Gav Thorpe - The Crown of the Conqueror

"Kneel."

Two figures stood in front of the arch and had spoken in unison. Unthinkingly, Nemasolai obeyed the command; he fell to the sand and prostrated himself along with the others. He dared not look up, filled with terror by the men he had glimpsed; their rune-carved bodies unsettling, their gold-flecked eyes seared into his mind. He shivered, head pressed into the cold ground, fingers clawing into the sand.

"Long you have suffered." The voice was like the scuttling of a scorpion over a dune. "The desert sands swallowed your cities. The hot winds scoured your history from time. None of you remember that age of glory. We do."

"You were once the chosen people, and you have been chosen again." The second voice reminded Nemasolai of wind sighing across the desert, the quiet whisper of shifting grains. "A thousand years before the Askhan upstarts took your lands, you ruled over more than dust and sand. The greatest city of the world was not Askh, which even today is but a shadow of the glories found in Akkamaro. Behold, your city lives again!"

Hesitantly, Nemasolai raised his eyes from the ground. He saw first the archway, still glimmering in false moonlight. Now the arch was part of a building, an opening into the bottom tier of a mighty ziggurat that stretched into the dark sky on five levels. Flanking the arch were two sets of steps, leading up to the highest point of the building, where something bright could be seen. Looking closer, Nemasolai saw that it was an immense throne from which a man could look out over the city. Glancing to his left and right, the shaman found himself in a massive plaza, the sand beneath him now just a thin layer scattered across thousands of flagstones. Columned buildings appeared around the square out of the gloom, with high-peaked roofs of black slate and red tiles. Frescoes were painted on the white walls, showing long caravans trekking between bountiful oases and mighty armies in red cloth purging savages from verdant forests.

The gasps of the others proved to Nemasolai that this was no mirage; or if it was, one that was shared equally with his fellow shamans.

Movement and sound returned. Stars twinkled against the black velvet of the night sky. The wind keened from the buildings. Light glowed from windows, glossily lacquered shutters thrown back to reveal intricate, multi-coloured panes of glass that cast rainbows dappling on the ivory-coloured stones of the square. Lanterns hung from the broad eaves, glimmering.

And there was the sound of water; not the sluggish lapping of the great lake, but the tinkle of fountains. Sitting up to his haunches, Nemasolai looked over his shoulder at where the great lake had been. It had become a vast cistern lined with blue and white tiles, artificial islands of red wood tethered upon its surface. Water flowed down channels from this immense well, disappearing down wide streets that led into other parts of the sprawling city that now surrounded them.

Tears welled up in Nemasolai's eyes. He was filled with an overwhelming sense of fulfilment and accomplishment. More than that, he felt as one might after coming upon a familiar sight after many years of starved wandering. Every fibre of his being told him that he was home.

Nemasolai heard distant shouts of surprise and fear; the tribespeople could see the city too.

"Akkamaro, your capital, birthright of the Mekhani."

At the sound of the first voice speaking again, Nemasolai directed his attention back to the archway. The two figures had not moved, but in the warm glow of the city they appeared less dreadful. The runes upon their flesh still disturbed Nemasolai's thoughts, but their demeanour was as stern fathers not sinister oppressors.

Some of the shamans were getting to their feet, gazing in wonder at their new surrounds. A few laughed childishly, pointing without comment at one feature or another.

"The revelation is not yet done," said the second man. All eyes turned on him. "We have brought back Akkamaro for you, but a capital needs its ruler. There are none among you worthy of forging a new future for the Mekhani, so we bring to you another gift. Look upon him and weep for your enemies, shed tears of joy for your future generations. You shall have a Great King again, as you did in the forgotten past."

A shape moved in the darkness of the archway.

"Kneel down and give praise to Orlassai, undying monarch, Great King of the Mekhani!"

The man that eased his way through the arch was barely a man at all. He stood almost twice the height of the two sigil-etched priests, with shoulders so broad he had to twist slightly to fit between the stones of the gateway. His eyes gleamed gold in the lantern light and his fingernails glittered as bronze. Like the other two, his skin was heavily marked with spiralling lines and convoluted runes; where they were wizened and frail, Orlassai was bulky and strong. Bloated muscles contorted beneath the Great King's skin as he moved towards the kneeling shamans. Veins like rope corded his flesh. His skin had the rough texture of tanned leather. Teeth like diamonds shone as he grinned at his new subjects.

Their new master had a boyish face, though much warped with prominent brows and hard-edged cheekbones. His head was bald, his scarred flesh bulging with bony nodules like a bag of pebbles.

The newcomer was clad in a high-collared robe of deep yellow, bright against his tanned skin. A belt of black bound the robe around his thick waist, its ends hanging with jewel-bound tassels. Gold and gems were hung on his wrists and ankles, and a chain of rubies and sapphires set into red gold adorned his bulging neck.

"I am Orlassai, reborn again in new flesh," the Great King declared. His words, the sound of his voice, were like a flow of honey, mellifluous and beautiful. Nemasolai heard the love of his mother, the pride of his father in those tones and he wept again, filled with memory.

"Who here would swear allegiance to me?" Orlassai continued.

Nemasolai shouted out that he would, eager to make himself heard above the clamour of affirmation and praises offered by the other shamans. Orlassai stooped to one knee and extended his hand to one of the shamans abasing himself. Nemasolai felt a pang of jealousy that he had not been chosen for such attention as the Great King gestured for the shaman to stand with a five-knuckled finger. Nemasolai did not recognise the other man, who shuddered under Orlassai's golden gaze.

"What is your name?" asked the Great King.

"Akannasai, your greatness," said the shaman, almost falling to his knees again, kept from doing so only by the intervention of the Great King, who placed a finger under Akannasai's chin and lifted his head.

"Will you obey me, Akannasai?"

"I will worship you as Great King, mightiest of lords," gushed Akannasai. "Your every word shall be the command that rings in my ears."

"That is good," said Orlassai. Nemasolai felt a thrill of pleasure at this simple praise, sharing Akannasai's dedication. "My first order as your king is this: go to your people and bring them here to Akkamaro."

Nemasolai was filled with an urgency to comply. He shouted more words of praise as he stood up, bowing his head over and over, backing away from the Great King without averting his gaze from the stunning apparition that had been brought before him. He heard the rapid pattering of feet around him and saw that some of the others had broken into a run, eager to bring the news of the reborn ruler to their tribes. With a last adoring, lingering look at Orlassai, Nemasolai also turned away and urged his aging frame into an awkward lope.

As the shamans disappeared into the night, Erlaan breathed a sigh of relief. The sense of adulation, the roar of so many hearts, the stink of their sweat had been almost overwhelming. Even now he could hear the slap of sandaled feet and the shamans' gushing whispers to each other.