by Rob Bayliss
Weerak looked at the crowd, but the voices that had supported him had now fallen silent. The eyes that had blazed, yearning for war, now looked at the ground, their owners shamed by the Great Mother’s words. “But what of the killer of Kress, Great Mother? Surely he should suffer our revenge?”
The Great Mother stamped the ground with her staff. “You mean the one called …” the old woman took her time in pronouncing the name, “Kaziviere?” She laughed again; the sound was as a rock fall that could bury a herd of mammoth. “Kress has already has his revenge on him. The killer of Kress is dead, but the one called Kaziviere, he yet lives ….”
***
Goetic Senai, keeper of the Shadow House of Joffram, looked at the well room in satisfaction. The candles in the temple were now being replaced and relit. The channels between the flagstones, which had greedily drunk the blood that had recently swamped the stone floor, had since been scrubbed clean. The entrails and body parts had been cleared away, to be burnt in the black smoky fires. Never before had this sacred place been as blessed as it had been the previous night, yet it was best to wash away the sacrificial remnants left behind by the gods’ passing, lest disease and afflictions affect the Shadowed One’s weak, mortal followers.
The Corpse Lord had returned with his children from far-flung provinces in the sprawling and shadowed empire of Acaross. How he envied those granted immortality. He was only too aware how he had aged. His once taut body now sagged, muscle running to fat. His hair, now gone, was replaced by a wig of black curls that was hot and itchy. He wore black kohl to hide the wrinkles that surrounded his eyes like the clawing feet of crows. It was fortunate that the temple slave pens had been filled; the children had consumed all the bloodstock he had. He smiled as he saw the young slave boy lighting candles. He had managed to save young Tunken from the slaughter; he was pleased about that. He used the young boy for his own needs and had become somewhat attached to him. All too soon he would be aged beyond his tastes, but for now he would take pleasure in him. He had been promised more slaves and plunder last year. The temple had helped finance the expedition to the far north but the shattered fleet had since returned, depleted and empty handed, with disease and starvation running riot amid the decks.
Over in the dark recesses of the temple, Goetic heard whispered prayers. He wished to close the temple for the night. He went to the recess and held his lantern high, peering through the gloom, seeing three figures.
“You!” Goetic said in irritation. “I might have known that you would be here seeking divine favour.”
One who he didn’t recognise looked of the gloom. “You should show respect, priest.” he said, his voice betraying his northern outlander roots. “My Lord Caliphar has suffered greatly in the service of the Corpse Lord.”
“Suffered and failed,” Goetic replied sarcastically, ignoring the one that spoke, his ire solely directed at the caliphar. “The temple financed your expedition. Plunder we were promised, slaves by the thousands, too. Where are they? Instead you return in shame, your army dead or routed, your fleet sunk or scattered, your commander lost and your own mind broken.” Goetic chuckled. “At least you return with this one, this foreign son of a whore; who are you then, whoreson?” he asked, now facing the caliphar’s spokesman.
There was a rasp of steel and a razor-sharp scimitar appeared out of the gloom, accompanied by a voice full of malice. “This is Lord Kreven, lately of Taleel. Lord Kreven has received communion with the Corpse Lord and been accepted by him. You would do well to show some respect, you pederast fuck.”
Goetic swallowed hard. His scalp, under his wig, felt itchy and clammy with sweat. He had heard that Ansar Sha’col had replaced Sheerak as the caliphar’s commander. Sha'col had a reputation as one who was not concerned with the hereafter. He had no respect towards the priesthood. “You would threaten a servant of the Corpse Lord in his very own House of Shadows?” he asked, trying not to show fear.
“Victory …” the caliphar rasped, his eyes wild darting here and there, staring at every shadowed corner. “He promised me victory, but Kaziviere and Broud … they ….”
“Be at peace, my Lord Caliphar, and Ansar pray put up your sword,” Kreven gently urged. “I have given everything in the service of our faith and for the glory of Acaross.” He continued, facing Goetic. “I sacrificed my position in the Taleeli court, my very family. Now, my Lord Caliphar requires further help of the temple, to the eventual betterment of us all. His promise of plunder and slaves still stands. We have seen the children of the Shadowed One and their ravenous appetites. They would eat all they find. My Lord Caliphar will secure slaves for the temple, strong and blood rich for your sacred rites. He can also find some … youthful and pleasant distractions for you. He did not return entirely empty handed. As a gesture of good faith he can deliver a pair of twin boys from the Cheama, pale skinned and untouched, to your quarters tomorrow, purely to encourage negotiations between us, you understand. Will the temple consider such a proposal?”
Goetic looked at Tunken. He was growing, too fast. Twins? Delivered tomorrow? “I ask Lord Kreven to forgive my previously hasty words. Yes, I will consider your proposal, but at this juncture I cannot foresee any problems with entering into negotiating further sponsorship. Now, I would ask you to kindly leave the temple, my lords. I will see you at prayers tomorrow?”
“Very good, Keeper Senai. Until tomorrow,” Kreven replied. “Come, Lord Caliphar.”
The three worshippers made their way out of the well room. Ansar Sha’col’s hand remained on the hilt of his scimitar and his eyes on Goetic as he walked away.
Goetic returned Sha’col’s stare as he and his companions left, letting out an audible sigh once he heard the temple doors shut behind them.
“Problems, my Lord Senai?” a young voice enquired.
Goetic smiled. “Not any more, sweet Tunken,” he said, his hand caressing the boy’s soft cheek. The slave had now learned to bear such touches without complaint. Behind Tunken Goetic saw a green tinge begun to develop around the well. Its significance didn’t sink in for a moment until ….
“The God’s well! The portal is being opened!” he said, quickly running to the stone ring that stood over the well to the Sea of Souls. The air was becoming charged, crackling with energy as a vortex rose from the well depths; a god was coming through.
“I don’t understand, Lord; I thought all the gods had come through yesterday,” Tunken said fearfully, remembering their terrible arrival. Their appearance had been horrific. The Corpse Lord, who preceded them, was foul enough, but at least he bore a semblance to the humanity he may have once had. But as for his children? They were foul abominations, living nightmares pulled from the insane dreamscape of the deranged Corpse Lord. Such thoughts were heresy, he told himself, but surely they were not gods … they were monsters.
“Who are we to question such things?” Goetic said sternly, as the green swirling air began to thicken before him. “Tunken,” he sighed sadly, “I need you, come here boy.”
Tunken’s feet slapped on the polished flagstones as he ran to his master’s call. Lord Senai’s sexual attentions made his flesh crawl, but he was strong, he could bear it; at least he never starved. He was well fed and always had clean clothes as opposed to those poor devils in the mines, quarries or the rowing decks of galleys. But there was something in Master Senai’s eyes. They betrayed sadness as he looked at him, and then he remembered: the terrible sacrifice that had been required, the blood and entrails, the terrible appetites of the emerging gods.
He tried to stop but the flagstones that he himself had cleaned and polished treacherously maintained his momentum towards his master. Goetic’s hand shot out and grasped his arm.
“No, Lord, please …” Tunken pleaded as Goetic hauled him towards the well.
“Hush, Tunken,” Goetic said, a tear forming in his eye. “Close your eyes boy, I will pray for you. Fear not, your body will feed a god, your soul will become one with the Sea of Shadows.
Tunken was dragged in front of the well. His master was fearfully strong and he was held fast. He saw Goetic draw the sacrificial dagger and raise it to plunge into his flesh. Before him the swirling manifested into a form, perhaps two forms. Above him, he heard Goetic murmuring prayers of manifestation. So this was the end. He should shut his eyes, but these would be his last moments in an unhappy life, a cursed life. He saw a blade flash.
He felt blood splash on him; it felt hot and smelt iron rich, but it fell from above, not from him. He felt Goetic’s grip on him weaken, heard a gurgling and bubbling and the clatter of steel on the flagstones, followed by the dying body of his master collapsing to the floor. He jumped from the well, as the gods stepped into the world. He curled on the floor then, hiding his eyes, not wishing to see the horrors that had come. He heard footfalls come to a stop beside him and a voice, a woman’s voice, warm and gentle.
“What city is this, little one?”
Through a cage of his fingers Tunken looked. But these were no monsters, perhaps they were real gods, this man and a woman dressed in finery. “You are in Joffram, great lords.”
“Are we alone?” she asked.
“Yes, my Goddess. It was only I and my master ….” Tunken’s voice trailed off as he saw the figure of a bronzed god, wiping a dagger clean on Goetic’s silken robes. Around the fallen priest a pool of blood was congealing.
The god looked at Tunken. “You have no master any more, lad. My blade has set you free, and this is no goddess before you … although under those robes some would say she is shaped like one!”
The woman gave her companion a sideways glance and a grin. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
The man smiled as he snapped his blade into its sheath. He was dressed like a rich merchant, armed with daggers and a scimitar. Under his silks he looked muscular and walked with a confident swagger, which reminded Tunken more of a soldier than a merchant. The woman likewise seemed athletically muscular, her skin dark and smooth. Neither of them seemed like what they appeared; Tunken had seen enough worshippers in this House of Shadows to know the type. Neither of these two wore kohl, their hair was not oiled and curled; neither looked nor smelt bathed.
The swirling around the well had subsided. Tunken watched as the man searched Goetic’s body, finding bags of coin and a ring of temple keys, before pushing the body of the keeper down the well to land in its depths, with an echoing wet smack. A trail of blood was all that was left of his master, Goetic Senai.
“What is your name, lad?” the man asked, joining his female companion. He inspected the keys and hid the moneybags in the folds of his robes.
“My name is Tunken,” he replied. Before he could stop himself he blurted out a plea. “Please, great lords, do not eat me.”
The woman hunkered down on her haunches beside him, reaching out to him and stroking his hair. Her touch didn’t repel him like Goetic’s. “We are no monsters, Tunken; we are merchants fleeing our fallen city, merely flesh and blood such as you. We need your help. Can you help us leave this temple without being seen, act as our guide through the streets of Joffram? We need somewhere to sleep and to eat. We can pay you for your trouble.”
“Lords, you may be flesh and blood, but neither of you are Acarossian merchants,” Tunken replied. “You do not have the bearing. I know, as I have been a slave of the temple and seen them come here for bribe and favour. Neither of you smells like a merchant either.”
The man and woman shot each other an alarmed look. The man nodded to the woman and she turned to Tunken. “Tunken, you are correct. Truth be told, we were both slaves like you. We overthrew our masters and escaped the city. The well portal was open and we arrived here. Have others come through this gateway?”
“Indeed, my lady,” Tunken said, shaking in the memory of it. “The God of Shadows himself came, followed by lesser gods in inhuman form.”
“It makes sense,” the man said. “If we are at Joffram, then we are not far from the Sea of Acaross. The Corpse Lord intends on using his children in the coming war. We need to get west of here somehow, either by following the coast to a Taleeli outpost or by finding a ship to Cyria or to the Cheama.” He took the woman’s hand and squeezed it affectionately. “We have come a great distance, Nurarna, but we are on the right path.”
The woman smiled sadly at the man. Tunken was suddenly struck with a sense of destiny. These were good people, he was sure of it. He had an idea. “Lords, come with me, I know the way out of this temple and you can eat, bathe and sleep tonight in my master’s quarters. He will not need them again, that is for certain. They are close by, on Temple Hill. Tomorrow I will guide you down to the city.” He grinned.
The man looked down at the boy. “We thank you, Tunken. We will pay you well for your trouble.”
Tunken shook his head. “Lord, I cannot stay here. You have slain my master; he will be found eventually and I will be tortured and killed. I will help you, but only if you take me with you. You say you have freed me, but I do not know what to do with my liberty. I cannot remain in Joffram, this I know.”
The man scratched the stubble on his chin. The woman smiled and looked at her companion. “What say you then, Rendroc; he can help us?”
The man smiled at the woman. “This is becoming a habit,” he said before turning and offering his hand to Tunken. “Greetings, Tunken, my name is Rendroc Kaziviere, Commander Rendroc Kaziviere of the 1st Cheamas. My beautiful companion here is Nurarna, lately of the city of Dofr’Arachane. We are on a mission to destroy the Lord of Shadows and his realm of darkness. Will you join us?”
Tunken took the man’s hand. “This temple has only brought me pain, shame and horror. I swear allegiance to you, Commander Kaziviere of the 1st Cheamas,” he said, not fully understanding the title.
“Good lad, Tunken,” Rendroc said, his eyes boring into and holding those of the temple slave. “First things first. Now lead us out of this House of Shadows.”
Tunken led them stealthily out of the temple, locking the gates behind him as he had done each night with Goetic. Once outside in the cool air, Kaziviere loitered, looking over the lip of the Temple Plaza, down at the city, the heart of his peoples’ bitterest enemy.
Night had fallen over the sprawling city of Joffram, its grid pattern of thoroughfares clearly discernable from above, and lit by torchlight. The temple behind him was a large pyramid structure, standing on a hill that overlooked the city. Below the Temple Hill, perhaps five hundred feet below was a lit arena. Screams of despair and terror could be heard from down there. Familiar inhuman figures ran hither and thither, hunting captives across the sands. The telltale silver shine of webs could be seen draping the place as the Corpse Lord entertained and fed his gathered children.
Around the roads stretching across the plains from behind the Temple Hill, around the city, and beyond to the sea were lights innumerable, each a fire around which tents and warriors were gathered. The night hummed with the murmur of thousands of differing accents and the calls of exotic beasts of war. Acaross had gathered vast forces from its four corners.
In the far distance the rising moon made the Sea of Acaross a shimmering pool of molten silver. Clustered in the bay were a multitude of vessels of every shape and size, the fleet of Acaross gathered for war. A vast forest of masts.
“Come on, Rendroc,” Nurarna hissed urgently, “we need to make plans and leave at first light, before the absence of Tunken’s dead master is noted.”
“Yes. I am coming,” Kaziviere said, unable to take his eyes from the view.
He almost quailed seeing the vastness of the forces arrayed below; what hope did Taleel have against forces so numerous? He noticed that his hand was shaking. In his mind’s eye he saw again the burning ships at the Strait of Tahlinjin, the screams of the captured being tortured, body parts being flung back at their defensive lines. He recalled the oaths of revenge, how ridiculous they seemed now, but unbidden, a word of power came from his lips: “Tamzine.”
&
nbsp; His hand formed a fist that settled on the pommel of his scimitar. The long expected war was imminent. He was back, and not a moment too soon. He turned and followed Tunken and Nurarna.
Epilogue
The black-eyed gull continued its journey south. It had been flying for days now with a sense of urgency. Having forsaken food, it was now thin and drawn. It had crossed the Cheama and flown over the Midsea archipelago. Others of its kind that resided on the islands’ cliffs, had shunned it or attacked it on sight, eager to see it far from their territory, and not just because it would be a competitor for resources, as the seas warmed and the spring bonding season commenced. They saw it for what it was.
But the gull itself? It was beginning to forget, despite the way the sun burned and seared. The frail avian form struggled to contain the evil force of will it contained. But, with each beat of its wings, the psyche of hate and defiance was beginning to yield to the gull’s instincts, as the days and nights had passed. It still went south, but it now meandered from its straight-as-an-arrow course. The creature’s need for food was overwhelming and the change in the air, especially in these warmer, southerly spring climes, stirred the bird’s suppressed biological impulses.
Out at sea, it observed clouds of gulls and terns following whales as they herded fish underwater into tight bait balls. The birds screeched warnings at the gull as it approached, but its instincts demanded food now. As the whales scooped mouthfuls of herring from the water the birds caught the wounded or the escaping stragglers. The gull dived into the sea and grabbed a wounded fish, the water now thick with the flashing of falling fish scales like a myriad of tiny mirrors. It saw the whales while it was underwater. The dark will contemplated a life spent in the dark of the deep, far from the hateful sun. A whale turned its eye to this particular gull, a creature it normally ignored. It thrashed its tail flukes in warning to its kin and dove into the abyss with its prize of fish in its mouth.