The Dead Gods

by Rob Bayliss

  “Why would a beauty like you play with swords and keep company like this? We have wine; why not spend some time with us?” he leered.

  “My company is with whom I choose it to be, Taleeli. Sit back down now. I would not wish to bloody my sword so soon after cleaning it, or abuse your captain‘s hospitality with your life,” Tamzine replied, still whetting her sword and keeping her back to the man.

  The man laughed. “Is that so? Let us discuss your present company then while we are about it? A northern streak of piss.” His eyes looked at Tuan. “An ugly mammoth-shagging savage.” His eyes flitted to Klesh. “And a … actually I don’t know what you are. Why don’t you tell us yourself?” he said, looking at Bronic challengingly.

  His companions laughed, egging him on.

  “He is a Turanesci warrior and as my companion said, you should sit down now,” Tuan said calmly.

  “I wasn’t speaking to you, piss streak! Wait your turn. I was talking to your dumb ox of a friend here. Come on, ox, try and talk to me,” he said, laughing.

  Bronic’s eyes flashed at Tuan, and he nodded back. Bronic’s mouth broke into a beaming smile. At last! Some fun!

  “Look at that dumb bastard!” the Taleeli sailor said. “He needs permission from his friend to take a piss, I reckon!”

  “Uh aar ugkt,” Bronic said calmly from his tongueless mouth as he stood up.

  The sailors guffawed. “What was that? What was that dumb bastard?” their leader said. “You, piss streak, what did this lummox say?”

  “Go on then, Bronic, I don’t suppose it matters now; this is our last night aboard the Raven,” Tuan said, as Bronic shook his shoulders and stretched. Tuan turned to the sailor. “What did he say? He spoke the truth; you really are fucked!”

  Laughing, Bronic launched himself into the sailors; all too soon their swearing and curses turned to grunts and cries of pain as his fists found their mark.

  It was soon all over, too soon for Bronic’s liking. He sat back down and cleaned the blood off his knuckles. The moans of pain from the defeated sailors, carrying bruises and fewer teeth now, made him smile with satisfaction. Their blackened eyes were now unwilling to meet his gaze.

  Yet all too soon he was bored once more. He reached for his musket and an oily rag.

  ***

  The roaring from the crowd began to grow as he emerged from the darkness of the holding pens. The fighter walked past cages; their occupants’ faces showed different races and tribes, yet all had the same haunted and fearful look as they awaited the will of the weaver of fates.

  The smell of fear was the same everywhere, that of sweat and faeces. It hung sickly heavy in air of the tunnel, making even the uncertain reception outside offer a welcome relief. As he approached the archway, he could feel the reflected heat from the sand on his exposed skin. The brightness threatened to dazzle him as the light shone white from the arena floor through metal bars of the gate.

  “Stop now. Wait for your announcement,” his weapon sponsor ordered. Dogel Serresel gave him the round brass shield. It was heavy, and would be tiring to hold over a long, drawn-out fight. The handle was moist with the dogel’s sweat, from carrying it through the arena tunnels.

  “Pray to your gods now, Taleeli scum. For death stalks you out there,” the dogel growled in his heavy eastern-accented common tongue. He passed a scimitar to the bearded fighter. As he did so, the two guards behind the dogel levelled their spears at the fighter’s heart.

  The Taleeli felt the weight and balance of the scimitar and looked at the blade. It was notched along its edge and had been roughly sharpened to tear and rend flesh. Wounds had to be theatrical as well as deadly. Pray? His god had abandoned him, of that he was quite sure. There was only one word of power he used now.

  He heard a loud Acaross voice beyond the bars. He understood only a few words but he understood the meaning conveyed, as the crowd’s hate was whipped up. He was the target of their ire, the foreigner. His skin was burnt dark by the strong sun, he was denied clothes other than a loincloth, and his black hair and beard were uncut to accentuate his barbarous outlandishness to the crowds. How long had he been here now? Days had passed, becoming weeks since he had first stumbled, in confusion, out of the black Stonehouse, to the astonishment of the guards at the door. How many strangers had he since killed? All he knew was survival; kill or be killed. Regret was a luxury here.

  “Go now, Taleeli, die well!” the dogel said, smiling through his white, neatly-trimmed beard.

  The fighter saw the dogel’s hands usher him towards the gateway, the gold rings on his podgy fingers flashing in the reflected sunlight.

  The gate was drawn up like a portcullis, and he stepped into the heat of the arena. The baying of the crowd reached a crescendo when they saw him. The hot sand burned his bare feet. In the heat he could smell blood and the putrefying stench of flesh. The sand wasn't swept between exhibitions here. It all added to the theatre and horror, as offal and bodies began to pile high. The fighter stepped through what were once a man’s organs, wet and warm, but strangely soothing and cooling to his feet. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the brightness, and looked around. The walls were over twenty feet high. The tiered seats went up and up; the roar of the crowd was intense, echoing and amplified all around. So many faces. He couldn’t focus on one. His head spun.

  Concentrate: he needed to concentrate, ignore all else.

  There was no opponent in the arena with him. He slowly walked to the centre of the ring. Where was his opponent? Who was his opponent? All too soon his question was answered. He should have asked what his opponent was.

  All around him he heard barred gates being drawn up. He heard a strange, rattling hiss. For a moment he was transported far to the north, in cold marshlands facing the onset of winter, as he recalled the huge lumbering salamanders, ungainly on land but deadly in the water.

  But what emerged from the dark archways were no ponderous Marsh Dragons. The crowd fell silent in anticipation.

  They were reptilian nightmares, as tall as he. They walked like birds on two muscular legs, their long tails counter balancing them. Their long arms ended in claws. Their long jaws revealed the sharp teeth of predators. On each foot, one claw was enlarged like a terrible knife to disembowel its prey. As they emerged, they called to each other with strange whistling barks. The fighter spun around fearfully. He should have remained at the arena’s edge. This was a pack and he was being hunted.

  The fighter tried to move to the walls, but the beasts anticipated him. They circled in long loping strides. The fighter saw that as they ran, they kept their one wicked claw off the ground. They were fast and incredibly agile. He heard a whistling bark, and suddenly two peeled off from circling and ran straight towards him from opposite directions. The fighter fought the urge to panic. If he ran he would swiftly be dead. Stay calm.

  “Tamzine,” he whispered to himself, as a personal incantation of power. He felt his mind clear. He knew what he had to do.

  The beasts hurled themselves at him. At the last moment, he sprang backward. The creatures smashed into each other in a tangle of limbs and claws; one tumbled but the other recovered in an instant and sprang at the fighter. It screamed a bestial scream and the claw slashed at him. He caught it on the brass shield, which threatened to be torn from his grip. He dropped to one knee and swung his scimitar at the creature’s exposed leg. The rough, sharpened blade cut and tore into the reptilian flesh. The fighter felt the blade bite to the creature’s bone with satisfaction.

  The fighter quickly backed away as the second beast was upon him. He barely had time to stand as the monster jumped onto the shield. The claw caught the shield’s top lip and tore it from his hand. It slammed into the sand. The creature’s jaws snapped at him. He swung the scimitar horizontally and cut its head from its neck. It tumbled down in a bloodied mess, its limbs thrashing in spasm. He was vaguely aware of the increasing volume of the crowd’s roars, as they enjoyed the spilling of blood.

 
Sweat was pouring down his face and into his eyes. Ignore it. Concentrate, concentrate! The fighter snatched up his heavy shield once again. Claw marks showed on its polished surface. Not a moment too soon, as the other two beasts came at him. They repeated the same hunting tactic, hurling themselves at him from opposite directions. He noticed this time that they weren’t exactly parallel. The beasts had seen what he had done before and had adapted their attack. Clever!

  This time he sprang forward and ducked under his shield. He felt one of the creature’s claws rake the shield, and took the weight of the beast as it sprang over him. He jumped upright as the other beast came at him. He had anticipated this attack; his scimitar was already swinging. It met the outstretched foot and severed it from the beast, which fell to the ground. The fighter sprang to the side just in time, as the other beast sprang back into the attack, the wicked claw kicking out and just missing his stomach. It raked across his outer thigh, making a deep gash that stung. If it had reached his artery he would be as good as dead.

  The creature’s jaws snapped. He caught the bottom lip of the shield in its mouth, while his scimitar swung down. It cut deep through the beast’s shoulder and into its rib cage. The monster collapsed, dead.

  The crowd fell silent. All was quiet except the two crippled beasts that bled and squawked, thrashing about in the bloody sand.

  The fighter dropped his shield. Sweat was pouring down his face, his back and his chest. The salt in it stung the wound in his leg. He fell to his knee and rested his head on the scimitar handle, panting for breath. “I will see you again, Tamzine. I refuse to die,” he whispered to himself.

  He stood up and limped over to the first beast. He raised the scimitar. “I am Kaziviere!” he shouted to the crowd as the blade swung, parting the beast from its head.

  He went to the remaining beast, raising the scimitar. It snapped at him, trying to reach him, even in its death throes.

  “I am Kaziviere of Taleel!” he shouted, swinging the blade and silencing the beast’s screeches of pain.

  He circled around, looking at the silent crowd. “Did you hear me, you Acaross bastards? I am Kaziviere!”

  The portcullis creaked open behind him. He raised the scimitar, expecting another adversary. Instead, emerging into the light came Dogel Serresel, accompanied by his two guards. The dogel looked approvingly at the dead beasts. He held out his hand for the scimitar, his fingers beckoning to the fighter. “Give me the sword if you wish to live,” the dogel whispered.

  A brief fantasy rushed through the fighter’s mind, one of cutting his way to freedom, the dogel lying butchered in the sand, but his bloodied thigh dispelled such dreams. Kaziviere passed the weapon to his sponsor.

  “You weren’t expected to survive that, Taleeli; you should be dead.”

  “Should I? I am Kazi ….”

  The guards’ spears that suddenly pointed at his heart silenced him abruptly.

  “Forget your old name and forget your old life,” the dogel said. “Neither has meaning here. But you will need a name; you have earned it and have a growing reputation. You will earn me much gold before you die in these sands, but first you will have rest and healing for your wound.” The dogel turned to address the crowd in the Acarossian tongue. “Behold!” he shouted. “Behold the Gutspiller!”

  “Gutspiller!” He heard a shout from up above in the crowd.

  “The Taleeli Gutspiller!” He heard the Acarossian words being taken up elsewhere. It started as a ripple and then he heard the words shouted down at him from all around the stadium. The crowd were stamping and whooping in appreciation of a well-fought fight.

  He limped back to the open portcullis and back to the dark of the pens, as flowers fell at his feet, thrown by a grateful audience.

  Behind him, the dogel watched his gladiator leave the arena. As the fighter took each painful step, Serresel measured every stride in gold.

  Chapter 2

  Braebec neared the Sun Gate an hour before noon. Wishing to return and prepare for his journey as early as he could, he had elected to ride to the encampment of the 14th Foot, choosing his favoured gelding, Flare. He felt the need to clear his mind; ever since his conversation with the Grand Mage all he could think of were shadows of shadows, his memory recalling echoes of Dendrec’s screams, as his brother’s mind was broken in the dark. His brother Dendrec, the young flame inquisitor captain, had left his sanity in those deep mines; Braebec prayed he hadn’t left his soul down there as well. Dendrec had volunteered to accompany him and had paid a heavy price for their victory against the Shadow Messiah. Alas, it now appeared to have been fleeting. Wishing to end such dark thoughts, he shook himself from inner meditation, as the towering walls looked down upon him.

  The Sun Gate was wide open as traffic came and went from the Imperial hub, permitting access through the hundred feet high walls, which shone white in the low winter sun. It was still pleasantly warm this close to the sea, even at this time of year. Snow was rarely, if ever, seen here and then only high in the central mountains. A gentle sea breeze caught the banners and pennants that fluttered high above the battlements. The towers and walls built for war hadn’t been needed for generation upon generation now, ever since Taleel had brought all of Cyria to heel. The city of Taleel dominated its hinterland; it was visible for miles - even high in the uplands - dwarfing all other cities in Cyria.

  Once beyond the thick walls and milling traffic Braebec leant forward and whispered in the gelding’s ear. “Well then, Flare, shall we fly?” He spurred the horse on and he readily responded. It was good to feel the wind on his face, to hear the panting horse and the thump of its hooves on the road. It was life, vibrant and urgent, far from musty graves and eternal night. He left the major roads and galloped down the green lane. His cloak flew behind him as he threaded his way through the orange groves, before heading to the encampment of the 14th Foot.

  The encampment occupied a low hill that was raised above the orchards. A wall sat atop a raised embankment, its purpose more to keep the troopers contained within than to act as a defence from without. Braebec slackened the pace of his horse to a walk as he approached the main gate. He slapped Flare’s neck in appreciation of his efforts, as the horse’s flanks heaved from the exertion. The gates were open, but his advance was met by the familiar ring of steel on steel as the two gate guards crossed their halberds, blocking his path.

  “Hold! State your name and purpose of visit to Fort Anvil,” the senior guardsman growled as he approached Braebec’s side, his left hand grasping his halberd.

  Braebec studied his inquisitor. He looked to be a trooper in his early thirties, probably with some years of service to the banners under his belt. His armour showed it was well looked after, maintained with meticulous care and pride. Under the lobster-pot helmet his dark eyes shone bright, and his brown beard was streaked with grey. He bore the silver gorget of a sergeant around his neck.

  “Greetings, Sergeant. I am Alchemist Braebec Conziva of the Alchemist Guild Seminary. I have come to see the current commander of the 14th Foot; I believe he is quartered here?” As he spoke, Braebec handed the sergeant a rolled parchment; his pass from the Grand Mage.

  The sergeant leant his halberd against his shoulder as he used both gauntleted hands to unroll the parchment. Braebec saw the sergeant’s lips move slightly as he haltingly read the pass on the paper. Braebec smiled to himself. How many times before had he gone through this charade, when the guard at the gate couldn’t really read such written orders?

  The sergeant smiled as he handed the pass back to Braebec. “All is in order, my Lord Conziva. The 14th are in the southeast quarter. Commander Velzo can be found there; he will be at—”

  “I thank you, Sergeant; I know the layout and can find Commander Velzo. May the fire forever warm your heart and light your soul,” Braebec added quickly, by way of apology for cutting the sergeant short.

  The sergeant looked happy enough; any offence he may have taken had been dispelled by the blessing
.

  Braebec clicked his tongue, snapped the reins and his horse walked forward, taking them into Fort Anvil.

  Four standards flew at the entrance: those of the 14th Foot, the 6th, the 17th and the famously glory-strewn 10th. All around troopers were drilling, some in full armour practicing weapons presentation, others running round the perimeter keeping up their fitness levels. Braebec guessed that keeping the troops occupied, and stopping the competitiveness between the different units from constantly dissolving into fist fights must be a constant struggle for their officers, hence the need for them to be kept busy.

  So Commander Velzo was the newly appointed Commander of the 14th? Braebec recalled the families of Cyria. It had to be the recently commissioned Brenseek, of the House Velzo. House Velzo originated from Pelsior on the northwest coast of Cyria. Velzo were a mercantile clan, not a renowned military family like House Kaziviere, but had been a gradually rising political power in the Senate. Obviously they were now staking a claim in the army too, getting Brenseek commissioned in the vacant position atop the 14th. As far as Braebec was aware, the new commander of the 14th was unproven on the battlefield. He would need to be careful when raising the spectre of the previous commander in his presence.

  Braebec made his way to the southeast quarter. Like every Taleeli military encampment around the Empire, the layout was the same, with the exception that unlike a marching camp, this fort was constructed of stone and wood, not canvas. He threaded his way through the barrack houses to the central officers’ quarters. In a long open area that stretched right to the fort walls, groups of soldiers were going through weapons drill with muskets, their captains barking at them, willing them to load their weapons faster.

  The whole of Cyria was a military camp at the moment waiting for spring to bring on the campaigning season, Braebec mused. But was Acaross waiting for them with entrapments yet again? All the more reason then, that he journey to Northport and begin his investigation as soon as possible. But first, he must meet with this Commander Brenseek Velzo.