The Goddess Legacy

Chapter 10

Two men carried a stretcher down a trail toward a clearing near the ruins of an ancient stone structure, now little more than rubble. Three more toted torches, whose flames provided light in the darkness. Fog curled around them, lending them the appearances of spectral phantoms as they trudged down the path. All wore the traditional garb of mountain peasants: stained, ragged handmade robes and callused bare feet.

At the clearing, they approached a tall post at the center of a flat stone area, perhaps once a terrace or courtyard but now unrecognizable. The men were obviously nervous, glancing around furtively as they set the stretcher on the ground.

A rail-thin young man lay on the coarse canvas, clad only in an orange loincloth, his form so emaciated that his ribs jutted through his skin. He moaned and glanced at his bearers first in confusion and then in growing horror as he realized where he’d been taken. He’d never been to the cursed place, but the legends were of nightmare proportion, and evil seemed to emanate from the ruins like poison smoke.

“No…” he managed, his voice a croak. “Please. I beg you.”

The torch carriers looked away, and one of the two stretcher bearers grunted as he knelt beside him. “Your time is almost at hand. Be brave. It is an honor,” he said.

“It’s… a… a… gah,” he gasped, his energy spent.

“Your approval is not required.”

“Please. Water.”

The other stretcher bearer frowned. “Why waste it on the likes of him?”

The two men lifted the boy’s frail form and dragged him to the post, where they lashed his wrists behind him so the pole supported him in a standing position. Even in the dark they could make out the stained stone beneath it, the regular rains insufficient to rinse them completely clean. After studying their handiwork, one of the torchbearers walked to an old brass bell suspended from a nearby tree and rang it twice, and then tossed his torch onto a pile of branches and kindling ringed by stones. Orange tongues of flame licked from the fire pit as he raced to rejoin his companions, his expression frightened.

The bell’s last peal echoed through the area as the men rushed back up the path, and soon the faint glow of their torches had dimmed to nothing. The youth’s eyes drifted shut as silence reclaimed the clearing. His breathing was shallow, and his chin rested on his emaciated chest.

A sound from across the field jolted him back to full alertness, and his eyes popped open in terror. A procession of robed figures shambled toward him from out of the darkness. A monotone chant preceded them, one word, over and over, barely distinguishable, but to the youth as clear as the ringing of the bell. The name of the goddess of destruction, the deity that the approaching cult worshipped, the object of their devotion… and bloodlust.

Kali.

He offered a silent prayer and resolved to accept his fate without resistance. His strength had long since abandoned him; his body was nothing but a shell, powerless to fight an unstoppable force older than history. Nothing he said, no plea or offer, would halt the cult’s macabre ceremony, and he wouldn’t spend his last moments demeaning himself. He knew that he was wasting away from the illness that had claimed so many of his brethren — a byproduct of the work he’d been laboring at since a toddler — so at worst, these twisted animals would deprive him of the lingering moments of agony a death from that affliction would entail. In the end, perhaps they were doing him a favor, and he begged the universe to make his departure swift and painless.

The column stopped before him, and the leader looked him in the eyes, chilling his blood. The youth was looking into the face of hell — he knew then that the whispered rumors of timeless evil were no exaggeration. The man’s distorted grimace, the scars where his lips and tongue had been seared away with a glowing brand upon childhood initiation into the cult, the teeth honed to spikes — all were worse than the legends, as was the reek wafting from him as he leaned forward and hissed at the youth like a snake, unable to speak or form words, his dark goddess’s name a hoarse moan when mangled in atonal chant. His hair and beard were threaded with long strips of dry human skin, and a necklace of finger bones and desiccated ears hung low over the man’s bare chest smeared with ash and tattooed with forbidden occult talismans.

These were the infamous descendants of the Thuggee, the murderous cult that had preyed on India for centuries before supposedly being eradicated by the British, from which the English term thug had been derived. Most of the Thuggee had been opportunistic robbers, who would infiltrate caravans as innocent travelers, and once having earned their trust, would turn on them, strangling them and stealing their riches. But this sect was the worst of the worst, an extremist offshoot that had survived in the remotest reaches of the country, whose worship of the goddess of destruction was the stuff of whispered infamy and whose practices were abominations — cannibalism, human sacrifice, necrophilia… every imaginable desecration, including living in burial grounds and smearing themselves with excrement and the rotting flesh of the dead.

The death cult leader turned to his followers, who resumed their chant, an unholy keening from mutilated tongues. The tempo accelerated as the dark priest joined in, and when he spun back to the youth, he was clutching a wickedly curved blade with archaic symbols etched into the gleaming metal.

The youth’s determination to meet his end with dignity gave way to an agonized scream as the leader drove the blade into his abdomen and sliced upward, disemboweling him as another of the murderous clan slipped behind him. The sharp bite of wire burned like liquid fire against the youth’s throat, and then everything went mercifully black as it bit through his larynx and carotid artery, terminating the flow of oxygen to his brain.

The first part of the ceremony completed with the youth’s murder, the cult members lit torches and pounded drums in preparation for the next horrific phase — one that would extend long into the night, culminating in the youth’s remains roasted to ashes over the fire and his skeleton discarded in a massive pit with thousands of other unfortunates. Only then would the cult return to its caves along the rim of the boneyard, satiated until the next offering to the goddess of destruction, who required regular grisly tribute as her due.