the Idol of Baphomet

This is the first of hopefully many short stories/flash fiction that will be loosely linked around a mystical artifact known only as the Idol of Baphomet,  which spans millennia and empires. The short stories will feature a partially recurring cast of characters that span different ages, whose experiences and discoveries culminate in a satisfying climax. Treat it as a small experiment in worldbuilding, to flesh out the world of Elyden, whilst giving me the opportunity to stretch my writing muscles. All comments and criticisms are more than welcome :)

Note: though it's not mentioned in the story, the setting is the capital of the Republic of Almagest, Almagest.

1 - the Idol of Baphomet.  4003 RM.  the City of Almagest

The leather-clad woman was in the air, her back twisting like a cat mid-fall, before landing on all fours. Without missing a beat she rolled and was running down a narrow street obscured by walkways. Above, the Iron Guardian stopped, caught his breath and looked down. The figure was gone.

Shit, thought Adrastea. Her escape had brought her away from the vaulted streets. If she knew the district well-enough - which she did - the alley she was in would bring her out into Tinsmith Road.

It did. The road here was wider and though the hour was late, it was still filled with bodies moving slowly about their business. On both sides of the street establishments were still open, their matted awnings dripping with what was left from the earlier rain. The air was cool. She paused for a moment, breathed in deeply and looked behind her.

Not a body. Her eyes painted the road ahead, searching for the Iron Guardian. 

Nothing.

She checked the bag on her back, made sure the contents was still there, and hurried across the road to an alley beyond.

She looked up - force of habit whenever she was in one of the wider streets, and saw heavy grey clouds behind walkways, and bridges criss-crossing the thoroughfare - and frowned. The sky always made her feel uneasy. She felt safer in the regraded streets and ducts, or the lower wards where even the streets huddled close together from the world without.

Adrastea flitted into the alley and continued running, going down a narrow stepped street.

She came to an overpass that bridged a gap over a lower street and ran to the end, where it met an apartment block and jumped unthinkingly onto the heavy rusted rail and jumped down, gloved hands holding onto a drainpipe for two storeys before her feet made contact with the ground.

She ducked under the bridge and ran south. A weak sun tried to shine from behind 

clouds in a narrow corridor between high-rises, but she ignored it, her attentions on the passage ahead.

There were two Iron Guardians at the end of the street, walking straight towards her.

She doubted they were looking for her, so far from the site of the crime, but years of instinct kicked in and she bolted.

They saw her and immediately split up, one heading towards her, the other disappearing behind the corner.

“Cease!’ called out ‘guard as the echo of steel-clad boots filled the street.

Adrastea moved deftly, her own footfalls silent in the evening. She jumped, her foot stepping onto the vertical wall, pushing her up effortlessly. She twisted as she rose, and made eye-contact with the Iron Guard. She wasn’t worried. Her face was hidden beneath a tightly-wound black scarf, only her brown eyes visible. She gave him the finger with both hands as she twisted round in the air, before grabbing onto a ledge and clambering upwards, leaving the Iron Guard behind.

He shouted at her but she was already jumping onto another overpass by then and was out of earshot.

She turned and ran hard... into another ‘guard, falling down.

Damn clank, she thought as her back hit the ground, hard.

A boot stepped down on her. “You ain’t going nowhere, tosher,” said the man, voice muffled beneath steel collar plate.

Adrastea squirmed, but she couldn’t move. Shit.

Then she remembered the bag. She looked around, and saw it lying on the ground in the shadows near a water drain. She lifted her gaze, hoping the guard hadn’t seen her, and looked around, taking in the walls, pipes, railing: anything that might help her escape.

“Looks like someone’s going to be spending the night behind bars,” said the guard. She couldn't  see it, but she knew his mouth had curled into a smile.

He lent down, foot still pressing hard on her chest, and reached for one of her arms. He grabbed it, and took the other hand and held them together behind her back as he searched his belt for a pair of cuffs.

That moment’s distraction was all she needed. She leaned forward, wrapped a leg behind his knee and pushed hard. The guard stumbled, but didn’t fall. But it was enough for her to get out of his grasp. She kicked as she jumped away, rolled on the ground, picked up the bag, and fled.

She didn’t look back, she didn’t think of anything else other than getting away from the iron guard, from that ward.

She jumped through a window of an abandoned apartment and rushed through the rooms, trying to ignore the acrid blend of moss and rust flakes on the ground. The remnants of furniture, rotten and bloated with moisture, littered the floor, slowing her movement. She passed a figure lying on the floor, painfully thin, possibly dead. No time to stop.

Soon she was in the middle of the apartment block, looking down into a courtyard that descended into darkness. Drops of water fell, twinkling in the gloom. She leaned over the edge, and scrutinized the architecture, the distance between window sills and piping.

And then she jumped. She was a storey down before she kicked out at a window sill. She flew to the other side and caught a drain pipe and slid down one storey, two, three, before stopping.

She was breathing heavily and could feel her pulse in her ears. She calmed down and looked up, eyes squinting against the light rain. The sky was just a square of grey cloud, moving lazily above.

It was quiet. She’d passed a squatter in the building. There might be more, or worse, degenerates. But they were probably more scared of intruders than she was of them. That wasn't what she was listening for, anyway. No. She was listening for the metal clank of the Iron Guardians.

An ache in her arms stirred her from her reverie. She shook her head and carried on sliding down until she reached the bottom - a rusted grill covering the entirety of the courtyard. It was covered in urban detritus and she could not see below. A quick look showed her she would not carry on that way.

She stood, drew a dagger and made her way inside.

She had to go up two flights of stairs to reach street-level and even then, she was in a vaulted expanse, the only light filtering down from grates and shafts above. Once her eyes adjusted to the half-dark she could see bricked up doorways and windows to either side of her and rows of thick steel columns holding up the ceiling. Years ago this would have been street level. The city’s spread had seen dozens of streets regraded and built over, turning what was once the ground floor into basements. Some areas - like the Dark Mile were three or four storeys beneath the surface and were home to entire communities of scavs and scummers.

Slowly, she made her way out of the undercity and found herself outside, flanked by high streets. “Show me where I am,” she said as she looked around. She walked to a street corner and through layers of grime managed to read a street sign: Somnambular’s Way. Better known as Three Heads, after a famous murder there years ago.

She wasn't that familiar with the place but placed her trust in the city.

She removed the scarf, changed her top and did her best to clean her trousers before heading to her employer.

***

“Adrastea,my girl,” said the patrician, arms wide, pale face lifting into a heavy smile.

The slave who brought her up to the patrician’s penthouse bowed and took a step back before withdrawing. The patrician ignored him and moved towards the woman, arms still outstretched.

Adrastea held her ground, though the uncomfortable sneer masking her face betrayed her thoughts. She shook her head, “Where’s my jink, Yassar?”

“So blunt, Adrastea,” said the patrician. He turned, walked to a large hardwood commode and pulled down the front, revealing rows of glass bottles.

Adrastea’s eyes lingered on the wood. As though the Island penthouse and the elevator that brought here there were not indication enough, the furniture was the giveaway. A cabinet like that would have fetched a high ransom in the night market. It would also have brought the Appraisers sniffing around, though. Still, she could appreciate the value of the place, with its statues and exotic plants.

Import business must pay well, she thought as she looked around the drawing room, saw the wood panelling and landscapes between them. So much wood. More than she’d ever seen before outside her dreams or a painting of the east.

“Drink?” asked Yassar. A heavy maroon curtain flitted in the breeze of an open window behind him. The air was cool, the smell almost clear. The manufactory smog that blanketed the city was too lazy to climb this high. This was a different world to what Adrastea was used to.

“Got Amrits?”

The patrician rolled his eyes. “You have a world of spirits and alcohols to choose from and you go for that dreg?”

Only thing I know, she thought. “Only thing I like.”

Yassar nodded, smiling. He lifted a squarish bottle and poured a red liquid into a crystal beaker and handed it to the thief. For himself he poured three fingers of a thick polar-ice coloured liquid. “Sabbar,” he said, gesturing with the glass. “Freshest liquor on the continent.”

He downed the thing and winced.

Adrastea took a sip from her wine. “Jink.”

The patrician nodded, placed his glass back on the commode and pulled on the centre point of his jacket, straightening a crease.

Adrastea observed him. He was old, maybe forty, though carried himself with the arrogance of a man half his age. His starched collar reached to just below his ears and she could see the marks where it and the large crested bolo tie he wore rubbed against his jawline. His skin was pallid and he stared at her down a dagger-like nose.

She didn’t like him. That wasn’t surprising. She didn’t like any of the patricians, with their family trees as long as vines, and their archaic traditions, and, well… all their jink.

“It’s not what you think it is,” he said, steely eyes looking down at her.

“What?”

“This,” he gestured to the room. “It doesn’t really mean anything, at the end of it all.”

At the end of it all, what did he mean? “You could free a dozen slaves with that cabinet alone. That would mean a lot to them.”

The patrician’s eyebrows lifted as he considered the young woman. “We all die, at the end. Rachanael takes us all in the end.”

Adrastea almost spat at the mention of the Korachani god, but thought better of it. 

“But all these things make the journey there a lot more bearable.”

“Think yourself a theologian, girl?”

“No. I think myself a realist.”

The patrician smiled. “Come, we have traded words enough. Please show me the statue,” his voice went down a pitch and he inched closer to her.

“I want my money first.”

Yassar rolled his eyes, “fine, take it. It’s on the commode,” he pointed.

She moved to the cabinet and saw a piece of printed paper. She lifted it and inspected it, the printed text alien to her. “What’s this?”   

“It’s a cheque. 2,000 Bits, as promised. Any reputable bank, moneylender or pawnshop will cash it in. Don’t you worry.”

“This is useless to me. I’m a just a freeman.”

“It’s legal payment. What you do or can’t do with it is not my concern. Now take it and give me the statue.”

“I need bits, not paper. Or you won’t see your precious statue.”

“You’re three storeys into my abode. There are half a dozen locked doors between here and the exit. Armed guards. And then the streets are patrolled against… your kind by the city council. You are skilled, no doubt about it, but not that skilled. Give me the statue. You can take the cheque, give it to a pawnshop, who’ll gladly give you a close value in coin.”

She hesitated. She saw a glimmer in the man’s eyes. That moment’s hesitation showed him she was at least willing to consider his bargain. And who was she to deny it? 2,000 Bits were an unthinkable amount. She could pay off her debts and have hundreds to spare - enough to buy her way out of the city onto a ship to the south. Even if she took the paper to a moneychanger and he took a fee it would still be more than she’d dream of making otherwise.

Slowly, she removed the bag from her back and handed it over to the patrician as she reached out for the cheque again. He snatched the bag from her in a swift motion, his expression that of a starved man given food. He couldn't have noticed her deft fingers taking one of the unopened bottles of fiore from the commode and putting it in a second bag she carried and even if he did, he wouldn’t have cared.

She edged her way to the other side of the room, where the unseen window waited behind the fluttering curtain. Yassar didn’t notice.

He was busy opening the bag, ripping away straw packing.

Finally the Idol of Baphomet was revealed. He slid down to his knees, his hands holding onto one of two pairs of cold arms. A lifeless goat’s head peered at him beneath a faded green patina.

He was enthralled.

Tears trickled down his cheeks and his lips began to quiver as a lifetime of searching was finally at an end. But it was what came next that was important, where the true journey started. His fortunes would be turned. The civilised world might invade new lands in a reckless display of false bravado. But he knew it was a fleeting hope. The Republic, the empire, all nations, like the world, would fall. And he would view it all with impartiality.

Adrastea ignored him as she moved, sticking to the wall as she crept to the window. All the guards in the world couldn't stop her if she fled from here.

Then she heard the patrician’s voice again, from behind her. “Where will you go?”

She stopped, the words petrifying her movement. She turned her neck and regards the man. He wa crouched over the statue, any poise sloughed off like moulded skin. His eyes were wide, his face curled into a mad grin.

“What will you do when the Republic falls, when the civilisation ends? The city is already dying. What will be your salvation?”

She chewed on the words. “I have other things to worry about, patrician. You might see the whole world from your penthouse but from the gutter all you care about is getting enough food to get you through the night, enough warmth to keep you alive. Safety.”

The man nodded, the glaze in his eyes diminishing for a moment. “You want safety, you get away from this city, move to the hinterlands. There might yet be an oasis of solitude in this forsaken world where you can hide.”

Adrastea’ gaze flitted to the statue.

The patrician recoiled, his face tightening. “Go, forget this place.”

Adrastea nodded and stepped out of the window.

She gave one last look to the lost patrician and felt twang of pity. It was gone in an instant.

Inside, Yassar was on his knees, the capriform idol on the floor in front of him.

He was praying, the woman already a fading memory.

***

part 2

#elyden #almagest #flashfiction #fantasyshortstory #dyingearth