Patchwork Universe

Karl Groever · Posted: 09 Feb 2004 11:34 pm Post subject: Seers Come A - Walking

The sarcophagus stood open. Within, a skeletal frame, yellowed with age, but bearing the remnants of an archaic armour. Groever stood a moment longed, shocked, and then he stooped to touch. Hand lightly brushed a gorget, gone green over centuries; palm slick with sweat, he felt a sudden charge, an odd resistance in the metal. And, then, he knew with the sickest of certainties that something was very wrong.
He swung himself around to face Alberny, but his companion's face had gone slack with fear, eyes glassy, staring outward at something in the darkness that Groever couldn't see. 'I don't understand you, I don't understand you,' Alberny was intoning to the air, a low murmur at the threshold of hearing.
'Luke,' Groever barked, sharp in the enfolding silence, 'What is happening to us here ?'.
'This is too much...too much,' Alberny's lament sounded strangulated.
Unreasoning fear burrowed deep into Karl. He nodded assent to himself; unthinking, made his mind up. Whatever the Baron was paying him was not worth it; the secrets of this place had roots laid too deep. Muscles tensing, breath hissing, he was gearing to run, blundering through the murk...
Then, a sudden, blinding burst of light. Dazzled, he fell back a pace, shielded eyes, felt the tomb against his back. Alberny swivelled, still mumbling, his shocked expression never wavering.
Propane lamp, rattled through Karl's brain. And, standing at the entrance to the sanctum, grouped within its circle of light, four figures, tall; each swathed in robes the colours of blood and iron, each with skin gone tawny in the desert heat. Each levelling spear to shoulder with marked intent. The face of the lamp holder he could not see.
'Luke, run,' shot through him, a burst of desperation. A shove to Alberny's back. His low mumble silenced, the message taken, Alberny zig zagged; the strangers shouted urgently to one another.
Karl hung back. Without entirely knowing why, his eyes darting elsewhere, towards Alberny's retreating figure, to the group of nomads in the doorway, he felt his fingers tighten on the gorget and tug, breaking leather clasps gone rotten. He reached to place the piece within the shoulder bag.
Another cry from the nomads. Pointing, towards him. Something in Zayshi'i. Alberny beginning to yell, his own voice strained. 'We submit ! We submit !'. The lamp holder gasping, and crying something urgent in a guttural lilt. Spears realigned in his direction.
Alberny threw up his hands. The Zaysh were charging past him though, towards Karl and the tomb, fanning out. One pushed the red head over as he ran. Karl hesistated (sudden realisation - there was nowhere for him to run), screamed out loud, 'Luke ! Get back to the City ! Tell the Baron what is happening ! Tell the Baron...!' He realised, with a crashing feeling, that forgotten Alberny, even as he scrambled for the exit, might never get back to the City without his help, that even should he be able to tell the Baron what had befallen, he would be written off as simply another wasted expense. The Zaysh were bearing down upon him, grimaces hard, ceremonial scars glimmering under eyelids. He raised his hands at last, bag slipping to the marble floor. 'You', lamp holder hissed in City speech to Karl, said something to companions. Then, he saw the spear butt raised, felt a searing pain to the head, and everything went, finally, thankfully, black.

*****************************************************

When Karl awoke, his vision blurred, his head heavy, he no longer knew where he was. Coming to consciousness, dimly aware of low sounds at the edge of awareness, his mind searched for connections - was Alberny scanning again ? No, that could not be the answer; Luke had gone back to the City, and he was alone, amongst the nomads, taken prisoner for who knew what perceived transgression ? So, would he now be tortured ? In order to confess...what exactly ? And to whom ? Was it possible that they had violated a tribal taboo in raiding the tomb ? Or (and here Karl could not help but smile bitterly at his own cynicism, sending jolts of pain along his jawline), might not the Zaysh, primitive as their way of life undoubtedly was, have as many secrets to hide as those who lived in the City ? What he had felt when the tomb was opened had been... remarkable... to say the least.
His attention focused. He had been placed into a sitting position on the sand, and he was still somewhere in the Desert, the sky above him still dark. But the City was far more distant than it had been. The configuration of nearby Domes was different. And, not far from where he sat, the five Zaysh stood, their backs to him, staring into the middle distance, chanting.
He shook his head, and tried to reach again for the shoulder bag, which had been dropped into the sand beside him. It was then that Groever found his hands had been tied behind his back; the bonds were strong, and begining to chafe.
Two of the Zaysh broke from the group. Perhaps they had heard Groever coming too. Both had donned djellabah since Karl had seen them last, and their faces were, in part, obscured. He knew that one was the lamp holder, however; for the second man approaching was no Zayshi.
A City dweller ? Gone nomad. It seemed unthinkable, yet Karl had to believe it; the evidence was clear before him. At first encounter, he had assumed the lamp holder to be a leader of some sort, but this no longer appeared the case; lamp holder kept a humble step or two behind his warrior comrade, as Zayshi custom dictated. The true Zayshi spoke to Karl ; his words were simple, delivered meaningfully, seeming opaque. 'We,'he rasped, 'We know you,' the flick of two fingers, horizontal, towards him.
Lamp holder bent down to kneel in the sand beside him. Karl glanced at his face, felt an old stab of recognition. Then, tensed, as he saw the knife shine in the man's hands. Released, as he felt the blade slice through the bonds restraining him. Lamp holder murmured as he worked, accompanying the Zayshi chieftain, 'The songs are sung. You must be ready. Time is Coming.' He pressed something hot into Karl's hand, dragged him to his feet.
Karl swayed unsteadily a moment, felt the lamp holder thread the bag across his back, almost fell.
He heard the click and hiss of approbation from the chieftain; heard lamp holder say 'Songs needed singing, brother. Had to rough you up a little. Heals.'
He remained stupefied. Noticing his clenced fist, he opened it. Revealed, nestling in his palm, the gorget from the tomb. Karl felt it seem to throb softly.
'This is key,' came the lamp holder again 'Time is Coming, Karl Groever.'
That was the last clear thing Karl heard, and even then, the voices were already fading into the near distance. The wind was picking up, and the sand starting to whirl. Darkness began to seem denser. He was left alone with nowhere to turn, nowhere save into the oncoming storm.