F O U R G O D S
By Sebastian H. Alive
Mailto:[email protected]
Twitter: @sebastianhalive
Published by Sebastian H. Alive
Copyright 2015 Sebastian H. Alive
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Author bio: Author bio: Like the majority of writers, Sebastian H. Alive lives a triple-life. By day he is a Purchasing Manager, controlling and manipulating the world’s economy while brainwashing the gullible masses. By evening he is father to two demonic minions that the devil is too embarrassed to be associated with and by night he writes stories.
He was born and raised in South Yorkshire and now lives with his two young children in a small village in the Isle of Axholme area of North Lincolnshire. Sebastian has wrote seventeen novels, two trilogies and a short story
Other eBook titles by Sebastian H. Alive
The Bible - The unofficial, official account that's not entirely true…
The Holy Trinity (Trilogy)
Jesus is my flatmate, I kid you not!
Satan is my trailer buddy, I kid you not!
The life and deaths of Theodore Platt
The elite program
Society of heroes with indeterminate talent
R.A.S.H (Rent.A.Super.Hero)
The weirdness of irrelevance trilogy (Trilogy)
The darker I fall
11:11
Lords of the immoral land
The sword of Krillia
End of heroes
The damned twins
Calloway
Kings of sons
The peculiarity of Arthur Wilsbury
At the touch of a button (short story)
Chapter One
Town of Wellspring, Tarlath
Mage Cersei cursed once again as his wagon slipped in and out of another rut in the uneven muddy track.
“Do they not have proper roads in this cursed town?” he spat at his horse as it tugged along the four-wheeled rickety wooden cart with its canvas canopy.
The vehicle came to a gradual halt on the track, listing heavily on one side as the black horse paused to look back unsympathetically at the old man who was grasping onto the back rest to keep himself from sliding down the seat.
“You don’t look at me like that!” he snapped at the animal in irritation as he clutched the reins tightly in one of his gnarled hands. “This road is no good for my old joints. You don’t know how it feels to be me.”
The horse snorted through its nose sending a cloud of mist into the cold afternoon air then pawed at the ground as if impatient to be gone.
“Excuse me? This wretched journey is your fault!” berated Mage Cersei. “If you wouldn’t stop to look at every fallen branch or jump out of your skin at every rabbit you see then we could have made it in half the time and in less discomfort.”
The old man continued glaring back at the animal, though his expression softened slightly.
“Stupid horse.” he muttered under his breath before flicking the reins over its back.
The wagon lurched forward slewing in another rut which almost swallowed the wooden wheels, righted itself then pressed forward leaving behind another foul mouthed tirade from the old man bouncing around uncomfortably in his seat.
“I know you’re eavesdropping,” said Mage Cersei raising his voice a notch but still squinting ahead as mud sprayed up and spattered him. “You may hear your longsuffering servant curse you and your name but if this life is supposed to be my gift then I really wish I was dead. Do you hear me, my God?”
But there was no reply. The only sounds were from the creaking of the wheels and the rattling of the wagon from its rhythmic swaying motion accompanied by the dull thuds of the horse’s hooves tramping in the soft ground.
“I curse you and I curse all the Old Gods,” muttered the old man irritably. “Punish me if you dare. You don’t scare me. The only thing I fear is whether I make it to the piss-pot during the night.”
Then, mercifully and to his relief the muddied, rough track flattened and smoothed out. The surface was still uncomfortable to travel on; with potholes and hidden furrows made by the passage of other heavily laden vehicles pulled by draught animals transporting their wares but it was infinitely more tolerable.
“You are a merciful God and you draw me close through your compassion.” said Mage Cersei with his voice dripping with sarcasm. “If you would allow me the luxury of a feather-filled cushion for my bruised buttocks, now that would be something.”
The path veered to the right with high grass verges on both sides and the old man’s grey eyes flicked towards a young boy on the left side of the track making the sound of dueling gestures and waving a thin stick in the air. As the wagon drew close the boy paused and looked up, staring wide-eyed at the old man hunched over the driver’s seat with his cloak hanging lankly over his frail shoulders. His young round freckled face roamed over the horse and the four wheeled carriage with its canvas canopy behind the driver as they wordlessly passed by. Suddenly the boy jogged after the wagon and swished his stick through the air and pointed it at the old man as he ran alongside with a grin on his face.
“Good day, mister. Do you yield?” he cried in a high-pitched voice.
“Steady, steady.” wheezed Mage Cersei pulling back on the reins gently to bring the wagon to a halt before looking down at the young boy.
He looked no older than ten years of age and carried with him an innocence and lack of fear that only the young seemed to possess. His freckled cheeks were red from contact with the cold air, his hair a tousled brown curly mess and his brown eyes twinkled in excitement. He wore a brown-dyed threadbare woolen tunic, a narrow leather belt, long stockings and thin-soled leather shoes common with peasantry yet Mage Cersei felt even colder just looking at him.
“Do you yield?” repeated the boy narrowing his eyes menacingly and stabbing the stick up in his direction.
“I yield.” replied the old man smiling crookedly and raising his arms in mock surrender.
With a grin the boy lowered his stick and peered closely at the old man staring hard at roughness of his skin, inspecting the creases and deep wrinkles on his face and the sagging flesh hanging low around his neck which quivered with every motion.
“You look old,” the boy said in awe. “You’re even older than old Baldric in the town. He has more hair than you but he’s the oldest man I know around here.”
“And you lack respect for your elders, young man!” snapped Mage Cersei.
“Grumpy too!” added the boy flinching.
“Riding rubs me in all the wrong places boy and I’ve been doing it for a long time,” said the old man wearily. “I have lived years longer than you could possibly imagine and the truth is I’m much older than you think but there was a time when my skin was young and I was filled with the strength of a thousand brave lions.”
“Really?” gasped the young boy.
“Really, but then I caught something which was like a venomous bite to my heart and it took away strength, weakened my eyesight and hearing and wasted away my muscles so much so that I yearn for the release of death.”
“You are diseased?” whispered the boy licking his lips nervously and taking a step back.
“It’s a condition, but it’s not contagious. It’s called ageing,” said Mage Cersei chuckling. “That was a long, long time ago. Let’s just agree that I’m a good deal older
than you are, yes?”
“Agreed.”
“What’s your name, boy?”
The boy paused and looked over his shoulder towards the brow of the high grass verge where in the distance smoke was rising lazily into the air in several places.
“Judging by the smoke there’s a cluster of buildings over that there hill. Is that where you live?” asked the old man following the direction of his gaze and squinting hard.
The boy didn’t answer the question and rested the stick casually on his right shoulder and shifted from foot-to-foot uncomfortably.
“My ma said I shouldn't talk to strangers, but you don't look scary.”
“Your mother is a sensible woman indeed,” replied Mage Cersei flashing a smile. “These are dangerous times, boy. Tell me, do I look dangerous to you?”
He shook his head slowly from side to side.
“You have made a fine judgment young man, so do not be troubled. My name is Cersei and I’m pleased to make you acquaintance. See, now I’m not a stranger because you know my name.”
“Well…my name is Brantley.”
“Brantley!” said the old man rolling the word around on his tongue in a thoughtful manner. “It is a strong name.”
“What’s the horse’s name?” asked Brantley curiously.
“Bastard,” replied Cersei throwing the animal a cursory glance. “Stay clear, if he wants to bite you, you can consider yourself bitten. He doesn’t like anyone much.”
The horse’s ears flicked back and laid flat to its neck and it snorted angrily.
“Do you want to sit on the wagon seat, boy?”
“Do you have a sword?” queried Brantley with a little uncertainty.
“Pah!” snorted Mage Cersei. “When you get to my age you don’t want to be swinging a heavy sword. There are only a few things more embarrassing than lifting something heavy and having the urge to defecate because it loosens your bowels.”
With a grunt the old man eased himself gently off the seat, massaged his buttocks for a few seconds with a winch etched across his face then sat back down a little further up the wooden seat to make room.
“Come on up,” he beckoned with a wave of his wrist. “When you’re as long in the tooth as I am then some company is a heady treat indeed even if it is but an insolent little boy.”
Brantley smiled and tossed the stick to the ground then hauled himself up onto the drivers chair next to Cersei.
“Can I hold the reins?” asked Brantley eagerly. “Can I please, mister?”
“You can, young Brantley.” answered Cersei handing him the leather straps.
The boy grasped them in his small hands, grinning from ear-to-ear and looked around proudly.
“Don’t hold too tightly,” whispered the old man leaning towards him. “Keep your hands relaxed but not loose enough so the animal can drag them from your grasp. Hold your hands apart but don’t exceed the width of the horse’s neck.”
Brantley adjusted his hands and looked across to Cersei for further guidance.
“That’s it, just about perfect young man. It’s really simple see because horses are actually quite stupid animals. Any beast that lets someone ride around on them all day or drag heavy wagons must be stupid. A horse is there and just wants direction so guide him with the reins and your voice. Use a simple flick of the wrist to move him along and if you want to go faster, flick them again. To stop him pull back on the reins and say whoa or steady but not too much pull or the animal may become insensitive to your commands and keep going. Worse still you may anger the animal and it may be less forgiving than others like my cursed beast up front.”
Mage Cersei hawked and spat over the side of the wagon and threw the horse a derisory look.
“Are you here looking for lodging and food? It is but a short ride into town from here and if you have the coin there’s this tavern on Ironmonger Lane and I can’t remember the name of it but it serves the most delicious bake mete you ever did taste. I had a slice once.”
“I’m just passing through, young Brantley. Why, if I were a younger man again I’d be whoring and drinking my fill,” said the old man looking away dreamily. “Ahhhh… but what lengths I would go to for a soft mattress and a dram of Tarlath Red right about now.”
Brantley looked momentarily embarrassed and the conversation tapered off into awkward silence until he spoke again.
“Are you a tradesman?” questioned Brantley. “My father said merchants are wealthy like the King but you don’t look wealthy.”
The old man chuckled drily and shook his head slowly.
“I can tell you I’m no merchant and I’m involved in no guilds, young Brantley. I couldn’t sell a bucket of water to a burning man. Communism gives me no interest but you’re right about one thing, I have no possessions of worth.”
“Father said trade is becoming more dangerous and that’s why we see more merchants using this road.” whispered Brantley.
“There’s truth in that,” muttered the old man. “There was once a time where the profession of a merchant was respected and carried with it a certain degree of immunity from being waylaid by thieves and robbers, but not anymore. It takes a brave man to travel the old trade routes or indeed a foolish one.”
“So what are you then?” asked the boy with a puzzled look on his face.
“I’m…a nothing…a wanderer just waiting to die.” replied Mage Cersei with a distant look on his face.
“Sounds pretty boring if you ask me.” mumbled Brantley looking disappointed.
“What do you want to be, boy?”
“I want to be like my father,” he said beaming with pride. “They say my father is the best Fletcher in the whole kingdom. He even made arrows for the King.”
Mage Cersei stared hard at the young boy for a moment with sadness locked in his grey eyes.
“What? Did I say something wrong?” asked Brantley.
“Not at all, young man. Arrow making is a source of pride and a man’s means of livelihood should be respected. Remember that.”
Brantley nodded his head silently then looked over towards the crest of the hill and sighed.
“I best be going, my ma wants me to cut some wood for the winter fuel,” he said miserably. “I hate chores.”
“Cutting wood is strong work for the shoulders and back. It’ll make a man of you.”
“Suppose so,” grunted Brantley looking downcast. “But I’d rather play.”
“I saw you playing when I came around the corner. What were you doing with that stick of yours?”
Suddenly the boys eyes brightened and a smile played about his lips.
“I was pretending to be Akkadian, the deadliest of the Old Gods and the greatest swordsman of them all. No enemy could stand against me.” he said in a hushed nervous voice.
“Is that so? Well, you have good balance so there might be the warrior in you yet, young Brantley.”
“Really?”
“Really.” said Mage Cersei with a wink.
“But it isn’t true; it’s only pretend because the Old God’s aren’t real. That’s what my father says anyway.”
“That’s what your father believes but do you believe in the Old Gods, boy?
Brantley hesitated for a moment and shifted uncomfortably on the driver’s seat.
“My father said we shouldn't talk about the Old Gods and if he catches me he’ll punish me. The Great King forbids it. Last time my father gave me 9 strokes on my bare buttocks. He said the Great King Gomorrah has ears everywhere and anyone talking about the Old Gods would suffer more than a little birching if caught.”
“The Great King Gomorrah!” spat Cersei with his eyes flashing in annoyance. “A thousand poxes on the man and you aren’t answering my question.”
Brantley licked his lips and flicked a glance towards the hill once again then leaned in close to the old man.
“Did the Old Gods really walk the land as we do now?” he asked. “I reckon they did.”
“Oh but i
t is true,” said Mage Cersei with his eyes twinkling. “The Old Gods are very much alive even now in one form or another.”
“Have you ever seen one?” whispered the boy wide-eyed.
“Indeed I have but sometimes the reality doesn’t quite match up to the myth. Before you go, I’d like to show you something in the back of my wagon? Would you care to see?”
Brantley looked behind him over his shoulder and stared at the canvas canopy.
“What is it?”
“It’s an answer to your question.” replied the old man standing up with a grunt and gingerly climbing down the side of the wagon until his feet touched the ground.
Without checking to see if the boy had followed Mage Cersei hobbled around to the rear of the wagon blinking rapidly. A couple of seconds later he saw the cart hitch slightly to the side and Brantley wandered over to him, his face a mixture of apprehension and curiosity.
“Sometimes not knowing the truth is better,” said the old man reaching for the cloth drape with his voice tinged with sadness. “You should know that before you climb those steps. Do you want to know?”
“I want to know.” answered the boy nodding his head and staring at the 5 narrow wooden steps that led up into the rear of the wagon.
“So be it.” said Cersei pulling aside the cloth door to enter and vanishing from view.
Brantley paused for a moment then took a step forward onto the first rung, then the second and climbed inside.
“Do not be afraid, young man.” said the ghostly, far-away voice of Mage Cersei.
They were inside the dimly lit hallway of a vast stone chamber with flickering torches hung on iron brackets at 10 feet intervals. The width of the chamber was around 20 feet wide but it was impossibly deep and the ceiling was so high that the light from the torches couldn’t reach it.
Brantley looked back at the entrance then gazed in awe at the dancing reflection of the flames on the huge stone slabs on either side of him. Hesitantly he reached out and ran his fingers lightly over the cool stone then jerked them back as if stung.
“Where are we?” he gasped as he looked around.
Four Gods Page 1
