The Immortal Crown

by Kieth Merrill

  It was challenging to break into Hakheem’s garrulous soliloquy, but when he finally did, Sage Ahmose said, “I agreed in principle with Sage Hakheem, but I believe on the matter of—”

  Ahmose was interrupted by a great bird passing low over the temple court, which Sage Hakheem took as a sign his discourse had the blessing of Oum’ilah and began to quote from the Codices of the Navigator once more.

  “The Immortal Crown is blind. That which is lost shall be found. To be gathered in the righteous hand by the child of pure blood by the strength of a sword he cannot hold. And returned to the crown of endless life, and endowed with the power of godliness to evil or to good in the age of chaos and the saga of kings.”

  Hakheem paused for breath, but before he could continue, Sage FarzAn said, “But the full meaning of the prophecy has been lost in the confusion of language from the time of the tower to First Landing.”

  Sage Ahmose grunted his agreement.

  “A canker among the ancestors,” FarzAn bewailed. “Seeds of malevolence that allowed the secrets of darkness to survive!”

  “Agreed,” said Sage Armu-Tukic, who rarely engaged in argumentation.

  “And I,” opined Sage Laehus, who like his brother, Sage Armu-Tukic, found the endless collision of ego and enlightenment curiously entertaining but of little value.

  Sage Batukhan disagreed with all his wizened peers and recited the entire prophecy verbatim. He twisted his face into a scowl and chewed on certain words with such gravitas the truth of it was obscured even further. By the end of his recitation, he was wagging a finger toward the top of the mountain since no one was listening.

  The Mankin, Sage Kurgaan, broke his silence. “I have listened patiently to your wits and words. As we Mankins are little in size, so tend we to be little in word.” He chortled softly to himself. “I thank you not so much for your wisdom, as we all confess in rare moments of clarity that we are aged billows of hot air, but because your dissensions have filled the time and eased my impatience.” The smile on his large face was punctuated by a guttural rumble of humor. “If the importance of what is taking place in the sanctum as we blather away the hours is not obvious to you from the lofty heights from where you look upon the world, I can tell you that close to the earth, the truth of it is clear.”

  Sage Hakheem began to speak, but a boom of thunder silenced him. A shadow crossed the gateway to the holy sanctum. The Oracle emerged from the portal and stepped into a shaft of sunlight that pierced the rumble of gray clouds at the precise moment he appeared. The Blessed Sages stopped where they stood.

  The Oracle stepped aside, revealing Ashar, who wore the amulet of the temple around his neck: twelve tiny crystals encircling an eye of gold. It matched the amulet around the Oracle’s neck.

  The eyes of the Blessed Sages remained fixed on the Oracle. There was an unmistakable glow of contentment on his face. He gestured for Ashar to stand beside him. The Oracle’s voice sounded like a clap of thunder rolling over the Mountain of God.

  “Ashar, son of Shalatar, is the son of Ilim, son of Worm, son of Issens, son of Syn, son of Corus, son of Kotar, son of Qaqos, son of Tsak, son of Izek, son of Ashar.” He closed his eyes and tilted his face to the heavens. “And Ashar is son of Naesh, son of Faron, son of Palan, son of Joram. We thought the bloodline of Joram was broken and lost, but this day it is found. Joram is the son of the Navigator, and Ashar is of his blood.” The Oracle bowed his head and stepped backward.

  A murmur of awe fluttered among the sages. Hakheem was the first to step forward. He choked back his emotions and lowered himself to one knee. “Ashar, scion of Joram, blood of the Navigator. As the voice of all present, I ask your pardon and seek absolution of our misjudgments.”

  Sage Hakheem’s voice sounded faint and far away. Ashar wanted to respond, but a burning vision rushed into his head.

  Sanctum. Stones of light. The cold warmth. A bloody palm. The light. The healing.

  Ashar dropped to one knee, his mind disappearing in darkness.

  Ashar floated in a dark void and the shining stones were out of reach and the dragon came and her breath was fire and his mother cried and her tears fell in great drops and splashed as blood upon the stones and the dragon took her into darkness and he tried to follow but his feet were mired in mud and the blackness strangled him and the breath of the dragon burned his skin and the flame was the shining of the stones and his terror was swallowed by the light and Master Doyan cried that fear and faith cannot abide and he felt hope and with hope came faith and with faith his fear was swept away in a pelting wash of rain and he knew his mother was not lost in the darkness but would be found and ascend to the clouds of the blessed and Celestine appeared in a shining crystal with a tremor of joy and the exquisite sweetness of total abandonment to his destiny and the will of Oum’ilah.

  Ashar opened his eyes. He was still on his knees. What seemed an enduring dream had been no more than the blinking of his eye. He pushed the puzzling vision from his mind and rose slowly to his feet. He was startled and embarrassed to discover Sage Hakheem still bowing before him. He had no idea what he was supposed to do. He was the least among them, and yet it was he before whom Sage Hakheem was genuflecting.

  He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, eager to access the bluish essence of his mind where he could hear the whisperings of the still, small voice. What he should do came in a calming wave of warmth.

  He reached out and took the old sage by the hand. Hakheem looked up with a smile that consumed his face. His eyes sparkled. They were bottomless black pools of wisdom in a swirl of wrinkles.

  Ashar was struck by the joyous thought that he would be privileged to sit and learn at the feet of the Blessed Sages. In time I, too, will learn what it means to be wise.

  Ashar tugged on Hakheem’s frail hand and, using his other hand to steady the old sage, lifted him to his feet.

  A concussion of air pounded Ashar’s ear. The sound of the arrow as it pierced Hakheem’s chest was the crash of a wave upon a rock, as final as a thump on a drum. The arrow had sliced through the Sage’s heart. An iron spike protruded from his back, and there was blood and flesh and torn threads of flax on the ragged point.

  Sage Hakheem’s raised brows were frozen in disbelief. The furrows on his forehead stretched flat in astonishment. His eyes were wide in shock and confusion, the light in them turning murky. His fingers clenched Ashar’s hand, and pain shot up the boy’s arm.

  One moment Sage Hakheem was alive and staring at Ashar, his muscles taut and trembling. In the next, he was dead in a clump of woolen robes at Ashar’s feet, his eyes open, his mouth agape. For what seemed like a long time, Ashar was unaware of anything other than the weight of the old Sage crumpled against his legs.

  The other sages whirled about in a panic, crying out in shock and terror. Sage Ahmose teetered on his staff and turned to flee, but with his first desperate stride, his fragile legs failed and he fell. He threw out a hand to catch himself, but his wrist buckled and his face struck the stones of the courtyard.

  Violence reigned. Deafening. In the midst of the chaos, the quiet voice came again. Ashar heard and understood. He pulled his hand free from the death grip of Sage Hakheem and ran to the Oracle. He pushed him backward over the wooden bench and dragged him under the heavy planks.

  Sages Butukhan helped Sage Ahmose to his feet, and together they stumbled toward the steps of the temple. An arrow from the upper terrace struck Butukhan in the chest. He grabbed Ahmose’s arm as he fell, and both tumbled to the ground in a pitiful heap.

  Ashar whirled to where the arrows had come. There were four archers atop the walls on either side of the courtyard.

  An arrow struck Ahmose in the neck. The shock of it paralyzed him for an instant. He gripped the shaft and tried to pull it out, but the barbed spike did not move. Another arrow pierced his chest and a third into his heart. His soul ascended to the clouds of bless
ing before his body crumpled dead upon the stones.

  The other sages scrambled for the gate, their arms wrapped about each other, but there was little hope of escaping the archers’ rain of death.

  Ashar pushed the bench against the pillar of the arch that opened to the temple steps, protecting them from the archers on the west wall.

  “I must get to the holy sanctum,” the Oracle said, struggling to move from cover.

  “No!” Ashar gripped his arm without regard for the chasm separating their status.

  “I must,” he said, calm in the midst of the chaos. “And you must come with me.”

  Ashar felt compelled to obey in spite of the raging terror, but he knew they would be killed if they abandoned their cover. He searched for the archers on the east wall. They were gone. He risked a glance around the pillar in the other direction. No archers on the west wall either. He gripped the Oracle’s arm and prepared to dash to the temple steps when the clatter and shouts on the far side of the plaza stopped him. He looked up.

  An army of outlaws jogged through the east gate and up the broad steps that led to the silk-covered plaza of the holy sanctum. The men were fearsome shadows in the bright sunlight of the open court. Their armor was dirty brass and black leather—a stark contrast to the soft fabrics and colorful robes of the sages. Most of the men advancing had drawn their swords. Some carried glaives or poleaxes. A second rank of soldiers followed them and formed up as rear guard. No one would escape the gate.

  Ashar narrowed his eyes. The sun glinted from polished armor and breastplates that bore the sigil of the king. He had seen kings­riders before on his errands in the markets of Candella, but why would kings­riders come to the temple with weapons drawn? It made no sense. Have these men come by order of the king?

  He watched in shock as the band of brigands in dark armor herded the Blessed Sages to the center of the courtyard, like dogs gathering sheep to protect them from wolves. Only today it was the wolves that gathered the sheep.

  Ashar lifted the Oracle to his feet and started for the sanctuary of the holy sanctum.

  “Wret’ka!” The word was shouted in a foreign tongue. Halt! The command came from a bowman who leaped forward from behind the east pillar. His bow was fully drawn, his arrow aimed at the Oracle’s heart.

  Ashar stepped in front of the Oracle to protect him even as another archer ran toward them from the east wall with an arrow nocked on his bowstring.

  The plan was suddenly clear to Ashar. Bowmen from the west side were coming toward them, arrows nocked and ready.

  Ashar circled slowly with his back to the Oracle. He had never thought of death. Like every young man, he thought he would never die.

  The sages left alive were forced to kneel. The rest had been killed, all but Sage FarzAn, who lay wounded near the gate. A warrior pressed his short sword to the fallen sage’s heart, but the fatal thrust was stayed.

  “Let him live!” The man who spoke was a dark silhouette framed in the archway of the gate. His face was in shadow, but his eyes reflected fire. The stark command that rolled across the plaza was followed by silence. Even the fluttering of leaves and the hum of bees had been stilled. The man withdrew his sword and joined the other invaders, who formed a passageway in double ranks for the man striding forward.

  Beyond the soft light of the billowing silk canopies, the sun’s glare cast the man in a rim of hard white light that glinted off his armor in spite of the tarnished brass. He wore a bloodred cape that swept across his chest and flowed behind him like the wings of a dragon.

  Ashar swallowed hard, certain that he was looking upon the face of the bandit king who had been terrorizing the countryside.

  CHAPTER 39

  The Oracle’s life teetered on the trembling fingers of the bowmen who stood behind Ashar and the Oracle in a loose half circle. Each archer had his bow fully drawn and the spike of the arrow pointed at the Oracle’s head or heart. With the flip of a thumb ring, the highest of high priests of the temple of Oum’ilah on the Mountain of God would be dead. It was unthinkable.

  And I shall be dead as well! The thought shuddered through Ashar as he watched, wide-eyed and unblinking.

  The bandit king passed through the gauntlet, not to the blows and distain of punishment, but to gestures of adulation and murmurs of deference.

  The imposing man stopped three strides from the Oracle. Ashar edged forward by instinct as if doing so could somehow protect him.

  The Oracle stood straight and stared into the bandit’s face. He showed no sign of fear, only deep sorrow.

  When the bandit removed his helm, the archers let down their bows and released the tension of their bowstrings.

  “I am Drakkor, Blood of the Dragon.” His voice was as coarse as a boot crunching grit along the river.

  Ashar’s muscles tightened when the bandit moved closer to the Oracle. A multitude of odors reached his nostrils: the oak tannin of leather, the sweat of horses, the acrid smell of iron weapons, and the stench of blood.

  “I know who you are by the cry of the fatherless children and the widows who mourn.” The Oracle’s eyes were hard, but he spoke with a quaver of resignation in his voice. A sense of the inevitable finally upon them.

  The words of the prophecy were clear in Ashar’s mind: The seal is broken. The ancient evil is come again.

  “And I know you, grand master of the mountain of a god who is naught.” Drakkor swirled his red cloak and bowed to mock his vanquished foe. Then, rising, he said, “I share your grief for the useless deaths of these learned old men.”

  Ashar’s eyes darted between the bandit king standing before them and the Blessed Sages who had fallen. Blood crept across the porch and disappeared into the cracks between the stones.

  “Nothing can justify the murder of the old and helpless and most blessed among us,” the Oracle said. “The consequence of this evil is upon you. The blood of these men will cry to the God of gods for vengeance, and His judgments shall fall upon you and your seed to the seventh generation.”

  Drakkor laughed softly but not without a margin of respect. “You are precisely the old fool I was told to expect.” A demeaning laugh rumbled from deep in his throat. “Were it not for the promise I have made to my men, I might have appeared to you as a fabled winged spirit of your mythical god and accomplished my purpose without bloodshed, but you must understand, these men who ride with me have a lust for blood and the pleasures of the flesh.” He shrugged, and Ashar followed his gaze to where one of the archers marked his forehead with the blood of a fallen sage, then touched his tongue. “They measure their worth by the tally who die by their hand.” Drakkor leaned forward as if sharing a confidence. “They believe we are here to create a stronghold against the rising aggression of Kingsgate. They wish to make of your temple a grand castle and of this humble man before you a king.”

  Drakkor’s smile sent a chill down Ashar’s spine. “They do not understand who I am, nor can they comprehend my destiny. But you, the source of light and wisdom, as your ignorant pilgrims believe,” he taunted, “must know my purpose and why I have come.” He touched the sacred amulet that hung around the Oracle’s neck. “And why you are yet alive.”

  He has come for the stones of light! The thought sent a jolt of pain through Ashar as if an archer had pierced him with an arrow.

  “You may triumph for a season,” the Oracle said, “but you will not escape the wrath of Oum’ilah.”

  “I have no fear of the wrath of the old gods of the tower. Why should I fear a god that is naught?”

  “You are blinded by the evil that has overtaken you. There is but one true god and that is Oum’ilah, God of gods and Creator of All Things.”

  Drakkor reached out and closed his fingers around the Oracle’s throat. He pulled the frail man closer.

  Ashar started forward on a protective impulse but was stopped by the archer.

/>   “I did not come to match wits,” Drakkor said and relaxed his grip. The Oracle gasped for breath.

  “Why do you seek the relics of a god whom you say is useless and naught?”

  Drakkor paused and narrowed his eyes. “Ah, so you do know why I have come. The look on your old face confirms the rumors are true. You possess the missing stones of fire.”

  “The stones you seek are lost.” The Oracle jutted his chin in defiance. “They are no more.”

  Ashar was startled by the boldness of the lie.

  “Then how is it that I hold one in my hand?” Drakkor reached beneath his tunic and pulled out a stone. He held it up. The crystal was black but strangely translucent and shimmered in a shaft of sunlight.

  Shock and fear passed over the Oracle’s face

  Ashar did not understand. The Oracle should be laughing. The stone could not be a stone of light. It was dark and discomforting to look upon.

  But it was Drakkor who laughed as he held the stone higher.

  “The stones of fire, hidden on this mountain, do not belong to you. They are not the relics of your god. They were not touched by the finger of your god as you stupidly believe. They were stolen by the Navigator. Your ‘great and mighty’ voyager who created a great lie to cover his crime.” His voice was the rumble of a beast. “The stones are the eggs of she-dragon, buried in the ocean of chaos, hatched in the darkness, and ignited by the fire of the dragon’s breath. They are the shining stones that light the way from the darkness of the world to the power of renewal and endless life.”

  The bandit’s words were blasphemous, but it was fear not faith that surged through Ashar’s head. In his memory, he saw Master Doyan’s face, his mouth covered by the putrid gauze. His words were spoken to his mind. “By the God of gods? You really think there is such a being? The mythical Oum’ilah, Creator of All Things?”