by Scott Baron
She had quickly flown to several more worlds in the search, always coming up empty or mostly empty-handed. Eventually, however, she found the remnants of a few of the order’s old temples. And from there, rumors of where the remaining members had been scattered. After that, it was just a matter of a lot of leg work and a liberal use of the Ghalian spy network to find the few temples still standing.
Most had been converted over the centuries, she found. Rather than smithing and metallurgy, the buildings now centered around other forms of commerce, typically agricultural. But some of the ancient carvings still remained in the stone of the temples, and Demelza was managing to piece together a rough translation of the additional symbols.
It wasn’t a map, exactly. But it did provide her a means to narrow her search of the potential sites identified by the Ghalian network. And Corann had pulled out the stops for this endeavor, loosing every spare set of eyes and ears to relay what they could without jeopardizing their current assignments.
Possibilities began trickling in, and Demelza was making quick time of those closest to her.
It was this combination of bits and pieces of intel that brought her to Muck. But fortunately, and unfortunately, the temple on that particular world was still somewhat active, and it would take a bit of recon and careful planning to spend enough time inside it to do a thorough search for clues as to the whereabouts of the Quommus.
To start things off, Demelza decided she would do what made the most sense for one in her situation. Namely, she would spread some coin in the tavern, make a few new friends––ideally ones who just happened to frequent that temple––and then weasel her way into the building.
It was a bit more difficult than she had originally anticipated, though. Unlike most commerce worlds, this was a hardworking, but not hard-drinking, place. The heat and difficult labor made water a more sought-after commodity than alcohol, and tongues were quite a bit harder to loosen without that liquid relaxant.
Nevertheless, Demelza’s skills at infiltration soon paid off, and she was comfortably nestled in with a small group of filthy but welcoming miners. It struck her as funny how all of the past weeks and months of trials and tribulations had led her to this, of all places. A backwater dust bowl, hanging out with this sweaty lot.
But this motley bunch just so happened to also be followers of the particular sect she was interested in. With a little gently placed suggestion, she would be invited to join them, no doubt, but her casual conversation about all things mysterious and mythological had not yielded her any results in the search for the Quommus.
“That thing? Sure, I’ve heard the stories. My mom told ’em to me when I was a little kid,” said an enormous man whom she had trouble imagining ever being little.
“Yeah, some kind of sword, right?” asked a wiry woman with short-cropped burgundy hair that matched her lightly-scaled skin.
“No, it wasn’t a sword,” an older, heavily scarred miner said. “It’s a scroll.”
“Don’t be stupid. A scroll wouldn’t survive out in the world,” the large fellow replied. “It’s gotta be durable. Smaller. Portable.”
“Like what, then?” the woman shot back. “Some kind of trinket? A belt? A freaking hat?” she asked with a laugh.
“Hell if I know. Like I said, I was just a kid when I heard those stories.”
The discussion went on like that a short time, then drifted into other topics, including inviting their new friend to join them for the evening’s visit to the temple, which Demelza readily accepted. Just as planned.
As for the Quommus, the discussion was quickly forgotten, the topic deemed not really worth spending any more time on. It wasn’t surprising, though. The Quommus was one of those things everyone had heard of but never seen, and what it actually was, down to the size, shape, and very nature of the thing, had been lost to time centuries before. Many had tried and failed in the search for it, but finding an object with no idea what it looked like was an impossible task.
Fortunately for Demelza, the Wampeh Ghalian considered the impossible just another day at the office.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Wow, that’s quite impressive,” Demelza said as she followed her new friends into the imposing stone building looming at the town center.
It seemed a lot of the locals were heading that way for the evening’s post-labor sermon.
“Yeah. Not bad for a backwater planet, right?” her extremely large new friend said with a proud grin.
His name, it turned out, was Garoosh, and he had been mining ore on this world for nearly seven cycles. Most got tired of the heat and dirt and gave up after only one or two, but not Garoosh. The man seemed to get a kick out of subjecting himself to extremes, for whatever reason. And his love of proving his worth in harsh conditions actually somewhat endeared him to the assassin.
He was in no way of the mindset required to be one of the elitest killers known, but for a casual, he was admittedly rather notable for his physical endurance and his resistance to pain. Two things you needed in abundance to survive more than a few cycles on Muck.
“Come on, we can get a good seat up front,” Garoosh said, waving to someone he knew who appeared to be holding a place for him.
“Slide over, Oona, we’ve got a newcomer here to hear the sermon.”
“Name’s Alanna,” Demelza said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Pleasure’s mine, Alanna,” Oona replied. “You chose a good night to drop by.”
“Oh? Why’s that?” the disguised Wampeh asked.
“It’s the end of the lunar cycle. Big night. You’ll see,” was all she got in reply.
Demelza looked around at the worn and battered interior of the building. It had survived this harsh environment for centuries upon centuries, but the clime had taken its toll in many ways. Paints on the frescoes had faded where the magic keeping them vibrant had been neglected. Structural members were worn and smooth from years of people passing, rubbing their hips or shoulders along the wall as they passed.
But there, among all of the confusing mix of symbols and artwork were what she had been looking for. Sigils. The runic symbols carved into the stone of the building itself. No matter how many times the structure had been rearranged and repurposed, the bones of the thing remained the same.
“Brothers, sisters, welcome!” a voice rang out.
Demelza turned her attention back to the source of the magically amplified sound. It was a middle-aged man in priest’s robes. But unlike most religious folk she’d encountered, this one was rippling with solid muscle beneath the fabric. His forearms and wrists were visible outside the ends of his sleeves, and their thickness spoke to a life of hard work, even for a holy man.
Moments later, Demelza realized why.
The priest held up a large blacksmith’s hammer, gleaming in the magical light, and began speaking to the assembled faithful. Here on this planet, it only made sense that one such as he would be leading this flock. Demelza focused her gaze on the side of the hammer when he stopped gesticulating for a moment.
Yes, there it is, she thought as she spied the same sigil as had been on one of Master Orkut’s smithing implements.
On the dais with the priest was a large and ornately forged anvil, the sigils of their sect woven into the designs themselves. Where Master Orkut had a simple yet effective version, this was something altogether different. And it seemed to be barely used. An odd thing for what she’d learned about the sect so far.
The priest spoke to the congregation, praising their work and promising the gods would look down upon them with great pride at the quantity of ore they had brought forth for magical endeavors.
The forging of magic-possessing metal was profitable, and their goods would have significant value. It was making more sense why this group might have developed a means to hide their magic signature from others in the past. They’d have been a tempting target otherwise, and protecting themselves from roving thieves could easily be seen to have been a
top priority, especially if those thieves were vislas.
And the Quommus would have been just the thing for that job. Whatever the hell the Quommus actually was, that is.
In addition to their approval of the quantities mined, it also seemed that the gods, though rich in sacrificed ore, wanted coin as well, though Demelza always wondered what exactly a non-corporeal deity needed it for. But the congregants dug deep without hesitation.
The assembled quietly tossed coin in the several baskets that were quickly passed through their ranks. Demelza, not wanting to offend, contributed as well, drawing a pleased smile from her new friends. The baskets were then whisked away for the finale of the service.
Demelza had expected some sort of symbolic sacrifice, as was common with so many cults and religions. Perhaps some fruit, or alcohol or bread, laid out for their deity in thanks. But she was mistaken. And she would very soon learn that the anvil was not merely ornamental after all. It was just not used to forge metal.
The beast was unlike any she had seen before. Smallish, perhaps standing a little higher than her waist. It possessed a bony head with thick ridges that ran from its nose all the way down its back, where sturdy haunches carried its mass with ease.
“Is he going to––”
“Shh. You’ll see,” Oona hissed, her eyes fixed on the beast being led to the anvil.
“In your honor, oh great ones. Grant us prosperity!” the priest said as his assistants pulled the animal’s head onto the anvil.
Moments later the hammer swung true, the sheer force of the priest’s arms cracking right through the animal’s seemingly impenetrable skull and rendering it to mush. It was impressive, the strength the man possessed, but he was apparently not done yet.
The assistants quickly pulled the animal’s remains farther onto the anvil, where the process was repeated, though with a much wetter thunk. Over and over this occurred until the entire beast, from tip to tail, had been pulverized.
As sacrifices went, it was one of the strangest, and bloodiest, Demelza had ever seen. She was a brutal killer, and the spectacle hadn’t bothered her in the least, but it was no wonder the sect had faded away on more civilized planets.
“What a moving display,” she said finally.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Oona said, her eyes shiny with excitement.
Garoosh nodded in agreement. “Next, they’ll prepare the lunar feast for the priests with the remains.”
“Great, if you like mashed bone in your meal, I suppose,” Demelza mused.
Oona looked at her with shock. “Don’t blaspheme!”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any offense.”
Oona’s hackles lowered, the apology accepted with a glance, if not words.
“Well, that’s it for the service. You want to maybe come back to my place to have a little refreshment and talk about the finer points?” Garoosh asked with a warm smile.
Demelza knew exactly what he really meant. “Maybe in a little bit. But first, I’d like to stay a moment to take a look around. It’s such an impressive building,” she said, actually managing to sound sincere.
“Okay. I’ll be at the tavern for a bit. Come meet me there if you find the mood takes you,” he replied with a grin, then walked out confidently without waiting for a reply.
She had to give it to him, the guy was surprisingly smooth for a miner, but she had far more pressing things on her mind than pressing bodies with him.
The throng was thinning as she moved along the perimeter of the building. The tall stone columns had tapestries draped over parts of them, but much of the original sigils and carvings were clearly visible above. There seemed to be a pattern to them, but being so unfamiliar with them, it was difficult to make out what it might be.
“I am sorry, but the service is over now,” a voice said.
She recognized it at once, though it was unamplified now. Demelza turned to face the holy man. She was a Ghalian, and at this proximity she could sense his power. An emmik, though not a terribly strong one. Still, the man had power of his own. That explained the strength behind his hammer swings.
“Oh, I’m new here,” she replied in the most demure voice a literal killer of men had ever used. “Garoosh and Oona invited me to hear you speak. It was a wonderful oration.”
“Thank you. I am Emmik Sitza. I am glad a newcomer would find my words moving. Are you considering joining our flock?”
“I’m not sure yet. I’ve only just arrived, after all. But the service was very moving. You have a strength to you that radiates through your words,” she said, feeding his ego. “And I’m sorry if I overstepped,” she said, gesturing to the emptying temple. “It’s just this is all so new and thrilling, and I wanted to get a better look at this amazing art and architecture. This building must be quite old.”
“Indeed, it is. One of the oldest of our temples in fact.”
“Oh, really? Wow, that’s amazing,” she gushed, then pointed to a row of sigils on the nearest column. “I don’t know if it’s too old for you to know how to read it, but what does that mean?”
The emmik grinned, eager to show off his learning in the more arcane ways of his order. “That means ‘blue sun,’ and next to it is ‘strong hammer.’”
She studied the markings, then turned to another set. “What about those? Do you know what those say too?”
“Of course. That line is a bit more flowery, but it says, ‘The light burns bright, the two eyes of Orakis staring down from above.’”
“Wow, you really do know a lot.”
“It is just the old language of our forbearers,” he replied.
Demelza’s enthusiasm was contagious, and soon she had the man eating out of her hand, happy to postpone his feast for a few minutes to show her the other art and carvings that graced his temple, translating them for her as he did.
Demelza, for her part, was memorizing every last one of them, her razor-sharp Ghalian mind creating a sort of mental Rosetta Stone of their meanings. In short order, she had compiled a solid list of nearly all of them.
“So does this one mean ‘the red jewel?’” she asked.
“It does! You are a very quick study!” the holy man gushed. Clearly this woman could well become a very devout follower if she decided to join the order. “So, what do you think now that you’ve seen more of our sect? Do our teachings speak to you?”
“You know, they do, actually. I am thinking this might be a good fit after all. I’m so glad to have come tonight.”
“Emmik, we are ready to begin the roasting ceremony,” a temple assistant said as they quietly approached the duo. The rest of the temple had emptied while they spoke.
“Dear me, I seem to have lost track of time. But please, come back tomorrow, and let us carry on this discussion further.”
“Thank you, I would very much like that,” she replied. “But I was wondering, I would really love to study this amazing artwork just a little while longer. Might I stay for just a bit?”
He thought on it for just a moment, then smiled broadly. “Of course. Please, enjoy your time here. Ignatz, my assistant, will come around when you are finished and lock up behind you.”
“Thank you so much. I really appreciate it,” Demelza said with a fervent gleam in her eye as she scanned the walls and columns.
“It is my pleasure,” the holy man replied. “And welcome to Mulannis.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Demelza was several systems away by the time her muscular new friend and the temple’s holy man began to wonder where the recent arrival might be. But in the relatively short time she had spent within the structure, she had acquired more than enough of the data she required.
Floating in the darkness of space between systems, Demelza worked at translating the sigils and markings embedded within the scroll Master Orkut had left her.
“Well done, old man,” she said with a little smile as his true message slowly became clear. “Clever indeed.”
He had given her cre
dit for her intellect when she had trained underneath him. Little did she know that high regard would one day in the not too distant future lead her on a most unexpected quest, and a surprisingly focused one now that she had found the key. With the rough translations she had gathered from the temple walls, Demelza was well on her way to possessing a map of sorts.
A great many of the sigils and runes were filler words, it seemed. But some fit within the framework of Master Orkut’s writing. It took her an entire day’s study and trial and error until she felt her translated work might steer her true. It was a clever use of arcane symbols intended to guide her to something. But was it the Quommus?
She had a feeling it could not possibly be that easy. And when she finally jumped her ship to the world at the center of the system loosely named in the scroll, she knew that to be the case.
There was but one habitable planet there, and upon it, but one temple of the sort she was seeking. It was a fortunate turn of events that the structure was well known, for searching each of the hundreds of cities and towns across the world would have taken weeks, if not longer, even with the help of the repurposed spy network.
Unlike the temple on Muck, the building here was in extremely good condition, though it was no longer used as a place of worship. Centuries prior, it had been converted to a marketplace when the order fell out of favor with the local government. But she could see what the place had once been. Magnificent. Ornate. Robustly built. And on a world such as this, it had not had to face the harsh conditions of the dirty mining town. More than that, this building, while in far better condition, was clearly older.
“What do you have for me here, Master Orkut?” she quietly asked the dead man as she walked through the tall entryway and into the marketplace contained within.
Magical lighting illuminated the place, and row upon row of tented vendor stalls and tables, butting right against one another, tapestries strung above them as the wares lay stretched out in an organized grid. This was no haphazard place of commerce. This was an established trading ground. But what secrets might it hold for one looking not for commerce, but for something far more difficult to come by?
