3212 A.G. (After Gods), the Wells, planet An’kuruku.
Blood drenched the floors, running down the slant into the streets in unimaginable waves. The smell of iron tainted the air. Pain and abject misery clung to the city in a pall unlike any felt in recent history. The end of the world had come at last. Bodies were everywhere, scattered where death carelessly threw them. It was unconscionable, but a scene that had played itself out time and again throughout the universe’s long history. Now it was happening again.
She strode through the carnage, carefully avoiding the blood when at all possible. How many of these people never saw the end? Failed to notice the confluence of dark powers screaming down at them through the ether? Humanity was young still, incapable of understanding the sheer amount of hatred seething among the stars, waiting for the chance to exact revenge on the upstart species.
Pain coursed through her in waves. Each face she looked down on stared back with the all too familiar questioning gaze. It was a scene she’d witnessed a hundred times, a thousand. And no matter how many times she saw it, it failed to make sense. Who deserved this?
Finally, when she could stand no more, she stopped. A pair of bodies lay twisted and broken at her feet. Wordless power made her drop down. She didn’t know why. It didn’t matter. She felt compelled to stare into these last pairs of eyes to witness their grief. She vowed to remember them. To sing their praises when all memory faded. She paused. Recognition, clouded, flashed. She knew them!
Kneeling, she gently straightened the wreckage their flesh had become and struggled to bite back the tears. Dark blood stained the woman’s bright, red hair, covering one broken cheek. Lithe, almost painfully thin, she was a fighter. Her hands were calloused and thick. No dainty courtesan. Dozens of wounds riddled her body. She had died well, much more than could be said for her male counterpart. He had the dark skin of a native. A massive hole emptied his chest cavity. Viscera and innards spilled in a gooey puddle. He’d clearly sacrificed himself to save her. But why?
Death was indiscriminate, seldom caring about personal feeling or emotion. She wanted to cry, but it would only serve to insult their memories. Instead, she reached down to close their eyes. Her fingertips had barely touched the woman’s flesh when her eyes opened and a bloodied hand weakly grabbed her wrist.
“Save me.”
She awoke with an awful scream, pupils dilated, sweat caking her golden hair to her face. A dream. She hated dreams. Too often they were misinterpreted by the weak of mind. Greed demanded each read the dream according to his or her most intimate desires. She put no stock in dreams, but this had been too real. The faces. The carnage.
Sliding from the clean sheets, she went to the washbasin and splashed the cool water on her face. Much about the dream didn’t make sense. It had been too hot, reminiscent of the deep desert. Most of the bodies were dressed like the priests and monks of the Wells. Another large group was dressed in the style of deep desert nomads, raiders and murderers. The last two bodies didn’t fit in. A pale woman, clearly from another world, and a city dweller.
She resisted the urge to go to the deck and look down on the Wells. Her dream had happened here, but there hadn’t been a single act of violence in this holy place since, well, since her arrival. She’d have heard the sound of battle. The screams of carnage. No stranger to violence, she abhorred the idea of people being slaughtered in the name of self-righteousness and vanity.
No clear answer presented itself, leaving her lost in confusion. Answers could be just as problematic, she scolded. The risk of this dream coming true was too great for her to sit back and ignore it. Frowning, she decided to get dressed and visit the priests. Perhaps they had the answers she needed — or, at least, could point her in the right direction to solve this mystery. It might be the only way for her to clear her mind and regain the peace she had struggled so hard and long to find.
Visions of broken faces mocked her every step. She knew then she was in for a very long day.
Sea spray caressed his face and hands, easing the torment perpetually administered by the sun. His liver spots were darker, the wrinkles and lines deeper, shaded. His eyes felt pinched, even when he had them closed to enjoy the ocean’s kiss. Most of his life was well behind him now, a lamentable fact but one he had learned to cope with. The Bone Father found little pleasure these days. Much of his time was spent lost in thought, contemplating those things he knew better than to ask.
Change had come to the Deeves, brought by the crimson robe wearers of the cult of Rengu. He knew the name. An old name from times best left unremembered. The more he listened to Mollock Bolle preach, the more he was convinced action was necessary. He was not a man of violence. The thought sickened him without end. Premonitions gnawed at his subconscious. Every time Mollock opened his mouth, a foul rant polluted the minds and ears of those who were once the Bone Father’s charges.
Mollock had turned the Bone Father’s people against him. The Deeves were no longer the comforting mixture of tranquility and solitude he’d once appreciated, loved. All he’d spent a lifetime trying to achieve was crashing down around him, and he was next to powerless to stop it. Unless he found a way to silence Mollock Bolle forever. The idea warmed him on chill nights. He knew murder was wrong, but he struggled to make it justifiable. Rengu was justification enough. Should the death god be released, for surely that was the intent of the cult, all life would wither and fade. The Bone Father vowed to prevent that from happening in so much as he had the power to do so.
Mollock Bolle had to die.
His biggest concern, surprisingly, came down to who he could trust. Men and women he’d once named friend now scarcely took the time to glance in his direction. No one here held his counsel, asked for his advice. He was a non-entity, and that left him empty on numerous levels. Misery demanded tribute, tried to force his knees to bend and accept the unacceptable. The Bone Father refused to succumb. His was the will of the Deeves, yet only the Bo now listened. He feared his hands must get bloody if the good of the people was to be done properly. But how would they receive him, this murderer of the Prophet of the gods?
Another wave crashed against the rocks, the spray coating him, stealing his thoughts while leaving him cold, shaking.
“Bone Father, you should come back to the village. You’ll catch your death out here on these shores,” a gentle voice called.
He turned. “I find the sound of the waves comforting, Marta’les. We are all too caught up in what is happening to take time for those little things that define us.”
The raven-haired woman pursed her lips, carefully considering what she was going to say. His comment had sparked an almost forgotten memory in her. She’d been a child when she’d nearly drowned that day he had pulled her to safety from the angry Bo. A life was no easy thing to pass aside, but Marta’les couldn’t help but find sedition against the Prophet in his words.
“The Prophet is about to begin the noon sermon,” she said quietly, as if in doubt. “If you would only listen to his words and accept them into your heart, you would not be so troubled. Please, come with me.”
It was all he could do to keep his disdain hidden. Have you become so blinded by the anger in his voice, the helpless feeling he has bestowed upon you all? Where is the child I pulled free from the waters of the Bo? “I am an old man. There is little I can still take comfort in. You go and listen to the Prophet. I will remain here with the Bo.”
She found it odd, her heart fluttering dangerously. “But Bone Father, what will you do out here in the midst of such vast emptiness?”
“Listen to the Bo. She has never disappointed me,” he smiled.
“It’s just water. What is there to learn?”
He sighed. Much of his wealth of knowledge, his intimate relationship with the land, was lost, consumed by the growing cult of Rengu. With no successor, the Bone Father feared all that he was and knew was quickly coming to its twilight. The end, he worried, was not going to be kind.
“You should go back, Marta’les.” He turned his back on her, content with the dis-appointment that his words fell on deaf ears.
The people of the Deeves were lost. And it was all Mollock Bolle’s fault. A gentle hand clasped his forearm sternly.
“Bone Father, leave this place. It is not safe for you here. You will end up like the others.”
The grip relaxed, and he listened to her quiet footfalls on the weather worn rocks. He wanted to call out, to find the answers he so desperately needed. Others? Her words dripped malice, hidden warnings that disturbed him more deeply than he cared to admit. Instincts screamed at him, begging him to heed her warnings and flee back his home. The universe was a terrible place with fresh dangers being imported to his tiny corner of the Deeves.
Finally, he turned back, but she was gone. A great commotion broke out on the far side of the ruined keep. The madman on the rocks had come back to preach. The Bone Father gave the gentle waters of the Bo one final glance before moving on. The moment was lost. He sighed heavily, untold pressure weighing down his soul. He decided to head back and listen to what Mollock Bolle had to say. Perhaps his words would fuel the rage the Bone Father needed to carry out his desire.
Night was always darkest after the sun finally dropped below the horizon. The Bone Father sniffed the wind, fetid with the rot of human waste. Occasionally, he caught a whiff of saltwater, and it brought a small grin to his weary face. He sat in his tent, reading by candlelight. No one came to seek his advice anymore. No one was interested in his outdated belief system and the promise of a brighter day. The Deeves was losing its soul one misguided person at a time.
He looked up suddenly. The harsh sound of the tent flap being thrown open startling him. His heart beat a little faster as his gaze settled on the figure taking a seat opposite of him without being invited. Is this my executioner? Come to make good on Marta’les’s predictions?
“So you are the famous Bone Father. I expected more.” The voice, a woman’s, sounded flat and highly unimpressed.
He bristled at the insult. “Show me your face.”
She slowly reached up and removed the heavy hood of her cloak. The Bone Father choked back a gasp.
“I know you.”
She offered a thin smile. “You only know my face. You have no idea who I truly am. But please, my mother insisted on manners. My name is Kaline.”
He pointed an accusatory finger. “You are the witch behind these lies and blasphemies.”
Kaline chuckled softly. “Strong accusations from a decrepit old man too blind to see that his time and faith are coming to an end.”
“We are all prisoners of our own choosing.”
“Indeed. You failed to choose. The future has come, old man, and there is no place for you in it.”
“Your pawn offers lies to my people. How could I ignore their suffering and fade away?” he asked.
“Pawn?” She paused. “Perhaps I underestimated you, Bone Father. Mollock Bolle is a broken man. He has seen things no living man ever should. It makes him unique, a man of consequence, relevant to the future I am trying to create.”
“A world dedicated to this death god cult. That is not a world I would choose to live in.”
“Mind your words. I can make them come true.”
It was his turn to smile. “I expected better than simple threats, Kaline. If you had come to kill me, I expect you would already have done so. Why have you really come?”
She pretended to smooth out a few wrinkles in her lap. “These are…difficult times for us all. I don’t profess to know which way the wind will turn, though I hope it will be in my favor. What I do know is that you are a very real threat to what I am trying to accomplish on this backwater world. I don’t want you dead. That will come soon enough. But I do need you gone from here. There is an aura about you, and I don’t like it. I’ve taken your people. There is nothing for you here.”
“You mislead my people, seducing them into mental slavery or worse. How can I abandon them now when they need me the most?”
“Your passions are admirable if misplaced. I could crush you right now, and no one would ever know. If I thought I could use you, I would introduce you to Lord Rengu and let you see how wrong you are.”
He shook his head, his long decades wearing on the motion. “All lies. What did it take for you to first succumb to the death god?”
She bristled suddenly. Anger flashed hotly in her cheeks. “I suffer you only because you are obsolete. Do not tempt my vengeance.”
“How fitting, don’t you think?”
Kaline stood, fists clenched in rage. “You have until the dawn to leave the Deeves. I don’t care where you go or what you become, but you will not be welcome here again. If my people find you, they will kill you without question. Go to Tenemenah and become a street performer, for all I care. The only thing I care about is never, never seeing your worn face again.” Kaline stormed back to the tent flap. “Until the dawn, old man.”
He slumped back in his chair after she’d gone, lost deep in thought. The Bone Father knew her threats were true. All his wild imaginations were coming crashing down. He only had a few hours to figure out how to kill Mollock Bolle and change the winds back in his favor.
She stalked through the ruins, focused and intent. Those she passed shrunk away lest they incur the growing wrath in her eyes. Others less fortunate had disappeared after displeasing her. Kaline enjoyed the feeling of fear she inspired in her followers. It gave her strength, lent her will to dominate all life. What more were people than stepping stones marking her path to eternal glory?
Of course, she hadn’t started that way. Kaline came from humble beginnings. The daughter of a farmer, she’d quickly learned that her life wasn’t enough for her. Nothing her family did was enough. She wanted more. Deserved more. She went to temples, asking priests for guidance. The Conclave, she felt, was hiding something — something that could potentially change the universe. She wanted to know what.
She’d followed her quest for knowledge to the stars, hungry for any scrap of the great puzzle. Her life had changed for good when she’d stumbled upon the legend of the Three and was able to cross-reference different histories. They confirmed her darkest suspicions. The Conclave, for all its supposed righteousness and almighty attitudes, was just another corrupt entity. Unfortunately, it was the controlling organization for over seven hundred colonized worlds. Bringing it to its knees was certainly daunting, if not impossible.
Kaline had used her knowledge to gain followers and build a base. Her influence grew rapidly but was without focus, guidance. She’d lacked the unifying spark that would take her organization to the next level and, hopefully, bring the Conclave down. Many obstacles blocked her path. The Inquisition. The Prekhauten Guard. Too many men and women in positions of power had refused to abandon their continued wealth. She was almost lost in the myriad of corrupt priests and politicians. Then, she’d discovered Rengu, and all had fallen into place.
Through Rengu, she’d managed to build a cult-like following. The disaffected rose from the gutters of a hundred worlds, pledging support and more to her cause. Her movement gained momentum. Several lower level priests and even a few Inquisitors changed allegiance, lending tactical support and precious insight into the most powerful organizations in the universe. Kaline wanted more.
She had come to An’kuruku with the hope of meeting Mollock Bolle, a man who had survived the anger of the gods for most of his adult life. Convinced he was the key, Kaline had turned his name in to the local Prefecture, forcing Mollock into her waiting arms. Diabolical, yes, but necessary to persuade Mollock to become the face of the disaffected. His words now echoed in the minds of hundreds, and that was just here in the Deeves. Soon, Kaline would take her following back to the stars and continue her rampage all the way to Vau Prime and the very heart of corruption.
No fool, Kaline understood the quest remained in a perilous position. This Bone Father threatened to undo all she’d tried to accomplish here. Letting him go was a calculated risk, but she couldn’t afford to have him killed. The people of the Deeves were easily swayed and could just as easily go back to his outdated beliefs upon learning of his murder.
Lost in thought, all swirling round too much to make her comfortable, Kaline came to Mollock’s chambers and knocked. She entered without waiting for his reply. Too much needed to be said to wait for modern conveniences. Mollock, to his credit, didn’t bother looking up. He already knew.
“What if I told you that there are greater mysteries than you have assumed?” she asked quickly.
Her voice was rushed, as if time had become a dire foe.
He shrugged. Much of his life had been spent running from mystery, not charging towards it. Mollock wished he could go back and change that fateful day when he’d discovered the sleeping god deep in the catacombs of Reven. He wished he had never been so curious or greedy. But, alas, it was not to be. His actions were done, his fate sealed. The gods and their agents would stop at nothing to remove him for good.
“I would say your words are falling on the wrong man. I have seen too much, Kaline. I am not the man you want me to be.”
She pursed her lips. “Shut up, Mollock. I didn’t come to bandy words. You think you know the truth of things, but the only truth is you are blind to what is truly going on. I have kept much from you, on purpose, of course. There are certain items that only a select few need to know. For protection’s sake.”
“Kaline, I am tired.”
“I need to tell you everything, Mollock. You need to know the truth of what I am trying to accomplish and the truth about Rengu.”
He finally turned to look at her. The tiniest tremor of horror flickered in his eyes.
3212 A.G. (After Gods), The deep desert, planet An’kuruku.
Elisa awoke to intense pain. She curled up in a ball, clutching her stomach while fighting back the tears. Another sharp blow took her in the ribs. She cried out before being stifled with an old rag in her mouth. Rough hands pinned her to the ground. Her arms were peeled back and bound behind her. She felt the warm trickle of blood drooling down the side of her face.
“Careful. We do not want our most prized possession damaged.”
Elisa struggled, but her captors were too strong. Through her haze, she failed to recognize Tanzeil’s voice. Her vision swam, patterns and shapes colliding violently every time she moved.
“Is she hurt?”
“Nothing a little make-up won’t fix,” one of the men laughed.
Elisa heard a thin whistle followed by a wet smack. The severed head rolled past her feet, coming to rest a few feet away. Empty eyes stared up in muted shock.
Tanzeil stepped closer, allowing her to see who had done this. “I am not a man to be trifled with, Elisa.”
She mumbled something. He frowned and had her gag lowered.
“Why have you done this?” she demanded weakly.
Calloused hands spread wide; he smiled and said, “I am a businessman at heart. Do not take this personally. You will fetch me a goodly sum at the Wells. You see, I am upholding my end of the bargain. I am seeing you, safely, to the Wells. Of course, what happens to you after that is not my concern.”
She struggled, uselessly. “You bastard. I should have known better than to trust desert scum.”
He feigned hurt. “I have done everything honorably, offworlder. Did you think that you could just come into the deep desert and have your way? There are rules here. You’re not the first offworlder to behave so impudently. I do not expect you to accept your fate. Slavery is no easy thing to get used to, or so I have heard. I’m sure you will be taken by a wealthy merchant. Your fair skin will see to that.”
“I’m going to kill you,” Elisa growled.
Tanzeil grinned sheepishly. “I doubt that. You’re going to make me a very rich man, Elisa. I thank you for that.”
“What of my friend?”
“The city dweller? Bah! He’s not worth his weight in water. If he’s fortunate, he will be taken to the mines and forced into hard labor. I doubt he will last long under the grueling sun.” Tanzeil’s arrogance bled through his words. “Gag her.”
The sun was starting to rise. Streaks of pale colors shredding through the dark. Tanzeil’s tribe broke into action. Massive tarps were pulled back from the desert floor. Sand and dust forming clouds so fine they choked. Elisa stood immobile, watching as those around her uncovered large vehicles she had never seen before. Twenty meters long and flat but for a foot-high rim and what looked like a control deck, the vehicles were clearly intended for flight. Men and women began loading each with supplies. That explains how they can move so quickly across the deserts.
Ah’muf was brought beside her. His skin had taken an unhealthy glow. He was sick, still poisoned from the scorpion attack at the oasis. Without proper medical treatment, he was going to die. Elisa knew this and was powerless to prevent it. Her heart ached. A wall broke then, one that had been in place since the day the Bloody Man killed her family and destroyed her village. Reluctantly, she admitted that she loved Ah’muf.
It was a relationship doomed to fail. Named the Paladin, Elisa wasn’t long for An’kuruku. Whatever fate the Bloody Man had thrust upon her back on Crimeat, she felt it all coming to a head. One way or another, she was done with this world. Only she still hadn’t found the Paradise Tear, nor did she have even the faintest idea who or what it was. Another riddle. She hated riddles.
Elisa gave Ah’muf the best reassuring look she could manage given the circumstances. He winced in his attempt at smiling. She noticed his fingers trembled slightly, like a drunk who hadn’t touch alcohol in days. He was worse off than she had previously guessed. His pain translated to her. Again, nothing seemed in her favor.
She tried to find some way out of this predicament, but no options presented themselves. Like it or not, she was trapped and bound for the slave pens. Elisa despised the thought, but waiting to be bought might be her best option. Unfortunately, Ah’muf wasn’t going to live that long. Tanzeil was being overly unrealistic. Her friend, her love was closer to death than to the Wells. She briefly contemplated putting him out of his misery herself. A mercy killing. Certainly he deserved that one act of kindness she was still capable of delivering. The truth was that she didn’t think she had it in her.
Elisa struggled against the rising tide of depression threatening to consume her. Bound and gagged, she couldn’t see a way out. Once again, she’d waited too long to act despite knowing what was coming. Ah’muf’s warnings had fallen on deaf ears. But instead of dropping into second guessing herself and the torment that came with it, Elisa pushed through her despair. A singular thought kept her going. Ah’muf.
A pair of guards half-shoved, half-dragged her onto one of the massive skiffs and forced her down atop a stack of supply crates. She glared up silently, marking their faces. They would be among the first to die if she could only get free. Elisa struggled against her bonds, but the toughened leather was as good as steel.
Tanzeil was the last to board. With a gesture, his fleet of five skiffs lurched up from the desert floor, hovering a few feet above the ground, and pushed forward. They weren’t exceptionally fast but saved the horses and camels from undue stress or worse. The desert tribes had learned the need for efficiency early during their self-imposed exile from the cities. What they couldn’t find or barter for, they stole with ruthless abandon. Elisa had no doubt Tanzeil had come by these skiffs with a price in blood.
As if sensing her eyes glaring hotly on his back, he turned and gave her his most charming smile. “You did not think we were going to ride all the way to the Wells, did you? It is a five-day journey by camel. Now, we will be there by nightfall. Be thankful. A slower journey would mean the death of your friend.”
And give me the chance to stick a knife in your belly. Elisa blinked but remained surprisingly calm. Tanzeil was no fool. He knew she was a threat and, despite the tribe of trusted fighters at his disposal, stood a very good chance at killing him long before they reached the Wells. Only fools took unnecessary chances.
She was fed and allowed to relieve herself near dusk. The aching in her bowels and bladder nearly prevented her from being able to stand. Dehydration was setting in as well, leaving her weak, delirious. Elisa wasn’t prepared for the level of negligence Tanzeil was exposing her to. She assumed it was an attempt to break her, to stymie her will and leave her body in a dilapidated state. That way, she wouldn’t put up a fight when he sold her off to the slave pens. At least it made sense to her.
The alternative was considerably worse. Tanzeil was cunning, smooth and diabolical. He despised city dwellers and their off-world commercialization. An’kuruku was a sacred place, sullied by the filth of adventure seekers and fortune hunters. He wished for a day when the deserts once again belonged to his people. He wanted nothing more than to drive the offworlders back to their starships and off his world. He wanted. Tanzeil looked at Elisa with disgust. She was everything wrong with his precious desert.
He contemplated sticking a knife in her and dumping her corpse in the dunes, but he’d never actually killed anyone before. Not to say that plenty of others hadn’t died by his command, but he considered himself an educated man, refined and upstanding. It wouldn’t do to have blood on his hands. Tanzeil relied on others to do the dirty work. He was a prince, after all.
The skiffs raced over the sand sea, breaking dune peaks in prickling sprays. The heat lessened slightly as the sun began to set but still hovered over one hundred degrees. It was a dry heat, the kind that made you sweat but not uncomfortable. Tanzeil loved the heat. His bronze skin darkened. The heat baked his skin deliciously. It was both blessing and bane. One day, when his dreams became reality, it would be time to abandon the desert and return to the cities. On that day, he would become the tyrant.
Night fell slowly, casually covering the land in darkness. Elisa continued to watch Tanzeil for a time, eager to spot any hint of exploitable weakness. The man was a rock, immobile and daunting. She noticed the dangerous glint in his eyes but couldn’t find an acceptable reason for it. That worried her.
Eventually, she drifted off to sleep, awakening to the sounds of civilization and the first kiss of the desert sun. Dawn had arrived, and so had they. The Wells sprawled out before her. Her heart crashed. Any hope of escaping Tanzeil had died the moment the skiffs passed the outer ring of run-down huts and shops. They had arrived.