25 Dragged before Gog

ENTERING THE ACROPOLIS of his father, located on a flat-topped mountain above the city of Bashan, Desool shuffled along a stone corridor in chains. His sister was somewhere behind and Zane too, but he couldn’t turn his head to see them.

The chains hung from his neck down his chest to his wrists, with heavy weights attached. Holding up his arms gave some relief to his neck, but then his arms would tire, and lowering them brought aches to his neck. They weren’t meant to be comfortable.

He watched the thick stone flags pass beneath his feet, counting the joins until he knew he was before his late father’s throne. Someone kicked him, and his knees hit the floor sending a jolt of agony from neck to shoulders.

‘I do not think our little brother is this much of a threat,’ said a deep voice he knew well.

Desool kept staring at the floor, but someone unlocked the chains, dragging them from his neck and wrists. Slowly he raised his head and saw Gog on their father’s throne as though it was already his. At least, he hadn’t been so presumptuous as to wear the crown.

There was another rattle of chains and a heavy grunt. His sister landed beside him. A growl from one of the guards behind, followed by a thumping sound, and lots of cursing told him Zane still had some fight in her.

One of the Horite priests accompanied her guards, likely maintaining a magical ward on the human female. They knew she was Aidari with a dangerous knowledge of magic, and were taking no chances. Her face was black and blue, and there was a cut on her forehead.

Towering columns of thick stone, wider than a house at their base, held up a vast ceiling. Plain, but stronger than anything humans could build. Not even an earth tremor could topple this place, and many had tried.

Gog leaned out from his throne of stone to stare upon his youngest of brothers, and sister, albeit an unrecognised one. Girls and women were not considered worthy to the Rephaim, simply useful for breeding. Gog’s wings unfurled and fanned wide as he rose to step down from the dais. ‘What are you doing here, Thor, and why has Anak dragged you to me in chains?’

Footsteps, and Desool straightened and twisted about to see Anak step forwards after a short bow, holding out a bundle of rags. Desool groaned. After all his trouble, he had simply handed the bloody thing to Gog. The one Nephilim in the entire Spectrum of Existence who should never have been allowed near it. I am sorry, Adal. I guess I failed. You chose wrong when you chose me.

Gog took the knot of rags, and unwrapped the treasure within. His eyes widened, and a smile grew across his face. ‘I see. You would keep this from me, or were you on your way to me with it? A gift to honour my ascension to father’s throne?’

Desool spat at the would-be king’s feet. ‘That artefact is not for you, Gog of Magog. The Seraphim Council have spoken and you are not the Guardian. They have chosen another.’

Instead of reacting with rage, as he might once have done, Gog laughed loud and long. He seemed in high spirits, but then why wouldn’t he? He now possessed everything he’d ever wanted. ‘Those interfering fools have no say over the Nephilim. I am done with them and their machinations. None have bothered to grace us with their presence in centuries, have they? Instead, they’ve abandoned us to walk with humans instead. Yes, I am aware of that. Now, they dare give us commands, and through the weakest of our line? They spit in our faces.’

‘What should we do with them, my lord?’ demanded Anak in a voice much too reverent and false. Desool knew his second eldest sibling would assassinate Gog on first opportunity, but he would bide his time, waiting years if necessary. It was much the easier path than civil war.

‘Send our little brother to the fight pit, and his whore of a sister to the slave pens to mate, endlessly.’ Gog turned his fierce gaze on Zane. ‘The human woman, I shall keep. A trophy, or perhaps as a pet. What do you think of that? You are so small, though. I wonder if I shouldn’t just feed you to my wargs.’

Zane uttered a series of foul curses and oaths, and Desool winced at each one. He waited for Gog to order her execution on the spot, but instead the eldest son of Og burst into laughter a second time. Far too healthy a humour, and unlike the Gog he’d known. His experience with the Shathra Stone had changed him, making him thoughtful, intelligent perhaps.

‘Yes, I think I will enjoy her,’ said Gog, climbing back up to retake his royal seat, the Shathra Stone in his lap. He was stroking it, staring into its dull light with fondness.

An Emim guard hauled Desool to his feet, and was about to drag him away to die in the fight pits, which given enough time would’ve proved inevitable, when a voice thundered through the acropolis’ hall.

A gaunt figure, walking with the aid of a stick, tap-tapping as he approached. He was followed by several others, all in deep cloaks.

‘You know the rules, sons of Og!’ the Keeper bellowed. It took him a while to walk the full length of the hall, but eventually he arrived before a bemused Gog. His entourage spread out behind him. More Horites, but these were guardians of the Shathra Stone. Also with them were four shorter viral mages from the Icarthian Imperium, no doubt come to ensure the safety of the Stone.

‘Bow before your king,’ Anak bellowed, and looked ready to strike Volo.

The Keeper of the Stone turned his head slowly and eyed the second son of Og. ‘You would dare challenge me, imp? I am the eldest of our family, of all Rephaim living. Two hundred and fifty-two years old, last Thursday.’ He turned to face Gog again. ‘You will hand the Stone to me, young one. It is not yours. At least, not yet. There first must be a Choosing.’

Anak had drawn his scarap, which shocked even Desool. To turn his weapon on his uncle was simply how Nephilim behaved from time to time, but to turn it on the Keeper of the Stone was unthinkable.

‘The Keeper has the protection of the throne, and the Seraphim Council for all his days,’ announced one of the Horites in a loud clear voice. ‘None shall touch him, nor lay hands upon him, under pain of death.’

‘True words,’ said the Keeper, nodding. ‘Pray tell me, Gog, are we to now abandon all of Nephilim custom, and law? Will you defy the Keeper of the Stone?’

Gog did not laugh this time, but maintained his bemused expression as he gestured to the Horites. One approached and took the Shathra Stone from him, holding it reverently, and then handed it over to the Keeper.

Volo stared at the artefact, much as Gog had done, but not with fondness. Like a craftsman staring at the handiwork of another, one whom he much admired, but knew he could never emulate.

‘What choosing is he on about?’ Anak demanded. ‘Why are we paying him any attention at all? This is nonsense. He’s just trying to waste our time because he’s up to something.’

‘The Stone chooses the Guardian,’ intoned the Keeper, ‘not the other way around. Whomever it chooses will be king. It might even be you, Anak, so shouldn’t you keep that foolish mouth of yours shut?’

‘Just hurry it up, Volo,’ barked Gog from his would-be throne. ‘I will be crowned. The Stone knows me, and I know the Stone. It has tasted my soul, and I have touched the fabric of the Spectrum. It will choose me. This is nothing more than a formality, but if you insist on being formal, so be it.’

‘How gracious of you,’ said Volo, choosing to omit how Gog had lost the Stone in the first place, and had waged a war to get it back, but then had his soul possessed through the Stone instead, before losing both war and Stone. Yes, thought Desool, perhaps it’s best not to mention any of that.

Volo gestured at Gog to leave the throne. ‘It is not yours yet. Your father is barely dead a day, and there you are, perched on it like a crow on a carcass.’

‘It seemed preferable to a war,’ said Gog, not budging. He glanced at Anak. ‘I have reached an agreement with my brothers to avoid bloodshed. For the good of our people, uncle. Has not your time come and gone? Shouldn’t you be dying in your own bed, or something as feeble?’

Desool felt the pain and shame radiating from Volo. For a Nephilim warrior, there was no greater tragedy than getting old. Only the King and the Keeper had to endure such shame on behalf of their people.

It angered Desool there should be dishonour in a long life well lived. He had been among humans enough to see how their eldest were often revered, respected, and how the young learned from them. Perhaps not always, but the concept had gripped him nonetheless. The Nephilim way of life had not changed in a thousand years. About time it did.

Volo hissed, his gaze boring holes through Gog and the throne of stone. ‘You will heed my word as the Keeper, or forfeit your life here and now. You know the power I possess, gifted by the angels. You cannot stand against it.’

‘Spectrum-forsaken pests,’ Anak snarled, and then spat. ‘What have those so-called divine bastards done for us? They abandoned us, you old imbecile. Have you got rocks for brains? They used us when it suited them, and then left us to rot.’

‘No, you’re wrong,’ said Desool, mindful of the guards nearby, their scaraps bared. ‘They have always been with us, but it is we who abandoned them. We’ve been impish, foolish, and above all, selfish. None more so than my own brothers. I am ashamed to share the same blood as you both.’ He glanced at Nanel. ‘Our sister is the best of us. Perhaps a queen of the Nephilim would be a nice change. Yes, why not?’

Gog leapt off his throne, and thundered down the steps to confront his youngest sibling. His fists were balled, his face contorted in hate, so much so he could get no words out. Well, at least I got him off the damned thing. I guess I’m half way there.

‘Yes, well,’ said the Keeper, ‘it is not for any of us to decide. Whatever will be, will be the Spectrum’s will. Each of you must place your hand on the Stone, and give up a part of your soul to be judged.’

Gog whirled on their uncle, his fury increasing as he roared, ‘I am the king! It has my soul already, you stupid old cretinous back-stabbing craven. Enough of this foolishness!’

There wasn’t a graver insult to a Nephilim than to be called a coward, and Desool had found he’d also had enough. As Gog turned back towards him, he leapt to his feet and let fly his fist. His blow connected with the would-be king’s square jaw. Gog staggered backwards, his wings curling up for a moment. He recovered quickly, and in a rage, came at Desool with murder in his eyes.

Guards had grabbed Desool by this time, but he did not struggle, as his eldest sibling bore down on him.

‡

MYRAL AZARM COULD NOT have said what it was she’d expected to see, as Quel led her deeper through the tunnels, which thankfully had ceased going down. For one, she’d never expected a metropolis, one the likes she’d never dreamed of. Perhaps some dusty caves with dark tunnels.

The vampire city opened out before her in a space so vast, she imagined there should’ve been a sky instead of a rocky ceiling hundreds of feet above. There were no torches, but then there was no need. The walls of the cavern appeared to emit millions of points of light, bathing the city below in an eerie half-light. When she looked at the rock closest to her, she discovered a type of glowing worm was responsible.

How far underground they were, she could not have guessed. The city itself was a sprawling mass of rock towers stretching for several miles in every direction.

The air wasn’t as close as it had been in the tunnels, and she guessed there had to be some sort of ventilation system, whether natural or manufactured.

‘Welcome to the city of Dis,’ announced Quel with a weird flourish of his arms.

‘Did vampires build it?’

‘Oh, no, no,’ the dhampir whimpered, ‘vampires do not build. They destroy.’

She nodded to herself. I thought not, but then if they didn’t, who did? It was clear the city wasn’t a natural formation, but what sort of civilisation could have existed underground? Could virals have built it, perhaps after escaping deep beneath the earth during the purges? Well, vampires were virals too, but she was thinking of Threadfin Todder, and not the vicious, eat-your-brains-while-still-warm sort. Could enough of the undead have escaped to need a city this size? She didn’t think so, but then history kept its secrets close.

As they descended from the tunnel and began to walk into the city, she realised there was variation to the buildings. There were spires and domes, and church-like structures, along with short, squat, and tall buildings, some in rectangular shapes, others rounded and a handful shaped with so many angles she could not have suggested what their function was.

There was no sign of movement until they came closer, and then she spotted them.

Vampires exited from side streets and alleys, from gaping holes that served as windows and doors to the structures. Their arms and legs were overlong, and their bodies looked wrong. She stared at the closest, and found herself feeling nauseous. The first time she’d seen them, there had been too much going on to take note. Now, she could not look away.

Their bones were moving, as though attempting to form a new body, but then reverting to the old one. Over and over. At least their faces sort of resembled humanity, although not a one among them smiled. So much for a warm welcome, she thought. Guess they don’t get many visitors, or the visitors just never make it out alive.

‘Where is my friend?’ she hissed at Quel. ‘You promised.’

‘No, I didn’t,’ answered the dhampir. ‘I said you would have to come with me if you wished to find her. Don’t worry, you will see her soon. This, I promise.’

Quell halted, and then Myral noticed several others like him. They looked stronger than her guide, which was what she’d now decided to think of him as.

The bodies of these dhampir were better formed and less opaque, more human-like. Except for the canines, of course. Everyone around her for miles had long canines.

‘Well, what do we do now?’ she hissed, loud enough for her guide to hear. The clot of vampires and their dhampir servants were drawing closer, surrounding them. For his part, Quel appeared about to burst into tears again, so Myral found no comfort there.

One dhampir – a man for the most part, and richly clothed in what Myral thought of as nobleman or a lord, although the snarl he wore ruined the look – came closer than all the rest until he was within a few feet.

‘I... I have brought her as you, you requested, Lord Corso,’ stammered Quel. In fact, his entire body was rattling so much, he looked ready to collapse.

Corso turned his languid blue eyes on Myral. ‘Your companion.’

She wasn’t certain if he was making a statement or asking a question or both, so she shrugged.

‘Bring her,’ the dhampir nobleman commanded.

Two dhampir, less human looking, but far more so than the vampires, grabbed her from behind with vice-like fingers, and dragged her stumbling after the lord who was retreating deeper into the city. She tried to turn to see where Quel was, but it was no use. They had her. The dhampir had betrayed her, but then he hadn’t owed her much. Except his miserable life.

I just need to survive, she thought, until I can find a way to get to Hazine.

They hauled her through a decrepit street, the buildings on either side having suffered intense damage, as though a war had been fought. Shattered stones, bones and petrified carcasses littered the way, and soon her bare feet were bloody and raw.

Reaching what she thought might have been the city’s central square, they cast her into a pit, which was perhaps hundreds of feet across. She landed with a jolt of pain up her shoulder, cracking her head on the rocky surface. Thankfully it hadn’t been more than a seven-foot drop.

She rose, feeling dizzy and sore, but alive. Vampires clambered down the sides of the pit, like overgrown spiders and about as friendly. All had their cold eyes on her, and although none attacked, the threat was clear.

The dhampir lord stood at the edge above, glaring down. Other vampires began to encroach the edges of the pit, and she realised he was their spokesperson for they could not speak the human tongue. ‘You will remain there, until such time as your companion returns, by decree of our lord.’ Corso then moved aside and gestured to someone on the far side of the pit.

This vampire moved with a slow grace as he approached the pit edge. Despite the distance, she sensed his power and malice as though they were palpable things. He was taller, stronger, and she realised far more dangerous.

In fact, it became clear after a moment, this was no vampire at all. He entered the pit, leaping to land easily. It was far deeper at that end. She noted his limbs were not elongated, but normal and yet powerful. He had long white hair, grey skin, and wore a crimson cloak over dull damaged armour.

A lord over the vampires, but not a vampire lord. This had to be the one who had usurped Wither.

The vampires closest to Wormwood visibly flinched, and even Corso appeared less sure of himself.

‘Yes,’ said Corso from above, ‘you will remain here until your companion returns. You are the bait, and he will bite. For you, he would do anything.’

Well, he’s never showed any signs of such chivalry before, so I wouldn’t bet on it. ‘And then you’ll let me go free?’ She looked to Wormwood for an answer, not Corso.

The lord of the vampires offered her the first smile she’d seen since falling into the tunnels, and she wished he hadn’t bothered. It was the rictus of a corpse. ‘Oh no, poor mortal,’ he said, voice deep and rich, unearthly as it carried across the pit. Yep, he’s definitely not a vampire. ‘No, you will die in the most horrible fashion, but your freedom afterwards shall be eternal.’

Then Wormwood erupted into laughter, and it was the most horrible sound she’d ever heard.