakai. We will honor them once again in the tradition of Arati, the Flame of the Sky. Our god has never lost. I remind you now of the names who have bowed before our god. Lovakee, Hurroon, Azbon, and Bimola—all were challengers, and all are only spoken now to glorify the mighty Thahaal. Our great sun lord has given us our customs, our ways of life, and our harvest of children to continue to gain his favor.”
    Dulgin nudged Abawken, “Too bad we can’t feed this Huey to the monkey we killed and see how he likes it.”
    The chief yelled, “Let the challenge of the gods begin!”
    His followers immediately shifted from vocalizing the low hum, to uttering a cadence of several repetitive grunts, like thuds of a beating drum. The women of the tribe danced out on the dirt forum and added to the initiated rhythm with high pitched shouts.
    Again, the leader raised his hands and the sound dwindled back to shallow guttural grunts. Turning to Bridazak, he began again, “You have challenged our mighty Thahaal and he has accepted. Once the all-powerful Thahaal sets fire to the altar, then the ordakian is to be sacrificed to satisfy Thahaal’s anger.”
    Bridazak stepped forward and shouted above the commotion, “When my God smites my wood with fire, then your people will turn from Thahaal and worship my God—and you will never sacrifice innocent life again.”
    The chieftain glared and then grudgingly nodded. “Let it be so.”
    Two tribesmen grabbed Bridazak by the arms. Dulgin raised his axe and started toward Bridazak and his captors, but Abawken stopped him.
    “It will be okay, Dulgin,” Bridazak reassured his friend. “He said He would never leave us nor forsake us. Do you remember?”
    The two brutes dragged Bridazak to a wooden pole, a short distance from the prepared altars, and tied his hands and feet. Then they pulled out a dagger and held it to his throat. The cold steel made him flinch.
    Spilf held his breath and thought, “I can’t lose the family I have known in pursuit of the one I lost. How did it come to this?”
    Dulgin whispered to Abawken, “If they kill Bridazak, this village will be destroyed with or without your help, so help me God.”
    The painted chieftain raised his hands in the air and his subjects began their eerie chant once again. He circled the shrine of wood and children’s skulls.
    “Oh great Thahaal, hear us! Oh great Thahaal, send us your fire! We give you thanks for bringing your people to this place. You have surrounded us with your protection in the secret mist; those men who rejected your gift or leave your provision are outcasts never to return, banished, forever separated. You have tested us in this time with shortage of food, but we are faithful to your ways even now! See our offerings and bring your burning judgement on these challengers.” His pleas continued for a long while until the zeal of the dancers and bowing villagers lessened to shuffling and a murmur of unintelligible prayers.
    Bridazak’s eyes raked across the village of a desperate people in search of something to ease their suffering, and he felt overwhelmed with compassion for them. The jangle of ornamental animal bones and horns hanging about the village sounded like wind chimes. The old skins the village clothed themselves in were bleached and worn, and, he noticed, repaired one too many times. The cryptic story the chief had told suddenly made sense. Still tied to the post, Bridazak called out, “Everyone! Your Thahaal is the cause of your lack of food. He is the cause of your men