The Dead Gods

by Rob Bayliss

  His days were spent in weapon practice and training, endeavouring to keep his fitness at peak levels. The moment he weakened he would be dead. He felt his face; he carried a few days’ stubble. He was fortunate that his victories had granted him the privilege of the bathhouse from time to time and his own cell to relax in. His black hair was long, but at least he had been allowed to tie it back. During his first weeks here (or was it months?) he had been forced to resemble the wild savage that these cruel folk took him to be. To them he was the Taleeli usurper, a barbarian hammering at the gates of their ancient civilisation. He had begun to see just how old the ways of Acaross were.

  Occasionally he and his fellow gladiators had been allowed to exercise outside of the town walls, albeit under heavy guard. The walls seemed to have been built and rebuilt over many centuries. The differing style of dressed stone and bond could be seen from top to bottom, as if this place had once been fiercely fought over many times. Around the town were farmsteads and estates, stretching into the distance over a large, flat plain, seemingly worked by a large slave population. A broad, paved road led north, upon which troops and goods wagons regularly traversed. On the edge of sight to the south, extending west and east, a ribbon of green could be seen, showing a dense jungle that rose over high hills, disappearing into the horizon. Running past the town from out of the verdant south was a broad, slow, muddy river. Canals and irrigation channels formed a network, taking the precious water around the fertile plain. Exotic fruits and vegetables, the like of which he had never before seen or tasted, seemed to form the staple diet here, as well as buffalo and antelope meat. Only occasionally were he and his companions allowed these foods; mostly they were fed blandly tasting pastes of pulses and beans. His weapon sponsor ensured that none of his slave fighters became as overweight as he. Dogel Serresel enjoyed the fruits of his slaves’ labours in the form of fine food and wine.

  While running around the walls, he had watched the flow of the river, observed the comings and goings on the road, seen the farms and the overseers of slaves, and counted the numbers and timings of the patrols that made their regular sweeps of the countryside. The slaves were numerous it was true, but that was not the only reason for the large armed presence and their clockwork diligence. There was something different about this place: the well-maintained defences tested on numerous occasions in the past, the well-armed retinues that the town’s wealthy merchants and slavers surrounded themselves with. This was a frontier town, a pocket of Acaross carved in the jungle that threatened to encroach it. To the south, near the edge of the lush wilderness and close to the river was a small fort. It seemed always to have a large fire burning, despite the unpleasant and humid heat under a sun that burned high overhead.

  He was in the town of Dofr’Arachane, southeast of the Sea of Acaross, of that he was sure from snatched looks at maps in previous audiences with the dogel. Once back in his cell, by the flickering glow of a single candle he would try to draw the maps from memory into the dirt floor, trying to estimate how far from home, and Tamzine, he really was. He now carried a mental map in his head; it would not do to leave such a scrawling for inspection by the dogel’s guards. Once memorised, he would quickly destroy them. He had learned a bitter lesson: openly expressed thoughts of liberty would never be tolerated in his first weeks in this alien place, the mark of which he wore as trophies on his back. His speaking of his name to the crowd in the arena after fighting reptilian death-stalkers had added to his trophy collection. But escape he must; today’s near miss had brought it home to him once more. But how?

  To travel north would be too hazardous; the road was constantly in use by troops and agents of Acaross. His skin, although burnt dark under the remorseless sun, would mark him out as a northerner among the dark-skinned people of this region, while his secret understanding of the tongue of Acaross, learned through listening, would be meaningless when he replied with his Taleeli accent. He would need to head south into the jungle and attempt to bypass this outpost, and then head northwest to the Attana coast. The Empire had outposts there, but the wilderness was a fearful place. It was the rumour among his brother gladiators that the troops who patrolled the lands around never entered this forbidding place. He would need food, water and weapons to hack his way through. He may well die in the wild but he had to try; he would surely die here anyway … eventually.

  His musings were brought to an abrupt halt as he heard the heavy stamp of boots in the corridor outside of his cell. He recognised the rhythm of the steps: Shlenfa the overseer. It sounded like he had two guardsmen with him. He heard the rattle of keys in the thick wooden door, the stiff grinding of the metal lock mechanism and then the door swung heavily open.

  Shlenfa strode into the cell. He was a large dark-skinned man from southern Attana. Above his thick neck he had a shaven head, which appeared to be permanently beaded with sweat. His flat nose was crooked at its bridge where it had been broken on numerous occasions. Shlenfa had once been an arena fighter of some renown and had earned his freedom. Alas, free of the strict regime of the gladiator, his once-iron muscles were running to fat, pushing against his leather tunic; no diet of bean paste for this one, that was certain!

  “Get up, Taleeli! What are you smiling about? The dogel wishes to see you,” Shlenfa said, ever ready to threaten with the coiled whip he seemed always to carry in his hand.

  The fighter rose in compliance, snuffing out his candle to preserve the wax. He followed the overseer as he waddled out of the cell and down the corridor to the stairs leading out of the gladiatorial dormitory. The fighter followed close behind, but despite his acquiescence he still got a shove with a spear from one of the guards behind him, eager to prove his dominance over this clearly skilled arena fighter. The fighter chose to ignore the provocation; he did not need further trophies added to his hide. He followed the overseer, his eyes trained on Shlenfa’s fat and greasy neck as they climbed the stairs.

  They crossed the training sands, now quiet, as all the gladiators had been locked in their cells for the night. During the day this place would ring with the clash of heavy wooden practice swords on shields, war cries and the grunts of the wounded. They came to a heavy door, studded with sharp spikes to dissuade any would-be escapees from attempting to shoulder barge it open. Shlenfa hammered on the door with the metal tipped end of his whip handle, being careful not to cut his hands on the wicked-looking thorns that grew from this wood.

  Shlenfa spoke loud and clear in the tongue of Acaross to those inside. The fighter had picked up many of the words of Acaross, but not the stream of invectives that accompanied them. This caused amusement to the two guards at the expense of their comrades the other side of the door. The fighter feigned ignorance of the language of his captors, watching, waiting. They must not know what he knew.

  There was a metallic clang as a heavy bolt was drawn. The party stepped back as the spiked door swung outward. Inside, light from many torches leapt outward, spilling onto the training sands. Shlenfa grunted and led the way inside. The fighter closely followed, ignoring the obligatory shove from the guard behind him.

  They walked past the kitchens, where slaves worked over the bubbling cauldrons of gruel and pottages and baked hard bread in brick ovens. The air was smoky and hot in the high, vaulted chamber. On a bright fire a pig was being roasted, the fat hissing and burning as it dripped onto the hot flames below. The fighter’s mouth watered: roast pork. He had not tasted that since long ago, in a city far to the north … a city he had shared with Tamzine.

  They climbed more stairs and passed another set of doors. Inside, a further four sentries sat at a bench eating roasted meats and succulent fruits. They laughed as they shared an amphora of wine. They nonchalantly waved Shlenfa, the fighter and the two guards through, much to the overseer’s annoyance. Who did these guards think they were? He deserved respect; he was Shlenfa. In his heyday he could have killed them all. They were merely men-at-arms, not professional killers like him … or this fighter he brou
ght to an audience with the dogel. This slave was good. Not for nothing did the crowd roar with approval when Gutspiller walked onto the sands. He appeared compliant to the ways of dogel’s House of Gladiators: his back had not felt Shlenfa’s whip for some time, but there was something about this one. He was clever and tricky; his skill in the arena proved it. He would feel the whip again, Shlenfa was sure of it and would wait patiently. The overseer smiled as they entered the dogel’s offices.

  The fighter noticed the change in his surroundings. Up here it was warm but the air was less humid. Large windows had been flung open to let the evening breeze waft the drawn silken draperies that quenched the fire of the remorseless midday sun. Torches in sconces were replaced by elaborate and tall candelabras, like tall plants with fiery flowers. They lit a room of luxury and pleasure.

  Sat at a table laden with more food than he could possibly consume, was Dogel Serresel. He greedily tore at meats, the grease running down his white, trimmed beard over his podgy, ring-bedecked fingers, and onto a napkin that protected his expensive silk clothes. He barely looked up from his meal as the fighter entered the room under guard. The fighter felt a strange sense of déjà vu, as if he was back in a city far to the north summoned to see Dominar Sligo. The presence of the naked dusky maiden accentuated the feeling, her body oiled and smooth, as she fanned the dogel as he ate.

  She got the overseer’s attention. He ravished her with his eyes and looked at length at her smooth ebony thighs and what was between them, imagining them either side of his head; he could almost smell her. He yearned to taste her. He licked his lips of the salty sweat that hung there, as he lusted.

  The scene was familiar to the fighter. He had been in such a place before, in a different time and a different place. There sat the dogel, eating fine foods and quaffing wine, showy in the arrogance of his wealth. Women, as living statues, adorning his room to be used on a whim. To think that Tamzine had served in the dominar’s court. Just like the dogel had been the dominar. Both had sought to own him, both big fish in their allotted pond. Both were puppets of shadows. Shadows? The fighter’s mind whirled, there was something in his memory that he had repressed: a blankness, a void in recollection. The shadow, there had been something terrible in the shadows; it was the reason why he was here. What was it? They had entered the Great Marsh, he and his troopers ….

  The dogel threw down the remains of the meat he was eating onto his platter and snatched at his napkin to wipe his hands. He grabbed his goblet of wine and looked up at the arrivals as he quaffed. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, all the time watching the fighter with eyes that shone darkly in his olive face.

  “Shlenfa, put your tongue away!” the dogel ordered. “Have some food; it will keep your hands and tongue occupied. The other I cannot help you with.”

  The overseer quickly looked in anger at the two guards’ faces, lest their faces reveal that they found the dogel’s words amusing at his expense. But like he they stared, transfixed at the girl’s nakedness. Satisfied, the overseer grabbed food and ate quickly, but still eyed the girl hungrily.

  “So, Gutspiller,” the dogel said, addressing the fighter in his eastern-accented common tongue dialect, “how many victories have you won for me so far?”

  “I have killed twenty five warriors who have faced me and many exotic beasts,” the fighter replied matter-of-factly.

  “You have done well and earned me much coin,” the dogel said. “Who would have thought it, Taleeli? You were supposed to die on the sands not long after you stepped out of the House of Shadows, from who knows where.”

  The fighter kept his face grim, not wishing to betray emotion. The House of Shadows? That was it, the temple, of sorts, out of which he had stumbled, blinking in the bright sun, not knowing where he was. But before that there was a swirling well into which he had fallen … black and fearful.

  “You have built up a reputation, Gutspiller,” the dogel continued. “From mere sacrifice to a gladiator of renown; the crowd looks forward to your appearances. I wonder what goes through your barbarian mind, Kaziviere?”

  The fighter tried to remain expressionless, but started at hearing his name. He knew it was a mistake that he would eventually pay for. The dogel’s face changed to one of anger. The overseer looked away from his ogling and feasting to look at the fighter, a look of triumph on his face.

  The dogel jumped up from his seat. “You are Gutspiller! Your life before is irrelevant. You will show no emotion or feelings; none of them matter. You belong to me, as this girl here. Observe.” The dogel reached his hand between the girl’s thighs, his fat ring bedecked fingers forcing their way upwards, his fingertips lingering at her womanhood.

  Kaziviere looked at the girl’s face. She was trying to stay as still as possible, her face emotionless, willing herself not to react, yet he could see the disgust and sadness in her eyes. She played her part well, but she should not have to. Her body bore no visible trophies on her skin as his did … he had his suspicions of how she had been broken and punished.

  “You see? She is but a plaything of mine, as you are. Never forget that, Taleeli. The man called Kaziviere is dead. Whoever you once were, it is as if he never existed,” the dogel said, withdrawing his fingers from the girl and placing them under his hooked nose, sniffing deeply, a smile forming on his face.

  Shlenfa spoke, spraying food as he did so. “He won’t forget your words, Lord Dogel. Shlenfa will ensure your words sink in.” Shlenfa stared deep at Kaziviere’s face, watching eagerly for a reaction.

  He was to be disappointed. Kaziviere looked straight ahead, his face striving not to betray his thoughts. The dogel disgusted him and that fat fuck Shlenfa now had an excuse to inflict wounds and pain on him again. To have a few minutes alone with either on these two, he would make the dogel crawl like a dog before he dispatched him to his shadow gods and Shlenfa too … they would pay … like the dominar did before being cast to die in the oubliette, deep in the bowels of the Master’s Keep in Northport. He set his face as stern and as still as stone, fighting the smile of grim satisfaction wanting to surface.

  “Do not cause too much injury, Shlenfa,” the dogel said, returning to the tongue of Acaross. “He is to fight again in three days’ time. Dofr’Arachane is to be honoured with a visitation and special night-time games are to be organised, with sacrifices and bloodletting.”

  “I have seen the priests readying the House of Shadows. What is the event, why are we honoured so?” Shlenfa said, shooing away flies that buzzed around the meat that he had his eye upon.

  “War gathers to the north again and troops are called to march and confront the northern barbarians in a holy war. It would appear as though these scum,” the dogel said, indicating the fighter before him, “didn’t fully learn their lesson at the Straits of Tahlinjin. Most of the garrison are to begin the long march north and join the forces gathering there. Last time they escaped the trap we set; this time they will be defeated utterly and then Cyria lies open to us. We will have more of the likes of this one to grace the sands and pull the oar in chains.”

  Kaziviere’s face was set still, as he pretended not to understand the words being spoken. Yes, that was it; they had been preparing for war to attack these people, to dispel the shadows with light of the Fire God. But war had come to Northport before they could embark. So Acaross was calling on their huge resources to counter them? He had to escape and warn them; from the maps he had seen and the extent of these shadowed lands they could field troops innumerable!

  Shlenfa suddenly looked uneasy. “Is that wise? Denuding the garrison?”

  “There will be plenty of retinue troops remaining to keep the slaves under heel, if that is what worries you?” the dogel replied, pouring himself more wine.

  “It is not the slaves I am concerned about, it’s the … others … the foulness in the forests,” Shlenfa said, his eyes suddenly scanning the billowing silks covering the windows, lest something hid behind them.

  The do
gel laughed. “We have heard nothing of them for over one hundred years. True, now and again a corpse floats down the river, but the river fort ensures they are caught in the dam and the bodies burnt. We cannot have the children having nightmares after seeing one of the foulness float past. But I did not realise you were such a child, Shlenfa!”

  The overseer shuddered. “They keep the slaves from escaping into the jungle, but every so often a slave disappears when working too close to the forest edge. The foulness observes us, and they will notice our garrison being reduced.”

  “They are welcome to the odd morsel. There are plenty of slaves available to replace those lost,” the dogel said between gulps of wine. “They were originally children of our god, Shlenfa.”

  “They were,” Shlenfa said, thinking aloud, “but they have been corrupted from the chosen recipients of immortality they once were. They have bred and degenerated into the foul race they have now become. Better if the Eternal One had not granted the blood of shadows to run through the veins of their sires and dams so long ago.”

  Kaziviere listened intently, but stood as still as a statue, his face purposely lacking acknowledgment of the words being spoken. Blood of shadows? He recalled that warrior of Acaross outside the House of Shadows, located in the delta of the Great Marsh far to the north. He was no longer a mortal man. He had killed six of his men and would have killed him, had it not been for the Turanesci giant and Blackstone the Sun Shard wielder commanding the marsh dragons. They killed the warrior eventually and then they went into that shadowed building….