Though he had the ability to light his way with his staff, Farouk decided that it would best to continue when the sun rose. He found a good spot to make camp, and settled against a fallen tree for the night. He did not dare make a fire; as the surrounding landscape was bone dry, and the prospect of creating a massive forest fire was not to his liking.
In minutes, he drifted off to sleep.
The sunrise brought nothing but light. Gone were the sounds of morning birds, gentle winds, and the blowing of leaves. It was still the same dead landscape it was the night before, but now Farouk could see the devastation completely.
For as far as he could see, the scene was the same; nothing but dusty ground, and dead trees that jutted up into the sky. Though there were hills present, they had collapsed for the most part; being nothing more than eroded cliff sides. Only the remaining roots of the dead trees held the topsoil together.
He continued west toward the shore, traversing the crumbling hills through the dead forest. Even in the daylight, the sight of the dead trees unnerved him. Their ghostly trunks reminded him of an army of skeletons standing still in the baking sun.
Occasionally, a light wind would break off a branch, and it would come crashing to the ground with a deafening crack. A cloud of dust would follow, hanging in the air like a brown fog. Even Farouk’s footfalls kicked up dust as he walked.
By noon, Farouk had reached what he guessed was a river bed. Though dry and barren, the rough, rocky trench bore the signs of dried mud at its bottom. The Druid made his way down the side, being careful not to slip, and scanned the deepest area for any signs of moisture. He knelt, placing the gem of his staff close to the ground. He projected his senses, feeling around for any differences in the moisture levels.
There were none. The river was dry for as far down as he could sense.
Scattered along the riverbed were the skeletons of bony fish and other aquatic animals. There were the long rib cages of river snakes, complete with skulls and broken fangs, skeletons of mammals that had died near the river’s edge, and even a few human-like remains. Farouk sighed, unsure of how to proceed. Obviously there was some kind of life here; whether it was corporeal or not, he could not guess.
Something in this dimension was alive, and he was determined to find it.
Perhaps, he thought, the ocean would offer some clues. If there were any water left on this world, it would be there. And where there was water, there would be life.
Or so he hoped.
The last remaining temple of Imbra lay nestled in the mountains of western Khem. Here, the Firstborn’s priests maintained their secrecy, and the secrecy of the temple, with the use of magic. From the outside, the temple appeared ruined and abandoned; on the inside, the majesty of its noble master remained untouched by the Lifegiver’s corruption.
Prince Hamal, the rightful heir to the throne of Khem, had sought asylum within the temple’s impenetrable walls. Here, with the aid of his loyal servants, he observed and directed the worship of Imbra; the true Imbra. It was Hamal’s duty as the true ruler of Khem to ensure that the memory of their one Father was not lost.
Over the years, Hamal had traveled with the nomadic tribes of the desert, gaining allies and making secret alliances. Now, in his thirty-fifth year, Hamal was prepared to take his rightful place upon the throne. All that was needed was the support of the rest of the world.
He had heard rumors of insurrection in many of the surrounding countries, and of the exploits of one Prince Eamon in Eirenoch; surely he was king by now. He would have to meet this Onyx Dragon, as he was called, and follow his example. In other countries, the rebellion was not yet underway, but he knew that it was only a matter of time before the rest of the world followed suit.
The life of the Great Mother depended upon it.
In a gesture of respect, Hamal bowed to the Priests of Imbra, and turned to sit upon Imbra’s throne. He would face the father directly and offer his sword, and his life, to fight for him. It would be his first time appearing before his lord, and his excitement was obvious to the priests. They encouraged him with smiles and friendly gestures.
Hamal’s eyes closed as he sat. He felt himself drifting into a deep sleep, but consciously transported to Imbra’s realm. When he opened his eyes, his mouth dropped in awe.
He sat upon the same throne, but on this side of the portal the throne was much more magnificent. He looked down and ran his hands over the red felt, the golden studs, and the gilded embroidery. It was truly a throne for the regal, and he felt honored to sit upon it.
The throne room was even more majestic; golden columns supporting a vaulted, gold ceiling, walls covered with beautiful murals of the Keynakin, Sulemain, and the beautiful architecture of his beloved homeland. Hamal could only stare; he was frozen in place.
“My child,” Imbra said from upon his own gilded stone throne. Hamal looked toward the voice, his heart fluttering at the sight of the ancient entity that had powered a great portion of the mainland for eons. He stood, slowly approaching Imbra with uncertainty.
Was he worthy?
“Come closer, Hamal,” Imbra said, smiling warmly. “You are most welcome here, my son.”
Hamal lowered his head, his eyes still trained upon the regal Firstborn. Imbra was dressed in white linen robes, plain sandals, and a mighty crown of gold. His beard was interlaced with golden cords, gems, and symbols that he recognized as the twelve signs of the astral wheel. Even the tiny creatures that crawled aimlessly upon Imbra’s throne seemed to be royalty.
“It is my honor to be in your presence,” Hamal spoke, meekly.
Imbra stood, stepping off of the dais and kneeling before Hamal. The young prince was confused.
“No, Hamal,” Imbra said. “It is I who is honored.”
“Please, my lord,” Hamal pleaded, kneeling as low as he could. “Do not place yourself below me. I am not worthy.”
Imbra laughed, standing up to his full height. He approached Hamal, smiling, and held out his arms. Hamal stepped forward, feeling Imbra embrace him tightly.
“You are more than worthy,” Imbra said. “You are the rightful heir to the throne of Khem. You stand beside your brothers; the kings of my other lands, and await your time to strike.”
Imbra let his arms fall away from Hamal.
“I do not know of these other men,” Hamal admitted. “I am not old enough to know any rule other than The Lifegiver.”
“Yes,” Imbra agreed, stepping back to retake his seat on the throne. “You have never known the world when it was ruled by those who were given that rule. This usurper has defiled the lands with his presence, and corrupted all of our children.”
“I am your humble servant,” Hamal said.
“I know this, Hamal. And I know you will make a great king one day. You have resisted The Lifegiver’s magic, as many others in the world have done. This shows me your strength, and your resolve.”
“I will fight for you, and all of the Firstborn,” he said.
“The world is nearly ready to strike. Once everyone is placed upon their respective thrones, the battle can begin. This task is been taken up by the Great Mother Herself. All that is left is to locate the rightful heir of Pashir.”
“Who is this heir?” Hamal asked.
“His name is Jadhav,” Imbra said. “He is the son of the Raja, and has been posing as a corsair in the west. His men, the Radja, have rebelled with him and they sail the coasts; sabotaging the trade routes and plundering the vessels of our enemy.”
Hamal grinned. “I like this man already,” he said.
Imbra returned his grin, chuckling softly. “So do I. But he is in danger. He has been held captive on an island prison to the south of Eirenoch. I want you to rescue him. Do this, and you shall be my only begotten.”
Hamal nodded with enthusiasm. “I will do this for my lord,” he said. “I will not fail you.”
“When you free him, seek out King Eamon, the Onyx Dragon. He will lead the battle against The Lif
egiver.”
“I look forward to meeting them both,” Hamal said.
Imbra reached into his robes, producing a beautiful scimitar that gleamed with a brilliant, golden light.
“Kneel, my child,” Imbra said.
Hamal fell to one knee, bowing his head. Imbra approached him, resting the sword upon the prince’s left shoulder.
“By my light, I christen thee,” Imbra spoke. “You are blessed with the light of my spirit, and the soul of the Great Mother. Rise, Prophet Hamal.”
Hamal rose, feeling the strength of his lord course through his veins. He felt the warmth and love of the Firstborn fill his heart, and the strength of Earth empower his very body. He looked up at Imbra with gratitude, pledging to himself that he not rest until The Lifegiver, and his servants, were destroyed.
“Fulfill your oath, my child, and you shall be named Ardumak, Son of Imbra.”
“I shall not fail you, father,” Hamal swore. “I will fight unto my death to protect the people of this world.”
“You shall wield my sword, Hamal,” Imbra said, laying the weapon over his forearm and presenting it to the prince. “Its name is Mahaguratu, the Soul of the Sands. May it bear you to greatness.”
Hamal took the sword, feeling its perfect balance in his experienced hands. It was warm, full of life, and beautiful to behold. Its hilt was gold, sculpted into the shape of a hawk’s head. Its blade was engraved with the ancient writing of Khem, bearing the words, The Soul of the Sands.
“It is with honor that I accept this great gift,” Hamal said, humbly. “I will bear it with pride.”
“I know you will, my child,” Imbra replied, his smile warm and loving. “Now, return to the temple and present yourself to the priests. They will aid you in your quest. Awaken.”
Hamal’s eyes snapped open. He had returned to the throne, and now looked upon the four priests that knelt at his feet. Mahaguratu lay across his lap, its glorious blade sheathed in an equally glorious scabbard.
He stood, drawing the blade. The priests looked up at him, relishing in his glory.
“I have a task for all of you,” he said. “Prepare yourselves for travel. We go to aid our brothers.”
The priests looked at each other and smiled.
Chapter Four
The sound of cracking whips was pleasing to Sultan Zamir. He smiled as his men drove the captured Southlanders into the large courtyard of his partially-built palace at Anwar. Here, they would be put to work at finishing the structure, joining the one thousand slaves that were already there toiling away under the hot sun.
He smirked as he looked upon their dark bodies; their crinkled hair; their black eyes. To him, they were mere animals to be worked until they collapsed. They were not human; only slaves.
They were separated, led to their permanent work areas, and whipped into submission. They did not protest for fear of the wrath of The Lifegiver’s minions, the Jindala, who drove them with their whips and spears. They were a people on the edge of extinction, having been nearly wiped out by the people of the desert through endless campaigns of slaughter. Still being primitive in the ways of weaponry, the Southlanders were defenseless, and now they lived only to serve The Lifegiver’s will.
Zamir would ensure that their purpose was served.
He watched the architects and foreman gather to distribute the work force among the various projects. Some would be sent to the quarries, some to the walls, and still more would be sent to the catacombs underneath. Wherever they were sent, they would remain there forever, until their flesh dropped from their bones. The foreman and architects were slaves as well; men of Khem and Pashir who had been recruited by force to design and build Zamir’s Palace. They were enslaved by The Lifegiver’s will, as the rest of the slaves would soon be.
Zamir sat back into his sedia, watching the bustle of activity, and the cruel lashings the slaves received at the hands of his men. He enjoyed their pain, and felt pleasure in the sounds of their torment. It was a necessary evil. The slaves outnumbered his men ten to one, and aggression was the only way to instill them with enough fear to keep them all in line. Still, even if it were not necessary, it would occur nonetheless.
Zamir enjoyed it.
As he turned to his captain, his grin faded when a sudden pain exploded in his chest. He gasped, looking down to see an arrow sticking out dead center. His captain stared; shocked and bewildered, as the Sultan slowly collapsed into his chair.
“Guards!” the captain shouted. “Guards!”
The construction site suddenly burst into activity as numerous armored men poured into the courtyard. Sultan Zamir was dead, and he was there for all the slaves to see.
The dark-skinned men looked on in confusion, unsure of what had just happened. Men were rushing everywhere, jabbing with their spears to keep the slaves from looking away from their tasks.
Suddenly, a large man stood up near the wall. He was darker than the rest, and bigger. He towered over the rest of the men by at least a head’s height. He shouted into the sky, his deep voice bellowing in the courtyard like a battle horn. The other slaves dropped their tools, ignoring the order to return to work. They gathered together, shouting and picking up stones to throw at the guards. The newer slaves were bewildered, but soon realized what was happening.
The insurrection was mounting, and the Jindala were surrounded.
Then, one by one, arrows streaked into the crowd with surprising accuracy. Jindala guards fell, skewered by the divinely guided missiles that appeared from nowhere. The slaves crowded the fallen soldiers, grabbing their spears and other weapons as the larger man directed them. He looked around for the source of the attacks, silently thanking the stranger who had set them free.
Raising his newly acquired weapon above his head, the man shouted at the crowd, and led the slaves out of the courtyard into the city.
From the top of a nearby wall, Garret shouldered his bow, smiling as he watched the mob of angry slaves storm the city. They would slaughter the Jindala like cattle, leaving none alive. Their vengeance would be swift and brutal; not a sight the assassin wanted to see.
Soon, Anwar would be free, and its armies united for the final battle.
Far to the east, Kronos approached the temple of Yin-Kai; his brother. The structure rose above the tundra in the shape of a horned crown. It was immaculate and unspoiled, having been taken well care of by the ogre-mages that ministered to the people of Kinar.
The Firstborn had come to awaken his brother, much as he had done for Leviathan. The giant, ancient Firstborn of the sea had been easy to free; Kronos simply plunged to the bottom of the sea’s deepest part and entered Leviathan’s prison through a grotto that led to his temple. Leviathan’s priests, the merfolk, had welcomed him. Now, the ancient creature once again roamed the world’s oceans, repairing the damage that had been done by The Lifegiver.
Kronos was spotted as he neared, his pale blue skin and large size having been quite obvious to the ogres that scouted the area. They, too, were large in size; a head taller than Kronos himself. They were muscular, brown-skinned—with a slight covering of short fur—and were dressed in studded leather armor. On their backs, they carried large katana-like swords; a symbol of their culture of samurai warriors.
They welcomed him, knowing the purpose of his visit. Though they did not speak, they bowed in respect for the brother of their Lord, and allowed him passage into the temple.
The halls inside were large; tall enough to accommodate not only the pilgrims that came frequently, but the ogre-mages that led the prayers. Kronos gazed in awe at the structure. All around him, separating the vast chambers and hallways, were walls of paper strengthened by strips of wood that crossed each other like window panes. Upon the paper walls, murals of battles and peaceful scenes were painted. They were beautiful and detailed, and Kronos smiled as he studied them.
His brother’s people were true artisans, and he knew their warriors were those of honor and virtue. They would be a valuable as
set in the final battle.
The ogre-mages led Kronos to a large, ornate door. Symbols of Kinar were inscribed upon it, carved into the wood and gilded with gold leaf. Slowly, the doors were opened, and the ogres led Kronos into the temple’s antechamber.
The ceiling was a vaulted wooden structure, with small square windows that let light through in an intricate pattern. The squares of sunlight that were cast upon the beamed walls marked the passage of the time of day, with each hour illustrated with daily deeds; cleansing rituals and warrior katas. Such a strict sense of discipline made for a skilled warrior.
In the center of the chamber was a statue of Yin-Kai. He was an ogre, like the priests, and wore similar armor. However, his leather was enhanced by steel plates that overlapped and formed an almost impenetrable surface. His helmet was flared at the back and sported a face mask in the style of an angry demon. Upon the forehead, just above the mask, was an ornament shaped like a two-pronged fork that jutted straight up.
Kronos smiled warmly as he looked upon his brother’s countenance. He knew, from his encounter with the Druid, that this statue was Yin-Kai’s prison itself. It was a symbol of his imprisonment, used as a metaphor that could be easily opened. In his own temple, the throne of his prison represented the portal to the real world. Farouk had taught him that his own shackles, and the unbreakable glass that surrounded him, were merely symbols; metaphors.
This statue was the same.
Wordlessly, Kronos took up his great hammer, rearing it back to deliver a massive strike. The ogre-mages backed away, unsure as to his purpose, but did not interfere.
Without even a grunt or a groan, Kronos swung his hammer with all his might. The magical weapon smashed into the statue, shattering it into uncountable pieces that blasted into the air like a swarm of glowing bees. The ogres looked on in wonder, watching as the cloud of particles became suspended in the air. Kronos stepped back, making room for them to begin their spin and contract inward.
Into Oblivion (Book 4) Page 4