the Path Travelled - Part 4

Part 3

Part  4 – the Eshed Plains, north of Ras

They stopped in the shade of a ruined aqueduct.

They had been following its toppled spine for miles, using the scattered boulders that once stood proudly together as guides north. As the ground dipped the aqueduct grew stronger, more imposing. It was of grey-pink stone, with arches at regular intervals along its length. In parts the stones had been worn by wind into concave shapes, the mortar that had once held them together disappeared in places. Other parts had been spared the wind’s wrath and relief carvings yet survived, trying to tell their tales to anyone with eyes sharp enough to notice.

They made good ground on the first few days, stopping only to rest the camels. Chronicler had chosen to walk.

Chronicler was sitting in the shade on a toppled stone, his back to the wall. It was past noon and the sky was a naked blue dome with no clouds. The Ivory Moon hung there, a pale sickle of white, biding its time until fullness. The Blood Moon was nowhere to be seen. White Moon on the Wax, Red Moon new. A good day to travel, as the old saying went.

He emptied his decanter, glad for the water, however warm. He tried not to think of chilled wine or sherbet. The longing only made it worse.

Near the wall a handful of guards were busy playing a dice game. The rules, if indeed it had any, were lost on Chronicler and he could not recognise it, in any shape or form. But that was half the fun, with new games, trying to figure out the rules.

A chorus of laughter and shouting preceded a complex transaction of money and some bits of old copper they’d crossed the day before. Beside him a porter was laughing too. “Tsuri, ho. Tsuri ho!!” he was saying; a common exclamation in his tongue. It translated roughly as Tsuri, you idiot. Tsuri must have been the heavy-set guard who alone was giving away money and copper.

“Big loser?” said Chronicler.

The porter nodded. “He lose everything! On what? Nothing!”

Chronicler smiled and continued watching, eyes flitting every so-often to Tsuri. The man was the largest of the guard contingent and might have been scary, were it not for his placid warm eyes and easy smile. Though still, Chronicler didn’t want to risk

making him angry. The scar running down his left cheek and continuing down his right clavicle must have had some history. The crude, possibly tribal, tattoos

on his brows were likely steeped in tradition and cultural history, but he’d not yet had a chance to inquire. Perhaps another day. He did not want to risk rousing the beast so soon after its defeat.

Sallan appeared on the other side of the arch, leaning against it. He was smiling, watching the cards change hands. He was a good merchant. Chronicler could tell almost straight away after meeting him. He was a patriarch who prided himself on his responsibility. He would fall short of nothing to get his job done, of that Chronicler was sure, but he knew the value of trust and companionship and did not keep the distance that many merchants fostered, such as Farad had. Chronicler had never really understood the man. Not the way he felt he understood Sallan.

They rested for a while longer, though as the shade of the aqueduct narrowed they started moving again.

***

Tsuri was eating. He was sitting on his quilt, cross-legged, facing Chronicler, who’d sat down after they broke fast. There were other guards around them. It was quiet, late morning, and they’d stopped for food. Assathan sat close to Chronicler, nibbling on some dried meats he’d brought himself.

He and Chronicler were listening to the guards’ boastings.

This was the part that Chronicler craved. It was worth the riding just to hear what these disparate men had to say. Though all stories had value and helped shape his ever-shifting impression of the world, some words he knew had more value than others. Sometimes it was a simple throwaway comment or phrase that would stick with him. Those were the phrases he transcribed verbatim. The rest he’d paraphrase, noting down the main points so that he could revise them when he next had the chance, likely at the next caravanserai. They were not so much inns to him,

rather studies and scriptoria, where he could rest and examine scribblings from

during his travels. It surprised him at times and most of what he wrote he could not remember setting to paper, but he could remember the conversations, the expressions of the men and women he spoke with vividly whenever he read the transcripts. Something he was grateful for, as so much of the story came from

expression and the emotion that people tried to hide.

He looked at Tsuri, waiting for him to take the bait and recount something of his own. But he sat there and listened to the others.

Theirs was a motley crew, and there were men from the Tarahid Annexes, Erebeth, and the Surrachi Plains. Some, like the pair of plainsmen, were nomads. Most of the guards came from military backgrounds of some kind, while the porters were just labourers with some knowledge of the region. Most, perhaps half of them, including the porters, had once called Daaz home. Some still considered themselves Daazi,

though most, Chronicler could tell, had assimilated so many traditions from their disparate companions that they had become little more than men of the road, beholden to whatever path was chosen for them.

One of the plainsmen was busy talking, his hands doing most of the work. Twinkling eyes flitted from  face to face like a faerie as he spoke. Like most hailing from a similar latitude and climate, his skin was a dark olive tan. His hair, cropped short, formed a dark bowl on his pate, and a fine bronze chain ran left ear to nostril. The other side of his face was a canvas on which had been scarred a half-circle running from his brow, past his eyes to his cheek.

He spoke in a patois that borrowed words from as many as six cultures from the area, as was common amongst the porters. No one seemed to mind.

His companion was grinning, in anticipation of what was to come. The first man was walking at this point, tracking a beast across the high grasses of the plains. Bow and arrow in hand,  he was about to shoot, but Elyden decided not to give him his prize, and the earth opened up beneath him swallowing him up. His companion laughed,

stomping his feet on the ground as the other man spoke.

The man came to in a buried chamber, air stale and close. It was filled with stone shelves on which were leather scrolls and manuals. It was an atelier of some sorts, likely a lhaus ruin.

Chronicler was surprised. The lhaus were an ancient race who had once dominated lands south west of the Sea of Byssos, though he’d never though their dominions had reached that far. He jotted down a quick note in the margin of his folio, check histories of the lhaus – Surrachi plains? Chronicler leafed through his papers and noticed the sheer amount of such marginalia, most of which would go ignored. There was only so much a man could do, especially without the required resources.

What he needed was a well-stocked library and the time to sift through the tomes. He imagined himself a connoisseur of history, smelling, tasting each book as a vintner tested the quality of a fine wine. And the best place for such a person were

the libraries of Almagest. Largest city in the world, or so the legends went. Millions of souls called the city home, and millions more fell under its aegis. Its scholars were the most celebrated in all of the north, and if there was one place he could hope to verify most of what his travels had showed him, it was there. He longed to see the place, but it was so far. He wondered if he would ever reach it, or, truth be told, if he ever really wanted to.

The north was a very different place to Sammaea. There were empires there, borders. Laws. It was a rigid place, and he was not used to that. Sammaea was a place of culture and diversity. Every city was its own place, had its own rulers and history. In the north there was the High-empire and thousands of years of its singular rule. Any cultural heterogeneity had long ago been quelled, absorbed by that of the conquering nation until most places had become a homogenized mirror of the capital in Khadon. Almagest had won its independence from the High-empire years before, so retained some of its character.

By the time Chronicler caught up with the man in the story he was out of the ruin and spreading the news to a Daktran merchant who paid him to show him its location. Months later the merchant had returned with a sizeable force of men to plunder its riches. The next time the plainsman returned to the place he’d allowed curiosity to lead him down the hole again, only it was completely bare, not a trace of its lhaus heritage to be seen.

The others nodded, raised their hands in appreciation, and ate. Another of the men, one of the Daazi porters, spoke. “Lots of ruins around Daaz, too. Before partisanship and gangs, it was a decent place. I worked many times with expeditions sent west into the Sûr Ghath. Can’t say what they were, but I do remember columns of black glass, burnished by years of sandstorms, and a black slab, like an altar, with a great

bulls’ head on either end. Was a chore to get it back, but we managed. I guess it belongs to some shah now.”

Chronicler was nodding. That was what he was looking for. He’d spruce it up a bit when he could, but it was a good base for something poetic, evoking the grandeur of past ages, yet lamenting the slow decay of their ruin.

The crowds dispersed, though Tsuri and Chronicler remained there, eating slowly.

“How about you, any stories to share?” asked Chronicler.

Tsuri’s eyes darted away, searching for something unthreatening to observe.

“You can understand me, can’t you?” chronicler asked. He already knew the answer.

The man nodded, risking a short glance at the foreigner. “Not much to say.”

“How long have you been a guard?”

“Few years now.”

“And nothing interesting has happened in those few years?”

“What do you want?”

“I collect stories, anecdotes. Anything of worth or interest to people who may not know you people or your ways.”

“I have no stories.”

“Doesn’t have to be a story,” said Chronicler, shaking his head. “Could be something about your  culture, or your people’s history. Anything. Something you take for granted might be something unknown to me. I have seen the other Daazi guards offering their food before eating, for instance. What is that?”

The man sat upright, as though reeling from a blow. “That is not for you. It is religion. Our religion.”

“Exactly! What is it?”

“Our religion.”

“Why so secretive?”

“Our religion,” repeated the man.

“Fine, fine,” said Chronicler, raising his hands. “But we may be on the road together for close to a month. That’s a lot of secret prayers I’m going to be looking at.”

“You can look, but you will not know.”

Chronicler laughed. “Stubborn,” he said, standing up.

***

Over the next few days Chronicler was careful to observe the Daazi men’s rituals. They prayed morning, noon and night as the others had, though they placed a smaller emphasis on the theatricalities. Perhaps a result of their years on the road. Rituals evolved through necessity, he knew. Maybe these guards were more pragmatic in their beliefs.

From that point onwards they broke their fast alone and sat in a circle surrounding a group of small bronze statues. Each placed some of his own food in front of one of the statues before eating. When done, they collected the food and placed it on a rock or otherwise high point in direct sunlight or where it would be in full view of the sun when it next rose.

There was not much in the way of prayers or veneration and was more something automatic that a people used to years of indoctrination just did out of habit. This was not what Chronicler was looking for. This was habit. He was looking for belief.

There were thousands of gods in the world and most of them had been worn down through mindless ritual into shallow simulacra of their original incarnations. It was sad, Chronicler thought, to see the unifying idol of an entire culture, or race, or creed reduced to little more than a thoughtless habit.

He shook his head as he sat watching them from a distance. “This isn’t it,” he said.

“What are you looking for?” came a voice beside him.

He knew straight away it was Tsuri. “Just words to fill my books.”

“Their prayers are private. This is not right.”

Chronicler looked around. They were in open ground, nothing to break their view of the horizon but for the camels and other travellers. He was hardly spying on them.

“If someone wants to share with you, he will.”

“Volunteering?”

Tsuri smiled, pearly teeth gleaming in the sun. “Not today.”

***

The road was silent but for the howling of wind and the rustling of grasses, which had become the most

dominant life-form. A few solitary trees dotted the land, though they were few

and far between, hardly providing any shade to the travellers. Dusk brought

with it the silhouettes of scattered birds and bats, eating the fruit from the

foliage. Mornings revealed distinct three-toed tracks in the soil, alongside

other tracks that were more difficult to identify.

Mahr was familiar with the

terrain, if not the area, and was leading them on alongside one of the porters

who’d travelled the route many times before. They foraged for food and hunted

whatever they could find, though provisions were still in plentiful supply.

Chronicler was sitting with

Mahr and Assathan, the latter of whom Chronicler was spending most of his time

with. The others were out collecting water or resting.

“I was half expecting the

road to be swarming with bandits,” said Assathan. He was lying down on a

blanket on a patch of grass. The sun was low in the sky, perhaps a few hours

from setting and was to his back. He had a few sheets of vellum and was writing

in an ink pen.

“Gods, good thing you were

wrong,” said Chronicler.

“This is not an established

route. Every caravan makes its own route north. They would not know where to

lay in wait,” said Mahr.

Assathan nodded.

“You seem disappointed,”

said Chronicler. “Count your blessings everyone is well.”

“True, only... Well, I have

heard so many tales of caravan adventures that I was hoping something would

happen.”

Chronicler smiled, shook his

head. “We haven’t even been on the road for two week. Though fate willing, we

will be safe.”

“It was half of the lure,”

continued Assathan. “The promise of adventure. I could easily have sent one of

my clerks with the caravan and waited at home. My wife would have preferred

that, at least.”

Mahr laughed, cracked a nut

in his hands and popped the fragments into his mouth. “Only a fool courts

adventure.”

Chronicler raised his waterskin

in reply.

Mahr laughed. “And you, Niyush, know all about that.”

“You have had many adventures?” asked Assathan.

Chronicler was about to reply but Mahr beat him to it, “Misadventures, more like. Trouble seems to

follow him. I have come to expect the worst since travelling with him.”

Chronicler winced at the remark. “It’s not that bad.”

“Tartak?”

“Not my fault there was a revolution going on.”

“Liraet?”

“We were travelling from a region of civil conflict. It was only expected that we were held in custody.”

“Paraiya?”

“I am not a Shaper. You can hardly blame me for those floods.”

“Arkos?”

Chronicler sighed. “Those laws were draconian. Hardly my fault.”

“Karakhas?”

Chronicler’s expression darkened. “This isn’t funny anymore.”

“Sorry,” said Mahr. “But you get my point.”

Assathan sat upright, smiling, hands working at his aching back. “So, what’s the worst we can expect out here?”

“Storms, floods, disease. Who knows. Ask Chronicler.”

Chronicler waved a dismissive hand. His eyes had moved to the porters, who were busy checking the camels, watering and feeding them.

“Disease?”

Mahr nodded. “There’s always the risk of disease while on the road. The farther from well-travelled paths, the higher the risk. We already lost a man to malaria before arriving in Ras. Whenever men move to new lands they encounter sicknesses their bodies are not acclimated to. Some places are just known for horrid diseases.”

“Such as?”

“Fine, I’ll start you off  with something not of these lands. Petrification. What do you know of the Materia Omna?”

Assathan shrugged. “The usual.”

The usual varied from person to person. Most workslaves and commoners likely knew more myth than truth. A schooled man might know enough to negate the lies. Only a true scholar or perhaps a man with miles behind him might know more than that. Mahr was neither schooled, nor had he travelled that much, but he knew some.

“Right. The Materia Omna: Firmament, Atramenta. Two forces in opposition. From the friction of those two  forces was the material world created. Everything has, at its core a balance of Firmament and Atramenta, though they are not always in accord. Each of those elements has a font, where it is at its strongest. They are antipodes – One in the Kharkharadontid deserts south of here, and the other halfway around the world. The farther one moves away from the antipodes, the weaker their influence becomes. Equidistant between the two is what’s known as the  Nullambit, the void equator, where neither is at influence. Shaping is difficult at best, if not downright impossible and the natural world is at its most stable.

“As one moves closer to the Firmamental font its influence becomes more notable. One way it can affect you is by calcifying sinew and flesh. It’s a slow process and you need to spend days if not weeks in an affected area, but the results can be… torturous. Few survive its effects, and those who do are horridly debilitated. Not a life you want to live.”

Assathan stared at him, wide-eyed. He shuddered at the thought and looked around, grateful for the relative normalcy of the landscape.

Chronicler was nodding. “That’s not the worst of it. I’ve come across writings of the explorer Basilaus, who journeyed far into the west. Some accounts claim he went as far west as eastern-most Meniscea. He wrote of a huge expanse, the southern edge of an entire continent that was ripped out of the sea as though unseen forces were

peeling it away from Elyden. I cannot imagine what such a phenomenon must look

like but it’s enough to make me grateful to be born in such a simple land.”

“Well, I wouldn’t not say that we are immune,” said Assathan. “There is a caste of creatures – I wouldn’t call them a species, though it may be more fitting – that may have the Atramenta to blame for their condition.”

“The pale ones?” asked Chronicler, his interest piqued.

Assathan nodded, “Though in the north they’re called ammasil. I spoke with a pilgrim from the northern empire who studied them and other forms of corrupted creature. Theirs is a tragic story, if it is to be believed.

“Before the rise of Parthis or Korachan, before even the fall of the ancient nations, there was a group of humans who worshipped the Ivory Moon. They were obsessed and did everything in their power to come closer to her. They captured her children and mated with them and performed rituals to gain her attention. Of course the world was different then, and Shapers were plentiful and their powers were far greater than those of today. They gained her attention and offered to sell their spirits to gain her boon. Whatever guise that boon took, it left them weak and open to the warping influence of the Atramenta. They were slowly changed over eons into the wretches we see today. So though we may thank our fates for not being closer to the world’s corruption, it is never that far.”

Chronicler had listened attentively to the story, making sure to remember as many details so he could note them down later. He had never heard that story, and wondered if it was a regional legend or something common to mythologies around Elyden. He asked the nobleman though he didn’t know. It was a third hand account so it had probably been embellished through its retelling.

Nevertheless, it was interesting, and finally his thirst for knowledge regarding the pale ones was answered, at least until he came upon more civilised lands.

***

They came upon them in the late morning, horse-riders cresting an approaching hill. They were armoured and each wore on his back banner sporting heraldic devices chronicler was unfamiliar with.

Immediately there was a great panic throughout the caravan. The guards rode ahead and beyond the column, forming a defensive line between the train and the newly-arrived figures. Meanwhile Mahr busied himself raising the caravan’s perforated flags – a symbol to the approaching riders that they were merchants and not warriors. Then he hoped that the riders were not preying on caravans.

Mahr and Sallan motioned the column to stop and spread and they guided Assathan and Chronicler to move behind them and to remain quiet.

They were on hard earth, undulating gently, breaking their line-of-sight of the surrounding land. Trees, bowed against the prevailing winds, were scattered about, providing further cover. To the far right were the ruins of a tower, little more than

foundation-stones and useless to them in the event that they had to mount a

defence.

The riders approached, the details of their personal heraldry easier to spot now. Chronicler was not familiar with Mern and its emblems, and could not tell if they rode in the name of the city or if they were free riders. He prayed they were the former. Their own guards tightened their flanks and ride in a bow shape, slowly enveloping the other party. A few amongst their numbers had raised the trader’s banners.

In front of Chronicler Sallan reached inside his qaftan and withdrew a powdergun, pulled the hammer and levelled it against the closest member of the other party.

His respect for the merchant grew, and it was then that he learnt that Sallan would likely stop at nothing in the defence of his cargo. Hopefully he cared as much for the men travelling with him as he did for his goods.

“We have raised our banners,” he shouted, every word carrying the distance between the two groups. It was the voice of a leader, used to shouting commands. Chronicler wondered if he had been talking to the right men. If he survived the encounter he’d make sure to spend some time with the merchant. His history was likely a long and vibrant one. “We are merchants! Now show us your colours.”

He spoke in the local trade pidgin, no-doubt hoping the words would be understood.

Almost immediately after speaking one of the opposing group spoke out. “We do not hide our colours. Were from here you would know precisely the meaning of each of the devices we carry. We are protectors of the city of Mern and it is our duty to tell you to lay down your weapons.”

Chronicler smiled and turned to Assathan nervously. The man was nodding, the shock on his face clear.

“We are merchants from Ras – we are not from here. Give us proof to support your claim and mine will be first weapon to drop,” shouted Sallan.

By that point the train’s guards had encircled the approaching riders, who had stopped and sat atop their mounts in a nervous circle. To Chronicler’s astonishment, they were carrying slender long-barrelled powderguns. Each was trained on a member of their train. Chronicler’s eyes flitted from one to the other until he found his personal predator.

Sallan lifted his own powdergun and removed his fingers from its grip, leaving only his thumb through the guard.

One of the riders moved forward, lifted his own weapon, and nodded to Sallan. He was the man who had replied. Their dress was remarkably similar, only the rider wore a metal breast and heavy leather pauldrons.

He regarded Sallan, nodded curtly and continued his calculated movements forward.

The caravan guards were not as well armed or armoured as the riders, and they all knew it. With their shots already trained, a single volley would eliminate most of their own guards. They would be helpless. Chronicler was beginning to compose a story that might save him. He was unarmed, unarmoured and looked different enough from the others to be obviously a foreigner. They might spare him.

The rider moved up to one of the camels, reached out a hand to inspect the basket. Natron.

“Like I said, we are merchants. We have letters of marque from Ras.”

The rider regarded him, smiled. “I’m sure the man you stole them from was hoping they’d be similarly useful.”

Sallan reached into his bag carefully, eyes trained on the distant man targeting him, and produced a leather scroll-case, still sealed. He turned to the rider and offered to throw it. The rider nodded, and moved closer. He made a similar gesture to Sallan, reaching into his own bags, producing a similar case. He opened it, unfurled its contents and showed the piece of vellum to Sallan. On one side was the emblem of the city of Mern and on the other was an emblem matching that sprouting form the saddle of his steed. They traded their papers and asked each other their names as was customary.

“Sallan, merchant lord of Bakhran.”

“Izian Tambar of Mern, Captain of the Third Guard,” said the rider as he cracked the seal and inspected the papers. The name upon the papers matched what Sallan had given him, proving his identity.

Izian raised a hand and his men withdrew their weapons. He moved closer to Sallan and dismounted. He handed the papers back to the merchant and accepted his own back in return. He bowed swiftly and took the merchant’s hand in a greeting common to the region.

“It is good to see these supplies reach the city intact. How were your travels?” he asked, no hint of apology for their accosting in his words.

Sallan relaxed, told his own men to follow. “The road has been safe thus far. I took the precaution of investing in extra guards,” he said.

Izian regarded the caravan. “Your efforts are noted, but you will need far more than that if you plan on continuing north.”

“That bad?”

“Let the walls of Mern show you how bad it is.”

Chronicler did not understand the words, and feared that Mern’s walls had been toppled by some recent conflict. He hoped that was not the case.

He swallowed and interjected, taking the captains’ hand. “I am Niyush of Payaman, better known to my friends as Chronicler. I am an explorer in these lands. I thank you for your vigil in defending your city.”

Izian took his hand, and nodded curtly, returning his attentions to Sallan.

The two spoke for a while as the city guards formed a perimeter around the train, and soon they were on the road, accompanied by Izian and his men. By their account they were only a few hours out of the city, and the guards were on regular patrols of the roads.

part 5