Manko stepped out onto the terrace through a small doorway of impossibly tight-fitting stone, the two caracara feathers on his crown moving with the slight breeze. The sun sat high above the mountains and the andenes that hugged their shape. He continued along the thin walkway, trodding slowly and followed by a small entourage of three soldiers clad in dark body-armour; contrasting his own traditional yacolla covered in red, yellow, white, and pink. They walked in silence, passing only a few farmers who bowed in reverence before returning to work. That was until a young man clutching a quipu to his chest ran up, panting but then bowing. His llama soon arrived, following him at a slower pace.
“Sapa Inka Qhapaq Intip Churin! I bring a message from Apo Pichiu”, he glanced at his quipu briefly,
“He requests that you grant him audience at his Pumasqosqo palace, Willka Intip Churin.” he added, still bowing and in a tone of almost intoxicating respect.
Manko sighed,
“Tell him we’ll be en route. Rest first though, wawayki, you’re in no state to ride back and we won’t be leaving for some time anyway.” he responded.
“Thank you, Willka Intip Churin!”
Manko nodded the messenger goodbye as they ran off hastily, feeling pity for his tradition-enforced ways of moving around. Dune karts were so much faster. The group continued on to the farmhouse.
***
As they approached the house the group stopped and Manko sent a soldier forward to the door. He could see the door open a crack as the soldier spoke to an unknown person inside in hushed tones momentarily before being signalled to walk in. Entering the house, Manko could scarcely see with only small beams of light leaking through the shoddily made shutters. A phone torch was turned on. Manko could now see the soldiers and a frail, old farmer who was motioning with his hand for the group to follow him down some stairs.
“Would it hurt to turn on some lights instead?” Manko asked, struggling to navigate the steep steps in almost total darkness.
“What we are doing is not for the Sun to see, young man.” The farmer responded irritably, while grabbing his hand with force to lead him further.
After some time, they arrived in a well lit room buried within the building’s foundations - the caracara feathers of Manko’s crown only barely fit through the doorway. The room itself was a shambles, the walls damaged with adobe falling off and wallpaper only half-torn from them and the floor was covered in dirt. Manko began to fear for his safety. In the back of the room, on a small table, laid a baby, the farmer’s grandchild.
“Intip Churin. My child’s life as an offering to save your own child’s.” the farmer announced pensively.
“Thank you, you and your children and your children’s children will be rewarded beyond measure.” Manko responded, his throat tightening with guilt.
Human sacrifice had been illegal for a century now, despite the consensual nature of the historical acts, but Manko was desperate now. No doctors with the knowledge to save his child could be found and bought. He was forced to buy the favour of his gods.
One of the soldiers at his rear handed him a small dagger made of animal bone.
The farmer left.
And Manko approached the child.
