The Dead Gods

by Rob Bayliss

  “Oh yes, we had seen it all. And Nurarna remembered Glizaron ….”

  ***

  They came to where the reeds marked the course of the river and saw the outlines of boats tied up along the wharf.

  Bro’jek found a suitable vessel, a small river trader, which would speed them down the river. The two archers stood overlooking the wharf, scouring the opposite bank. Bro’jek stood on the wharf and watched as the mules climbed aboard, guarded by the axe-wielding warrior. Glizaron followed with Saneesh.

  She slumped down on the bench, all hope having left her months ago. She almost wished the Arachane had killed her. She had learned of the depths of depravity of men. That some men lusted, but she had not been raped, her value warned against that. Once she was sold, however, she would be used cruelly and when they were done with her and her beauty was but a memory, she might end her days as a washed up whore in a dockside pleasure house. She sighed audibly as she felt hot stinging tears well up inside her.

  “Keep smiling, my little flower,” Glizaron said, his eyes flashing evilly in the dark. “You need to be willing and compliant so I can get a good price for you. If I cannot, I will sell you to the army barracks. A young thing like you may survive a month.”

  Bro’jek smiled to himself upon hearing this. Pleasure mares, especially young ones, were eagerly consumed in army barrack lodgings. He had ridden many in his time. He suddenly felt uneasy and looked up from his remembrances of the past. Something was wrong. Where were the archers?

  Then he heard it: faint grunts and the tell-tale sound of steel drawn over throats. He drew his scimitar and moved quickly to hack at the mooring rope. He raised his sword to cut and heard the rasp of drawn steel behind him. He felt the planks of the wharf shudder through his feet, as the warrior jumped from the shadows onto it. Bro’jek turned, adopting a guard stance.

  The shadowed figure swung its scimitar, its rough, sharpened edge glinting in the pre-dawn light. It swung towards his head. Bro’jek moved to parry, but the enemy’s blade switched suddenly to a stomach slash. Bro’jek barely managed to move his blade down to parry before it bit into his mail. A lucky move, he thought, as he rapidly swung his scimitar in return, to split his assailant’s skull. His blow was parried more quickly than he thought possible and three counter moves rained at him. Left, left and right. He had to twist and step backward, barely managing to parry each well-aimed attack. There was something about this warrior. He had seen these moves before … in the sands of the arena. It was the champion, the one, whose name the crowd had chanted. It was…

  “Gutspiller!” The name sprang from Bro’jek’s mouth.

  The warrior emerged from the shadows. It was the Taleeli. “Not Gutspiller; my name is Kaziviere, commander of the 1st Cheamas. Whilst you are a dead man, slaver scum.”

  Bro’jek saw the movement on the ship in the periphery of his vision, heard Glizaron screaming at the axe man to cut the moorings. They were going to leave him here!

  “Bastard!” roared Bro’jek, readying to jump onto the vessel to escape the lethal gladiator. It happened so fast; he parried two blows from the gladiator, but in the corner of his eye he saw one of the slave mules hurl himself at the warrior in the boat as he had his axe raised. The warrior swayed, trying to remain balanced, but the slave carried gold and the momentum took them both. The slave had wrapped his limbs around him. He swayed back and forth trying to regain his balance and finally toppled over the side into the river. Weighed down by armour and the gold, neither arose back to the surface.

  Bro’jek had tried to concentrate on the warrior in front of him but had had half an eye on the combat taking place on the ship. There was a lightning-quick flash in front of him and the gladiator stepped back to rest his scimitar on the wharf, leaning on it as if it was a support.

  “Now you die!” Bro’jek tried to say triumphantly, lifting his blade to attack and stepping forward. The words came out as gargle. He smelled the metal tang of blood in his nostrils, felt a warm glow spreading down his chest. His legs gave way as his life’s blood poured from his open neck. He collapsed on the wharf, his vision fading to black in the cold, grey light.

  Glizaron shook, his hands fumbling to try to snatch his scimitar from its sheath. In the space of seconds, his bodyguards had all been killed. More figures rushed onto the wharf from the shore. There was a wild-looking woman among them, her face vaguely familiar. Before he drew his sword he felt a searing pain in his groin and the wind leave his chest. The little whore!

  Saneesh looked down on him as he collapsed in pain and she withdrew her foot from kicking him in the balls.

  “Money. Spare me. I can get you money. You‘ll be rich beyond your dreams,” Glizaron pleaded.

  The wild woman jumped onto the boat. She walked purposefully towards him and stood above him. “Do you not recognise me? No amount of money would make up for what you put me through, slaver scum,” she hissed at him. She had a dagger drawn and held it to his throat. “I want your life.”

  The gladiator on the wharf shouted. “Nurarna, wait! He could be useful.”

  Glizaron chuckled through his pain and clenched teeth. “I recognise you now, both of you. Nurarna, the slave bitch I sold to Serresel and Kaziviere his gladiator. You should see your master now!”

  Nurarna spat in the slaver’s face. “We have no masters now, scum. But yes, we will go and see Serresel. You’ll take us to him in fact.”

  Before he could answer, her fist shot out and smashed into his face. Everything went black.

  ***

  It was moments before dawn broke across the eastern horizon. The grey light was yielding to morning as the sky became shot with colours. The lesser spawn sat sated and sleepy on the webs atop the battlements. They had fed like never before, in celebration of their dark god’s blessing. In his grace, he had yielded their ancient lands back to them. Now they were lazy and bloated.

  The first they knew was the telltale smell of smoke, as flames raced up from the webs that trailed down to the lands beyond the walls. Some went up in flames before they knew what had happened; some tumbled, singed and stunned, off the walls. The cattle were there waiting, with hammers and picks, crushing exoskeletons and drenching the earth with Arachane blood and entrails. Those inside fell back from the walls, but the cattle were inside, too.

  They had gotten inside the walls by some secret way. As the sun began to climb, the city reverberated with screams and screeches again, but this time the screams were inhuman. All the time, flames spread. The spawn withdrew fearfully as flames took houses, their roofs burning with acrid smoke, filling the morning air.

  Kaziviere and Nurarna led those within the walls, their action coordinated with those without. Saneesh was with them and led Glizaron on a chain, his hands bound behind his back. His lip was split and one of his eyes was black and swollen.

  He mumbled words through his broken mouth. “I showed you the way in. Release me! I will go north and never return to this place, I swear. This city is nothing but a charnel house.”

  “Be quiet, slaver shit. Speak when spoken to,” Saneesh exclaimed, delivering a blow to the back of Glizaron’s knees using a thick overseer’s club. The slaver fell forward and his face smacked heavily on the bloody cobbles of the street.

  He wept and cried out in pain as he was dragged upright by his hair. He found himself eye to eye with the gladiator, who thrust the jewel encrusted handle of what once had been his slaver’s whip in his face.

  “Nurarna told you we were going to see Serresel. So where can we find the filth?”

  “He will be in the god’s house, the temple. But you will not be able to kill him,” Glizaron said, blood and spittle dribbling from his mouth.

  “Everything dies or can be killed,” Kaziviere replied matter-of-factly.

  “Not Serresel, not any more. He has taken communion with the Corpse Lord, the sacrament of shadows. He has risen to godhead himself.” The slaver had a mad look in his eyes as he looked accusingly at Kaziviere. �
��But what would you know, you Taleeli dog? You heathens burn your enemies alive!”

  Kaziviere turned away from the slaver. He had done cruel deeds in the name and cause of the Fire God, it was true. The Fiery One had his faults, he saw that now and he had doubts over the cause, but at least his ancestral god gave warmth and light. The light cast shadows, the Corpse Lord made them flesh. But since his pious days he had seen the sweet light of the Sun Shard. Things could be different. Things would be different.

  “I’m not going to discuss theology with a slaver.” At his feet a dead spawn lay. Kaziviere kicked its saggy, dead body. “You think this is a god? It’s an abomination, a dead abomination. As for Serresel, let us see what he has become, shall we?”

  “As you wish then, Taleeli. He will be in the temple, the House of Shadows. He will be strong in there; he will laugh as you try to kill him. Before your eyes he will rise again and again.”

  “You appear more scared of him than I … more so than all these who you made slaves. They have felt your whips on their backs, but you have no power over them now. They do not fear you, or the monsters you call gods.”

  Glizaron looked around; the gold of the rising sun pierced the pillars of black smoke that rose from the burning city, causing him to squint through his swollen and blackened eye. The slaves, once complacent and brow beaten, were exacting a terrible revenge upon the monsters who had claimed the city as their own. Those among the city’s population that had hid and lived through that terrible night saw their chance to join the slaughter of the old dead gods, alongside those they had once called slaves. The high-pitched screams of the spawn assaulted Glizaron’s ears as scythes cut at the monsters’ legs and flaming torches thrust at their eyes. But up ahead, with bloodied claws, one yet resisted.

  An immortal Arachane stood resolute at the head of the Temple Plaza as the vengeful slaves advanced. Two freed slaves lay dead at his feet as he looked down at the presumptuous mortals who dared resist the order of predator and prey. Let them keep attacking him; he would kill each one. The vengeful circled the beast, like hyenas around a lion that was guarding a kill. They had learned how to bring the Arachane down. A lasso was launched, ensnaring one of the Arachane’s legs. More ropes followed. The Arachane looked around desperately; it was he who trapped flies with silken ropes, not the other way around. The flies carried stings, sharp and vicious, that stabbed and cut. He fell under their raining blows, his flesh carved from him, piece by piece to be cast upon the cleansing fires that sprang up everywhere.

  The plaza appeared clear of the Arachane and their spawn. Yet one place remained, around which slaves, who had waded fearlessly through gore, now hesitated to enter. The temple stood at the end of the avenue of pillars, grim and foreboding. Those clasping fiery torches and blood-splattered weapons waited, looking back at Kaziviere and Nurarna for guidance.

  “Gutspiller!” Tunaka came running over to join the others from the east of the plaza. His dark skin was smudged with soot from the fires he and his fellows had set. He wore a broad smile.

  “Tunaka! Well met, my friend!” Kaziviere said. “Are the gates now opened?”

  “Yes, Kaziviere. Dofr’Arachane is ours and is being put to the torch as Nurarna commanded.” The youth beamed. “There are very few spawn or immortals for us. Where have they all gone?”

  Nurarna pointed to the temple. “It appears that our spiders have scurried away into that dark hole,” she said, a fierce smile on her face. “In there is my old master. I do so wish to discuss old times with him. If you care to join us, help Saneesh drag this slaver shit in there too, would you?”

  Tunaka joined Saneesh and smiled shyly at the rare beauty of the girl. She gave a sweet smile in return. Without her veil, her exquisite features were a wonder to behold. Her skin was a flawless deep olive, her eyes an intense grey, her lips and nose were like that of a finely chiselled statue. Without speaking, they followed Kaziviere and Nurarna, dragging the reluctant captive slaver in chains behind them.

  The doors of the temple had been flung wide open. They were draped in webs, as if they stood in a forgotten ruin from an ancient age. The black void behind them was utterly dark, a black tunnel to a cold hell.

  Nurarna pointed at the silken draperies. “Fire the webs!” she commanded.

  Some of the slaves moved forward, holding their torches aloft. As they approached the doorway there was a piercing scream, as a spawn lurking in the dark recesses above the door launched itself at one of the torch carriers. Almost immediately, it was pierced by spear points and pitchforks. It fell to the floor with a soft thud. It was set upon and smashed to oblivion. Not wishing to take another chance, the torches were lifted to the webs. The fire shot across inside the doorway as the webs ignited.

  The corridor beyond lit up, as the fires spread inside. Scurrying and high-pitched screams could be heard as the remaining spawn fled the flames.

  “Quickly. After them!” Kaziviere urged.

  He ran inside, following the orange glow of the advancing flames and the smoke that hung heavily in the air of the corridor. The others followed him. Here and there, singed and dazed spawn lay on the floors, their legs curled up around them. They were dispatched mercilessly.

  Kaziviere and Nurarna entered the main chamber. It looked like a butcher’s shop. The shambolic bodies of those sacrificed were piled about and the air was heavy with the stench of smoke, blood and excrement. The fires smouldered above their heads in the thick webbing that coated the ceiling, cast an eerie red glow. Those that followed hesitated in the doorway The terrible sight, the aroma of blood and the taint of the Corpse Lord hung in the air. Such reluctance did not affect Saneesh and Tunaka, however.

  They followed, hauling Glizaron after them, babbling and sobbing. His feet dragged on the stone flags of the floor as if he were a tree attempting to send down roots. Serresel stood over the well of souls, next to the great upright stone ring.

  Recognising the leaders of the newcomers, he looked with hate at Kaziviere and Nurarna. “Scum!” he rasped. “You are the cause of all this.” He pointed at the gladiator. “Now the Arachane have left, called to the war against your city. Taleel is doomed, because of you, and I will see it fall also. Behold, I am now immortal,” he laughed.

  Kaziviere grunted. “Is it not strange,” he said stepping forward, “that for the second time I have unmade the plans of your Shadow Messiah?” He slowly made his way forward, his hand grasping his scimitar. “I did it once before, far to the north. It was that which brought me here, to your Lyceum. Now fates have dictated that this city and its dark gods have fallen. You are on the wrong side, Serresel!”

  Kaziviere leapt forward, raising his blade, but the dogel was a shadow creature now. It was as if he melted away from the path of the sword. He shot to the side more quickly than the eye could follow in the gloom. His fist smashed into Kaziviere’s temple, sending him reeling and the scimitar crashed to the floor. The dogel snatched it up and swung it at Saneesh and Tunaka. They jumped back from its path, but the blade cut through the chain that held Glizaron with a shower of sparks.

  The dogel hauled the slaver to the edge of the well, smiling evilly. “Hello again old friend. I missed you at the games last night!”

  Glizaron wailed in despair.

  “Rendroc, can you stand?” Nurarna said in concern, helping Kaziviere to his feet.

  Kaziviere nursed his jaw; nothing was broken. His teeth were intact, but his pride was injured more than his body. His back bore welts, the trophies given to him by the whip, on the orders of the soulless one who once was Dogel Serresel. He had lost his scimitar but in his other hand he still had the jewel-encrusted whip he had taken from Glizaron. Kaziviere’s eyes blazed in fury and he clenched his teeth.

  “I can stand, but that loathsome shit will not for much longer.” He growled, advancing towards the well of souls, uncurling the whip as he went.

  Serresel laughed. “I have the spirit of the Messiah of Shadows running through me. Perhaps you co
uld best me at times; I have trained you well after all. But you cannot kill me, Taleeli. I would rise again and again, whereas you will die, but only the once. Your death would give me a moment’s pleasure, it is true: however, I tire of games with mortals, as insects in the dirt you are to me now. I gift you this city; may you enjoy its blackened ruins. Thank you for giving me the means of escape from here and revenge against this one.”

  He looked down at Glizaron’s fearful face. The dogel held the blade of the scimitar against the weeping slaver’s throat. “Hush now,” he whispered, and ran the blade across the man’s neck, holding him over the well of souls.

  The slaver’s blood pumped out of his fearful body to stream into the dark void of the well. The man’s eyes glazed over. The dogel let the scimitar and the dead slaver drop. He looked over at Kaziviere and laughed. He raised his hands in reverence over the well, his face becoming lit in its lurid green light.

  Inside the well, the shadows churned and swirled this way and that as the portal opened to receive its passenger. The dogel stepped forward over the edge of the precipice. His outline seemed to blur as he slowly entered the void between realms, teetering on the edge.

  Kaziviere leapt forward in a bound. In one movement, his arm went back and forward, the slaver’s whip cutting snake-like through the air with a crack, its end catching and wrapping around the dogel’s neck. Kaziviere hauled on the whip with both arms, his muscles bulging. He pumped his legs backward, hauling at the whip.

  “Ropes, quickly! Do not let him escape!” he shouted at those in the doorway.

  Tunaka ran to the doorway and grabbed a lasso from one of the men, who stood there in fear. He ran behind the great stone ring, throwing the rope and catching the dogel’s arm. He hauled at the rope, wrapping it around the stone ring to secure it. Soon the others with lassos and ropes were doing the same, as Nurarna screamed at them, rousing them from their lethargy and fear.

  The dogel screeched as he was hauled back from the edge of the stone ring. His eyes looked wildly through a foggy blur that snaked down into the swirling well. Hauled back, his limbs were secured around the stone ring, just as the priests had caused to be done to the sacrificial offering that had nourished the Corpse Lord’s entry to Dofr’Arachane. Yet all the time the well churned, the gateway between worlds wide open, waiting to transport those who entered.