The Dead Gods

by Rob Bayliss

  “Is there no inn or cookhouse here where we can get warm?” Tamzine asked in irritation. This drew a nod from Bronic, who stamped his feet on the flagstones to warm them against the mountain cold.

  “The Khan said that Princess Karla would show us around,” Tuan said, looking around the ward doubtfully.

  Bronic slapped Tuan on the shoulder, drawing his attention. Bronic smiled down at Tuan and pointed to where he wanted his friend to look.

  From out of the covered wagon Princess Karla emerged. Around her shoulders she wore a billowing cloak, a dark red like the colour of the wines of the Khanate, with rich, grey fur trims. Her boots were of the finest red leather and reached up to her knees. Her trousers and shirt were of smooth buckskin that clung to every one of her delightful curves. On her head, she wore a fur hat, under which her red locks tumbled over her shoulders. Her hands were protected from the cold by well-crafted red leather gloves, one of which rested on the pommel of a sabre that hung from her belt. She espied Tuan and his companions and strode towards them, her boots clicking on the polished flagstones. Despite himself, Tuan sucked in his breath. Tamzine tutted, wondering if Karla knew how to wield the sword she wore, while Bronic made no move to disguise his admiration for the appearance of the Khan’s daughter.

  “My Lady,” Tuan said, bowing. His companions belatedly followed suit, bowing low. They were suddenly aware of the hard stares of the guards that lined the inner ward walls, who sought out any sign of disrespect from these strangers towards their Khan’s daughter.

  Karla held out her hand to Tuan, which he gently took in greeting. “Tuan,” she said, her eyes searching the faces of the Gewichas and his companions. “Allow me to show you and your companions around the Fortress of Tiers,” she said, withdrawing her hand to rest on the pommel of her sabre.

  Klesh was very keen, and threw back his hood, revealing his heavily ridged brows. “Yes, Khan’s daughter, we would like that very much. Klesh wants to see this tall cave.”

  Karla did not wait for further comment. “Very good. Shall we begin the tour at the top and work our way down?”

  Tamzine scowled. “Why climb to the top without exploring on our way?”

  “There is a faster way to the top, rather than climbing the great spiral stair,” Karla replied brusquely, before regaining her pleasant temperament and smiling. “Follow me.”

  Karla turned on her heel and set off with a confident swagger, her boots scraping the ward floor as she headed toward a large archway to the left. She saw a pair of boys, the sons of garrison troops put to gainful employment in the castle, and clapped her hands to get their attention. They ran over and bowed to Karla, trying not to stare at the face of Klesh.

  “Do you know who I am?” she asked of the two.

  “Yes, my Lady,” replied one, “you are Princess Karla.”

  Karla put her hands on her hips, looking down at the boys. “What are your names?” she demanded.

  “I am Clachev, son of Boras,” said the talkative one, “and this is …”

  “Teven, son of Kosheen,” the other said, eager to speak, his eyes sparkling at the chance to meet Princess Karla and the strange company she escorted.

  Karla smiled. “Now I know you, too. I am going to show my guests the upper levels. I want you to take their luggage to the cavern level where they will be quartered.” Karla turned to Tuan and his companions. “Please give these two your baggage, you do not want to carry all that through the castle, it will be an unnecessary weight.”

  Bronic tensed, his hands gripped tightly on to Blissa, his bardiche. Both Tuan and Tamzine sensed the mute giant’s unease.

  “We will keep our weapons,” Tamzine said abruptly.

  “As you wish,” the Khan’s daughter said, her hands leaving her hips to show open palms.

  The four companions gave the boys their satchels and saddlebags. All including Tuan retained their weapons. Care and responsibility of weapons, especially their muskets, was deeply ingrained by the training the two troopers had received. Such modern weapons would be highly prized by the Khan’s huscarls. It was best to remove temptation.

  “We are ready, Princess Karla,” Tuan said, smiling in an endeavour to break down the walls of distrust between his friends and the princess.

  Karla said nothing, but led them through the archway and into another hallway, leaving the inner ward behind them. Up ahead some servants were struggling to carry storage chests towards a strange-looking room at the end of the hall.

  “You will have to wait or use the stair; we are using the chain hoist to reach the upper levels,” Karla commanded the struggling servants.

  The toiling servants dutifully stopped to allow the Khan’s daughter to enter the small room with her four guests.

  Tuan looked at the room as Karla closed the gate behind them. They were essentially in a metal cage; above them was a dark tunnel down which chains hung, attached to the roof of the cage. Far above, beyond the glow of the single lantern inside, a faint glow of light could be discerned. On the roof were large metal levers with a polished brass clockface, which had a hand pointing to numbers. Karla pulled one lever, set the hand of the clock to the far right and grasped another of the levers.

  “Stay calm and do not put your hands through the cage bars,” she said, laughing.

  With that, she pulled the lever. High above, a distant ticking noise could be heard and the jingle of chains on gears as they were pulled taut. For a moment nothing happened and then suddenly, with a grinding noise of metal against stone, the cage lurched upward into the gloom. Klesh looked around fearfully and crouched on the floor of the cage as he saw the ground fall away between the bars. Tamzine went pale, feeling the same nausea she had suffered aboard the Raven on the storm-churned waves of the Cheama. Whenever they passed another opening to one of the tiers of the fortress, the whole cage shook. Each time there was an accompanying clang as the top of Bronic’s helmet struck the metal cage roof. It caused Princess Karla to giggle.

  The giant Turanesci cursed silently each time as he stood, his legs like tree trunks rooted to the floor. He had grown up under the Hailthorns; he knew that the secret to avoid his head swimming was to avoid looking down.

  Tuan was fascinated with the workings of the chain hoist. “What powers this? Is it a spring engine?” he asked, examining the levers and following the turning of the chains in the gears and cogs above. More natural light was filtering down from above, augmenting the dim glow of the lantern in the cage.

  “No, we have no spring engines in the Khanate, yet,” Karla replied, smiling, as Bronic’s helmet struck the roof yet again. “It uses a system of counterweights linked to a waterfall and wheel up above.”

  Tuan chanced a glance down; the light from the bottom was far below now. Beside him, Klesh still cowered on the floor as if in prayer to his gods. He placed his hands on the Flint Father’s shoulders, urging him to rise from the floor and stand. He swayed slightly as he became used to the movement of the cage. Tuan turned his attention to Tamzine; she was leant against the cage wall, her eyes staring straight ahead as she concentrated on keeping her breakfast down.

  Karla had a mischievous glint in her eye as she took pleasure in viewing Tamzine’s discomfort. “It would appear the Razoress’s stomach doesn’t match her supposed strength on the battlefield.”

  Tamzine glared at the Khan’s daughter. She wished to reply but her stomach was churning. She sucked in air, yearning for the journey in the cage hoist to end.

  Encouraged by Tamzine’s silence, Princess Karla continued. “Are you all hungry after the morning’s journey here? Hours since we broke our fast, is it not? We can see if we can find some sausages for lunch, or the kitchens might have some mutton stew left from last night. Warmed up, you will not see the fat floating on top.”

  Tamzine’s stomach heaved as she bent over and vomited. Her breakfast passed through the bars of the cage floor to fall down to the bottom of the cage hoist shaft.

  “Well that is goi
ng to give someone an unpleasant job of cleaning up after you,” Karla muttered, a look of triumph on her face. “Oh,” she said with a sudden look of disgust on her face, “you have vomit in your hair!”

  Tamzine said nothing as she straightened to stand upright. She grabbed her water bottle from her belt and took a mouthful, swirling it around her mouth to cleanse it. She spat it out her mouthful at Karla’s feet, causing her to jump backwards lest it land on her boots. Karla’s face twisted in fury at such effrontery, but whatever words she was going to use died in her throat as she saw Tamzine draw out her dagger and hold it in front of her. Tuan and Klesh watched events unfold in shock, wondering whether they should intervene, whilst Bronic smiled, chuckling silently to himself.

  Tamzine grabbed a handful of the vomit-encrusted hair and cut it off with the dagger, letting the shorn locks fall to the floor. All the time her eyes held Karla’s in an unforgiving stare.

  “I almost spat on those nice boots of yours,” Tamzine said coldly, “boots that go so nicely with that toy sword you wear at your waist. Can you use it?”

  Karla had quickly regained her poise and her temper. “Of course I can,” she purred with malice, “I am a daughter of the Khanate. And it is no toy.”

  “Then perhaps,” Tamzine said, advancing to stand toe to toe with Princess Karla, “you could show me your swordplay sometime.”

  Karla glared back, her eyes ablaze. “Perhaps I will.”

  There was a loud clang as the cage hoist came to a sudden stop. Bright sunlight flooded the cage, overpowering the dim glow of the swinging lantern.

  “I do believe we have arrived at the top,” Tuan said, walking towards the daylight and putting himself between the two adversaries, who parted to allow him to advance.

  Karla bit her lip. “Yes, we are here,” she said, pulling another lever and locking the cage in place.

  Klesh crept gingerly towards the exit. The cage swayed slightly at rest; at any moment he expected the bars to give way and plunge them all to their doom. Bronic shuffled forwards, eager to be able to stand without stooping. He encouraged Tamzine to leave with him by grabbing her arm. Tuan remained inside to escort Karla from the cage while his friend half dragged the Razoress out into the light. She came reluctantly, not wishing to be seen backing down in front the haughty daughter of the Khan.

  They were under the wheelhouse. Half carved from the rock behind them, its forward face was made of brick. They could hear the constant sound of running water driving a creaking wheel. The sound was strangely muffled, as the leet that powered the mill wheel was entirely enclosed. Beyond the churning wheel the water was channelled to different levels of the tower. Gathering energy from its descent, it powered more wheels in the fortress as well as supplying fresh water to the inhabitants of the castle.

  Adjusting their eyes to the daylight, they came out from the tower through an archway, into a wide, flat upper bailey surrounded by a thick wall. Its was of the of the same construction as the one below, but much taller, with a stone wall rather than a timber palisade. Around the thick, oak doors that led to the mountain passes was a gatehouse made from timber and wicker hurdles, giving additional height and cover. Tuan waited for Princess Karla as she pulled another lever set in the wheelhouse wall outside the cage. There was a familiar clanking as chains attached to counterweights, now far below them, pulled themselves taut. She closed the outer gate as the cage slowly began to sink back down the shaft, making its descent.

  Here in the upper bailey, the air was distinctly colder and moist; the midday sun struggled to burn its ascendancy amid the peaks as low cloud and mist clung to the ice shattered mountainsides. They walked out into the bailey. As he walked, Tuan slowly looked at his surroundings, to the right, left, and behind. To their rear was the top of the tower hewn from the rock. A large gateway stood in a brick built barbican that led to the massive spiral stairway the fortress housed.

  Above the gate, battlements of stone and brick had been built all around the flattened surface of the tower. Clustered close to the tower under the outer walls, smaller buildings stood: barracks and guardrooms, a blacksmith’s forge, summer stabling for horses, storerooms and even a kitchen. From its chimney a plume of smoke arose with the distinctive pungent smell of peat. The upper bailey and tower were designed to keep a large garrison fed, watered and supplied independently of the lower bailey if required.

  Along the walls of the garrison huscarls patrolled, many carrying their archaic harquebus as well as others, who shouldered the bardiches as favoured by the Khanate. Another squad was drilling on the large courtyard.

  Bronic smiled as he saw their drill, which seemed slapdash compared to the standard required by the Imperial army in general, and his unit, the 1st Cheamas, in particular. He imagined the look of horror on the faces of Captain Treal and Sergeant Tovey and the ensuing curses and threats they would be barking out if they were drilling these men. Not to mention the all-too-real threat of the vine rod.

  Karla pushed ahead from Tuan and his companions as they stood taking in the view. “Shall we start by having a look at the view from the wall?” she asked, not waiting for a reply, marching with purpose across the upper ward.

  She walked ahead and Tuan found himself admiring the swing of her hips as the wine coloured cloak she wore billowed behind her. The drilling soldiers clicked their heels and bowed their heads as the Khan’s daughter walked past, her sabre smacking against her leg. As she passed, many of the warriors chanced a glance at the famed beauty of the Khan’s daughter, and then looked in wonder at the strange companions who followed her, especially he of the Flint folk.

  Suddenly, the shrill blast of a horn cut through the misty air. The drilling soldiers forgot their orders and looked fearfully to the main gate. The officer drilling the troops ran towards the gatehouse, along with the men from the wall. Those with harquebus loaded their weapons with trembling hands, blowing on their matches to get them to glow. Braziers on the walls were quickly stoked to ensure they were ablaze. Archers hurriedly strung their short bows and took positions around them, placing unlit fire arrows within easy reach.

  The officer, Thegn Govchen, shouted up to the sentry who had sounded the alarm, “Soldier, what can you see there?”

  “There’s one of our riders hurrying back, as if he is being pursued.”

  The officer swallowed hard. “What is pursuing him?” he asked in dread.

  “I cannot see, Sir!”

  “Yet you sounded to arms?” Govchen questioned, struggling to make himself heard as the crows croaked, flying up from the cliffs below to hang in the air above the bailey. Govchen shook his head and looked back at the men he had been drilling; they all looked fearful. Ever since the attacks in the autumn the men had been jumpy, but they forgot that Lord Kreshan was in the passes with a strong force.

  Govchen tapped his foot. He looked up at the sentry, who had turned to look at the pass. Damn the man. Why call the fort to arms if he had not seen a clear threat? It had been months since the attacks and the Khan’s son had led a reconnaissance in force last week. They were due back in a matter of days. The rider was probably a scout from the column riding ahead of them. Damn these birds, he would barely be able to hear whatever the sentry decided to report. A murder of crows? No, it was men who murdered, and the crows that fed on the carrion of battle. The thegn became impatient. “Well?” he demanded.

  Suddenly the black-feathered cloud above him rocketed forward towards the pass with deafening screeching. The sentry spun around to address Thegn Govchen, his face white. He was shouting. The thegn could not hear the words; he did not need to.

  “Shit!” Govchen turned to shout at the men he had been drilling. “The plague is upon us! One of you, alert the fortress quickly. The rest, form up ranks in front of the gate. Now!”

  The soldiers quickly did as commanded. Karla stopped in her tracks, unsure of what to do.

  Tamzine ran forward and grabbed Karla’s arm. “My Lady, you should get back to safety
in the fortress.”

  Karla snatched her arm away from Tamzine’s grip. “Don’t you dare to presume to touch me!”

  With that she ran to the steps, quickly climbing up on to the battlements. Tuan and his companions followed, looking over the wall. Beyond the walls was the large open space of a highland marsh, tussocks and tumbled scree, behind which the sheer cliffs of the SkyCrags reached upward, their summits hidden by cloud. From the gate a flagstone road led straight ahead, disappearing into the swirling mists. Through the mists, the looming canyon walls of Mycell’s Pass could be faintly discerned, green with ferns. Tuan followed the sentries’ pointing. Halfway between the pass and the gateway a horseman was galloping along the road. The rider kept himself low behind his mount’s neck and was looking around and behind himself. Tuan tracked back from the rider, straining his eyes. The green mist seemed to swirl out of the canyon, seething as if alive. It was then that he saw it.

  Out from the canyon emerged the shambling outline of a mammoth, huge and yet oddly deformed; weird growths sprouted from its hide. It changed its shape, morphing from one thing to another. The rider had a good head start on the beast’s progress, as he inched closer to the castle gate, or so it initially seemed. Why were these Cheamanites so afraid of mammoth?

  But it was no mammoth. As Tuan watched, the creature lifted a leg. From the leg a long tendril arced through the air like an arrow to land a handful of yards behind the desperate rider. Around Tuan, the Khanate musketeers shouldered their harquebuses and looked down their barrels, and likewise, the archers lit their fire arrows. The combustible material behind the arrowheads burst into flame and they were quickly knocked and drawn. The archers breathed slowly and steadily, their bows bent, awaiting the order to fire their arrows. When the tendril found the ground, the mammoth shape it was attached to seemed to dissolve and contract; its mass was pumped along the tendril and a monstrous form began to grow from the earth, much closer to the rider now. Initially it looked like conjoined horses, twisting and writhing, and then a hideous amalgam of bears and men, before settling on a shape like an evil flower. Its huge petals curled back to the ground and out from them, quivering and pulsing with foul sap, a large egg shape emerged. Its apex pointing upwards and its surface dripped with slime. From where it sat, tendrils shot out in all directions as it sought to root and spread.