Mortal gods, p.27
Mortal Gods, page 27
“What is your name?” Khalen asked.
“Moose. I’m the Chieftains’ Steward.” The Dwarf replied, finding his voice.
“Who sent you here? Was it Krone?” Khalen said, a spit of acid in his tone.
“W..Who?” Moose replied.
“Your Grace, I don’t think the Faith has a far enough reach north to pull a Dwarf into their schemes.” Ser Tremaine said.
Khalen already knew that for the most part, but being careful was his main priority now since Krone had played him so easily before.
“The Chieftain is hurt. B..Badly. He will need the aid of a human healer if he is to survive the night.” Moose said to the floor.
“The Dwarves tried to assassinate their own Chieftain?” Khalen asked.
“I cannot say… P…Please, you must hurry.”
“May we have the room Moose?” Khalen said, but it was clear it was no request. “Thoughts?” Khalen asked when the Dwarf had gone.
“Seems most odd. The Dwarven Chieftain hasn’t venture south since before the Daemon War.” Ser Tremaine said.
“Ser Royce will accompany us. No colours or banners. Dress plainly, Krone must not get wind I have left the city.”
“Your Grace, perhaps we should give more thought?” Tremaine started, but Khalen had already crossed the room and began to pull his black leather armour from the rack.
“Speak your mind.” Khalen said, kicking off his flat shoes and pulling on the heavier riding boots.
“Leaving the city now is too dangerous, especially at nightfall.” Tremaine said.
“The Dwarves could be useful in retaking the city from the Faith… Should they owe us a favour?” Khalen said. “Have the horses saddled and walked to the northern gate, we will meet them there. And find a Doctor.”
Ser Tremaine thought against any further protest and left to do as he was bid.
Under the cover of darkness, King Khalen, Ser Tremaine and Ser Royce left the safety of the Royal Keep and beyond the Golden Gates that sat at the bottom of the hill. The Keep had become the King’s prison since the death of the Divine. The only thing which stopped the common folk scaling the walls and killing them all, was the Faith’s Preachers who had took up perch at the Golden Gates to dissuade it. Khalen didn’t know why, but Krone had yet to pick up his threat of using the King’s people to rid him yet. In recent times, the city always had a tension in the air, but it somehow felt different now. Khalen knew there were those in the city who were completely infused with the Faith’s lies, but now it seemed like the cancer had spread.
The two burly knights and the King were dressed plainly in leather armour underneath long cloaks with the hoods drawn. Any Faith knights who should be unlucky enough to identify the King would be dealt with swiftly and quietly, but Khalan rather that not happen. It was deep after midnight and the moon clung to the sky in a wide shine of white. The streets of the usually bustling city were deserted. Even the homeless who hung about the street performers were absent their usual perches in doorways. Some of the shops that had thrived in this area were burnt out or boarded up crudely. The butchers, the apothecary and a small shop that sold fabrics were all gone, with the latter’s windows splashed with browning blood. In his reports, in place of General Kauto, Ser Tremaine told him that every shop keep who refused to pay a levy to the Faith was evicted, their premises destroyed and in some cases, they were carted through the streets naked and stoned.
“This cannot go on.” Khalen said at the sight.
“We will fix this.” Ser Tremaine said resolutely.
The group were careful to avoid any voices they heard and finally came upon the Northern Pass Gate, which was the smaller of the two northern gates. It was the size of a normal household door and the horses that were tied up to its bars, could just about shimmy underneath the stone.
Ramona village was only a ten minute ride by horse, but even that time spent outside the city walls at this hour was a risk. Bandits were known to raid along the Kingsway, and Ramona Village was far enough from Seroyah that they may just chance their arm with some unsuspecting travellers. The village gave the soft glow of fire which grew more vibrant as they drew closer. It was a stupid thing to do in truth. Small villages like Ramona were often the prey which the bandits would feast on. They would steel their cattle, horses, their woman and children and sell them into slavery and slaughter the men. Anything they could turn a profit on which wasn’t bolted to the floor, bandits would take it.
“Halt!” A low thrumming voice commanded. The group pulled their mounts to a halt and studied the darkness.
“Hello?” Khalen said, not seeing where the voice had come from.
A brush of torn grass and weeds flopped up and over as a small dwarf stood up from underneath it, crossbow in hand, trained on the King. He had ragged hair infested with twigs from the brush and his hand trembled slightly. Ser Tremaine drew his steel which made him more nervous by the sound of rasping metal.
“Settle, Artur.” Khalen said, raising his hands in surrender. “I am here to see the Chieftain.”
“You’re the Boy King?” The Dwarf asked. Khalen could tell by the deepness of his voice, he was older, but how old he could not say.
“I am King Khalen of Hyule, Pr –”
“Don’t need the spew. Follow me.”
Khalen could tell by the tenseness in Ser Tremaine’s body, that he hated how the King was spoken to, but Khalan tapped his shoulder and bid him to sheath the steel. The King dismounted along with his companions and followed the little Dwarf. Ramona was a poor village which supported itself with crops and cattle. The buildings were temporary shacks, built during the refugee crisis of the Daemon War, for when the weather soured. They offered a poor shelter, but any shelter was better than none when the Hyulian weather turned on its people. At the furthest northern point of the village, there was only one stone building. From its windows poured a warm light and at the bottom of the glass the dwarves who stood watch could be seen digesting every detail of every person who passed they’re line of sight.
“Where is everybody?” Khalen asked, turning an eye to the burnt out village and its desolation.
“I do not like this!” Ser Tremaine said.
“Wait here.” The Dwarf announced.
He waddled up the stairs and knocked on the door. Three long hard chaps and two soft. He disappeared inside but the reappeared once more a few minutes later, flanked by two other dwarves who were armed with doubled headed battle axes slung across their backs.
“The boy comes alone.” The Dwarf announced, pointing a grubby finger at Khalen.
“Absolutely not!” Ser Tremaine protested. “You have dragged the King all the way out here, and now this? Your Grace, I implore you.”
“Calm your big metal knickers, we won’t be going in either. Chieftain Gando’s orders.” The Dwarf said, waving a flick of his wrist to the other two Dwarves.
“I will go in alone. But I am keeping my weapons.” Khalen warned.
“Fair enough.” The Dwarf said. The building was plain on the outside, but when Khalen stepped through the threshold, he knew it was a place to meet the Gods. Or at least it was. The windows were smashed through, but on the floor, the coloured glass lay in a broken heap. The benches which faced the head of the congregation were gone, most likely chopped for fire wood, but it was easy to see the scuffs where they once were. On each side of the room, there were two identical doors, plain and worn, but to Khalen’s left, the door glowed with the soft flickering light of a lantern.
“Chieftain Gando?” He called, placing a firm hand on the door and pushing. It squealed like man being stuck with sharp metal, which made the King wince. He pushed through the door into a very narrow corridor just before the room opened into its form. There was a makeshift bed by the left wall, sheets stained in crimson and the soft lantern which had provided the glow behind the door.
“Come in.” A gruff voice said, choking through splutters coughing. The doctor who had been sent ahead, tended to Mirav and hooked him up to a drip of fluids. He had already redressed a vicious looking wound that ripped through his torso. Khalen thanked the doctor and dismissed him.
“Chieftain Gando.” Khalen said, unsure of what was expected of him.
“Mirav.” The Dwarf replied. He shoved himself up on the bed and winced in pain at the slowly reddening wound beneath the bandages.
“Mirav, why am I here?” Khalen asked.
“I assume Moose gave you my letter?”
“He did.”
“Then you know the Steel Mountains have fallen under the control of that bastard Wyrm.” Mirav spat.
“I do, and I sympathise with your situation, but what is it you want from me?” Khalen asked.
“To take it back.” Mirav answered emphatically.
“I despair for the politics of Men, never mind Dwarves, Mirav.” Khalen sighed.
“You haven’t asked where my wounds came from.” Mirav said, looking at his bandage.
“You said there was a mutiny, I assumed there was some attempt on your life.” Khalen said.
“No. You recall my letter sent by bird a week past?”
“Yes, you warned that no Man should cross the Trenches again, and I assure –”
“I know.” Mirav answered sadly. “It was him, Aeon.”
“Who?” Khalen asked, but he had gathered a shallow sinking feeling in his stomach that was eager to escape from his bowels.
“The Black King.” Mirav said with a glare in his eyes.
“Are you sure?” Khalen said, but Mirav merely pointed to his gut.
“As sure as a retractable two foot blade to the stomach, son.”
“Gods…” Khalen exhaled, pacing the room.
“Aeon, I don’t ask you to help me retake the mountain lightly. It will destroy my claim as Chieftain to court the help of Man, but I have accepted that.”
“Then why ask me?” Khalen said.
“The Black King will open the Western Corridors, if he hasn’t already. Wyrm is a political. He is not equipped to lead the Dwarves through war. He works from the shadows, but what will spew forth from those corridors will leave no shadow untainted. They will hunt and kill everything they can get their hands on.” Mirav sat upright in the bed, bloodying his bandages even more.
“Can’t the corridors be collapsed again?” Khalen asked.
“They can, but it will make no difference, bricks and mortar won’t contain these things! When my father collapsed those corridors, we had help. Magical help.” Mirav said, but there was a hint of shame in his voice.
“The Elemento?” Said Khalen.
“Yes. They turned Moradale into a frozen tundra for less, but I would not let them kill my mountain. We collapsed the corridors and they sealed the entrances with the same hocus pocus they used on that sorry land.”
“There have been no Elemento sighted since the Daemon War.”
“I know. Perhaps they’re all dead or just really fuckin’ good at hiding.” Mirav paused and pawed at the bandaged in pain. “It doesn’t matter, they aren’t here to help us so we have to help ourselves.” Mirav said.
“What is it you ask of me?” Khalen said, knowing he would scarcely like any answer the Dwarf could give.
“Your army.” Mirav said bluntly.
Khalen pondered for a moment, thinking of the problems with the Faith. He knew he needed the army there as a show of force, a last resort which would keep Krone in check if push came to shove. But he couldn’t use them, not yet. The way the public had rallied to the Faiths side, since Khalen’s alleged murder of the Divine, made life difficult.
“I have a five thousand men stationed outside the walls to the south of Seroyah. How many do you need?”
“All of them.” Mirav replied, but there was no jest in his voice, only a serious glare which told Khalen that may not be enough.
“We have our own situation brewing within the city, Mirav. I cannot spare every man without endangering Seroyah. I can deliver five hundred men from the Seroyain camp and another three from the Burrows.” Khalen said.
The Burrows was the most northerly outpost of Hyule, a few miles south of the Trenches. Originally its inception was to prevent another venture south by a Dwarven army, but at this moment in time, it was perhaps the best shot at the continuation of the little people from the north.
“It will have to do.” Mirav said, not trying to hide his disappointment. There was a long moment of silence, but before any of them could speak again, Ser Tremaine entered the room.
“Your Grace.” He said, but the King could see there was a short stubby hand tugging at his waist.
“Let him in.” Mirav said from the bedside, and the hand retracted. Ser Tremaine and the messy Dwarf they had encountered in the field stalked into the room with a fierce expression on his face.
“Royce has scouted Kalutha Knights just south of the village. I don’t believe they know you are here, but we should make our exit now.” The knight said shortly.
“Very well.” Khalen replied. “Chieftain Gando, I will send word to the Burrows about your arrival and the deal we have made. I wish you luck.”
“Thank you.” Mirav said with a warm but pained smile.
When the cold air rushed back into his lungs, Khalen had just about enough time to instruct the doctor to notify him immediately when Mirav left the village, before he was saddled on his horse and trotting south again.
“Forgive me, Your Grace, I know it is not my place but in the absence of your council, I feel I should offer mines?” Ser Tremaine said.
Since they set off from Ramona, Khalen had sensed a hesitancy in the big Knight, like he wanted to get something off his chest.
“Go on.” Khalen said, averting his eyes around the darkened horizon for any hint of Kalutha Knights.
“You have sent men to aid the Chieftain, north, yes?”
Khalen nodded.
“Your Grace, the only thing stopping the Faith from storming the Royal Keep, and presenting your head to the baying crowds, is the army that sits on the doorstep. Krone knows that if he kills you, General Kauto will order the army will storm the city in retaliation. If the Faith catch wind of the dilution of our forces, it may embolden them.” Ser Tremaine said and sighed in relief like it had been crushing him.
“I know.” Khalen answered. The King toyed with his next words. They rolled around his tonge in a gamble of whether he should spit them out or not. “The Black King has returned.”
Tremaine stopped his horse and glared at the King. He opened his mouth to speak, but it was evident that air had been sucked from him. Khalen wheeled his up in front of him and Ser Royce fell in beside.
“If he truly has returned, then the politics in the city mean little.” Ser Royce cautioned.
“I know.” Khalen repeated.
“How do we know the Dwarf speaks the truth?” Ser Tremaine said finally.
“He asked for my help. Dwarves don’t ask for the help of Man lightly, Artur.” Khalen said.
“The allies to the north. Who would’ve thought it?” Ser Royce said, kicking his horse back into a trot towards the city. The quiet realisation was all the confirmation of the truth that the two knights needed. They had only travelled a few feet when Royce stopped abruptly. The King and Ser Tremaine followed suit, and his hesitation was laid bare.
“The Faith.” Tremaine said, quietly. There was footsteps in the darkness, scuffing rips that flew in the face of stealth.
Behind the King, there were three solemn figures that wandered up the moonlit path, but there was something odd, something just out of sight in the shadows they cast. They marched in an untidy fashion, something the Kalutha never done. Their steps were uneven, staggered and at points one of them even crumbled at the knee.
“Something isn’t right…” Royce said.
They drew closer and with them came the low rumbles of gibberish and hissing. The knight closest locked eyes with the ground and screeched an inhumane scream that shattered the darkened night. Khalen’s horse reeled and the King tumbled to the Kingsway. The rough grip of a hand set his heart to racing briefly, but when he rose to find Ser Royce dismounted beside him, he settled, but not for long.
Ser Tremaine galloped at the trio of Kalutha Knights with steel raised above his head and crashed through the first, sending his body spinning to the floor in a broken heap. As he wheeled around again, one of the knights leapt into the air and pulled Tremaine off his mount. With the weight of the steel plate and mail that the Kalutha Knight had clinging to his frame, there was no way he should have been able to leap a clean six feet in the air. Ser Royce and the King rushed in and drew their steel. Khalen’s golden hilt glinted in the moonlight as he rose it above his head and slashed down across the shoulder of one of the attackers. He was greeted with a hiss and a scream that could curdle the blood running through his veins. Khalen drew the blade out and stabbed the Knight through the gut, but he only screamed again. If it was a pained scream, Khalen could’ve seen himself relax, but it wasn’t. It was a battle cry. The knight pulled Khalen closer, the blade sliding cleanly though his flesh until the King was mere inches away from the his face. His skin was tainted with darkness and the veins protruded from his skull. But it was only when Khalen seem his eyes, did he truly know what he was. The pupils were blown and they bulged forth from his head. Khalen kicked at the knight’s chest, withdrew the blade and slashed across its throat. When the head bounced on the floor, Khalen rushed to help Ser Royce, but he too had parted the other knight from his head. The night fell deathly quiet again, until a third thump flopped to the ground.
“The Dwarf was right.” Ser Tremaine said, sheathing his sword.
“Necuratu.” Royce said.
The dead were known by many names, Necuratu was just one of them, derived from the ancient tongue meaning, unclean spirit. Necuratu were the spirits of the Void who invaded the mortal plain and took up the bodies of the dead. They were the living incarnation of terror during the Daemon Wars and the longer they remained attached to a mortal body, the more powerful and deformed they grew.
