David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

Bardiya turned away and closed his eyes.

“Come now, giant,” said the horrific man. “Look at me. Look at how weak I am.”

“No.”

Bony fingers dug into his cheeks, forcing his head to turn. Bardiya was too exhausted to offer any resistance.

“You will,” Clovis said. “You will look, and you will see.”

“I see nothing,” he said, his anger welling inside him. “I see a godless thing that will soon die, only to suffer for eternity in its own special pit in the darkness.”

Clovis offered him a horrendous grin. “I thought you preached love and forgiveness? What happened to that? What happened to the singing ? And giant, if I am to die, how will it happen? Will you destroy me?”

Bardiya almost lunged at him, but instead let out a deep sigh. “Your depravity will destroy you. The gods will not allow it. Why else would you be fading away before my eyes?”

“You assume much, giant. I am not the only one fading away.” There was a bag at the man’s feet, and Clovis reached inside it, removing a flattened piece of reflective glass. He then held the glass in front of Bardiya, chuckling. The red glow of his eyes intensified.

The face in the mirror was indeed that of Bardiya Gorgoros, but it was sunken now, the skin stretched, much like Clovis’s. Numerous deep crevasses sprouted from the corners of his eyes. His cheeks drooped, forming jowls, and atop his head was a thick thatch of white curls.

Bardiya sat back, aghast at his own reflection. He was so in shock he knew not what to say; though he had never stopped growing, by appearance he had remained unchanged for more than seventy years. He slumped down, letting the harness carry him to his side. Realization came over him: The pains now running through his body were not his constant growing pains, but the ache of time, of life, of age .

Clovis laughed at him as he stuffed the mirror back into his bag. “Your god has abandoned you, giant, but I have not.” The man leaned in close, and Bardiya could smell decay on his breath. “I once promised that you would bring true beauty back to this world. It is time you fulfilled your duties. The feast begins now.”

With that, the man stood. His emaciated form hobbled away, heading for the now-finished dais in front of the Black Spire.

“Do not listen to him!” shouted Ceredon. “The beast lies!”

Bardiya was too busy wallowing in his despair to listen. Ashhur, why have you discarded me? Have I not lived as you desired?

A horn blew, echoing across the desert and drawing the attention of all to the dais. The people of Ang were herded to the front of the assembly while soldiers approached Bardiya and forced him with prods and whips to stand. He leaned against the roof of the wagon to his left, heavy chains clinking about his wrists and feet.

Clovis climbed the dais and stood in the center. The Black Spire loomed behind him like a portal to the underworld. All in attendance, prisoner, soldier, and elf alike, began muttering among one another. Clovis rubbed his hands together, and his eyes burned a deeper red than ever before, eliciting shocked gasps from his audience.

“This is a glorious day!” Clovis declared, his lips peeling back further. His voice was harsh, as if flames were ejecting from his gullet along with his words. He looked down at the three hundred people of Ang who huddled before him. “Tonight, we celebrate the end of our time together. Tonight, all sins are forgotten with a purging feast. When that feast is done, you will be freed.” The soldiers grumbled; the elves, both Quellan and Dezren, passed suspicious glances back and forth.

“It’s a trick!” Bardiya heard one of his people shout.

“No, no trick,” Clovis said, his grin growing ever wider. “I am a. . man of my word. When the feast is over, consider yourselves free souls in Karak’s eyes.” He folded one arm over his withered chest and propped the other atop it, fingering his chin as he scanned the crowd. “In fact, I feel a demonstration of trust is necessary. Your singing has brightened many of my evenings since we have been together, and it has saddened me that all but the giant has stopped. I wish to hear a song once more.”

More grumbling followed, but no one stepped forward.

“Come now, can we not have some beauty during these dark times? I wish to hear a song, an innocent song, a pure song, the one about mothers and lions and mountains. You know the one.”

A woman suddenly began singing, only to be hushed by a wave of Clovis’s hand.

“No,” he said. “I wish for innocent voices. Are there any children among you who will sing for me? Will you come join me, allow your voices to fill me with warmth? Should you do so, you will be freed. . ”

The man gestured to a group of soldiers off to the right, and three of them shuffled through the sand in front of the prisoners, looking each child up and down. Finally one child stepped forward, then two, then more, until there were seven. The soldiers climbed the dais steps, urging the young ones to follow them. Bardiya noticed one of the soldiers was the one he had healed. Clovis knelt down, kissing each of the children’s hands before directing them to form a line on the front of the platform.

Bardiya’s heart was overwhelmed as he stared at those seven angelic faces. He knew them all, of course: Keisha, Sasha, Minora, Robbet, Yassar, Boren, and Stev. They were all eight years old or younger, and their eyes were filled with worry as they gazed down at the audience of nearly one thousand. Keisha Hempsman raised her head, her eyes finding Bardiya, and she nodded to him. This is for you, her look seemed to say.

“Now sing,” Clovis demanded.

Keisha and Sasha were the first to open their mouths, but soon the other five followed. The sound of their seven voices melded into sweetness and honey.

Bardiya closed his eyes, allowed the singing to wash over him. His energy seemed to return, the pain in his body subsiding. He even began to sway, humming along with their song.

He remembered the first time his mother had sung this song to him, when he was still a very young child suffering night terrors beneath the blankets in their hut. He thought of his father, the mighty Bessus, and how he had chastised his wife for filling young Bardiya’s head with foolishness. His heart ached, especially when the next verse began. His father had been right all along. It was beyond foolishness; it was a complete lie.

“Enough,” Clovis said, his voice loud and shrill. Bardiya opened his eyes and saw the man standing behind the row of smiling children, his eyes bulging with excitement to the point of popping from his skull. Clovis whispered something to the soldier beside him, whose face paled, whose hands shook.

“No,” Bardiya said, dread overcoming him.

Clovis shoved the soldier and grabbed the sword hanging from his belt with quickness that someone in his state should not have possessed. He ripped the blade free with a glare, and the two other soldiers, including the one Bardiya had healed, needed no more invitation. They too drew their blades and approached the children from behind. The crowd in front of the dais pitched forward in a frenzy, and those standing guard struggled against their mass.