The Nemesis Blade (31 page)

Thus spoke the
King.

Six months
later they reached the Great Plateau.

A sturdy
vessel was built on the western shores of the landmass they landed
on, a two month project; the short journey over the ocean - named
the Middle Ocean - was uneventful, if crowded; and then a slow,
four month wander until the cliffs loomed over them.

Much was known
of the smaller landmass. The only predators were ursine creatures
of the land, remarkably akin to the ursine of the ice of that other
place, but they were skittish and easily scared off. After a few
confrontations the creatures never bothered them, and were likewise
left to their own devices.

The Luvans ate
off the land, finding bounty on many trees and shrubs, as well as
wild fowl and their eggs. Fish was plentiful in the rivers.

They landed in
the final spurt of winter’s hold and spring saw them cross the
ocean. Summer accompanied them east and now autumn lay around the
corner on the wind. The seasons, they realised, followed each other
more swiftly than on their lost homeworld. Nobody, however, gave
much thought to the past.

This was
Luvanor, world of the Luvans, and this was the future.

They named the
continent Tunin, a homage to their young sovereign Tunian.

The other
continents would find names later after long journeys of
exploration.

It was Year
One and the year would pass into the next at winter’s closing.

Ever after
would Luvanor mark its years by the season of cold’s ending.

Year One saw
five hundred Luvans staring at the massive precipice that was the
seemingly unassailable entry to the Great Plateau. Sturdy rope
ladders were manufactured and hauled up by a number of fearless
climbers. A week later people, animals, stores and equipment were
upon the height.

It was
splendorous in its beauty, fantastical in its views, and it was
indeed a safe haven, a place that offered shelter, defence and a
feeling of having come, at last, home.

Year Two saw
the settlement achieve a state of comfort. Wooden homes, basic
sewerage systems, a meeting hall and a working rota of duties.

Year Three saw
the first functioning farms below the precipice. It also saw their
number swell to six hundred in new births.

Year Four saw
the completion of the lift system along the height of the cliff. It
went into operation with great fanfare and eased transit between
above and below.

Year Ten saw
the number of young equalling the adults, and the settlement on the
plateau took on permanency in stone houses. Below, farms were
fertile and yield good. Diluvan seeds grew into Luvan trees,
shrubs, vegetables, fruits and flowers. Animals brought flourished
in the new environment without influence on the natural order. Year
Ten also saw the first explorers set out.

Year Twenty
saw the youth outnumbering adults, and there were deaths also. Four
explorers were lost at sea, twelve woodcutters were killed when a
logging expedition went wrong and King Tunian fell afoul of a lung
disease and died. His son Devega, eighteen years old, took over
rulership, but was deemed too young to control the growing
population.

The priests
and magicians came into their own.

Year Thirty
saw Devega a stooge for the increasing power of the priests. By
then there was little difference between priest and magician, the
order being closely intertwined, and it was both an aging order and
filled with young, idealistic blood.

Year Forty saw
King Devega die under mysterious circumstance and the Brotherhood -
as the priestly order became known - choose from among his three
sons the new ruler of Luvanor. It was a sign that the Brotherhood
held power and the royal line was a matter of expediency.

Despite
unease, Tunin was true haven. There was no hunger, no strife and
each man and woman had a valuable task and place in the new world.
Ships plied the seas bringing back exotic fruit and exotic tales.
The other four continents saw the first settlements and the rise of
trade. The Brotherhood went everywhere also.

At the close
of the first century trade between the continents was a fact of
life and the Great Plateau had taken on the look of a city. The
royal line was a thing of history only.

A little over
a hundred years later, change came, for the stones began to
sing.

His name was
Khunrath, he was twenty-six years old and he had a week back taken
his final vows to the Brotherhood.

He was a
priest of the order, able to preach the word to others, able to use
omens and auguries to predict an outcome, able to instruct the
young in the way and able to travel Luvanor without papers and
encumbrance. Folk knew this about him, but there was more and he
alone knew these things.

Ten years ago,
a lad of sixteen, he chanced upon a document in the Temple library.
Someone had been perusing it, had perhaps been called unexpectedly
away, and left it unattended. Khunrath, seeking diversion from
philosophical studies, wandered into the deserted chamber.

He found his
name at the bottom of a long list of names. His date of birth was
inscribed alongside. The name above his, a name he knew well, for
it was his father’s, had a date of death beside date of birth.
Intrigued, he set to discovering what the document implied and was
astounded to discover it was a royal lineage, two hundred and some
odd years old. King Tunian headed the list of names, a known and
respected historical figure from another world, and his name,
Khunrath, lay at the very end. The inference was clear.

Petrified, he
dropped the document and left. He was not observed.

For weeks he
lived with fear, sensing he was not to be aware of his bloodline,
and then anger overcame fear. For months the unfairness festered,
particularly as he realised certain personages were aware of his
lineage. Anger gave way to resolve and he set to hard study, little
play, and did what was asked and beyond that. He became a priest
deliberately, not out of calling, but for the freedom it would
bring.

In secret he
set himself a further task; he mastered the art of magic. While
magic and priesthood was not dissimilar, few conversant in both
were permitted freedom, for the mastery required them to remain in
the temples where they were visible to the general populace.

True
magicians, those who were not priests also, were sequestered in the
mountains. Khunrath’s uncle, his father’s older brother, a secret
royal, was one such and was also the master who trained a
nephew.

At first
unwilling, he was told of the bloodline. At first disbelieving, he
scoffed at the notion, but, like his nephew, it festered and he saw
a new way in his earnest young pupil. He taught all he knew,
passing on the secret remedies also, and both were careful not to
raise suspicion.

The old man
developed a ‘malady’ that necessitated frequent travel down to the
plateau and always asked querulously for his nephew to attend
him.

Khunrath
sighed as he wandered down to the almshouse.

His uncle died
five months ago and would not now see their plans come to
fruition.

Step one was
to become a magician to aid him against potential enemies, and step
two was to attain ordination and freedom of movement. Step three
was to find a power base, one of security in location, one of
sufficient funds to provision such a location and potentially to
outfit an army, and one of like-minded people to aid him against
the stranglehold of the Brotherhood, hopefully influential
personalities.

Step three was
therefore many facetted and by far the harder to achieve.

The way
forward was one day at a time without losing sight of the
objective.

Ten years
later Khunrath was a renowned priest.

He travelled
the five continents and was known as a healer, a compassionate man
many sought out, and always accurate in deciphering the auguries.
In those ten years he met many people, some influential, others not
so. He found few sympathetic to his objective among the
influential, and surprisingly many among the others.

In his secret
mind of minds he had an army.

He also made
particularly sound investments in trade - some whispered he was a
magician with money - and before long was a wealthy man. Of course,
priests were not permitted wealth, and thus it appeared as if he
handed over the returns on investments to the Brotherhood. He did,
but it was far short of real profits. His wealth hid among other
wealth in the vaults of those who dared not disclose their
gains.

Khunrath had
money and he had like-minded folk.

Now he needed
a secure location to bring it together.

In the year
227 thirty-seven year old Khunrath was recalled from Kantar
continent - the huge landmass south of Tunin - to attend a
gathering at the Temple of the Great Plateau.

It was nothing
out of the ordinary, for such gatherings were frequent events, but
it was the first he was asked to attend.

As he entered
the sanctum to find it crowded with older members of the order, the
first sense of disquiet came to him.

Yet nothing
was how it felt, for it proved they called him over his mastery in
auguries. They needed him to read the signs for them. He began to
breathe easier, until they revealed what the problem was.

A new feeling
of disquiet came, this time laced with fear. For not a moment did
he doubt their claims.

“Singing
stones?” he whispered.

Silence
answered him; they waited to hear how he would reason it out.

He glanced
around the chamber, gaze lingering on the smoking candles, before
saying, “According to our history, the singing of the stones has
never happened here, only on the world we left behind.” He paused
and frowned at the tapestry behind the gathering and then added,
“And that was a long time ago.”

“We are aware.
We also believe we may have inadvertently brought the gift with
us,” an old, reed-thin man said.

Khunrath shook his head. “And it shows two
hundred
years
later?”

“Something has
awakened it,” another said.

“Why?”

“Our current
dilemma,” a third man said with a thin smile.

Khunrath
sucked at his teeth and knew he dared not question more. “What is
it you want of me?”

“You have used
stones in auguries, we hear tell,” the thin man said.

Ah. Khunrath
dipped his head. “I shall, of course, do my best to aid the
Brotherhood.”

“Excellent,”
the man with the thin smile murmured. “You do us proud. We have
chipped flakes from the site of the stones; we would like you to
use those.”

A few furtive
glances among the older priests told him they were not enchanted
with the idea, but whether it was the use of actual singing flakes,
or his own involvement, he could not tell.

“When would
you like me to do this?”

“Now,” a
fourth stated.

Khunrath’s
brows rose, but he nodded. “By your will. I assume you have the
flakes with you?”

A fifth moved
in the rear of the gathering. He was younger than his colleagues
and also had more compassion for people. Khunrath had dealt with
him before - his name was Xtin. He moved forward clutching a
leather drawstring bag and when he reached Khunrath he handed it
over.

There was
sympathy in his gaze and he returned to his seat without
speaking.

Khunrath
hefted the bag. Light. He bent his head over it, but did not open
it. “I trust you understand auguries are temperamental. I may see
nothing or I may see something I cannot explain.”

“We know,
“Xtin murmured from the back. “Khunrath, we do not expect a
miracle; all we ask is what you see. At this stage every clue is
helpful.”

The singing
stones foretold of the inundation on that other world, and auguries
and science confirmed it. If stones were singing here on Luvanor,
fear was it would foretell of a new extinction level disaster, one
that - again - could be planned against.

Khunrath
nodded and drew the bag open. The ability to hear the stones was,
he suddenly knew with certainty, an ability that belonged to the
defunct royal line. He was called here for a reason other than his
prowess with auguries, and auguries with stones in particular.

It was a
strange situation to be in. He wanted to succeed in the reading,
but was afraid of what it meant to himself. He was also afraid of
the spectre of disaster.

Swallowing on
a dry throat, he moved into a meditative pose and shook the bag. In
that act, he froze. He heard, distinctly, the chimes of a
melody.

“What is it?”
Xtin asked.

“They sing,”
came the hushed answer. He did not see the more significant looks
passing between the gathered.

“Do they say
anything?” the man with the thin smile asked.

“No,” Khunrath
breathed, “just music.”

He shook the
bag once more, but now they were silent. Drawing a breath he tipped
it over. Grey, speckled flakes akin to flint rocks tumbled out and
landed haphazardly on the stone floor. There were exactly fourteen,
he noticed. His uncle, bless him, told him how important the number
fourteen was. A magical quantity of and for magic. It was something
he should not know and thus he did not react.

Instead he
bent over the disorderly tumble before him and felt rather than saw
how the rest craned closer.

Augury lay in
seeing an image in the haphazardness of thrown objects, and this
was decidedly random. He stared at the flakes, but no image came
forth. He stared at them some more, feeling the bated breath
quality of the silence before him. Nothing … but, all gods, the
flakes were talking to him!