Chronicles of Gilderam: Book One: Sunset (25 page)

Jerahd simply nodded.

“I suppose you ‘saw’ that one too, huh?” Owein chided.

The two exchanged sneers across the table.

“As a matter of fact…” Jerahd said through tight lips.

“What comes after that?” asked Cavada.

Shazahd returned to the tome.

“It says…
The ancestral home of the Called Upon shall be destroyed, expunged from the world by the Dark Sorcerer, and the sky shall turn to fire above the wastes there laid.
”

“The sky shall turn to fire…?” Fulo repeated dimly.

“The Called Upon?” said Cavada. “Is that supposed to be Divar?”

Shazahd nearly fell over.

“It’s the Inner City…” she said meekly.

“
Captain!
” rang out a tinny voice from the wall. The sound made everyone jump. Vrei grabbed the speaking tube.

“What is it?”

“
Galif here. We’re installing the new turbine and we need you on the bridge to coordinate the diagnostics
.”

“I’ll be right there,” she said, and returned the tube. “Cavada, come with me.” Then she said to the war room, “If my guess is right, and we get this thing working, we should be in Zarothus by tomorrow afternoon.” And they left.

“Zarothus?” said Jerahd. “Why are we going to Zarothus? We should be headed to the Inner City!”

“Just take it easy,” said Owein, rising from the table. “That’ll be our next stop. I promise.”

Jerahd rose too.

“
Next
stop? Do you have any idea what is transpiring around you? As we speak? At this very moment?!”

“Lots of stuff, I’m sure. But right now our first priority is to locate a missing person in Zarothus. We’re sort of obliged to pick him up. This is technically his ship.” He rounded the table to face Shazahd. “Tomorrow I’ll go into the Old Capital and find Lamarioth.”

“Then what?” she asked.

“Then…” Owein had apparently not thought that far ahead yet. “I’ll ask him a few questions.”

“A few questions?”

“I will go with you,” said Jerahd.

“Thanks,” said Owein. “But no thanks. I’ll take this one solo. You can stay here and, uh, pray for me or something.”

Jerahd stepped towards him. “I must come with you.”

“That’s awfully nice of you, but, well… traveling with you might be a little, how should I say this? …
conspicuous
.” Jerahd stood his ground. “You see, we don’t get a lot of westerners over here. And this is going to be a delicate operation. I’m sure you understand.” He clapped him on the shoulder and turned to leave.

“Don’t tell me you still don’t believe,” said Jerahd. “Even when the signs are so clear – right in front of you!”

“All right,” said Owein. “I won’t tell you. But I will say this:
when
we go to the Inner City, it won’t be because I’m going to be the savior of the world. It’ll be because this young lady,” he gestured at Shazahd, “has a date there. End of story.”

Owein moved for the door.

“Owein,” Jerahd said urgently. “If the remainder of this prophecy is left to be fulfilled, an unimaginably horrific fate awaits us all. Hundreds of millions will die. The primeval monsters of Underearth will be unleashed once again upon Vuora – Thuldarus and his minions will enslave humanity!”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” said Owein. “Don’t worry. I’ll get around to it later.”

Jerahd was appalled.

“How can you be so blind?!” he exclaimed.

Owein stopped.

“I suppose,” he said, “because I see with my eyes. Not with my heart.”

And he left them.

A heavy feeling remained in his wake. No one dared make eye contact lest they should see their own private fears reinforced on the faces of their comrades.

“
What a sorry creature he is
…” Jerahd reflected out loud, but in his native tongue.

“So, kindly excuse me for prying,” Levwit said to the room, “but I feel as though I’ve missed something rather important. Just what is Mentrat doing in Zarothus?”

On the lower deck, Shazahd came to an incongruous little door. It was all alone in the stark corridor, and wasn’t marked. This door had a different construction than any other in the ship. It wasn’t made in the thick, utilitarian fashion of airship hatches, but was a door like in a residential house. In fact, it was a door from
her
house. She recognized its style matching the architecture of her father’s mansion.

She tried the knob, but it was locked.

“
Bacar
…” she said to herself, and wriggled the knob even harder, but it was secure.

She rested her head against it, and could feel the engine throbbing through the wood. Looking down, she watched the light from her necklace rise and fall against the door. Then she noticed a tiny keyhole. It wasn’t below the knob where they usually were, but at heart-level, set squarely in the center of the door. The root fragment of her necklace dangled right in front of it.

She ran her fingers over the hole. Then sighed, and continued along the hallway.

Zarothus was divided into two distinct geographies. The Old Town, or Evogo Bulen, was centered on a river island, but also encompassed some of the surrounding real estate along the banks of the Vulc Muri. The Bri Bulen, or New Town, denoted the sprawl of modern expansion extending outward from the original settlement. For this reason, the more recently constructed high-rise towers formed a de facto ring around the Evogo Bulen, encircling the much older, and consequently shorter, historic structures.

Zarothus had been the seat of the first unified Gresadian power in the 6
th
Century of the Fourth Age, when Dontu Lamarius led the city-state of Zarothus to a series of hard-won victories over their neighbors. The league of city-states there formed was christened the Dontian Empire, and proved to be a formidable sovereignty. Dontu’s son inherited the throne in 554 of the Fourth Age, but was eventually usurped by the first ruler of the Te Vama dynasty, Calar I.

Calar was a shrewd leader, and an ardent warlord with an even greater vision for the future of Dontia. Utilizing theretofore unheard of methods of warfare such as political assassinations, bribery, and economic manipulation, Calar was able to annex the remaining Gresadian city-states to his realm. When his son, Crothus, came to power, he found himself at the head of the most powerful and prosperous nation in Vuora. Seeing his authority as endless, Crothus attempted to expand the Empire southward, into the mighty elvish nation of Divar, and thus provoked what would be the first of many bloody engagements with the elves.

Crothus’ hatred for the elves would become his defining characteristic, and the grueling war he started with them lasted for over thirty years until his death, and the subsequent death of his only son, finally brought it to an end. The malevolence he popularized toward Divar and all non-humans in general, however, would outlive him for centuries. It was Crothus who renamed the Empire, Gresadia, meaning “land of the pure,” to distinguish the human ancestry of his countrymen from that of all other races. He moved the capital from Zarothus to a city in the far north and named it Gresad, or “purity.” Under his vengeful rule, every non-human – called a
zvec
– was persecuted, exiled or murdered until the Empire was nearly completely rid of them.

The Evogo Bulen of Zarothus was a monument to that ancient legacy. Certain branches of the antique Imperial Palace were now open to the public for their historic significance. The grisly subterranean dungeons of the infamous Inquisition were on display, where
zvecum
, and other enemies of the state, were brought to suffer at the hands of royal torturers for their crimes of birth, treason, or sometimes without official charge.

Medical experiments had been carried out by medieval physicians, convinced that there must’ve been some fundamental and observable anatomical difference between elves and humans. Their horrific research yielded no definitive results, but now served as one of the most popular tourist attractions in Pothogan, Gresadia’s southernmost state.

The Imperial Armory of Zarothus was the most prestigious military academy in the country, and the soldiers it produced were thought to be some of the most disciplined and fearsome warriors in the world. The long and impressive history of Zarothus as a militaristic town helped to augment this image, and it is where the Imperial Guardsmen were trained, whose sworn duty it was to protect the monarchy.

Military parades were a common sight in Zarothus, and were always a matter of incredible pomp and reverent solemnity. The army took great pride in itself, and almost any occasion could warrant a parade. Ever since airships began to replace conventional means of warfare for Gresadia, ground-based operations acquired a steadily increasing sense of self-importance, and made it their arena to
appear
as professionally dangerous as possible, since their actual use in battle had been fading for centuries.

This parade, marking the Empire’s declaration of war against Divar, was particularly ironic, since the war was to be fought with airships alone. The dense forest of the elves was impenetrable, and made any ground-based incursion impossible.

Nonetheless, legions of uniformed soldiers filled the wide boulevards of Zarothus’ main thoroughfares in tightly regimented blocks. Neat rows of deep purple coatees with white facings marched in perfect unison, swinging their legs in quick strides. They each wore a spiked pickelhaube, a hat black as night, with a tine like a glimmering mirror. They carried long rifles, and some divisions sported short capes down their backs.

The hooves of the 141
st
Royal Cavalry Division kerplopped along Dreinas avenue, one of the oldest paved roads in Gresadia, while the huge plumes of their shakos bobbed rhythmically with the horses. Just behind them, the 87
th
Infantry Lancemen followed, a rectangular sea of spears. The unused blades shone brightly in the afternoon sun, hefted high above the heads of their bearers.

Behind them was a small unit of mounted officers. They wore long, dark greatcoats with rigid epaulets and were bedecked with insignia, badges and various cords of distinction. Atop their stern faces sat bicorns, some front-to-back, others side-to-side, which were marked with cockades, ribbons and hackles.

One of several military bands played a stirring march. Their trumpets cut a brilliant melody through the air, and their massive drum corps pounded an invigorating cadence through the ground.

Sidewalks were packed full of bystanders. Owein could feel the bass drum vibrating in his heart as he squeezed his way through. He shoved a few people aside and didn’t bother to apologize, since no one could’ve heard him anyway. The din of the crowd would overpower any single voice, even it if it were shouted directly into the ear. He made his way to the rear of the parade, heading upstream.

Owein felt a little more unsettled with each face he passed, fearing that someone might recognize him. He knew, consciously, that this was far from likely, but that did little to allay his anxiety. He hadn’t set foot in Zarothus since his training days, years ago. The eyes that fell on him one at a time were as cold and disinterested as any in Gresadia, and he internally instructed himself to relax until he eventually forgot he was hunted at all. He was just another body lost in a sea of people.

The crowd spread out a little ahead, where a colossal hill of marble stairs provided more space. The stairs led to the pillared entrance of some temple, and Owein couldn’t help but admire it. The enormous edifice was just one of many in that city, but all of them were impressive. People’s devotion to their religion could accomplish almost anything, Owein thought to himself as he surveyed the rich detail of a frieze several stories overhead on the pediment.

The sculpture was a famous religious scene, the Departing of the Gods, which depicted the ascendance of Geithoron and his children to Aelmuligo, the incarceration of Thuldarus and his children in Underearth, and humanity’s inheritance of Vuora. The figures, far away, were more than thrice the size of real human bodies. Were Owein able to get close enough, he could’ve counted the hairs carven upon their heads.

He sighed, and moved across the stairs.

As he came to the other end, someone hurried across the steps behind him. He was strangely dressed, and dark skinned, and he elicited uncomfortable looks from the locals. Gresadians were historically xenophobic, and the curious, calligraphic tattoos on his cheeks did not help him to blend in.

High above, church bells rang out from a bell tower behind the frieze. Their sound, which usually stretched for
itthum
, instead could scarcely be heard across the street. Their dull, low tone clashed slightly with the tune of the band.

Jerahd was stopped in his tracks. He realized he was standing in front of a church.

His eyes narrowed, following Owein through the crowd ahead. He looked to the church, then back to Owein. The ringing bells seemed to be calling him. Owein was beginning to disappear into the throng.

Making up his mind quickly, Jerahd fled up the steps and entered the church.

When the heavy oak door slammed shut behind him, the clamor of the parade outside was nearly completely shut out with it. It was reduced to a fuzzy background ambience, the kind of noise that the mind would shortly forget.

The temple was dark despite the abundance of light outside. Tall, stained glass windows along either side filtered sunlight into rich hues of scarlet, purple and blue. The shadows were cast long, and a heavy haze of frankincense clouded the air. Fat pillars held up a steeply vaulted ceiling a dozen
entilum
overhead, and countless rows of pews extended forward to the altar.

The bells echoed around the chamber as Jerahd crept down the central aisle. There were a few parishioners scattered around, most of them hunched over, kneeling in silent prayer. It occurred to him that his footsteps, which echoed eternally, sounded far louder on the marble floor than the brass band outside. Each one, tiny though it was, reverberated from end to end, and back again, within the vast nave.

Jerahd halted a good viewing distance from the altar.

Then he dropped to his knees.

The architectural masterwork before him bore little resemblance to the simple table of incense and idols he knew in Val. Steps led up to a dais, which was cordoned off by a short marble bannister separating the sanctuary from the rest of the church. The bannister supported columns that held an architrave high above, covered in gilded Gresadian lettering.

Between the columns, he could see a huge stone table in the center of the apse, enshrined beneath an intricately decorated, solid-gold canopy. Just behind that, a triumphant iconostasis rose high above everything else, a screen of paintings and statues set in a spiky latticework of gold, silver, marble and iron.

There he recognized the holy Twelve, with Geithoron sitting in his throne at the peak, so high up Jerahd had to crane his neck to see it. Below him were arrayed the likenesses of his children, and around them were clustered images of various saints and prophets. Near the floor, he could just make out the top of Thuldarus and what must have been his four children obscured behind the altar.

Tears welled in his eyes when he found the statue of Votoc. The stately, majestic coldness Jerahd knew him for was retained in his expression. In one hand, he pressed a scroll to his breast, a sheet of pure gold inscribed with Gresadian. In the other, he held a quill – an actual quill. Its feathers drifted lazily in the cool, sweet air of the church.

Jerahd bowed his head and wept. In the middle of the aisle, he bent down to touch his head to the floor. A couple parishioners glanced sideways at him.

A door opened in the narthex, letting the cacophony of the parade outside spill into the sacred silence of the church once again. The surprise of it was jolting, and Jerahd, still hunched over on the floor, jerked reflexively. When he saw who it was, he sprang to his feet.

They were three men of the cloth. Terical clergymen. One was wearing a cassock of a deep, mesmerizing purple, and the other two were in jet black. They were chatting softly when the door clanged closed, and Jerahd’s attention was caught by a stunning, gold pendant hanging from the neck of the man in violet. As they came nearer, he saw that it was the Terical heptagram: a seven-sided emblem with seven letters to represent Geithoron and his children, all encircling the carven image of the Book.

Jerahd didn’t move from the floor as they approached, and they did nothing to acknowledge him.

“…The obstinate heretics,” said the one in purple in a hushed tone as they walked right by him. “Honestly… a
parade!
”

“The tradition is one long held, Father,” said one in black.

“You know how the laity cling to simple things,” said the other. “It gives them a feeling of security.”

The man in purple croaked out a little laugh that echoed sharply around the church.

“Security,” he scoffed. “When nothing could be further from the truth.”

“Ex–excuse me…!” said Jerahd behind them, but the trio didn’t notice. He chased them down the aisle, catching them just before the chancel.

“Excuse me, Lords,” he said again.

They turned around to face him. Jerahd was surprised to find their expressions were ones of bristly astonishment rather than the patience, understanding or gentle love he was expecting. The priests quietly looked him up and down. Then one said, “Well?”

“Uh… good day to you all,” Jerahd bowed his head. “My name is Jerahd. I have come a long way on a holy mission. I beseech you, what is this Church preparing to do to stop the fulfillment of the prophecy?”

They stared at him, wide-eyed.

“The prophecy?”

“Yes. The prophecy of the End of Days. It is transpiring around us.” Jerahd looked from one blank face to another. “From the third holy Book…. You do know the prophecy…?”

“Yes, of course we know the prophecy!” one of them snarled.

“Mind your tone, stranger,” said another. “Can you not see you are addressing a bishop of the Church?”

“Forgive me, please,” said Jerahd, bowing again. “I only wish to know what preparations are being made so that I may offer my help.”