The resurrection of Kzadool-Ra

Henry J Vester III

The shadows of dusk had lengthened noticeably while Yat-Shan had been engaged in the Lukar
Ritual, and in the cleansing of the altar afterward. As a final act of obeisance he lit from a brazier,
a long-burning joss and placed it before the image of Qualosh-of-the-Abyss, the eyeless god
whose shrine he had been responsible to service that afternoon.Yat-Shan was pleased that he
had discharged his duties with such skill and reverence.Surely the abbot, Del-Manphar, would
soon begin to take note of his fidelity and attention to fine detail, and assign him to some of the
more prestigious deities instead of all the relatively minor gods whose acolyre he had been since
his initiation a full month ago. He did not expect, of course, to be Warder of Thasaidon or High
Steward of RonnZimm in so short a time, but he had thought his devotion to the gods would, by
this time, have earned him at least an occasional assignment in the Pits of Xxax.Yat-Shan bowed
thrice before the face of Qualosh and stepped from the shrine into the deepening twilight.

Yat-Shan had come to Nashir, City of the Sleeping Gods, after having completed a long and
painstaking apprenticeship at the Temple of All Gods in Shulkarong. It had been his dream since a
lad to learn the Rite of Nine Spiders, to climb the steps before the altar of the goddess Yahoonda,
and to quote from the Testaments of Carnamagos as the new moon thrust its horns skyward
above Mount Neeshra. His erudition had won him the post of Apprentice Devotee at the Temple
of All Gods, and that background of scholarship and devotion to the gods had stood him in good
stead through the year of arduous memorization of hundreds of rites, ceremonies and liturgies,
not to mention the commission to memory of thousands of passages of sacred writ from the
eighty-one holy books and scrolls recognized by the Temple. He had been most assiduous in his
studies, ever thirsty to learn of this obscure god or to perform that arcane rite. He had even been
severely reprimanded by the High Priestess Herself for having asked to know the rituals of the
forbidden worship of Zathogwa. (he had stopped asking thereafter, but his curiosity had in no
wise diminished). And during that year of scholarly application he had considered no other post
for his future service than that which he now held: Curator of Deities to the City of the Sleeping
Gods.

Yat-Shan clutched his robe more tightly about his spare frame and glanced skyward with a start
as the evening wind began to hiss over the high city walls, laden with its burden of sand and
detritus purloined from the Quarry. The young Curator cursed himself for being slow enough be
caught out-ofdoors during the passing of the Southern Wind which as all knew, blew every
evening through the Quarry, from which no good thing any longer came.Since the Quarry had
been declared Anathema by the Holy Ecclesiarch after the last God's image had been taken there
from a thousand years before, all manner of unwholesome and profane things had taken lodging
in its several caverns, crevasses, and crenellations. On every night of every year could be heard
uncouth whimperings,gorge-raising gibberings, and voices-which-were-not-quite arising from
that place.By day it seemed but an ordinary quarry——an ugly, unhealing wound in the flesh of
the earth.But beneath the bone-pale face of G'beesh, the moon god, that wound festered with a
sentient putrescence — a colony of the unholy made up of every mad djinn, lost ghoul, and
foundered soul which had ever been drawn to that desanctified place. YatShan had heard the
Priests, Stewards, and other Curators speak of the fathomless pool at the bottom of the Quarry,
and of those things which may have made their homes therein. None had ever seen a sign of
habitation or any indication of life (if that term may be here applied) in or about the pit. None
doubted, however, the source of the wind-borne howlings and whisperings, nor did any approach
that unhallowed place by day or by night. It was well known by Ecclesiarch and neophyte alike
that the Southern Wind carried in its ethereal fingers the essence of uncleanness from the
Quarry, and it were less than advisable to be out-of-doors until it had passed.

Yat-Shan, knowing rather more of such matters than he really liked, lost scant time in finding a
passageway which led off from the open street along which he had been walking. He entered
quickly into a covered alley in the hope of finding unlocked one of the many doors which lined
the lichen-crusted walls. He tried each door on either side as he made his way toward the end of
the alley (avoiding certain doors whose aspects he particularly disliked), and, near the alley's end
wall, was rewarded by the angry squeal of long-disused hinges and a gust of cool air from the
building's shadowed interior. Without waiting even to light a candle, Yat-Shan stepped into the
darkness and closed the ancient door behind him just as the first few questing fingers of the
Southern Wind insinuated their way into the mouth of the alley. Now calmer, Yat-Shan reached
into the folds of his ceremonial garments and withdrew a small candle from its pouch, along with
a bit of iron and a piece of flint.Coaxing a spark onto a pinch of tinder, Yat-Shan soon lit the taper
and began to take stock of the place which sheltered him.Most of the temples, shrines, libraries
and mausolea of Nashir communicated with one another through intricate webbings of hallways,
tunnels, and even bridges in some instances. The Curator little doubted that he would be able to
make his way back to the abbey by travelling from building to building in the general direction of
his destination until he came upon a structure or a thoroughfare which he recognized and could
use as a landmark. Holding the candle high above his head, Yat-Shan peered about him in the
enclosing gloom, searching for a door or hallway which would take him in the direction he
desired.The feeble flicker illumed only the area immediately around the door through which he
had just passed, and so the young curate was obliged to follow the wall to his left in the hope
that it might provide egress from that veritable cavern of a room.From a source which he could
not determine Yat-Shan heard, now and again, the moanings and whimperings of the Southern
Wind as it swept around the temples, spires, and pillared porticoes outside. He quickly
suppressed a mad impulse to laughingly taunt the searching spirits of the wind, and silently
continued his own quest. He could discern no identifying features of the vast enclosure in which
he had taken refuge, save those of its immense size and great age. The huge stone blocks which
formed the walls had not been employed in Nashir's architecture within the last thousand years
— not since the closure of the Quarry a millenium ago. This, then, must have been one of the
oldest surviving buildings in the city. Yat-Shan realized, with some unease, that these stones had
come from that place which was now a haven for all manner of unclean things.Shaking such
unhelpful notions from his cowled head, the priestling raised his candle yet higher and
approached an arched entryway which appeared to lead in a promising direction. Having passed
through the archway and moved some distance down the lightless corridor, Yat-Shan
encountered a wooden door of such antique design that he knew that this was, without
question, one of Nashir's first-erected structures. He put forth his hand to test whether the portal
was locked and was startled as the entire barrier crumbled to dust under his touch, burying his
sandalled feet beneath a mound of fine, desiccated powder. Yat-Shan kicked and stamped as
much of the dust from his feet as he was able and stepped into a chamber into which penetrated
a murky half-light through a crystal skylight in the ceiling above. Wishing to prolong the life of his
candle, he extinguished it and replaced it in an inner pocket.The room in which he now found
himself was not a large one and had as its central feature an altar of sorts upon which lay an
irregular mass which had long since been obscured by the sifting dust of centuries. Unable to
resist the command of his great curiosity, Yat-Shan approached the dais, stepped up to the altar,
and began brushing away the blanketing deposit.The configurations of the hidden shape at first
confused the Curator,for its contours were strongly suggestive of a massive skeleton, vaguely
man-like. The discovery of a human skeleton would hardly have surprised or discomfited Yat-
Shan, for he was more than passingly familiar with rites which required the participation —
willing or otherwise — of persons whose mortal forms (or portions thereof) were deemed to be
fit oblations to this god or that. But not only was this skeleton clearly not that of a man, woman,
or child, it was not composed of bone at all, but rather of some dark, smooth stone so finely
wrought that each smallest joint and skull fissure was intricately articulated. Yat-Shan used his
kerchief to brush away the last of the concealing dust and stepped back to better view his
discovery.
The shape upon the altar, apparently in semblance of the repose of death, was, indeed, an ebon
skeleton of unearthly size and shape. Standing, it would have been half again as tall as Yat-Shan
and at least thrice as broad in the shoulders. Its feet and hands terminated in claws fully as long
as a man's fingers, and the bones of a short tail appeared to depend from the base of the beast's
oddly-formed pelvis. The willow-thin bones of huge wings seemed to be folded beneath it, but
obscuring dust made any certain identification impossible. As startling as were all these
attributes, most startling to Yat-Shan was the aspect of the skull and facial bones which seemed
to combine the most repellant features of bat and snake in appallingly realistic composite. As the
thing had obviously not been a sacrifice, YatShan had some difficulty ascertaining the meaning of
his find until he recalled a chapter from a little-studied text which he had surreptitiously
consulted during his apprenticeship in Shulkarong. That time-eaten scroll, The Heresies of Gvada-
Reesb, had dealt - in veiled fashion —with the worship of Zathogwa, outlawed by all proper and
wholesome gods before ever the first human drew breath to scream. Gvada-Reesh had declared
that Zathogwa had once fathered an offspring through a female of the race of serpent-beings
which had ruled the earth prior to man's tenuous dominion. That offspring, Kzadool-Ra, had
offended its dread sire by some unspecified act of cosmic betrayal and had been summarily
incinerated in the devouring wrath of Zathogwa. All that had remained, claimed GvadaReesh, was
the lithic skeleton of the creature which soon became, itself, an object of worship by certain
heretics of Zathogwa's sect. Those apostates had all vanished unaccountably over the span of a
single night, and the location of the subject of their adoration — this very skeleton — had been
unknown since that night. Yat-Shan knew not whether any of his ecclesiastical brethren had
knowledge of this shrine or of its vast theologic potential. The multitudinous possibilities fairly
danced in his imagination, and he was hard-put to decide which to allow his fancy to embrace. In
an instant, though, one prospect perforce took on life and strength and dimension of its own
which far outstripped all lesser notions.Stepping up to the head of the altar, Yat-Shan's eyes
delved into the monstrous empty sockets of the son of Zathogwa. In that moment he determined
to carry out a most bold and heterodoxical act: to offer worship to Zathogwa, the Outcast God,
and to importune that deity to accept his fealty and his priesthood. He reasoned, from his wealth
of knowledge of the ways of his offspring this would be the ideal locale from which to make
obeisance to Zathogwa, for a portion of the god's cosmic awareness must always remain in this
place. Having thus conceived so venturesome a plan, Yat-Shan determined not to procrastinate so
much as an hour, but to act immediately before timidity prevented him.
The cleric stepped down from the altar and withdrew from his robes all of his remaining candles
and the means by which to ignite them. There being little, if any, reliable information regarding
the favored rites of Zathogwa, Yat-Shan was obliged to draw upon his years of study of the ways
of the gods, and devised what seemed to him to be an acceptable ritual and liturgy. The feeble
glimmers of his five little candles were, now that the setting sun had altogether disappeared, the
only light in that mausoleum-shrine. He placed a taper at each of the four corners of the altar,
and set the fifth on the floor at the feet of the huge relic. Yat-Shan knelt in the dust of centuries
and, sprinkling a bit of incense now and again into the candle's flame, swayed back and forth
intoning selected portions of the timeless litanies of Zothique, the last continent of an old and
dying world. Tiny puffs of fragrant smoke arose before YatShan, and these he inhaled and blew
downward onto the floor of the shrine, signifying his devotion to Zathogwa, who dwelt in
lightless places far below the surface of the earth. Yat-Shan sang of endless caverns, and of the
spaces between the stars, and of the sentient winds which whispered in those spaces. He sang of
Zathogwa's ancient exodus from a young galaxy long since gone to ashes, of his advent upon the
infant planet Earth, and of the veneration and exaltation he had received from this world's races,
human and pre-human alike. When he had sung and recited holy writ for a respectable length of
time, Yat-Shan drew forth a small ceremonial knife and, without the barest hint of hesitation,
carved into the flesh of his left palm that forbidden sigil by which Zathogwa's minions inscribed
his infamous name.
The Curate raised his dripping hand high above his head and, screaming out the name of the
proscribed deity, smote his open hand with great force upon the shrine's marble floor. YatShan
had not known what to expect at the conclusion of his adorations, but he most certainly had not
expected that which met his eyes as he lifted his head and smarting hand from……where? The
surface from which he lifted his hand was hardly that of the floor of the shrine, but seemed to be
one of natural igneous rock. Peering about him in the semi-gloom, Yat-Shan realized that he was
no longer in Nashir at all, but had been removed to some underground place. The sulfurous
fumes which burnt his throat and eyes, and the dim, red glows cast by scattered pools of
bubbling magma served but to certify his belief that he had been transported to the
subterranean realm of Zathogwa the Abhorrent. A low rumble behind him— somehow more like
a snore than a growl—brought him instantly to his feet and facing the direction from which the
sound had emanated. Out of the shadows of huge stalagmites lumbered that which had heard
the prayers of Yat-Shan.The being projected an aura of incalculable age and wisdom, and of
powers gained on worlds long lost in space and time. It closely enough resembled the
representations drawn by Gvada-Reesh that Yat-Shan harbored no doubt that this entity was,
indeed, Zathogwa of Cykranosh, object of his earnest supplications and sire of the travesty which
lay upon an altar some untold distance above him. What startled Yat-Shan more than his uncanny
transmigration, more even than the distastefully heterogeneous aspect of the god's face and
strangely sloth-like body, was the size of the deity before whom he now stood. For Zathogwa was
but small in stature, a good deal less tall even than the cleric himself. It ambled out of the
shadows into the light cast by the nearest lava pit and squatted back upon its ample haunches to
gaze upward into the face of its devotee. It opened its battish muzzle and gave vent to a most
prodigious yawn, revealing triple rows of needle-sharp teeth. It blinked its bright yellow eyes
sleepily and finally spake.
"I am the god Zathogwa, whom you have entreated," it chittered. "I will accept now your
sacrifice," and therewith fixed its eyes upon Yat-Shan's left hand.
Knowing not what other to do, the Curate closed his eyes with a shudder and extended his
bloodied hand to the beastgod. Zathogwa stretched forth its three tongues and lapped long and
vigorously at the congealing blood. Just as the priestling was certain that he could no longer
contain his rising gorge, Zathogwa ceased grazing and licked its furred lips with obvious
appreciation.
"Your prayers and your sacrifice have been found acceptable to me," it spake. "Long, long has it
been since I have had worshippers on this planet. You may ask a boon of me, O man, nor be you
timid in your petition, for the form which I am now content to assume belies the considerable
powers which I command."
Yat-Shan bowed himself to the rocky floor of the cavern and replied to his god thusly: "I wish
only to serve thee, O Terror of the Depths, and to give thee the exaltation and sacrifice which is
thy due. None in the world above any longer revere thy name, and thy temples have long ago
been given over to neglect and desecration. Allow me, therefore, to be thy High Priest and
Ecclesiarch, and thou shalt not want for prayer and oblation so long as I draw breath."
Zathogwa closed its eyes and considered briefly before replying, and Yat-Shan was momentarily
affrighted that he might have offended the divinity with his rash request. But his trepidation was
groundless, for the sleepy little god granted Yat-Shan's desire and more besides, As Zathogwa
spake to YatShan and described the honor to be bestowed upon him the Curator very nearly
swooned with the joy which filled his soul.Never, in all of the eighty-one holy texts, had he read
or ever heard of a similar glory to be granted the servitor of any god or goddess.
"Only of this one thing must thou take care, O man," warned the deity as it shambled sleepily
back into the cavern's far shadows, "that thou offend me not in the manner of thy predecessor,
or a like fate shall be thy portion..."
Yat-Shan heard these words but dimly through the ecstacy of his elation, but they troubled him
not at all because of the skill and perspicacity with which he always discharged his sacred
obligations.
While still wrapped in the elysium of his bliss, Yat-Shan felt himself to undergo a bizarre
disembodiment in which he could not discern whether he had ceased to exist in the world or
whether the universe had altogether dissolved into nothingness around him. That absolute
remission of all physical impressions was abruptly replaced by an acute heightening of every
familiar sensation, as well as the addition of powers of perception which had never before been
his. He clenched a fist and felt great talons dig into this palm. He opened his eyes and found that
he was able to see perfectly well in the formerly stygian darkness of the chamber to which he
had been returned. The first object which claimed his attention was his own body which lay upon
the dusty floor of the shrine, unmoving and already attracting those vermin which are not held to
be overly scrupulous regarding that upon which they feast. Yat-Shan raised himself from the
stone slab upon which he had found himself.He stood and was amazed at the height from which
he looked down upon his old, discarded physical self. He opened his muzzle and offered a howl of
praise and gratityde to his new sire: the god Zathogwa! For it was true — he had been granted
the astounding ennoblement of kinship with his god! He was Zathogwa's new son, and endowed
with the restored form and all capacities of that first, ill-omened offspring. He spread first one
great wing and then the other, taking pleasure in the ripple and tension of the mighty sinews in
his back and breast. He strode to the center of the room, peered up toward the crystal skylight,
and leaped starward. Gaining speed with each power ful stroke of his wings, Yat-Shan burst
through the skylight with another joyous howl, scattering its silvery crystal shards to the darkness
like the remnants of exploding suns. He climbed higher and yet higher into the evening sky, now
come alive for him with his sharpened senses and preternatural vision. He stretched forth his
membranous wings to their fullest extent and soared upon the Breast of Night, all the winds of
the firmament there at his call and command. Far below him, Nashir seemed to cower at the
base of Mount Neeshra, the city's shadows flecked here and there with an occasional lit window
or flaming altar. But no more for him the citics of mere humans, for was he not now of the race
and family of gods? No longer would he call himself by his trifling, human name. Let the cosmos
of gods and spirits know that one of their number lived again! Kzadool-Ra had returned! Through
his augmented vision and other, less describable senses, Kzadool-Ra beheld objects, beings, and
events invisible to earthborn eyes. He discerned clearly the face of G'beesh, the moon god, as he
peered impassively down upon Zothique, His august expression seemed, perhaps, a bit less
impassive as he noticed below him the form of one he had thought long since vanished into that
oblivion shared by mortals and immortals alike. Kzadool-Ra howled a greeting to G'beesh and
sped onward. He hovered over the Quarry and saw the lost spirits and unclean creatures which
dwelt therein. Later, perhaps, he would deign to pay them a more personal visit in order to make
himself known to them and to accept their homage. But now he continued his flight, passing over
the hills of Tinarath and downward to the forest beyond. Unlike the desert about Nashir, the
forest was fairly teeming with life. Deer, birds, and woogras were plainly visible to him, as were
the woods' less salutary denizens such as lamiae, vampires, and the chance ghoul here and there.
As he glided over the vast wooded expanse he espied a lambent, golden glow moving through
the forest beneath. He hovered again, his colossal vans treading the night winds effortlessly, in
order to see what manner of being or natural wonder might cast so glorious an effulgence. The
aureate splendor seemed to move from tree to tree as it neared an open meadow, pausing at
each momentarily before moving on to the next. Kzadool-Ra positioned himself above the
clearing so to afford himself the best possible view of the emerging phenomenon. The
shimmering radiance hesitated for an instant at the edge of the meadow, then stepped forth into
Kzadool-Ra's full vision.
A being beyond all earthly beauty stood there revealed.There were no words in any human
tongue to praise the splendor of that face and form, for no human mind could conceive or
contain any experience of that transcendent refulgence. The son of Zathogwa was utterly
ensorcelled by her, nor was he ignorant of the identity of the being who had so enthralled him.
Both his human knowledge of gods and goddesses and his own quasi-divine perceptions
concurred in the certainty of her identity. She could be no other than Yahoonda, the ElkGoddess,
warder of all things sylvan from time immemorial.Unable to further restrain his allurement, he
descended to earth and stood before the goddess. He was grieved that his throat was no longer
shaped for speech, for he wished heartily to speak to her the words of adoration which filled his
heart. And she, in her turn, seemed to recognize him with a similar affectionate regard but was
disinclined or, perhaps, herself unable to speak.But no need of words had these two divinities,
here met in a mystic wood of an aged, fading planet. She put forth her hand and stroked his
muzzle, igniting in his eyes the flame of an irrepressible ardor. Kzadool-Ra reached out and drew
her to him, fanning into wilder flame that flicker of her own passion's spark. And they two
proved, in that meadow, that the differences between gods and mortals may not be so vast as
some would have men believe.
When their tryst was at last ended, Yahoonda, wordless, glided back into the depths of her
beloved forest, leaving Kzadool-Ra standing, greatly fatigued, in the glade. He warched until her
last faint golden gleam disappeared from his view, and then leaped to the air once more.
Returning by the route he had come, he was cresting again the hills of Tinarath when a
prodigious explosion all but cast him down from the sky, and Zathogwa appeared before him in
the awful splendor of his terrible wrath. No longer was he the sleepy little god of the depths.Now
he towered above KzadoolRa in his rage, and his voice was like unto the rendings of worlds.
"O faithless son!" he roared, and the hills of Tinarath trembled in their terror. "Thou hast again
taken to thyself that which is mine alone!"
Kzadool-Ra could but roar and howl in the extremity of his confusion and fear nor, it seemed,
was any protest of his intelligible to his enraged sire.
"My great love for Yahoonda is a matter of cosmic history," Zathogwa thundered, "As is her own
prediliction to take what lovers she will. I may not forbid her, but thou I have forbidden."
Kzadool-Ra bellowed forth his innocence through ignorance, but to no avail. As he watched,
hovering, the image of Zathogwa expanded until it filled the entire sky, hiding even G'beesh's
wide-eyed face from his view.
"That fate which claimed thee in ages past findeth thee once again, O perfidious one, nor shall
any death relieve thee so long as I shall dwell upon this mote of wetted dust."
Thus saying, Zathogwa pointed a gargantuan claw at the paralyzed Kzadool-Ra and spake that
word which, in the language of gods, signifies a flame. Kzadool-Ra felt his bones begin to warm,
and then to burn within him with a searing, torturous fire.

***
Del-Manphar, the kindly old abbot of Nashir's priest-caretakers, continued to pace the cold floor
of his spartan sleepchamber. His concern regarding his young protege, Yat-Shan,had grown
steadily since the setting of the sun, nor could he safely send forth a party of searchers for him.
The spirits of the surrounding desert often prowled the streets and tombs of the city by night,
perchance to encounter any vulnerable souls upon which to feast. Nothing, therefore, could be
essayed until dawn. He greatly feared that such malignant spirits as they might have made off
with the young Curator of Deities, cutting short what had promised to be a most illustrious calling
and carcer. He stood before his chamber's single window and gazed out toward the constellation
of The Dragon's Brood, seeking some solace from the stars. Of a sudden he beheld a flaming
mass appear in the sky and plummet toward the desert below. Had the flare come out of the
constellation of Eenash, or even that of Shonn-Ramm, he might have been able to interpret such
as an omen favorable to the safe return of Yat-Shan.But the elder cleric sighed, disheartened, for
the streaking blaze had come from neither of these, but out of that portion of the night sky called
Nib, which was utterly devoid of so much as a single gleaming star.Del-Manphar watched the
dying coruscation fall to earth-ward, flashing down across the hills of Tinarath to disappear into
the abhorred Quarry. This final portent the aged abbot took to be a very ill omen indeed, and he
slept but poorly by reason of the particularly dolorous lamentations which arose from the pit that
night.