Chapter Twenty-Six

Many leagues to the south sat the city of Rhaetia. Three great rivers bisected Rhaetia, converging into one deep river that flowed into toward the warm southern sea. The rivers created natural trade routes to lands north, west, and east of Rhaetia. The city was named Rhaetia in honour of its first monarch, the generous and benevolent King Varden Rhae. Under King Varden's rule, no citizen went without food or shelter. Even during the most abundant years, King Varden opened the royal granaries and storehouses to the needy.

Rhaetia's streets were uncommonly clean and well kept, and the garrison had little to do in the way of keeping the peace beyond normal and everyday disturbances found in a metropolis. The carefree sounds of children playing serenaded the soldiers' along their beat. As in any city, crime was a concern, but acts of lawlessness seemed to occur less in Rhaetia, and when they did, they seldom comprised crimes considered by most to be heinous. Perhaps the city's spread out architectural design helped to facilitate an open and carefree feeling among its inhabitants. Few buildings rose above two storeys, and brick and sandstone structures sprawled ranch-style, encasing courtyards and gardens in their centre.

Unlike many other capitals, great aqueducts entered the city bringing an unending supply of freshwater. As new homes were built, they tapped into both the aqueducts and the waste disposal system. Underground clay pipes removed garbage and soil, preventing the malodorous smells and night soil removal challenges that plagued other cities. Under these ideal conditions, artists, musicians, and entertainers of every description flocked to Rhaetia, the cultural capital of the far south, to perform. When they departed, they carried stories of Rhaetia's greatness with them, attracting those living in less opportune areas to migrate.

Sixteen millennia earlier, during the last ice age, glaciers ground and scoured the land surrounding Rhaetia. As they retreated, the glaciers uncovered level plains stretching for many miles, right up to the foothills of the Keshan Mountains. Moderate rainfall created three rivers to carry the moisture from the plains and deliver it to the warm southern sea. Come spring, the three rivers bisecting Rhaetia rose above their banks, producing alluvial waters that fed the land nitrogen-rich material, and then retreated until the next year. Now, after thousands of years of flooding, and retreating, agricultural lands comprised of that rich, rare dark earth from which even the most stubborn crops thrive surrounded Rhaetia. Crops and people flourished alike.

Trade became extensive. Commercial and agricultural exports grew brisk and profitable at a time when most deemed that simply eking out the basic amenities was prosperous. River barges carrying goods up and down became numerous. During the dry season, carts, wagons, and pack animals plugged the roads. King Varden added another subdivision to the city; an addition that accommodated the numerous merchant caravans that entered the city daily. Artisans gained a reputation for producing high-quality wares. Her craftsmen excelled. More kiosk opened in the central market place. Rhaetia's wares became coveted by people of all nations. Rhaetia grew into the cultural and trade metropolis of the southern region of Stygia, and northern Keshan. Rhaetia expanded again, building a second wall to encompass new homes and commercial buildings.

Vendors bartering rare and exotic goods ringed the market squares. At any given time of the day, children ran screeching around the central fountain playing children's games or were employed by the vendors to advertise their wares to passers-by.

Unlike other cities, King Varden opened his gates to all religions. A host of Gods and Goddesses were represented in Rhaetia. So much so that religious temples were built side by side and across the street from each other without violent theological conflicts. Like her King, Rhaetia was a tolerant city. A person might honour Mithras in the morning and then cross the street in the afternoon to give thanks to Algathusia for his crop yield.

When a visiting priest petitioned King Varden's court to build a temple to Mahnaz, an obscure and little-known religion, permission was not only granted, but the good King donated one-quarter of the stone quota from the royal quarry. Local workers were hired to excavate the foundation and build the sandstone superstructure of the new temple. No one thought it strange when followers of Mahnaz were imported to finish the work and the local help was dismissed. What was odd about devout followers working inside their own temple?

With the completion of the temple, its doors opened to the public. The services were like most other, except now and again special attention was paid to particularly devout worshippers. Every so often a parishioner donated his worldly possessions to the temple and departed the city. The temple priests explained the excursions as a pilgrimage of faith. About a year later, most parishioners rejoined the temple congregation. Old friends were reunited. The few worshippers who failed to return were said to have met their demise while journeying in the commission of their religious faith. Every citizen knew how dangerous it was outside the protective reach of the good King.

Decades passed and the benevolent King Varden grew old. What should have been trouble- and worry-free years for the ageing monarch were anything but. One year the crops succumbed to drought. Following the drought, pestilence decimated the harvest; the year following a vicious hailstorm flattened the crops and maimed livestock, bringing destruction to the lesser built homes and structures. Year after year the harvest declined and life became a little harder. The royal coffers and bulging warehouses and granaries dwindled as King Varden supplemented the shortfall of each season.

Eventually, food exports ceased; the price of food rose exorbitantly; and finally, the taxes increased. Soon afterwards crime proliferated. Robberies became commonplace. The local garrison became two. Rhaetia's once safe streets became perilous to travel alone. People left Rhaetia instead of immigrating to her. Musicians and other entertainers fled the crime- and violence-ridden city. When the crime rate rose to epidemic levels, the silver and goldsmiths departed, stating that the sun shone less over Rhaetia and that a perpetual cloud of despair had descended over the city. With so few thriving trades and poor growing conditions, taxes increased again. Amidst bitterness and strife, the temple of Mahnaz flourished with new members.

In the beginning, one out of twenty parishioners failed to return from their pilgrimage. Now two-thirds were never heard from again. The temple of Mahnaz bought the abandoned temples on both sides and constructed bulwarks to join the additions to the main structure. Strange, unnatural sounds filled the night in and around the temple district. Citizens vanished with alarming regularity. At dark, a mysterious fog floated a few inches off the streets. The fog was thickest in the temple district. Citizens locked their doors and windows. Strangers, once welcomed with open arms, were viewed with suspicious fear.

Worshippers of Mahnaz were employed in every trade, the militia and garrison, and of course, the royal palace. When the King needed gold to import food and keep the soldiers in wage, he borrowed it from the generous temple of Mahnaz. In his benevolence, King Varden elevated the temple's religious doctrine to the royal religion.

He began to attend services.

Anzor, King Varden's loyal adviser, and long-time friend opposed Mahnaz openly in court. Less than a month later he was found dead. The royal healer said that Anzor had died in his sleep. A priest of Mahnaz comforted the King and suggested a dear friend replace the deceased royal adviser. In his grief, the good King thanked the caring priest and acquiesced to his suggestion.

King Varden's son, Prince Vanier, joined the temple at the King's request. Shortly thereafter Prince Vanier journeyed on his holy pilgrimage. Whispers proclaimed Prince Vanier would never be seen again. One year to the day he returned to be embraced by his loving father. Six days later palace servants found the benevolent King had died in his sleep. The city wept.

Prince Vanier became King.

The temple of Mahnaz flourished.

On the eve of the summer solstice, a caravan arrived at the temple of Mahnaz door. The next night another caravan loaded with travel-worn slaves arrived. Large crates and draped statues were unloaded in the dead of night. Iron manacles clanked as the temple's womb swallowed the long line of iron-fettered flesh. The citizens complained to King Vanier. Slavery had never been permitted and too many missing inhabitants were rumoured to have been sold into slavery. The loudest protesters disappeared. No one logged further complaints.

City inhabitants not yet of the temple whispered to each other about sighting bright lights, ominous luminescent clouds, and unnatural figures prowling the dark alleyways at night. On moonless nights, malevolent figures, shrouded in long hooded cloaks, preyed upon the unwary. Whispered voices spoke of human sacrifices. Those who could afford to leave the diseased city packed up their possessions and hastily departed. Others stubbornly waited for the lean and dangerous times to end. They never did.

Centuries later, the name King Varden Rhae existed only on rare coins, historical documents, and on his crypt door. A new monarchy occupied Rhaetia's throne. Each generation produced one male heir to sit on the throne under the temple's unholy and absolute rule. No other males were permitted to live. All females of the line volunteered their service to the temple. No one served the King. All served the temple of Mahnaz.

Death permeated Rhaetia. Decay and filth proliferated. The once clean and happy streets went unwashed. Debris and waste clogged the gutters. Buildings crumbled and fell in disrepair. The happy chatter of children became a forgotten memory of generations past. People pulled their hoods close about their heads and hurried past each other without exchanging greetings or courtesies. Superimposed behind it all, the glossy-black tower of Mahnaz rose high above the city. Even on the brightest days, a perpetual cloud shrouded the tower's uppermost reaches. Come nightfall, a thick, knee-high mist rolled out from the tower's base as if an evil presence overflowed from within. An evil so pungent that it could not be, or perhaps would not be, confined to the tower.

At the tower's base, an iron-bound wooden door stood unguarded—the temple's reputation more than adequate to dissuade the curious. Few people entered willingly: fewer left. Behind the iron-banded door, spiralling stairs wound upward out of sight. To the right, another stone staircase wound downward. Torches set in wrought-iron sconces, placed at long segments, cast weak shadows upon the ground. A traveller moved from one island of light to the next, cloaked in darkness.

Weird statues that depicted hellish beasts decorated the hallway at irregular intervals. Several statues stood in pairs beside closed doors—grotesque guardians who performed death's silent vigil. The proportions of the statues' bodies were exaggerated to varying degrees. Sometimes the arms were ape-like in length, the heads and mouths too big, or the legs too squat and short. Animal features, like beaks and claws, were wed to human form. Whatever its heritage, each represented a perversity of nature.

At the end of the long corridor, a staircase descended into tenebrous gloom. At the bottom of the stairs, and at the end of another hallway, a set of foreboding, shiny black doors waited. The doors were so black they appeared to swallow light. A circular room lay beyond the obsidian-panelled portals. Six chairs, each raised majestically upon a platform, rimmed the chamber walls. One chair alone was larger and sat upon a stage higher than the others. A chair adorned with velvet and golden fasteners.

In this opulent chair slouched a tall, slender man, with black pools for eyes—eyes that were devoid of life. His skin shone milk-white and remained wrinkle-free. Bushy black eyebrows grew in curly tuffs that curved upwards at the ends. Beneath dead-black eyes, a hooked nose curved downward, giving the impression it belonged to a bird of prey. The black robe he wore contrasted deeply with his sickly pale skin, making his skin appear translucent and paper-thin, as though his skeletal bones would at any moment win free.

Imaran, High Lord of the inner ring of Mahnaz, listened while Kudlak, a subordinate sorcerer, spoke avidly, "With all due respect, milord, abide my words, this barbarian is the prophesized child! Let us waste not another day toward his demise. Better that we should take the initiative than await his untimely arrival. Kalen's prophecy is not to be taken lightly."

Imaran responded in flat, dry tones, "I've tread the earth for more than a thousand years. I've not gained this age by practising stupidity. The barbarian's village has been destroyed. There is no one left to advise him. No one to guide him. All male and female children have been confined to the dungeons. The passageway to the Sword Chamber is guarded if by chance he survived the gifts I left in his village. If it will let ye rest easy, deploy our associates to Galpernia and Kordava to watch for a barbarian boy from Asgard. I refuse to expend more of our energies on an ignorant whelp that may or may not be the prophetic child, and who may or may not be alive," compromised Imaran, pausing briefly.

"After gently persuading our guests to speak, I've learned this whelp is not yet blooded. Tarn, as he is called, has yet to reach manhood. I will hear no more carping about a simple barbarian. We have much to accomplish between now and the summer solstice if we are to release the first gate. If ye fail thy duties, ye will answer to me, and then to the Master," he finished, leaning forward in his chair to stare malevolently into each of the five sets of eyes until they looked away.

Although each of the five other sorcerers represented evil, they were visibly shaken by the threat. To the man, they nodded their heads in homage, unwilling to press the conversation further. Imaran reclined in his chair, absorbing the fear he instilled in his ring brethren. He enjoyed their fear. He hungered for it, as did Wotan. Imaran needed these puny sorcerers to release Wotan from the seven gates that imprisoned him, needed their combined strength, but after that, the Master promised to let him do what he wanted with them. The pain and fear he would extract from each would prove exquisitely pleasurable.