Death's Reach, page 2
part #2 of Hungry Gods Series
The temple erupted in bedlam, as people ran in every direction. There was no place to hide. The monstrous god let out a snarl as the floor beneath his feet blackened. The corruption moved swiftly across the floor, hitting the building with a wave of sorcerous entropy, rotting the wood and tarnishing the gold. It spread to the doors, where the pounding changed to the sound of breaking wood and popping metal.
Tiama watched as though detached from her body. A part of her wanted to run with the others, as useless as it would be. Amada! She’s safe. She’s going to live! Thank you, Mara.
As the doors collapsed, she saw the savages. She saw why they had never given up. They wore the face of death. Blood and gore covered their mouths and fists, and they flooded into the temple in an unholy wave of rage. They weren’t just the barbarians. She saw some wearing the armaments of Medanholm. Some were the dead residents of Briar’s End. As they tore after her friends and neighbors, as they fell onto the dead priest and tore him apart, she curled up beneath the statue’s feet and closed her eyes.
CHAPTER 2
“Calllliiiiii….”
At the whisper of her name, the raven-haired woman opened her eyes. It sounded like a hiss, bearably audible, carried to her by the wind.
There wasn’t any wind. Not even a breeze. She dwelled within a mountain, in a cavernous chamber of solid rock, with no access to the outside world.
That wasn’t entirely true. A wind did blow within the mountain, but it shouldn’t have been able to reach her.
For thousands of years the woman in the catacomb had been a goddess, the divine incarnation of Death. She’d been Death for so long, her true name, her identity as a onetime mortal, had nearly been lost to time.
It had even been lost to her.
Her divine nature had been torn from her as pages from a tome, more specifically her apocryphon, a book scribed in her own blood. She could still feel the pain, the loss of her essence. It existed as an itch, an old pain from a phantom limb she no longer possessed. It had left her almost as her old mortal self, with only a hint of godhood left.
She meditated beneath the light of the remaining gods, no longer the hundred that had once dwelled here. They’d diminished to less than half that number. She studied them, wondering which had fallen, like her. The orbs were identical. They too had lost their original identities when they had transcended their mortal vessels. There were those she hoped still lived, though she had seen good friends amongst the number of the dead.
That worried her. The gods had died, and their tale should have ended there. Unfortunately they had been given a mockery of life as abominations by the god of Undeath, Skul.
In the end, a mortal had stolen Undeath’s divinity as Skul had stolen hers. His own creations – undead gods – had consumed his flesh, enough so that he could not rise as one of them.
There were a few gods that had never ascended, like the Fates, but their numbers were few. She wondered how she might reach them, if they were still around.
She sat alone and meditated, and the days went by. She knew what she had to do – the Fates had told her – but the consequence of fulfilling her destiny overwhelmed her. If it were still possible, then the other three gods who would share her fate still existed as orbs. They must, or her destiny wasn’t possible. If even one of them had become a zombie, could their purpose be fulfilled? She didn’t know if she had it in her, either. Her destiny assumed that she was still a god, and she had her doubts.
So she waited, unwilling to make the decision.
Something else bothered her. The mountain rumbled. Known as the Watcher, it towered over the other peaks within the Shrouded Mountains, stabbing into the heavens. It had been the dwelling of the gods for over two thousand years, a place to house their essence.
The rumbling originated deep in the rock, from the tempest that serves as a prison for gods… and things that predated even them. The mountain had not always been the sanctuary of their pantheon. Tens of thousands of years ago as the gods first came into their power, they had imprisoned ancient evil spirits, entities of chaos, within a magic storm.
If the mountain stirred, it came from the tempest.
The spirits still dwelled within. They had not escaped. Only Undeath had, before his demise. For the first time the prison held a mortal. The spirits should have consumed him immediately, but for some unknown reason they had allowed him to live. That would be a fate worse than death. She remembered what the spirits had done to those they spared.
She would’ve killed him if she could.
Had she felt a breeze? The voice didn’t repeat and the gods didn’t stir. She got to her feet. She had to know. Undeath had escaped. Maybe he’d cracked the prison. She suppressed a shiver as she strode down the corridor. Though no longer a god, she still possessed considerable power. She had no use of spells. She willed herself to the tempest with a godlike haste.
Her quick trek ended on a ledge above a vast chasm, its far walls too distant to see. The chamber contained a vortex of dust and rubble that defined the wind and gave it shape, a cloudlike tornado eternally raging. It tugged at her, her long black hair whipping about her face and the shadows that made up her dress nearly slipping away.
As long as she did not take that one fateful step, it could not claim her.
Though it pulled, she did not feel a breeze, and this ledge held the only access to the storm. The mountain rumbled again. No, she realized, it’s not the tempest rumbling. They’re shaking it.
They detected her presence. Through the wall of wind she saw their forms gather. They were nightmarish shapes that mocked life. Some looked vaguely human, while others were monstrosities from beyond mankind’s imagination. They were spirits made manifest. They were titans from the dawn of time. The elves called them the naitkilari, which meant the night hunters.
Her spirit burned as a flame in their darkness and they hungered for it. At her most powerful they would not have been able to touch her. Now though… only the knowledge of their jail kept her from fleeing.
“Hellloooo…. Callllieeeee… weee’ve been waiiiiiiting…”
The voice sounded breathless, with words forced into existence between lipless teeth. They should not have been able to talk at all.
“The one called… Skullllll…. Heeee… taught ussss….”
“Taught you?” she asked. A deep creeping chill rose within her. It read her thoughts. These were not the spirits she remembered. Skul had spent five thousand years, by his claim, trapped with them. What else had they learned?
“Yessss….” The mountain shook again. Pressing its twisted visage to the edge where the wind threatened to tear away what passed for its face, a fleshless grinning entity came into view. “It’sssss….. time.”
“For what? I will not let you out.” She marveled at how much strength she could still display in her voice.
The naitkilar held up a glowing orb. A god orb. With a clawed hand on each side, the spirit cracked it open like an egg. A star spilled out like a golden yolk. Calli backed away, unable to hide her horror. Before her floated a god in his most pure form, a soul, devoid of form.
“How?”
The thing laughed and brought its face to the soul, and from its mouth it skewered the star upon a barbed tongue. The light of the soul flickered, before disappearing into the maw of the monster.
It began to glow from the soul within its belly, its eyes lighting up from the divinity it had consumed. It raised a hand and the wind stilled.
As the dust and rubble fell away, no longer carried on the wind, she saw that behind the creature lurked thousands more, of a thousand different appearances, each more horrible, more unimaginable than the other. Despite the confidence built from being nearly omnipotent for ages, she took another step back and turned to run, but a massive tentacle lined with thousands of suckers shoved through the naitkilari and past the edge of their confines, to wrap around her waist.
The jail had failed.
She struggled, but its unimaginable strength held her fast. It dragged her toward its legion, her feet dragging along the stone, until the ground fell away and it pulled her into the void.
Those that could fit spilled into the catacombs, led by their glowing leader. Many could not fit, and their howls and growling created a cacophony of madness that echoed throughout the nothingness. The mountain would have to split to let the larger ones out.
“No!” she screamed, but she had no one to warn.
The tentacle pulled her deep into the void. She struggled, feeling emotions bubble up within her that were all too mortal, feelings she’d forgotten. Fear, real horror and dread, filled her gut. She screamed, feeling powerless, unable to channel or pull up the sorcerous energies of godhood.
“Hello?”
She bit her lip, forcing the fear down. Had she really heard it? Were they toying with her? Why would they not just kill her?
She twisted in the giant spirit’s grip. All about her were only monstrosities, their size so large it threatened her sanity. She had never felt so powerless before. The fear dug its barbs into her bones, and it kindled her anger. She had never been helpless before, never.
“Is somebody there?”
“Yes,” she answered. Maybe the monsters were mocking her, yet she couldn’t quench the hope that the voice belonged to someone real, substantial, that could free her.
Another tentacle rose before her, within its grip a boy, barely a man – the one that had brought down the god of Undeath.
“I’m here,” she said, loud enough to be heard over the creatures. Perhaps he could not see her in the dim, ethereal light of the chasm.
“The wind’s stopped,” he said. He turned to face her. Her divine sight saw him through the shadow of the void. It was not the absence of light that prevented him from seeing her.
The man’s eyes were gone.
They looked raw and sore, and from the look of the scratches down his face, he had done it to himself.
“You don’t sound like Lara,” he continued, “There is no other you can hurt me with.”
“I’m not one of them. You are Dorian, right? What have they done to you?”
He nodded, slowly, and sighed deeply. “I am. I was. I… don’t know anymore. The wind has truly stopped?”
“Yes. They have broken free.”
“Then all is lost, isn’t it? I stopped one madman, only to unleash his madness on the world. Will they not kill me even now?”
Why hadn’t they? Why would they continue to spare the both of them? “Why haven’t they killed us?”
“I think we are becoming like them.”
“No we’re not,” Calli said. She said it with conviction, though she wondered how much he really knew. The gods had their secrets. No, she thought, he can’t know. He’s not a god, he means something else. She chose not to ask him to clarify. Instead she chose to focus on the problem at hand. “We’ve got to get out of here. If they’re not going to kill us, we can still stop them.”
Dorian didn’t answer.
Calli focused on the spirits. She could scarce comprehend the size of the enormous beast that held them. The tentacles disappeared far below, hiding their captor from her sight in a mist born of shadow and spirit. She didn’t need to see it, she’d encountered it long ago. The mountain held them in a mystic shell, and though its size prevented it from escaping, it would eventually tear through the mountain, if it still possessed the strength.
The prison existed outside of time in a form of suspended animation. The mortal, Dorian, looked as though only a day had past, with only his self-mutilation as any sign of harm.
Dorian turned his head and stared off across the void as though the sightless pits that had once been his eyes could actually still see. He tilted his head and then nodded. The tentacle rippled as though the beast considered crushing them.
“They will let us go now,” he said.
“Impossible,” she said, “They don’t let anyone go. They either kill them or…”
The tentacles moved, carrying them across the expanse rapidly. The wall of the prison came back into view and dropped them onto the ledge.
Calli collapsed, never so thankful to have the rock of the mountain back beneath her feet. As the tentacle released Dorian, he stumbled forward until he found support against the cavern wall.
“What just happened?” she asked.
“They let us go.” Dorian slid down the wall until he sat upon the ground next to her.
“They never let anyone go.” Distant memories bubbled to the surface, memories of when the gods were young and the naitkilari had first appeared. The naitkilari had not always killed. There’d been a time of transition. Those imprisoned, though many, were by no means their true number, though the rest of them no longer existed in the same way that these spirits continued.
She stared at the man. He rested with his head against the corridor, leading away. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry, taking pleasure in only breathing, as though tasting freedom. If they had chosen not to kill him, then what had they done to him?
She crawled forward, channeling the Sorcery of Death into her. Though weak, it would take little energy to kill him. It would be in his best interest. There was no telling what the naitkilari had done to him.
Without his eyes he was oblivious her motions. He could not know what she planned. It would be a mercy to what would become of him.
“Do you know if Lara’s okay?” he asked.
Calli paused, her hand laced with Death inches from his face. “She left the mountain with your allies.”
He sighed. “They haunted me with visions of her. I tore out my eyes to keep away their images. Now I only want to see her again. Isn’t that funny?”
Calli smiled. It was a nice final thought. She moved her hands closer. She could feel his life force recoil from the entropy she controlled. His heart would slow. He would fall asleep from lack of blood to his head and die peacefully. It would be a far better ending than what the naitkilari might have in store for him.
Yet still she paused. Why did she hesitate? Because he does not deserve this, not yet. He saved me. He killed a god. This is not a hero’s death.
His death would come soon enough. She knew that better than anyone.
Her hands fell away. He stared on blindly, unaware how close to his demise he’d come. He would have to die. She could sense... something… something unnatural within him. It was the corruption of the spirits.
At the very least he was her way out.
She grabbed his wrist and pulled him to his feet. “Come on,” she said, “We can’t rest yet.”
They made their way through the dark corridors of the mountain, he trusting to her guidance. She could feel the spirits, easily able to tell the path they’d chosen. As they walked, she picked up the pace, a strange feeling of dread growing within her. The memory of the naitkilar consuming the god orb played over and over through her mind. It made her stomach roil.
They reached the chamber, but the spirits were already there.
“No,” she whispered.
“What is it?” Dorian clung to her arm like a lifeline.
She could not find the words to tell him. The spirits pulled the orbs from the air and cracked them open as the one had done before, eating the souls within. It lit the spirits with an inner fire, glorious in their blasphemy.
She took a step forward, wracking her mind with some way to stop them. She knew she was too late. The gods were too few and there were too many spirits. She watched as one by one the stars winked out, giving their divinity to the spirits of corruption.
“We’re too late,” Calli said.
The naitkilari paid the two of them no heed. They were changing. Even though not all of them had consumed the gods, it affected each and every one as though they shared a link. They fell to the stone floor as the fire burned through them. Their spirit forms swelled and hardened, bulging and morphing them into formless masses all across the expanse of the chamber.
Like cocoons.
She hated being powerless. The consumption of the gods changed everything, it affected her destiny. She had worried about her comrades being zombies. If they were undead, the future would be difficult. If the naitkilari had consumed them instead, it made her destiny impossible.
There were supposed to be four of them. She knew for certain that only she remained, and only as a phantom of her former self. She would ride alone, even if it led her to oblivion.
She thought perhaps she could go about the room and crush them. There would be ways. They underestimated her. Their show of mercy would be their undoing.
Yet they had summoned her as though to witness their release. She had not played a part in it, and they had reunited her with the man that had saved her from Undeath. They did not fear her.
She shuddered, feeling suddenly not unlike a pawn in a game of Kingwar.
“Come,” she said, “We’re leaving.”
She willed the stone wall to part and the Watcher complied, opening up to the outside world. She looked down upon the Medan Valley, and at the journey ahead of them.
“I never thought I’d be so happy to feel cold air again,” Dorian said. The man actually smiled.
From the slope of the mountain with her godly vision she could see the horror that awaited them below, standing in the way of her destination, and wished for some of his ignorance.
CHAPTER 3
Dark clouds blacked out the evening sky over Medanholm, obscuring the stars and dimming the setting sun. Winds from the south blew loose dust across a land conspicuously devoid of life, whether human or animal. Anything living hid.
Despite the cold, there were many people out, though they were not living. They shuffled in groups, few alone, drawn to one another’s presence, though incapable, or perhaps unwilling to interact with each other.
Their stiff movements hinted at their condition, as though they suffered from some type of subtle muscular palsy. From a distance a traveler might suspect nothing out of the ordinary, or wonder if they were intoxicated.
