by Gav Thorpe
In double file, the legionnaires wound between the trees, heading towards the glimmer of the rising sun that could be glimpsed through breaks in the leaves above. The soldiers were armed and armoured, having abandoned the handcarts when they entered the forest. It was better that they were prepared for confrontation, in Ullsaard's opinion; so many men would arouse suspicion in these parts regardless of how they were dressed.
A summer shower had swept down from the mountains just before dawn and the trees were alive with the patter of water falling from the canopy. The ground was wet enough to leave tracks, but there was little Ullsaard could do about that; there was only so much secrecy available to a body of fifty men. Confident that the Magilnadans and Salphors were unaware of his presence, Ullsaard felt that it would only be blind chance for a hunting party or patrol to come across them now.
The going was not easy, as Sergeant Daesio led the way, pushing through brush and bush. The trees here were old and moss-covered; their huge roots a tangle waiting to trip the unwary. A thick layer of mulch clung to the king's boots as he followed the men in front, while rotted branches, hidden rocks and uneven ground threatened his footing every few steps. The chorus of birds that had welcomed sunrise had died down, but still the arboreal gloom echoed with shrieks and chirrups from all around.
They pressed on without stop until the sun was directly overhead, at which time Ullsaard called a brief stop. Sitting on a rock slick with lichen, the king pulled out the map stowed in the top of his pack and unfolded the stained parchment. As best as he could reckon it, they had covered fifteen or sixteen miles; slow going for a normal march but a good distance considering the terrain. Calculating this position on the map, Ullsaard figured they needed to turn more to coldwards in order to avoid a Salphorian village about twenty miles further dawnwards. He fixed his mind on the direction they would have to travel and put away the map, pulling out an apple in its stead.
Even as he took the first bite, the sound of a hissed warning cut the quiet, coming from the sentries off to the king's right. Ullsaard dropped the apple and pulled out his sword, rising to his feet. Others were standing and he whispered a command for them to stay low, the order passing quietly from man to man. Treading softly through the undergrowth, Ullsaard made his way to the three men that had issued the warning.
They were crouched behind the aging remnants of a fallen tree, looking to hotwards. Ullsaard came up to them in a stoop, eyes scanning the trees for a sign of what they had seen. He stopped beside the rotting trunk and lowered himself to one knee, leaning across the flaking wood of the dead tree.
"There," said one of the legionnaires.
Ullsaard's gaze followed the soldier's pointing finger and he immediately saw the glimmer of bronze through the trees, in a clearing about two hundred paces away. The midday sun was glinting from spear points but Ullsaard could see nothing more through the undergrowth and long grass.
"How many?" he asked.
The legionnaire answered with a shrug and a shake of the head.
Thinking that he had glimpsed the crest of a legionnaire for a moment, Ullsaard considered his options. Further investigation risked discovery. An attack would be foolish without knowing how many foes they faced. Either choice would likely lead to confrontation, and although the king was sure his men would overpower whoever was out there, they would probably be missed sooner rather than later.
He tapped the shoulders of the men with him and with a flick of the head sent them back to others. He remained at the fallen tree for a while longer, trying to catch another glimpse of the men ahead, but saw nothing more revealing than a few obscured figures moving back and forth.
Turning around, he saw that all eyes were on him; most of the legionnaires had gathered together a few dozen paces back and crouched with their shields and spears at the ready. Ullsaard sheathed his sword and raised a finger to his lips, before jabbing a finger to coldwards.
The sergeants quickly divided the group into parties of five, and each of these slipped away into the woods at short intervals. Ullsaard stayed until the last group was ready to head off. He noticed that Gelthius was amongst them, a strange smile on his face.
"What's so funny?" the king asked, hunkering down next to the captain.
Gelthius looked as if he was not going to answer for a moment, but then did so, his eyes innocently looking up at the trees, not meeting Ullsaard's annoyed gaze.
"Was just thinking that you can't have had this in mind when you wanted to be king," Gelthius said with a chuckle. "Sneaking through woods with wet boots and all."
Ullsaard glanced over his shoulder, back towards the strangers, now out of sight. He gave Gelthius's shoulder a comradely squeeze.
"No, it wasn't high on my list of ambitions."
He waved the group of men away and lingered as they stalked off into the trees. Gelthius was right. He hated having to skulk around like a thief. Part of him wanted to call back the legionnaires, march into the clearing and confront whoever was out there. He was king of the most powerful empire in the world, and it stuck in his throat to be so meek. He closed his eyes and pictured Allenya's face, calming himself.
"Patience," he muttered with gritted teeth. "One thing at a time."
Pride tempered with this thought, he turned and slinked away into the woods.
Deep Mekha
Midsummer, 211th year of Askh
I
The waters of the great lake were covered with petals and leaves, a multicoloured carpet of offerings that undulated with the swell of the wind. Two-thirds of the lake's edge was filled with pitched tents amongst the lush greenery; domed structures of dark behemodon hide painted with blue and yellow designs, held up with reed poles that swayed in the wind. At the centre of each group of tents had been placed totems and fetish staves with bones and feathers and skulls hanging from them, identifying the shaman-chieftains who were present.
Some way back from the water's edge, where the short trees gradually gave way to bushes and grass, thousand of Mekhani tribesmen and women had made their camps, sleeping in rough bivouacs around their fires. Behemodons ambled at the edges of the camps, hobbled by thick ropes passed through rings in their noses to shackles on their forelegs, their dung heaps attracting thick swarms of flies. Smaller lacertils and xenosauri sunned themselves in their corrals, tongues flicking, their dappled bodies crusted with sand and dirt.
The Mekhani mingled freely, rivalries both ancient and recent temporarily set aside by the neutrality of the Calling. Some entrepreneurs took the opportunity to trade their wares, free from the threat of banditry by other tribes. In the spirit of harmony, elders discussed territorial boundaries and water rights. Dressed in their finest head feathers, tasselled arm and leg bands rustling, their red bodies painted with black and blue swathes, unmarried braves strutted from camp to camp attracting the attention of potential wives; such displays usually met with derisive hoots and whistles from wrinkled-faced matriarchs watching over their daughters and granddaughters.
Sitting cross-legged beneath his totem, Nemasolai gazed out over the great lake, lost in thought. Another Mekhani looking at the craggy, vacant-faced shaman-chief of the Allako tribe might have thought he pondered the ancient secrets of the waters, or perhaps contemplated the riddles of life, or even communed with the souls of his ancestors to divine his as-yet unknown successor.
In truth, his thoughts were prosaic. His latest mistress had left him before the journey to the Calling and the sun had risen more than thirty times since he had last been with a woman. As a holy man, he was forbidden from taking a wife, so his manly needs were met by the unmarried women of the tribe. He reviewed the potential candidates in a mixture of cataloguing and lewd daydream, trying to figure out which of the twenty-two available women best blended the virtues of beauty, athleticism, creativity, naivete and experience he desired. He was engaged in mentally sodomising Olloroa, daughter of Mainamoa, unconsciously rubbing himself through his sarong, when a shadow fell across him
.
Nemasolai opened one eye and squinted at the silhouetted figure standing over him. He recognised Manamosalai, the shaman of the Kallalo. The young chieftain held his ceremonial stave over his right shoulder, his other hand with thumb hooked into his belt of woven beads.
"Piss off," said Nemasolai, trying to retain the image of Olloroa bent willingly before him. "Can't you see I'm busy?"
In reply, Manamosalai stretched out his arm, pointing his stave towards the setting sun. Nemasolai saw that the red disc was almost touching the horizon. The pale crescent of the moon was visible in the clear sky.
"Shit," Nemasolai said, scrambling to his feet, all erotic thoughts dispelled.
"The others are gathering," said Manamosalai. "I have a boat waiting."
"Thank you." Nemasolai slapped a hand to his companion's arm. "Wouldn't want to miss this, would we?"
The shaman's gaze moved past Manamosalai, out across the lake to the far shore on the edge of visibility. That side of the great lake was bare of trees and tents; not even grass pushed through the arid earth. A single structure stood a short way back from the shore; an arch of white stone five times the height of Nemasolai, yet no wider than his outstretched arms. In the dying light of dusk, the desert beyond could be seen through the arch, yet distorted as if by a heat haze, despite the cool air around the lake.
"You're very lucky, you know," Nemasolai told his fellow shaman as they walked quickly down to the shoreline. "To be brought to a Calling happens less than once in a lifetime. To witness one at such a young age is very fortunate. I have lost count of my years, and this is my first."
"I have spoken with many of the other chieftains, and none is old enough to remember the last Calling," said Manamosalai. "We are privileged."
Nemasolai was not so sure of that. The previous incumbent of his position, Katokalai, claimed to have been to a Calling but refused to speak of what had happened, always turning away with a shudder whenever the young shaman-to-be had questioned him on it.
Holding the bow of a shallow reed canoe, Manamosalai gestured for his older companion to get into the boat first. When both of them were sat inside, they took up the rough paddles and headed out across the lake, parting the layer of devotional flora behind them.
Neither of them spoke. Not one shaman at the Calling could guess why they had been brought together, and idle speculation was not encouraged in Mekhani culture. Each wise man had received the dream of the lake and the arch thirty-five days ago, and knew instinctively what it meant. All hostilities between the tribes had been called to a halt and the shamans and their tribes' favoured families had packed up camp and moved here, marching across the hot desert without question.
The tales of the tribes described that forbidding arch as a gateway, though to what place was much in debate. Through discussions with the leaders of other tribes, Nemasolai had learnt that some shamanic tradition believed the arch led to Oogaro, the world-oasis that had spawned the Mekhani. To others, including Nemasolai, it led directly to Samonao, the everlasting fire beneath the desert that stole the water and burned the souls of the Mekhani when they were dead. A few shamans even believed that a man who passed through the arch would find himself on the moon or the sun, but they were generally ridiculed if they openly offered this view.
Glancing over his shoulder, Nemasolai saw that they still had time to cross the lake before the sun would be extinguished by the waters of Oogaro. When that happened, when the light of the new moon alone touched the arch, the shaman knew something would take place. What that something might be, he had not the faintest idea.
They drew up their boat amongst several dozen others. Clambering to the sand, Nemasolai joined the other shamans hanging around the arch. Some he knew, some he knew of, but most were completely unknown to him.
Nobody seemed sure what was meant to happen next. The casual conversation died away as the last glow of the sun disappeared. All eyes turned towards the archway. The white stone glittered, far too bright for the little moonlight reflecting from the lake.
"Where are the stars?"
Nemasolai did not know who asked the question, but immediately everybody's gaze was directed upwards. Utter blackness stretched across the sky. The air was still. The sound of the distant camps had been silenced. Not even the lapping of the water disturbed the strange night. Glancing at the lake, Nemasolai saw that everything was still, the ripples in the water unmoving. His skin prickled with cold and his breath frosted in the air.
The shamans exchanged dread-filled glances, but none spoke, frightened of breaking the frozen tableau.
"Kneel."
Two figures stood in front of the arch and had spoken in unison. Unthinkingly, Nemasolai obeyed the command; he fell to the sand and prostrated himself along with the others. He dared not look up, filled with terror by the men he had glimpsed; their rune-carved bodies unsettling, their gold-flecked eyes seared into his mind. He shivered, head pressed into the cold ground, fingers clawing into the sand.
"Long you have suffered." The voice was like the scuttling of a scorpion over a dune. "The desert sands swallowed your cities. The hot winds scoured your history from time. None of you remember that age of glory. We do."
"You were once the chosen people, and you have been chosen again." The second voice reminded Nemasolai of wind sighing across the desert, the quiet whisper of shifting grains. "A thousand years before the Askhan upstarts took your lands, you ruled over more than dust and sand. The greatest city of the world was not Askh, which even today is but a shadow of the glories found in Akkamaro. Behold, your city lives again!"
Hesitantly, Nemasolai raised his eyes from the ground. He saw first the archway, still glimmering in false moonlight. Now the arch was part of a building, an opening into the bottom tier of a mighty ziggurat that stretched into the dark sky on five levels. Flanking the arch were two sets of steps, leading up to the highest point of the building, where something bright could be seen. Looking closer, Nemasolai saw that it was an immense throne from which a man could look out over the city. Glancing to his left and right, the shaman found himself in a massive plaza, the sand beneath him now just a thin layer scattered across thousands of flagstones. Columned buildings appeared around the square out of the gloom, with high-peaked roofs of black slate and red tiles. Frescoes were painted on the white walls, showing long caravans trekking between bountiful oases and mighty armies in red cloth purging savages from verdant forests.
The gasps of the others proved to Nemasolai that this was no mirage; or if it was, one that was shared equally with his fellow shamans.
Movement and sound returned. Stars twinkled against the black velvet of the night sky. The wind keened from the buildings. Light glowed from windows, glossily lacquered shutters thrown back to reveal intricate, multi-coloured panes of glass that cast rainbows dappling on the ivory-coloured stones of the square. Lanterns hung from the broad eaves, glimmering.
And there was the sound of water; not the sluggish lapping of the great lake, but the tinkle of fountains. Sitting up to his haunches, Nemasolai looked over his shoulder at where the great lake had been. It had become a vast cistern lined with blue and white tiles, artificial islands of red wood tethered upon its surface. Water flowed down channels from this immense well, disappearing down wide streets that led into other parts of the sprawling city that now surrounded them.
Tears welled up in Nemasolai's eyes. He was filled with an overwhelming sense of fulfilment and accomplishment. More than that, he felt as one might after coming upon a familiar sight after many years of starved wandering. Every fibre of his being told him that he was home.
Nemasolai heard distant shouts of surprise and fear; the tribespeople could see the city too.
"Akkamaro, your capital, birthright of the Mekhani."
At the sound of the first voice speaking again, Nemasolai directed his attention back to the archway. The two figures had not moved, but in the warm glow of the city they appeared less dreadful. The runes upon
their flesh still disturbed Nemasolai's thoughts, but their demeanour was as stern fathers not sinister oppressors.
Some of the shamans were getting to their feet, gazing in wonder at their new surrounds. A few laughed childishly, pointing without comment at one feature or another.
"The revelation is not yet done," said the second man. All eyes turned on him. "We have brought back Akkamaro for you, but a capital needs its ruler. There are none among you worthy of forging a new future for the Mekhani, so we bring to you another gift. Look upon him and weep for your enemies, shed tears of joy for your future generations. You shall have a Great King again, as you did in the forgotten past."
A shape moved in the darkness of the archway.
"Kneel down and give praise to Orlassai, undying monarch, Great King of the Mekhani!"
The man that eased his way through the arch was barely a man at all. He stood almost twice the height of the two sigil-etched priests, with shoulders so broad he had to twist slightly to fit between the stones of the gateway. His eyes gleamed gold in the lantern light and his fingernails glittered as bronze. Like the other two, his skin was heavily marked with spiralling lines and convoluted runes; where they were wizened and frail, Orlassai was bulky and strong. Bloated muscles contorted beneath the Great King's skin as he moved towards the kneeling shamans. Veins like rope corded his flesh. His skin had the rough texture of tanned leather. Teeth like diamonds shone as he grinned at his new subjects.
Their new master had a boyish face, though much warped with prominent brows and hard-edged cheekbones. His head was bald, his scarred flesh bulging with bony nodules like a bag of pebbles.
The newcomer was clad in a high-collared robe of deep yellow, bright against his tanned skin. A belt of black bound the robe around his thick waist, its ends hanging with jewel-bound tassels. Gold and gems were hung on his wrists and ankles, and a chain of rubies and sapphires set into red gold adorned his bulging neck.