The Dead Gods

by Rob Bayliss

  “Thank you, Sir,” Captain Treal said, a broad smile on his face.

  Sergeant Tovey echoed his thanks but his face was set and grim.

  “You summoned us, General?” asked the captain. The two officers clasped their goblets without raising them to their lips, waiting for the general to drink first.

  Broud grabbed an open parchment of vellum from the table and waved it in the air. “You should now address me as dominar, actually; look, it bears the Imperial seal.”

  “Congratulations, Lord Dominar,” Treal said, grinning, “Major Menhan hinted as much when he delivered your summons. The Senate in Taleel have made a sensible decision for once. Your report of the events on the Cheama was well received then, I take it?”

  Broud tossed the parchment on the table. “Yes and no,” he said, leaning back in his chair, his hands clasped in his lap. “I’m now the dominar, officially as well as in practise.”

  The general leaned forward and rapped his fingers on his desk.

  “A sensible decision, though?” He clasped his goblet. “We are at war. But neither you nor I are now going south to fight Acaross, it would appear.”

  Tovey coughed to announce he wished to speak as Broud’s eye’s switched to the sergeant and he nodded for him to go on.

  “We are staying as the 1st Cheamas then, Sir? We are not being sent to re-join the 14th?” Tovey said, a look of concern on his face.

  “No, Sergeant, I’m sorry to report that your tour of the Northern Holdings is not due to end in the immediate future,” the dominar replied. “You have business back home, a family waiting for you?”

  The sergeant shrugged and looked in regret at his untouched wine cup. “I had a wife and two daughters, Sir. But she left me for some son of a bitch wine merchant from the rich quarter of Taleel. As for business …” the sergeant looked up from his wine cup, “… only dice debts, which can most certainly wait.”

  Broud laughed and took a deep gulp of his wine. Treal and Tovey quickly followed suit. Both men licked their lips in appreciation. Broud noticed their reaction in amusement. “Not the usual swill like they serve at the Plough and Furrow, is it gentlemen? This is Keanasa clovergelt. I liberated it from Sligo’s cellars.” At the mention of the previous dominar’s name, Broud’s face hardened into a scowl. “The loathsome turd certainly had a taste for the finer things. Not even your former wife’s lover will have tasted something like this before, I think, Sergeant.”

  Tovey chuckled. “He’s tasted my wife, my Lord, and believe me, she was expensive to keep. If I ever marry again I will get myself a nice Cheama lass. If she’s anything like the wine of the Cheama grape, she’ll be strong and intoxicating.”

  Captain Treal, a grin on his face, raised his eyebrows at the sergeant. “Will she go down as easy as this clovergelt?”

  Tovey pondered for a second before adding, “Not as easy as my first wife, which was the cause of the problem!”

  Broud roared with laughter at this and reached to top up his goblet. “Excellent. Major Menhan stole my thunder regarding my appointment. Did he tell you we have two new arrivals as well?”

  Treal and Tovey exchanged a glance while the dominar was otherwise occupied. Called to the general’s office, offered wine? He must have a task in mind for them.

  Treal cleared his throat. “We saw one. The major was with a young alchemist, Lord Dominar. Would I be correct in presuming you have a job for us, my Lord, one that may involve these guests of ours?”

  The dominar grinned. “No fooling a veteran, is there? Yes, indeed I do. Our guests are as follows: Morcan Tavili, a young alchemist sequestered to us by the Grand Mage in the seminary himself, and an inquisitor, by the name of Braebec Conziva.”

  Both Treal and Tovey exchanged an alarmed look.

  Broud grunted. “I see that you share my concern. He is full of questions, gentlemen. Questions that I would rather he not know the answers to. He suspects that there was more to our ability to halt the incursion last year than just our martial prowess.”

  Treal’s eyebrows rose quizzically. “Trooper Blackstone’s Sun Shard, my Lord?”

  “Indeed, Captain,” Broud said with a sigh. “Part of his mission here is to retrieve certain manuscripts which were purloined from the seminary by Holwyn. You can probably make an educated guess as to what said manuscripts concerned. It is fortuitous that Blackstone is away on a mission.”

  “Indeed, Lord Dominar,” Treal replied, sucking the air between his teeth. “I will have a quiet word with the lads in the 1st who share in our knowledge.”

  Yes, you should,” the dominar said grimly. “You two must also guard your minds; some inquisitors have the skill to read your thoughts. Such an inquisitor is our Conziva.”

  “We will do our utmost to avoid him, my Lord,” Sergeant Tovey interjected before taking an eager slurp of the clovergelt.

  That … will be difficult, Sergeant,” the dominar replied glumly. “Gentlemen, I want you to put together and command a strong force from the 1st Cheamas. It will be made up from of your most trusted men, men of your particular expertise.”

  “Our expertise, Sir?” Tovey asked. He drained the last of the clovergelt, smacking his lips in pleasure, but sad that the goblet was now empty.

  “You are to assist and escort the inquisitor, both in his investigation of the destroyed base and in a task I have given him,” Broud said solemnly.

  Sergeant Tovey had difficulty in hiding the unhappiness on his face, whereas Captain Treal, used to such situations such as receiving unpleasant orders, wore a face of stone. “We are returning to the Marsh then, Lord? When do we march?”

  The dominar smiled. “Don’t worry, gentlemen; I am not sending you on boats through that marsh dragon-infested swamp this time. You will sail on the Orca tomorrow morning. Captain, I also want you to get our captured Acarossian apothecary from the dungeons at Master’s Keep. Clean him up and feed him. He will accompany you to the Talons Delta.”

  Captain Treal looked puzzled. “Sir, I don’t understand. Surely a squad of the admiral’s marines would suffice to escort the prisoner with the inquisitor? Besides, I do not think the apothecary likes me, considering as I removed one of his fingers questioning him!”

  The dominar indicated the captain’s goblet. “Finish your wine, Captain,” he said, as he set about refilling the sergeant’s empty vessel. Treal drained his wine and held it out to be refilled, mouthing his thanks as Broud poured out more clovergelt.

  The dominar sighed and leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “This is no ordinary escort duty. The apothecary fears you, Captain, at least as much as his heathen gods. That is a weapon in our armoury to ensure his compliance. We live in strange times, gentlemen, our enemies are not just soldiers of flesh and blood, but creatures of the shadows.”

  Tovey shivered. “I know that true enough, Lord Dominar.” He still remembered the nightmare Shadow God in the stonehouse, an abomination that froze his blood to ice.

  Treal was about to take a drink of his wine but stopped himself. “Why not have the inquisitor interrogate the prisoner here? Why take him with us, my Lord?”

  “You are going on a hunt,” the dominar said, lowering his voice. “I have heard disturbing reports from the Talons. It would appear the shadows have left one of their own at the delta. You have fought it before, although it is doubtful you will recognise it. It is now a less than human creature that has clung to its miserable existence by feeding on salamander and has adopted their form. I have been told of its description and it is a threat to all that enter the marsh. I want it killed. But first you will assist the inquisitor and the apothecary, to learn what they can from this creature, if it is still capable of the tongues of men. After that you will destroy it, a job I think the 1st Cheamas will enjoy.”

  Tovey growled as he nodded in understanding, his features set and determined. “If it is the same thing that slew six of our lads, Sir, then yes, we will enjoy it.”

  Treal looked shocked, his eyes widen
ing in realisation. “Are you saying this beast is that shadow warrior we encountered outside the stonehouse? That he yet lives?”

  “Yes, Captain,” the dominar replied, “this beast is what remains of that nightsoil Sheerak.”

  Sergeant Tovey drained his goblet in one gulp, slamming it on the desk. “When do we sail, Sir?” he said fiercely.

  ***

  The brooding edifice that was the Master’s Keep loomed large at the end of Castle Street. Its stones and tiles were ancient and weather beaten, worn smooth by the rain and wind of ages. Braebec’s eyes were drawn to it as he climbed the road towards the fortress. It had been known as Ranuk before it finally fell to Taleel.

  For centuries it had stood guard over the western approaches to the Northern Holdings and resisted Imperial predations; all had changed with the blessings of the Fire God upon Taleel and knowledge of black powder alchemy. Not content to lay siege, the Imperial forces had fired bombards against the once-impregnable walls. They poured into the breached stronghold, putting all to the sword in payment for past defeats. The savagery meted upon the defenders of the fortress was matched in the slaughter and enslavement of the Summerlanders in Ranuk’s hinterland. A whole people of the Summerlands were utterly broken and lost to the mists of time; all that remained was the name of Ranuk, and that was seldom spoken anymore. From its ashes Northport had sprung, the greatest city in the north.

  As a petrified, once-living thing, Master’s Keep appeared, like a tree splintered and felled by lightning, its buttresses like roots growing down the cliff, seeking the waters of the harbour. Out of the shambles of walls and tagged on buildings, rising high above all else, the high tower could be discerned. Atop the needle of stone was the cell of Holwyn the alchemist, its windows looking out across the Cheama.

  The road crossed from the built-up area of the city over the open killing ground before the fortress walls. Outside the barbican two sentries stood, their armour polished steel, their tunics purple. They eyed Braebec suspiciously as his hooded figure approached the gate. With a clash, their halberds dipped to cross and bar the entrance.

  “State your name and business at the Keep,” the sentry on the right demanded of him, ten paces from the gate.

  Braebec stopped and held out his hand in gesture of greeting. He threw his hood from his head; he wore a visage of friendly, yet confident, command.

  “Greetings, I am Braebec Conziva, lately arrived from the seminary in Taleel. I am here on the business of both the Grand Mage and General Broud, your newly-appointed dominar. Who do I see to gain access to the alchemist’s tower?”

  The sentries looked at each other questioningly. The talkative one was about to reply when he heard marching feet behind him.

  “Darkness take you, haven’t you men got two eyes to see? Don’t you recognise a seminary inquisitor when you see one?” a voice bellowed from behind them.

  Both guardsmen quickly sprang to the opposite sides of the gateway, making room for the captain. He wore well-maintained armour over his purple tunic. His silver captain’s gorget clinked against his breastplate as he purposely marched between the two guardsmen. He halted before Braebec. One eye glinted from his lined and grizzled face; the other was covered with a black leather eye patch. He bowed before Braebec.

  “Welcome to the Master’s Keep, my Lord … Conziva, if I heard correctly? My name is Breld. I cannot recall an inquisitor ever honouring us in Northport before. How may I assist you?” the one-eyed captain enquired.

  Braebec held out his forearm, which Breld readily clasped. “Thank you, Captain Breld, may the fire in your heart never dim. I wish to gain access to the tower once used by the treacherous Holwyn; may his name be accursed for shaming my order.”

  “Certainly, Lord Conziva, please accompany me. I will fetch the key from the guardroom,” Breld said, beckoning the inquisitor to enter the barbican with him.

  Braebec’s eyes swiftly adjusted to the gloom of the barbican after the brightness of the early spring day outside. It was a skill he had acquired, as his work often led him to the darkest of places. Captain Breld stopped at a door under a spluttering torch. He opened the door to the guardroom. Inside were several garrison troops taking their ease. Their relaxation quickly evaporated as the captain entered the room. They jumped to attention with a creak of chairs against flagstones.

  “At ease, lads. Lord Conziva, can I offer you a drink while you wait?” Captain Breld asked of the inquisitor.

  “No, thank you, Captain, although,” the inquisitor reconsidered, “I would appreciate a pitcher of water to take with me, if I may?”

  “Of course, my Lord,” Breld said, smiling, “You,” he addressed a soldier, “take a pitcher and draw some water from the well, and hurry. Do not keep our guest waiting. We will be at the foot of the Dread Tower.”

  The soldier’s face turned white. He swallowed hard, saluted, grabbed a flagon and jogged out of the room. Breld opened a cabinet that was mounted on the wall. He reached inside and retrieved a large key from a hook. He grabbed a lantern from the table and lit it with a taper from a permanently lit brazier.

  He turned to Braebec. “Follow me if you please, Lord Conziva.”

  Breld led Braebec out of the guardroom and continued through the gloomy barbican into the main ward of the fortress. It was a large area contained within the curtain walls, with many outbuildings sheltered under the battlements. Up ahead was the entrance to the Keep proper and the very grand, but now disused, dominar quarters. From those rooms, Sligo had hoped to carve himself a kingdom from the wreckage of Empire. To the right the soldier drawing water from the well could be seen. Braebec followed Breld, who skirted the keep and passed by kitchens and blockhouses until up ahead, attached to the keep but with an exterior access, the alchemist’s tower stood before them.

  It seemed much taller the closer they came to it. It was a needle reaching up into the sky, the clouds scudding past it above. A thick door of oak barred the entrance. A heavy lock secured the door; its solid bar extending deep into the stone work of the doorway.

  “You called this the Dread Tower, Captain?” Braebec asked of Breld, as the captain slid the key into the lock. “Is that its name?”

  Breld turned to face the inquisitor, happy to put off turning the key, his face set in a grim smile behind which his inner fear cowered. “It is now, my Lord. Whatever Holwyn got up to in here on Sligo’s behalf, it was certainly not wholesome. Whatever he raised from hell all alone up there visited an ugly death upon him. They say the cell was haunted afterwards. Luckily one of Kaziviere’s lot was a Summerlander bush priest and successfully exorcised the place. This place still turns my blood cold though, if the truth be told.”

  “A bush priest of the Summerlands? And he was in Kaziviere’s unit?” Braebec mused. “You say he exorcised this place?”

  “So I’ve heard, Lord,” Breld said. “Some scout half-breed that Kaziviere trained up I think.”

  “What have you heard about Kaziviere’s disappearance then, Captain?” Braebec probed. “It seems that Kaziviere was surrounded by sorcery.”

  “The commander was a good man, my Lord,” Breld replied, suddenly concerned he had said too much. He looked away from the inquisitor’s eyes. “He and the general … and Commander Poldan and Admiral Carnak are honourable soldiers of the Emperor’s. As for magic, I saw none. It was good, hard-fought soldiering that kept the Northern Holdings for Taleel, nothing more. I know this: I fought, both in the streets of Northport and on the Holms, for Broud.” He turned back, his one eye fearlessly meeting the gaze of the inquisitor.

  The trooper carrying the pitcher of water interrupted them. He held it out for the inquisitor to grasp. Breld looked on, incredulous.

  “What are you doing, Trooper? You’ll carry the inquisitor’s water up the steps of the tower for him.”

  The trooper, his face already white, gave him a look of resignation.

  Breld turned back to the door with a slight smile on his face. Discipline ruled the
garrison troops now. He would have had open dissent back in the lax days of Commander Crane. The former commander had been a key member of Sligo’s faction, when not deep in his cups. He grimaced. Now to lead by example: courage, Breld. He turned the key, drawing the bolt back with a grinding click. He snatched at the door and hauled it open, causing dust to fall from the lintel. Holding the lantern in front of him, he took a deep breath and crossed the threshold into the dark.

  “Follow me, Lord Conziva. Be mindful of the steps,” he said in a croaky voice. It was the dust, just the dust, he inwardly commanded himself. “Do not drop that pitcher, Trooper.”

  Braebec stepped into the shadowed stairwell that spiralled upward around a thick, stone pillar. He reached his hand to the left to find the stones of the surrounding wall. They were worn smooth, as were the steps themselves, by the passage of generations over the centuries. The three climbed the steps in the suffocating dark, eager to keep under the comforting glow of the lantern that Captain Breld held aloft. Up, up the stairs spiralled. Soon all three were breathing heavily, the sound mixing with the slap of swords against legs and the slosh of the water in the pitcher. Ever present was the constant howl of the wind, emanating from both from the door far below and the forbidding darkness high above. It gave the tower itself a fearful voice.

  Braebec reached out his fingertips to the stone that formed the central column of the tower. There were memories in the stone, beyond its making in the deeps of the ocean when the world was young. A power had stirred here recently; the stones still vibrated to its song, a song as old as time. But hidden, slightly off key, was something else, an echo of a nightmare, of torn souls and shadows that slither in the darkness and a high pitched scream. He stopped in his climb.