Guardian

by Thomas F Monteleone

  But there are worse places.

  To the northeast of the Scorpinnian lies a bleak and singular place. It is called the Slagland. Like a flat, gray-watered ocean, it stretches to the far horizon, continuing perhaps to the edge of the World itself. It is smooth as a sheet of glass, and equally featureless, being composed of vitrified rock and basalt and melted steel. At one time, far in the world’s past, it may have been a huge complex of cities and industries, but something happened which caused even the earth itself to boil like oil in a cauldron. Everything melted and ran like lava, staying hot for perhaps a thousand years, until it cooled into a diamond-hard, totally flat, unbelievably dead place. It is a cold-steel meadow where nothing moves, where nothing lives.

  But as one moves south and west of the Slagland, life appears once more, although grudgingly and with little respect for itself; the aforementioned smears of Pindar and Eyck, which lie huddled along the meanders of the Kirchou as it empties into the G’Rdellian Sea.

  To the south of that emerald body of water lies a flower in the midst of and nothingness: the nation of G’Rdellia. Perhaps the oldest continuing country in the modern World, G’Rdellia is proud of its heritage, its history, and primarily its culture. Although the land is as poor as the Scorpinnian is rich, the G’Rdellians coddled and coaxed and worked the land until it produced for them. They are a nation of workers. They sing and smile as they work, weaving it into their culture and their tradition. G’Rdellia is a nation of builders, sailors, artists, traders, and thinkers. In their capital, Eleusynnia, beauty flourishes. There is art here; there is music in the streets. Architecture born of a feeling, design from the philosopher’s stone, function following the rigors of meditation, all of these things are found in Eleusynnia. The country is involved in World commerce and is probably second only to Nespora in such skills, but it is also concerned with the propagation of culture, of true humanity, and in this it is second to none. The citizens are autodidactic philosophers, and their concepts of form and beauty have permeated their personal interpretations of logic, but this has become no impediment. The G’Rdellians see the World as a naturally logical place, with everything having reasonable cause and effect. They never attempt to go against this natural cosmic flow. And above all this, there is the long-standing heritage of their status as class-one soldiers. The special sect of Kell Warriors are the most dreaded in the World, but they are employed only in defense of their own borders. The G’Rdellians are by nature a peace-loving, nonimperialist people, although it would not be such a terrible thing if all the World were not at least similar to such a country. Here, at last, peradventure, is a time and a place where a little imperialism would not be a bad idea.

  South of G’Rdellia lies one of the greatest mysteries of the First Age. The land, untouched by loving hands and minds as in the north, has become arid and dusty and full of a singular gloom. The soil here is changing into sand and the vegetation is becoming wiry and scrawny, if not dying out altogether. It is called the Ironfields and with good cause: it is a gigantic graveyard of metal things. Relics from uncounted wars, death dealers of past ages, war machines, whose functions have been long-ago forgotten, lie broken, half-buried, and corroding in the unrelenting sun. Time lies heavy in this place, and there is a scent of death, which hovers about the shifting sands like a raven, only waiting for the chance to strike once again. It is the scent associated with machine oil and cordite, with dried blood and decay. It is believed that there was once a great battle here, a gathering of all the world’s tribes to a place where the final solution would be hammered out, then etched forever upon the armor and the bleaching bones—a grim, intolerant scrimshaw. Some say it was the end of the First Age which took place in the Ironfields. Some say that it was only the latest in what must be an endless cycle of Armageddons, and that perhaps the First Age is misnamed—that its proper label should be something like “the Previous Age.” Who can say? There is no evidence to refute either argument. Or any argument for that matter. Evidence lies in the presence of the broken machinery; evidence which dolefully says: We were here, and this is how we fought, and this is where we died. The mysteries survive their deaths and no one now claims to know who it was who came to this place to fight and die.

  It is a philosophical question, and like the myriad others which plague men’s minds, there are some places better suited to ponder them than others. One such place lies north of the G’Rdellian Sea; it is the little principality of Odo. As the Shudrapur caters to the World’s stomach, Nespora to its purse strings, and G’Rdellia to its aesthetic sense, thus does Odo serve the world’s intellect. Its principal city of Voluspa is a venerated place, said to have been built upon the ruins of seven other great cities, all upon the same spot. It is a cosmopolitan place, studded with churches and mosques and temples, its skyline a forest of spires and minarets, each vying to capture the glint of bright dawns and fading dusks. Every religion, every sect, every “school” of philosophy has flocked to the shores of Voluspa, each establishing a headquarters somewhere within the labyrinthine streets and alleyways. Universities and libraries also crowd for space among the ancient edifices, and the boulevards are filled with the traffic of monks and priests, the corners abounding with prophets and oracles. It is a city—nay, a country—filled with learning, with polite argument, deference and, of course cerebral stimulation. There is, at the Great Library at Voluspa, which rests like a giant stone cube upon the cliffs overlooking the Straits of Nsin, the World’s greatest collection of original manuscripts, microfiche, newsfax, processor crystals, and other ana, incunabula, and vella. Scholars, pedants, and the simply curious make pilgrimages to the Great Library to ponder the thoughts and secrets of the past ages. Again irony has had a hand in the demographics and the geography of the modern world: Odo, entranced by the pursuits of the mind, happens to be located in a spot where lesser pursuits can also be found. The city of Voluspa overlooks the Straits of Nsin, which is the gateway from the Gulf of Aridard into the G’Rdellian Sea, and northward to the Kirchou River. It is the major trade route in the East, and the Straits of Nsin form a strategic point of control along that route. For this reason, Odo, in conjunction with G’Rdellia, has vowed to always keep the Straits free and open to all ships and commerce. Odo keeps a small, but respected, standing army and a large armada of wooden ships, all of which are bound to their country’s vow. In the past, countless wars have been fought over the control of the Straits, and Odo does not wish it to become another political bargaining chip or a bright and shining spoil for the next would-be dictator-to-the-World.

  Not surprisingly, the most expected spawning ground for such a man would be the Behistar Republic. Located due west of the Ironfields, along the southern shores of the Gulf of Aridard, this country is anything but a republic. Without a twinge of conscious guilt, historians and statesmen denounce the Behistar. It is a bellicose nation, crammed with fiercely nationalistic automatons. The people are so rigorously programmed that all hint of creativity or originality has long-since fled their culture, which is as cold and devoid of life as midnight in the Manteg. The Behistar has been ruled over the generations by a succession of all-powerful “Lutens,” who have a curious demigod status in the culture. The laws of divine succession to the throne still woefully apply here. A generation ago, the rest of the modern World mobilized against the Behistar Republic and after a terrible conflict, which greatly reduced the resources of everyone, imposed upon this vile nation what is commonly called The Interdict. It is a codex of rigidly enforced laws which control all trade, exchange, and movement of the Behistar throughout the rest of the World. There is a sanction against the raising of an army, and the leaders of the country are closely watched. Many believe that the Behistarians enjoy waging war simply for its own sake, reveling in the subsequent destruction and suffering. Its capital city of Landor reflects the sad state of this nation: a filth-ridden, black-stoned sprawl; its impoverished inhabitants scuttling rat-like through its narrow, shadowed streets. If there e
xists the mirror image of Eleusynnia, it is truly Landor. It is a happy accident which isolates the Behistar with natural barriers: the Ironfields to its east, the Gulf to the north, and the Samarkesh Burn to the west, which is the hottest place in the world. Temperatures soar easily above 60° Centa, and there is a total absence of wind. The dunes do not move; grain upon grain lies dead and unshifting for centuries, unless violated by the errant footfalls of some hapless animal who gets lost within its borders. The Burn is the fiercest surface on the face of the earth: a simple, unassailable truth. Few things live there, fewer still attempt to traverse it.

  It is not an impossible barrier, however, and its neighbors to the west, in the expansive nation of Zend Avesta, have little fear of the Samarkesh Burn. Located on the westernmost borders of the Aridard Gulf, Zend Avesta is a vigorous, energetic nation of adventurers, traders, pirates, sailors, artists, and inventors. It is said that if technology triumphs in this, our ragtag World, then it will have its beginnings in Zend Avesta. There are those among us who claim the renaissance has already begun: Tales of First Age artifacts being unearthed or reconstructed wind there way around the Gulf, always having their origins in this marvelous country. Tractors running on the methane gas of animal turds, windmills with Teflon gearings, electric generators, and experimental radio. These are but a sampling of the wondrous things of which men from Zend Avesta dream. Although all the country’s cities—Nostand, Borat, Ques’ryad, and Maaradin—are exciting, pulsatingly alive cities, there is no equal to the wonder which is Ques’ryad. Alabaster towers, sparkling lakes and spires, courtyards and hedgerows, wide boulevards, aflame with the flags of a hundred thousand families, tribes, and societies. It is a city of movement and life. The merchants’ stalls are alive with the languages of the World, the great quays which open upon the Sunless Sea offer sanctuary to the ships of the World. Great wooden vessels, their furled masts a tangle in the westering light, flock to Ques’ryad like moths to the dangerous flame. It is the largest port city on the Gulf, and a haven for traders and pirates, beggars, and kings. It is the jumping-off point for archaeologists, explorers, outfitters, and adventurers. If there is any romance, as well as classic danger, remaining in the World, then it resides in Ques’ryad.

  And so one may grasp the confines of the World. Not an overwhelming mass of cultures, but enough to keep the lesser men confused and wary of one another. For as long as there will be differences, as long as men take breath, there will be wariness in the World. In so writing these words, I am reminded of yet one more place which bears mention. It is such an isolated place that one might easily ignore it, forget it. The Isle of Gnarra. Actually a small island group, the remnants of a volcanic caldera, the Isle lies southeast of the center of the Gulf of Aridard. Administered by an age-old monarchy, a family now rife with gene infestation, hemophilia, and congenital idiocy, the people of the island-nation slough away at life as their grandfathers have taught. They are fishermen and shipwrights, shepherds and farmers, and little else. This Isle remains in the backwash of current affairs and is largely ignored by all the powers-that-be, however it is the home of very old religions—now in disfavor or out of metaphysic vogue—and it is said by some yellow-eyed sailors and other wary travelers that the Isle of Gnarra is still the seat of occult phenomena. Although rumored the home of wizards, sorcerers, necromancers, and the like, there is little evidence of their influence anywhere in the World—save in the minds of superstitious men.

  In summing up then, the World is simultaneously a small and a large place. Diverse cultures and beliefs huddle cheek to jowl about the shores of the only familiar, negotiable body of water on the planet. Beyond the humble borders of these places, no man knows what lies. It is possible that the World has always been a place of darkness and mystery with torches to light the way being few and far apart. But this writer, this “historian,” if I may enjoin myself with such a title, does not believe this.

  No. I feel that in every myth, there is a grain of truth. In history, a grain of falsehood. And there is everything in between. We cannot know what will yet come, and we may not wish to recognize what has come before, but I believe there are lessons in the buried stones, warnings in the bleaching bones, testaments within the rusting machine hulks, the black skeletons of the aircraft uncovered by wind and shifting sand, or the fused and twisted hulls of gray ships, which the oceans occasionally heave upon our shores.

  We cannot turn our backs on our heritage—whatever it may have been. If there are mysteries, and if we are men, then we must solve them.

  —A Short Commentary on the State of the World

  (from the notebooks of Granth of Elahim)

  Chapter One

  It did not, at first, seem as if it would be a special day for Varian Hamer. But he was wrong.

  Standing on the deck of The Courtesan, he watched the last reflecting paths of the morning sun break up and depart the emerald surface of the Aridard Gulf. There was a slight salt breeze, and the sounds of the great docks of Mentor were rising up about him like the communal hum of hive insects as they set about their work.

  “All right, you blooders! Get those arms pumping! Let’s go!” The first mate stalked the fo’csle, glaring at his crew, warming up his voice for a long morning.

  Varian jumped the ratlines on the starboard side and reached the first sail of the mizzen. As he worked to unfurl it, his gaze drifted out over the wharves, where other great Gulf ships were preparing to weigh anchor. Like his father before him, sailing was the only profession Varian knew, although he longed to be versed in other trades. His travels had taken him throughout the World. He knew the streets and alleyways of every major port: Elahim, Vaisya, Talthek, Voluspa, Nostand, Ques’ryad, even Eleusynnia and Landor. He was curious and bright and never seemed to have learned enough of any of the places he’d visited. He always wondered what lay beyond the horizon of the Gulf cities. Surely there was more to the World than the few dozen ports which crouched along the shores of the Aridard.

  Varian Hamer was almost two ems tall—large for a man of these times. His dark hair was long, flowing down to his shoulders in curly locks. He was not heroically muscled, but he was not thin. His dark eyes sparkled despite the loss of contrast with his deeply tanned skin, the badge of the Gulf-ship sailor. He was clothed in the traditional brown-and-whites of a merchant seaman, girdled by a thick belt and a shortsword on his left hip. Varian was skilled in the use of weapons, having had the good luck to have sailed on the famous Nightshade with a renowned weapons master, when he was barely fifteen years old. The Nightshade had been the biggest, fastest merchant ship on the Gulf, and her fabled black-and-gold hull was recognized throughout the World as a beauty and a marvel. She sailed the gulf for almost two generations, untouched by fate, or storm, or Behistar Raiders, until she was purchased by a wealthy bureaucrat in Borat. She was outfitted with a new crew and enough provisions to sink her watermark, and sent out on an expeditionary journey: an attempted crossing of the Sunless Sea.

  That was the last seen of that proud and beautiful ship.

  Varian had not sailed with her because of his youth and inexperience, but he often wondered what had happened to her crew. One of them had been Reg Furioso, the famous weapons master of Sanda. An old man by the time Varian met him on the Nightshade, Furioso was still as keen and hard as his vast panoply of first-quality blades and pistols. During the long lulls in the voyages across the Aridard, Furioso schooled the young Varian in the uses and techniques of the pike, the broadsword, the shortsword, the cutlass, the sidearm (or pistol), and the rifle. At all times, the old man stressed the dominance of the spirit over the flesh, having learned his deadly crafts through the ancient masters of Odo, the seat of philosophic understanding in the modern world.