The Vampire Armand - Anne Rice [125]
I panicked. But I couldn’t shake loose of my captors. I screamed.
The first pair of robed beings before the boys had broken out the first of them who was to suffer and tossed his struggling body high in the air. The second pair of figures caught it, and, with great preternatural thrusts, hurled the helpless child in an arc into the great fire.
With piteous shrieks, the boy fell into the flames and vanished, and the other apprentices, now certain of their fate, went wild with crying and sobbing and screaming, but to no avail.
One after another, boys were disentangled from the others and hurled into the flames.
I thrashed back and forth, kicking at the ground and at my opponents. Once I broke one arm loose only to have it imprisoned by three other figures with hard pinching fingers. I sobbed:
“Don’t do this, they’re innocent. Don’t kill them. Don’t.”
No matter how loud I cried out I could hear the dying cries of the boys who burned, Amadeo, save us, whether there were words to the final terror or no. Finally all the living took up this chant. “Amadeo, save us!” but their band was not halved and soon only a fourth remained, squirming and struggling, as they were finally heaved up to the unspeakable death.
The drums played on, with the mocking chink, chink, chink of the tambourines and the whining melody of the horns. The voices made a fearful chorus, each syllable sharpened with venom as the hymn was sung out.
“So much for your cohorts!” hissed the figure nearest me. “So you sob for them, do you? When you should have made a meal of them each and every one for the love of God!”
“The love of God!” I cried. “How dare you speak of the love of God! You slaughter children!” I managed to turn and kick at him, wounding him far worse than he expected, but as ever, three more guards took his place.
Finally in the lurid blast of the fire, only three white-faced children were left, the very youngest of our household, and none of them made a sound. It was eerie their silence, their little faces wet and quivering, as they were given up, their eyes dull and unbelieving, into the flames.
I called their names. At the top of my lungs, I called out: “In Heaven, my brothers, in Heaven, you go into the arms of God!”
But how could their mortal ears hear over the deafening song of the chanters.
Suddenly, I realized Riccardo had not been among them. Riccardo had either escaped or been spared, or been saved for something worse. I knotted my brows in a tight frown to help me lock these thoughts in my mind, lest these preternatural beasts remember Riccardo.
But I was yanked from my thoughts and dragged towards the pyre.
“Now you, brave one, little Ganymede of the blasphemers, you, you willful, brazen cherub.”
“No!” I dug in my heels. It was unthinkable. I couldn’t die like this; I couldn’t go into the flames. Frantically I reasoned with myself, “But you have just seen your brothers die, why not you?” and yet I couldn’t accept this as possible, no, not me, I was immortal, no!
“Yes, you, and fire will make a roast of you as it has of them. Do you smell their flesh roasting? Do you smell their burnt bones?”
I was thrown high in the air, high enough by their powerful hands to feel the very breeze catch hold of my hair, and then to peer down into the fire, as its annihilating blast struck my face, my chest, my outstretched arms.
Down, down, down into the heat I went, sprawled out, in the thunder of crackling wood and dancing orange flames. So I die! I thought if I thought anything, but I think that all I knew was panic, and surrender, surrender to what would be unspeakable pain.
Hands clutched me, burning wood tumbled and roared beneath me. I was being dragged off the fire. I was being dragged across the ground. Feet stomped on my burning clothes. My burning tunic was ripped off me. I gasped for air. I felt pain all over my body, the dread pain of burnt