Was there a reason why these nearly three hundred men and women were allowed to cower not in a bloodied or charred heap, but with still beating hearts?
Maybe the gods were simply sloppy or in a wicked way mocked their dismal existence. Perhaps Hades would return to wipe out these last few wretches once he realized a handful of leftover souls still lived.
On the other hand, was it possible a very purposeful meddling from above accounted for such madness?
Death and destruction near everywhere, but a single body of water stayed clean among this wrecked filth – the familiar lake. Its waters glittered, glimmered, and when cupped in hand, even moved in unnatural ways never seen before. Too terrified to search out other sources and despite tiny, yet visible, creatures wiggling about these waters, they continued to drink. Their paradise in ruins, they huddled around the Pool of Torment and Discovery as if waiting for the Grim to collect the rest of them.
A world in utter chaos, the fall of these clueless scraps of flesh appeared certain. At the edge of this blade of doom and their end in sight, a new day arrived after so many spent in mind-numbed darkness. These staggering fools, these hopeless wretches, these owners of spirits weaker than the most parched twig; they had stumbled upon pure brilliance. This brilliance was not of their doing, but they would make it their own, nonetheless. Throwing off the yoke of a pathetic way of being, a new dawn lit the horizon. Eyes blurred by misery looked upon a world still broken and crippled, but suddenly malleable, suddenly bendable to their will.
AND TO THEIR WILL THEY BENT IT!
In the midst of this newfound spirit, wretchedness began to wonder, wonder led to learning, learning brought about seeking to own an existence above mere survival, and the Rise of Sapiens begat the Knowing Time. Lives once no more purposeful than those of wild beasts – their time as wanderers and scavengers was over.
Those who remained could feel the changes inside them, but it was not until the next generation, the first true Sapiens, when discovery fully took hold. These offspring realized that he or she was a much grander being than any man or woman to come before. Added height and muscle came with each next wave of fresh Sapien stock. Complex language and then writing developed in just a few short generations. A great deal more wondrous and intelligent than those who birthed them, Sapiens quickly became aware of new and, in some ways, unnatural abilities. Yet to learn their new form owned a double-edged sword, Sapiens continued to drink happily from the Pool of Torment and Discovery.
Language and writing was but child’s play compared to what came soon after. A full century into the Knowing Time, some Sapiens learned the ability to move small objects with only their mind. Soon after, those more talented explored the enchanted world of spells and potions.
Magic came at a heavy price, and if abused, could very much shorten one’s life. As if the gods from high above now judged them in the same manner as Hades already did from below, there was a dreadful penance to pay for mischievous deeds. Especially if inflicted upon innocent others. Unleash hurtful magic on another; foul tumors and lesions would come next. Rapid decay of flesh and bone, and the wafting scent of death greeted wasting bodies soon after. Free will the true king or queen of any Sapien, despite knowing that such a horrid end would stalk them without mercy, some unleashed their mystic rage, regardless. Greed – jealousy – envy – revenge … some temptations are simply too great to resist.
Each successive generation lived twenty to thirty years longer than the previous one. 400 years into the Knowing Time, the oldest still alive had passed his second century. Sapien elders suggested that three full centuries of life would soon be possible, eventually commonplace. Adolescence in the young began to stretch across decades and, with longer life, came longer time to make a life. It now took two to three years for a child to develop inside the womb. The wisest among them began to wonder if such long life was in actuality as much a curse as it was a gift.
For learned beings, desired knowledge of the world predictably led to the exploration of it. The Guardian Mountains to the east, the seas to the north, the Pillars of Fire to the south – budding explorers looked west. But they quickly learned, rather tragically, that ‘to look west’ would be the fullest extent of their exploration of it. Death the penalty for seeking other lands, to stray too far from the Pool of Torment and Discovery causes its content prisoners to forget nearly all they know. So much so, they become as if aimless beasts to be put out of their misery by the frigid wild. A good many forever lost before others finally realized this, our paradise has given us all we could have ever wished. In return, as if the pool is a jealous mind wrapped in the body that is Terra Australis, it demands that we never leave.
*****
Despite so many achievements, we had barely scraped away at our potential. To remedy this, the gods sent another gift. One who would wield magic in a way none before had ever dared try; one with the power to unite; one who would lead us all into the light although we did not yet know we still dwelt in darkness; one who would be queen….
My eldest daughter, Cynisca.
Chapter Twelve
RISE
All are powerless to stop her, but those who know her well would not dare do so even if they could. Cynisca owns a spirit the gods would fear – what choice do mere mortals have? Soldiers fight for her willingly. Mystics fall under her spells freely. Even our steeds find in their hearts and hooves a bravery and swiftness few can imagine. She came. She saw. Most would suggest she conquered, but my daughter, our first queen, did just the opposite – something grander. SHE BUILT.
– Patremeus, Sapien Historian
– Early Summer, Year 426 KT[12]
In year 426 of the Knowing Time, the greatest witch of the age made her move. In one way or another, most throughout the land had heard of her talents, but only one knew of her grand plans for such gifts.
“By way of angered arms led by mystic might, Father,” Cynisca confided to Patremeus upon first light of the summer solstice, “I will unite the scattered tribes under a single banner.”
One of a handful of Sapiens to fully engross herself in perfecting her mystic abilities and succeeding more than any other by far, Cynisca owned a great secret others had yet to learn: Potions could not hold spells for long, but charmed objects of a fantastic nature and enchanted dust made of rare things forever could.
Soon after the Knowing Time began, groups of Sapiens had gone their separate ways. A good many villages sprung up across the land and, in some cases, warlords ruled over groups of them. Cynisca’s own village and two others in the remote south had banded together into a single village a few years earlier.
“I offer nothing but legend!” Cynisca declared in a voice as strong as her will. “I promise nothing but greatness! I will take nothing but all you have to give! Each of you my brothers, my sisters – I will fight alongside you until my last breath!”
Cheers and the clamoring of bronze weapons against wooden shields stiffened by magic roared their approval. Barely a hundred warriors and a handful of mystics now stood in a circle around Cynisca. She sat atop a golden steed more magnificent than a sculpture molded from true gold ever could be. The stallion now pranced in a tight circle. A slight mist hung over the grasses and clouds stuffed with rain yet to fall brushed grey strokes across the morning sky. There was no sun aside for a single ray of light bathing the Warrior Witch and her horse in destiny-riddled warmth.
“Six days ago, I sent two messengers north to relay our wish to unite with them. These messengers returned to us yesterday with no hands … and with no eyes. Beings who can so easily defile another plead for us to conquer them. Do we dare withhold such a request?”
Chants of “No!” rippled among the gathered.
“Over 1,000 barbarians to the north – kicking, screaming, dying, let us drag them all into our fold! We will dominate our own kind not for our benefit, but for theirs!”
More cheers and more banging of arms slammed and sliced their way through the a
ir once more. Their mounts brought to them, the soldiers, and six mystics followed Cynisca and Patremeus north. Horses their one true advantage, a luxury in the north, they were a necessity in the far south.
One by one, each tribe fell by way of sword and spell. Cynisca’s forces collected the conquered as if treasure; barely a month after they had begun, the collection of fleshy valuables was nearly complete. But one large force remained.
As Cynisca’s army pushed north, some tribes joined her. She wiped out any others who dared face her in battle, but not all chose to fight. At least not yet. These Sapiens fled for the fog-riddled swamps that soaked the western edge of the Agathis Australis. Cynisca and her army marched to the border of these swamps and the final battle began.
Horses here were near useless. Fighting in the midst of a drizzling rain that made the already thick fog of war even thicker turned especially brutal. Even Patremeus, who was now in command of her warriors, suffered a gruesome spear wound to the shoulder. Hand-to-hand, sword-to-sword, magic of course tipped the scales.
Over 300 of these last rebels dead, Cynisca’s soldiers quickly rounded up the last twenty or so foolish enough to still live. They forced each of the captured to their knees and bound their hands and ankles. The soldiers then draped rope across the lower legs and pegged this rope to the ground. From the bent knees to the ankles, the captives could not move. Dismounting her horse, Cynisca approached and looked upon each filthy face. She did not waste words.
“For the one who threw the spear that injured my general, my father – reveal yourself! I will make your end quick and your soul will be free for Hades to judge in its full, unspoiled form. Fail to do so and this witch will withhold every speck of pity not only in this world, but in the next as well. You will be dead, but never die. Encased, entombed … your soul will never leave the body it now dwells in.”
Cynisca carried a scowl that would terrify a demon as she walked among them. A long silence passed as she did this.
“SPEAK UP NOW!” she shouted. Again, none of these wretches said a word.
With a concerned look at Patremeus, Cynisca went to him and knelt at his side. She pulled out a pouch of enchanted dust and emptied some into her open palm. Another mystic held in her hand a mix of wild lavender crushed with mint to help with healing. With a whispered spell, Cynisca pressed the mystic’s hand into Patremeus’ wound and sprinkled the enchanted dust over the top of it. With a painful cry at the force of this, his anguish started to seep slowly from his body as the blood rushed out to cover the hand of the mystic. Finished, Cynisca’s scowl returned. She grasped Patremeus’ favorite weapon, a finely engraved war hammer, rose, and again stood before her silent captives.
“So be it. A generous offer denied; we will do things my way. The hard way.”
Cynisca dropped the war hammer to the ground and drew her sword still dripping with the blood of others. With a wave of her hand, a soldier came and wiped the blood from this sword. As he did this, she motioned for the other mystics to gather close. She then gave each of them a handful of enchanted dust.
“Warriors!” Cynisca called out next. “Gather all manner of stone you can find and make a ring of rocks around each of these fools!”
They quickly did as told. While soldiers did this, Cynisca summoned a few of them to her and spoke in whispers Patremeus could not hear. A ring of rocks soon spread around each captive and their faces pushed to the ground, Cynisca used her sword to draw blood from the bound forearms of each captive. Some held the subdued down while another captured this blood in a cup. Enough blood taken, soldiers raised the captured back onto their knees again.
Slowly, and with great care, a soldier dripped blood from the cup onto each knee. These drippings then ran along the ground until meeting one of the surrounding rocks of the ring coated with whatever blood remained in the cup. Body to stone connected by blood, the five mystics sprinkled their handfuls of enchanted dust onto these twenty wretches and spoke their spells.
All of this preparation only, nothing could happen until Cynisca joined in, of course. Their world’s greatest sorceress once again stood close to her father’s war hammer that still lay on the ground. Ready to speak the needed spell, Cynisca sheathed her sword and raised hands coated in enchanted dust high into the air:
“Beaten and kneeling on war-torn
knees within a circle of stone,
The crime committed in plain view,
but he of guilt yet to be known,
A soul this hardened witch seeks to
steal never to meet the Grim’s sight,
Mercy withdrawn, the gift of
magic ready to set things right,
Hear and heed my bold call to
summon forth a most righteous power,
That dwells in the darkest roots of
the world and makes all flesh cower,
Find the silent liar among fools,
who dares inflict such trouble,
Failure to speak, body to stone …
turn this one’s flesh into rubble!”
Silence came first. Screams came next. As if a serpent slithered about just beneath the dirt that held the grasses firmly atop it, the ground moved in a terrifying manner. Begging cries and sobbing whimpers followed every direction this underground serpent moved in. To the captives it came closest to; they shrieked the loudest. Its movements at first quick, after many moments, the hidden creature slowed. Repeatedly, it returned to the one Patremeus guessed was probably the leader. By how he dressed for battle and that he appeared to be the eldest of the group suggested he was. Alas, perhaps a few more years would have saved this one from the harsh suffering about to come his way. He was old enough to lead others, yet not old enough to know when to speak the truth.
The serpent circled around the rocks outside the leader. In doing so, it made a raised mound two hands tall and then was gone. The ground moved no more and neither did the others watching this one squirm. His blood mixed with the mound. With a sharp sound as if ice shearing, the mound turned to stone. A slow wave not of water, but hardened malice then moved toward the now discovered liar. He tried desperately to wiggle himself loose, but this mattered not. Cynisca’s soldiers had bound him well.
“No, no, no!” he sobbed. “IT WAS ME! IT WAS ME!”
Cynisca looked at this body becoming stone not with hatred nor compassion nor anything in between. A blank stare and quiet words were all she had left to offer.
“So sorry, my good wretch, but it is too late. Both for you and your soul.”
His bottom half now of stone; the curse hardened his waist and began to move upward. Only the torso, arms, and head remained of flesh. Gasps from the soldiers who watched circled from one end of the field to the other. These men and their mystic allies were no doubt relieved to have chosen the winning side.
“Please no … please … plea ––” were this fool’s last mumbled words. His jaw turning to stone, the rest of him followed just a few moments later. Although his eyes became stone like the rest of him, it appeared to Patremeus that it took a good many moments before all life left them.
Silence again pummeled every ear. After so many shrieks and cries, Patremeus found this quiet unnerving.
As would a child seeing something new, Cynisca gazed in wonder upon her handiwork. She stood motionless and her eyes showed a softness Patremeus had not seen for many days. Her face then suddenly turned as hard as the war hammer she swooped down and picked up from her feet. Eyes burned with fury. With a screech that hit Patremeus and the soldiers as if shields shoved into them, Cynisca twirled around and smashed the lifeless, still pleading face into shattered shards of stone. The war hammer had struck true and nothing remained above the liar’s neck.
Quiet about to consume them once more, howls and chants for their victory instead devoured the approaching silence. Swords and shields pounded into each other. The song these clashing bronze weapons sang was not of battle, but conquest. Cynisca’s goal was to unite her kind and unite
them she did. If any still held a shred of doubt, her next words turned these doubts into ash.
“We came into this land many centuries ago as the weakest of all creatures!” Cynisca withdrew her sword and held it in her left hand. She still held the war hammer in her right. “Mere men and women then, we keep these appearances and will always be referred to as such, this is true. But such words tell barely half the tale of our transformed existence. Our native, virgin skin, weak and fragile, forever shed – good riddance! The time is now upon us to strive for greatness. The time has now come to dominate a world ripe and ready for us to dominate. Cold and calculating, but brilliant; gifted with unnatural long life, but thankful; some of us mystics, all of our kind united – WE ARE SAPIENS!”
Soldiers shouted, cheered, and chanted Cynisca’s name. Every soldier then gathered around her. She hugged many of them. A brotherhood, a sisterhood, a family; they had become what their kind – all their kind – should have always been. It simply took this dynamic witch to make it so. The night swiftly on its way, Cynisca motioned for some to help Patremeus onto a cart. Although still in a good deal of pain, he would not miss what he had just witnessed for anything. Even if death were ready to claim him, it would have to wait a little while longer to do so. With a kind kiss to his forehead and war hammer laid by his side, Cynisca let her father be. After she gave instructions to a few others, Patremeus watched as she made her way to her waiting steed.
“And what of the rest?” called one of her faithful soldiers a few pike lengths[13] away.
The Fifth Codex Page 11