How Gods Bleed

by Shane Porteous

  Chapter 1

  Sight was more dominant than sound for the hallway was dark and offered no clue as to what lurked within. The sounds of footsteps revealed a group of men as they moved flawlessly through the near black. A total of five sets of steps could be heard with four matching one another identically. The other was a vast contrast to its brethren for while the others were proud and clear, the 5th was shuffled and without cohesion. The sound of creaking, almost echoing in the black indicated that a set of heavy doors was opening.

  The men entered a large room where the dominance of darkness was only tested by candlelight, revealing that the room was as long as it was dark. A figure sat at the other end of the room sitting tall and proud upon a throne. By any standard the figure was very tall almost inhumanly so and if standing he would easily be measured at 7 foot. But it was not his height that made even the darkness weary of him, it was his features. In human terms it was difficult, even impossible to tell his age, he was old there was no doubting that but his elderliness felt more appropriately counted in ages, not years like he was a remnant of a time long before the age of man.

  The group of men passed through the light of a nearby candle revealing that four of the men, dressed in the uniforms of soldiers had surrounded the 5th man forcing him to move where they wanted him to. The 5th man, who the shuffled steps belonged to, tried to halt his steps only to fall to the ground in front of the figure that sat at the throne. The four other men did nothing whether in word or motion to offer assistance to the 5th man who scurried onto his knees and gasped loudly as he looked into the face of lone figure.

  The 5th man grasped onto his robes tightly as he quickly lowered his head once more clearly frightened by the dark ancient eyes of the man who sat at the throne. The silence that followed was horrid, worse even than many other awful sounds. Time became irrelevant for the horrid silence was terrifyingly powerful. The sound that finally broke the noiselessness was just as haunting.

  The figure upon the throne began to sing, but there was no joy in his voice, much like the rest of him there was something very morbid about his song. There was a talent to his tune but it was so eerie it could never be enjoyed, only heard like the cry of a hungry thing that has come to do someone harm. Every word of his strange song seemed almost to blend into the surrounding darkness as if that is where the song truly belonged.

  The awful silence returned as the figure finished his song and the black of the room seemed emboldened upon hearing it. The kneeling man looked up into the dark eyes of the figure as soon as the song had begun. As if entranced by it the man did not look away from the figure though his trembling blue eyes and shaky hands revealed he did not desire such action but could not look away.

  “That is how the song goes does it not?” The man upon the throne asked in a voice that was just as morbid as his singing. The kneeling man continued to hold his robes tightly as his lip quivered and his mouth moved several times in silence before he said, “That it does my lord.”

  The figure on the throne nodded his head very slowly and even this slight act seemed morose for his expression showed no sign of approval or anything else for that matter.

  “Tell me,” the figure asked, his voice darkening. “Why do you shiver so in front of me?”

  The kneeling man took an involuntarily sharp breath but dared not to take his eyes away from the figure. For what seemed a simple question the man took a long time to answer and when he did so there was no strength in his voice.

  “Because of the cold my lord, the winters seem frostier with each year that passes.”

  To this the figure tilted his head slightly before he asked, “When have you ever known a Helluvan to shiver because of the cold?” The lips of the kneeling man moved, as they quivered yet no words came from them. “Helluvans do not shiver because of the cold, you know that as well as I.” The man nodded his head ever so slightly but said nothing in response. “Only those who are scared shiver in Helluv, but what possible reason could you have to be scared kneeling in front of me?” To an outsider such a question was obviously answered, this man if that is what he truly was seemed the very embodiment of intimidation.

  The kneeling man lifted his head and opened his mouth wider but still could not bring himself to speak. “Answer me!” The figure bellowed leaning forward as his words echoed throughout the darkness.

  The kneeling man could do nothing else but answer the lone figure, transfixed by his overpoweringly dark eyes. “I do not know my lord,” the robed man choked out stuttering every fear filled word. The lone figure leaned back on his throne but the power of his presence did not diminish. “I do,” the figure said with a morbid calm in his tone. “It is strange that you remember the song of somber so well and yet you have forgotten the price for stealing…”

  Again the lips of the robed man quivered as his mouth moved several times before he said, “I have not my lord,”

  “Oh but you have,” the lone figure replied. “For your sake I hope you traded my silver for a good price!”

  “I-I-I,” was all the kneeling man could muster before the figure upon the throne spoke once more.

  “A man in your order values the power of knowledge and so my gift to you serves as both a reminder of why you do not steal in Helluv as well as the knowledge of what Onvaucalis feels like.”

  With those words spoken the figure upon the throne slowly looked over to one of the guards that had brought the robed man into the hall. Though it was only a simple look the guards knew what their ruler wanted from them. Two of the guards stepped forward grasping the kneeling man around his shoulders and collar. At first all the robed man could do is gasp but as the realization of his predicament fell upon him he began screaming the same group of words over and over again, “No, my lord, have mercy please.” His cries were so great that they turned from clear words into something far more animalistic like he was a dog knowing it was about to be put down for biting the children of its once loyal master.

  The figure kept his eyes upon the eyes of the lone man, his expression unchanging but ensuring the robed man knew he was watching him with a disturbed satisfaction in his eyes as the robed man was dragged away into the darkness beyond the light of the candles.

  It was not long after the screams of the robed man could no longer be heard in the hall that another guard, not of the first group entered the large hall. He walked until he was standing at a proper distance to the figure on the throne before he said, “My lord, a lone man has come to Helluv requesting an audience with you.” The guard hesitated for just a moment but it was enough to let everyone in the hall know of the gravity of what he was about to say. “He claims that he is Cada Varl, my lord.”

  To this revelation the figure upon the throne merely stared at the guard for a slight moment before he said “Really? Bring him to me…” Though the tone of the figure’s voice had not changed there was still something about the way he said his words that indicated he was concerned. The guard bowed before turning and walking out of the hall.

  The guard did not return, in his place was another man completely different to anyone who had ever walked through the hall. He was 6 foot 4 a large man by any standard, dressed from head to toe in a well-stitched and proud black material, woven to create a uniform of some kind that seemed in many ways outdated by the uniform the guards wore. A cape made from a thinner yet just as black material hung down from his shoulders falling to his thighs as a large sword with a over decorated handle rested in a black sheave at his side. His skin was the colour of cream and showed no imperfection whether from scar, sunspot or any other mark. His short hair that stood dead vertically across his head was rich white, a tone not forged from age but something else entirely.

  The steps the man took seemed almost to echo in the darkness as if the black itself was weary of him. He knelt before the lone figure placing his hand on the handle of his weapon to ensure that it not hinder his movements. Unlike the robed man before him as
he knelt there was nothing pathetic about his movements. He was not begging obedience; he was willingly showing respect to the man he had come to see.

 

  “My lord, thank you for granting me an audience,” the man in black said in a voice that was not quite human, carrying a level of awe to it that arguably surpassed the power of the lone figure’s words.

  For all the awe that the man in black carried with him the figure on the throne showed no sign that he felt the awe and instead replied calmly. “It isn’t often that an immortal responsible for the destruction of the west wishes to kneel before me.” There was a hint of sarcasm in his voice but it was hard to tell because of how overpowering his tone always was. It was now clear that the figure was skeptical.

  “Gorgoza is dead my lord, overthrown by Metamok.”

  When these words were spoken, for the first time in perhaps his entire life the figure showed great concern upon every inch of him from his eyes to the motions of his body as he shifted restlessly for a moment before sitting still once more.

  “How do you know this?” the figure asked. Every trace of skepticism was gone from his voice; it seemed he no longer cared who this man was only what he had come to say.

  “13 days ago I captured a werewolf near Uldaween, under three days of torture the beast told me of Metamok’s usurpation and that Gorgoza loyalists are on the brink of collapse. Metamok is closer than anyone has ever been to having complete control over the entire west. The werewolf claimed that is why it was so far east, to escape the tyranny and bloodshed of Metamok.”

  For a time that seemed much longer in the thick silence that now fell across the room the lone figure said nothing. It was only when the silence had become too powerful to bear the figure spoke once more. “You journeyed all the way from Uldaween to my kingdom in just ten days?”

  “Yes, my lord,” the man in black replied simply.

  The lone figure thought for a moment bringing his long hand to his chin and stroking it across his thin beard before he asked, “What do you offer to prove that you are who you say you are?”

  To this the man in black looked up from the ground directly into the eyes of the lone figure, revealing that his own eyes were a rich bright red that did not truly glow but seemed to, compared to the brooding black around him. His eyes were of a rare kind, a kind that would frighten most men and yet the figure showed no fear as he looked upon them.

  “How would you like me to prove my claim, my lord?”

  “As quickly as possible,” the lone figure replied.

  The man in black without a word brought his left hand up to his right shoulder, respectfully keeping his red eyes upon the dark eyes of the lone figure as he untied a simple knot causing the length of material to fall across him. Such action revealed the skin of his chest and torso that was anything but bare. Upon his extremely muscular frame were jagged thick lines, black and definite that with the exception of their colour could only be identified as hideous scars hindering his otherwise god like physique. He straightened his back and lifted his head ever so slightly to ensure that the figure on the throne could see the black scars easily. With a simple nod of his head the lone figure indicated he had seen enough and using only his left hand the man in black retied the knot covering his torso and chest in black material once more.

  “I thank you Cada Varl for bringing this information to me….” Though his voice was clear it was obvious that the lone figure was as troubled as a rabbit when it hears the call of an owl warning that a wolf is hungry and on the prowl.

  “I bring more than just information my lord,” Cada Varl replied as he lowered his head once more. “I bring possible salvation from not just eastern invasion but from the entire werewolf threat.”

  The lone figure said nothing but waited calmly for Cada Varl to explain himself further.

  “Forgive my ignorance my lord but are you aware of the Goddess Kerceeria?”

  “That I am,” The lone figure replied. “The Goddess who fell from the sky and from whose blood life on the earth began.”

  Cada Varl nodded, “Some of her blood still remains upon the earth in an ancient chamber underneath the lands where the kingdom of Gatavoi once stood.”

  “So how can the blood of a goddess deal with the werewolf scourge?” The lone figure asked flatly and yet curiously.

  “Because of what I am, a memory of a human if I drink her blood not only will that destroy me but everything else that has been created because of me….”

  “You mean….” The figure almost gasped out.

  “If I can get to the blood of the goddess then I can destroy every single werewolf, the monsters of the west will cease to exist.”

  There was now a collective gasp, not from the figure upon the throne but from the two guards, who still stood in the room, the revelation was too great for them to control themselves as they temporarily forget the conduct of their duty. But for the figure on the throne it seemed a different matter as he said, “You discovered this information at Uldaween?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Is that where you have been for all these centuries? Within the earth’s memory?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Cada Varl repeated.

  “Is this what you have been searching for all this time, a way to destroy the werewolves?”

  There was a silence that felt far longer due to its heaviness that fell across the dark hall before Cada Varl spoke once again.

  “No, my lord it was not. I was searching for a way to become human again….”

  His answer was blunt and yet there was something obscure as well as definite, a slight shudder of his shoulders showed that it was significant.

  “Am I correct in the belief that you did not find what you were looking for?”

  It was upon this question that Cada Varl looked up from the floor into the eyes of the figure, hesitating for a brief yet important moment before he said, “You are correct my lord.”

  His face became somber as he lowered his eyes once more. The lone figure intentionally waited for a moment allowing his powerful dark eyes to look over the frame of the Immortal before him. “In times as dark as these honesty is more valuable than even silver…and I feel it shall only become more important as the days turn darker. Tell me Cada Varl what do you need from my kingdom?”

  “My lord, I must speak to prince Yakarzin to see if the werewolves have any knowledge of the chamber and the blood of the goddess.”

  “That raises an interesting question, if the werewolves got a hold of the Goddess’ blood what could they do with it?”

  “Put simply, my lord if a werewolf were to drink it than they themselves would become the next best thing to being a god.”

  The eyes of the lone figure widened for only a split second but it was enough to reveal how shaken he was by this revelation.

  “It is because they were once human or at the least descended from humans, their humanity although greatly twisted and corrupted remains….”

  There were many more questions that the lone figure upon the throne could have asked but time now seemed to be a greater enemy than anything the lone figure had ever faced. He rose from his throne and stood as tall as his 7-foot frame would allow as the light of the candles made his presence even more overpowering.

  “Rise Cada Varl,” the lone figure commanded and as instructed The Immortal did just that. As the two men stood facing one another the presence that both carried was different but just as dark as the other like they were two great gods coming face to face for the first time. The lone figure stepped towards the Immortal

  “Follow me,” he said not breaking his stride.

  Cada Varl did as he was asked as in silence the two guards moved to either side of the lone figure walking silently behind him and in front of Cada Varl.

  The group moved out of the hall into the connected black where the darkness seemed more suited to the castle than even the night sky. There was very little
light to be had with few torches held sporadically on both sides of the cold stone walls that made up the castle. Cada Varl could not help but notice how the fires flickered like they were shivering as the lone figure passed them. The only other source of light came from the moon seeping through glass-less windows that were as sparse as the torches.

  It was through one of these simple windows that the Immortal could see the moon; it was full acting as an extremely bad omen. But the full moon also brought light to a courtyard where the eyes of the Immortal were drawn to descend by the terrified words of someone begging. He saw the robed man who had been taken from the hall, now completely dragged by the two guards who had taken him. They were moving towards a specific set of thick wooden pillars that stood as a collection with a dozen or so identical sets. Though the guards were ignoring him no one could blame the robed man for his fear filled yells. He was about to experience Onvaucalis, a form of torture that along with a handful of other equally brutal tortures were as unique as they were awful. The condemned would be tied by the wrist to either pole, impaled through both hands to increase the suffering. Inch by inch the poles would then be turned until eventually the condemned was quite literally ripped in two. The agonizing ordeal was always performed over the course of two days to ensure that the condemned would not die of dehydration first. Everyone in the kingdom knew of Onvaucalis and how horridly painful such a death must have been, it was clear by the way the robed man was screaming he knew this all too well. If that wasn’t enough to tell him of what he was in for, the bloody remains of a condemned woman still laid in a vile heap where the smell of blood was fresh in the air. Cada Varl looked away, not from disgust or queasiness he just simply saw no point in witnessing such a thing. The screams of the robed man were so loud that surely the figure and the guards that followed him would have heard it and yet none of them seemed to pay any attention.

  Such punishment was commonplace in the kingdom of Helluv, it was as well known in the land as what a crow sounded like when it squawked. In terms of size and manpower to call Helluv a modest kingdom was the most generous of statements. In fact it was the smallest kingdom in the east of Noonsva and yet it was the closest to the west, sharing a border with the empire of the werewolf. To most it seemed inconceivable that this tiny kingdom could survive being so close to the lands of monsters but there were four good reasons why the kingdom had never been conquered.

  The first was that Helluv possessed more silver than other land in Noonsva. The silver deposits found in Helluvan Mountains were thought endless by many. The second reason was the mountains themselves; surrounding the entire border of the kingdom they made invasion by any army a difficult task. But more importantly the mountains forced any invading army to move through and across narrow ridges where a much smaller troop of soldiers could force them into a ‘kill box’ and easily slaughter them. The third reason was the capture of prince Yakarzin, son of the werewolf king Gorgoza. It was a little over 40 years ago during a border dispute that the werewolf prince was captured and held prisoner. Capturing Yakarzin had proven a great deterrent against a full-scaled werewolf invasion of Helluv. But now with Gorgoza dead Yakarzin would be all but useless in serving such a purpose.

  The forth and most important reason was the 7 foot tall figure Cada Varl was now following. King Granzool, the man that even monsters feared. 72 years ago Granzool had defeated both his sisters and his brother in order to become sole ruler of the kingdom. When he claimed his throne he chose to completely change Helluv from the very ground up. Before his ascension Helluv had been a small yet spoiled kingdom using the fear that other human kingdoms of the east had to trade countless tons of silver. The mass wealth made Helluvans fat and greedy especially in their upper classes, caring only about self-indulgence. Granzool’s first act as king was to outlaw the trade of silver and when the noble families protested he ordered the execution of every single one of them. He then made it mandatory that even single man, woman and child over the age of 9 had to carry a bow and a quiver of silver tipped arrows. This combined with the fact every Helluvan had to train daily in both archery and combat allowed him to call upon almost every single Helluvan to defend the kingdom if the werewolves ever invaded. He kept his rule by killing anyone who dared to disagree with him as he constantly came up with more and more ways to publicly execute his detractors in the most gruesome of ways. There was a purpose to such barbarity; Granzool wanted to ensure that his people feared him more than they could ever fear the western monsters.

  Such a tactic had proven not only successful inside Helluv but elsewhere. Granzool was so feared by both werewolf and human alike that he no longer had to worry about invasion from any of the fellow kingdoms, no human would dare to oppose him. He was a legendary figure in the darkest kind of ways with as many legends spoken about him as there were stars in the night sky. Many legends told of how he was the embodiment of evil, as old as time itself. The histories told that he was 28 when he took control of Helluv making him in fact 100 years old. But simply by looking at him it was easy to see why such legends were told for age had done nothing to bend his spine or cripple his step. Granzool had changed Helluv from a spoiled kingdom of greed to a place where the greatest warriors of the east were bred, shaped and molded to be the most effective werewolf killers as humanly possible. As drastic as all these changes were, they were performed with a single purpose, to ensure the survival of Helluv, that is all that mattered to Granzool.

  Cada Varl followed Granzool and his guards through the castle. In spite of what surely was a hectic circumstance the Helluvan king did not walk with hurried steps as they moved through the darkness. The king knew his castle well for even as they began descending stairways he showed no hesitation in his steps as if he could somehow see through the black or more likely he was moving more from memory than sight.

  The group continued to descend; there was no doubting that, as the cold air slowly became stale. They were heading underground and the first change of scenery came in the form of flames that danced blood red in place of amber. This was not due to a magician’s trick; the torches of the underground were made from a special fuel specifically blended to burn in such poor air. The crimson lights revealed that the group had entered a place that was even larger than the throne room. On one side a total of 9 large crossbows had been somehow built into the stone wall each ratcheted to hold a bolt that was half the size and width of a powerful spear. The bolts were at the ready to be fired by a simple latch that was wrapped in a series of long leather straps that were tied around the trigger of each massive crossbow. By the way their tips shone in the crimson light it was clear that their heads had been forged from thick silver. They all pointed to the opposite wall that was covered in chains so heavy it was doubtful that even the strongest of men on his own could carry them. Underneath the heavy chains the wall shone silver, as a total of four guards could be seen, two at either end of the chain-covered wall.

  The four guards bowed their heads ever so slightly in respect to their king but said nothing. Granzool and the guards that had accompanied him moved through the room far enough to ensure that Cada Varl was standing near the middle of the room before Granzool turned around to face him.

  “Behind this door Helluv keeps Yakarzin, let me know if you have any problem getting the information you need from him. My men will be more than happy to extract it for you….”

  There was no glee in his voice but it was clear that Helluvans, Granzool especially, took great delight in torturing the western monsters.

  “Thank you my lord,” Cada Varl said calmly.

  “No need to thank me Cada Varl,” Granzool replied. “The fate of Helluv rests in your hands; by helping you I am in turn helping my kingdom.”

  Cada Varl nodded in silence but Granzool was not yet done, “If you have been in Uldaween all these years than you have no idea of what lies beyond our borders into the west do you? The scribes of Uldaween have not been able to gather such information in ove
r 4000 years?”

  “That is correct my lord,” Cada Varl replied simply but truthfully.

  Granzool nodded ever so slightly before he said, “Yakarzin is not the first werewolf that has been captured by Helluv, there have been many others who under the right level of agony have spilled their guts about what lies in the west. Helluv has the most accurate maps of the beast lands, you will need them….”

  “Indeed I will,” Cada Varl said knowing a thank you would be pointless.

  “I will have them ready before you are done speaking with the vermin behind this door,” Granzool said.

  Cada Varl then moved his hand down to his waist removing a long yet thin pouch on his belt. It was a scroll made from animal hide that was so old it seemed on the brink of crumbling into a thousand pieces.

  He offered the scroll to Granzool and said, “This map is of the west before the werewolves conquered it.”

  Granzool took the scroll from the Immortal but did not look at it.

  The Helluvan king said, “This will make it easier to plot out the best way to reach the blood of the goddess. I have no need to see the wretched thing; I shall leave you to do what you have come here to….”

  Granzool turned and took two steps before the Immortal could say, “Let us hope he will tell me what I want to hear….”

  Granzool slowly looked over his shoulder revealing that in the crimson light his eyes looked even more inhuman and powerful. “Oh it will, do not worry about that the guards will ensure it….” With those words the king turned his head and continued walking, commanding the guards to open the door before he disappeared into the darkness, though his steps could be heard as he made his ascension above ground. Even to an immortal such as Cada Varl he was in awe of Granzool, silently and only in his own mind he was greatly impressed by the Helluvan king for so many reasons. Most of which was the fact he did not ponder over the effects of the blood of Goddess. For any other human king in the east the idea of the blood would be a way to become a god. That is all they would have thought about it, they would have sent their entire population to go and retrieve it caring nothing for the lives that would have been lost. But Granzool showed no interest in becoming more powerful; he was genuine in his desire to ensure the survival of Helluv. To any other person, Granzool’s reason for not wanting to become a god would be smeared in a new legend, perhaps that demons do not want to become gods.