The Dead Gods

by Rob Bayliss

  Keeping to the shadows he approached the horrors on the balls of his feet. He felt a rage coursing through him. Although it was tempting to launch a vengeful attack, he subdued the urge; he needed stealth to get within striking distance of the monsters. They were readying themselves to haul Nurarna up into the nursery web above them. It was now or never.

  Sweeping back his arm, he hurled the head he carried up at the web above the monsters. It crashed through some threads, before falling to become entangled in the sticky webs. The whole nursery shook. Bodies, living and dead, bobbed and twisted. Both of the arachane started, looking up from their captive, thinking one of the bodies was falling to earth.

  The axe swept sideways, crunching and crushing the back of the arachane’s head. The monster slumped to the ground instantly. Kaziviere turned to face the other but already it was reacting. As he raised his axe to strike, the foul creature jumped at him, grabbing both of his wrists.

  Kaziviere struggled to free himself, but the beast was fearfully strong and the gladiator was still a little groggy from the venom. The monster made a bubbling clicking noise, as if laughing at the puny mortal’s attempt to overpower it. The creature’s fangs opened and snapped together as the venom frothed from its hideous mouth. It attempted to draw Kaziviere closer to itself so as to strike.

  Just in time, Kaziviere snapped his head back, as the jaws missed his face by inches. He then felt a searing pain at his stomach. The arachane’s other limbs flailed and slashed at his sides, drawing blood and causing Kaziviere to cry out. He despaired, thinking all was lost, when the arachane suddenly tumbled backwards, releasing Kaziviere as it fell, its clawed hands vainly clawing the air.

  Kaziviere sprang after and onto the beast, jumping over Nurarna, who had rolled against the back of the creature’s legs, causing it to fall. His axe fell again and again as he hacked at the creature’s head in a near frenzy, his hand and arm drenched in its splattering blood and brain, reducing its face to a pulp. He rose from his butcher’s work panting, his arm aching with the effort. He sank down beside Nurarna, and began sawing through her bonds with the axe. Tears ran down her face. She could not talk through her sobs, but she smiled at him.

  “Nurarna, did these filth bite you?” Kaziviere said, fearing the worst. But if she had been she would not have been able to roll. He released her upper body from the silken bonds.

  She threw her arms around him and he returned her embrace. “Rendroc, I thought you were dead. I saw you fall after you were bitten by that beast,” she cried through her sobs.

  “It didn’t get hold of me to poison me properly, thank the Fiery One,” he replied. “Were you bitten by these vermin?”

  “No. I wasn’t bitten …” she said.

  “Then all is well, let’s get out of this accursed place,” he said, standing up, not waiting for Nurarna to continue. Looking around nearby, he saw that the arachane had dumped their weapons and supplies. Dropping the filth-covered axe, he rushed over and picked up his scimitar and the water bottle. He drank thirstily, his head still throbbing from the after effects of the venom. He held the bottle out for Nurarna.

  Nurarna did not take it at first. She stifled a sob and tears anew rolled down her cheeks.

  “Nurarna, we live. Come on, drink and let us leave here,” he said again.

  “You go, Rendroc,” she replied. “There is no point in me going; maybe you can put that axe in my head and finish me.”

  “What are you talking about? Come on, get up and let’s go, lest more of these foul things appear,” he said, sinking down on his haunches and putting his arm around her shoulder. In the corner of his eye he saw the beast he felled first, beginning to stir under wisps of shadow.

  “You don’t understand … they didn’t bite me … they did something worse,” she said between sobs. “They were about to paralyse me and haul me up with the others.”

  “Oh, Nurarna,” Kaziviere said sadly, beginning to understand her wish for a quick death.

  “They defiled me. Look up and you see my destiny,” she said, pointing up to the dried husks with torn bellies that once were women, and those who still lived, paralysed and senseless, that hung above them.

  “Bastards! Demonic bastards!” Kaziviere growled, standing up to deal with the waking beast.

  He grabbed it by the top of its head, lifting it from the ground. “Are you awake, filth?” he asked of it.

  As if in reply, the jaws smacked together and the glazing in its eyes began to recede. With a grunt of satisfaction he swung the scimitar, decapitating it in one stroke. He kicked the head and it bounced away over the bone yard. What to do? His mind cleared in determination: he was no mere escapee gladiator; he was an Imperial commander and he was at war.

  “No. I am not leaving you here, Nurarna, and I am not killing you either. We are both leaving this place.” As he spoke, he decapitated the other arachane and hauled the bodies together under the webs above.

  Nurarna stood, her face twisted in anger. She slapped him fully across the face, making him stagger backward. “You must kill me, savage!” she said, trying to provoke him. “Don’t make me carry this hell spawn inside of me; kill me now. What are you waiting for?” She raised her hand to strike him again.

  He grabbed her wrists. “Nurarna, I will not kill you, and I promise that no harm will come to you again, not while I have breath in my body. We will find a way to rid you of this changeling creature inside of you.”

  “Fool! Do you know magic? Will you charm this monster out of me?” she spat scathingly.

  “Not I, but I know someone who can. A wielder of an ancient crystal of power,” he said, solemnly. “I have seen its sweet light, felt the warmth of its radiance, have seen its power to banish shadows and evil.” He smiled in the remembering. “Nurarna, you have only known evil and savagery; it does not have to be this way. We are caught in a struggle between the light and the shadow. Be a warrior for the light; join me in ridding the world of filth like this!” He kicked his foot into the headless corpse at his feet.

  She lowered her gaze. “I want to believe you ….”

  He gently held her chin and lifted her face. “Believe me, Nurarna,” he said, smiling at her. He held her gaze for a while and then his smile changed to a look of grim determination. He looked up at the web above them, and the terrible decorations that adorned it, and then at the piles of bones all around. “Let us make a start here and now, Nurarna. Gather wood and pile it up here under this foul nursery; we will destroy this place before we go.”

  They set to work, the moon illuminating the pit of bones.

  “What of those women that live yet?” Nurarna said, looking up at the still captives above them.

  Kaziviere stopped in his work, looking up at them, considering different options in silence. He held his hand over his brow and then looked directly at Nurarna. His eyes showed understanding, but he was grimly determined. “We can do nothing for them,” he said in regret. “They are paralysed and may never wake. We cannot climb out of here with them. We do not have enough supplies to sustain them, either. I cannot even get up to put them out of their misery. We can only be thankful that they will not feel the flames, that the smoke will kill them before the fire.”

  Nurarna wanted to protest, feeling empathy with their plight. In her mind she knew he was right, there was nothing they could do. She nodded sadly and looked up at the unfortunates no more.

  They worked as quickly and as quietly as they could. The wood was old and dry and they gathered armfuls of kindling to pile it over the decapitated bodies of the arachane. Kaziviere took the heads and placed them far from the pile, facing the bonfire. He hoped vengefully that they would wake yet to see their bodies burn to ash.

  The night was progressing. Looking at the stars as they wheeled above, Kaziviere estimated that they had but four hours until dawn. He looked at the stack of firewood. It would have to suffice. They needed to be far from this place come the sunrise. He had gathered some dry bark and twigs a
nd some sticks to start the fire. Concentrating, he worked furiously, encouraging a tiny flame from them. Gently he built it up and blew on it before taking it to the woodpile. With satisfaction, he saw the flames spread. Wisps of smoke began to curl from it and the telltale snap and crackling of fire began to sound.

  “Time to go, I think, Nurarna,” he said urgently, gathering their weapons and belongings.

  She did the same, whilst constantly scanning the trees above the pit for movement. They jogged to the steps and climbed them quickly. Behind them, they could see the flames leaping skyward and spreading across the web. With a final look at their handiwork and at the stars for directions, they headed off into the forest, watchful of trip wires that might betray them to the arachane. An awful inhuman scream echoed across the forest canopy. They heard it taken up by others all around them, from all points of the compass. They crouched down low, fearfully, as they heard arachane and their lesser spawn in the treetops above them racing to the pit. From the direction of the pit they heard others take up a terrible keening. The forest resounded with a song of loss and hate. Kaziviere and Nurarna stayed as still as statues, fearful of the monsters but both with grim smiles on their faces. The arachane had been hurt, hurt by them.

  The keening faded into an inhuman babble, which faded into the distance. Finally, after what seemed hours, they assured themselves that the treetops were still and devoid of movement. They ran then, their fear defeating their fatigue, hoping that the fire had drawn all the watchers of the paths. Only when the sun could be discerned rising over the trees did they stop. They found a hiding place near a rock-filled stream, and after drinking deeply and filling their water gourd, they both slept, their muscles aching, dreaming dark dreams.

  ***

  Serresel watched intently, feeling his heart beating quickly in anticipation and terror. A cold fear gripped all the spectators. Some shook and cried out, wanting to flee this dark place, but duty demanded that they remain. The priests kept chanting; even their voices wavered in dread. Such was the manifestation of the god that straddles the worlds of the living and the dead.

  Despite his drug-induced state, the offering began to beg and plead to be released, as he felt the cold, black evil climb from the well of souls. In response, the priest only recited his chanting louder, although the mounting terror in the room caused him to almost screech his incantation in his high-pitched voice.

  The dogel shook his head at the trembling sound of the priest’s voice and looked at him in disgust. He watched those sat around him; all shared the same look of terror. He looked at the men seated behind, his eyes seeking the one he wished to kill. The slaver Glizaron was watching proceedings in a state of fear. Serresel smiled to himself. What is wrong with these people? This is the Messiah of Shadows, the Corpse Lord. He is honouring us all with his presence!

  His attention was drawn back to the offering. Behind the bound living tribute, shadows overflowed out of the well, as dark wisps of smoke curled around the offering’s ankles like dark tentacles. Suddenly It rose from the well, a dark and indiscernible shadow that consumed all light that threatened to dispel it. It rose up from the well spinning, carving its way into the world of the living from the sunless lands beyond.

  The tribute gave out a terrible wail of despair, his bladder emptying in terror as the shadow rushed into him. Suddenly, he became bright red as if lit from within. The lines of his veins and arteries and his beating heart could be seen as his skin became transparent. Then, the light died as his soul was consumed. All would be used by the Corpse Lord as he stepped into the world.

  The man’s face contorted in a silent scream and his body bulged and stretched this way and that as it struggled to contain the essence of the Messiah. Serresel noted with amusement how some of the spectators were backing into the hard seats of the amphitheatre, as if they expected the Corpse Lord’s offering to explode in a welter of blood and shower them all. In contrast, Serresel rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, studying the scene, taking in every detail. The tribute’s flesh turned ashen grey and as stiff as stone. The priests ceased their chanting. All fell silent as time momentarily stood still.

  “Release the bonds, quickly!” the arch priest urged the acolytes. “Magistrar, come forward!”

  Magistrar Sholok reluctantly stood. Shaking in fear on unsteady feet, he moved to stand next to the arch priest, to welcome the living god of Acaross.

  The acolytes reluctantly came forward, fumbling with the manacles in fear. The body remained still, like a carved statue of stone. Their task complete, the acolytes hurried to stand behind the arch priest.

  “Awake, Eternal One, the Shadowed Lord. Your people welcome you,” the priest said, kneeling before the grey figure.

  There was a loud cracking like the breaking of stone, followed by the sounds of tearing and lacerations. Splits appeared all over the body. With the sound of a howling wind, that which once had been flesh disappeared in an explosion of dust and ash that swirled and dissipated into nothingness. Out of the cloud the Corpse Lord came.

  One bird-like, scaled foot emerged, followed by another, its flesh pallid and sickening, reeking of rot and decay. Eight feet tall, it stood and it stared at those gathered. Its eyes, yellow and riddled with cataracts, looked around the room, seeing all. Naked souls they were to him, bereft of their mortal vessels of flesh.

  Those gathered in the temple, magistrars, magnates and guildsmen, cowered and withered under its gaze. Their secrets and desires, all was laid bare to it. It licked its pale lips with a black tongue, teeth yellow and pointed. There was so much darkness here, such petty wants and desires, such sweet, dark nourishment. Its gaze fell upon Serresel, holding the dogel’s eyes.

  Serresel felt it inside him, he held his breath as the withering gaze stripped away the trappings he hid beneath, but he did not flinch from the icy interrogation of his soul. Revenge? Power? You wish for these and they can be yours. They are mine to give. The gaze moved on and the dogel breathed again, a smile forming on his lips.

  Around its shoulders a cloak of shadows billowed like black wings. Its lank mane shimmered, seeming to alternate between hair, feathers and scales. The count of ages it wore in its foul flesh, of beings come and gone, from worlds innumerable. Truly, it was a god, a weaver of fates, the one that bestows immortality. It was the shadow between stars and the darkness in men’s hearts, the eternal god of Acaross.

  The creature stretched out its arms. Its hands ended in raking, black claws. The arch priest and chief magistrar of Dofr’Arachane led those in attendance in the worship of it. It received the adulation, shrivelled black heart beating stronger with it. He remembered this place, from long ages past. He had begat children here, he recalled. They might prove useful in the coming struggle, a concealed weapon to terrorise and expose the arrogance of men.

  But something was amiss here, something in the fabric of this place, that troubled his dark thoughts, an essence of a memory maybe. Doubt began to filter into his conscious mind of a spell broken and a victory denied. He saw it then, hanging as tribute on the stone ring: a blade of obsidian, set in a hilt bearing the seal of Taleel. He remembered it. His black heart recoiled as he recalled its bitter bite, how plans set in place long decades before had been swept away by a lowly Imperial commander and this black blade.

  He screamed his anger and hate then, his hatred of all that lived in the light of the sun. Those in the temple wailed in despair and terror.

  Outside, in response to the Dark One’s rancour a black cloud bubbled and boiled over the city. Its dark cloak spread in all directions from the apex of the pyramid. People who moments before had been in carnival mood now cowered as that terrible scream split the sky and turned the heavens black.

  Out in the forest, beyond the ditch that marked the barrier of the fields, inhuman eyes stared up at the encroaching darkness that swept over from the city of two-legged cattle. Inhuman ears heard the terrible cry and the treetops shook with excitement. Despite the
tragic loss of the young all was not lost. For behold: their god and father, the Corpse Lord, had come and he summoned them unto him. The city was devoid of soldiery, the cattle were fattened and it was time to reap a bloody harvest. Dofr’Arachane would be theirs again.

  Chapter 17

  There was a loud rap at the door. General Broud looked up from his desk. He smiled to himself; even the knock sounded formal. “Enter,” he said, setting down his stylus.

  Two troopers marched in with their lobsterpot helms under their arms. Like their helmets, their breastplates were of blackened steel. Their forearms were protected by weather-beaten leather. Under their armour they wore dark green tunics and breeches. The one in front wore a ceremonial silver gorget on a chain around his neck, signifying his command. He had close-cropped dark hair and a long, but neatly-trimmed moustache. His companion had long, dark brown hair tied into a ponytail with a leather thong, and a full beard.

  Captain Treal marched purposely into the room. The sergeant closed the door firmly behind him and fell in to stand to attention next to his captain.

  General Broud smiled. “At ease gentlemen,” he said, indicating the chairs in front of his desk. “Please be seated.” The two troopers sat down, setting their helmets on the floor beside them. The general stood and grabbed a flagon of wine and three goblets from a sideboard under the window. He took them back to his desk and poured out the wine, handing two goblets to his officers. He left his untouched on his desk and sat down.