Myths of the Fallen City

by James Derry

  “Oh. No,” Sygne scoffed. “Um… I thought I explained that earlier. It’s been a long night… For the last two years, I have been trying to change the world. One village or nomadic tribe at a time. I’ve been traveling the plains and foothills of central Embhra, but mostly my efforts just net blank stares. Or out-and-out hostility.

  “The problem is, the people who are most in need of science are the people who have absolutely no time to learn it. They’re struggling every hour of the day, just to keep their families alive.” Sygne waved her hand in the air. “I went to these places and asked the elders if they would at least lend me their younger children for lessons. But they needed those children for foraging or weaving or tending the flocks. Here and there, I could squeeze in a few lessons, or tips on agriculture or sanitation. But for the most part, everyone was busy. The only ones who weren’t busy were the elders or the local shamans. And, of course, they were the ones who were most invested in sticking to the old ways.

  “So I decided I had to change my approach.” Sygne swallowed, realizing that she felt partly ashamed for her change in tactics. She could still picture the faces of children whom she’d left behind in the hills and barrens of the borderlands. “I went to the city-states and sought out people with more free time. I had the most success with merchants and land barons. My hope was that if I taught people who were higher on the social ladder, then they would spread that knowledge down to their workers. Especially if my information could help prevent disease, or make their businesses more efficient.”

  “Sounds smart.”

  “It didn’t work everywhere. The aristocrats I met… they were just as committed to the status quo as the shamans had been.” She shrugged. “Eventually, I heard that Yur was approaching this area, and I thought he might make a good audience. I’d heard that military leaders tended to be more… inventive… in the way they do things.”

  If her phrasing reminded Jamal of what had been done to Kashan, he showed no sign of it. He said, “You could go speak with the aristocracy of Gjuir-Khib. I believe they would welcome you.”

  Sygne had been surprised by how sweet the word ‘we’ had sounded on Jamal’s lips; now she was stung by the word ‘you.’ It implied an imminent separation. She couldn’t help but let her bitterness creep into her voice. “I’m surprised to hear you say that.”

  “Why? I don’t think they get many visitors from the Academy…”

  “No. Because of what they did to you.”

  “Oh?” Jamal seemed genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”

  “The slavery. The conscription.”

  “The Gjurians didn’t invent slavery. Or war.”

  “You sound like you know them personally.”

  “And you sound like Hadat the Harmonious.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He tried to say I’m an idiot because I don’t harbor any ill feelings toward Gjuir-Khib.”

  “Well…” Sygne stopped herself. She was thrown by how quickly the conversation had turned ugly. Then she was distracted by her memory of what had happened to Hadat the Harmonious. Jamal had left him tangled in the roots of a tree.

  She wondered if Jamal was now mulling over some similarly brusque way of getting rid of her.

  9 – Electricity

  It turned out that Jamal didn’t have to retest his aquatic stamina. Their cave filled with sunlight before it filled with water, and then a series of small ledges were visible on the far wall, leading in a staggered progression to the hole in the cave’s ceiling. Some of the ledges were barely wide enough to accommodate toes or fingertips, but there was enough there for Jamal and Sygne to climb up and into the sun.

  They knelt on a spur of rock that was sparsely thatched with seagrass. There was no sandy beach below them, just a tumbling descent to waves that chomped at the rocks like rabid dogs, foaming at the mouth. The Slumbering Sea was not particularly slumberous on this stretch of Kritan coast. Sygne pointed to a narrow scythe of flat, grassy land that ran across the jagged slopes.

  “We can follow that goat path,” she said.

  “That’s the way toward the city.”

  “I’m not sure we have a better option.”

  Jamal shrugged and led the way. Except for the distant surf and the occasional call of a gull, the morning was exceedingly quiet. Too quiet. Jamal flexed his empty hands. He wished that he could feel the weight of a sword on his hip.

  The goat path opened up on a cluster of hovels that fringed the city. The shacks were abandoned, and one had been burned to cinders. Jamal sighed, and they trudged on.

  Soon they had moved into the city proper, and they were walking past structures made of stacked stone and thick girders of wood. A stench rose up to greet them, nearly as stout as the stone buildings.

  “At least…” Sygne said between gags. “I don’t think we’re likely… to run into… many people…”

  Sygne was right. They slipped their way through empty streets. Jamal remembered Yur’s decree that the streets would run red, and he did see the remnants of bodily fluids—wallows of brown crust in gutters, potholes, and other depressions along the way. Here and there, a feral cat or dog emerged from an alleyway, or the far end of an intersection. But these creatures shuffled away from his sight as if deeply ashamed. The carrion birds were less shy—belligerent even. They cawed loudly, as if Krit belonged to them now and Jamal and Sygne were the trespassers.

  But if the fallen city belonged to anyone, it belonged to the flies. Jamal had never seen such a horde of insects. So many, grown so large. They were gleaming and faceted, like cut gems. Emeralds and agates and obsidian. A constant buzz permeated the air. In some corners the sound built to cyclonic proportions, and Jamal and Sygne had to hunch forward and shield their eyes against the bristling wind as the flies pelted them like hailstones.

  They were both scantily clad. Sygne wore her abbreviated kaftan, and Jamal was still shirtless. Sygne pointed to a large edifice and yelled through a hand clamped over her mouth, “Let’s go to that temple! Maybe we’ll find clothes for the less fortunate.”

  Jamal grunted his agreement. His stomach felt hollow, and there was a chance they might find food in the temple as well. Soldiers usually didn’t loot houses of worship.

  They hurried up the impressive stone steps and slammed the heavy door closed behind them. Sygne’s bare legs were dotted with welts and fly bites. She dropped her hand from her mouth and chuckled. “This is truly a sanctuary from the mess out there.”

  “See?” Jamal said. “Religion can have its upside. Especially in times of trouble.”

  “I’m not anti-theist,” Sygne protested. “Remember? I think science and spirituality can coexist.”

  Jamal just nodded. Sygne had seemed on-edge since their conversation in the cave, and Jamal couldn’t blame her for that. An encounter with a world-shaping deity was likely to jangle anyone’s nerves, whether they were an anti-theist or not. The temple was quiet and clean—the safest and most comfortable spot that he had been in since early yesterday evening—and he didn’t intend to ruin the ambiance by pursuing some philosophical argument.

  Still, Jamal’s belt felt woefully light without a sword, so he decided to search around the temple for any signs of danger. The temple’s nave was a high, open space, furnished with simple benches and a row of ostentatious stanchions running down its central aisle. Not a lot of places to stage an ambush. With Sygne at his side, he investigated the back chambers of the temple. They found an empty pantry, a pitifully small bedchamber with cots for three monks lined up inside, and a wardrobe stocked with long brown robes.

  Sygne handed a vestment to Jamal and slid another over her head. “This will protect us from the pests out there. And the hoods will help disguise us from the Issulthraqis.”

  Jamal put on the robe, shrugging his shoulders in an attempt to avoid the coarse fabric. “Don’t worry about that. I won’t be caught dead in an outfit like this.”

&n
bsp; Sygne crinkled her nose. “I’m not sure that’s how that phrase works.”

  They returned to the nave of the temple, and Jamal admired the high ceiling and the thick stone altar. Crenellated openings along the tops of the walls allowed in a languid haze of light. He said, “This place is built like a fortress.”

  “No real windows,” Sygne noted.

  “No distractions from worship.”

  She sighed, “And no way for us to see what’s happening outside. A whole army could sneak up on us here.”

  “It is quiet,” Jamal agreed. “But I doubt anyone’s looking for us. They think we drowned.”

  The walls and the altar were carved with scenes of Kritan myths, but the most obvious adornments were six stanchions that were lined up in the center of the nave. The stanchions were eight-feet-tall and made of Issulthraqi copper. Tapestries hung from their frames, and each showed a life-sized, full-length portrait of an Issulthraqi deity.

  “These are bothering me,” Sygne said.

  “It is a bit antagonistic,” Jamal said. “Issulthraqi idols in a Kritan temple. But I suppose that’s their style.”

  She paced up the aisle, observing each portrait. “It’s like they’re marching toward the altar.” She stopped at the first stanchion. “Of course, Superiority is in the lead.”

  Jamal decided he wouldn’t risk gazing upon the Issulthraqi ‘King of the Gods’—even in a woven representation. Instead he stood before the second stanchion.

  “Victory.”

  Sygne said, “I wonder why the Issulthraqis chose to personify ‘war’ as a goddess.”

  “Because they love war, Sygne.” Jamal stroked his goatee. It was a hastily done tapestry; threads loosely meshed together to create a portrait of a stern-but-beautiful woman garbed in splotchy gray armor. Victory’s armor was supposed to be deep black, but this dye job had been rushed. Not only that—holes and snags showed on the fabric, so that it looked like Victory had taken battle damage. Jamal imagined that the Issulthraqi auxiliary had been hastily transporting hundreds of these things across Embhra, staking claim to any place of worship that they passed through.

  Sygne strolled past Victory to the third banner, which showed the Fabled Pantheon’s god of art and music. She said his name, “Perfection.”

  Jamal followed her on an impromptu gallery walk. The next tapestry showed Pride, the god of toil and hard work. After Pride came Virtue, the goddess of the hearth.

  Finally, the sixth tapestry showed Bliss.

  “These are not that well done,” Sygne said flatly.

  “But imagine a one set of these in every temple from here to Issulthraq. These stanchions might not be made to last, but they work toward completing the first half of the Fabled Pantheon’s motto.”

  Sygne murmured, “‘Everywhere and everlasting.’”

  Jamal nodded, “Is it any wonder that Bliss restrained herself when Yur showed disrespect? The Fabled Pantheon was gaining new followers with every mile that Yur conquers.”

  Sygne gestured to Bliss’ tapestry. “Bliss was so vain, I assume she’d rather have less of these pictures around.”

  Jamal agreed, “She was much prettier in person. Or ‘in goddess,’ if that’s more accurate.” Jamal cocked his head and asked. “Is my memory completely broken, or was Bliss a blonde?”

  The tapestry before them showed a woman with auburn hair. A blotch of water damage created a sort of crown around her reddish-brown locks.

  Sygne frowned. “I remember her having jet black hair.”

  “Hmmm. And do you remember her having wings on the sides of her head?”

  “No. I think I remember seeing feathers fade in and out around her. Maybe she’s a bit of a shapeshifter? Or an illusionist?” Sygne added. “I’m no theologist, but I thought that it was the love goddess of Litherron that had wings on her head. Some kind of chicken fetish?”

  Jamal noted, “Issulthraq conquered Litherron. Two years ago.”

  “If Bliss is supposed to be the ideal of beauty, maybe she changes her appearance based on who is forced to worship her?”

  Jamal shrugged. A female who could intoxicate a man just by standing near him… Who could change her appearance based on whatever her admirer wanted her to be… Suddenly he wished that the Specularity had a love goddess.

  Sygne continued, “Did you know that Bliss didn’t always have that short sword? No. It was the Mizzuline goddess of love who carried Heart-Piercer. The Issulthraqi annexed Mizzul fifty years ago, and eventually that tradition of carrying a sword was ascribed to Bliss.”

  “Hmm. So are you saying that a hundred years from now Bliss will have chicken wings sprouting out of her head—”

  “And four breasts.” Sygne completed the thought, holding her hands out to the sides of her chest. “I’m no theologist—”

  “You’ve mentioned that.”

  “—but I can think of a good number of gods and goddesses with botched-up origins and idolatries, because they end up being amalgams of other religions that have come and gone. For instance, the Albatherran keeper of the underworld has gills because—”

  “Oh please,” a voice sounded from behind them, echoing from the direction of the Kritan altar. It was Sessuk. He wore his dark purple robe, although he had the corner of its hem folded and tucked into the sash at his waist. Jamal assumed he wanted to keep it from trailing through the gory streets. One hairy leg protruded from that cleft in his robe.

  Sessuk sneered, “You two can’t help but put yourselves into trouble. Even when you chat idly, you do it before idols of the Pantheon. Don’t you know that the gods can hear you through their own graven images?” Sessuk carried his gnarled staff. He tapped it against the flagstones, and the two prongs of the staff suddenly erupted into a frenzy of eye-searing light.

  It was lightning, caught in one place, entwined by the wizard’s staff. It was terrifying. Even Sessuk seemed upset by it. The vizier bit his lip and held the crackling staff as far away from himself as he could. The lightning writhed and shook like an angry viper—at any moment it might turn and lash out at its master, melting his face in one vicious strike. Nevertheless, Sessuk forced his mouth into a smug grin. “Fortunately, I’m here to end your troubles. Permanently.”

  Jamal gritted his teeth. Why had he waited so long to look for a weapon? Although, at the same time, what worldly weapon could compete with Sessuk’s staff? He had snared a thunderbolt, and now the motion of that captured energy was almost hypnotic. An antic rhythm, counting to imminent doom.

  Amazingly Sygne had focused on something else. “My pocketbook!”

  The vizier had Sygne’s pocketbook strapped across his chest. She made to rush forward until Jamal grabbed her hand and stopped her.

  Sessuk was obviously agitated that Sygne wasn’t properly horrified by his electrified accessory. He slapped his hand across the cover of the book-on-a-strap. “Yes. Your pocketbook. I needed a personal item to cast a tracking spell. I didn’t understand why you would hide in the Great Bell as it was collapsing; I decided that it may have been some sort of scientician’s trick.”

  “Why does everyone keep calling me that?”

  “The tracking spell showed that you had made your way back into the caverns. I monitored your location until I saw that you had entered the city. I hurried here to catch you.” Sessuk hoisted his staff into the air. “Those responsible for Yur’s death must receive their just due. I will make sure that happens, by the eldritch power of my LIGHTNING ROD!”

  Sygne made a ‘tsk’ noise, like a disappointed school teacher. Jamal gave her a sidelong glance as she took a step closer to one of the middle stanchions—the one with a picture of Perfection on it. Jamal wasn’t sure how she thought a piece of moth-bitten fabric and a slim pole of copper was going to protect her. He had heard that in moments of imminent death, anti-theists often turned religious. But if the Fabled Pantheon hadn’t helped Yur, why would they help them? Jamal was going to have to find s
ome way, on his own, to get them out of this situation.

  He would have to stall. He asked, “You wouldn’t kill an unarmed man and woman, would you?”

  Sessuk considered this. “Perhaps I wouldn’t. But Womp’s tribe-mates would. They’re quite fond of ripping off a man’s arms and beating him to death with his own body parts.”

  Sygne stepped forward, staying close to the stanchions. “We know that you are the one who killed Yur.”

  Sessuk smiled slyly. “Only a god could understand your silly conviction that I had something to do with Yur’s death. I didn’t kill Yur. You’re dead wrong about that.”

  “Good grief.” Sygne rolled her eyes. “There you go again. You must have a very low opinion of your gods if you think they’re amused by such lame jokes.”

  The smile dropped from Sessuk’s face. He jabbed his rod at her. “There are many gods who find me quite charming.”

  “Really? I’m shocked.”

  “Hey!” Sessuk’s face flushed purple. “I make the witticisms here—”

  “Oh,” Sygne interrupted. “By the way, that is not a lightning rod.”

  “What? How would—”

  “Run!” Sygne turned and nearly trampled over Jamal. He stumbled out of her way. She cried, “Follow me!”

  Sessuk jabbed at both of them with his staff, and an ice-blue bolt of electricity leaped through the air…

  …and veered sideways into the copper pole that held the tapestry of Superiority. The fabric ripped apart instantly—a hundred flaming shreds—with a boom so loud that the sound of it was physical. The stanchion of Victory toppled backward, and Jamal shielded his face—too late—against the onrush of wind. Sessuk gnashed his teeth and unleashed another bolt. This one forked and split apart. Half of it hit the tapestry of Perfection; the second half struck Pride. It was as if the lightning were a stupid animal, and it couldn’t tell the difference between graven images and its living, breathing prey.

  Jamal didn’t wait to see what happened next. He joined Sygne in a full-on run. Sessuk fired another volley of electrified magic at them.