Conqueror in Name

The giant pyramid temple loomed  before Juan, casting a long dark shadow over the woods his retinue marched from. Above the rows upon rows of solid steps rested a single, roofed building that released a dark smoke into the air. There hang a foul scent in the air, one Juan was unable to name. A wooden club connected with the Spanish soldier's back, urging him to move on.

 

Juan released a groan and shuffled on, his ankles and wrists bound together with unfamiliar thick roots. Surrounding him were other Conquistadores, many bleeding from the freshly obtained wounds, shuffling along in rows while being brutally assaulted by their captors.  Those smashed to a bloody pulp were left for the vultures who swirled high above in great circles.

 

Somehow Juan managed to stay upright and reach the bottom of the great pyramid relatively unscathed. A great mass of people had gathered below the temple. All were half naked, simple straps of clothes covering the private parts. Their clothes were dyed in a great array of colors; red, yellow, green and even purple could be observed. Yet, he didn't see a single stripe of blue.

 

Sweat dripped down Juan's cheeks, even though the great stone building blocked the sunlight. They could just as easily have been tears. As the crowd split apart to let them through, women stepped forward each carrying a small pot. As Juan passed, the women reached out with their hands and left some sort of sticky substance on his face and neck. As he turned his head to see what his comrades were going through, he noticed that the women smeared blue pigment on the soldiers their faces.

 

Again, a club smashed into his back and forced him to the ground in a flash of pain. The obsidian edge of the weapon ripped his skin apart and Juan could feel blood running down his legs. He doubled over on the ground, planting his face in the sandy ground and screamed out in agony. That proved a grievous mistake as the Aztec landed another blow on his back, putting all his force behind the swing. Juan clenched his teeth together, but his tongue lashed out and another cry filled the air. His vision turned white for a moment as the pain paralyzed his body. He remained frozen, his body wretched and his back burned mercilessly.

 

More sweat ran down his face, or were they tears? Juan didn't know. He tried to raise his head, but the effort proved fruitless. His body objected heavily and brought a fresh volley of throbbing aches down his spine. Meanwhile, a frenzy orchestra of roars engulfed him. Alien, twisted words entered his mind and balled up into a fist knocking down on his conscience.

Gradually, the calls flowed together and formed one coherent word which sounded like Mixcoatl.

 

Suddenly, two muscled hands grabbed hold of Juan and dragged him up the giant stairs. Juan watched the steps that rose before him and watched between his legs as a trail of blood marked his climb. After what seemed like ages, though it could have been seconds, the grip on his shoulders loosened and he crashed to the ground. The shouts sounded distant, much softer than before, and a foul smell entered Juan's nostrils, turning his stomach over. He retched, a cold took hold of him and made Juan shiver. Hands roughly pulled him upright.

 

Down below stood small figures tightly packed together, their colors blurred into one entity. Before the soldier stood a small statue resembling some sort of beast that held a broad, giant knife that pointed upwards.

 

A small man came into vision, wearing a helmet richly decorated with feathers and shaped in the likeness of a wild cat. His chest was painted with complex symbols. He held a long staff atop which rested a skull, but Juan didn't care to know whether it was human or not. From his hip the stranger drew a knife, the blade fashioned from obsidian, and turned to the crowd below, raised his knife high above his head. The people roared the alien word again, their shrieks still sounding distant; Mixcoatl, Mixcoatl, Mixcoatl!

 

Juan got forced to kneel before the stranger. Black, all-seeing eyes looked through the soldier's body and soul. Slowly, the man lowered his knife and stepped forward. A fire was coming alive in the corners of Juan's eyes, as new smoke rose into the sky.

 

Though he had never been a religious man, led alone live a honest life, Juan broke the silence and prayed. He prayed for repentance, for the wronging in his too short life; the bloodshed, the rape, the lust for money.

 

The stranger lowered his knife into the dancing flames, the blade turning bright red. A soft voice whispered some sort of ritual. Once the man was satisfied about the glowing stone, he raised the knife again and walked over to the Spanish soldier.

 

He prayed for his mother, that she may enter the gates of heaven and for his fellow comrades, that they may follow a quick and painless death.

 

Juan felt his pulse double as the knife drew closer and closer, the tip hissing from the heat,  aiming for his heart. The man slowly slit through skin, flesh and bone alike. Juan gazed into the black eyes of his killer, a cold impassive look lived there. Blood gulped out where the knife went in, and still Juan stared into that empty darkness, completely captivated.

 

If God had heard, he did not answer.

 

A hand followed the knife and took hold of something covered in a bloody mess. The last thing Juan saw was a heart, his heart, still beating, and all went black.

 

A body flew down the giant steps, bouncing up and down, and landed in a broken mess on the sand.

Author's Note

Written for the "Best Short Story" Contest.
Any and all comments are welcome, what feeling went through you reading this?
Thank you for reading.