by Rob Bayliss
“Karla, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever known. I will return to you, I promise,” he said, trying to hide his disappointment as his ardour subsided.
“That’s good,” she purred silkily, as she licked her full lips and kneeled before him. “You will remember me, I can guarantee it.” As she spoke, her hands slowly worked at the laces of his breeches, loosening them. All too soon Tuan’s excitement returned. Karla pulled his breeches away, her hand gently smoothing his hardness. She giggled and looked up questioningly at Tuan.
“Listen, Gewichas, you do not have to bewitch me with your magic, you know,” she said, laughing, indicating the Sun Shard that hung around Tuan’s neck.
Tuan looked down; his Sun Shard was pulsing a red colour. He grasped it and looked at it in bemusement. “What? But I’m not doing ….” In his ears he heard the constant beating of a skin drum, rhythmic and insistent. He looked at Karla. Her eyes were glazed, caught in the red glow of the Shard. She grunted, dropped to all fours and hoisted her skirts over her back, looking back at Tuan.
Tuan saw her rounded buttocks as she proffered herself to him. He tried to control himself. What was he doing? But already he was behind her, mounting her; both of them grunting and thrusting, bestial and urgent. And all the time the Shard pulsed red and Tuan felt himself falling into a corner of his mind, as if something else controlled him.
***
By the light of the firepit the crouched figure in furs breathed hoarsely as his body shook. The fire cast shadows on the walls, causing the painted animals to appear alive. The Flinter cried out as he released his seed into the scrap of fur. Once finished, his eyes looked furtively around and he quickly used the fur to clean himself, pulling his leather breeches back up. He turned round towards the fire and cast the soiled fur into it, where it sizzled and filled the cave with the smell of burning hair and leather. There was a sudden breeze as the leather curtain that acted as a door to the sacred cave was opened. The kneeling figure quickly ensured his Shard was hidden beneath the fur cloak that he drew around him. He recognised in irritation the identity of the new arrival.
“What do you want, Kolok?” he said, barely masking his hostility.
“I sensed a joining Weerak,” Kolok answered, sniffing the air. “A communion with the Bloodshadow, but the circle has not communed with him for many months now.”
Weerak snarled. “Who? The Flatface heretic with our brother’s Shard? I sensed no such thing. I sought peaceful meditation, but it seems I am now denied it.”
“I must have been mistaken; please resume your meditation. Was there a particular answer you sought?” Kolok said, seating himself by the firepit.
“Merely cleansing my mind for what lies ahead, nothing more,” Weerak replied, stifling an obvious yawn. “I am off to my bed; goodnight, Kolok.”
Weerak stood and walked from the firepit to the doorway, a smile on his face, hidden from Kolok. Beneath his furs his Sun Shard pulsed red….
Chapter 19
“Kiri! Come on child, I am finished for today. We are going home.”
Tunaka stood up and straightened his back with a grunt. He wiped his dirt-encrusted hands on his rough tunic. He had spent many long hours preparing the rich soil that characterised the fertile pocket of the Dofr’ame forest. It was now a fine tilth, perfect for planting. Tomorrow morning he would sow beans and pulses. In the afternoon he would perhaps take his bow and hunt in the brooding forests. Unlike the days of his childhood, the forests were now teeming with game. For now though, the sun dipped towards the horizon. He could almost taste the stew his wife had spent the afternoon preparing. He visualised it bubbling away over the firepit. His stomach rumbled in anticipation; he had earned his supper today.
He heard a giggle behind him and the pounding of tiny feet. He turned to see his five-year-old daughter hurrying over from where she had been playing in the dirt. Her smiling face warmed his heart, although he scowled when he saw her intended route.
“Go around, Kiri, not on the ground I have prepared!” he cried in mock frustration and anger.
She came to a sudden stop and then ran around the side of the prepared bed. She sprung towards him and he caught her and embraced her in his arms. He revelled in the fierce, tight hug she gave in return. Her smell mixed with the aroma of the rich earth filled his nostrils, and he felt content and happy. His life was more than he could ever have dreamed of at her age. Reluctantly, he set her back down on the ground, kneeling down to her level.
“Come on now, my sweetling, it will be dusk in an hour,” he said, attempting to dust the soil off her clothes. “I need your help to carry the tools home.”
“Yes, Ubaba,” Kiri replied, picking up a wooden rake and standing to attention like a militiaman. “Why are you afraid of the dark? You always finish your work in the fields before the sun has set.”
“It is force of habit, sweetling,” Tunaka replied, smiling as he signalled for Kiri to begin the stroll home from the fields. As the sun settled low over the horizon other workers could be seen leaving their fields and plots, journeying to their homes and hovels clustered here and there amid the fields.
“I asked my friend Tablis why,” Kiri said, as they walked together. “She said it is because you are afraid of the ghosts that rise from the old city over there.”
As she spoke, she pointed to the shattered ruins of what was once the city of Acarross, standing beside the river. Its once mighty walls were falling into disrepair, still charred by the cleansing fires of nearly two decades before. So intense were the flames that some parts had melted almost to glass. Some of the stones had been robbed for building projects elsewhere, but the place had mostly been left to its ghosts.
Tunaka gave it a fleeting glance, no more than that. His gaze returned to their path ahead. The place was imprinted on his psyche, a place of monstrous evil, oppression and black cruelty. It was best not to cast one’s shadow in that fell place; between that and the forest that was once the abode of the foulness. Tunaka shivered despite the warmth of the sinking sun on his back. He needed to remind himself that the evil was gone, that the demons of the past were no more, yet always there was a gnawing doubt. He knew what was buried there.
“We were an enslaved people once, Kiri.” he replied, as they trudged homeward, his daughter carrying the rake over her shoulder like a spear.
“Years before your mother and I were blessed by your birth, we were captive here in these same fields, fenced in by evil monsters that haunted the forests. Chained by cruel men who once dwelt in that accursed pile of stones.”
“What happened to the monsters and the cruel men, Ubaba?” Kiri enquired, looking suspiciously at the old city.
“That is a tale of how we freed ourselves from the terror of both. Of the days of Nurarna and the northern warrior, Kaziviere, the Gutspiller….”
The sun sank as he continued to tell the story and as they neared their home their shadows grew long in the telling.
***
The obsidian dagger hung there mocking him. Its black surface reflected the torchlight that these hapless mortals craved in the sweet darkness, in opposition to the light eating shadow that clad the internal walls of the temple. Its sharp edge reminded him of the blunting of his plans, so long in the making. The point recalled the pain that pierced his rotting heart. It was the blade of authority, carried by a Taleeli Imperial commander, the one called Kaziviere.
Kaziviere. Long he had hunted him, dreaming black dreams of revenge, of torturous agonies and the rending of his soul. The Taleeli’s soul was his, although he denied the fact, wallowing and indulging himself in that weak mortal trait of guilt. Such feelings would be futile once he sunk his vengeful claws in the weak mortal flesh. Perhaps he would keep him as a pet for a time? He might be entertaining and distracting. To slowly break the mortal’s mind as well as his body could pleasure even his immortal black heart.
Yet he feared this Kaziviere, the heretic. He alone had broken his fearful spell of paraly
sis, a spell that had neutralised the Sun Shard and its wielder Blackstone, unmaking his plan from ages evermore. He would teach him to fear, to shrivel his soul. He would eradicate the taint of Kaziviere. When the war with Taleel was won, he would personally seek out all tied by blood and comradeship to this man. His line and presence would cease, all traces and memory of him expunged. It would be as if he had never walked the earth. But the heretic had been here, in Dofr’Arachane. So here the cleansing and reshaping of the world in the image of the Messiah of Shadows would begin.
How they cowered before his rage. They shook and prayed, seeking his forgiveness and mercy. They would have none, for lo, he called his children unto him.
The arch priest was on his knees, imploring the Corpse Lord to show leniency. Some of the gathered dignitaries were rushing towards the doors, falling over themselves to hurry away from the Shadow God’s ire and warn those outside. The decayed eyes of the Messiah ignored them, as the insects they were. He saw Magistrar Sholok rooted to the spot, his legs turned to jelly and his bowels to water. All knew they were doomed; all except one.
There was one who seemed unafraid. He appeared to enjoy the terror of those around him, as they barged their fellows aside and trampled over the fallen to pound on the doors. The Corpse Lord drank the tangible fear from them. His cloak of shadows, which writhed around him, spread like dark wings to fill the surrounding space, while the stench of fear and emptied bowels mixed with his mystic aura of decay. With his cold, broken hands, he grabbed the heads of the priest and magistrar before him. He hauled them up in front of him to dangle in the air, their feet barely touching the temple floor.
The magistrar screamed, knowing his death was moments away, while the priest pleaded with him, “Why do you do this Eternal One? How have we displeased you?”
“You are tainted, infected by an enemy of mine,” the Dark One growled through his yellowed teeth. “I see his sacrilegious dagger adorning this very portal.” Even looking at it pained the Corpse Lord; the memory of its wounding of him, unwinding the foul spells that gave him life in this mortal world of light. He had sought repair in the sea of shadows, between the realms ungoverned by time.
The arch priest spoke. “Please, Great One, that is a trophy! The foul Taleeli savage who carried it stumbled unbidden from the Well of Souls.”
“Where is he? Bring him forth; present him to me and I may yet spare your mortal flesh.”
The arch priest went limp in utter defeat, whilst the magistrar began a strange keening. They realised their god spoke of Kaziviere, the Gutspiller. He was now beyond the knowledge of the inhabitants of Dofr’Arachane.
A voice behind the two captives spoke up. “They cannot give you the one you speak of, Deathless Messiah of Shadows.”
The diseased eyes shot across to stare at the one who spoke. There stood Dogel Serresel, his soul naked beneath the shrivelling gaze of the dark god. Yet he controlled his fear. Maybe this one was worthy?
“Speak!” the Dark one rasped.
The dogel smiled. It was not how he had envisaged an audience with the god of Acaross would be, but there was nothing to lose but his life.
“I was sold the Taleeli dog Kaziviere. The magistrars and priests sold him to me. I bought him for induction to my gladiatorial house. At the time he was senseless, not knowing his name or able to speak with his masters. I was sold a compliant slave, to train as I saw fit. He was to be meat, offered to the beasts in the ring, but he proved himself an adept fighter and became popular with the crowd. They named him ‘Gutspiller’. But his memory loss was a lie. He indeed remembered who he once was. He saw his opportunity and rebelled, killing my overseer. He wounded me and escaped into the jungle with my bed slave. Curse him!”
The yellowed eyes of the Immortal shot from the dogel to the two he held in his clawed hands. “You sold this Kaziviere, this danger to our empire, as war booty? He was not yours to dispense with. He was mine; he emerged from my house. He should have been left for me!”
“Forgive us, Lord,” the arch priest stuttered as he quailed before the Immortal’s anger. “Please forgive your loyal servants.”
“I forgive you and reward your service with the gift of sweet oblivion. Be as one with me,” the Messiah said, smashing their heads together so they cracked like eggs, their contents oozing out. He dropped their bodies to the floor. Shaking in spasms, their bloody brains pooled on the stones below.
A hush fell upon the temple. The congregation had fled in terror, leaving the twisted and broken wreckage of those crushed in the stampede. Some moaned in their pain. Beyond the thick stone walls screaming could be heard, but the loudest noise the dogel could hear was the hammering of his fearful heart.
“As for you…” the Messiah said, looking down at the dogel.
Serresel shut his eyes tight. He did not flinch, expecting death to take him. Please, let it be quick. He had seen death on the sands of the arena so many times. He had been fascinated and fearful of death by disembowelling. He wondered how drawn out and agonising the end was. The magistrar and priest had been shown the mercy of a swift death. Please, let it be quick.
But death did not come.
“As for you,” the Dark One continued, “to you, I give you the City of Dofr’Arachane, to look down upon for all your days and beyond.”
Serresel opened his eyes in wonder. Did he hear correctly? “I am to be king, to rule Dofr’Arachane and its people for you?” His soul soared, the wealth, the power, the concubines; all would be as he had ever dreamt.
The Dark One moved a clawed hand to his opposite forearm. His split, broken nails scratched at his decaying grey flesh. His talons reached into his foul tissue and drew forth a large wriggling larva that squirmed between his thumb and forefinger.
“I offer you immortality to enjoy your realm,” the Messiah said, before biting the head from the foul, flesh-eating maggot.
The dogel fell to his knees in supplication as the Dark One offered him the communion of shadows, squeezing the foul creature’s juicy innards into Serresel’s mouth, Serresel swallowing readily. The dogel felt the cuts and bruises dissipate from his flesh. He felt strength course through his dark veins, which no longer carried the blood of common men.
“Rise up, my servant. Come, let us view your realm,” the Corpse Lord said, leading the way out of the temple. He trod over the trampled, giving them no more thought than insects in the dirt. The dogel followed eagerly, keen to claim his city. The doors had been flung open and the light dazzled him after the darkness of the temple. He heard the roar of the crowd, screaming as if for him, as he left the comforting darkness. This must be what his gladiators felt, the adulation of the masses after a well-fought victory on the sands. Word must have gotten out that a new lord now held Dofr’Arachane, appointed by the god of Acaross himself. His first task would be the humiliation and destruction of that cur Glizaron. He smiled to himself, dusting down his clothes as he prepared to follow the Corpse Lord. The god’s tall frame blocked his view. He moved away from the Corpse Lord’s side, and for the first time saw the madness before the doors of the temple. He fell to his knees, sobbing.
“Behold your realm, Lord Serresel!” the Immortal laughed.
***
“Nurarna, get down,” Kaziviere hissed, ducking down into the undergrowth, his eyes squinting up at the canopy, ears straining to listen.
Nurarna quickly dived down beside her companion and held her breath, listening intently, too.
For two days it had been like this, avoiding the foulness and their spawn in the forests. They had abandoned their attempt to strike northwards through the jungle. The undergrowth was too dense; any attempt at cutting a way through would alert the watchful monsters in the trees. It was safest to journey by day, to avoid the silken trip wires and entanglements that could not be seen on the paths at night. Any progress made was painfully slow. Food and water quickly ran low as they struggled in the thick humid atmosphere. Eventually, they elected to head back east and follow t
he forest edge with a mind to pilfering food from the farmsteads and slave encampments, striking north to the edge of civilisation. The alternative to capture was the dangerous, disease-ridden swamp and jungle, the horror of the Arachane.
Above them, they heard the scurrying of one of the eight-legged monsters travelling at speed on the silken roads that criss-crossed the uppermost jungle branches. They listened to it move away, yet the leaves still moved as twigs and branches high up seemed to move with a rising wind.
Nurarna and Kaziviere slowly stood up, watching and wary, lest any other horrors were lurking unseen. Usually the Arachane travelled quietly yet purposefully, yet the one they had hidden from had sacrificed all stealth for speed. Nurarna shivered, and looked up at the sky beyond the leaves. It was getting darker and black clouds swept over the jungle. There was a definite shift in the atmosphere. Even down on the forest floor, they could feel the usually still air moving in the breeze. Nurarna quite enjoyed the sensation, which contrasted with the usual stifling clamminess of these forests.
“We are in for a violent storm, Rendroc,” Nurarna said to her companion.
As if to emphasise her statement, there was a bright flash, followed by a deep boom of thunder that rumbled across the forest roof. Up above, a new sound could be heard as large rain drops started to cascade down through the leaves.
Kaziviere looked up, rain splashing his face. “This fucking forest! If you are not drenched from sweat, you are wet from rain. Still, this storm will cover the sound of our passage through the jungle.”
“How far do you think we are from the forest edge?” Nurarna asked.