The rest must be below ground, he surmised. That would make a great deal of sense, considering the terrible conditions of heat and cold here at the surface. Underground, they could keep the temperature stable at a comfortable level.
Looking at the fierce, scarred faces of the warriors he passed, he doubted that comfort was high on the list of priorities for the dwellers of Ka’i-Nur.
He came to stand a few steps in front of the keeper and her escorts, who glared at him. The keeper, he could clearly see, was ancient, and he suspected hers was the voice that had spoken to him at the gate. Those of his race typically did not suffer atrophy with age, remaining in their prime until very near the end, when their bodies suddenly began to shut down. Of course, among the warrior caste, few ever lived to die of old age.
Among the non-warrior castes, there were some few whose bodies did begin to show signs of aging. By that time, they were very, very old, indeed.
Before he could say anything, she turned and shuffled slowly toward the entrance to the structure.
He followed her, remaining silent, and the two guardians fell into step beside him.
As they passed through the great arch that led into the mysterious structure, the desiccating heat fell away behind them. The air inside was cool and pleasantly humid, with the scent of a clear mountain spring. The walls around him, still of the same black stone, glowed to provide light in the same fashion that was found outside the walls of this unfathomable fortress.
The large atrium, which was guarded by six warriors, led to a spiral staircase in the center that was large enough to easily hold two tens of warriors standing shoulder to shoulder. In fact, the stairs appeared to be the sole reason for the building. While there were several alcoves evenly spaced around the perimeter of the building’s interior, the rest of the space was devoted to the stairway that led below.
As they descended, he noted that the stairs were well-maintained. In so old a place as this, the steps should have been well-worn, the stone eroded away by countless footfalls over the ages. But these steps could have been from newly hewn stone.
They still have builders, then, he thought. While not surprising, the confirmation might prove useful. So very little was known about this place.
Ayan-Dar counted seventy-three levels past which they walked, spiraling down ever-deeper into the earth. He could gain no insight into what might have been on each level, for there were only closed metal doors beyond the circular landings. On some levels, he heard muffled voices. On others, sounds that could have been metal upon metal, or the hiss of strange machines.
The only sounds of which he could be certain were those made by the footfalls of himself and his escorts. The four of them were the only souls in the entire massive shaft through which the stairway descended. None of the other inhabitants of this underground city were to be seen.
At last, they reached the bottom level, where the stairway ended. Here, things were different. The black stone of the stairway gave way to beautiful red granite floor and walls that glittered with swirls of minerals, all of it polished to a high sheen. Sconces held torches that burned brightly, for the walls and ceiling here were bereft of the glow found on the other levels.
A single door faced the steps. It was ancient wood, twice as tall as Ayan-Dar and just as wide. On one side were four massive metal hinges that had clearly been forged by hammer and anvil long, long ago. On the opposite side was an iron ring, as large around as his head, hanging from a massive iron plate set into the door.
His two guards took up position on either side of the door. Then, to his amazement, the keeper, this ancient female, took hold of the massive ring on the door in one hand and gave a gentle tug. Without any evident machinery or pulleys to move it, the door, which Ayan-Dar could now see was as thick as the length of his arm, swung open smoothly.
Without a look back, the keeper entered, and Ayan-Dar followed.
But as he saw what lay beyond the door, he stopped and stared.
Before him lay a vast cavern, the far end of which was so distant that he could not see it. The entire city of Keel-A’ar could have easily fit inside, with much room to spare. The floor was level, made of the same granite as in the atrium behind him, covered with a maze of walls and pillars that rose twice the height of the walls surrounding the fortress, and yet only reached halfway to the mist-shrouded ceiling above. Every surface he could see, even the threshold where he now stood, was covered in writing, tiny script etched into the stone.
These, then, the words that had been so carefully preserved since the dawning age of their civilization, were the Books of Time that he sought.
He looked down at the script that covered the granite at his feet, but could not read it. It was in an ancient tongue that had probably died out in the fury of the upheavals of the First or Second Ages. That was the fate of many of the ancient tongues that had once been spoken. Yet, here they still lived, written and preserved for future ages.
Among the walls and columns moved a small army of keepers in maroon robes. While the ancient words were preserved in stone, the ability to both interpret them and index the information lay in the minds of the keepers. They were not only the scribes of the countless words here, but were also the living indexes of the vast repositories of information that made up the history of their race.
The ancient keeper who had been his guide had paused and was regarding him with a severe expression.
Reluctantly focusing his attention on her and the twisting stairway that led toward the main level below, he stepped toward her.
She turned around and began the long descent to the main floor.
When they arrived, a group of keepers was waiting. They stood in a semicircle, their hands clasped in the billowing sleeves of their robes. All eyes were fixed on Ayan-Dar.
The ancient keeper stopped, then turned to face him. “One question.”
Ayan-Dar chose his words carefully. “What say the Books of Time of a female child, born in the shadow of a Great Eclipse, who has both white hair and talons of scarlet?”
The ancient keeper’s eyes widened as she let out a slow breath. The others showed no reaction.
She knows something, Ayan-Dar thought, his expectation of disappointment turning to excitement.
After a long moment, the ancient keeper spoke. “The child of which you speak was foretold by the oracle Anuir-Ruhal’te before the Final Annihilation in the Second Age. Come.”
She led him past the other keepers on a trek through the maze. The walls and columns he had seen from above had lacked any true sense of scale. Here, walking among them, they were titanic. And everywhere, on every flat or curved surface, was tiny writing in many tongues. Some of it was clearly rooted in the language in common use today. Others were only strange glyphs at whose meaning he could not even guess.
At last, she came to a stop before one of the great columns. Without a word, she levitated from the ground, taking him with her.
As they rose higher and higher, Ayan-Dar gawked at the immensity of the cavern and the wealth of information that must be stored here.
When they reached the top, the keeper stepped from the thin air upon which they were standing onto the solid granite surface of the column.
Ayan-Dar followed right behind.
Looking down, the keepers toiling below were no larger than tiny mites in his eyes, and the top of the column was so high that it was shrouded in the mist that concealed the ceiling of the gigantic chamber.
Kneeling on the hard, wet stone, the keeper ran her hands over the etchings until she found the one she sought.
Slowly, she read the words that were formed in an angular script that dated back nearly three hundred thousand cycles:
Long dormant seed shall great fruit bear,
Crimson talons, snow-white hair.
In sun’s light, yet dark of heaven,
Not of one blood, but of seven.
Souls of crystal, shall she wield,
From Chaos born, o
ur future’s shield.
Ayan-Dar knelt beside the ancient keeper, his heart racing. He wanted to reach out and run his fingers over the ancient words, but knew that to do so was forbidden.
The keeper was looking at him closely. “You have seen the child of which Anuir-Ruhal’te spoke.” It was not a question.
He did not want to admit the truth, but he was honor-bound to do so. “I have, mistress. In the city of Keel-A’ar.”
“Thus, do you have the answer to your question, priest of the Desh-Ka. Now, it is time for you to leave this place.” She stepped out into the open air that surrounded the column, and was held there as if she were standing on an invisible platform suspended high above the floor. She gestured for him to join her.
Ayan-Dar stepped out into space, where his foot found…nothing.
He was not caught entirely by surprise. All along, he had expected some form of treachery. As he fell forward, he tucked his chest in toward his legs and twisted to his right. This gave his left arm just enough extension that he was able to grasp the edge of the column, his talons digging into the polished stone as he uncoiled his body smoothly to face against the mountainous slab.
With a quiet grunt of effort, he lifted himself far enough that he could swing a leg over the top of the column before rolling his body to relative safety.
Calmly and gracefully regaining his feet, he turned to face the keeper, whose face betrayed disappointment. “I thought you were finished with your silly tests.”
“This is no test, priest. The child of white hair and crimson talons shall not be allowed to live to fulfill the prophecy. One of our own is destined to rule over all. She shall restore the Ka’i-Nur to their rightful place, to be first among the seven bloodlines, as was the way in ancient times.”
Glancing down, Ayan-Dar could see a brace of warriors rising along the face of the column. He had not used his powers to will himself away from this place, or simply to control his descent to the floor below when he had stepped off the column. He had not been willing to test himself in this accursed place unless he truly had to. It appeared that the time to do so would soon be upon him.
Baring her fangs, the ancient keeper said, “This shall be your tomb, priest of the Desh-Ka.”
CHAPTER SIX
Syr-Nagath howled with bloodlust as her sword took the head from yet another enemy warrior. Around her, warriors hacked and clawed at one another along a battle line that ranged for leagues on either side of where she fought. The air was filled with the sounds of screams and snarls, of metal crashing upon metal, of flesh torn and bones crushed. She was intoxicated by the coppery smell of the blood that drenched the battlefield, and savored the taste of it on her lips where it had spattered from those she had slain.
The army facing hers was a coalition of the last kingdoms and independent cities in the eastern reaches of T’lar-Gol. The sea was only a few leagues distant, the blue-green water and frothing whitecaps visible from the tallest of the nearby hills. This army was now all that stood between her and the conquest of the entire continent.
But the enemy was not inclined to give up easily. More and more warriors were pouring forth into their lines, not only from the eastern kingdoms, but from those to the north and south. It was the largest force her army had ever faced, and was growing by the day.
She, in turn, was bringing forward more and more of her own warriors. While there had been times when her battle lines had been strained, she knew that in the end she would win. Millions of warriors were now beholden to her, and she knew the enemy could not match her strength. While the battle would rage on for some time, her victory was inevitable.
When the enemy finally surrendered and the warriors were bound to her by their honor, she would begin the next phase of her plan, the conquest of Urh-Gol, which lay beyond the Eastern Sea. That would be the open-handed move, the one that would be visible to all, and would captivate their attention.
With her closed hand, she would begin to weaken the Desh-Ka, using Ria-Ka’luhr as a pawn. He was the key to making them vulnerable. When she had completed her conquest of Urh-Gol, she would strike at the temple. By then, she would have a vast army and, just as important, the weapons she would need to destroy the Desh-Ka.
She knew that she had to deal with them first. While it was the smallest of the orders, it remained the most powerful. If she first destroyed either of the other two orders on the Homeworld, the Ana’il-Rukh or Nyur-A’il, the Desh-Ka would likely mount an attack that would prove devastating. But if she destroyed the Desh-Ka first, the other orders, which were far less powerful, could be dealt with in their turn.
And then she would reach toward the stars to take the Settlements.
She bared her fangs in ecstasy at the thought as she parried the strikes by a pair of enemy warriors before whirling inside the arcs of their blades. Driving her claws into the throat of one warrior, she jabbed the tip of her sword under the jaw of the other, the blade piercing the warrior’s brain.
That was when she felt it. While she could sense nothing of the other six orders, her blood was closely bound to the Ka’i-Nur. She knew that something momentous had just happened, and she staggered with the intensity of the feelings that overwhelmed her.
Syr-Nagath knew the source all too well: the ancient mistress of the keepers. The Dark Queen saw a vision, a child with white hair and crimson talons, in a great walled city. And death. Her own, if the child did not die first.
“My queen!” Two of her warriors leaped into the gap as she staggered back from the line. More warriors ran forward from the reserve as the enemy, sensing weakness, surged forward in a roar of voices and clashing of steel.
To this and all else around her, Syr-Nagath was oblivious. She could focus only upon the images in her mind that were so intense they had blinded her. The child, unlike any she had ever seen. Her own death, a dark, cold shadow upon the future. And the walled city, which she knew well.
It was clear to her what must be done.
Whirling away, flinging blood from the tip of her sword into the roaring maelstrom behind her, she summoned her First and strode quickly from the field of battle.
* * *
Nil’a-Litan had been badly wounded in the day’s battle and had been sent back to be treated by the healers. A young warrior just out of the kazha, she was part of Kunan-Lohr’s retinue that served under Syr-Nagath. As with the other warriors, she had been proud to serve her master in the many battles that had raged across the lands of T’lar-Gol. But honor, not loyalty, bound her to the Dark Queen’s service.
As she sat against a tree among the throngs of wounded, a mass of healing gel working its silent wonders on the deep wound in her left shoulder, she saw Syr-Nagath storm past, followed by her First and three of her senior war leaders. Nil’a-Litan recognized them, for they were the queen’s favorites from among the retainers she had chosen after killing the old king. They were fierce warriors who did her bidding without question, and were greatly feared by their vassals, many of whom had found themselves shackled to the Kal’ai-Il. Or worse.
As the queen stalked by, her gaze swept the mass of wounded and lit upon Nil’a-Litan, who still clutched the banner of Keel-A’ar she had been given the honor to bear. In that fleeting moment, seeing the queen’s expression change at the sight of the banner, Nil’a-Litan was sure that had she been closer the queen would have killed her. Never had she seen such an expression of unutterable hatred. Nil’a-Litan only gave thanks that she could not sense the queen’s feelings. She could only wonder at what she had done to fall from grace in the queen’s eyes.
Assuming the queen’s ire had indeed been focused on her.
But she had looked first at the banner, she thought. That is what had drawn her attention.
Glancing around, she saw that there were no senior warriors of Keel-A’ar present. Struggling to her feet, she looked in the direction of the battle. She could see the banners of her master’s warriors in the thick of the flashing swords and howli
ng war cries, but there were no captains of her city’s army anywhere close by.
Reluctantly setting down the banner beside one of her comrades, a ghastly wound in his abdomen just below the edge of his breastplate, she stood up and made her way slowly toward the pavilion. She did not need the many years of training and high knowledge of a priest to know that something was wrong, and she felt honor-bound to discover what it was. If she had made a transgression that had found ill-favor with the queen, she would redeem herself through whatever punishment Syr-Nagath chose to mete out. And if it had to do with the servants of Keel-A’ar or her master Kunan-Lohr, she would try to discover what it was so the senior warriors could address it before her lord returned.
She could not, of course, barge in on the queen, but it was within any warrior’s purview to seek the counsel of the First.
Holding her wounded shoulder, hissing from the pain, Nil’a-Litan stood up straight and moved purposefully toward the entrance to the pavilion. Saluting the guards, she said, “I would speak with the queen’s First.”
With a nod, they let her pass, and she stepped into the entry vestibule of the palatial tent. She had been in here before with her master, but that had been during a planning session, and he had brought her along so she would gain experience in such matters.
Now, the vestibule and the rooms around it were empty.
Forcing down her misgivings, she moved toward the queen’s chambers, which always faced toward the battlefield so Syr-Nagath could watch the progress of the fighting when she rested or planned.
In Her Name: The First Empress: Book 01 - From Chaos Born Page 8