CITY OF THE GODS: FORGOTTEN (2 page)

Chapter 43 - Beneath the Battle
.
453

Chapter 44 - A Fateful Choice
.
457

Chapter 45 - Aftermath
.
468

Chapter 46 - The Journey Yet to Come
.
485

The styling of
City of the Gods: Forgotten
stands as a tribute to illustrated books published about a hundred and fifty years ago. In the 19th Century, adventurous fantasy stories helped to popularize the novel and broaden the audience for literary entertainment. Fine printings of tales such as
Dante's Inferno
,
Don Quixote
,
Paradise Lost
and
Alice in Wonderland
blended art and story in a manner that is very rarely seen in today's mainstream novels.
 
It was a golden age for books.

Because our story dealt with gods and mythical subjects, we were inspired to employ a writing style that hints at those old stories. You may even recognize some classic images in the scenes constructed to showcase the world of the realms. It seems fitting that our tale of immortals and heroic humans, with eternal themes of love and war, grants new life to some of the drawn characters that populated the great old books.
  

We hope you enjoy your visit to the City of the Gods. Thanks for reading.

 
M. Scott Verne and Wynn Mercere

There was no heroic last stand to stop the invasion. There were only three meddling gods whose sudden interference no one had foreseen. One challenged, the second seduced, and the last gambled all of their might on a single, dirty blow. To say the heavens shook would not be true, but what transpired over the realm of Olympus was like the catalyst of so many wars, a unique and pivotal act. As ash whirled above a smoking crater, one of the trio turned to leave, already bored now that the deed was done.

“Wait. We must be sure.”

The most cautious, still clad in residual flashes of lightning from the attack, pinned the other two with hard eyes. Of all of them, he had the most reasoned basis for intervening. He prided himself on the moral rightness of what had just been done. He viewed the others with a slight disgust, well aware that they had assisted for reasons more self-serving than noble. While he was willing to overlook their innate deficiencies, he was not open to allowing those failings to undo his own plan.

“Sure of what?” his darkest accomplice sneered. “That it’s dead? Death is no absolute here.”

“You struck so quickly and now chide us for haste?” the female chimed in.

“I’m sure you have been accused of far worse.”

The object of the righteous one’s accusation shrugged, sidled closer to the dark one and stroked the side of his neck. A streak of blood was left behind. He pulled away from her touch.

“Linger if you must,” he said. “I will not be caught here.” With a last glance at the burning landscape and an irritated swipe at the gore left on his throat, he merged with the cloud of ash and vanished. After an awkward moment of glaring at one another, the remaining defenders also fled the scene. The countryside of Olympia burned in bright testimony to what they had done for the sake of the City far beyond its borders.

*
       
*
       
*

In that City, everlasting life ran its course, the populace ignorant of the greater deeds on the fringes of their world. A small house on one of its humblest streets was home to D’Molay, a man who was a tracker for the gods. On this morning he sat by his hearth, staring into the flames. They fascinated him, beckoning him to join once again in their dance. He closed his eyes and managed to look away for a moment, trying to think of something else. Distraction was provided by the goblet of rum sitting on the table. The last swig it held burned its way down his throat, sharp and sweet. He carelessly dropped the drained goblet to the floor.

“Well, that’s the last of you,” he said to the empty room. D’Molay’s voice was low and gravelly. He hadn’t said a word for hours, and he hadn’t drunk this much in a long time. When he kicked the cup away, it mockingly bounced against the fireplace wall and drew his attention to the fire once again.

That desire to stare into flames always overwhelmed him when he was near a fire. There were many flames in the City: funeral pyres for high priests and treasured slaves; eternal flames devoted to the gods; candles and torches to light temples and dungeons; and hearths that kept mortal folk warm on cold nights. Fortunately for D’Molay, he was usually in a rush and time allowed only a glance at their seductive glow as he passed them by. On this day, however, the fire hungered, demanding to be fed.

Opening a small wooden box on the table, he took out a silvery object. He knew its every edge and groove without looking. Long ago, it had been so important. D’Molay squeezed it one last time before tossing it into the flames. The metal object sat atop the crackling logs, blackening as the heat did its work. D’Molay stared, entranced. He had to see how his once treasured item would stand up to the heat, needed to absorb every detail of what the flames would do.

After a moment, the scorched object started to lose its shape, relaxing on the top of its burning wooden bed.
 
A thread of bright silver liquid broke free, spilling over the logs and disappearing into the glowing red coals. Finally, the entire mass of gleaming metal flowed down the log and pooled at the bottom of the hearth’s black andirons. The silvery liquid formed a misshapen puddle on the soot-covered stone of the inner hearth. A few stray drops added themselves to the slowly congealing glob as it took on a grayish hue.

D’Molay wiped his face with the back of his sleeve as he beheld the fate of the last vestige of a life that had no meaning for him here. The fire had given him a parting gift of knowledge, teaching him something he hadn’t known about his treasure. The token had pooled to base pewter, not silver, just as his fate had somehow dissolved from glory to ignominy. The bitter thought echoed though his head as he realized he had spent too much time on the past and rushed to leave his house. It was a procession day, and moving through the crowded streets would take more time than usual. He grabbed his coat from a hook and stepped out to join the crowd heading toward the temple district of the City of the Gods. The going was slow, as he had feared.

Even those in official processions found their progress impeded. By City law, common foot travelers had to give way for temple parades, but even those granted the privilege of walking in ritual formation did not enjoy a pleasant stroll. D’Molay was trapped behind one such procession and he could hear a girl within it grow more frustrated by the minute.

“Still your veil! I can’t see,” she complained. D’Molay watched her dare a tug on the headdress of another priestess as billowing fabric snapped back into her face. The other girl ignored her. The thin linen continued to whip annoyingly in the wind until D’Molay heard the irritated girl speak a prayer to calm the stiff breeze. He was rather surprised when her petition was quickly answered. The fabric fell back into its proper position, allowing everyone a better view of what had caught her eye on the other side of the street.

“Whose statue is that? What’s it doing in the gutter?” she asked, pointing, hoping someone in the crowd would know. Unfortunately, her sect mother was the only one who responded to her curiosity.

“The statue holds her tongue, as you should,” the lady answered, not even looking back over her shoulder to deliver the loud rebuke. The chastised girl bowed her head, embarrassed. She closed ranks with the others and turned her eyes from the strange sculpture as the procession ran up against several sedan chairs and all movement came to a halt. D’Molay, realizing he would be going nowhere for a few minutes, stepped aside to wait out the congestion.

No longer of interest now that there was a traffic jam to contend with, the pale statue spotted by the girl remained undisturbed by the busy residents of the City. No one noticed as a slight trace of pastel spread across its feminine form. A series of shudders wracked it, the movement disproving the assumption that it was made of stone. The power of life forced itself in. A trickle of wastewater flowing around the side of a beautiful face coaxed senses into operation. The touch of wet, cold street stone dominated several other vague feelings. It was uncomfortable, and she didn’t like it.

The cobblestones broadcast a shuffling song to her awakened ears. What made the noise was unseen, for her eyes were still shuttered to the outside world. Movement seemed a very unnatural concept, but the girl managed to open her eyelids. A wisp of curly hair, almost white with a hint of honey color to it, lay across her face. She peered through it.

She could see the uneven surface of the street on which she lay, and one of her hands, but the rest of the world was out of focus. Indistinct things were moving - people walking? Wheeled boxes rolling? The girl wanted to get away from the things, yet at the same time wished to be closer so that her weak eyes might see them better. But to progress either forward or backward, effort would be required. She wasn’t sure she could shift her body, but she had to try. She stared at her hand. Would it respond if she tried to make it move? It twitched as she concentrated, then slowly and painfully reacted to her thoughts. It seemed odd and unnatural to make it obey in such a way.

The girl tried to sit up, using her hand and arm to steady herself. This all seemed very wrong somehow, but she accomplished it with some effort.
 
A moment later she felt very dizzy and almost fell right back to the cobblestones, but was able to resist the sense of vertigo until it passed. Feeling steady again, she realized the fog had lifted from her eyes. She sat stunned for a few more seconds, taking in her surroundings. Nothing was familiar to her at all - including herself.

As she sat frozen in shock trying to remember who she was, she noticed that not everyone on the street was walking by. A group of men in colorful garb had stopped to stare intently at her. Some of them were talking in hushed tones. A few seemed amused. Several had a strange flushed look on their faces that she did not recognize at all. Others in the crowd, which continued to grow, seemed annoyed, even angry. One of the angry ones approached her. He was an older man with an air of authority, clad in a long burgundy coat with a brushed sheen. His black boots were wrapped with leather straps. She especially noticed the long curved sword at his side.