The Dead Gods

by Rob Bayliss

  Kaziviere nodded in approval. They would be a little slower, but hopefully their scent would disappear and confuse the dogs. So far they had headed south. With luck their hunters would expect them to continue in that direction, as he had originally planned. He jumped in and waded after Nurarna.

  They travelled west through the channels. All the time, the baying of hounds became louder, as their pursuers found their way to where they had rested and partaken of the fruit. It was a test of their nerves to stay in the irrigation channels as long as possible, when what they really needed was speed. They found their way away from the orchards as the ground began to rise a little, into a land of shallow, low-lying hillocks. The irrigation channels came to an end. Ahead, the slopes were full of low growing plants, upon which grew bean and lentil pods. They scuttled out of the channel and keeping low, ran up one of the hillocks. Once at the summit they looked behind, over towards the orchards. To the east, they saw the tiny red flowers of the torches belonging to their pursuers. The dogs were barking and whining, unsure of the way. To the south they saw torches on the road in the far distance. If they had kept going south they would have been caught; going west was the right decision, but for different reasons than Nurarna’s fear of the “foulness”. As they watched, the bulk of the torches continued south into the orchards, but two tiny dots of red slowly headed west following the outer channel they had traversed along. Kaziviere had an uncomfortable feeling. This was fate, payment for when he had hunted that old Flint Father in the foothills of the Hailthorn Mountains. But he had not had dogs; he had relied upon Summerland scouts, and especially upon Tuan Blackstone, the future holder of the Sun Shard. He grinned fiercely to himself.

  “Come on then, Nurarna; let’s move, before the compound ahead of us is alerted.”

  She nodded. They jogged gently through the rows of plants and down the other side. Those following would be taking their time, scanning for any sign or spoor as they skirted the perimeter of the orchards, while their comrades filtered through the maze of channels.

  They managed to make good progress through the bean fields, making up for their slow progress in the irrigation channels. The low hillocks gave them a clear view of their surroundings. Just to the north, fires gave away the position of the slave encampment, with its accompanying garrison of guards and slave drivers. To the west, the dark edge of the forest drew nearer. To Kaziviere it offered refuge, but to his companion it seemed to offer only terror and death. Only mildly better than the certain death that would await them if captured.

  Seeking answers, he questioned his companion as their feet pounded a steady rhythm on the earth. “Nurarna, what are these bogeymen that you fear in the forests? What do you know of the foulness?”

  Nurarna spat. “They are not the bogeymen with which mothers scare their wakeful children at night. They are death, Rendroc. A nightmare brought to life by foul shadow magic from long ago, if you can believe it? This is their ancestral land. It is said they once were human, although you would not know it to look upon them now.”

  Kaziviere shook his head. “Shadow magic? Yes, I believe you, Nurarna. I have felt its fear, heard its screaming ….” He shivered then, despite the sweat that clung to his body from running in the humid night. “I know the filth and corruption that oozes from these damned Houses of Shadow. What does the foulness look like?” His mind recalled the horror of his last day in the Northern Holdings: the deathless warrior who bled shadows and the undying Corpse Lord who was only partly human, his legs reptilian, his flesh grey and rotten.

  “I will show you, Rendroc,” Nurarna said as she came to a halt and scanned the ground. She grabbed a stick and poked around under the knee-high plants that had been cultivated all around. “They were men of Acaross once …” she said as she worked. “… They worshipped the shadows in their house of darkness, but they feared the finality of death and defied it. A select few were granted immortality by their god; they lived one life, two lives, perhaps more, but to sustain their form they needed the blood of mortals. The aged, when old and withered, sacrificed themselves. They fed on their own descendants. Lifetimes and multiple generations came and went and still they existed. They were wise. They knew all the ways of the hearts of men, their needs and yearnings. The mortals around them seemed as mere insects, whose purpose was to indulge these self-appointed gods. Their own descendants knew them not, ties of blood forgotten. Their need for blood grew ever ravenous. They fed on the young in their prime, even infants, yearning for the sweetness of youthful blood. The people wanted freedom from their ever-living parasites, but they shrugged off wounds and pain; they could not be overpowered in battle.” She paused. “Ah! Here’s one!”

  She jabbed her stick at something hidden among the roots of the crops and hoisted it in the air for Kaziviere to see. On the stick, its eight legs quivering uselessly, was a large hairy spider, as big as a man’s hand. Kaziviere had seen such beasts on the coasts of Attana.

  “A bird-eater!” Kaziviere said, inspecting the hapless beast.

  Nurarna grinned at the name her companion gave the dying creature she held, but her smile slowly faded as she continued, “Using dark arts, the living made a potion of spider and snake venom, fungus, herbs and the juice of poisonous berries. They drank the potion before they gave themselves to the dead gods. So the dead gods drank of the mortals, but the mortals were at the brink of death. The venoms, narcotics and the dying blood itself poisoned the gods and they fell to the ground, powerless. The living chained them and dragged them to the forest, casting them, still bound, into a vast pit that could not be climbed. There they were left. For how long, no one knows. Eventually the chains rusted, but some had already freed themselves. Only by eating their own kind could they stay human, but in that pit was only the juices of insects and spiders. They became what they ate and changed. Distorted, becoming bestial, inhuman but wise, insane from the decade upon decade spent in that pit. Gods no longer, they became the foulness. They spawned young more bestial than before, but they always remained cannibals and ate their own, as if a requirement of faith. They say that they all look different, but similar. Look at this spider and you will see the foulness.”

  Nurarna threw the stick and the impaled beast into the bushes behind her, but as she turned she gasped. “Rendroc! Look!”

  Kaziviere turned and followed her gaze. To his horror he saw tiny red flowers of light moving quickly across the ground to the north. The distant flames betrayed horsemen, galloping rapidly toward the slave encampment. Behind them, they heard barks quickly merging, becoming the baying of hunting hounds coming from the east. They had found their scent again.

  “We need to get past the encampment quickly, they will be alerted soon,” he said.

  Nurarna sped west, vaulting bushes as a gazelle. Kaziviere ran after her. He could not help but admire her nakedness. He suddenly remembered earlier; lying with her body against his at the river. He chuckled to himself. Madness! To think of such things at this time. Perhaps Nurarna was right? They should have indulged in lovemaking before they died this night? No! He was not going to die tonight, and neither would Nurarna … not if he could help it. He had a word of power.

  “Tamzine.” He spoke aloud and sped to catch up with the sprinting slave.

  “Nurarna, slow down or you will be spent,” he urged, though she slowed but a little. The encampment was directly to the north of them now and she was desperate to get past. All too soon they heard the braying of horns, the shouts of men and the howling of hounds coming in their direction. They would already be spreading out and attempting to cut off their access to the nearing forest. Kaziviere felt the tiredness building in his legs and chest. He looked at Nurarna in concern. She was tiring rapidly, her head moving from side to side as the pace began to hurt, a look of resignation in her eyes, their hope being extinguished. This would not do. Cunning and tactics were what was needed to win this particular battle … and he had won many.

  “Nurarna!” he commanded. “We walk
now. That’s an order,” he snapped.

  She didn’t object, tired to the core as she was. They walked on, Nurarna barefoot without the leather arena sandals that Kaziviere wore. Her feet had numerous welts and cuts that bled. The pain they gave became a weight that slowed her as her muscles and flesh protested. Her eyes wept but she did not sob, yet all the time the baying of the hounds drew nearer from the east. The red bloom of torches to the northeast spread, threatening to deny them access to the brooding forest.

  “You need to leave me, Rendroc, before they are upon us. You have to run now,” she whispered, not wanting to speak her thoughts aloud.

  “No, Nurarna. They will kill you, but slowly and painfully,” he said, his eyes on two flaming torches that were getting ever closer.

  “I know what is coming … I know what they will do.” She managed a smile, looking at Kaziviere. “I knew my instincts were right. I would have had pleasure with you … I was willing, you know?”

  “As was I, Nurarna, but ….” Kaziviere dropped his gaze from her sad eyes.

  “You are an honourable man, Rendroc Kaziviere. I am sorry I called you a savage …At least I kicked that dog Serresel onto the floor. I have given him pain! Now go quickly, they are almost upon us!” She pushed him away.

  ***

  Up in the treetops, in a silken nest, two black forward facing discs peered unblinking over the fields. All around the canopy hummed, clicked and rattled with the night calls of insects and small creatures that scurried around in the dark. A lizard hurried fearfully past the still eyes but the morsel was ignored. In the black mirrors of its eyes the faint reflection of torches out in the fields could be seen. The two-legged cattle were restless tonight. Their numbers had grown again; soon it would be time to harvest. Drool and venom dripped from its fangs in anticipation. The fangs moved momentarily and then it was once more as still as a statue, watching.

  ***

  He turned and ran. The torches were close, and he swung south lest they cut off his escape. It would be close. Suddenly, he heard Nurarna’s voice behind him.

  “Fuck you, Acaross bastards!”

  Instantly he saw the torches to his right change their course; they danced quickly in the direction of the slave girl, following her voice. She had given him time. No time, there’s no time. No honour, there’s no honour to be found here. He stopped running.

  “You cockless cunts!” she screamed as the two overseers, armed with swords and whips moved in on her, their faces smiling cruelly.

  “Well, well, what have we here? The dogel’s private whore! Such an opportunity should not be missed,” said one. His hand went to his groin as he freed his manhood from under his tunic, his hand working himself, making himself hard. “There’s only one cunt here girl and I have a cock, you can be sure of that!” He advanced upon her. Both the hunters placed the torches on the floor.

  She swung a kick at the man’s stomach, but he dodged it and moving in fast, swung his fist into her face. She went down and instantly he was on top of her, forcing her legs apart. She screamed and tried to scratch her assailant like a wild thing, but the rapist’s companion grabbed her wrists and held them down. She gasped in despair and pain as she felt the invader force his way in. He gave a grunt of triumph as he entered her.

  “You have her next; we can have some fun with this pretty whore before….”

  There was sound like a hissing snake and warm red liquid splattered his face. He looked up to see his headless companion begin to topple over. Behind him, the escaped gladiator held a bloodied scimitar. His friend’s face looked at him lifelessly, as the gladiator held the head by its hair. He felt an explosion of pain in his face and saw stars, as his nose split from the slave girl’s head-butt, her thumbs seeking to gouge his eyes.

  His instinct was flight. He jumped up from the girl, but as he withdrew from her he felt her hands upon him, her nails digging, clawing and rending at his parts most precious. He was about to scream when arms closed around his neck. There was a sharp crack and his world turned black.

  Kaziviere let the dead body drop. “If you can’t walk, I will carry you, Nurarna. Help me if you can, grab everything these bastards were carrying: weapons, clothes, boots … drink!” He smiled as he tested the gourd he had pilfered, hearing the liquid slosh inside.

  The barks of the hunting pack were getting louder as they threw on the tunics. Nurarna tore strips off the hem of hers and bound the wounds on her feet; she put the overseer’s boots on and attempted to walk. The boots were still a little loose despite the bindings on her feet and it was still excruciatingly painful for her.

  “Hold the weapons, Nurarna,” Kaziviere said, handing his scimitar and the overseer’s short sword to her. He grabbed one of the torches, now dark-red, smoking coals. He blew on it so the end still smouldered, without bursting aflame and giving off a tell-tale light. Without hesitation, he put her over her shoulder and walked as briskly as he could away from the stripped bodies.

  Leaving the bean fields, they entered the forest, finding an animal track that threaded its way through the thickening trees. He put her down and they walked and hobbled slowly and carefully ever deeper into the woods. The sounds of the night-time insects were loud in their ears. The starlight disappeared above them, the atmosphere in the trees more humid and foreboding. The barking of the hunting hounds faded, muffled by the timber behind them.

  The dogs fell upon the bodies that were strong with the scent of the blood spoor they had followed. They ripped into the naked flesh. When they caught up with their dogs, the hunters looked in horror at the scene. They kicked and whipped their animals to get them away from their dead comrades who had hailed from the slave encampment nearby. One dog picked up a faint scent and followed it, nose close to the ground. The other dogs gradually peeled off from their troubling of the rent corpses in pursuit of their pack member.

  ***

  It felt the thrum of the trip wires as the two-legged cattle entered the forest. It smelled the smoke of the near-extinguished torch. Fire was one of the few things it feared … that, and others of its kind. In its dark mirrors it saw more commotion in the fields, more creatures heading its way. Slowly it dropped down on silken rope from the canopy to hang above the narrow path, without disturbing the night calls of those around.

  In thundered the four-legged beast, its nose to the ground, unaware in the excitement of the chase that anything was amiss.

  There was a strike and a sudden cry of alarm and pain. The violence of the movement caused the night calls to suddenly grow silent. The other dogs came to a skidding halt, seeing the horror before them that was hauling itself and the fallen back up into the branches. They barked their defiance at it. It viewed them impassively, in its dark mirrors, as its fangs injected venom into its prey. The shaking of the captured dog ceased, as paralysis took hold of its body. Still the others barked at it, but they were reluctant to attack the abomination before them. The monster withdrew its fangs from the meal and hissed at the impertinent beasts. They yelped and whined, running back out of the woods away from the horror. Its clawed, shiny legs grasped the silken rope and hauled its pale, sickening body back up to the canopy, meal in jaws. The others would play with the two-legged cattle in the forest.

  Up in the treetops, it went back to its watch of the fields, the reflections of the tiny distant torches dancing in the black-mirrored eyes. It settled down to watch while it ate, chewing and sucking noises mingling with the resuming nocturnal chorus all around.

  Chapter 11

  To those who dreamed of the warm months of summer, the weather seemed as winter’s last throw before yielding to spring. Cold rains had decided to fall as the Khan’s court left Keanasa. They had climbed through the steep wooded valley that wove its way upward into the stepped hills above the port. The neatly hewn stone road wound like a snake up into the tiered hillsides. All around, vines were in lines, their feet firmly planted in the dark soil. Their wood was bare and dark, their limbs pruned back in the
annual winter’s bleeding. But along their limbs buds were forming, preparing to burst with the spring.

  The wheels and axles of wagons and carts squeaked and clattered in the damp. The column’s feet splashed on the wet stones as they trudged on. The Khan was travelling through his lands in strength. He took with him his hearth troop, the core of his army. There were grim faced huscarls in ringmail, their bardiches slung on their backs, musketeers with their ornate, now-antiquated hand guns, a squadron of gunners and their horse-drawn light cannon, and a sizeable mixed force of demi-lancers and hussars. It was a far greater force than the lords of Turan or Gewichas were allowed by both Imperial decree and last summer’s troop muster, despite the Khan’s resentment of tax and conscription upon his lands.

  Leaving the intensely cultivated hillsides that thirstily drank of the Cheama’s rains, they climbed onto a plateau of fields and open woods. The cut stones of the road yielded to a wide gravel track. They regularly came across work gangs repairing the winter’s wash away, filling the ruts, anticipating the Khan’s passage. They stopped and cheered as the Khan rode past, the local headsmen anxious that the Khan see they were fulfilling their duty to the Khanate. Great halls and inns along the way were offered to the Khan and his inner household. Tents and marquees were erected for the accompanying army and camp followers.

  After crossing the Wolf River farmsteads and villages became sparser and the land became grassy steppe where herds of hardy ponies and flocks of sheep roamed. The sun came out and shone upon them, drying the puddles a little and making the wet gravel and stones shine bright.

  The low sunshine reflected off the puddles and dazzled the eyes of Bronic. He yawned and stirred himself as the clatter of the hooves and the gentle sway of the horse threatened to send him to sleep. He looked around, stretching his neck and back as he did so. Unlike Imperial troops, the Khan’s troops did not sing as they marched and their conversation was muted. He was bored. Tuan could understand his attempts at tongueless speech, could read his mind at times and relay his words to the others.