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The road to Bromjunaar was crowded that day. There were always pilgrims, slaves, and acolytes trekking to or from the capital, but this was different. The boy had never seen so many people at once, nor so many animals and carts full of the latest crop, and the noise and stench of it all made his head ache. It was an almost pleasant distraction, though, from the emptiness in his belly.
“Papa, will there be food there?”
His father gave him only the briefest of glances before looking back to the road ahead, and gave no answer. He had not truly expected one, for his father rarely spoke to him even at home. Resigned, the boy turned his attention back to the families before them and hoped that there would indeed be some supper awaiting at their destination. He could not remember the last time he’d eaten more than an apple or a bit of thin stew. Why would so many people make this long and arduous journey if there was nothing to eat at the end?
Soon the great city loomed on the horizon, and the boy was awed by its splendor. He’d never seen anything like it. His entire life had centered around their small farm, which suddenly seemed like nothing more than a patch of dirt and a few crumbling shacks in comparison to the sight before him. Even from a distance, the streets were obviously teeming with life, and yes, he could swear he smelled fragrant spices and the alluring aroma of roasted meats wafting from that direction.
Struck with giddy enthusiasm, the boy hastened his steps, taking his father by the hand and pulling him forward as quickly as he could. Papa had always been so cruel, sparing only enough words to berate him for even the slightest error, or remind him that his mother had died bringing him into the world. And the stings and aches of his father’s blows would linger for days after he said the wrong words, or somehow failed to meet expectations. But life would be different now, it seemed. Papa was taking him to some sort of paradise. Maybe he’d finally pleased him. Maybe he’d finally been a good son.
When they broke through the crowd and into the bright light of the world beyond the city’s gates, the boy felt his heart swell. In his excitement he nearly bolted up the grand steps, so desperate to see more. The sharp jerk that yanked him back sent pain screaming through his shoulder, and he cried out, but it was cut short by an abrupt slap across his mouth and a familiar reproachful glare. He should’ve known better than to run, of course. They’d only just arrived and he was already ruining it.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, but if his father heard it he chose not to acknowledge it. They continued along in silence, following the processional of pilgrims towards the center temple. The boy wouldn’t dare try to hold his father’s hand again so soon after disappointing him, and tried his best to be as small and quiet as possible.
Their march came to a halt at the top of the stairway, where a man in flowing robes and a gilded mask stood holding an elaborate staff. The staff’s head was carved to resemble a dragon’s, so the boy knew that this person was incredibly important, for the dragons were the most sacred of all their gods. Surely a man of such prestige would be in charge of distributing food and other boons.
“What do you bring in offering?” the man asked, voice booming from behind his mask.
“A slave,” the boy’s father said.
The boy studied his father’s face in confusion. A slave? They had no slaves. If that was how they had to barter for a meal, they were woefully unprepared.
“Is he skilled in any way?” the man asked, inclining his head slightly towards the boy.
“He has tended the family farm for much of his life. Otherwise, no,” came his father’s reply, airy and utterly unconcerned about their potential dinner, or lack thereof.
“I see. We may have no use for him in the fields. You’re aware of the alternative? It is not a quick end.” The man did not sound angry, despite the strangely ominous words.
“I’m aware, and what you choose to do with him is not my concern.” His father wrapped one strong hand around the back of his neck and pressed him forward, where the robed man promptly took him by the arm with a grasp just a little too firm for comfort.
“I accept your offering,” said the man, and the boy was pushed on to another, though his robes were much less ornate, and he wore no mask. The boy turned back to his father only to see him bow briefly, before turning and walking back down the steps.
“Papa!” The boy’s voice was shrill with fear. He did not know what was happening, why this man was pushing him towards the temple’s doors without his father. He was only six years old. Was he allowed to be away from his family already? Would he be punished for letting them take him away?
His father did not look back, and was soon gone, disappearing into the throng of awaiting pilgrims.
The man in the simple robes led him into the sanctuary. The candles inside did little to chase the darkness away, and after the bright light of day the boy couldn’t see anything. He could only feel the insistent tug forward, which he did his best to keep up with, but his legs were short and every stumble in the dark meant another painful jerk against his inflamed shoulder.
Just as his eyes finally adjusted to the dim lighting he was sent sprawling forward into another small crowd, but this one was different. Most of the writhing mass was made up of children, with just a few adults mixed in, swaying and sobbing much like the little ones around them.
With that, the man in the robes turned on his heel and left. The boy huddled towards the edge of the group, unsure of what to say or do. No one else was speaking, only gibbering unintelligibly in between desperate cries of anguish.
When his stomach began to growl once more, his own tears flowed, and there was no stopping them after that.
He was only twenty-six years old. His peers had all told him he was much too young to pursue full priesthood, and the moment the ornate blue robes were bestowed upon him in a lavish ceremony was immensely satisfying for that very reason. Those who doubted him inevitably ate their unwise words, always. If he chose to be merciful, the knowledge that he had succeeded where all others had failed would be the worst they might suffer for their disloyalty. If not, his dagger would slide easily across their throats, or crunch through their ribcages into their treacherous hearts.
He almost hated to sully his new ceremonial garb with their blood. But this was what survival meant. It meant proving that he was stronger than the next man. That he could be of use to those above him, and should be feared by those below him. After all, wasn’t that what left him standing while those other offerings went to bleed on the altar? His strength, his usefulness, his ability to adapt and learn?
The other acolytes could be dealt with later, though. He had a more important task to see to first.
He’d almost forgotten what the little patch of dirt looked like. And truly, that’s all it was: A few acres of land sparsely littered with meager crops, with a dilapidated barn nearly half collapsed on one end, and a tiny house on the other. As his horse stamped to a halt just short of the homestead’s door he couldn’t help but smile to himself, amused by how desperately he’d wanted to return here in those first few years. What a foolish child he’d been.
“Wait here,” he commanded, and his personal guards nodded in understanding. They had not been briefed on why he came here, but they knew better than to ask.
The door creaked open on rusty hinges, welcoming the priest into a single-roomed home he barely remembered. He immediately recognized the fetor of peasantry, acrid and overwhelming just as it had been that day on the road. Such humble beginnings for such an accomplished man. It would make a wonderful tale someday, after he’d become high priest and conquered all.
The old man in the corner made no effort to stand, feeble as he seemed to be, though he did bow his head slightly to acknowledge his important guest.
“Your worship.” His voice was a mere croak. Had it always been like that? The priest had hardly ever heard it before, and when he had, he’d generally been more concerned with cowing himself before a towering threat.
The priest lowered his hood, revealing dark hair, high cheekbones, and honey brown eyes, but the old man showed no sign of recognition.
“I don’t suppose you remember me,” said the priest, stepping closer in case the old man’s vision was failing.
“I’m afraid I don’t.” The old man squinted, then shook his head. “You’re not the priest I offered that sheep to last season, are you?”
The priest chuckled.
“No. No, I’m not.” He came to stand just in front of the elderly farmer, glaring down at him from his great height with unmistakable malice. “Though I am here about an offering you made, many years ago.” Despite his best efforts to keep his voice calm and steady, he felt his ire rising just at the mere sight of the pathetic creature before him.
“Ah,” the old man murmured. “So they kept you around.” His brown eyes glittered as though the situation entertained him.
“That they did.” The priest made no attempt to conceal the dagger he pulled from his belt.
“I suppose I should be glad they found more use for you than I did.” The old man sighed then, and finally stood on shaking legs. “Well then, get on with it.”
The priest regarded his father dispassionately for a moment, unsure of what to make of his utter lack of remorse. And then his blade drove home, again and again, until his arm was heavy and his heart was not.
The sun was bright that day, nearly blinding when the priest stepped back into its light. In the distance he could see a small group of men and women, surely quite close to his age, running for the house. They were yelling something, but he didn’t care enough to listen.
“Kill them, and burn the entire farm,” he said as he mounted his horse once more. His men set to work immediately, and as the air filled with smoke and the weak, faraway cries of his brothers and sisters, he felt better than he had in two decades.