Swords & Heroes Story #6

The Forbidden City of Cyramon by David A. Riley

Aug 07, 2024

David A. Riley is perhaps currently best known for curating a series of eight - and counting! - anthologies of sword and sorcery via his Parallel Universe Publications titled, Swords & Sorceries: Tales of Heroic Fantasy Series. I first met him, I believe, through his Welgar adventures in which his hero seeks relief from the curse he bears. One story featuring Welgar, The Dark Priestdom, appeared in Savage Realms Monthly (#19, March 2023), and its sequel, Welgar the Cursed, appeared in my own Swords & Heroes anthology. Today’s story, The Forbidden City of Cyramon, continues Welgar’s quest to find succor. A rousing tale of sorcery and revenge. - Ed.

This week, we present Story #6…

“The Forbidden City of Cyramon” by David A. Riley

His body and face disfigured by the Agryptian god Xathagothua that transmigrated inside him in exchange for added strength and vigour, Welgar the Cursed journeyed to the furthest extremes of the north to the forbidden city of Cyramon within which it is said demons, ghouls and other dire and insidious creatures haunt its ruins in the forlorn hope his inner nemesis would be slain. Whether he died along with it he no longer cared.

– Nadrain the Storyteller, The Saga of Welgar the Northerner

Even in his dreams, the massed killings the god Xathagothua had forced, tricked, or coerced him to commit were relentless. The faces of his victims, the innocent and the guilty alike, would rise from the depths of his sleeping mind to stare into his eyes in mute accusation. They were restless spirits, unable to pass into the Underworld, as the god that had compelled him to slay them had enthralled them too.

When awakening brought an end to these nightmares, his relief soon faded as Welgar remembered they were not just figments of his troubled mind.

In a bid to bring an end to these hauntings, Welgar rode northwards with relentless determination until he had passed beyond the furthermost outposts of civilisation, reaching at last the slopes of the Broken Mountains, a vast range of ancient rock that soared ice-bound into the endless banks of clouds that clung to their savage peaks. A primordial range, it dominated the world for as far as he could see.

Even when he arrived, it took more than a year to find a pass between its slopes. Again and again, avalanches of frost-hardened snow nearly crushed him, while the treacherous remains of ancient rockslides made the trail so arduous he was forced to dismount and lead his horse on foot, though fodder had become so scarce by now his long-suffering mare had been reduced to skin and bones. Though when the horse expired, it would at least provide him with something to eat other than the dry mosses and straggly plants that struggled to survive on the frozen rocks.

His bleached face, likened by some to an Agryptian mummy whose linen bandages had been unwrapped, grimaced at the thought of eating his horse. Like so many before it, the faithful beast had trusted him, only to be led to an ignominious death.

Deep inside his troubled head, Welgar was sure he could hear the echoes of distant laughter as if the god Xathagothua wanted to ensure he knew Its contempt for the pathetic attempts he was undertaking to free himself from It.

Only days after his horse died, Welgar finally reached the far side of the mountain range to stand staring in stupefied awe across the endless waste of wind-swept snow that stretched before him. Fractured mounds of broken ice rose like the claws of colossal beasts from its frigid depths as, clutching his fur-lined cloak about himself, he strode into it.

In the dim distance he could already glimpse the tall towers of a frozen city, though only their cyclopean scale made them visible through the relentless hail that tore at his face. They were so vast he knew no men could have erected them, nor the imposing wall that shielded the city from the wastes. If ever a metropolis had been constructed by demonic forces this had to be it. In his heart he hoped every fearful tale he had heard about it was true, that he could end his curse in this forbidden city, ridding himself of the Agryptian god, when whatever fearful creatures which dwelt within attacked Xathagothua as an interloper to be destroyed.

Yet the ease with which he had made the decision to come to this place, without Xathagothua trying to thwart him, gave him cause for concern. Had Xathagothua deceived him into thinking it had been his own idea?

That Xathagothua was capable of such a deceit he knew full well. None of his decisions since It entered his body had ever wholly been his own. Xathagothua was too deeply embedded inside his head for him to be sure of anything he did.

When the watery disc of the Arctic sun finally dipped beyond the horizon and night covered the frozen wastes, the fantastical city glowed with a light of its own, an eerie, shimmering coruscation that shone exotically poisonous colours across the wastes.

It was daybreak by the time he reached its wall, and what sun there was had barely risen. As he stared up at the dizzying summit of the wall he was even more astonished at its height. Its stones were sheathed in ice as black and shiny as obsidian, and it was clearly unscalable. Yet, bizarrely, there was an opening no taller than a man. Set within an archway stood a brass door covered with symbols in an alphabet unknown to him.

As he struggled towards it, the door swung open to reveal a passage floored with stained marble the colour and texture of dried blood, leading towards a second door some distance away. Like the outside door, the walls, floor and ceiling were covered in strange, disturbing symbols.

As soon as Welgar stepped inside the passage the door slammed shut with a resounding thud. Though he knew he should be disturbed by the finality of the sound, his first thought was to wonder if Xathagothua shared his apprehension, though he was still uncertain what emotions the god was capable of feeling.

Determined to go on, he strode towards the second door. He had almost reached it when it swung open.

“The burden you carry is heavy despite the strength it gives to you.”

The girl’s voice was melodious, disconcertingly so, as was her appearance as she stepped into the doorway. For so grim a place, she looked incongruously innocent, dressed in a pale grey robe of some kind of silky material, wrapped around a slim figure that was totally unthreatening. His suspicions honed by having been deceived by Xathagothua so often, to Welgar the meekness of the girl’s appearance meant nothing, though. His fingers tightened about the hilt of his sword.

“Who are you?” he asked, glowering at her.

At which the girl’s eyes began to glimmer with a phosphorescent light as if to confirm she was more than the harmless child she looked. For Welgar this was still more proof that creatures like this could never hide their true selves for long, whatever disguise they used. Evil will out, as his old granddam would have said as she mutteringly passed what scraps of wisdom she had on to him and his siblings.

Steadying his nerves Welgar strode towards the girl.

Inside his head he could already feel the familiar millwheel grinding he had grown used to whenever Xathagothua stirred Itself.

Was this to be another bloodbath?

No sooner had he thought this than the surrounding walls abruptly shuddered, opening outwards as if they were no more than incredibly large, windblown drapes. In that instant, the interior of the ice-bound city lay before him, a deliquescent nightmare of shifting, scintillating shapes and harsh colours that burned his eyes. Monolithic towers so tall they almost reached the clouds morphed and bloated into off kilter domes, some of which loomed huge, while others, like strange sea creatures of vast proportions, were transparent bubbles, ready to burst.

Through all this insane maelstrom of unstable shapes luminous sheets of light slithered across the sky. There was so much motion in everything he could see, Welgar felt as if his mind was veering into madness. He tried to move, but his balance had gone wrong, and he knew he would fall, but somehow, in some way he didn’t.

“NNNNOOOO!!!!”

The lengthy, echoing blast of sound that roared from his mouth was harsh, adamantine, the thunderous voice of an angered god.

Of a great, imperious and fearsome god.

In that instant the walls separating him from the rest of the city reverted to their solid state and everything was stable again, while the hideously discoloured lights that had all but blinded him disappeared, as did the sky, hidden beyond the ceiling once more.

As for the girl there was now no trace. Had it been just a grand illusion?

Even after everything he had experienced Welgar was unsure. Reality had long become meaningless to him as the millwheel grinding reverberated deep inside his head, knowing Xathagothua had not yet finished with him.

Unable to resist what the god wanted him to do, Welgar stepped through the door into the city. At first sight, the vast boulevards that spanned between huge, monolithic, windowless buildings and the cloud-hugging towers seemed deserted until he noticed the bodies, such as they were. Misshapen lumps of flesh were dotted haphazardly about the city, some of which looked as if they were alive with slow, sluggish, spastic movements.

Welgar strode towards the nearest, unable to decide if the formless creature had bones inside its flesh or not. Though larger than Welgar, it was neither man nor beast but a sack-like monstrosity, an unpleasant mix of crimson and grey, its flesh covered in swollen veins and deep creases. The nearest creature he could relate it to was a dead starfish, swollen with decay, but even that was a far cry from its actual shape.

What was it in reality? The last gasps of some insanely evil, eldritch creature riddled with disease? Or some vile obscenity conjured up by the vilest of sorceries?

Welgar hated sorcery and those who practiced it. Terrified as a child by the eccentric shamans of his native land, there was something unnatural about the dark arts that sickened him. But ever since his trip to Agrypt, where the god Xathagothua had transmigrated part of Itself inside him, he had been forced to live with this darkness as part of his life, loathing every moment of it.

It came as no surprise, therefore, after what he had already been forced to do, that he felt compelled to draw his sword. For an instant he raised it in the air before he swung it down with all his strength, cleaving the creature in two. Blood as black as tar burst from the sack-like body, drenching the paving stones around it. Simultaneously, deep inside his head he heard the echoing laughter of Xathagothua.

No sooner had he finished his kill than he stalked towards the next sack-like body, which again he split with a single blow. For what seemed like hours he moved through the city, slaughtering any of the creatures he saw. And that laughter, that malicious, insane, gloating laughter reverberated onwards inside his skull.

Through it all, he could tell Xathagothua was draining some kind of force from all the bodies he killed. A dark, sinister, mordant energy coursed through his swordarm and up into his body, to be drained by that godlike entity deep inside him.

If these bodies were all that remained of the creators of this city, Xathagothua was taking their lifeforce into Itself. Welgar knew this had to be why the god had allowed him to come here.

Xathagothua had not let him trudge to Cyramon to be freed. It had come here to feast.

Though Welgar tried to resist, Xathagothua was too strong, Its power irresistible. Or seemed to be. If only he had been determined to stop the thing from the start. But every death had made Xathagothua stronger. Already Welgar knew he was no more than a helpless puppet.

It was then the girl appeared once more.

Without warning, she was standing a short distance from him, seemingly undaunted by the gobbets of blood still dripping from his sword from his last kill. Was she the ruler of this city? Of all the things he had seen so far she was the only one to exhibit some kind of sentience. The rest seemed no more than brainless slabs of meat.

Welgar pointed his sword at the last creature he’d killed. “Is this what the inhabitants have become?”

“Even demons and demi-gods can wither without sustenance. They failed to realise this when they retreated from the world.”

“And you?”

“Like your master I came here to feed. I am an invader too. It has taken me half a century to drain their life forces. Though weakened already they are a feisty brood.” She smiled wistfully. Only then did Welgar realise she was growing taller. For a moment her height matched his, before she towered upwards, twice, three times, four times his stature.

Welgar gritted his teeth as the familiar millstone grinding deep inside his head vibrated through him. Xathagothua was exerting Its control once more. Painful spasms shivered through every bone in his body as Welgar realised that he too was growing, matching the girl’s height. It was dreamlike, unreal.

With a slight flicker of movement, the girl’s fist acquired a scimitar the size of an oar which she swept at him like a lightning bolt. It would have sliced through his neck if his own arm hadn’t moved as suddenly as hers, intercepting her blade with his. The blow jarred through him and there was an echoing, rolling, thunderous crash that all but deafened him. He bared his teeth against the pain in his ears, little good that did; he cried out as agonising vibrations shook through him.

Everything swam around him and he felt as if he was being sucked into a titanic maelstrom, even though he could feel his feet still firmly planted on the ground.

After their swords clashed, he watched the girl stagger backwards into the ferment, the curved blade of her sword broken. Less than a third was still attached to the hilt. Xathagothua roared. In his mind’s eye, Welgar saw the anthropomorphic head of the Agryptian god, its emerald-green reptilian eyes glowing with triumph. Which was when the girl’s mouth twisted into a supercilious sneer as she lunged forwards from the whirlpool and plunged what was left of her sword into Welgar’s chest. An icy cold spread from the wound she’d gouged into him. At the same instant, Xathagothua’s roar transformed into a hideous scream. Unable to bear the pitch or volume of the god’s shriek of pain, anger, and dismay Welgar blacked out. Oblivion swept over him.

It could have been death. Though he had neither thought nor sense to know if it was.

Strangely, he was aware of time, which seemed endless. An eternity passed as he floated in a sensationless void. Onwards and onwards with a never-ending relentlessness the hours, days, and years flowed through him.

After eons of oblivion slight sensations returned to his body. At first it was only the tips of his fingers, then his toes. It was a gradual awakening – so slow another eternity passed before his body was alive again. Which was when he remembered the wound inflicted by the shattered blade, and for a moment was certain the pain would return. But nothing happened. It was as if the blow had never occurred. No pain, not even an ache where the wound should have been.

Sometime later, unable to understand why he still felt nothing where the sword had pierced his chest, he opened his eyes.

He was sat on a throne-like chair. The chamber he was in was enormous, its extremities hidden by dense shadows. Nearer, a line of tripods supported braziers whose flames lit this part of the room. The surrounding floor was paved with slabs of mottled marble. As in the passageway through which he had entered the city, they were the colour of blood, smooth and slightly glimmering. It made him think of the floor of an abattoir.

Swallowing to ease the dryness in his throat, Welgar called out, though it was a pathetic attempt. His voice echoed back a wretched travesty of its normal self. Swallowing once more, he tried again, but no one responded. And for all he knew he was totally alone.

Taking a few deep breaths he gripped the edge of the seat and forced himself to stand, though his legs felt weak, which was when he realised he was still dressed in his old clothes. Even his sword hung by his side, along with its matching dagger. Whoever left him here obviously had no fear of him attacking them.

Which was when he remembered Xathagothua. For the first time since that abomination entered his body in that dark Agryptian temple he could no longer feel the god’s presence. He knew by now there should have been the sound of millwheels grinding deep inside his head as It reasserted its control, but there was nothing. All he could feel was emptiness where Xathagothua had been.

Welgar felt his face, his fingers trembling with apprehension as they traced the contours of his cheeks, blunted by the beard that covered them. Even so, he could have sworn the hollows that had disfigured him had filled out to a semblance of his former self. He raised his hands before his eyes, sure there were traces of colour in them now instead of the deathly grey of a corpse.

“Xathagothua is dead. He thought he was mightier than other gods outside his city. That’s the weakness of Agryptian arrogance. Agrypt has been closed too long. Its gods have grown ignorant in their isolation.”

Welgar spun around. The girl, dressed in a long robe like molten gold, stood by the wall. A tall crown of fiery jewels rested on her head.

“You killed him?”

“His arrogance killed him. He thought he was invincible. A dangerous delusion. While he was building his strength through the deaths of mortals, I was feeding for longer on the demons of this dying city. Much stronger fare, though they are all a wisp of their former selves.”

Despite her talk of arrogance there was arrogance in her features now. Though she was not as tall as when Welgar saw her confront Xathagothua she was still more than twice his height, a true goddess. Light gleamed around her face.

“It looked a close fight to me,” Welgar said, “for all of that.”

The girl smiled. “It amused me not to use the fullness of my strength.”

Arrogance and lies, twin elements, Welgar supposed, that went with being a god. Or goddess. Or whatever the creatures that posed as such really were.

He glanced at his hands. “And the affliction Xathagothua’s presence scourged me with? Has that gone too?”

“It will never go, not truly. You have been touched by a god. That’s something mere mortals can never erase.”

Welgar grunted his derision. “As I no longer look like a corpse, that’s good enough for me.”

“You were Xathagothua’s thrall.”

“And now what am I?”

“I would be your patron, that’s all. You will not even be aware I am in your life most of the time. Just now and then…” The girl pointed to the far end of the chamber. “The way back to your world is in that direction. It will be arduous. You no longer have the stamina or strength Xathagothua loaned your body. But you will survive. Head south,” she went on. “The nearest pass through the mountains lies that way.”

So it was that Welgar trudged once more through the snowy wastes to the Broken Mountains to the hospitable lands on the far side. He still had nightmares of the faces of those he had killed, who stared into his eyes in mute accusation whenever he slept; though it soothed him in a strange way to glimpse now and then the anthropomorphic face of Xathagothua cowering amongst them, a frailer, ghostlike visage now.

The Forbidden City of Cyramon © 2024 by David A. Riley. (3270 words.) All rights reserved. You may restack this story via Substack but please do not republish elsewhere. Banner and sword illustrations by Gilead the Artist, used by permission. Welgar the Cursed illustration by Rizky Nugraha, used by permission.

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