Book Of The Dead

How long had it been, since he had last laid eyes on these mountains?

The Venerable shifted uncomfortably as he gazed up at the many crags and peaks that stretched from the left horizon to the right. The barrier mountains, a now-impassable obstacle that marked the edge of the Western Province, towered high in the distance.

A cold wind blew, cutting straight through his cloak. The chill penetrated deep into his impossibly frail body, digging into bones where it settled, coiled around his joints. For a brief moment, he wondered if the gods would see fit to free him of his aches as he undertook this final task for them, but then dismissed the thought with a sneer.

He was going soft. Not for a single second had they ever lifted their burdens from his shoulders, and he had never asked them to. He was convinced this was the reason he got along so well with the Three. They liked him, liked to watch him survive and push onward despite the suffering he endured, waiting for him to crack and beg them to take back their blessings.

But he never did.

“Are you alright, Venerable?”

The young girl, Elsbeth walked alongside him, reaching out a hand to steady his shoulder.

“You’re freezing,” she gasped, “here, take my cloak.”

The old man flashed her a gap-toothed grin.

“Not to worry, girl,” he wheezed, “there’s no way to stop the cold seeping into these old bones.”

“But…”

“But nothing. The Gods have seen me through this far, I’m sure they can take me the last little way.”

He raised his walking stick and pointed ahead.

“That’s the place we’re headed, isn’t it? Not so far to go.”

Elsbeth peered ahead, and yes indeed, the outer wall of Cragwhistle could be seen in the distance, barely visible through the morning mist. Frost coated the ground and clung to the hardy, tall mountain grasses that grew along the sides of the road, giving a white tint to everything in view. Combined with the light fog that hung in the air, it almost seemed as though they walked an ethereal path, stepping on a road that led to a place beyond the mortal realm.

Maybe it did, the Venerable mused to himself, chuckling.

He turned around to view the long train of people behind him.

“Almost there,” he called in his thin voice. “If you want to stop being stupid, you could be there in a few minutes.”

As expected, all he got back were flat stares and slowly shaken heads.

“You really think the Three give a rat’s buttock if you walk in front of me?” he railed, shaking his stick at them, but they wouldn’t budge. He turned forward with a huff.

“They are trying to show you respect–” Elsbeth began.

“I don’t need their respect,” the old man spat. “I’m just an old man. You’re supposed to see the gods work through me, and respect them.”

“The gods favour you.”

The Venerable snorted forcefully and almost fell over, catching himself at the last second.

“There is precious little difference between their favour and their anger, as well you know. Besides, they aren’t as petty as the Five ponces. The Three don’t care if people don’t respect something just because they happen to favour it. In fact, overcoming someone who has attained their blessings was one of the best ways to attract their benediction, back in the day.”

The old man leered as he cast his mind back to a simpler, bloodier time.

“Those were the days,” he sighed.

Elsbeth, wisely, kept her tongue. Which of course led the Venerable into a wide-ranging tale of the extreme and oppressive violence he witnessed amongst the remote tribes in which he’d been born, some of which might have even been true.

Nevertheless, the poor girl was a visible shade of green by the time they arrived at the gates of the town. A simple construction, no more than three metres tall, made of logs bound together on the inside, it was clear where the majority of the locals’ effort had gone: to the mountain-facing side, as it should.

Their column had been seen approaching for hours, and a welcome party had emerged from within the gate, standing straight, trying not to appear nervous. It was at this point that the Venerable began to hear it, that special sound only he could hear.

Was it one of the many gifts the gods had bestowed upon him, or was it something he had simply learned to recognise, over the centuries? Whichever was the case, he had long ago realised he could hear it when the gods were paying attention.

There was a shift, ever so slight. The wind breathed. The ground sighed. The trees whispered. They were here, Crone, Raven and Rot. All throughout his shrivelled and trembling frame, he felt it, a tingling pressure.

Old Gods, hard to please, impossible to satisfy, who craved amusement, were anticipating something, something from him. In his experience, the outcome of such events was never in his favour. Nevertheless, he continued to stride forward. He’d never backed down in the face of the Three, and he wasn’t about to start now.

The young priestess, Elsbeth, stepped forward along with him, as they led the column straight up to meet the delegation waiting for them.

“Elsbeth, nice to see you again,” a large man said, standing in the midst of the gathering.

“Ortan,” she smiled up at him, “it’s nice to be back.”

“Doubtful. It’s freezing.”

The Venerable shuffled forward and jabbed this ‘Ortan’ in the leg with his stick.

“Which is why we shouldn’t be leaving old men standing about in the cold. Open up the gates and let us in,” he demanded.

Ortan’s eyes widened as he looked down on this impossibly shrivelled man.

“Hold on there, father time, we won’t take long. You’ll have your heels up by the hearth in no time.”

One of the women standing behind the huge villager twitched, and the Venerable glanced towards her. Ah, another member of the faith, no doubt. He recognised their touch upon her. He gestured for her not to bother stepping forward. When did the rest of the priesthood start being so protective of him? He’d indulged them for far too long, allowing bad habits to build.

“There are eight thousand of us,” he wheezed, “along with cattle and sheep, numbering near five thousand. What else do you need to know?”

“Eight?” Ortan blanched, eyes going wide. “That many?”

“People are fleeing all over the province,” Elsbeth told him sadly. “The church and the marshalls are beginning to crack down everywhere. People are disappearing in the night, never to be seen again. Members of the faith can see the writing on the wall, and this is their last refuge.”

“There will be even more behind us,” the Venerable chuckled thinly, “another group this size will arrive in perhaps two weeks.”

He glanced up at the big man, eyes dancing with mirth.

“I hope you’re ready for it.”

It appeared as though he wasn’t. Ortan and the gathered men and women behind fell to muttering amongst themselves, whispered arguments and furtive gestures flying between them. The woman he’d noticed earlier stepped around them and approached.

“It is nice to see you, Venerable,” she said.

He peered at her.

“Munhilde? Is that you?”

“It is,” the priestess smiled.

He shook his stick at her.

“Prayed to the Crone, did you? Too vain, that was always your weakness.”

“Are you going to judge me for preserving myself through prayer? You?” the woman replied, a little reproachful.

“Bah. I haven’t lived this long because I wanted to. By Their Will.”

“By Their Will,” she echoed.

When they were done, Elsbeth stepped forward and enfolded the other priestess in her arms.

“It’s good to see you again, Munhilde,” she beamed. “When did you arrive?”

“A few weeks ago,” her teacher replied, returning her embrace with a soft smile. “It’s nice to see you as well, Elsbeth.”

“How long are those idiots going to argue amongst themselves before they let us in?” the Venerable grumbled. “Surely they thought to count how many people they could see coming?”

“They thought it was five thousand,” Munhilde told them. “Apparently, there was a miscount.”

“Only followers of the Three could be that bad at counting,” the Venerable said.

The rocks were listening. Carefully, he avoided glancing towards them, but he could tell. That slight creak, as if each stone had shifted a hundredth of a millimetre in its place.

What would they ask of him? Anticipation was beginning to build in what was left of his belly.

“Something interesting is going to happen today,” he said, and Munhilde snapped her gaze toward him.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

Elsbeth was confused by her teacher’s tone. Looking between the old man and the priestess in confusion, she hesitated to speak.

“I am,” the Venerable confirmed, “but I’m not sure what.”

Legs trembling, he walked forward once again, leaning heavily on his walking stick, until he stood before the group of arguing officials.

“Time’s up,” he declared in his thin, wavering voice. “Open up the gates and let’s get this show on the road. What will be will be.”

Frustrated with both the old man and the people he was arguing with, Ortan turned around.

“I’m sorry, grandfather, but it’s going to take a little time for us to work out how to house and feed everyone.”

“They will be provided for,” the Venerable waved a dismissive hand. “Hasn’t that always been the case before? Don’t tell me you believed it was your administration skills that kept this place running all this time?”

At his words, Ortan fell quiet for a moment.

“No,” he said quietly, “I don’t believe that.”

The Venerable gave him a surprisingly understanding look.

“The gods have been knocking at the door for some time, young one. But my gods are impatient creatures. They will only knock for so long before they take it upon themselves to open the way.”

With apparent effort, the old man lifted his stick off the ground, then brought it down again.

There came a slight ‘thud’, as the hardened tip of the stick met the packed dirt on which he stood, then came the rumbling, followed by the shaking.

When it was done, the gate, and only the gate, had collapsed, the logs rolling out of the way and leaving the way into the town open.

“Oh look,” the Venerable wheezed, “it’s open.”

Before anyone could stop him, he began to shuffle forward, Elsbeth and Munhilde falling in beside him, and the entire column following from behind. A stunned silence gripped the gathered administrators just long enough for them to enter Cragwhistle itself before they caught up with him, shouting and yelling, waving their arms, demanding he explain. Munhilde and Elsbeth tried to calm them, to explain who he was, to warn them, but they didn’t want to listen.

Only Ortan hung back, looking troubled.

Smart young man, the Venerable thought to himself. He learned quickly.

Without stopping his slow, staggered walk, the Venerable reached up with one hand, as if grasping hold of the air, then clenched his fist.

Silence immediately fell, as the men and women around him continued to open their mouths, only for no sound to come out. Shock quickly turned to anger, then to fear, which wasn’t respect, but lived next door. It was close enough for him.

He barely paid those people any mind. The Gods were calling him forward. Somewhere in this town was the place they wanted him to go. Not far now.

That sense of destiny was intoxicating. It chased away the cold which had dug deep into his marrow. Chased away the pain in his limbs he hadn’t been able to escape for hundreds of years. Eyes alight with a mad glee, he hobbled forward, senses alive to what the Gods had to say.

Challenge me again, you bastards. I dare you.

“Venerable, are you alright? There are places you can rest not far from here,” Elsbeth said, laying a hand on his shoulder.

He shrugged her off.

“No need. No need! The Three are calling. Can’t you hear them?”

The commotion at the gate had drawn people out of their homes, some staring in confusion at this old man making his slow way down the main street, others bowing in respect at the two priestesses beside him. Still more turned their eyes to the voiceless people who helped run the town, people they trusted, following behind the old man, desperate to draw close to him but too afraid to do so.

The second he lay eyes on the town well, he knew it was where he needed to go. It made sense. Right in the centre of the town, it had become the hub around which this growing settlement revolved. At this hour, early in the morning, there was plenty of foot traffic here, people shopping, going about their day. All of it came to a stop as the Venerable drew near, a terrible sense of purpose urging him forward.

As if possessed, he picked up speed, eager to confront this new challenge. Elsbeth reached out to support him, worried he would fall, but Munhilde stopped her.

“He is in communion with the Gods,” she warned her former apprentice. “Something is going to happen here.”

More people filed into Cragwhistle with each passing moment, the thousands of refugees, pleased that their long journey was finished at last, pressed forward, squeezing through the destroyed gate. They followed at the Venerable’s heels, and filed into the open circle in the centre of town by the hundreds.

As soon as he reached the low stone wall of the well, the Venerable grew still, and closed his eyes.

Caw!

He looked up. A raven flew down from the sky and alighted upon the wooden beam around which the rope was wound, staring at him with storm-filled eyes.

Squeak!

A rat, lean and patchy, climbed up from the depths of the well, jumped down from the stone and came to rest at his feet. It looked up at him, eyes filled with unending hunger.

From within the crowd, he felt Her gaze upon him. In a moment, he found her, an old woman, as wizened as he himself, watching him with a thousand pairs of eyes set in a thousand different faces.

A fierce grin bloomed on the Venerable’s face as he was confronted by his gods once more.

What are you waiting for? You’ve never held back before!

The raven fluttered its wings, the rat chittered, and the old woman laughed.

With a smirk, the Venerable brought his hands together and lowered his head, showing proper respect.

As the Venerable bowed in prayer, Elsbeth watched from nearby, fearful, as she and Munhilde clung to each other. To the two priestesses, the air around the well was as heavy as a blanket, the oppressive weight of the Three gods pressing down on them to the point they could barely stand.

How the old man endured it, Elsbeth couldn’t begin to imagine. Even to those who weren’t as sensitive, they could tell something was different, something was wrong.

No matter how they tried to suppress their presence, the Three were Old Gods, tied to the realm from the moment of its creation. In their presence, the air, the land and the water turned to listen. As the Venerable prayed, and as more refugees gathered around, they fell to their knees and clasped their hands together, sensing the holiness of this moment.

Elsbeth too, lowered herself to the ground, Munhilde following with her, and began to earnestly pray. She did not know what was about to happen, but she asked that the Venerable, a loyal servant all his life, be cared for and uplifted in this moment.

As she repeated the prayer, surprisingly, she felt an impossibly ancient voice whisper in her ear.

The Venerable raised his head, hand clenched tight around the shaft of his walking stick, a drip of sweat rolling down his frozen, withered forehead.

That’s what you want, eh? Saved the worst for last.

They gave him a choice, of course they did. They gave him the choice knowing he would reject it. He had never stepped back from their demands, not once in over a thousand years.

Slowly, he raised his head, and opened his eyes.

No longer were they the eyes of an aged man, filled with rheum and fog. Now, they crackled with lightning, and his voice boomed like thunder.

“Gathered servants of Crone, Raven and Rot! Kneel, and hear my words!”

His words rolled across the entire town and boomed against the mountains themselves. In an instant, every eye was fixed upon the tiny old man before the well, who in this moment appeared as mighty as any heroic slayer of legend. People stumbled from their houses, rushing toward the voice, or fell to their knees in their homes, certain in the knowledge that their gods were at work amongst them.

“For more than a thousand years, I have served the Three. In all my days, I have lived in a world ruled by the usurpers and their insipid followers, while my own gods lay still and silent, waiting, watching.”

He paused for a moment, watching the crowd.

“THEY WAIT NO LONGER!” he boomed. “It has been over five thousand years since the false ones took their unearned power and changed the face of the realm to suit themselves. Five thousand years of torment and suffering for those who kept to the old faith. The true faith. At long last, our patience has been rewarded. Our endurance has been tested, and we have not been found wanting.”

As one, the gathered faithful pressed their faces to the ground. Some were openly weeping, others trembling with deep emotions. These were the words they had longed to hear, that their grandparents had longed to hear, but died without ever getting a chance.

“Crone, Raven and Rot walk among the faithful once more. Their eyes are upon you. Our realm has been pushed to the brink of collapse, and now the Three have roused to save it. This is the last chance, the final roll of the dice. Either the faithful will rise together in triumph, or the empire will fall to ruin, and the realm will be corrupted shortly after.”

A dire warning, spoken directly to the fear that resided in the heart of every citizen from the moment they were old enough to understand the reality of where they lived.

“Of course, there can be no boon from the Gods without suffering. No blessing untempered by pain. Strength and sacrifice are what they demand from their followers. Watch now, and remember me, as I demonstrate the standard.”

The old man raised his hands, frenzied glee burning in his crackling eyes.

“I offer myself,” he declared to the sky, voice booming over the gathered crowd. “Take me and use me to make a new way for your people.”

A moment of pure silence descended, of perfect stillness. Noone moved, except for Elsbeth. She had listened to the voice that whispered in her ear, and she had accepted.

Now, she stepped forward, avoiding Munhilde’s frantic attempt to grab her skirts.

“I offer myself in your place,” she whispered to the Venerable, head kept low.

By her foot, the rat watched her, head tilted to the side.

“They have accepted me,” she said, then swallowed, unable to keep the trembling from her voice.

The Venerable watched her for a moment, then shook his head, sadly.

“Fool girl,” he wheezed. “So keen to take up the burdens of others. If you aren’t careful, you’ll end up just like me. They will pile those burdens upon you, just to see if you will break.”

With a gentle push of his hand, he sent the priestess flying back to crash into the arms of her teacher, metres away.

“I never broke,” the Venerable declared, then lowered his head.

Lightning struck. And again. Again.

Power surged, light flashed, thunder crashed and the air itself howled in pain as reality itself began to twist. People cried out in terror, recoiled away from the well, which they could not look at, but their voices were stolen away by the torrent of light and sound that only grew more intense.

Until, suddenly, it was over.

When it cleared, the raven, the rat and the crone were gone. The Venerable was gone. The well itself was gone.

In its place, stood a simple stone platform, circular, with a gleaming gem mounted upon a plinth rising in the centre.

To the people of the empire, it was obvious what they were looking at, a familiar sight to them all, something they had witnessed every year from the time they were old enough to walk.

An Awakening Stone.

But, if one looked closely, it was possible to see the shape of this one was not even, not like the ones they had seen before. No, if one gazed upon it in the right light, from the right direction, it almost appeared like a small, hunched old man, laughing.