I feel the constricting arafel of the Hurona cloud my sight. The stars above are unclear.

  -The Journal of the Bannerman

  A long black car pulled up alongside a young professor. He wore a checkered overcoat buttoned to the neck as he bristled against a sharp wind. His mind drifted as he tried to shake off whispers gathering in the back of his mind. His horn-rimmed glasses fogged up as he breathed in the cold winter morning.

  The professor froze. My god, he gasped as he noticed the car and saw a tall man step out of it, “what’s going on?” He tried to ask.

  “Professor Scheiber!” barked the man. His curling voice shot up the professor’s spine like a bullet as he realized the odd markings on the man’s sable uniform. This was an Ahnenerbe officer.

  His body trembled as he replied, “yes?” Schreiber raised his right arm to address the strange man as his eyes continued to scan his uniform, then face, which was obscured by an antique golden mask. Cold, malicious eyes glared back from behind two narrow slits.

  “Come with me. The sisters have marked your use to me,” said the man in the golden mask. Professor Schreiber could see the man’s luger carefully tucked under his heavy leather trench coat, where a strange silver mirror glinted from within, “refusal… Is not an option, " added the Litch. Professor Schreiber slipped into the car, which quickly drove off and disappeared into the foggy night air.

  An unbearable silence pierced Schreiber’s ears and ate at his sanity until the masked man spoke again, “You may call me Heydrich, " said the Litch. Professor Schreiber squirmed in his seat. He could feel a malice gathered behind the mask; beside the Litch sat a goon with a stony face drenched in a discomforting scowl.

  “Who are the sisters?” Asked the Professor. Who are they? His mind raced until the Litch snapped.

  “Never mind them… We have other things to focus on now,” Heydrich carefully caressed the handle of his pistol as he glared at the youthful scientist. Schreiber gulped and nodded silently, “from this point on,” he continued, “You no longer exist; your life is forfeit. Your flesh belongs to the state. You belong to the state. To the sisterhood. To me… And him…” Behind the mask, Schreiber could feel a malignant smile grow.

  The Professor felt a spike of terror pierce his heart. His body felt alien to him. As unknowable as the meaning of the off-putting golden mask. Who is he? Thought the Professor.

  After an hour of driving, the car halted at a nondescript building on the outskirts of an airfield outside the city. Snow fell from the dim grey sky above. First snow since the end of the war, Schreiber thought to himself.

  A jet plane sat on the tarmac; two turbine engines quietly hummed. A strange stillness fell over the field. Something afar was watching him. Professor Schreiber exited the car, and the Litch’s goon dragged him onto the plane.

  As the jet’s engines spun on the tarmac, the Litch’s goon saluted, and Heydrich stepped aboard, “send word to Mother Superior,” Growled the Litch, “I have the key," he said as the door was sealed by two pilots covered in thick rubberized masks. After a few checks around the cabin, they closed the door to the cockpit, and the professor could hear the clicking of switches and felt a change in the engine’s pitch.

  Schreiber’s heart pounded, and his mind raced as the sound of the whispers gathered once more. His hands gripped the edge of his seat, and his teeth gritted together painfully. A buzzing feeling filled his belly, and his head rocked backwards into the headrest behind him. Then, in the darkness of the cabin, he heard a voice pour from the void.

  “I am Ozymandias, son of the Atmah—God of Kings. I… Am,” long ages wrapped around the Dead God’s voice filled him like the chanting of thousands of monks in prayer. His ears reverberated with the sound, and his heart beat in step with the words, “come and walk along my path,” spoke the Dead God.

  “He has been watching you for quite some time,” the Litch explained as the jet flew over the rich Black Forests of Germany towards Berlin, “you are the last piece in a glorious project. He has prepared his key…” He took a leather-bound book from his pocket and placed it on the table between them. It was ancient, worn, and beaten. On it lay the name Cordillia.

  “No…” The Professor gasped with growing unease, “I am not ready… I am not-” his voice stumbled as he fumbled for words before the man with the golden mask, “why are you doing this?”

  “Some years ago, now,” The Litch chuckled, “before the war, several members of the Ahnenerbe division of the Schutzstaffel and I… Traveled to the distant lands of Tibet.”

  Heydrich picked up the book, his thoughts drifting to a distant past and lost futures as he spoke, “We made a fascinating discovery there,” the Litch slowly unhooked the silk straps that held his mask, “we were told that Cordillia was a myth… Our search was fruitless,” his voice crawled, “however… Independent of the text, we found a carving in the ancient Cordil language and translated it. It pointed northward… To the mountains,” He took the mask off and placed it carefully on the table, “deep in the Tibetan mountains, hidden for an age, we found an ancient tomb… Older than mankind. Inside…” The Litch smiled, revealing his warped teeth, “I found the tomb of the Dead God… Ozymandias,”

  A shiver ran down the side of the professor’s face, his voice trembled, and his breath became sparse and labored. The Professor’s heart beat harder than he could ever have imagined, “then you have come for me…” Schreiber’s voice trembled as he gazed upon the mark of the Dead God upon his mottled brow.

  “Indeed,” Heydrich continued as he leaned forward, mere inches from Schreiber’s terror-stricken face, “The Dead God was locked away, his power weakened… But he could never truly die… He has designed a vessel for his soul. And you, I fear, are his key…” the Professor looked down at his feet and then up at the Litch, who smiled darkly as the shiver ran down the professor’s spine.

  Soon, the jet landed at a small airfield near Berlin with a heavy series of thuds on an unfinished airstrip. Before them stood a series of barracks and bunkers, huddled like watchful guardians, leading up to a large obsidian pyramid that jutted unnaturally out of the earth. No soldiers gathered; instead, a set of women in black habits gathered by the doors of the pyramid along with several priests bearing the markings of the Ahnenerbe.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Heydrich approached the sisters, and one of them stepped from the crowd. She had a youthful face, but the eyes of a crone poured from her dilated pupils. Professor Schreiber shook his head to clear his mind of the gathering whispers when he heard her unnaturally old voice.

  “The preparations have been made…” Said the old woman’s voice, “The machine is ready… Is this the key?” She leaned in closer and whispered, just barely audible to Schreiber, “and what of Herr Himmler. His Schutzstaffel will not stand for this.”

  The Litch smiled coldly, “he was taken care of this morning,” he explained, “none could have survived the crash… His Schutstaffel will be relegated to police work in the Allfather’s empire. They cannot stand in our way now.”

  Heydrich affixed the golden mask to his face and glared at the crone's eyes on the young woman with contempt, “I will see it through,” his voice chilled, “step aside, sister.”

  “You walk with God now,” said the crone to Schreiber as they reached the entrance to the obsidian pyramid. Professor Schreiber dreaded each step but pushed forward regardless. His steps were compelled by the growing whispers in the back of his mind. He felt their controlling sound dig into his spine.

  The pyramid’s heavy steel door slid open into darkness, and the Professor entered, letting his eyes adjust to the dim, distant bulbs of the vast tunnel before him. Each footstep echoed along the long hall as he approached a single source of glowing light.

  Through the liminal, he flowed into the tomb's still, black air. A deep light arose from the depths of the obsidian stones laid out before him. The light he saw peered out of time and space, out of the vast infinite that first birthed the great gods that ruled before the world's rebirth and reformation in the eternal oppression of the darkness of the universe, “in the darkness, I remained,” Ozymandias spoke from the shining black stones, “in the darkness, my masters watched, hidden in their temple that has remained ever resilient against the light of my father. In the Darkness, I hid from Hurona and her Migmagod.”

  Professor Schreiber looked upon them and saw repeated patterns in the markings now dancing softly with light, “these etchings are a story of star paths. They are my vessel, the coding of my home,” The Dead God spoke with the command of ages. Behind him walked the Litch and the women in their black habits.

  Around them gathered beaten laborers whose gaunt faces made them look like shades. Schreiber peered at their marked arms, and his hands shook with fear. Numbers tattooed to mark their names and woven in their hidden words were songs of ancient pains. I must escape, thought the Professor. I must get out of here.

  “You shall live on,” said the Dead God as his voice rose above the chattering whispers, “I have a glorious purpose for you, a part of our plans, Schreiber, for you are my holy scribe. You shall write the last words upon my prison… My tomb,” Ozymandias spoke with the voice of a thousand ancient kings. The Dead God’s words wrapped around Schreiber’s mind as law, and his master’s command was absolute.

  Together, they stepped into a grand chamber with a long stone walkway surrounded by two vast pits, and as far down as any human eye could see were thousands of interconnected slabs of steel concealing the inner mechanisms of a thousand computers. Running from each component were a series of interconnected data tapes, each containing reams of blood-soaked, coded spells.

  The hairs on the Professor’s arms stood, and his mind fired off memories and thoughts at a rate he could not fully comprehend. He saw eons pass, endless wars waged, and the battle that sent Ozymandias into an endless desert, entombed in stone. He saw the coming of the Bannerman and the Collector, the war of the La’Anatula, and the Migmagod’s eyes gazing over all the lands of Cordil and the Dead Gods whose blood fed the cradle of her long-destroyed Empire.

  He felt the light of rebirth on his face, and the light spread through the universe once more. In the darkness, he saw light shed upon the stony face of Ozymandias. He saw Shadows gathered in the darkness, their temple rising, and oceans threatening to swallow the world beyond. He saw the rise of the Romans, the fall of the Pharaohs, and the destruction of their pyramids. He saw great bombs falling on the red surface of a distant world. He saw a great war raging for the cradle of the Empire. In the darkness, he felt the weight of a billion years.

  Professor Schreiber’s mind collapsed under the weight of infinite knowledge, and his heart began to strain and sputter. At that moment, his soul left the flesh to which it had been tied, and he could see the Dead God standing before him. Schreiber gaped in awe as the Dead God’s outstretched hand grasped and cradled his crying soul.

  Heydrich grasped the entranced Professor and brought him to an altar at the center of the chamber. Behind him, the sisters in their rich black habits closed their eyes in silent prayer to their Allfather, Ozymandias.

  “Cast my words,” Ozymandias spoke, and Schreiber trembled, “transcribe them upon this mechanical trap, and I shall let my soul pass from their prison of stone… Into a CODEX of my holy design. Professor Schreiber gazed upon the golden God, the Dead God who stood before him, and bathed the young man in incomprehensible light.

  “You must listen to me…” Whispered the Litch, “You have done well; you have served our master, and you shall receive your reward… Dictate into the machine and give it his command.”

  Then, from the depths of the whispers that churned in the back of Schreiber’s mind ascended a prayer uttered in the depths of time, a gift of father to son.

  Hope is the first salvation,

  For I give life with my gift.

  Hope that we might remake together,

  That which decays without care.

  Breathe, my son, for you are loved,

  And I shall grant, forevermore,

  My Kingdom, on earth, to your stead.

  Together on my golden path,

  No Shadows shall stand in our way.

  With the final words of the prayer transcribed into the machine, the Litch could feel vast power flowing from the depths of the pyramid. He smiled behind his golden mask and stood back from Professor Schreiber. Slowly, he unbuckled his holster and retrieved his Luger.

  With a painfully sharp snap, Schreiber’s blood splattered over the ticking mechanical reels built to house Ozymandias. His sacrifice and words seeped into the mechanism, bringing the ticking horror to life. The Dead God’s soul crept into the vessel.

  Then, one by one, soldiers drenched in black uniforms shot the laborers and cast their bodies into the eternal machine. Their bones became part of the gears and rods, and the magnetic tapes were sealed with blood.

  The dead eyes of Professor Schreiber gazed upon the vast form of Ozymandias, whose soul spread like a cloud across an empty crimson sky, “come, child,” the Great God beckoned. Come and kneel with me at the altar of your creation.”

  With a look of smoldering disdain, Heydrich kicked the Professor’s corpse into the churning mechanisms below.

  “You shall be part of my flesh,” whispered Ozymandias, “Your soul shall remain here and continue to advance our work. Deep within this machine, your bones shall lie, and your soul shall feed its growth forever,” the vast God stood before his subject and picked up Professor’s sobbing soul.

  “Is it done?” Asked the Mother Superior to the Allfather’s Litch. Heydrich nodded softly and smiled behind his golden mask, “the Allfather shall remake this world… It shall be the crown jewel of an Empire across the stars.