CITY OF THE GODS: FORGOTTEN
Kindle Edition: Copyright and TM 2011 by M. Scott Verne and Wynn Mercere.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental, other than historical facts or persons from before A.D. 1800.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form, other than quoting a paragraph for review purposes.
First Kindle Edition - June 2011
ISBN-13: 978-0-9836929-4-2
www.CityoftheGods.com
Published by:
RAVEN PRESS
PO Box 2018
Scottsdale, AZ 85252
Acknowledgements
The authors extend their sincere thanks to Paul Brown, Randy Lindsey, Rick Loomis, Ken St. Andre, Robert Kassebaum, Jay Sanford, Dan Fogel and Lee Kline as well as the Willcoxson, Newington, Western, Crompton and Verne families.
Special thanks to proofers Anita, Molly Baker and Jefferson P. Swycaffer all of whom went beyond the call of duty in helping us get this book in readable shape!
Book design and additional graphics by Steve Crompton.
Front Cover Art: Digital collage (Steve Crompton, 2010).
Title Page Art: Spring (Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, 1894).
Back Cover Art: Digital collage based on The Decline of the Carthaginian Empire (William Turner Mallord, 1817).
The City of the Gods Chapbook (a preview version of this novel) won the 2009 PIAZ Printing Industries Regional Silver award for excellence in Graphic design.
Table of Contents
D’Molay’s Map of the Realms. 7
Foreword. 8
Chapter 1 - Girl in the Gutter 10
Chapter 2 - Mysterious Attack. 21
Chapter 3 - Traveling for the Truth. 27
Chapter 4 - Preparations. 34
Chapter 5 - A Night in Buddha’s Retreat 45
Chapter 6 - Delivery for a Cat Goddess. 53
Chapter 7 - The Altar of Prometheus. 74
Chapter 8 - Namtar the Slaver God. 79
Chapter 9 - To Stand Before the Council 83
Chapter 10 - The Education of Aavi 92
Chapter 11 - The High Sulgi’s New Pet 98
Chapter 12 - Loyal Es-huh. 105
Chapter 13 - Clothes for a Princess. 108
Chapter 14 - The Quest and the Sacrifice. 119
Chapter 15 - Search for the Tracker 132
Chapter 16 - The Auction. 140
Chapter 17 - Hunt in Olympia. 155
Chapter 18 - The Grand Pyramid of Egyptos. 168
Chapter 19 - Soldiers on the March. 175
Chapter 20 - Of Gods and Slaves. 183
Chapter 21 - The Search Continues. 192
Chapter 22 - Inquisition. 216
Chapter 23 - Irresistible Forces. 226
Chapter 24 - Desperate Measures. 238
Chapter 25 - Set’s Prison. 244
Chapter 26 - Reunion. 254
Chapter 27 - Escape from the City. 262
Chapter 28 - Navigating Rough Waters. 284
Chapter 29 - Journey to Dioscrias. 298
Chapter 30 - Preparing for Battle. 308
Chapter 31 - The Hamadryads’ Enclave. 326
Chapter 32 - Armies on the Move. 343
Chapter 33 - Of Snakes and Deer 352
Chapter 34 - The Road to the Fort 364
Chapter 35 - Mayan Gambit 372
Chapter 36 - The Dangerous Forest 377
Chapter 37 - D’Molay’s Nightmare. 388
Chapter 38 - Love Lost and Found. 396
Chapter 39 - At the Fortress of Ares. 407
Chapter 40 - The Gathering Storm.. 417
Chapter 41 - Whom Gods Destroy. 429
Chapter 42 - Under Siege. 440
Chapter 43 - Beneath the Battle. 453
Chapter 44 - A Fateful Choice. 457
Chapter 45 - Aftermath. 468
Chapter 46 - The Journey Yet to Come. 485
D’Molay’s Map of the Realms
Foreword
The styling of City of the Gods: Forgotten stands as a tribute to illustrated books published about a hundred and fifty years ago. In the 19th Century, adventurous fantasy stories helped to popularize the novel and broaden the audience for literary entertainment. Fine printings of tales such as Dante's Inferno, Don Quixote, Paradise Lost and Alice in Wonderland blended art and story in a manner that is very rarely seen in today's mainstream novels. It was a golden age for books.
Because our story dealt with gods and mythical subjects, we were inspired to employ a writing style that hints at those old stories. You may even recognize some classic images in the scenes constructed to showcase the world of the realms. It seems fitting that our tale of immortals and heroic humans, with eternal themes of love and war, grants new life to some of the drawn characters that populated the great old books.
We hope you enjoy your visit to the City of the Gods. Thanks for reading.
M. Scott Verne and Wynn Mercere
Chapter 1 - Girl in the Gutter
There was no heroic last stand to stop the invasion. There were only three meddling gods whose sudden interference no one had foreseen. One challenged, the second seduced, and the last gambled all of their might on a single, dirty blow. To say the heavens shook would not be true, but what transpired over the realm of Olympus was like the catalyst of so many wars, a unique and pivotal act. As ash whirled above a smoking crater, one of the trio turned to leave, already bored now that the deed was done.
“Wait. We must be sure.”
The most cautious, still clad in residual flashes of lightning from the attack, pinned the other two with hard eyes. Of all of them, he had the most reasoned basis for intervening. He prided himself on the moral rightness of what had just been done. He viewed the others with a slight disgust, well aware that they had assisted for reasons more self-serving than noble. While he was willing to overlook their innate deficiencies, he was not open to allowing those failings to undo his own plan.
“Sure of what?” his darkest accomplice sneered. “That it’s dead? Death is no absolute here.”
“You struck so quickly and now chide us for haste?” the female chimed in.
“I’m sure you have been accused of far worse.”
The object of the righteous one’s accusation shrugged, sidled closer to the dark one and stroked the side of his neck. A streak of blood was left behind. He pulled away from her touch.
“Linger if you must,” he said. “I will not be caught here.” With a last glance at the burning landscape and an irritated swipe at the gore left on his throat, he merged with the cloud of ash and vanished. After an awkward moment of glaring at one another, the remaining defenders also fled the scene. The countryside of Olympia burned in bright testimony to what they had done for the sake of the City far beyond its borders.
* * *
In that City, everlasting life ran its course, the populace ignorant of the greater deeds on the fringes of their world. A small house on one of its humblest streets was home to D’Molay, a man who was a tracker for the gods. On this morning he sat by his hearth, staring into the flames. They fascinated him, beckoning him to join once again in their dance. He closed his eyes and managed to look away for a moment, trying to think of something else. Distraction was provided by the goblet of rum sitting on the table. The last swig it held burned its way down his throat, sharp and sweet. He carelessly dropped the drained goblet to the floor.
“Well, that’s the last of you,” he said to the empty room. D’Molay’s voice was low and gravelly. He hadn’t said a wor
d for hours, and he hadn’t drunk this much in a long time. When he kicked the cup away, it mockingly bounced against the fireplace wall and drew his attention to the fire once again.
That desire to stare into flames always overwhelmed him when he was near a fire. There were many flames in the City: funeral pyres for high priests and treasured slaves; eternal flames devoted to the gods; candles and torches to light temples and dungeons; and hearths that kept mortal folk warm on cold nights. Fortunately for D’Molay, he was usually in a rush and time allowed only a glance at their seductive glow as he passed them by. On this day, however, the fire hungered, demanding to be fed.
Opening a small wooden box on the table, he took out a silvery object. He knew its every edge and groove without looking. Long ago, it had been so important. D’Molay squeezed it one last time before tossing it into the flames. The metal object sat atop the crackling logs, blackening as the heat did its work. D’Molay stared, entranced. He had to see how his once treasured item would stand up to the heat, needed to absorb every detail of what the flames would do.
After a moment, the scorched object started to lose its shape, relaxing on the top of its burning wooden bed. A thread of bright silver liquid broke free, spilling over the logs and disappearing into the glowing red coals. Finally, the entire mass of gleaming metal flowed down the log and pooled at the bottom of the hearth’s black andirons. The silvery liquid formed a misshapen puddle on the soot-covered stone of the inner hearth. A few stray drops added themselves to the slowly congealing glob as it took on a grayish hue.
D’Molay wiped his face with the back of his sleeve as he beheld the fate of the last vestige of a life that had no meaning for him here. The fire had given him a parting gift of knowledge, teaching him something he hadn’t known about his treasure. The token had pooled to base pewter, not silver, just as his fate had somehow dissolved from glory to ignominy. The bitter thought echoed though his head as he realized he had spent too much time on the past and rushed to leave his house. It was a procession day, and moving through the crowded streets would take more time than usual. He grabbed his coat from a hook and stepped out to join the crowd heading toward the temple district of the City of the Gods. The going was slow, as he had feared.
Even those in official processions found their progress impeded. By City law, common foot travelers had to give way for temple parades, but even those granted the privilege of walking in ritual formation did not enjoy a pleasant stroll. D’Molay was trapped behind one such procession and he could hear a girl within it grow more frustrated by the minute.
“Still your veil! I can’t see,” she complained. D’Molay watched her dare a tug on the headdress of another priestess as billowing fabric snapped back into her face. The other girl ignored her. The thin linen continued to whip annoyingly in the wind until D’Molay heard the irritated girl speak a prayer to calm the stiff breeze. He was rather surprised when her petition was quickly answered. The fabric fell back into its proper position, allowing everyone a better view of what had caught her eye on the other side of the street.
“Whose statue is that? What’s it doing in the gutter?” she asked, pointing, hoping someone in the crowd would know. Unfortunately, her sect mother was the only one who responded to her curiosity.
“The statue holds her tongue, as you should,” the lady answered, not even looking back over her shoulder to deliver the loud rebuke. The chastised girl bowed her head, embarrassed. She closed ranks with the others and turned her eyes from the strange sculpture as the procession ran up against several sedan chairs and all movement came to a halt. D’Molay, realizing he would be going nowhere for a few minutes, stepped aside to wait out the congestion.
No longer of interest now that there was a traffic jam to contend with, the pale statue spotted by the girl remained undisturbed by the busy residents of the City. No one noticed as a slight trace of pastel spread across its feminine form. A series of shudders wracked it, the movement disproving the assumption that it was made of stone. The power of life forced itself in. A trickle of wastewater flowing around the side of a beautiful face coaxed senses into operation. The touch of wet, cold street stone dominated several other vague feelings. It was uncomfortable, and she didn’t like it.
The cobblestones broadcast a shuffling song to her awakened ears. What made the noise was unseen, for her eyes were still shuttered to the outside world. Movement seemed a very unnatural concept, but the girl managed to open her eyelids. A wisp of curly hair, almost white with a hint of honey color to it, lay across her face. She peered through it.
She could see the uneven surface of the street on which she lay, and one of her hands, but the rest of the world was out of focus. Indistinct things were moving - people walking? Wheeled boxes rolling? The girl wanted to get away from the things, yet at the same time wished to be closer so that her weak eyes might see them better. But to progress either forward or backward, effort would be required. She wasn’t sure she could shift her body, but she had to try. She stared at her hand. Would it respond if she tried to make it move? It twitched as she concentrated, then slowly and painfully reacted to her thoughts. It seemed odd and unnatural to make it obey in such a way.
The girl tried to sit up, using her hand and arm to steady herself. This all seemed very wrong somehow, but she accomplished it with some effort. A moment later she felt very dizzy and almost fell right back to the cobblestones, but was able to resist the sense of vertigo until it passed. Feeling steady again, she realized the fog had lifted from her eyes. She sat stunned for a few more seconds, taking in her surroundings. Nothing was familiar to her at all - including herself.
As she sat frozen in shock trying to remember who she was, she noticed that not everyone on the street was walking by. A group of men in colorful garb had stopped to stare intently at her. Some of them were talking in hushed tones. A few seemed amused. Several had a strange flushed look on their faces that she did not recognize at all. Others in the crowd, which continued to grow, seemed annoyed, even angry. One of the angry ones approached her. He was an older man with an air of authority, clad in a long burgundy coat with a brushed sheen. His black boots were wrapped with leather straps. She especially noticed the long curved sword at his side.
“How dare you lie out naked in the streets like this, harlot!” he said in a loud clear voice. His accent was heavy and almost rhythmic.
“N-naked? I - I’m naked?” It was the first time the girl had heard herself speak. She had a soft, gently pitched voice that immediately contrasted the rough sounds of those around her. She quickly looked around and saw that no one was naked except for her.
“Take my coat and get back to the pleasure district! This is no place for your whoring!” The offended man removed his outer garment and threw it down to her. She held it over her body as he quickly walked away. A pair of youths began to laugh at her as a different man from the group stepped closer.
“What’s your name, girl? Who do you serve?” he asked hoarsely. He cleared his throat and spit once after speaking, as if the words cost him considerable effort.
She looked up at his stony face for a few seconds. “I’m sorry. I don’t know my name,” she replied somewhat ashamedly. She wasn’t sure if she even had one. As for the man’s second question, she had no idea how to answer.
“Did you fall from the sky and strike your head?” Everyone but the girl laughed at his incredulous question.
“Don’t see any wings,” one of the laughing boys pointed out. “Maybe she hit a wall. Look for a dent.”
The older man exhaled a weary sigh and looked up at the surrounding buildings as if he might actually see such evidence. “Well, did you hurt yourself?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” She stiffly turned to get a better view of the man, still getting used to moving her body. “I don’t feel like I hit my head.” She reached up to touch it for the first time. Her fingers met the warmth of soft, thick curls.
“Whether you did or you didn’t, you can’t
lie in the streets with no clothes.” The man ignored the smart comment from the other teenaged male demanding to know why not. “Something must have happened to you. I’ll take you to a healer who can help. Can you stand up?” He held out his hand, but she was very slow to respond. For a moment it seemed she didn’t understand the question or his gesture. Then, clutching the heavy coat with one hand, she reached out and took his hand with her other. She held on tightly as he pulled her up. To her, it seemed like an awkward way to do things.
As she rose from the ground she felt a rushing sensation in her head. Unable to balance, she fell forward. The man was quick to move his arms under her own to catch her. The coat she was holding dropped, leaving her completely exposed once again. Her creamy white skin and blonde hair stood out against his darker complexion and brown clothing. Men of all ages around them chuckled again, some making odd hooting and whistling sounds.
“Perhaps it will be easier if I just carry you. You can’t weigh too much.”
“I feel like I weigh a thousand minas. I don’t mean to be so much trouble,” she whispered.
He looked her directly in the eye for a few seconds to evaluate the truth of her words. “I think I can bear the trouble of carrying a beautiful woman down the street,” he said at length, casting a glance at the grinning spectators who were nodding as if they already knew his answer. “No, I won’t mind a bit. Hold on!” And with that, he scooped her up in his arms and marched off, leaving the coat behind on the ground. After all, he couldn’t hold her and pick up the coat at the same time. Besides, he was enjoying the view as he carried her away.
Continuing down the street with the light burden in his arms, he realized he had no idea what one ‘mina’ weighed, let alone a thousand of them. The girl probably just imagined she was heavy. In D’Molay’s experience, women, especially maidens like this one, often overestimated their own weight. He had no idea that much more than that vanity was burdening the girl’s mind. In truth, her psyche was on the verge of bursting from all the questions within it.
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