Broken Crescent by S. Andrew Swann
Ghad walked alone between the worlds.
He watched his ghadi enslaved and mute for six centuries. He saw his people broken under the weight of their labor. He felt their bodies consumed by the College of Man who spoke the Gods’ Language.
Ghad saw all this and thought, “How cruel is man to curse a race so, when one word could heal these wounds.” After thinking this, Ghad sat down in the darkness in the center of the world.
He watched as men forced armies of ghadi to dismantle the great temples that once proclaimed Ghad’s glory. He saw the great cities rebuilt to house manlings. He felt man cut forests that Ghad meant to be uncut and move rivers that Ghad meant to be eternal.
Ghad saw all this and thought, “How wasteful is man to destroy such beauty, when one word could serve their needs.” After thinking this, Ghad closed his eyes.
For six centuries more, Ghad listened to man spread across the face of the world as the Ghadikan slowly died. The ghadi could not even give voice to their pain, and this hardened Ghad’s heart with rage.
Ghad thought, “How proud is man to come to this world as a stranger and live now as my ghadi had?”
Ghad decided that man needed to learn humility as Ghad himself had. Ghad wrapped himself in the skin of an old man and walked before the College of Man who spoke the Gods’ Language.
The men of the College trembled because they knew that it was no old man who addressed them.
“How foolish is man?” Ghad asked.
The men of the College trembled and said, “We bow to your power, Ghad of old. We know much, but we cannot answer your question.”
Ghad opened his hand and revealed a book that was not a sixth of the size of the great tomes where the College of Man had written the Gods’ Language. “I created the language you study. I have seen you struggle where one word could ease your labors. Take this gift.”
One wise man asked, “We know your name and who you are. Why should we trust your gift?”
Ghad laughed. “All I offer is knowledge.”
And the men of the College accepted Ghad’s gift.
The words within were indeed more powerful than any man had spoken before. At first, the College of Man reveled in their new power, the youngest among them forgetting the lessons of the war with the ghadi. For, though a word could raise a mountain from which an acolyte could view the world, somewhere else a chasm would open and swallow an innocent town. The College would call forth the rains with a word to make their land fertile, and elsewhere a desert would spread. They could call up a city out of the earth itself, and the ground beneath it, bled of its stone, would swallow it up into mud again.
To the wise men of the College it was clear that Ghad’s gift was no gift, but other men of the College did not wish to give up such power.
“You cannot take this book away, for with it we can be like gods ourselves.”
But the wise men of the College saw the destruction these men wrought. As did Ghad, who was amused. Ghad wrapped himself in the skin of a young woman and walked before the College of Man who spoke the Gods’ Language.
The men of the College trembled because they knew that it was no young woman who addressed them.
“How greedy is man?” Ghad asked.
The men of the college trembled and said, “We bow to your power, Ghad of old. We know much, but we cannot answer your question.”
Ghad opened his hand and revealed a single sheet of paper whereon a single word of power was written. “I created the language you study. I have seen you struggle where one word could ease your labors. Take this gift.”
One wise man asked, “We have seen what your gifts have wrought. Why should we trust this gift?”
Ghad laughed. “All I offer is knowledge.”
And the men of the College accepted Ghad’s gift.
And Ghad’s gift was the word that could destroy Ghad’s book and all that it had wrought. It was one word that could tear the knowledge itself from men’s minds. The wise men of the College tried to speak it, but the men who wanted the power of Ghad’s book fought them, speaking words of great and terrible power. Five-sixths of the College died, and a sixth of all men died in flood, fire, and storm before the wise men could speak the word.
And when Ghad’s last word was spoken, the book burned, and all that had read it fell as mute as the ghadi.
Only one wise man was left in the College of Man who spoke the Gods’ Language. Ghad wrapped himself in the skin of a child and walked before the man who spoke the God’s Language.
The wise man trembled because he knew that it was no child who addressed him.
“How doomed is man?” Ghad asked.
The wise man of the College trembled and said, “I bow to your power, Ghad of old. I know much, but I cannot answer your question.”
Ghad opened his hand and revealed a man who was not a man, strange and pale in form. “I created the language you study. I have seen you struggle where one word could ease your labors. Take this gift.”
The wise man looked at Ghad, and at the Angel Ghad held in his hands. “Your gifts bring nothing but disaster. Destroy me if you must, but I will not take this from your hand.”
Ghad giggled. “All I offer is knowledge. My Angel can teach you more of my language than any man has ever known.”
The wise man said, “Your gifts are death. Your Angel is death. Take it away, or I will destroy it myself.”
Ghad smiled and closed his hands. “How ungrateful is man?”
The wise man did not answer.
“No more riddles,” Ghad said. “I see you have no use for knowledge anymore. But I am old, and I am patient, and I know that some manling yet unborn will beg me for the knowledge my Angel can give mankind.”
“No man will beg for your Angel of Death.”
Ghad smiled and left the wise man alone.
Nate sat on his cot and shook his head.
Yerith said, “The appearance of the Angel of Death foretells the end of Mankind.”
“Bullshit.” Nate said in English. “I am not this world’s fucking Antichrist.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE TRAVEL from Manhome to Zorion took two sixdays. The Scholar Uthar Vailen traveled as an anonymous acolyte with a plain robe and an unadorned white mask. Those outside the College didn’t question him, and those from inside the College were satisfied with a few words that referred to the Venerable Master Scholar of Manhome.
As far as the College of Man was concerned, the Scholar Uthar Vailen was on an overland journey toward some provinces north of Manhome. Those who cared to watch him would be satisfied to see Uthar’s mask and robes on the northbound wagon. So much of the College relied on forms and ceremony that it would not occur to observers that the man behind the mask was not Uthar Vailen—not any more than it would occur to the servants of the College of Man that the rankless acolyte facing them was perhaps the second most powerful man among the scholars of Manhome.
Even so, this kind of travel was a risk not to be taken lightly. Years of effort had gone into creating Arthiz. The conspirator that Uthar had manufactured was meant only to appear briefly, then evaporate back into the College. That was a trivial exercise in Manhome, where the College was everything and acolytes were thick on the ground.
In Zorion, seat of the Monarch himself, the College was less conspicuous, which made Arthiz more so. However, it was unavoidable. Uthar’s long years of effort were close to completion, and when the events he planned began to unfold, he could not be anywhere near Manhome or the main force of the College.
So, the white-masked Arthiz strode through the nighttime streets of Zorion with the arrogance that even the lowest member of the College of Man was trained to display before outsiders. Even here, at the opposite pole of power from Manhome, the people deferred to his mask. No guard challenged him, and even the beggars shied from his path.
He walked a crooked route to the ancient ziggurat that was the center of the Monarch’s rule. Most of the entrances
Uthar walked down a hole that led under the old streets several buildings away from the massive structure. He followed the damp tunnels until he was deep under the ziggurat. From there, he followed hidden stairways and passages up toward the chambers of the Monarch himself.
He was expected.
Uthar emerged from behind a false pillar and into a great room dominated by frescoes and a vaulted ceiling. A throne carved from a single stone sat on a dais overlooking the massive chamber.
Facing Uthar upon his entrance were about twenty guardsmen, weapons drawn. Uthar froze, and was glad that his mask hid any displays of shock or emotion. His first animal urge was to retreat, however fruitless that effort might be. Instead, he stepped fully into the room and stood facing the guards, consciously feigning confidence as he mentally searched for an incantation that would extract him from the situation.
“Arthiz?” called a youthful voice from behind the guardsmen.
“Yes,” Uthar managed to say with as much dignity as possible.
The guardsmen parted to reveal a young man in a rich set of robes. The Monarch was barely a man, smooth-cheeked and weak-looking, but there was a hardness in his eyes that was much older than he was. Arthiz was in the presence of the one man who had enough temporal power to challenge the College on any level. The Venerable Master Scholar might be disdainful of this callow youth, but Uthar knew better.
“My apologies for the display of force,” said the Monarch. “Many rumors spread, and prudence seems to be in order.”
“I am here for my Master’s service. I defer to your wisdom.”
“So you do.” The Monarch waved a bejeweled hand, motioning him forward. “We shall talk while my men assure themselves that you were not followed.”
Behind his mask, Uthar smiled slightly. Fear drove the Monarch almost as much as the Venerable Master Scholar. Uthar liked fear. It was a useful emotion.
“Why is it that we wait?” asked the Monarch when they were safely inside an audience chamber. The room was more lavish than any in the College, with seats of carved woods and cushions made of exotic fabrics. To Uthar, it felt as if the Monarch compensated for the discrepancies in power by amassing wealth.
The Monarch sat on a heavily embroidered sofa while Uthar remained standing.
“I am awaiting your reasons,” he prompted.
“I have long been your obedient servant and adviser. The College rots from within, slowly consumed by its own paranoia and corruption. When you move, the blow should be quick, decisive, and final.”
“You have given good counsel, Arthiz. But only to a point. Wasn’t it you who pointed out that the College’s greatest weakness was its belief in its own invulnerability?”
“To this point, the Venerable Master Scholar believes that no earthly force can challenge them.”
“We squander that advantage.”
Uthar frowned behind his mask. “I do not see what you mean.”
“My dear Arthiz, do you think that the Monarch of all Mankind has no mind for strategy, no eye for tactics?”
“Not at all . . .”
“I understand your own motives better than you think I do. Not that I begrudge you them, as long as they parallel my own. Reconstructing the College of Man with you as the Venerable Master Scholar, or the equivalent, isn’t it?”
“I serve at the Monarch’s pleasure,” Arthiz said. The meeting wasn’t going quite as he had planned. He had the unpleasant feeling of growing danger, that he walked a precipice that only now became visible.
“This is my problem, Arthiz. I have massed armies, trained and housed them within a sixday ride from Manhome itself. Every passing day is another day when the College might open its eyes and see a knife at its throat. At the same time, your masterful stroke of abducting their Angel of Death has begun the College cannibalizing itself, looking for you.”
“The plan proceeds even more swiftly than anticipated.”
“Much more swiftly, Arthiz. You know as well as anyone that a blow too late is as costly as a blow taken too soon. It is time.”
“No!” Arthiz snapped before he could stop himself. “Please, may the Monarch forgive my outburst.”
The Monarch waved his hand as if Arthiz’s insubordination was beneath his notice. “I am aware how you feel.”
“It will be another year at the soonest before your Shadow College is equipped to take over.”
“Arthiz,” the Monarch shook his head, and he no longer looked young. His expression was ageless and cruel, like an old ghadi statue. “Your Shadow College is a path, not a destination. It serves so I can break the grip of Manhome and the College of Man. So it will do so.”
Arthiz shook his head. “I don’t understand. No scholar there is prepared to combat the College. We only just captured the stranger, and we haven’t yet uncovered what advantage he can bring us.”
The Monarch laughed.
Uthar stood there, completely dumbfounded.
“Oh, that was impolite.” The Monarch’s smile was worthy of Ghad himself. “Arthiz, you are a genius in planning, conspiracy, and the manipulation of events to your own advantage. I think the vast intricacy of your vision prevents you from seeing the simple, the basic, and the obvious. Will it surprise you to know that I can tell you precisely what advantage the Angel of Death can bring me? How this thing will spell the destruction of the College of Man?”
Uthar was silent a few moments before he quietly asked, “How?”
“The death of the College will be in the fear they place in this creature. The fact that they will move the path of the sun itself to capture this strange being will be in itself enough to undo them.”
Uthar shook his head.
“I see you do not understand. Shall I recast it? Your Shadow College will, you have said, be ready to take on the scholars defending Manhome in a year’s time. Why should I wait if—at this very moment—they can draw the main force of Manhome away from the College, leaving it nearly undefended?”
What the Monarch planned to do sank in. “You cannot mean to waste years of work.”
“If Manhome is taken, it is not a waste.”
“But—”
“You understand now why I require your presence, and why you will stay here.”
“Please reconsider this path. You are casting aside years of patient effort. You are casting away the Angel of Death itself before it has revealed anything to us.”
“Arthiz, do not lower yourself with such pleas. You are more than that. You know how the powers move in the world. I will remember you as a good ally, and you may yet head whatever I put in place of the College of Man. But forces are moving as we speak, and your role has ended.”
I gave you this, and you cast it away. No, my role has not ended.
“I serve at the pleasure of the Monarch.”
“My guard will escort you to a set of apartments you should find comfortable.” The Monarch waved his hand to dismiss him.
Uthar walked to the door.
“Remember, Uthar Vailen, you have chosen sides. You cannot go back.”
Uthar heard his own name and swore that he would live to see the Monarch’s death.
BOOK FOUR
A merchant once insulted an acolyte of the College of Man. The acolyte’s Master in the College could not abide such disrespect. The Master searched the streets and the woods to find the merchant, and did not find him.
The Master, in his anger, said, “Will no one show me how to punish this man who does not respect the College?”
And Ghad appeared to him, “This I will show you; you need but ask.”
Knowing Ghad to be false, the Master turned away.
The acolyte however, in his anger, spoke to Ghad. “Tell me, then, how do we find this man who shows such disrespect?”
Laughing, Ghad
—The Book of Ghad and Man,
Volume IV, Chapter 15
CHAPTER THIRTY
SIX DAYS later, in the middle of the night, Nate awoke to the sound of thunder.
He blinked his eyes open and tried to get his bearings in the semidarkness. The only light was that which leaked from a hooded lantern at the end of the hall. At first, Nate only saw various shadings of shadow.
Another roll of thunder came, loud enough to make Nate’s chest ache.
What the . . . ?
Grit stung his eyes, and his lips tasted of sand. At about the same time, he realized that his alcove was filled with a cloud of dust and that he shouldn’t be hearing thunder this deep underground.
Nate didn’t know what it was, but it wasn’t good.
“Solis?” he called out as he rolled out of his cot. The blankets and the robe he’d worn to bed were coated with dust and grit.
Nate heard coughing from down the hall, where Solis had made his room. Up by the light.
It came again. Nate grabbed the archway in front of his room, and felt the chamber shake around him, rumbling in response to the rolling resonant blast from somewhere above. Dust and powdered rock sprayed from gaps in stones that seemed much less permanent than they had when Nate had gone asleep.
It’s like we’re being bombed. . . .
When the floor stopped moving, Nate let go and ran to Solis’ end of the corridor. “Solis!”
At first, all Nate could make out was a white mound of dust on the floor, but in a second, he saw the mound go into spasms with a racking cough. Nate reached down, found an arm, and pulled Solis up and out of the room.
Another blast, larger, throwing them both as if the whole chamber had been dropped from a height of about twenty feet.
“Are you all right?” Nate asked.
Solis pushed him away. “This is your doing!”