“But it was Kaledonia’s turn to lose. The queen routed her.”
Tol’zen paused again. Pashera prompted him: “What did the king think of all this?”
“What the king was doing during all this, I don’t know. Some men are not worthy of the crown.
“Kaledonia refused to accept defeat. She hated the Remnant with every fiber of her being. She hated the people who lived in one of the cities around the Great Salt Lake most of all. They were the ones who captured her originally, and that city was home to the queen’s staunchest allies in the great war.
“So, Kaledonia stole one of our weapons – something so terrible it should never be used. It should never have existed.
“With it, she was able to move the very crust of the Earth itself. And a piece of land that separated the Big Salt Lake from the world ocean was ripped apart. And the waters came through this rift, pouring through with the force of a thousand rivers. All the cities on the coast of the Big Salt Lake, and our islands as well, drowned in the deluge.
“But Kaledonia still wasn’t done,” Tol’zen continued. “Our society was in chaos. This gave her the opportunity to return to Guadalquivir. This time, the legends say, she led an army of demons. This time, she succeeded in killing the queen, as well as most of the city. But at the same time, she was herself killed.”
“By the end of the whole mess, our society was a shambles. The war and the flood had killed so many. The survivors pulled back, clustering around Guadalquivir.
“And then, showing that my race never learns its lesson, they fell prey to ANOTHER cult,” Tol’zen said bitterly. “This one declared that Kaledonia had been sent as divine punishment. That she couldn’t have done so much damage if the gods weren’t angry.
“Meanwhile, our civilization collapsed in on itself. First towns, then whole cities were abandoned. Farms were smothered by jungle.
“When the Grand Cycle ended, and it was time to move the city and start anew, the knowledge to do that was gone. Lost in the war. Too many scientists had died.
“With every century, the collapse worsened. More technologies than ever were lost as our scientists frittered away their time chasing phantoms through the stars in the Overvibe.
“And it continues. The here and now is left to neglect and dissolution, while scientists, priests and common citizens pursue daydreams and fripperies.
“And now you know the legend of Kaledonia, and the Kaledonia Calamity,” Tol’zen said. “Such as it is.”
“What do you mean by that?” Pashera asked. She ran her fingers over his broad black chest. His strong muscles felt delicious beneath her fingers.
Tol’zen shrugged. “There are some who say Kaledonia never existed. What I believe is, if she existed, she was credited with much more chaos than she actually caused. To think that one woman could have brought our civilization to its knees – impossible!
“The sad fact is, our civilization was eating itself from the inside out anyway. We are our own worst enemies.
“And now The Remnant truly is a remnant – a shadow of a memory of our once-great race. We have done this to ourselves. That is the true horror. Not some hobgoblin to scare children hiding under the bed.”
He settled deeper into the bed. Pashera moved a hand to his groin. She wanted to pick things up where they’d left off.
“My ass hurts a lot,” she said, as she stroked his faroos, and started moving her head toward his groin. “But I’m sure we could find some position to --”
He reached down and stopped her hand. He guided her head back onto his shoulder. “I want to tell you another story first,” he said. “Because I don’t think you understand why I was so angry earlier. I want to tell you about Sorach.”
“Who?”
“My slave – the slave before you,” Tol’zen said. “He was a good boy. A man. A young man.”
“Did he suck your faroos, too?” Pashera asked playfully, trying to get his mind back on sex.
“Of course,” Tol’zen said. “But that’s not important.”
A strange emotion panged in Pashera’s gut. It mattered to her that Sorach sucked Tol’zen’s faroos, and she hadn’t expected it. Sure, she’d exchanged kisses and caresses with Magwalra, but male-on-male sex was unknown among the hearty, uber-masculine men of her tribe[4]. She immediately hated this Sorach without even knowing him.
“What’s important is that he thought he had friends among the palace servants,” Tol’zen said. “Friendships cultivated over a year. One time, Sorach asked for an evening off to spend time with his friends. I gave it to him, expecting to see him in the morning.
“Instead,” Tol’zen said, anger creeping into his voice, “Stable guards came to get me the next day. They said he’d somehow gotten into the pen of some wild yasts. The yasts ate him alive.
“But when I inspected his corpse, I could see the marks on his wrists and ankles where he’d been bound hand and foot.
“The look on what was left of his face. It was … horrible.
“I made my inquiries. I talked to Sorach’s friends – they claimed he’d never shown up that night. They claimed he’d never even made any arrangement to meet them. They lied. They lied. THEY LIED,” Tol’zen’s voice rose in anger now. He sat up, his strong hands clenching the blankets.
She put a hand on his shoulder, and he lay back down. He tried to calm his voice.
“So that’s why you must never trust them,” he said. “Think of it – they put a year into luring Sorach to his doom. There’s nothing they won’t do.”
Tol’zen seemed to deflate. Tears welled up in his eyes. “Sorach was a good boy,” he said finally. “He shouldn’t have had to die that way … eaten by yasts. I can only imagine … that mustn’t happen to you! Ever!” he looked at Pashera fiercely, his eyes boring holes into her soul, as water leaked around the edges of his eyes and ran down his face.
“It won’t,” she assured him, and moved to comfort him.
Suddenly there was a pounding on the door. Three sharp knocks. Then a pause. Then three more. They were more like hammer blows.
“Who could that be? At this hour?” Tol’zen said. “It can’t be good.”
Suddenly, it hit Pashera that Amaz and her friends started the break-out without her. That could be them at the door right now, looking for her. And what would they do to Tol’zen if they found him? A chill ran down her spine.
She reached an immediate decision. She jumped up from the bed and wrapped her skirt around her waist quickly.
The hammering came at the door again.
“I’ll answer the door,” she said. “If it’s … your enemies … come to kill you, you can get away.”
“Why do you think it’s my enemies?” he said. “And why would I possibly let you answer the door if it was?”
Pashera hurried out the door without any more argument. Tol’zen stood up and looked around. He settled on a ceremonial sword, and followed Pashera out the door of his room down the hallway.
“I’ll answer the door,” he said firmly. “You hide.”
She held up a hand to stop him. “If it’s your enemies, they’ll kill you on the spot,” she said. “They won’t care about me, I’m a slave.”
“Did I not just tell you the story of Sorach?” Tol’zen said incredulously.
“But they won’t be expecting me,” she said. “You wait behind the door, and pounce if you must.”
“Tol’zen! Lord Tol’zen!” came a muffled voice through the door. The pounding on the door came again, louder.
“That settles it,” Pashera whispered. She pointed toward a corner of the room by the door. Tol’zen went and leaned closed to the wall, his sword at ready.
“I’m coming,” Pashera called loudly as she went to the door.
“Tol’zen! We need Lord Tol’zen!” the voice at the door yelled urgently.
Pashera opened the door. She saw two saurian warriors – two of the three that had escorted her to the battle the previous day.
&nb
sp; “Lord Tol’zen is asleep in bed,” she said. “As all good folk should be.”
“Wake him up,” said one of them. “There is an emergency.”
Tol’zen appeared over her shoulder. She sighed. He was hopeless. “What is the emergency?” he asked.
If the two warriors noticed that he was naked except for a sword, they didn’t mention it.
“A slave revolt,” one of the warriors said. “About a hundred of them, maybe more. Palace slaves, mostly. But there could be more, and this could be just the start.”
A knot suddenly twisted in Pashera’s stomach. So they’d started without her. And what was this “revolt?” It was supposed to be a break for freedom.
“Give me the brief,” Tol’zen said.
“The trouble started at the city gates,” one said.
“That’s not true,” said the other. “It must have started in the wonder weapons armory.”
“I was getting to that,” the first one said crossly.
“How do you get to it later if it comes first?” the second warrior chided him.
“Shut up,” Tol’zen said bluntly to the second warrior. Turning to the first, he said: “Go on.”
“Slaves appeared at one of the city gates – the southern gate -- with wonder weapons from the armory,” the first warrior said. “They tried to shoot their way through.”
“Tried? What happened?”
“Most of the wonder weapons weren’t charged,” the warrior said. “Thank the Devouring God for that,” he made a sign in the air in front of his head.
“Yes, the weapons aren’t recharged when they’re being put in storage,” Tol’zen said. “But slaves wouldn’t know that.”
“But some of the weapons worked. And other slaves were armed with other weapons. Axes, garden tools, even some spears and such. And they had the element of surprise on their side.”
“I would think the slaves were surprised when the wonder weapons didn’t work,” Tol’zen said. “But go on.”
“There was panic at the start. I think some of the slaves ran out the south gate. But a party came by on hunting spiders – nobles out whooping it up, apparently – and they blocked most of the slaves from escaping.
“So it turned into a battle inside the gates. More slaves joined in. They stripped dead guards of their weapons. But more guards from the palace showed up. The guards killed about half, and captured the rest.”
“It would have been quite the killing spree if the wonder weapons had worked,” the second guard added, then remembered he was supposed to keep quiet.
“Is it over?” Tol’zen asked.
“We don’t know sir, but the slaves killed many. Dozens. Revenge killings,” the first warrior emphasized the words. “Since you weren’t at the palace, many feared the worst.”
“I’m glad you came to get me,” Tol’zen said. “I’ll get dressed and come with you.”
He turned to Pashera, who stood quietly by his side. “Come, we should both go.”
Pashera was surprised to see Tol’zen put on formal robes. She put her bounce absorber top, sandals and slave collar. She dragged a comb through her hair.
“I’ll get you a brush,” Tol’zen told her with a wink. “You don’t have to pretend to tell fortunes to get one.”
On the way to the palace, the guards were extra-vigilant. Pashera walked with mounting dread. Did Tol’zen suspect? Would the other slaves rat her out? Most certainly they would, she realized, and her stomach twisted again. She was key to the breakout, and the weapons she provided the others hadn’t worked. Of course they would rat her out.
In the palace, in the amphitheater, Kro’tos took center stage, striding around dozens of moaning, sometimes weeping bundles of humanity wrapped up in nets and the curious elastic ropes of the saurians. The hall had been packed earlier that night for the victory celebration. Perhaps that crowd was still here. In any case, the seats were stacked from the floor to ceiling with saurians howling for blood.
“Do we not civilize you ungrateful yucks?” Kro’tos roared at the captives at his feet. “Do we not educate you, and raise you from the apish destiny you were born to? Do we not feed you, and keep you healthy far beyond any years you would live in the wilderness? And what do we get for our trouble? A little thanks? A little gratitude?”
He turned to the crowd for his answer.
“No!” the crowd shouted. “No!”
“NO!” Kro’tos shouted. “By Tsathoggua’s gonads, we do not!”
The crowd roared.
Tol’zen stepped forward, picking his way over the writhing, helpless bodies.
“Tol’zen,” Kro’tos said. “Marshall of the North. We are pleased, we are ALL pleased, that you are safe, and not one of the victims of these fiends.” He viciously kicked one of the bodies near him.
Tol’zen stood quietly for a few seconds. Then he said: “The palace slaves revolted?”
“Yes. Just catching up, are you?”
A strange look came over Tol’zen’s face, as if he was just now realizing something. Beside him, Pashera trembled uncontrollably, but unnoticed as well.
Finally, after a long pause, Tol’zen nodded. “I see you have no serving wenches, no one to fill your wine cup, oh king.” That wasn’t true. Pashera could see Gwettelen and a couple other slaves, looking very miserable. Gwettelen’s face looked bruised and red, even at a distance. But there were very few slaves bustling around the throne. The area that usually teemed with slaves was empty save for heavily-armed guards.
“Did they all revolt?” Tol’zen asked Kro’tos.
“Yes, yes, most of the palace slaves were untrustworthy,” Kro’tos said. He chuckled. “You can’t get good help.”
Tol’zen turned around the room. He pointed to a fat saurian clad in red and gold, in one of the amphitheater’s good seats. “Bel’orm,” Tol’zen said. “You have many slaves working in your dye factory. Did any of your slaves join the uprising?”
“None, Lord Tol’zen,” the other saurian said.
Tol’zen pivoted and pointed at another saurian, this one even fatter than the first, and clad in rich hues of blue and orange. “Dal’sami, you own many slaves, how many of yours took up arms?”
“None, Lord Tol’zen,” the fatter saurian said.
Tol’zen went around the amphitheater, picking out a half dozen others. Each responded that no, their slaves had not joined the uprising.
By the time Tol’zen got back to Kro’tos, the king was glaring at him murderously.
“What’s your point?” the king demanded.
“The only master neglectful enough to let his slaves whip up a revolt was you, oh king,” Tol’zen said, and something about the way he said the word “king” rang false in Pashera’s ears. “What’s more, the armory of the wonder weapons is in the palace. Who is ultimately in charge of seeing that it is properly secured?”
“The guard was already dead or I would punish him,” Kro’tos snarled.
“The responsibility is yours,” Tol’zen said. “It was also on your watch that the sky pirates were allowed to get out of control. And we haven’t even had time to deal with the crisis in the south – some new savage is attacking our convoys, whipping up rebellion and killing our citizens. That’s on your watch, too.”
“Are you challenging me?” Kro’tos roared. His hand went to his side, but found nothing there. “To a duel!?”
“Not at all,” Tol’zen said, holding his empty hands out. “But I am challenging you for leadership of the Remnant – in a vote.”
He turned to the crowd. “In two moon’s time, we will have the summer games. By old tradition, that is when we vote to choose a leader.”
“The Remnant casts its vote to reaffirms MY leadership,” Kro’tos yelled. Spittle flew from his lips, he was so angry. “As it does every year! It’s a formality!”
“Read your history,” Tol’zen said. “Traditionally, any who wants to can put his name in for consideration.”
“That hasn�
�t been done in thousands of years,” Kro’tos retorted with a snort.
“Tol’zen speaks the truth,” said a saurian from the box seats behind Kro’tos. This one, dressed in the sky-blue and gold of a historical scholar, stood up and continued in a high, clear voice: “Anyone can put his name in.”
Another saurian from far back in the box seats stood up. His voice was loud, and carried across the distance. “Let’s have a vote. Kro’tos leads us from one disaster to another.”
Kro’tos squinted at this last speaker. “I’ll remember your names, you ill-hatched sons of spiders!”
Tol’zen held up a hand. “Yes, Kro’tos only knows three ways to rule. By force. By threat. By fear.” He raised a finger to emphasize each point.
A murmur swept around the room. Kro’tos scowled some more.
More saurians stood up and shouted. Some stood for Kro’tos. Others stood for Tol’zen. Partisans of the two sides faced off in the rows of stone seats and seemed about to come to blows.
The saurian in the blue-and-gold of a scholar made his way to in front of the throne. Importantly, he dragged with him the old scientist, U’Clee.
At his appearance, many shouted his name. “U’Clee, U’Clee!” the voices called. “Tell us! Tell us, U’Clee.”
The old saurian held up his hands for silence. He dropped his hands and pivoted to Kro’tos, and the look that went between them was one of disgust on both sides. U’Clee held up his hands again. “By ancient order and tradition,” he said in his thin, paper-dry voice. “Any who wants to can stand for kingship. The vote will be held on the evening of the third day of the summer games.”
The amphitheater erupted in a cacophony of noise.
After a little while, U’Clee held up his hands. Slowly, the room came to order.
“Clear the room,” the scholar shouted. “We must discuss the terms of the election with the principals.”
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