Myths of the Fallen City

by James Derry

  Groundbreakers

  – Book 1 –

  MYTHS OF THE

  FALLEN CITY

  Map

  Prologue

  Imagine a land of untamed beauty. Soaring mountains and deep blue seas. Steaming jungles and treacherous deserts. It is a land called Embhra, and it exists in history’s first era. A time when mankind was still young.

  You might call Embhra the cradle of civilization. Although it is more like the nursery school of civilization. Nascent empires toddle from one fertile crescent to the next. They are snot-nosed—not yet potty-trained. Watch as these young kingdoms stumble into each other. They babble together, and new superstitions and prejudices take root. They throw fits, and these clashes lead to war. They spread germs, and plagues ravage the lands.

  In the midst of every war, through every outbreak of plague and pestilence, the people hope for salvation from higher powers. They build idols. They offer sacrifices. They bargain with strange mages and witchdoctors.

  Desperately, they put their faith in magic.

  Because magic is very much a real thing in Embhra.

  You might say, ‘Aha! Well that sounds good at least.’

  But let me ask you: What is so good about magic? Have you ever had a wizard do you a favor? Have you ever had a positive experience with a river nymph? A pleasant encounter with a demigod? I daresay you have not.

  That’s because, ultimately, magic is only good to those who can understand it and control it. Magic is for sorcerers and gods and demons—‘higher powers’ who jealously guard their secrets and use them as tools of war and oppression.

  Embhra needs something new. Something that works for everyone.

  1 – The Conqueror’s New Court

  Ramyya was on the verge of tears. “I can’t find my fifteenth veil! It’s impossible! Like searching for hay in a needlestack.”

  Sygne couldn’t resist asking, “Don’t you mean a needle in a haystack?”

  “What? Sygne, please! I’m in real trouble here, and you’re debating about needlestacks? If you were from Krit, you’d know all about needlestacks. Trust me, searching through a haystack sounds quite pleasant, by comparison.”

  Sygne had to suppress a smile. “Let me help you.”

  Ramyya tore through an expensive wooden chest filled with tasseled girdles and undergarments made out of daintily hammered gold. In Sygne’s opinion, Ramyya was being melodramatic, especially considering the horrors that they had seen yesterday on the streets of Krit. For now, they were safely tucked away in a dressing room inside the Kritan palace.

  Sygne knelt over one of the other garment trunks lined up in the dressing room. She picked up a fishnet brassiere intertwined with copper coins.

  “Careful with that,” Ramyya said. “It’s my grandmother’s.”

  “She must be a very confident woman. And not prone to chafing.”

  “Don’t be silly. She wore it when she danced for King Kritukhaluwat III, thirty years ago. Now it’s a memento.”

  For a while Sygne was silent, and Ramyya returned to her searching. “How am I going to finish the Seduction of Fifteen Veils if I don’t have fifteen veils?”

  “Ramyya?” Sygne asked. “Are you sad that Kritukhaluwat V and all of his lineage are dead?”

  Ramyya didn’t look up from her trunk. “Don’t forget his bodyguards and generals.”

  “What?”

  “All of his henchmen are dead too.” Ramyya straightened her back, and her cleavage pressed tight against her jeweled bodice. “And why should I feel sad for them? For generations they treated us dancing girls like pieces of meat.”

  Sygne sighed unhappily. “And now they’re pieces of meat.”

  Ramyya stifled a laugh with the back of her hand. “Oh, that’s funny. Thanks for trying to brighten my spirits, Syggie. But these damned veils will be the death of me. I’ve heard that General Yur is very moody.” She glanced around to make sure that she couldn’t be overheard. “And Sessuk has been very short-tempered lately. I want my dance to be perfect.”

  They searched through Ramyya’s things in silence, and Sygne continued thinking about the aristocracy of Krit. From all accounts, they hadn’t been particularly enlightened—or kind to their subjects. But they hadn’t deserved to be slaughtered.

  Ten days ago, Krit had been a small but flourishing city-state near the center of the known world. The Kritan palace had been a glittering beacon of maritime trade, elevated on a two-hundred-foot peak overlooking the Slumbering Sea. Sygne imagined that Kritukhaluwat V had been terrified to wake that morning and find the fearsome General Yur waiting outside the gates of his city. Yur had brought half of the Issulthraqi army with him, and a hundred cavemen marauders. Yur vowed that the streets of Krit would run red with blood if the king did not surrender by sundown. Kritukhaluwat V refused, and General Yur began his siege.

  Five days later, Yur was victorious and in a position to make good on his promise. The streets of Krit ran red with noble blood. Now that blood had darkened and congealed, and the city was paved in scabs. There were flies, rats, and carrion birds everywhere, and the Palace-on-the-Peak was the only sanitary place left in all of Krit.

  Ramyya broke the silence. “But the trouble is that my veils are too romantic.”

  “Hmm? Too romantic?”

  “Romantic. They keep falling in thing-love.”

  “Thing-love?” Sygne asked.

  Ramyya paused and gazed hard at Sygne’s face. Sygne wondered: What did she see? A pale foreigner with skin freckled by the sun. Orange hair cut in a boy’s style. (Again and again Ramyya had fretted over Sygne’s short hair; although Sygne liked it short and easy to manage.)

  Ramyya had dark eyes that she could make smolder, and her bronze skin seemed to radiate a sultry warmth. What did Ramyya see when she stared into the diluted blue of Sygne’s big, wide eyes? A woman who was too naive for her age—and too curious for her own good. A woman who was woefully unprepared for the ambiguities and brutalities of life among the Golden Empires.

  “They don’t have thing-love where you’re from?” Ramyya asked. “Thing-love is when things become enamored with each other, and you have to peel them apart.”

  “Oh. You mean electrical attraction.”

  “What’s ‘electrical?’”

  “Well, we don’t know exactly,” Sygne said, “but when two objects rub against each other—like fabrics inside a moving trunk—the objects can exchange energies and build an attraction. Back at the Academy, Mentor Thalekter has studied this using wool and amber—”

  Ramyya scoffed. “You’re overthinking it, Syggie. People attach themselves to other people when they fall in love. Things do the same. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “Ramyya? Sygne?” A hand emerged from the curtain that separated the dressing chamber from the hallway. Without waiting for permission, Vizier Sessuk strolled briskly into the room. Five days ago, Sessuk had been King Kritukhaluwat V’s chief adviser; now he was acting as General Yur’s ‘counselor pro tem’ in charge of the transfer from Kritan to Issulthraqi rule. Sygne was a newcomer to the court, and even she had heard whispers that Sessuk was an unapologetic traitor. But others, including Ramyya, had pointed out that Sessuk had prevented additional bloodshed by quickly earning Yur’s trust and then pointing out the most appropriate loyalists and successors for execution.

  Sessuk wore a resplendent black robe with a collar and epaulets embroidered in gold chains and beads of green malachite. Those extra flourishes on the top portions of his robe showed that the vizier had originally hailed from Gjuir-Khib, far to the west. The Gjuiran Empire was so distant and so large that it shared a begrudging detente with Issulthraq. This was another
reason why Sessuk had kept his head, while the rest of the royal entourage had been smeared in the streets.

  “Most honored, Sessuk.” Ramyya attempted a curtsy in the vizier’s direction; although she was still kneeling over her trunk.

  “I trust you will both be ready to perform in the Issulthraqi celebration?”

  “Yes, Sessuk,” Ramyya said. “I’m just getting dressed.”

  “Ah. But in your profession, being ‘ready’ and being ‘dressed’ are two entirely different things. Are they not?” The vizier topped off his jest with a smarmy grin. “Sygne? Have you made your alchemical preparations?”

  “Chemical. Not alchemical,” Sygne clarified. “But, yes, I have. I just need to arrange my pyrotechnics in the courtyard. I was planning to—”

  “Ah. Excellent.” Sessuk turned to leave. “I’m sure—in one way or another—you will give the General a show that he will remember—for the rest of his life.”

  The vizier exited the room—his robe and the curtain swishing dramatically as he passed through the doorway.

  “Don’t say it,” Ramyya warned.

  “What?” Sygne asked.

  “Don’t make any comments about the vizier. He’s a great sorcerer, you know.”

  “You think he’ll magically know if we talk about him?”

  “That’s why I called him a great sorcerer.” Ramyya winked. “Not to mention handsome.”

  Sygne grinned. Her eyes settled on a slip of translucent silk lined up on the floor with Ramyya’s other veils. It wasn’t flimsy enough. She picked it up and peeled it apart.

  “Look! Here it is.” The fabric crackled as it seemed to magically shear into two pieces. “Electrical attraction.”

  “Ooo, Sygne! Thank you so much!” Ramyya touched Sygne’s hand, and a tiny prickling of light passed between them.

  “See? We created a spark.”

  Ramyya’s jaw dropped. “Tiny lightning! You are a magician. Why do you keep saying you’re not?”

  “Because I don’t know magic,” Sygne said. “I know science. And I hope General Yur will be as impressed with it as you are.”

  Ramyya rubbed her finger. “Sygne, can I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “My family lives here. We couldn’t run away once the Issulthraqis had surrounded the city. But you’re a foreigner. Why would you come here to try to impress a vicious dog like Yur? By Ulthal’s teats, he travels with cavemen! Real, frothing-at-the-mouth cavemen!”

  “I know.” Sygne nodded and then repeated aloud what she had told herself a dozen times since coming to Krit. “I hope that I can show Yur the applicable benefits of science. There are many ways he can improve the living conditions of the people who live under his rule. The benefits of proper hygiene alone—”

  “But what if he only wants to use your science-powers to create better weapons?” Ramyya held up her finger. “Like full-size lightning bolts to kill his enemies?”

  “I suppose I hadn’t thought of that.” Sygne shrugged. “I hope that once he learns about science, he will become so enlightened that he won’t even consider waging war anymore.”

  Ramyya rolled her eyes. “Syggie, Syggie. You are so naive.”

  ***

  A pleasant sea breeze passed through the courtyard of the Palace-on-the-Peak. Regal fabrics, all in the deep crimson of the conquering Issulthraqi Army, hung from every wall and colonnade. The banners billowed like sails in the breeze. In the hanging gardens, flowering vines opened their blooms and sighed with fragrant breaths. The ferns shivered and made shushing sounds.

  The sea breeze had the added benefit of driving the flies away. Swarms of flies had infested the formerly proud city-state of Krit, but the Palace-on-the-Peak was well elevated on its mount of black basalt—and protected from the swarms by the wind. Jamal could almost make himself forget about the carnage on the streets below. On the table in front of him stood a hammered metal cup filled with honey-and-hibiscus lemonade. Tart and sweet. Next to the lemonade squatted a kiln-fired mug filled with wine. According to Jamal’s drinking companion, Hadat the Harmonious, the wine was a rare vintage from the faraway coasts of the Sanguine Sea. Hadat claimed it had a nice, dry quality, with hints of oak and roses. Jamal wasn’t a termite, so he didn’t see how oak could be a desirable flavor. He was happy to stick to his lemonade, and luckily Hadat had stopped paying attention to Jamal’s cups. They had been trading drinks for the past two hours, and Hadat was nearly past the point of focusing on anything.

  Hadat the Harmonious drank directly from their two-foot tall amphora of wine. He slurred, “To ambition!”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Jamal said.

  “To more Ardhians earning their way in the Golden Empires!”

  “Yes.” Jamal tipped his wine mug in Hadat’s direction. They were both ‘Ardhians’—with tightly curled black hair and mocha-brown skin—but that was where their physical similarities ended. Hadat was a good ten years older than Jamal—and fifty pounds heavier. Hadat wore a full beard, speckled with gray. Jamal sported a tightly trimmed mustache and goatee.

  Sweat gleamed on Hadat’s brow, despite the late evening breeze. “Through hard work, now. You understand that?”

  Jamal let his wine slip from his mouth back to his mug. He moved his throat with a dry swallow. “Of course. I was a slave—remember?”

  Hadat the Harmonious exhaled hard, and his lips flapped together like a camel’s. Jamal glared over the rim of his cup; the fat poet sounded almost disdainful. Hadat said, “Of course I remember, my virile valet. Excluding myself, I believe every Ardhian I’ve met in the Golden Empires has been a slave or a former slave. But that doesn’t mean that any of them understand the true meaning of hard work. In fact, quite the opposite.”

  Jamal couldn’t help himself; he scowled at his fellow Ardhian. Hadat was from the diamond-rich, mountainous kingdom of Bombasa. From what he’d been told, Jamal’s family originated from the primeval forests of Kubtu. But Jamal had no idea if that was true; he’d been separated from his family and his home continent at the age of two.

  Of course, to the people on this side of the Slumbering Sea, Hadat and Jamal were both simply ‘Ardhians’—they both hailed from one steaming, uncivilized continent named Ardhia. And Ardhia was better left ignored, unless the empires of Embhra were in need of unpaid laborers or precious jewels.

  That didn’t stop Hadat from drawing contrasts between the two of them, even if he was the only one who would appreciate his distinctions. He said, “I’ll show you what I mean. Let me ask you a few questions.”

  Jamal sighed. “We’re going to need more drinks for this.”

  “Yes! You’re right.” Hadat lifted the amphora to his mouth and slurped greedily.

  Jamal drank as well, enjoying the texture of honey slipping down his throat.

  The fat poet asked, “What gods do you believe in?”

  “The Specularity,” Jamal answered. “The Lords of the Sky.”

  “The gods of Gjuir-Khib? And the Gjuirans bought you straight off of the slavers’ galley?”

  Jamal nodded.

  “And you truly believe what they believe? That all Gjuirans exist simply as a source of entertainment for their ‘Lords of the Sky,’ the Specularity? Isn’t that a sad way to live your life?”

  “That depends on how entertaining you are.” Jamal winked.

  “Fair enough. Let me ask you this…” Hadat picked up a peeling knife and waved it at Jamal. “How did you become a soldier? And a free man?”

  “That’s a long story. I’d rather not talk about that.”

  “And now you are an aspiring poet-singer. And what type of music do you play?”

  Jamal smirked. He had been Hadat’s manservant, bodyguard, and occasional apprentice for the last two months. He asked Hadat, “Are you too drunk to remember? I like Melodic Post-Diluvial.”

  “Ahh. A genre that is most popular in Gjuir-Khib. Your former masters hav
e decided your tastes.” Hadat the Harmonious crossed his arms over the bulge of his belly and nodded knowingly. “Again.”

  “I don’t see your point,” Jamal said. “How is this proving that I don’t know about hard work?”

  “You don’t know about choosing to work. Sadly, you’ve been reared to let others make your choices for you. You’ve settled into that luxury.”

  “Luxury? I was a slave.”

  “Yes. And you have a slave’s typical sense of entitlement. A freedom from choice. From ambition. Not that I blame you for it. It’s been bred into you.”

  Jamal stared at his crude mug of bitter wine. He was quite tired of listening to Hadat the Harmonious prattle on. He reached for a vial tucked in a hidden pocket of his baggy dimije trousers.

  Hadat patted the table. “Don’t look so forlorn, my muscular manservant. Let us toast again.”

  “Wait,” Jamal nodded to the amphora. “Let us toast properly this time. Cup-to-cup. Allow me to pour you a draught.” He uncorked his vial and palmed it, so that he could pour wine (and the vial’s contents) into Hadat’s mug.

  Hadat chuckled. “You see? Former slaves are always so eager to serve. Old habits are hard to break.”

  “I’ll break this jar over your head,” Jamal muttered.

  “What’s that?” Hadat hummed as he drank.

  “Oh nothing. You know, you certainly do have an endurance for drinking.”

  “Ah. Thank you.” Hadat touched his chest. “My father was a drunk.”

  “I see.” Jamal put away his vial. A drop of liquid spread over one fingertip, and he carefully wiped it against his trousers. He didn’t want to dose himself with a Mizzuline Elixir. It was said that the Mizzuls ensorcelled their opiates so that they induced the quickest, most complete…

  Hadat’s pupils rolled back in his head, meeting with his dropping eyelids. He fell forward, and Jamal had just enough time to catch the fat poet’s forehead in one hand, like a coconut, before it bashed into the table.

  Jamal’s eyes cut from side to side. Issulthraqi guards patrolled the courtyard, but none were close enough to see Hadat’s sudden collapse. If they saw the poet now, sleeping peacefully on the table, they would assume he had finally passed out from too much wine. Would anyone be alarmed that one of the night’s premier performers was blacked out, just an hour before General Yur’s celebration was set to begin? Jamal reached under the table and pulled Hadat’s genuine tortoise-shell lyre over to his chair. He knew how the people of Embhra thought. One black man with a lyre looked just like the next black man with a lyre. By the time Hadat the Harmonious woke up, it would be morning, and Jamal would have already taken his place.