A Thousand Lives (Short Stories)

Trialled by the Gods

Our goals never linger in the world's mind. It's our deeds that define us after death. And in my case, those deeds will be my doom. For those who don't know, my name is Bassall and I am part of the royal guard. Tasked to protect the king of our peaceful land, Treios. But this account is not concerned with my life as a warrior. But more so with what keeps me awake at night now and until my inevitable end.

One night when I was on my patrol around the palace the alteration of my life occurred. The moon, bright and blue, flooded the city with its pure light. I was alone, taking the ordinary route like every night when I was to stand watch. A faint silhouette in the sky let me look up. There in the sky afront the bright moon, a figure approached. It floated gracefully towards the earth where I stood. Upon it drawing closer, I could see. A golden chariot, pulled by two majestic reddish-brown horses, carried a male figure. The authority in the strangers bearing let my spine stiffen. I did not dare to move nor turn away my attention out of fear that I might offend this noble visitor. Not a sound did the vehicle make and the animal's hooves seemed to tread some invisible path in the air. Slowly the chariot came to a stop on the ground in front of me. The snorting horses with their jet-black mane needed a moment to calm down from their journey. With eyes like liquid fire, they looked at me once their legs would remain still. From behind them, out of the carriage stepped their master. The bronze skin showed a greenish tinge in the clear moonlight. Long, white garments floated in the gentle breeze. A magnificent girdle was wrapped around the abdomen, made of precious silk. Around his neck dozens of small pendants reflected the nightly shine, made of gold and jewels. The head was bare and bald, yet the black beard was artfully braided. It was a sight beyond fair and only my body being paralyzed by the man's powerful demeanour, kept me from falling to my knees.

"Are you Bassall, son of Meptuk?" The stranger asked in a voice both gentle and firm, pleasant to the mortal ear. Bereft of my own voice, I nodded. But then remembered how to properly address such a person.

"Yes, Sakraa," I answered respectfully, averting my eyes. Sakraa was the term our people used when addressing a person of high standing. Albeit I could tell. He was not just a person of high standing. He wasn't even human. And as the man studied me for a moment, it dawned upon me whom I was facing. A disapproving sternness flamed up in the man's eyes as he spoke again.

"You can not fool me with your humble behaviour, Bassall." With a motion of his hand the scenery around us changed. Gone were the chariot, the horses, the walls and palace. We were somewhere underground. The walls gave the impression of a cave. Brown, sandy rock crisscrossed by veins of white and red surrounded us. The great room was entirely illuminated by torches fastened to the walls. Despite the warm flames an eerie cold lingered in the place. In front of me on a high chair behind the bench sat the god which had brought me here. Apart from him, I saw no one else. Feeling a bit of courage rise at the sudden confusion I spoke up.

"Where am I?" But my judge ignored me and instead boomed through the hall.

"The trial has begun. I will call the first witness." Witness, I hadn't done anything wrong. And I certainly was not dead. With yet another wave of his hand, my judge summoned a column of light. Which after it had faded revealed a good friend of mine, who had died years back on the battlefield. I hadn't been there when he had departed and my guts grew cold as I recalled the memory.

"You have been called to testify against Bassall son of Meptuk, who faces judgement by the Gods." My judge addressed the soul of the deceased, who only looked at me with an expression of disbelief.

"Your honour," my friend started but was cut short when the god spoke again.

"Did or did not this man run from the battlefield as the fighting still raged on?"