The Dead Gods

by Rob Bayliss

  “Ah, I see ….” the Grand Mage said, stroking his long beard in contemplation. “Have you heard about the reasons for the jubilation on the streets of Taleel?”

  “Yes, Grand Mage. The victory in the Cheama, and the saving of Northport and the Northern Holdings from the eastern enemy,” Morcan said, “They say there will be a carnival of triumph in Taleel tonight.”

  “Alas, not for you will there be celebrating this night,” the Grand Mage said, amused by Tavili’s attempts to mask his disappointment. This young alchemist would need to work on controlling his facial expressions, to wear a mask. Luckily Braebec was a master. “No, young Morcan, for I am sending you out into the world to serve the Fire God in his far-flung realms. You will eventually take up the vacant position of alchemist in Northport and serve the hero of the Cheama himself: General Broud.”

  “Lord Grand Mage, you do me great honour! Thank you for your faith in my abilities … but you said: eventually?” Morcan asked, his voice betraying doubt and concern.

  The Grand Mage smiled again. “You were recommended for the post by Inquisitor Conziva himself. You are correct, I did say eventually. The inquisitor will accompany you on seminary business to Northport, but I don’t think he will settle all he needs to in that city. His journey lies beyond, I can feel it. Stick with him while he travels the Northern Holdings, Tavili; he will teach you much which can never be taught here. It is time for you to learn of shadowcraft, to know the true nature of the darkness we keep at bay in the seminary. I fear you will curse me rather than thank me soon enough.” The smile faded from the Grand Mage’s face. “Now go, clean yourself up and gather your belongings for your new life away from Taleel. You and Inquisitor Conziva will sail at high tide tomorrow morning. I have to attend the Senate this afternoon but I will return at sunset. Meet Inquisitor Conziva and me at sundown outside my chambers, and I will give you your orders and commission.”

  The Grand Mage was about to turn away when he hesitated, turning back to face the young alchemist. “Do not worry, there is still magic in the world.” He smiled, and as he did so a blinding bright light seemed to shine from behind his ancient teeth. He opened his mouth fully and it blazed forth and spread, his whole body consumed by a white-hot fire. Its brightness rivalled the sun and yet gave no heat. It hung like a ball of twisting flames in the air before shooting up into the sky and arcing over the city in the direction of the Senate, as fast as summer lightning. Morcan was left alone in the empty courtyard, his mouth agape in wonder.

  Now the sun had set and he was here, as instructed. He had packed his books of lore, his alchemical implements and what clothes he owned. He had bid farewell to those friends he could find, in between their studies of various disciplines. Why was he here? He should be with his fellow student alchemists enjoying the pleasures of the city. It was his last night in the seminary, maybe in Taleel, and yet he wasn’t overly disappointed. How had the Grand Mage made that dramatic departure? Morcan had studied the courtyard where he had disappeared, yet there were no hidden trapdoors that he could find. And what had the Grand Mage meant by shadowcraft? He had found no reference to it in the books in his possession and he had not had time to visit the library. He had an uncomfortable feeling there was a good reason why it was not in books supplied to novices.

  At the end of the corridor the doors swung open with a crash. He heard the sound of boots rapidly slapping against the floor. Someone was running up the corridor. Morcan peered down the dimly lit passage. The figure was running towards him, carrying a sack in one hand. As he got closer, he recognised the distinctive silver streak in the long black hair lit by the torches set in the walls. It was Inquisitor Conziva.

  Braebec skidded to a halt beside the bench upon which Morcan was sitting.

  “Tavili! Excellent; now you truly begin your training. Quickly, there is little time!” Braebec said excitedly. He strode to the door of the Grand Mage’s and hammered on the wood panelling with his fist. It was then that Morcan noticed the dark crimson stain on the bottom of the sack that the inquisitor held. It was slowly spreading across the bottom, reddening the canvas. The liquid dripped lazily onto the corridor floor, making a pool of blood.

  The muffled voice of the Grand Mage bid them enter.

  Braebec snatched at the door latch and opened the door, his head turned to face Morcan. “Well? What are you waiting for? Come on!”

  Morcan jumped up and followed Braebec Conziva into the Grand Mage’s quarters. It was a spacious room in white limestone, with a closed door at either side of the room wrought of polished bronze. In the centre of the room the Grand Mage stood over a burning brazier, its multi-coloured flames dancing over the hot coals like sprites. On the back wall, the huge black carved head of a snarling sabre cat emerged from the finely jointed stonework, its mouth wide open. Its huge canines were tapering twin pillars, and its eyes were translucent stones that picked up and reflected the colours of the dancing fire in the brazier. Its tongue was red and led back to the white stone wall behind its mouth.

  “Braebec! The flames showed true; follow me, you too, Morcan,” the Grand Mage said as he led the way into the sabre cat’s open maw. He ducked under the small carved incisors and hurried up the red tongue. Morcan now saw there were barely discernible steps cunningly carved into it. The mouth led to the dead end of the white stone end wall, each block finely cut and dressed, the gaps between them the mere thickness of a hair.

  The Grand Mage laid the flat of his palm against the wall. He mumbled barely understandable words, the sound of them more akin to the grinding of stone against stone than human speech. There was a low, dull boom, felt rather than heard, in answer. Silver lines like a spider’s web traced out triangular shards across the wall, their points emanating from the Grand Mage’s palm. There was the sound of a millstone grinding corn and the shards retracting into the surrounding walls, leaving a perfect circle.

  “Come,” the Grand Mage said, “into the throat.” He stepped through the aperture into the darkened void. Wall mounted torches instantly burst into life as the Grand Mage’s foot touched the floor, illuminating the hidden chamber. Morcan eagerly followed Inquisitor Conziva into the unknown, impatient to see what secrets the Grand Mage kept from all but the select few.

  The lighted torches played around the windowless walls, causing the shadows to dance, dissolve and fall in on themselves, as if in constant struggle with the light. Morcan blinked rapidly to adjust his eyes to the dim light. He heard the millstone grinding of rock, as the entrance to the hidden chamber shut behind him.

  The air felt cool and smelled damp. On the far wall was a strange engine, which caught the light of the torches. It had gleaming copper pipes that wound snakelike about, entwining and connecting a matrix of polished brass cylinders and large glass bell jars. It had leather hoses connected to a large leather bellows, which seemed to be powered by a spring engine. On the wall next to the strange contraption were shelves, on which jars and bottles of various coloured liquids stood.

  The Grand Mage motioned Morcan towards the spring engine. “Quickly, Tavili, you are young and strong. Grab hold of the handle and keep turning until the spring is taut.”

  Morcan dutifully started to turn the handle. The gears clicked and ticked over as he fell into the rhythm of turning the handle to wind the spring and charge the engine. His eyes were inexorably drawn to the frantic activity of Inquisitor Braebec and the Grand Mage. The inquisitor placed the bloodied sack on the floor while he and the Grand Mage snatched various jars from the shelves and poured them into numerous receptacles, opening tiny taps on some. Some of the liquids began to smoke and release foul vapours once poured. They snapped lids shut, trapping the noxious fumes as quickly as they could. Somehow the two of them continued working without coughing and spluttering, unlike Morcan, who felt the fumes burning the back of his throat and irritating his eyes, causing them to water. It was obvious the Grand Mage and inquisitor had been through this procedure many times. He blinked back his tear
s as he continued winding the spring. Finally, it would wind no more.

  “Grand Mage? The engine is charged,” Morcan called out between coughs.

  “Excellent,” the Grand Mage replied, not looking up from his work. “We are almost ready here.” He pulled a lever and the spring began to power the bellows. The sounds of the spring clicking and air being sucked and blown filled the silent room. The corrugated leather drew and compressed. The acrid atmosphere in the room began to clear and freshen. “Bring that sack over here would you?” he said, pointing to where the inquisitor had left it.

  Morcan picked up the sack. It left a damp, red puddle on the floor. He hardly dared look inside, although he had a suspicion from the weight and shapes of what the sack contained.

  “Quickly, Tavili. Pass me one,” Inquisitor Conziva said, as he lifted a large glass bell jar from the polished brass tray it sat upon. In the bottom of the tray sat a strange, green jellylike liquid, which bubbled and hissed as air was pumped through it from the automated bellows.

  Morcan sucked in a mouthful of air and reached into the sack, without daring to look. His fingertips felt the flesh inside, which still carried some residual warmth. His fingers closed around a handful of greasy hair and he drew the foul trophy from the sack, its mouth open, the eyes rolled upward. Morcan looked at it in horrific fascination.

  “Quickly, I said!” Inquisitor Conziva snapped in irritation.

  Shaken from his thoughts, he hurried over to where the inquisitor stood and passed the head to him. The inquisitor looked at the face and then placed it on the bubbling tray. On either side were screws. He spun them into place until they firmly clasped the bodiless head.

  “We are ready, my Lord Mage,” Braebec said solemnly. “It is time we donned breathing helms.”

  “Indeed, Braebec, indeed,” the Grand Mage said, bent over double as he rummaged in a cabinet under the shelves of potions and powders. Presently he straightened, holding three odd-looking leather hoods. He passed one to the inquisitor and handed one to Morcan.

  Morcan looked at his hood, puzzled. It was made of supple leather with a drawstring at the bottom. It had two glass lenses and a strange bronze and brass mechanisation around the mouth area, which had a winding key.

  Smiling, the Grand Mage saw Morcan’s bemusement. Holding his own hood under his arm, he went to the young alchemist’s aid.

  “Here, Tavili, you place it over your head like so,” he said, pulling the hood over Morcan’s head. “Pull the drawstring as tight as you can without strangling yourself, that’s right. Now turn the key on the breathing apparatus clockwise.”

  Morcan did as he was instructed. The hood was hot and heavy and the inside quickly turned moist and stale as he drew the drawstring as tight as he dared. The condensation of his breath began to mist the glass lenses. It felt stifling and claustrophobic. He turned the key as instructed and there was a slow ticking sound. He felt air being pumped into the hood as he drew breath. He exhaled, and the stale air was drawn out from the hood. The air in the hood became cooler and fresher. The lenses cleared and he peered at the activity of the Grand Mage and Inquisitor Conziva, both wearing the same devices.

  The inquisitor was pulling two elbow-length, leather gauntlets over his hands and up his arms. “Are we ready?” the inquisitor asked, turning to look at his companions. His voice was slightly muffled by the hood.

  “I believe we are, Braebec,” the Grand Mage said, turning to look at Morcan. “Breathe slow and steady, Tavili,” he instructed.

  Morcan nodded, getting used to the restricted vision.

  The inquisitor turned back to the cabinet of potions and lifted a metal jar from a shelf. The lid was screwed on tightly. He took it to the machine where the bloody head was. He carefully unscrewed the lid of the metal container and lifted out a small glass vial from inside. Morcan peered at the metal container. Its insides consisted mainly of padding.

  The inquisitor lifted the glass bell jar in one hand, placing it at an angle so that it almost covered the gruesome trophy on the tray. In his other hand he held the small vial. He carefully let two drops of black liquid drip into the tray, quickly placing the bell jar so as to cover the head. He backed away, making sure the vial and its precious contents were secure before placing it back in the metal container.

  “Is this the freshest?” the Grand Mage pondered, looking at the head.

  “This was the first, killed by my pistol,” Braebec answered matter-of-factly.

  Morcan could contain himself no longer. “My lords, what does this device do? Whose heads are these?” As he spoke he was aware of the tremble in his voice. He hoped his companions had not noticed it.

  “This machine is a necromater, and these heads belonged to Alley Rats prowling the gloom in the dark streets off the Sun Gate. They attempted to rob me, but I was the thief, wearing the mask of a killer. I stole their lives,” Braebec said, as he studied the head closely.

  “You killed them, Inquisitor Conziva?” Morcan said. “But ….”

  “You don’t think Braebec Conziva became an inquisitor by prayer and contemplation alone do you?” the Grand Mage said. Even with his features hidden under the hood, Morcan knew the Grand Mage was smiling. “When our spiritual enemy clothes itself in flesh, and arms itself with weapons, we must employ all means to defeat it. We are followers of the Fire God; we keep the shadows of night from bleeding into the day, lest eternal darkness consumes the world. As I said, we are dealing with shadowcraft, young Tavili. It is time to awaken and open your eyes. Ah, and something else stirs. See?”

  Morcan followed the Grand Mage’s gaze towards the head. Inquisitor Conziva slowly backed away from the foul trophy. To Morcan’s horror, the dead face began to twitch. Blood and jelly began to bubble and froth from the mouth. The tongue lolled. The eyelids twitched and blinked but the eyes remained rolled back, showing only the whites. The mouth opened and shut as if trying to speak. Groans and murmurings could be heard between the bubbling and gurgling of the bloody jelly that spewed from it behind the thick glass.

  “It is too late for this one, I think,” Braebec Conziva said. He moved closer to the head and readied to lift the heavy bell jar. The head seemed to notice. The eyeballs dropped down in their orbits. They were black and showed no pupils, as impenetrable and soulless as the carved eyes of an ebony statue. From the mouth the gurgling started to rise in pitch. The sound began to merge into a scream, grating like the scurrying of insects innumerable in a fetid corpse. The face pulsed as dark tendrils seemed to grow under the skin, sucking the moisture from the flesh and threatening to break through the now parchment-coloured skin.

  Morcan put his hands over his ears, yet still the screams penetrated into his mind, through his hands and the leather hood. They carried no words, yet spoke of madness and despair. He felt as if on the edge of a deep precipice, as if by stepping forward he would fall for all time through a bottomless well.

  Braebec Conziva quickly closed the taps that fed the tray. The head still screamed and gurgled, despite now being denied what artificial life it had been given from the strange, spring-powered necromater. To Morcan, it seemed as though the shadows grew longer in the room while the torches appeared to stutter and fade. All things decay, all lights will fail, a voice seemed to speak in his mind.

  The Grand Mage stepped forward to join the inquisitor, speaking in a commanding voice, “Neshaduk Grematadi! Silence!” The torches blazed back to life, driving back the shadows that had crept across the walls of the chamber, like the tentacles of some foul beast of the deepest abyss. The screaming ceased but the head, now as dry as a mummified relic, still showed jet black eyes. Its mouth opened and closed, cracking at the corners, the blackening tongue lolling.

  “Enough! Fire consume you!” the Grand Mage exclaimed. The head flared into flames behind the glass. The fire quickly consumed what was once flesh and bone. It disintegrated like paper, falling in on itself.

  The Grand Mage and inquisitor removed their breathing hoods
, looked at each other and then looked at Morcan.

  Morcan Tavili stood rooted to the spot, unsure of what he had just seen. The Grand Mage and inquisitor started to laugh, which shook Morcan from his stupor. He untied the drawstring with trembling hands and removed the hood. He shivered, suddenly cold and fearful, despite the sweat that plastered his hair to his forehead. The air smelt musty, like a mausoleum full of ancient mouldering corpses.

  Well then, young Tavili, is that enough magic for you?” the Grand Mage asked. “If it was, I’m afraid there is more to see.” The Grand Mage didn’t wait for an answer from the visibly shocked young alchemist, and turned to Braebec. “The freshest this time, I think,” he said with a wink.

  “Indeed. Tavili, pass me the sack, if you please?” Braebec said, holding out his hand. Morcan gratefully passed the sack to the inquisitor, happy not to have to reach again into the bag of horrors. The inquisitor put the sack on the floor and went down on his haunches, looking inside. He reached in and brought out the head of the gang leader, whose neck he had broken earlier that evening. The eyes were closed under heavy lids. It was a large head, covered in greying dark stubble and shorn hair. On one cheek it bore a long scar, testament to a life of violence. Meanwhile, the Grand Mage once more prepared the tray, draining the remains of the previous effort and refilling it with fresh potions. Once more it was full of green jelly, bubbling as the device pumped air through it. Braebec rose and carefully placed the head on the tray, once again quickly spinning the clasps into place to hold it firmly in position.

  The inquisitor replaced his breathing hood, waiting for the Grand Mage and Tavili to do likewise.

  As before, he held the thick glass bell jar ready and let two drops of the strange black liquid fall in the tray from the small vial. He put the bell jar in place and put the precious vial in the metal canister, screwing its lid in place.

  “Well, my friend, all will be chaos in the Rats’ nest tonight,” the Grand Mage said, sidling alongside Braebec but not taking his eyes from the face now on the contraption. “This is, or rather this was, none other than Skellen Mytrali, also known as the Lawbane. He has been lording it over the gangs in the Sinking Moon Quarter of Taleel for almost a decade. He is the scum that rose to the surface after you ceased to wear the mask of the Headsman. I think you chose well with this one, my friend. This one is steeped in shadows.”