They are toying with you, nothing more, he thought, yet he found it difficult to believe that was true. And songs of joy no longer sprung from his lips. He couldn’t save his people, no matter what he sang to them. I have failed.
His brothers and sisters in faith milled about in front of him, serving watered-down wine and salt pork to soldier and elf alike. He looked on as Tulani Hempsman and a large group of Kerrian women, their gazes empty, slaved away over large steel pots, stirring and shifting a horsemeat stew. Behind them, just in front of the Black Spire, the men of his group worked under the watchful eyes of the elves, constructing a dais from disassembled wagons. Tonight there will be a feast, Clovis Crestwell had told him. The largest feast Dezrel has seen in a thousand years.
Of all his emotions, and there were many, confusion reigned supreme. They had camped in front of the Spire for nine long days, and each morning his people suffered a different form of torture. Some days it was constant insults and beatings, whereas on others the captured were wined and dined and treated as equals, even respected. One afternoon twenty married women were gathered up and taken by soldiers in the sand while their husbands, bound and gagged, were forced to watch. The very next day those same twenty fraught women were given fine elven silks to wear while they and their husbands were waited on hand and foot by the same soldiers who had abused them the previous day. After the sun set, none knew what would happen when it climbed the opposite horizon come morning. Some begged for death; other begged to be made servants, if only to know what would come from day to day.
And for all this, it seemed Bardiya was the catalyst. On the bad days Clovis would stand before him in the morning, proclaiming him evil, disparaging Ashhur’s teachings, telling the people that what was about to befall him was his fault. On the good days he was proclaimed a king among kings, men placing a crown of woven wicker about his head. He became an object, a giant human tool and nothing more, useful only when needed. When the soldiers were kind, he was ignored; when they were not, his people lined up before him to receive his healing touch. . a touch that seemed to be failing. With every man, woman, and child he mended, he found himself growing weaker, so much so that just yesterday he had failed to restore Jacco Bendoros’s broken leg. He now watched Jacco limp across the assembly, his leg in a splint. A soldier, the one with the small scar on his cheek, helped him along.
“Do you not see what this is?” shouted a voice, and Bardiya turned, the harness around his neck creaking. The voice belonged to the elven prisoner they called Ceredon, a hundred feet away, strapped to a plank above one of the supply carts, with his arms splayed wide. The elf had been kept up there day and night, yet unlike Bardiya, it seemed nothing his captors did could stifle his rebellious spirit. He continuously railed against everyone, screaming accusations and insults until his throat ran dry and he could scream no more. But then the meals would come, another elf climbing atop the cart to feed him hard biscuits and water, and he would be right back at it again. Strangely, he was ignored.
“You are all cravens!” Ceredon proclaimed, and then he laughed aloud. “Can you not see? This is your last meal! The beast will devour you, and then the scavengers on the dunes will pick through your remains!”
Bardiya turned even further at those words, gazing toward the near rise where once he had saved Kindren Thyne, the Dezren prince, from certain death. He could see nothing but shifting white sand along the ridge, though he swore that every so often he could see a glimpse of something moving up there. He thought of the distant pursuers he had noticed on the horizon as they marched, and then of Patrick DuTaureau, the longtime friend he had turned away when he’d come to plead with Bardiya for help. At night, when Bardiya lay awake, he swore he could hear the jangling of metal and shifting sand in the distance, drawing ever closer, and though he passed it off as a trick of the frigid desert winds, a part of him still hoped it was Patrick, come to help, come to save him from himself.
No! There is no one man who can save me. There is Ashhur and there is love, or there is nothing.
If only he could truly believe that. His back began to ache once more.
“Open your eyes!” the bound elf screamed to deaf ears. “The goddess will judge you, and she will judge harshly!”
“Do not listen to him,” said a gravelly, inhuman voice. Bardiya swiveled his head slowly, every muscle screaming in agony, until he saw a hooded Clovis Crestwell squatting beside him. The first child of Karak was wearing a white shawl instead of his armor. The loose fabric hung off him, and Bardiya could see just how sickly he truly was. More skeleton than man, Clovis’s every bone was noticeable beneath his parchment-thin flesh. When he moved, his joints seemed to creak, like a wet twig being twisted. His eyes were sunken deep, and his lips had retracted, exposing his blackened gums and oversized teeth. He was death incarnate.
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.