Janissary

The incense burns on the altar before his god. The light is dim after filtering through the heavy foliage onto the old cracked and grown-over stairs. At the top of them the warrior kneels. He is worn. He is tired. He is determined.

“You have returned.”

The voice booms from his god’s weathered stone face. The face of a demon. The voice surrounds him. The face does not move.

“I trust you have done your duty.”

“Yes,” the warrior replies. With both hands he raises up a lumpy sack. His head stays bowed.

“I have lost many men to acquire these.”

“Show me,” his god orders.

Trying to hide his reluctance the warrior dutifully empties the bag.

Deep laughter rolls through the jungle like thunder and echoes away through the towering trees.

“I have fulfilled my part of the bargain,” says the warrior. “Now I humbly ask that you fulfill yours.”

“Indeed you have,” the voice booms then pauses before continuing. “I told you your son was still alive. Now, as I promised, I will tell you what has become of him.”

The warrior passively waits for his god to continue, finally to be rewarded for his labors.

“For many years you thought your son dead. You were wrong.”

The warrior’s heart flutters.

“He was not killed during that raid that claimed your home and almost claimed your life. The bandits abandoned the infant in swaddling and he was recovered by a young woman who was unable to bear children for her lord. A humble family of minor nobility, they adopted him. He was raised well.

“When he was a young boy scouts for a great monarch passed through his village. They instantly noticed the young boy’s talents with the bow and the sabre. He was recruited to become a soldier in the monarch’s elite personal corps.”

The warrior allows himself a small smile. His son, by grace of inherited talents, was appointed to an affluent position.

“He was trained from a young age and quickly demonstrated that he was the most skilled and loyal soldier in the monarch’s corps. He proved himself in battle many times and rose quickly through the ranks. He became one of the most powerful men in the kingdom. One of the monarch’s youngest but most trusted advisors.”

The warrior’s heart swells with pride.

“For many years the kingdom flourished with the help of your son, but it was not to last. A dark army descended upon the kingdom, seemingly with no motive but to destroy it.”

The warrior’s joy begins to subside.

“One by one the monarch’s armies fell. One by one his greatest leaders, his greatest warriors fell before this new formidable enemy.”

The warrior gazes at the contents of the sack he emptied earlier. The contents gaze back at him.

“They all fell, all the viziers, until it was only your son left, the most promising and powerful of the sultan’s warrior-leaders, the last line of defense for the sultan and the kingdom.”

The warrior’s eyes pass slowly from face to face of the severed heads before him and finally stops at one. One with eyes that are familiar in a way he had not realized…

“But even your son was no match for the dark army and its ferocious leader, who some say was ordained with unholy powers from a wicked god.

“He was unstoppable.”

… The eyes, that shade blue that’s not quite gray…

“Your son also fell. He was beheaded by the leader like all those who fell before him, and the sultan who fell after him.”

…the eyes of his mother.

“Then you brought the heads to me.”