The Dead Gods

by Rob Bayliss

  Weerak snarled and gave the clumsy man the evil eye, whilst Kolok chuckled at Wefla’s stream of profanities at the unfortunate individual. The case was laid at the feet of Wefla and the Elders without further mishap. Wefla angrily urged the men away from the hollowed trunk and knelt down beside it. He picked with urgency at the ropes and tied leather strips that secured the two halves of log together, shaking his hands and cursing the cold in his fingertips. Kolok knelt down to help.

  Wefla moved to one end of the log and signalled Kolok do the same. “Lord, if you could?”

  Kolok nodded and they both lifted the lid. The other shamans gathered around, eager to look inside. Wefla grabbed at the dried moss inside, scooping it and putting in the lid. He revealed a long bronze tube, open at one end.

  Weerak licked his lips. “It is hollow, as the song describes? You have made it correctly?” he asked, not taking his eyes from the object.

  Wefla looked irritated. “Of course I did. My sons and I have done as asked. It used much metal. We will need more charcoal, more ore and more forges to make many.”

  “You shall have it Wefla,” snapped Weerak in reply. “That is, if this blowpipe of bronze works. We have a frame to place it on, let us be about it. You three carry this over,” he commanded the clumsy one and his two companions. “Anyone stumbles and I will give them to Golta so he may practice his fist fighting.”

  The men picked up the bronze tube. They looked over to see if Golta was in a good and forgiving mood, but his face remained emotionless, his frosted eye cold and impassive. The carrying of the bronze to the frame proved carefully uneventful. It was securely lashed to the frame of thick logs. Wefla dictated how it was done, ensuring that a small opening was uppermost at the base of the long cylinder. Others came, with long sturdy poles of wood, carved balls of rock and bags of black powder.

  “We should move back, my lords,” Wefla indicated.

  “Indeed, brothers,” Kolok agreed. “Black powder alchemy is a fell and treacherous magic; we should move away.”

  The Elder circle and Wefla moved away from wooden and metal device. Only Weerak tarried, reluctant to leave the cold metal that felt smooth under his palm and promised so much; a truth maker of long held dreams. He stayed with the black powder shaman, eager to watch the loading process.

  “You have done well, Wefla,” Kolok said to the smith, as they walked from the contraption of bronze and wood. “You have cast two. How many could you make?” The aged Shard wielder shuffled over to join them, his rheumy eyes looking at Weerak working with the black powder shamans.

  “Lord Kolok, the problem I have is finding enough copper and tin,” Wefla said, shaking his head. “Each of these took metal that weighed as much as a bull mammoth’s tusk. I have sacrificed all of my metal for swords, spears and armour. I await the thaws, when metals and ores will be available once more. My sons are making two, maybe three, more and then all I have is gone. I need charcoal, too. Lots of charcoal. More than I am capable of burning in kilns.”

  “Steel swords cut deeper,” Kolok stated, thinking aloud. “We know the spell song of steel now. No more bronze and brittle iron, if we are to go south as Weerak wishes.”

  “I have tried, Lord, without success,” Wefla said. “But the colour must be just right or the steel fails. I have been concentrating on these bronze firebows for Lord Weerak as instructed since last autumn. You need more with my metal craft, Lord. More forges, more ore and …. ”

  Wefla was interrupted as the Elder Shard wielder joined the discussion, turning his aged eyes from the preparation of the firebow. “And you will need more charcoal burners in the forests and diggers of ore in the ground, and all will need feeding. That requires more of our folk tied to one area, taken from following the herds. The game will suffer, the forests will shrink under our flint axes.”

  Kolok was about to comment on what the elder had said, when Weerak came back to stand amid his circle brethren. “It is ready, my brothers. Now we will see! Now we will see! The dragon is pointed towards yonder cliff,” he said, pointing towards the northern edge of the steep-sided valley that encompassed them. All eyes turned to the bronze dragon. A warrior stood at the end with a flaming torch in his hand; he looked toward Weerak, who nodded his head furiously. The warrior brought the torch down to touch the powder-filled aperture at the back of the bronze cannon.

  There was a brief hiss and then a massive explosion of fire, noise and smoke. The warrior who lit the cannon sprang back as the device lifted in the air as it recoiled, threatening to tear itself apart. The noise echoed around the valley walls. Women and children crouched and covered their ears; warriors started, even though they expected the explosion. An instant after the blast, the projectile smashed against the northern cliff wall in a shower of rock chips.

  The mammoths bellowed, the fear obvious in their eyes. They tried to tear their hobbles and tethers, while those who tried to reassure them had to dodge swinging tusks and crushing feet, endeavouring to overcome the beasts’ instinct to stampede in terror. And still, the cannon’s report bounced from wall to wall as if the rocks themselves spoke, their speech gradually fading like a rumble of thunder.

  There was a moment of stunned silence before warriors began whooping in appreciation of the new weapon. Weerak turned to his fellow elders, a look of triumph on his face. “Behold! The future, my brothers! Now we know the black powder alchemy and with it we will win back the Summerlands for our people. With these weapons and our sacred Shards we will drive the Flat Faces into the Cheama, cleanse the Summerlands of their ways, repair the evil they have wrought!”

  There were some mutterings of assent from the gathered circle; some, who had previously harboured doubts, had been swayed in witnessing the power and terror of the firebow.

  Kolok shook his head slowly, much to Weerak’s annoyance. “Some tribes south of the mountains may be cowed and subdued … but eventually we would have to face the armies of Taleel and the Khanate of Cheama. They will have weapons, better weapons than this firebow. Their warriors will have dragon sticks. Their firebows, such as ours, would be bigger and more powerful. They will be clad in steel, not bronze. Their swords and spears will be of steel, not bronze, brittle iron or flint.”

  Weerak snarled. “Then we shall make them. We will have steel. We will have dragon sticks. The Summerlands will be shaped to our will again. Welcoming the Flat Faces was a mistake. They built cities that blocked the paths of the mammoth herds, captured the horses and tamed them.”

  Now Kolok’s calm demeanour began to shred. He tired of Weerak’s temper dominating all discussion. “You would conquer those who we once called brothers? You would drive them before you into the arms of the Empire, giving our old allies common cause with Taleel and their alchemy against us? When we could unite with the subdued tribes against Taleel, you would rather unite them against us? My brother Weerak is a fool.”

  Weerak roared. His Shard burned fiery blood red; his eyes blazed in fury while his hand strayed to the hilt of the bronze axe that hung from thongs on his belt. Seeing this, Kolok grabbed his Shard also and loosened the age-old triangular steel dagger in its sheath at his side. His eyes narrowed and his muscles readied to spring into combat.

  “Enough!” the venerable Elder screeched in his thin, reedy voice. “Golta!”

  The large figure of Golta IceEye loomed between the two would-be combatants. The plates of bronze on his long tunic clacked together as he approached; his hands tightly clasped his large two-handed sickle. His one eye looked from shaman to shaman, willing them to stand down lest he need to fight them. His white, frozen eye looked on impassively. Maybe the part of his mind behind this window of ice looked forward to cutting, slicing and butchery.

  “Stand down and walk away, Kolok,” Weerak said, pretending, or not seeming to notice Golta, his eyes holding Kolok’s in a baleful stare. “Now is the time of war, the hour of the wolf. The bear can sleep and dream of summer but the wolf will run and bloody himself with killing,�
� he said, looking with scorn upon Kolok’s bear claw necklace.

  “I will not stand down, Weerak,” Kolok said. “At least not until you listen with your heart to the words of our aged brother here.” Without taking his eyes from Weerak, Kolok addressed the Elder. “Tell him what you said to me and Wefla, brother. All of you listen, for he is wise.”

  Weerak relaxed slightly. His Shard faded and his hand lifted from his axe hilt. “Very well, I will listen to his words.”

  The aged one stepped forward. He raised his Shard and drew an arc of gold that hung in the air like the light of the setting summer sun. He drew pictures in the air, like paintings on a cave wall. As he spoke, his words became images. “We are free; we are children of the Earth Mother and Sky Father. Only the horizon ever set our boundaries, before the tusk set us on our journey north of the Hailthorns. Between sea and mountains we walked the land, described and named it. We saw long hard winters, when the world was locked in ice for lifetimes … and withstood them, barely. The earth was hard as stone. But the Sky Father loved the Earth Mother, and in the Womb of the World he planted the Godstone. It sang to us and taught us to shape the world through the shards it gave us. We flourished. We set no borders and wandered the world. But then others came and they were different, in appearance and ways. They planted seeds to grow and feed themselves and rooted their feet to one place. They built towns and cities, dug in the bones of the earth for ore. Their fires were hungry for wood, but we were content to share our world with them. They loved the earth as much as we, we taught them to not take too much. They had field and orchard while we had the grasslands and the wild wood. We traded with them. We had peace. We called them our brothers.”

  Weerak was about to impatiently interrupt. They all knew this story. He saw that all the Elders were watching the old one intently and stayed silent.

  “Long did the Empire covet the Summerlands. Long did we, the free peoples, withstand them, with flint, tusk and steel … together. The songs were still sung to the Godstone, but we were aware of shadows. From the darkness beyond the stars it had found its way into the world, yet the Summerlands stayed free for many long lifetimes.”

  “The Empire came again with steel and black powder and their god’s fire in their hearts that wished to set the world aflame. They came, carried over the sea on the backs of huge whales made of wood and metal. They were hungry for everything our world had, for the wealth of the tribes and the herds that we followed. They were numerous, organised and without mercy, fired by their faith … and their alchemy was a new and dreadful magic, to which we had no answer. The Summerlands were lost to us, whilst the tribes were broken and held captive under the Imperial yoke.”

  Weerak could contain himself no longer. “Have you finished now, old one? Well now we have the alchemy, now we can fight their fire god with their own magic. All the things you say are the reasons for us to take the path of war!”

  The Elder snapped back in irritation. “With two firebows and hardly any steel, you would go south? How far do you think these will take us, to the walls of Ranuk perhaps? That place bristles firebows as a hedgehog has spines!”

  “Then we make more, of course,” Weerak said in answer, “And steel swords and helms; is it not obvious?”

  The old one smiled. “Yes we shall make more … but who shall do this, Wefla and his sons, perhaps? No, we will need more bleeders of stone, more furnaces and more charcoal to fuel them. The forests will echo to the sound of flint axe as the charcoal kilns are fed. We will need ore, too, and the miners to dig it.” As he spoke his Shard drew images in the air. Hillsides were denuded of trees; piles of spoil grew higher where men worked in the eternal dark underground. “But how shall we feed these people? Shall they hunt in the forests? But look, the game grows scarce and others follow the herds many leagues from these workers tied to the one place. Shall they live together for protection from the wolf and the bear? In settlements perhaps, joined by roads?”

  The Elders shook their heads, seeing the destruction painted in the air by the ancient brother. Weerak sensed he was losing support for the path of war amongst the circle. He tried catching the eyes of those who had previously assented to his plans, but they turned away or looked at the earth.

  Kolok almost felt sorry for the war cleric as his warlike dreams and plans dissolved, but his was a way of madness and it should be known. He summed up the feelings of those gathered. “So, brothers, to free the Summerlands from the Empire we must become as they, turn our backs on the ways that have sustained us since the world was young? Scar our mother and turn our eyes from our disapproving father in the sky as we burrow in the earth. I have to ask of you: what would we fight and kill for if we became the thing we despise?”

  Weerak looked at the slushy ground at his feet. “Then Kress Startooth going south, it was all for nothing. The alchemy we longed for is useless to us. There will be no war. We will not walk the ancestral paths of the Summerlands, ever again?”

  Kolok laughed. “You are mistaken, my brother; it was for everything we hold dear to our hearts that Kress Startooth travelled south and lost his life. There will be war. We will walk the Summerlands again.”

  The circle looked at Kolok in astonishment, only the old one nodded in agreement with the words of Bear Claw wearer.

  “All things occur for a reason, my brothers,” Kolok said with a far-sighted look in his sparkling grey eyes and a smile growing on his face, as if he saw beyond the valley, through the Hailthorns and south to the Cheama Sea. “Not for nothing did Kress pass his Shard to the Bloodshadow, one who is a bridge between our kindred and the Flat Faces, carrying both our bloods. Only he could have gained access to the knowledge of the black powder alchemy. He was called to the Imperial banners and was instrumental in bringing about the defeat of the shadowed ones in the Summerlands with his comrades. He has already sown seeds of doubt within the closed minds of some of the warriors of Taleel. Their warriors are strong and more numerous than we. Some would say—“ Kolok avoided naming Weerak or flashing his eyes in his direction— “that we should let the fire and shadow fight each other, but I say no. Be under no illusion. Had the shadow overcome the Empire in the Summerlands, their eyes would have fallen on us eventually. As the Fire God wishes dominance over our magic, so does the shadow. We know this; we have all heard its screams of hunger.”

  The heads of the circle all nodded in agreement, these weavers of the world with Shards; all had heard its desperate thirst for souls, in its insanity to dominate and subjugate all life in its arms of decay. The Flint Fathers knew. Light and dark, there could not be one without the other.

  “We can defend the passes from any invader,” Weerak offered. “Would you have us fight for the Empire then, brother?” he sneered.

  Kolok remained calm. He needed to win over the hot-tempered war cleric. “Why defend the passes, when we all wish for is to be free to wander the Summerlands again? As I said before, all things have a reason. Was it chance that the Bloodshadow found our long lost wandering brother Klesh? He sought the Godstone in the Womb of the World, but what did he find?”

  “He found a shadowed building covering it. All else he may have seen he saw with blind eyes. We know no more,” Weerak said.

  “Yes, my brother, he did. Yet now the he leads the Bloodshadow to it. Soon we will see more through his eyes,” Kolok said, smiling at the war cleric. “You asked whether we would fight for the Empire. No. We will fight for the world. My brothers … let us consult with the Great Mother. Let us summon the war bands, and let us free the Godstone of shadows!”

  The Elder circle roared in agreement, their shouts and whoops echoing around the sacred valley. There was suddenly an echoing trumpeting at the head of the valley. All eyes turned to see who approached.

  A massive bull mammoth slowly entered the valley. Figures carrying long flint spears walked beside it. Atop the mammoth’s back was a shelter of wood and hide adorned with sacred symbols.

  Weerak sneered, “The Great M
other? Did you summon her Kolok? Did you, old one?”

  The aged cleric shook his head, as did Kolok. “No one in our circle would think to call upon the Great Mother to travel before spring has fully thawed the trails. It would appear the Great Mother is concerning herself with matters of war by her own counsel. She must have seen signs. I look forward to hearing her words.”

  “Words of peace and caution, no doubt.” Weerak spat on the ground and marched back to the cave in disgust, as the Great Mother’s mammoth drew nearer. The great beast gave a trumpeting roar, as it smelled the females in the valley.

  The mammoths, still excitable after the cannon’s roar, began trumpeting in chorus. They gave welcome, as did the gathered circle of Elders and warriors. All the while, the sun shone clear and bright overhead and the snows gradually melted.

  Chapter 9

  He had eaten and tended to his newly acquired wounds before the arranged audience with his weapon sponsor. He carefully rubbed paste on the nicks and cuts on his arms. He had carried such wounds before and each one marked a hard-won victory. He was wearing many such trophies now. But today had been a close run thing. A blade had passed by his thigh that afternoon. If his opponent had been a foot closer, he would have surely bled to death on the sands … not that he would have died that way. The spectacle demanded horror, the removal of head and limbs, a favourite of the audience here, mere cuts of meat carved from a man. He shuddered at the thought. He had to keep alive, there had to be hope … he must be more careful. He had to live … for her! But he had begun to lose count of the days. He was a caged animal, denied liberty and his own name in a hostile land, populated with his people’s enemy. An enemy he had spent the last decade fighting.

  Sometimes the arena was the only relief he had. The roar of the crowd and the adulation, the reality of captivity lost in the moments of bloodletting, pitting his skill and weapon craft against man and beast. Briefly, he was free. In his mind the arena was a battlefield and he heard the crack of muskets, heard the shouts and curses of his men behind him as they advanced on the enemy. Fight on to victory, stay alive and, when it was all over, lose himself in the arms of Tamzine. That was his credo. But when it was over, he was alone, his sword dripping the blood of a fellow unfortunate dismembered on the sand. The cannon and musket fire turned into the shouts of the crowd, drunk on cheap wine and the spectacle of death before them. He was merely a slave killing for their sport, a slave called Gutspiller … and he was far from Tamzine.