“You are walking inside the former council chamber of the Old Gods, young man.”
“Is it magic?” asked the boy fearfully.
“Of course it is, now come along.” snapped Mage Cersei turning his back and continuing to shuffle slowly down the great hallway.
“Are you a majicker?” cried Brantley not moving and with his voice trembling slightly.
The old man looked back over his shoulder and he didn’t need the poor light or his fading vision to sense the emotions swirling around in the young boy. Suddenly the burden of guilt weighed heavy on him and he muttered something unintelligible under his breath then walked over to Brantley and laid a skeletal hand on the his small shoulders.
“I don’t have any magic,” he said in a soothing voice. “I’m nothing more than a servant and not a terribly good one at that and I can assure you it wasn’t voluntary. Do not be alarmed, you are not dreaming and no harm will come to you within this chamber.”
Brantley opened his mouth to say something but no words would come out. Instead he just looked over to the huge stone wall of the hallway and swallowed hard.
“Quartzite sandstone, if you’re wondering,” said the voice of Mage Cersei. “If you look closely at them under the light it’s like they have a million stars captured within them. Extraordinary, is it not?”
“I have never seen the like.” whispered Brantley.
“There are over 1,500,000 blocks in the council chamber, each weighing 30 tons. Can you imagine the task of quarrying such stone, lifting and putting them down? I cannot fathom such an event.”
“Who built it?” asked the young boy in wonderment.
“This stone was laid by ancient cultures lost to history that worshipped the Old Gods, races that are now consigned to ashes and known by only a few. Come, follow me.”
“I…I don’t know if I can.” stammered Brantley.
“Listen boy, you could walk away right now, forget this ever happened and realize that you’re going to be just fine or you can walk with me and know the truth.”
Brantley let the words sink in and glanced back to the entrance then up at the old man.
“I want to know…I do.” he said after a long silence.
Without another word Mage Cersei turned on his heel and began walking down the hallway followed quickly by the young boy. They walked in silence for what seemed an eternity until they approached a stairway leading down to a lower level. Brantley looked at the old man but his face was set and stern as he slowly descended the stone flags.
“Careful now.” he said.
He followed him down the stairway which led to large circular atrium that was well lit by torches and it was then that Brantley saw the kneeling figure shackled and chained to the huge stone pillars with his head bowed low and his long brown hair covering his face.
“Who is he?” whispered the young boy faltering in his step.
“Give me a moment boy and let me catch my breath.” wheezed Mage Cersei.
Brantley blinked a few times then approached the kneeling man and stopped directly in front of him. He was naked to the waist with broad shoulders and heavily corded muscles thick through the chest. The man’s huge forearms were stretched out towards the two pillars either side of him and his wrists hung limply through iron rings attached to heavy metal chains that were hammered deep into the stone of the vertical columns.
Brantley’s eyes gazed over his torso which was crisscrossed with scars, some white and fading, others red and puckered then at his left arm which was heavily tattooed in strange markings.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so big,” he said breathlessly. “Even on his knees he is almost a giant. Is he alive?”
“He’s alive.” answered Mage Cersei from behind him.
Brantley leaned forward slightly to see if he could hear the man breathing then backed away quickly when he saw his hands clench into fists through the metal rings. With a low, guttural growl the bound man peered through his long hair at the young boy who took a few more steps back.
“Who is he?”
“He has been known by many names. Some I know and some I do not for they have been lost on the tongues of men. In the East the divided tribes of the Ruined Lands call him Agramenon the Soul carrier because the twin-blades of his axe hold the blood of countless victims. He is a deity worshipped as a God of war and victory, the strongest and most fearsome of the Old Gods. Across the waters in the South the warring nation of Piathaleas call him Heimdall the plague God and destroyer of nations because where he walks death always follows. In the West the Nakaloo worship him as Gilgamesh the Axe-Hound, God of retribution and punishment and here in the North he is known as Dar Thadian, One of the Four.”
“It cannot be.”
“You know the stories, young Brantley,” said the voice of Mage Cersei. “The names of the Four Gods drip off your tongue like honey. Dar Thadian. Akkadian. Hephaestus. Magdalenian. Now you stand before him and see him for what he is, cursed and bound to his standing stones by his brethren, waiting to be released and when his strength is needed he’ll bring the kingdom to its knees in a sea of blood and tears and that time…is now.”
Brantley shook his head slowly from side-to-side and looked over to the old man who was uncomfortably close.
“Mister, I…I really want to go now. Please.”
“I am sorry. There is no other way.”
Suddenly Mage Cersei sprang forward with a hiss and grabbed the young boy and held his hand over his mouth muffling his screams of terror. Then he dragged Brantley thrashing, squirming and kicking over to the huge stone pillars. With his mouth turned up into a snarl the old man took the young boys right hand and forced it to touch the metal ring on one side of the column then repeated the same with the other hand. Breathing heavily and with his shoulders heaving in exhaustion Mage Cersei stepped back.
“What have you done to me?” cried Brantley with tears streaming down his face.
“What needed to be done, young Brantley.” said the old man in a hushed voice.
Dar Thadian rose to his feet slowly, free of his shackles and chains and stared at Mage Cersei through hard, dark eyes.
“You are freed, my God.” he whispered as he averted his gaze.
Brantley looked sideways in horror at his small arms stretched out towards the two pillars set either side of him and pulled his wrists painfully against the metal rings that held him chained to the columns.
“I want my axe!” growled Dar Thadian.
Chapter Two
The capital city of Tarlath
The court of the King’s Bench
They dragged the bloodied prisoner into the royal courtroom with his bare feet trailing weakly along the ground. The King sat slumped on his throne facing them, his face a dark steady gaze as the two guards threw the man across the rough stone floor before his feet. For a long moment King Gomorrah merely stared in grim satisfaction, his eyes raking over the prisoners torn filthy clothing with his exposed flesh hanging in raw strips from his back where he had been flogged. A large patch of his tousled hair was missing from his scalp, torn from the root leaving behind inflamed bare skin the size of a small fist and the tips of his hands and feet were swollen and discolored where his nails had been forcibly extracted from their beds.
“Rise.” the King commanded, with his hand resting idly on his throne.
With a grunt of pain the prisoner tried to raise his head but sagged back down against the ground with a low moan, his blackened eyes barely able to open. One of the guards stood over him crouched down and grabbed the man’s hair, jerking his head back violently and dragged him to his knees.
“The Great King has spoken.” he hissed.
The guard released the prisoner’s hair and the man’s head tipped forward onto his chest then he swayed momentarily and pitched forward onto his face.
“Someone help this traitor onto his knees,” growled King Gomorrah icily, his eyes flashing in annoyance. “I want to look him
in the eyes before his judgment is passed.”
The two guards hauled the mewling prisoner to his feet then pressed down on his shoulders forcing him to his knees and held him upright with a firm grip so he could face the seated King who was flanked by his champion and one of his most trusted advisors. In the center, sat upon a huge beautifully gilded throne studded with precious jewels was King Gomorrah the ruler of Tarlath. He was morbidly obese with a forked black trident beard streaked with silver, long shoulder-length hair and a round, puffy face with dark beady eyes. A fur-lined cloak trimmed with ermine hung over his hulking shoulders and underneath he was richly dressed in the finest silken fabric dyed in garish colors of purple and red, loose fitting trousers made of the finest wool and colorful shoes with a pointed, curled toe.
Standing to his side stood Agamemnon, the King’s champion staring at the prisoner, his face expressionless. He was tall and dark with his hair tied back at the nape of his neck and was square of jaw with a handsome-chiseled face that carried with it an aura of arrogance along with cold piercing eyes the color of raging storm clouds. Over his muscular, lean frame he wore a white cloak fastened over his shoulders by a simple gold broach and a chain mail covered by an iron plate. A short sword was sheathed at his narrow waist and his right hand which was gloved in a silver gauntlet with spiked gadlings rested idly on its pommel.
At the opposite side stood the hunched skeletal frame of Mordechai, the King’s enchanter. His face was emaciated with a sallow unhealthy complexion, a narrow pointed nose, deeply defined cheekbones under eyes hidden by dark rings and thin, cruel lips. His hair was the color of tarnished silver, balding at the crown and unkempt and he wore a long woolen habit and simple leather sandals.
“My…my…King,” rasped the prisoner. “I bow down to you and serve you as…”
Suddenly one of the guards viciously backhanded the man across the face and he slumped to the side with a groan but they immediately hauled him back upright.
“The Great King did not allow you to speak, traitor!” snarled the guard with his clenched fist raised.
The prisoner flinched but King Gomorrah waved the guard away casually with his sausage-like fingers adorned with gold rings.
“Let the traitor speak!” ordered the King.
With blood oozing down from his broken lip to his chin the prisoner took a deep shuddering breath, his body wracked and shaking in fear.
“Have mercy on me, my King,” he begged with his voice breaking with emotion. “I have a wife…I have two children. We have served you for more than five years just as we served the King Ethelred before you. My Great King, I beg you, show compassion and I will forevermore be your loyal subject.”
“You dare to mention that weak despot, King Ethelred, in the presence of your Great King?” roared King Gomorrah slamming his fist down on the arm of the throne.
“Forgive me my King, forgive me. Please, spare my life and show mercy to me now.”
“Answer me something Merek, of the House of Brom.” said the King in a cold voice.
“Anything…anything, my King.” cried the prisoner.
“Tell me traitor, has Tarlath not enjoyed one of its most happy and prosperous periods? Has the kingdom not truly prospered under my reign? Are the lands not fertile and crops plentiful? Have I not crushed my enemies under my feet and delivered peace and now under my rule people live happy lives?”
“Yes, my King,” gasped Merek nodding his head frantically. “You have brought immeasurable prosperity and the world speaks the power and greatness of your name.”
“Then are you peaceful, happy and content?”
“I…I…I am my King.”
“Then, am I not a good King and a powerful leader?”
“You are a good King…the greatest of all Kings, above all Gods.”
“Above all Gods?” muttered King Gomorrah thoughtfully. “Where are your Gods now, Merek, of the House of Brom? They are silent, are they not? Cry out to your Gods whom you have chosen and let them save you now and if they dare reveal themselves to me then I will make your Gods bow down before me.”
The prisoner bowed his head, his shoulders slumping in resignation and a strangled sob escaped his lips.
“Where are your Gods now?” roared the King pushing himself to his feet and jabbing a finger towards him in fury. “You do not have any other Gods besides me. I am the Great King above all Gods and I have brought stability to this kingdom by ruling vigorously and courageously with an iron fist. I demand obedience from my subjects and I will punish those who do not obey. Those who refuse to obey my laws with idolatrous worship of the false Gods will be charged with rank treason so you will die before me this day so that you shall never look upon my face again.”
“No….no…no my King.” murmured Merek sobbing uncontrollably.
“You have betrayed your own family with your treachery, Merek, of the House of Brom so know this. Before this day passes your entire family will die and your bloodline will exist no more. Your wife will be raped by my men and then her broken lifeless body will be thrown over the castle walls as carrion for the birds and they will dine on her innards and your children will have their skulls dashed against the rocks to serve as warning for unbelief.”
Slowly the prisoner looked up, tears of anger burning his eyes.
“You were a man before you were a King and you are a man still. You may think you are a God but cut you and you bleed like the rest of us, bleed and you can die like the rest of us.”
“Good,” said King Gomorrah smiling coldly as he lowered himself to the throne. “I see fight in you still. Now let me tell you how you can save your pitiful life. Your treacherous existence and that of your loved ones will be decided by trial by combat here in the court. Win and you will have your freedom.”
“I am no warrior of note, my King.” spat Merek.
“Then your death will be mercifully quick traitor but if you manage to survive longer than sixty beats of my heart then I will spare the lives of your family.”
Merek nodded his head in understanding then looked across to Agamemnon with fear in his eyes.
“Allow my family to live at least, I beg of you, sir.” he whispered.
“Give the man a weapon.” said the King’s champion softly as he curled his fingers around the hilt of his sword.
The prisoner was pulled roughly to his feet and one of the guards unsheathed his sword with an audible hiss then pushed it into Merek’s bloodied hand. He hefted it for balance on unsteady legs and swallowed hard.
“Hold!” commanded King Gomorrah with a wry smile playing about his lips. “You will not be fighting my champion.”
Agamemnon narrowed his eyes and slowly released his weapon.
“Then…who will I fight, my King?” asked Merek glancing at the two guards to his side and licking his lips.
“It’s not who you will fight it's what you will fight and a traitor deserves no consideration.” answered King Gomorrah looking over the prisoners shoulder in anticipation.
Suddenly there was a blood-curdling snarl which resonated around the courtroom. Merek half-turned and stared in horror as one of the King’s beasts, a Meldling, ambled into the courtroom. It was easily seven feet tall and naked with its body covered by fine gray-brown fur and heavily muscled. The creature had a long wolf-like face and a snout, fangs and pointed ears and carried no sword but its long arms ending in wickedly sharp talons.
“No…no.” gasped Merek letting his sword slip from his fingers and clang to the floor.
Suddenly all the strength vanished from Merek’s legs and they buckled underneath him and he fell to the ground as the two guards nervously backed away. The Meldling sniffed the air with saliva dripping from its terrible maw then its yellow eyes locked on the prisoner and it unleashed a low growl of pure hatred.
“Defend yourself, man!” snapped Agamemnon.
Too terrified to move Merek glanced back at the King’s champion and opened and closed his mouth but no sound wou
ld come out. With long, awkward strides the Meldling strode over to the prisoner and towered over him then its yellow eyes fastened on King Gomorrah who nodded his head. Merek closed his eyes waiting to die as the creature hunched its massive shoulders and grabbed his head with both hands. Bunching its muscles the Melding tore the man's head from his shoulders and dropped it at the Kings feet with a sickening wet thud as the body toppled sideways. The head rolled twice then lay still and Agamemnon looked away with his face unable to contain his revulsion.
“Hang the head as a warning and throw the body to the pigs,” ordered King Gomorrah. “And see that his family is dead before nightfall.”
The two guards shifted on their feet nervously and stared up at the huge beast which was staring directly at the King awaiting its next command. With a flick of his wrist King Gomorrah dismissed the creature and it turned and left the courtroom without a backward glance as the guards quickly removed the body leaving behind a bloody imprint on the rough stone floor.
“Leave us,” commanded the King without looking at Mordechai.
“My King.” said the enchanter bowing his head low and scurrying from the court room leaving Agamemnon alone with the King.
“My actions don’t sit well with you, Agamemnon?” asked King Gomorrah sharply with a hint of venom in his voice.
“I have no stomach for slaughter my King but the outcome would have been the same had he fought me.” replied the swordsman stiffly.
“Mark your words carefully,” hissed the King narrowing his eyes menacingly. “Our friendship is not without limits. You are here to defend the King’s law, my law!”
“Permission to speak freely, my King?” requested Agamemnon softly.
“Pah, speak your mind. You are my most trusted friend but you have a tongue worse than a viper’s bite.” snapped King Gomorrah, his face flushed.
“It was not an honorable death, my King,” said the swordsman choosing his words. “The man went to his grave knowing his family would die.”
“Honor!” snorted King Gomorrah angrily. “Where is the honor in praying to false Gods knowing they do not and never will hear you? You must honor your King and I will give you life and prosperity. Cross me and you will take your last breath. What would you have me do, Agamemnon? Release the man so he can go back to preaching in the marketplace to any ears that want to listen? No, a King must be strong in the eyes of his people, a King must rule by fear because a King which is not feared and shows weakness will lose the support of his people. I would commit untold atrocities to maintain my control over my kingdom and the land would be awash with blood. It would only take one noble family to grow a pair of bollocks and rise up against me and I would have a civil war on my hands so don’t talk to me about honor! It is well known that I don’t have a male heir to the throne, only a daughter so they would squabble over my kingdom like hungry vultures over a carcass.”
Four Gods Page 2
