City of the Gods - Starybogow

by Rospond, Brandon; Kostka, Jan; Werner, CL

  Gasping for breath, every tendon and sinew in his body feeling as though it were on fire, Wulf looked on his handiwork with grim satisfaction. The bukavac was dead, the volkhv who'd summoned it was no more, the pagan cult was broken and scattered. A fitting epithet for Klaus von Auerbach, the man the Vehmic Court had named murderer. The man Wulf Greimmer would always know as a hero.

  Sworn to Secrecy

  Brandon Rospond

  Hanseatic Merchant

  This was a strange time to live in. The word on the wind was that the quakes that had shaken the land, demolishing towns, had brought back beings from wisemens’ tales and children’s nightmares. And the source of it all was centered in a town that was now more ruin than inhabitable – Starybogow. Nothing was sacred anymore; ferrymen feared the stirrings in the water, the woods breathed with strange apparitions, and every cold chill on the back made one think twice about what was behind them.

  While this information was more true than tale, the lone rider, clad in all black, traveling horseback across a grass-laden trail, could not believe that word of the mythical returns had spread like wildfire. He shook his head, and within the cowl that hid his face, he felt a smile curl the corner of his lips. They had known about the wodniks that infested the waters and threatened to drown sailors, the leshiye that stalked the forest and snatched away travelers, and the many cultists that believed in their numerous Old Gods; but then again, they were also very well aware of the Eldar Gods and the hooks they had in the knights of the church.

  These facts were no less common to him than knowing the sun would rise the next day or that birds took flight with their beating wings. This was because he belonged to the most elite traders – in secrets, information, and items alike – one of the greatest secret societies ever known to man, the Hanseatic League.

  Even though he was no rookie to the organization, having been a member of the League for several years now, the thought of their convoluted network of information still widened the smile on his face. In this ever-turbulent time, where the common man fought for control in the name of whatever God or gods he worshipped, the League were the ones that managed to pull the strings behind the scenes to keep the fight balanced in their own best interests. They had eyes and ears everywhere, watching as each side made their every move.

  And that returned him to the mission at hand. Geoffrey Winters, better known as ‘Bishop’, had been watching the forest carefully despite his leisurely trot, but now he tapped his mare on the neck.

  “Well, Fiona, I think the leshiye don’t want to come out to play today.” He winked as she turned her head to snort, even though he knew the gesture would be lost on her. “I think it’s for the best, my dear. We wouldn’t want to sully your freshly pressed shoes, now would we?”

  He clicked his tongue and spurred the dark horse forward, allowing the cloak’s hood to drop down on his back. His thick shoulder-length black hair fluttered with each breath of air that passed over him, and he relished how good it felt to be back out on the road. Even though the League’s primary cover was that they were merchants, the majority of his brethren were trained as assassins and every member was taught the proper art of swordplay. Surely, he knew how to defend himself and quickly dispose of attackers, but despite the rush of battle adrenaline, the high Bishop enjoyed the most was that of the treasure hunt. He made his fair share from what he brought back for clients, but the exploration of the far reaches of the world was what he craved and had a sort of payout that he could not put monetary value to.

  Fiona carried him out from the depths of the forest and Bishop exhaled with relief. The less hassle from strange spirits on his journey, the better. Reacquainting himself with his new surroundings, he spurred the horse onward across the plains. He did not need the map his brethren had made up for him; he had already committed the location to memory as he steered Fiona in the direction of his destination. He stole a quick glance to his right and he could just make out the ruins of Starybogow, looming over the area as if watching his every movement. He shook the trail of icy fingers out of his spine and hurried Fiona forward.

  He reached the edge of the town and slowed the horse down; his eyebrow raised involuntarily at the sight before him. Against his better judgment, he pulled out the map to make sure he had reached the right spot, and true to his own memory, he had arrived at the burnt-out husk known as Kukle.

  “This… This is it?” Bishop threw his arms out at his sides as he scanned the scattered ruins that loosely traced the city’s outline. There were remains of four or five hovels that survived fires, as well as the remains of a barely intact stable, but other than that, everything was gone. He sighed and turned back to Fiona. “Well. The League works in strange ways, and they are always right. Can’t dispute them now. Not at least until I’ve given this place the, ah… proper look around.”

  He shook his head and led Fiona over to the ramshackle stable. He tested its might a few times, just to make sure that it would not fall with her within, and he was glad when it remained standing. Bishop tied her up to one of the posts, making sure to rub her neck with the fingers exposed from his lightly-leathered black gloves. Before he left, he moved a few pieces of rubble in front of the entrance, as if to ward off any other adventurers; he doubted anyone would be passing this way, but he treated Fiona like any other good woman he met in his life, and always made sure she was properly protected.

  As he walked back through the town, he turned his gaze toward the direction of Starybogow and felt a chill creep across his spine once more. He took an elegant thin blade of steel out from his waist, holding it in his right hand. The weapon, along with his fitted stealth gear, had been made by the League’s own personal blacksmith.

  “Better safe than sorry,” Bishop muttered as he faced the ruins around him once more. “So little time, so many towns not ventured… and so many more unsatisfied women I have yet to take care of. Should I live to love another day, I should be wary of my surroundings. Under the watchful gaze of that damned Starybogow is not the way I want the bards to sing of my death.”

  Using his free hand, Bishop pulled the hood over his head once more as he stalked through the desolated town. He stopped at the door of each building left intact and paused for several moments to listen before disturbing the quiet within. Each time, he was glad to be met with the same result – there was not a soul, neither human nor spiritual, to be found in any of the ruins. Just the simple sound of silence, broken by his own footsteps.

  His brows furrowed as he started to think. The League had been amassing an armory of strange relics that were said to combat both the Eldar and Old Gods, but the items that the ‘merchants’ were always sent to retrieve were often random and rarely showed any symbolic purpose. These ‘weapons’ were often times not blades of any sort, but trinkets that seemed no different than those often requested by clients; hardly fitting the strange desires of the Leagues’ rulers. In one of the more recent – failed – attempts, members had been dispatched to follow some Teutonic Knight who was seeking a cross that belonged to some Saint Boniface; luckily enough for humanity’s sake, the knight had decided not to return to the Grandmaster, but still, the League kept eyes on him. But even that strange cross had been kept in the domain of all the darkness, Starybogow. Why had they wanted it in the first place? And what had they expected him to find in this burnt out husk of a village?

  He sighed as he exited the last house, putting his free hand on his hip as he looked around. There had been one last house, tucked away in the back, that he had not noticed. He began walking toward it, but as he drew close, something did not feel quite right. The uneasiness grew in his stomach with every step closer, and when he reached the door, he placed his head against the splintered wood to listen closely. Bishop opened the door cautiously, not sure what to expect, his sword at the ready, but he stopped before taking a single step.

  He had to steady himself against the doorframe to prevent himself from falling face-first into a hole that see
med to stretch endlessly into the black abyss below. There might have been a foot, if that, of ground before him, but where the floor should have been was instead a pit of darkness. Bishop’s eyes bulged as he could hardly believe what he was seeing. He inched his way around the perimeter of the room, finally noticing there had been a staircase built to lead travelers down. He looked back once more to the outside, noticing the sun still high in the sky, and then shrugged.

  The League most elite were never wrong about where to look for treasure.

  *****

  Bishop lost track of how many flights he descended; they kept coiling around the wall of dully shimmering black rock with a landing every thirty steps, until eventually, the outside light had become nonexistent. In odd patches of the wall, there were phosphorescent rocks that projected just enough light for him to see where he was walking, but they only illuminated so much. Luckily enough, he carried several torches with him, just for this sort of event. He was no stranger to catacombs, he thought, brushing his fingertips over the three scarred lines that ran from ear to chin, but he had not expected to find a cave opening in the middle of a ruined town. It had to have been a solid twenty minutes, if not more, before he stepped off the last stair and onto hard stone that led him further into the unknown.

  He took note of every twist and turn that he followed, casting his torch across every recess of shadow, and after putting his sword away he traced the wall for divots or depressions with his free hand. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that he was thorough in his scourings. His hand raised to his cheek again, remembering the spear trap from the one time that he had not been.

  After three turns to the left, four to the right, and several long corridors, he heard his first foreign noise. It was distant at first, as if around several corners ahead, but it was coming toward him. He extinguished the flame, pressing his back against the wall. The footfalls were heavy and quick; not hurried, but as if on small legs.

  The footsteps would be on him in a moment. Bishop peeked his head around the wall, confident the other being had no idea he was there. Jumping out with his sword aimed at the short person’s throat, he grabbed the lantern out of his hand as the other man fell back against the wall, his hands held high in the air. Bishop’s expression soured at the thick beard and matted hair, not to mention the putrid smell.

  “A karzełek. I should have expected as much.”

  The short man scowled up at the human. He angrily swatted the blade away and tried to jump for his lantern, but Bishop held it just out of reach.

  “Ja, and what of it, human?!” The karzełek spat by the man’s black sneaking boots when he noticed the attire, and then jumped again at the lantern. “You are with the damn League, eh? Nothing for your kind down here, so just give me my damn light back!”

  “Ah, ah, ah!” Bishop waggled his index finger of the hand holding the light source. “Not just yet. I want some answers.”

  The karzełek huffed, putting both his stocky arms over his chest. “What?”

  “Where are we? I entered these tunnels at Kukle, and somehow, I have a feeling that we are no longer near there.”

  “Ha,” the dwarf spat, his yellow teeth gleaming in the light. “You humans are all alike. Dummkopf! Kukle is just one of the many entrance points. Welcome to the tunnels of Starybogow!”

  Bishop felt his heart drop as he looked around. He had not felt that he traveled that far, but now that he retraced his footsteps mentally, they did lead him in the direction of that damned city. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. When they opened, he was staring at the dwarf once more, but a smile painted his face.

  “Fine. Wonderful. Storybogow. It doesn’t surprise me, to be honest. But since you do know your way around these tunnels, you’re going to help me find what I’m looking for.”

  The karzełek snorted. “And just why would I do that?”

  “Well,” the man shrugged, his face a shadow within the hood except his glimmering smile. “I’m going further into the tunnels, and from the way you were heading, you’re not. I have the lantern, and ah, there doesn’t appear to be any others around.” Bishop shrugged mockingly with his sword arm. “Oh, no. Quite a conundrum.”

  The small man snarled, pulling at the ring that seemed to go through both the nostrils of his large, pointed nose that almost resembled a beak. “What is it you want?”

  “I’m here to recover an object called the Firstsworn. Have you ever heard of it?”

  The dwarf hesitated, opening his mouth, but did not speak. He instead snuffed and turned away, his arms still crossed. “Never heard of it.”

  “Are you sure?” Bishop stepped in front of him, but the karzełek kept turning away. “Something tells me that you’re lying to me. And I mean, if you really haven’t, I could always just go wander off to look for it on my own… With the lantern…”

  “Fine, fine!” The dwarf sighed, shaking his head. “Why in Perun’s name are you after that thing?”

  Bishop shrugged. “Because my masters wish for it. That’s all I need to know, and that’s more than you need to.”

  “You don’t want it. I’m telling you honest.”

  Bishop rolled his eyes. “And why is that?”

  “Because… I…” the short man shook his head. “I can get you close, but that’s it. You are on your own after that.”

  “Close is good enough.” Bishop bowed and courteously pointed forward with his sword. “After you, Lord Alebreath.”

  *****

  The duo walked on in relative silence, with the karzełek leading the way under the lighting that Bishop produced from the lantern. The shorter man’s heavy footfalls echoed across the walls around them, blanketing whatever noise Bishop might have made. He had hoped the karzełek knew his way around the tunnel enough to know that no one else would be following them. Then again, maybe he just did not care enough; after all, Bishop had taken him by surprise. Eventually, the League member had enough of the silence and cleared his throat.

  “Bishop.”

  “Bis-wha?” The short man looked disgustingly up at him. “The hell is that?”

  “My name. It’s Bishop. Apologies for the rude introduction.”

  The karzełek giggled heartily and then snorted. “Bishop. What kinda name is that?”

  The dark-clad man smiled as well, nodding. “I’m not sure if your people have ever played the game of chess. It’s a strategic game, representing real time war in its most basic element – you have to capture the king at all costs. Each piece has its own strengths and weaknesses, and the strongest among them is the bishop. It can sit across the board, away from all of the other pieces, and because it can only move diagonally, it is lethal. All it needs is for the king to think it is secure, hiding behind the cover of a knight or a rook; but as soon as those pieces move, the bishop can slip in and strike the king – as well as any other piece that the player may wish.

  “The bishop in chess and myself are both very similar. My job is to slip into enemy lines, find the coveted object that I’ve been hired to find, and then escape before anyone’s the wiser.” Bishop nodded to the shorter man. “Much like how I snuck upon you and your heavy footsteps.”

  The karzełek faltered, as if noticing how loudly he was walking, and then made a conscious effort to quiet his steps. After a moment he snorted, the noise being muffled by his large nose ring. “Gorje. It don’t got any fancy meaning. Just my name.”

  “Well, thank you, Gorje, for leading me.”

  After a few more moments, the disheveled man stopped, peeking around a corner. He put his hands up to Bishop, gesturing toward the lantern. “We’re here. There’s lights up ahead. Give me mine back and let me be off.”

  “Woah, wait, hold up…”

  Bishop tried to crane his head around the dwarf, but it was the distraction the shorter man needed. He grabbed the drooping arm, yanking the lantern out of it, and ran with heavy steps once more down the corridor. Bishop cursed under his breath. He thought about
yelling at him or chasing him down, but in the end, the strange, smelly creature did what he was asked – at least he hoped he had. As for the light, he still had a few more torches at his belt.

  He took several careful steps down the hall, once again looking for traps. He was not sure what Gorje had been so fitful about; the room ahead was lit by several torches, like he had said, and there was nothing at all in the chamber except for a small stone table. The high-rising stone walls were empty except for the torch rings. Something nagged in the back of his mind that it might have been too empty…

  That worry was soon gone. He could not keep the smile off his face as he stepped toward his prize, his heart swelling with pride. But that elation was quickly snuffed out and he felt his body sag with annoyance. He picked up the item on the table and looked it over several times, hoping he was missing something. A dagger. Much like the one he kept in his boot, but this one shone with a strange gleam. Silver, perhaps? He shook his head as he kept looking it over. Why in the world would the League send him to get a silver dagger?

  He brought his sword up to attention once more as a sound echoed above his head. It was high pitched, but not like a child, and instead more like some demonic entity. Down they soared from some unknown height, four or five at first. Bishop had to duck, but he got a good look as the little bodies on large wings soared by. Their large orbs of red eyes shone even in the torchlight, their fangs sharpened to viscous points, and the horns on their heads curved only slightly before sticking out straight. Bishop cursed his luck. Skrzaks.

  As they made another pass at him, their tiny hands reaching out as their jaws snapped, he ducked once more. He raised his sword toward the last one, impaling it through the open mouth. Its forked tail swung back and forth for a few more moments, but he swung the flailing body in the direction of the others, causing it to fly off and smack one of the other skrzaks into the wall.