by Rob Bayliss
Thegn Govchen had hurried up onto the battlements and now stood with one arm raised. He screamed, “Fire!” as he dropped it. The battlements exploded with fire and smoke as the harquebuses roared and fire arrows were loosed, leaving trails of smoke as they swarmed toward the foul blossom.
The earth around it exploded as inaccurate shots from the harquebuses smashed into the ground. Splinters of paving slabs from the road flew this way and that. The target quivered as the more accurate shots smashed into it. Then the fire arrows found their target, landing all around it and piercing the evil flesh. These, combined with the lead shot, forced it to draw back its tendrils as some arrows burst into flame, and others were smashed to oblivion with a sickening explosion of black fluid. Those that found its body smashed holes into it, which bled black foulness.
“Reload, keep shooting! Pour it on!” the thegn screamed at his men. He saw Bronic’s musket over his shoulder. “Don’t just stand there, shoot at that bastard!”
Thegn Govchen judged the distance of the rider from the gate. “Open the gate. We will hold off the plague.”
Within moments Bronic was quickly loading his matchlock, as his training back in Northport had taught him to. Tuan was about to load his own matchlock when he saw Princess Karla hurry down to where the troops were waiting behind the gate. She was drawing her sword and joining their ranks. Her eyes sought those of Tamzine in a look of triumph.
“What is she trying to prove?” asked Tamzine, sarcastically.
Tuan felt a familiar vibration on his chest where the Sun Shard hung under his tunic. “That she is her father’s daughter,” he said, and hurried down to join the troops behind the gate.
The locking bar was lifted from the brackets and warriors grabbed each gate to drag them open with a heave.
“Be ready to close as soon as the rider is inside,” Karla said. The warriors behind the gate nodded, ready to push the gate shut to keep out the infection.
Tuan could see the rider was almost safe. Behind him, ignoring the fire arrows that pierced it and the fire that was gaining hold of its unnatural body, the pursuer shimmered and once more sent forward a tendril that threatened to reach the horseman. Tuan heard the distinctive crack of a matchlock musket and saw the tendril being smashed in two. Bronic’s accuracy has surely saved the rider from whatever fate this plague had in mind for him. Now the harquebusiers fired again, but this time the gunners had marked their target. The volley rolled from the battlements and the thing shook and went into spasm as the bullets tore off chunks and cut gaping holes in its weird flesh. It was screaming now as it was wreathed in flame from the fire arrows. With one last effort, as it boiled and its sacs of sap burst in the heat, it lifted its wounded body. From the apex of its alien fruit it shot a black projectile, before it sank hissing and boiling, black smoke pouring from it, as it burned.
The rider passed through the gate, but as he did so his horse screamed as the evil seed smashed into its flank. The horse’s legs buckled as it collapsed and the rider was thrown forward, one of his legs snapping and twisting as he crashed awkwardly to the ground. He screamed in pain and lay writhing.
“Close the gates! Fine shooting lads!” the thegn shouted, congratulating the defenders.
The gate was pushed shut and warriors rushed to aid the stricken rider, his leg twisted at a sickening angle. The thegn hurried down the steps to his side. “Soldier report; where is Lord Kreshan?” he demanded.
The rider fought through the pain. “Lord Kreshan … he ….” His breath became ragged as a wave of pain and nausea overcame him.
Karla rushed over. “My brother! What did he say about my brother?”
The thegn turned to address the Khan’s daughter, but his mouth dropped and his eyes widened in terror at what he saw behind her.
The body of the horse shook as tendrils issued forth from it in every direction, seeking living hosts to spread the infection.
“Kill it!” the thegn screamed, regaining his wits.
The huscarls, armed with bardiches, fell upon it, cutting and slicing. Karla swung around; she tried to snatch her sabre but a tendril found her, grabbing her bare forearm, its strange flesh joining with hers.
She tried to pull away, but it was unyielding. She tried to scream but her throat bubbled as her lungs filled with a foul black liquid. Her legs buckled as their flesh and bone changed its form. Green mould exuded from her skin, as it threatened to engulf her. Her panicked eyes sought help and met Tuan’s as the huscarls shrank from her in terror lest they catch the plague.
Her eyes were pleading as their human sight faded, her mouth open in a silent scream as her face disappeared under the green mould. The warriors looked at the thegn. He should give the order to kill her, to contain the infection, but she was the Khan’s daughter!
As her face was engulfed, she held out her other arm, her hand yet untouched by the mould. Tuan breathed deeply, feeling the comforting vibration of the Sun Shard around his neck. He stepped forward and took her hand in his.
Chapter 15
It was black, as black and cold as the sunless vacuum between the stars that it existed in. A yawning, insatiable hunger, howling mad in silence. It was a sea of shadows and sweet oblivion, the waves lapping the shores of the living and the dead, at once in space and beyond it. Multi-dimensional, decayed and senile; it had been oblivious to the turning of the aeons.
Until, on the edge of its realm of oblivion, the universe had burst asunder the comforting walls of darkness. The ashes of creation fell upon themselves, twisting and turning ever faster, until heat and mass became critical. It sparked first and then, exploding into a white-hot furnace, synthesising the building blocks of all things and spreading them wide. The fires spread, igniting into beacons across the airless void. Where once there had been darkness there was light, where once there was oblivion life wrested out existence on worlds circling these stars. Life and light: it despised them both and poured its rancour upon them.
It found creation was imperfect and all too mortal, yet tasted the sweeter for it. In its blackness it consumed all; stars might burn bright, but eventually their life-giving light it would extinguish. Life fed on death and night followed day. Disease and deformity, hate and decay; through these it wormed its way into the worlds of the living, hidden from the light. Its hunger was insatiable and it grabbed opportunity in its ice-cold talons.
But there were some realms resistant to its power, where death had no meaning, the promise of which threatened its great work of ages. Thus, it resolved to walk the worlds that circled the stars and claim souls to feed upon. There were always those who welcomed its cold embrace. The lust for wealth and power, depravity and evil; all supplied willing servants, especially those who denied their gift of mortality. All too eager were they to yield their souls, to cling to a semblance of life. Thus it seeded creation with children of its own.
The eternal life’s spark of those it touched and claimed as its own, it drowned in its depths. Ever hungry, howling and insane, it hated all that dispelled its cold blackness. How many worlds had it fed upon? How many sentient races had its cold tendrils touched, across time and space? Without count they were, but time meant nothing to it, existing as it did in the past, present and future.
Manifested, it sought its dominion on those that walked under the sun. Worshipped it was, a dark, living god, with many names in tongues human and inhuman: the Corpse Lord, the Messiah of Shadows, the Beast Maker and other names human tongues can never form. Seeking souls, it wrought wars and wove shadowy webs. It sought to eliminate those that stood against eternal night, to destroy the weapons of its enemies. All seemed on course; the puzzle pieces fell together, the one called Blackstone was his, his power added to his armoury. But then, unforeseen, one whom he thought of as his own set back his plans and broke the spellbound sinews of his body with a blade of obsidian and the love of another.
The great work was threatened, plans needed to change, yet there would always be time for reveng
e; he would make certain of it. He was a god still and he had an empire in his thrall. Mended, the Corpse Lord returned: let the great work begin anew.
***
Dogel Serresel pushed his way through the crowds. He moved awkwardly, his face bruised and still partly swollen. That bitch could have killed him! He had an escort of armed guards, but he missed his overseer, the capable Shlenfa. The overseer had been a useful servant to him, imposing and ferocious. Many a financial dispute had been settled to the dogel’s satisfaction from the mere threat of him. But Shlenfa was dead, killed by the dogel’s best gladiator, Gutspiller, and his own favourite bed slave, Nurarna. The dogel had planned to offer the life of Gutspiller for the climactic battle at the God games, despite his value as a killer on the arena sands. Curse his Taleeli hide, and that of that whore he escaped with.
The alarm had been raised but the two slaves had made good their escape, but only after slaughtering the two sent to apprehend them. Their trail had disappeared beyond the cultivated lands and into the forests to the west. If Gutspiller had strived to escape death on the sands he would find a worse fate in the haunted forest.
The dogel smiled to himself, a shiver of excitement running down his spine. He hoped the foul arachane ate them slowly and that the gladiator’s last moments were terror filled, he and that she-dog he ran off with. Long he had thought of sending an expedition to catch one of the children of chaos in the forests. People would pay good coin to watch one eat a slave alive, of that he was certain. However, the magistrars and priests had thrown up their hands in horror at his plan and banned such a venture outright. Fools! The arachane had not attacked the city for generations now and had degraded into the foulness; it was difficult to believe they had once been a divine race. He shivered once more, remembering seeing the remains of one washed down the river.
The late afternoon sun was settling over the city and a carnival atmosphere abounded; tonight the God Games would take place. The city’s gladiatorial dogels had promised a grand spectacle in honour of the coming of the Messiah of Shadows. The dogels were expected to contribute their best gladiators for no recompense. Their deaths would feed and honour the Corpse Lord and the city would be blessed. Dogel Serresel’s Lyceum of Combat and household had suffered greatly through the escape of the two slaves. His household slaves and gladiators had been decimated; the laws of Dofr’Arachane demanded it, as an example to other would be slave rebels. In a reflection of the old manner of tribute to the old dead gods, the unfortunates were blinded, mutilated and left overnight, nailed to trees on the outskirts of the forest. They were taken by the foulness, no trace remaining by morning.
Despite his losses, Dogel Serresel still had to supply his allotted number of gladiators for the games. All he had gained and more through Gutspiller’s victories had now been lost and his purse was sadly lighter. He would need new stock, but all the dogels and other mercantile guilds had contributed to the training of warriors for the coming war, ten years in the planning. The main army that watched the forest walls and imposed obedience on the slaves had already been summoned and now marched north. Unlike ten years previously, the eyes of Acaross were now firmly fixed upon Taleel and its empire. If Gutspiller were anything to go by, the war would supply a good dividend of strong slaves for the arena, galley benches, farms and mines.
The wide plaza was packed with citizens and their slave attendants, who gathered to watch the games that would take place at night. The dogel and his escort passed the entrance to the arena. It was a huge, circular, tall building with enormous frescos of combat scenes in relief on the outer walls.
Exotic animals were being transported in covered cages down a long tunnel to the basement of the arena. Under the sands of destiny and the seats of the crowd were a maze of tunnels, rooms and cages. The roars of lions, the barking and whistling of raptors and screeches of thunder birds emanated from them. The gladiators competing would be led through the streets in a great ceremony later. If he had time he would inspect the gladiators he was donating to the ceremony later, but for now his presence was required at the temple; the Messiah of Shadows, the ever-living god of Acaross was arriving.
The avenue to the temple was lined with black pillars, atop which flames burned. The temple itself was a large square building, its roof a pyramid, painted deepest black. Its doors were of intricately-carved ebony, depicting legendary events of Acaross and their peoples’ long association with the ever-living god. The dogel joined the delegation of magistrars and guildsmen queuing outside to be admitted to the hallowed interior. Outside, a small army of armed escorts were gathering. They watched the crowds and each other with equal wariness. In the absence of the army, these men would supply the city’s defence, if house and guild rivalries could be set aside.
A tall member of the Slavers Guild sidled alongside the dogel. He was lean and wiry, in contrast to the dogel’s well-fed frame, and clean-shaven rather than bearded. Unlike the gladiator owner, he did not advertise his wealth with finery and jewellery. His only display of wealth was a golden clasp on his sword belt and ornate silver work on the handle of his ceremonial whip.
“Greetings, Serresel. It is good to see that you have recovered from the beating your bed slave gave you!” Under his bushy eyebrows the slaver looked down his nose at the dogel, inspecting him with laughing eyes.
“It was you who sold her to me from your estates, Glizaron,” the dogel replied bitterly. “I should demand monies back. Compliant and broken, you said.”
Glizaron’s eyes narrowed. “You haggled to get her price down, if I recall, and have used her for two years. You bought a top quality bed slave. The fact that your gladiator, whom you trained, had a prettier cock than yours is down to you alone.” Once more the slaver’s eyes mocked the dogel. “Besides … your escapees cost me two overseers from my estate. You actually owe me!”
Serresel bristled to reply but said held his tongue. This skin trader would not be so cocksure if he still had Shlenfa in his household.
As if reading the dogel’s thoughts, the slaver continued, “But what am I saying? You lost the great Shlenfa did you not? He won his freedom in the arena fighting for your lyceum. You must miss his ready wit and … brawn.”
The dogel clenched his fists, but felt no power there. His head was aching again. It had been three days since the escape of Nurarna and the Gutspiller; he looked a bloodied mess, but he had to make an appearance and honour the Corpse Lord, as well as throw the lives of his fighters away.
“Yes, you must miss Shlenfa, I am sure,” Glizaron continued, no longer concealing his contempt and malice. “You will need replacements, and you will buy them from me alone, at my price; there will be no haggling this time. It would be best for you to pay me in advance, so I can secure good livestock for you.”
Despite his bruised face and fatigue, Serresel rounded on Glizaron. “You expect pre-payment before I view the goods, before a single Taleeli soldier is taken? There will be a glut of slaves after Taleel is defeated. The market will be flooded, especially with captured fighting men. I know of lyceums in the north that still have gladiators who were taken ten years ago at Tahlinjin. No, Glizaron, I will seek my trade where I will.”
Glizaron looked back over the plaza. “Those are your men waiting for you by the Shereth Fountain, are they not? They wear your lyceum pendant.” He indicated the group of fighting men standing by the public drinking fountain.
Serresel snatched a quick look at the fountain. His escort of four men were indeed waiting there. They were laughing and joking amongst themselves, enjoying the celebratory mood on the streets. “Yes,” he replied in irritation, “what of it?”
Glizaron smiled cruelly. “If you look around the fountain you will notice my men surround them and outnumber them some three to one. At a sign from me, a minor scuffle will break out in the centre of the plaza and your men will disappear, to be found tomorrow in the reed beds with their throats cut. Alas, I cannot guarantee an event-free journey home to your lyceum in
the hours before dawn.”
“You would not dare!” Serresel hissed. But in his heart he knew that the slaver would. He inwardly cursed his men at arms for their relaxed attitude; he could see Glizaron’s men had surrounded his, making their escape impossible if they were attacked. Shlenfa would have been aware of the threat before it appeared.
Serresl sighed. The dogel was feeling his years now, after the beating he had received. Maybe he should sell the lyceum and move somewhere nice on the Sea of Acaross, just he and a couple of bed slaves for company. Retire to live his winter years in comfort instead of fighting these endless mercantile turf wars. He needed to buy time.
“I will consider your offer,” he said finally.
The ebony gates were opened by priests in black robes. The heavy scent of incense wafted out of the temple. Inside, it seemed as dark as pitch compared to the plaza, which was still lit by the afternoon sun. A deep resonating boom emanated from within as a huge drum was sounded.
Glizaron chuckled. He leant forward and whispered in the dogel’s ear. “Do not take too long in considering what I have said, Serresel. We will discuss this further after we have welcomed the Messiah to Dofr’Arachane.” With that the slaver had gone, slipping away back to his place further down the queue.
Dogel Serresel shuffled forward as the line of magistrars and guildsmen were ushered in to the temple by the priesthood. He tried to clear his mind of his troubles and woes to concentrate on the here and now. The ever-living god of Acaross was coming to his city, during his lifetime! His soul should be elated that he had summoned to welcome the Corpse Lord and supply gladiators for the games. But the truth was, he thought bitterly, that ever since the attack he had been subjected to, when the Taleeli dog and his bed slave escaped, this city no longer felt like his own. He had been the premier Lyceum owner in the city, but the jackals gathered at the slightest sign of weakness. All the old certainties he had had been lost, his position and the respect it afforded him, his slaves killed as a punishment to all. He had lost Shlenfa, his staff of support, Nurarna his bedding companion, and of course his gladiatorial Lyceum champion, Kaziviere the Gutspiller. If he ever caught those two their deaths would be long and agonising. It was possible to keep a man in exquisite torture for months without killing him.
