The Brass God

by K. M. McKinley

  As they neared the open doors, the purple velvet curtains on the far side were whisked back, revealing an even more opulent chamber, as long as a high street. A collection of over-dressed soldiers and beautiful women in tightly-laced dresses were dotted about, all motionless. They were not guards or companions, but possessions to be admired by their collector.

  Raganse was a small man, but he had a very large throne, and he occupied it with all the imperiousness of a draconling guarding its nest. Either side of him stood two children, solemn faced under their thick white face paint. They had nowhere to sit.

  Shrane walked with decorous slowness. She placed her iron stave’s foot down with a soft, deliberate tap to accompany every step. A mage’s badge of office and tool both, she wanted Raganse to fixate upon it, lest he forget what she was.

  Guis spoiled the effect a little. He walked like an ape, his feet slapping and squeaking on the wood. He wore a manic expression of delight at the noise he was making. His clumsiness was as purposeful as her own studied grace. The thing inside the Karsan was childlike, disruptive. And dangerous, she reminded herself. She could not rebuke him. No one could speak before Raganse spoke.

  The commoner, Harafan, followed meekly behind, shaking with terror at his intrusion. Men such as him were not permitted in places like this, not ever. Harafan had walked the halls of the Godhome, the first to do so since Res Iapetus drove out the gods, and yet he was still afraid.

  Not one of the men or women decorating the hall moved anything but their eyes as the trio passed. Their stillness came from self-discipline, and the effect was more eerie for it. Shrane despised them, that they could submit themselves so totally to a mere man. What would they gain? Pay? Social capital? Better to serve the gods—any gods—at least their power was real, built on more than coin. She smiled inwardly. When Raganse got his desire, and the gods walked again upon the earth, he would see his mistake, before he died.

  That was some time away, and it was a long walk to Raganse’s throne.

  When they reached the Comte of Outer Perus they halted and bowed. The doors, shrunk by perspective to matchbox lids at the far end of the hall, swung shut. Raganse twitched an eyebrow. The living statues broke and ran from their positions like a flock of birds scared from a tree, exiting through doors hidden in the room’s plaster mouldings. On this cue, a door behind the throne opened, and Bishop Rousinteau was ushered through. He smiled ingratiatingly at Shrane, and nodded encouragingly at the trio as if he were about to present young prodigies to a visiting prince.

  Shrane thought the man an arse. He had traded in his mendicant’s robes for a costume dating back to before the god driving, heavy with gold and silver thread. So the poison of greed has him as well, thought Shrane. She comforted herself with the knowledge that she was the only devout person in the hall, and that her religion was the true one. Rousinteau’s time would come, but for now she needed him. It was imperative neither he nor Raganse realise this.

  Raganse’s throne had a back five yards high covered in padded pink satin. A cover projected from the top, dangling an embarrassment of golden tassels. From the cushioned depths the comte stared at them. His clothes were as embellished as his room, a riot of differing patterns in grey and ivory, frogging, medals he had not won in battle, and a set of massive epaulettes. Between a collar stiff with brocade and a towering white wig a small, pudgy face wore the diffident, distracted expression affected by all powerful Maceriyans. The whites of Raganse’s eyes were reddened by the kohl his station demanded he wore, but they were sharp, and calculating. He gestured to the children either side of him. They shuffled closer to his side. The older was a boy of about eleven, in whom defiance was losing the battle with fear. The younger was a girl of six or so. Tear marks tracked her make-up, and she had the dazed expression of someone recently drugged. He took a hand of each in soft, powered fingers, and held them while he spoke.

  “You are Rousinteau’s mage, Adamanka Shrane,” he said. His voice was nasal but powerful in a way such voices usually are not. It echoed around his grand chamber, commanding response, at odds with his dwarfish body. Those that dared said he had Tyn blood.

  Shrane curtseyed as deeply as her aching joints allowed. “I am, your greatness.”

  “But your name is not upon the official registry of mages in the Hundred.”

  “It is not, your greatness.”

  “Then why not?”

  “I am of an ancient and powerful order which passed some time ago into rumour, your greatness. I am an Iron Mage.”

  Raganse’s nostrils flared. He was very well briefed. His intelligence agencies were rightly feared. He would already have been told everything there was to know about Shrane and the Iron Mages, which was very little.

  “Then how have I not heard of you before?”

  “We are a secretive order,” she said. “We lost faith in the world many centuries ago, and have kept ourselves to ourselves.”

  “Then there are others?”

  Shrane hesitated. “There were. I am the last of my kind.”

  “My information says your kind had a religion of its own, the worship of iron gods, not those of the Godhome, who were of flesh and blood, and who I would restore. If that is the case, and you follow rival deities, why are you here? “

  “My gods and yours were allies once,” she lied. “By aiding them, I do the bidding of my own masters.”

  Raganse considered her words a while before speaking again. Guis tittered.

  “Since the sorrowful death of my comrades and cousins,” Raganse said, “the comtes of High and Low Perus, I find myself burdened with new and terrible responsibilities. No longer can I look to poor Juliense for protection from our nation’s enemies. No longer can I depend up Arvons for his wisdom and the administration of this city. My role was diplomacy. In service of our kings, my ancestors worked to maintain the interests of Maceriya in Ruthnia and in latter days, within the union of the Hundred Kingdoms. My dear cousin’s children,” he bowed his head first one way, and then the next to indicate them, “will remain as minors for several years. Six years until Jacq here can inherit his title, and Eloisa’s brother is barely a year old. I must take upon myself the tasks of my departed comtes along with my own. Understand, Adamanka Shrane, the safety of Maceriya and its king are now my sole responsibility, and I do not take it lightly.” He leaned forward in his throne. “And I must say that I do not believe you.”

  “That is unfortunate,” said Shrane. “For by my efforts the gods might be reborn in Ruthnia. The Godhome will be raised from the ground, and you shall be hailed as the restorer of order to the continent. Old Maceriya will rise again. Look to the west, where Karsa gathers all wealth and trade to itself, and then to the east, where after centuries of rivalry, Khushasia and Mohaci come to an accord. Maceriya’s supremacy within the Kingdoms is threatened. You will put yourself forward as candidate for High Legate. You will not succeed. Some other will take that office, though you are the best suited to it.”

  “My fellow Comte Juliense had his eyes on that prize, not I.” Raganse harrumphed. “You mistakenly appeal to my ego. And why not? Believe me when I say that my devotion to the gods is absolute. I am an opportunist, but I believe sincerely that the balance of the world is disrupted. The dead will not go easily. There is a disturbance in the working of all magic. This has only occurred these last two centuries since Res Iapetus drove out the gods from the Godhome. It is my holy mission to restore this balance, not only to see Maceriya prosper again.”

  Rousinteau’s smile became fixed. Shrane guessed he had expected to present her, his prize servant, to the de facto ruler of Maceriya and be rewarded for it. If she had not come forward herself.

  Rousinteau had not anticipated the meeting turning out this way. Shrane had. A man who murdered his co-rulers and hid the deed so successfully the people sorrowed for his burdens would not be charmed by the sight of a mage’s staff. Her contempt of the bishop intensified.

  The bishop cleared h
is throat and scuttled forward. “Comte...” he began, and got no further.

  Raganse silenced him with a pointed tut. “I know your mind, bishop. I need to hear the mage speak, not you. You speak enough.”

  “Then I will speak,” said Shrane. The hard, cold nature of her voice got Raganse’s attention. “Iapetus did not entirely succeed. There are remnants of the gods within the Godhome. Through my efforts, they have been awoken.”

  “The lights evident there thirteen days ago,” said Raganse. He released the hands of the children and sat back in his throne. Jewelled fingers gripped the armrests. “The display has caused many problems in the city. The god are returning, they say. The guilty will be punished. The Twin draws near and the end of the world approaches. And at the same time we have the Countess of Mogawn presenting her theories of imminent disaster, albeit sadly interrupted.” Raganse referred to the bomb his agents had almost certainly planted in the Grand House of the Assembly. “And yet my magister and the mages I have consulted can sense nothing amiss.”

  “I shall give you proof,” said Shrane. She nodded back to Harafan.

  “It is true!” said the commoner. He fell to his knees. Shrane and Guis took a step back to allow Raganse to see him.

  “And who is this... person?” said Raganse.

  “I am Harafan, your greatness,” said the man. He kept his head bowed. “I am a wretch, nothing more.”

  “Then why are you in my presence?” said Raganse softly. There was peril for Harafan under his words; the high born of Perus did not take kindly to common folk addressing them.

  “He is here because he has been on the Godhome,” said Guis. He grabbed Harafan by the elbow and hauled him to his feet. Harafan sobbed. “Tell him what you saw there.”

  “Is it true?” said Raganse. He gave a bored sigh. “Is it true what the mage says?”

  “It is, goodlord. The mage here approached me last year, she told me she had a plan to get into the Godhome. I and my friend Madelyne made a pact to cheat the Infernal Duke, to learn the way aboard the fallen city. We did. She did,” he corrected himself. “She braved torment to learn the secret. Together we passed through the 5th Precinct, the part of the Royal Park haunted by the Wild Tyn. Once we were at the Godhome’s fallen rim, we recited the cantrip she had learned. Barely with our lives did we gain access, and barely with them did we escape.”

  “This is all very fascinating,” said Raganse. “But I fail to see its relevance.”

  “Forgive me, your greatness, it was our trespass that brought the lights. We saw there Andrade, whose spirit lingers, and witnessed the full power of the Duke.” Harafan dared to look at Raganse. Shrane was pleased he did. He looked convincingly haunted. “The gods’ power is growing again. I have seen it.”

  “And where is this companion of yours? She sounds to have far more intimate experience of the gods than you.” Raganse gave a thin, unpleasant smile.

  “I do not know. I fled, taking the few riches I had gathered with me.”

  “So, a greedy coward who abandons his friends.”

  “You should listen to him, Raganse,” said Guis. “Or things will not turn out to your liking.”

  Raganse raised an eyebrow. “And who are you? How dare you address me so. How dare you threaten me.”

  At the sound of these words, though spoke at no great volume, the hidden doors opened, and a troop of soldiers entered, these wearing somewhat more businesslike attire than the human statues of before.

  “Who I am is not as important as what I am,” said Guis. “I shall address you how I wish, for I am a servant of the gods. I am the herald of the Dark Lady.” Guis’ voice changed, becoming a demonic growl. He appeared to grow. Darkness flowed behind him, taking on the semblance of wings. The shadows on his face shifted, so that although the flesh did not move, his features were transformed into something utterly inhuman. “They will return if you help this mage here. I petition you on behalf of Omnus, lord of the gods. Listen to Adamanka Shrane, and you will be richly rewarded. Your assassination of your fellow rulers, your naked attempt to become High Legate, these will be forgiven, for you will be an Emperor over all.” Guis’ body shrank back to its previous size. “Which will be nice for you, won’t it?” he said impishly.

  The soldiers around the hall had their guns ready, but they were fearful, and unsure, waiting on Raganse’s order.

  Raganse sat back. “The Dark Lady. I do not serve her. I will not serve evil.”

  “You have sampled her cup already, Raganse,” said Guis. “Divisions between good and evil are suspended within the ranks of the gods. For the time being. Balance is needed in any case, and one is nothing without the other.”

  “A trick,” Raganse’s painted lips snarled.

  Shrane smiled. “Your palace is riddled through and through with magical protection, even my powers would struggle within its walls, but they are no use in the slightest against the raw power of the gods themselves. If you need proof, Comte Raganse, it is standing in front of you.”

  Rousinteau had dropped to his knees and was wailing out prayers.

  Raganse looked from mage to godling and back. “What is it you require of me?”

  “The gods were banished from this world by Res Iapetus. They cannot easily return. They require our help. There is beneath this city, in the caverna of the District of Ravens, an artefact of the Morfaan. This gate provides access between worlds. It is functional. If I open it, the gods will be able to return. To do this, I require you to promise my work will not be interfered with. I require that the caverna be cleared, and that you provide me with enough men and resources to unearth the gate. Currently it is only accessible via narrow passageways. It must be opened to the sky if it is to work correctly.”

  “And in return,” interjected Guis, “you shall rule all Ruthnia in a manner not seen since the days of the Maceriyan Resplendency.”

  “How? I cannot expect the gods to click their fingers and make it so. Their power is limited, despite what the bishop here protests.” Raganse languidly waved at Rousinteau.

  “The Gods will provide you with an army the likes of which has not been seen since the days of the Morfaan,” said Shrane. “With it, all Ruthnia will be yours. You will be not High Legate, but Emperor of the Hundred Kingdoms. Your statue will be raised in every land, next to the temples of the gods returned.”

  “If I refuse?”

  “The gods are returning whether you help or hinder them,” said Guis. “I am already here. The others will follow in time. They merely wish to speed their reentry. If you delay them, you will cause them pain which they will revisit upon you a thousandfold. They cannot deliver the Hundred Kingdoms to you on their own, but they can destroy your soul. Would you not rather be Emperor of Ruthnia?” He smiled, displaying his disturbing teeth.

  They waited while Raganse considered what he had heard.

  Raganse nodded. “Captain!” He called.

  The leader of his troop ran to the throne and knelt.

  “You have heard all that transpired?”

  “Yes, good lord.”

  “Then see their wishes are carried out.” He looked over the captain’s head at the soldiers. “Are your men loyal?”

  The captain’s eyes shifted. “Yes, your greatness,” he said a fraction too slowly.

  Guis winked. “Leave them to me,” he said.

  “Wait!” shouted Raganse.

  Shrane threw up a protective shield around herself and the throne, grimacing in pain at the piece of her soul expended to overcome the magical wards of the throne room.

  Guis had no such problem. He turned on his heels and clicked them together. The soldiers aimed their weapons. Dark power flowed from beyond the wards of the Earth to Guis’ spread arms. The soldiers fired. Bullets shrieked through the air, only to disappear in flashes of black light.

  “My turn now,” said Guis.

  The slaughter began.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Moot of the Modalmen

>   THERE WAS FEASTING, and copious measures of a stinking, cheese-like drink Rel unwisely accepted that sent him into a drunken stupor. After that the night was over fast, and he woke with a throbbing head in the blue predawn to the trumpeting calls of the modalmen; a couple of dozen greeting the dawn in the desert had been loud, a valley full nearly killed him with fright. He went from fast asleep to heart-stopping alertness in an instant, his sword out of his scabbard. The moment of confusion passed. Shkarauthir was kneeling next to him, along with Ger and Drauthek. He was safe.

  Shaking, Rel lowered himself into a crouch while the modalmen finished their ritual. Everywhere he looked modalmen prostrated themselves in the direction of the rising sun. There was not a single gap in the crowd that he could see through. He was walled in.

  Unable to go far, Rel groped for his canteen, unscrewed the top, rinsed his mouth out and spat. It did little to clear the taste of the drink from his teeth and tongue, but he dared not fetch his toilet kit from his saddlebags to brush his teeth while the greeting of the sun was underway. Not that he could precisely recall where he had left his gear. The details of the last night were fuzzy to say the least. So he sat and sipped water and saw what he could see of his surroundings while his hangover improved.

  The camp was obscured by charcoal-coloured backs, but no number of modalmen could hide the mountains. The peaks made the size difference between man and modalmen miniscule, both were nothing compared to the mountains’ majesty. Foothills gave way to sudden cliffs that rose so high it hurt Rel’s neck to look up to their tops. He could not see the mountain summits. The High Spine was a wall across the world, dividing the continent of Ruthnia from the little-known north. No man of the Hundred had ever climbed it. Having seen it, Rel doubted anyone ever would. There were no known passes, and the lands bordering the Spine were rife with dangers physical and magical. Only a handful of explorers that had set out to map the nearside of the mountains had returned.