Made with Death, Adorned with Death

“Prisoner, I say again: do you understand?” The nameless priest’s voice was strong, but the sound died on the stone walls around them. Life had been taken from this place to such an extent that sounds didn’t bother to echo or carry. A moment passed in silence, punctuated by a hissing sigh from the short, fat man. “Hit him again.” The second man, one clad in skins, moved to obey.

Cartalatrac felt his skin ignite in pain as the leather whip hit his hindquarters again. He let out an involuntary grunt of pain.

“Good, you are awake. Now, tell me you understand the charges against you.”

Cartalatrac opened his eyes and gazed down. He spoke softly, “I understand that my actions have violated some of your religious customs.”

“No,” The small man rubbed at his balding head, “how can you be so imbecilic? I know you are below human intelligence, but aren’t you an honored member of your culture?”

Cartalatrac withdrew his gaze again.

The man started to pace as he continued, “You have not just violated some vague custom. You have offended the entire pantheon of gods. The texts tell us that the forests surrounding the Crystalline Spring of Divine Light are sacred. No unhallowed feet shall trespass therein.” He stopped pacing to make a final point, “You and your collaborators were seen there. Bathing.” The last word was punctuated with a scoff.

Another long silence stretched on. Cartalatrac would not normally respond, but knew that another whipping would follow if he remained silent. His flanks would not last forever. “The Afotatofa spring and surrounding forest is sacred to my herd, too.”

The small man spread his hands out in a strange gesture. “Then why would you disgrace it by bathing in it?”

Cartalatrac kept his voice low, like he would speak to his offspring. “In my culture –”

“No!” The man signaled the guard, who swung the whip again. Once. Twice. Thrice. “I don’t want to hear about your culture.”

Cartalatrac attempted to control his temper, “Priest, bathing in the Afotatofa is a sacred ritual. It invites the stars to smile on those who surround you for a full moon cycle.”

The priest’s laugh was disdainful, “Such foolishness. It seems that your bath did not protect you, nor did it protect those who accompanied you.”

“Wait. . . of what do you speak?”

“You didn’t know?”

“Of what, human?”

The priest sighed again, a sound quickly becoming irritating, “The other centaurs with you resisted arrest by the priestguard. They were slain.”

The words died on the walls like the others. Catalatrac’s front hooves clopped on the stone, tapping an angry tune. “You slew the others? My herdmates?”

“They were slain, yes.”

Catalatrac growled, slamming his front hooves on the stone. “And spilling blood on sacred sites is permitted by your religion?” His anger was cut short by another series of whips. He could hear blood trickling to the stones below now.

“This education will serve you little, but yes. The spilling of blood is often necessary to further the pantheons’ rectitude.” He straightened his robes, “Now, for the last time, do you understand what you have done and your allotted punishment?”

The centaur straightened, his hair brushing the ceiling. He remained silent.

“Fine, beast. If you refuse to speak to me, then you will have no need to speak to anyone.” He gestured to the other man again. Instead of swinging the whip, he attached it to his belt and removed a dagger. He stepped forward and, in a flash, swung. Cartalatrac’s neck opened. He tried to grasp at it, but his hands were still chained. He gasped for the damp air in the dungeon as his hooves clopped on the stones uselessly tapping for aid.

“Good,” The priest retrieved the candle he had lit upon entering. “The prisoner cannot speak, so we can move past this little hitch. And well done, soldier, it appears that your swing landed true and the prisoner will not die immediately. Though we may need to move the execution up. Perhaps within the hour would be best.”

Within the hour, Cartalatrac was being led into the open air. He attempted to stand proudly, but the pain had become nearly unbearable. Blood continued to trickle down his front, matting up his fur. Cool air blew around him, none of it refreshing. He looked around.

This was the village square. He had been here twice before. On the first occasion, he and the Elder had met the god-king of these people. He had looked the Elder in the eyes, a sign of contempt, but the Elder’s patience was sufficient to remain and attempt to understand the humans further. A series of misunderstandings had ensued, but the Elder and the god-king had managed to find an understanding in the end.

The humans had entered their lands eleven star cycles before. A skirmish had resulted, ending the lives of six humans and four herdlings. Another herdling had been captured. The humans had attempted to subjugate her, using her as a horse. The very act of hearing the god-king’s words had been an act of mercy unrivaled in these times.

With Cartalatrac serving as a translator, a truce had been created, though perhaps Cartalatrac and his people did not have the same definition of a truce as the humans. He wondered on that now.

The second visit to this village square had been a celebration of the solstice, or so he had been told. Strangely, the celebration had consisted of loud music, revelry, and inane mating rituals which involved pressing one’s mouth to another’s. There was no evidence of meditation, communion with nature, or bonding between herdmates. Cartalatrac and his people had endured the celebration and promptly returned to the forests.

Today, the square was different.

Vast crowds of humans stood here. They cheered when he arrived, pulled by guards like a mule. Did they delight in his suffering? In his humiliation? A structure of killedwood had been erected in the center. Much of it stained red. A man covered in animal skins, including his face, stood upon it. Cartalatrac was atop as well and chained to the structure. The killedwood groaned beneath the weight. A piece of food struck his chest. The thrower was a small human girl. She looked hungry and dirty. Why would a hungry human throw food?

The same priest that had ordered his voice taken climbed the structure, and the humans quieted. He began to read aloud the crimes for which he would be executed. Upon mention of the discovery of the centaurs at the spring, the crowd made a strange cow-like sound in unison. Cheers resumed, however, then the priest gestured toward a structure. Cartalatrac followed the gesture and felt his heart clench.

He gestured toward the humans’ religious structure. They called it a temple. It was made of killedwood, clearly handled by experienced woodkillers. It stood taller than the homes and other structures around it. Outside the church, poles had been erected.

His perished herdmates hung from the poles.

The poles were the correct size for human corpses to be displayed, but not centaurs. Some centaurs were draped along two or more poles. Others hung from a pole pathetically. His cousin hung nailed by his hind legs, his head resting on the stones beneath.

A religion that celebrated death. A temple made with death, then adorned with death.

The crowd continued to cheer.

Cartalatrac tried to cry, but no sound emerged. Blood bubbled from his throat, wetting the dried blood below. His hooves clopped below him, a dirge of sorrow and betrayal. His eyesight swam as his lifeblood ebbed. He was grateful for it as he looked to the sky. He silently begged the stars for aid, though they had not yet appeared.

The soldiers around him pulled him down, taking the strength from his legs and forcing his top half to bend forward. The hooded human lifted a blade. Cartalatrac died alone, without even the stars to bear witness.