The crowds of Annuakat thronged around the bottom of the palace ziggurat, their anxious murmuring filling the air. The newly anointed god-emperor stood upon the lowest of the steps, his Viziers around him. He wore simple clothes, no finery. No jewelry glinted in his ears or on his neck. No rings glittered on his fingers.
The sheikhs of the Abtati and Kaliti nobles stood behind him, silent. Waiting. Even they did not know what this concerned.
He raised his hands above his head and the crowd stilled.
"My people. Yes, you are my people. Elf. Human. Ogre. It does not matter the shape of your ears or teeth, the color of your skin. What matters is our shared land, our shared waters. The grain of Annuakat feeds hundreds of thousands. The ores of Seret are forged into your plows. The rugs and clothes of Ragash adorn your homes and person. We are all one people, of one land, blessed by the gods. And it is now to the gods that I must go."
Confused murmuring.
"Peace, my people. I journey to find the Lost Temple and seek community with the gods, to bestow their blessing upon our realm."
The murmuring grew louder.
"The Imperial Devan will guide you until the day of my return."
Then he departed, walking through the crowd. They parted before him, a miasma of conflicting emotions from fear and confusion to awe and respect. They followed him until he reached the blue walls of the city and strode through the gate.
The sun's scorching rays blistered the sands. Gerra stood atop a dune and stared out upon the endless desert. He wore a long white tunic, a loose sleeveless cloak, and a kafiyah wrapped around his head, obscuring everything from the sun but his amber eyes, which narrowed as he looked into the distance. He had a backpack containing many water skins, for even fire giants could perish of thirst in the desert.
The Lost Temple was only a rumor and in truth, Gerra did not expect to find it. Not on his own.
He walked on, until the days began to pass by in a blur, the nights as cold as the days were hot.
He walked on, until he no longer knew where he was in these wide, endless wastes, nothing but barren sand shimmering yellow beneath a blue sky.
He walked on, until his sandals began to wear into nothing.
He walked on, until he had drained the last drop from his water skins.
He walked on, until delirium gripped him and he saw ghosts.
Finally, all his strength expended, Gerra fell to his knees at the bottom of a dune. In the distance, a raging sandstorm grew and grew. He covered his hands over his ears and buried his head in the sand as the storm swept over him, buffeting him with gusts of wind, grains of sand ripping at exposed skin. It sounded like ten thousand galloping hooves. And he held his hands tightly over his ears, eyes screwed shut, until it ended just as suddenly as it had come, leaving an eerily serene quiet in its absence.
When Gerra looked up, the dune behind him had been swept away, revealing the faces of two statues buried in the sand - a man and a woman. Their eyes seemed to focus on him and he felt a sudden presence bear down on his mind.
"Aaah, so this is the young 'god' who would sit among us," said a male voice with a grinding iron in his words, like the rattling of chariot wheels.
"Did you see how he cowered at my sandstorm, brother?" cackled a female, derisive and mischievous.
"Peace, sister. There are few among the mortals who would not."
"He is not mortal, though, is he? A god, so claimed. Hasuras na-Gerra. Of fire, no less. So much pride. How many common soldiers have perished in his unification war?"
"And yet he is unifying them. A conqueror."
"Oh, so now he has your blessing, does he?"
"That remains to be seen."
A trembling shivered through Gerra's limbs that he had only ever felt in the presence of Menalus, Ash King of the Blight.
"Great ones," he rasped aloud through a parched throat.
"Ohhh, the little ant speaks, does it? What does it have to say?"
"I seek only your blessing, iron Annuk, mighty Iasimu. I can unite them. All of them. But if you are set against me then I am doomed to fail."
"What of Abtatu, eh? What about the Shapeless One? Ask him for your blessing." Snickered Iasimu in his mind.
"Every day for the past month I have made offerings to all the gods, oh Great Storm."
"Mmm, yes, those were pleasing. Well, I suppose... Brother?"
"You are not yet the conqueror you could be, Gerra. There are forces at work that you could not comprehend. Accomplish a task and you will have my blessing."
"Ohohoho, so you're sending him after THEM are you? Poor little ant. You were entertaining. Very well, you shall have my blessing also... if you accomplish the task."
"Walk straight until the sun sets. When the last light of the sun touches the horizon, you will see the Lost Temple flash green. Go there. Survive. Then tell us what you have seen."
"I will do it, Great Ones," Gerra croaked.
The wind blew hard and the sand shifted, covering up the two statues in a matter of seconds.
Gerra unsteadily got to his feet and began to walk. Soon, however, he collapsed into the sand, his muscles quaking. He rasped out a plea for help, but to whom he did not know. The gods had given him his task. There was no one to help him now. He would die alone in the desert, a failure. Just as Menalus wished.
"That is not your fate, my son."
The half-giant blinked away sand from his eyes.
"Mother?"
A single shoot of wheat sat sprouting from the sand right in front of him. He felt her presence with him, at once both as familiar as the company of a long lost friend and as strange as a stranger in a strange land.
"My son."
"You died. Your dead. I... I watched him throw you over the parapet. I saw you hit the- I held your body," choked, delirious words, "You were broken. How can this be?"
"He broke my vessel. But I am greater than he, my child."
"I don't understand."
Gentle laughter whispered in his ear.
"You do not need to. I believe in you. I see what lies in your heart for the people. You have done well with them, but your work is not finished. Get up, son of fire. Get up, prince of the harvest. You have seeds yet to sow."
Then she was gone.
Feeling a surge of strength flood through him, Gerra shakily got up from the sand, features grim and determine, and forged ahead into the desert.
The sheikhs of the Abtati and Kaliti nobles stood behind him, silent. Waiting. Even they did not know what this concerned.
He raised his hands above his head and the crowd stilled.
"My people. Yes, you are my people. Elf. Human. Ogre. It does not matter the shape of your ears or teeth, the color of your skin. What matters is our shared land, our shared waters. The grain of Annuakat feeds hundreds of thousands. The ores of Seret are forged into your plows. The rugs and clothes of Ragash adorn your homes and person. We are all one people, of one land, blessed by the gods. And it is now to the gods that I must go."
Confused murmuring.
"Peace, my people. I journey to find the Lost Temple and seek community with the gods, to bestow their blessing upon our realm."
The murmuring grew louder.
"The Imperial Devan will guide you until the day of my return."
Then he departed, walking through the crowd. They parted before him, a miasma of conflicting emotions from fear and confusion to awe and respect. They followed him until he reached the blue walls of the city and strode through the gate.
* * *
The sun's scorching rays blistered the sands. Gerra stood atop a dune and stared out upon the endless desert. He wore a long white tunic, a loose sleeveless cloak, and a kafiyah wrapped around his head, obscuring everything from the sun but his amber eyes, which narrowed as he looked into the distance. He had a backpack containing many water skins, for even fire giants could perish of thirst in the desert.
The Lost Temple was only a rumor and in truth, Gerra did not expect to find it. Not on his own.
He walked on, until the days began to pass by in a blur, the nights as cold as the days were hot.
He walked on, until he no longer knew where he was in these wide, endless wastes, nothing but barren sand shimmering yellow beneath a blue sky.
He walked on, until his sandals began to wear into nothing.
He walked on, until he had drained the last drop from his water skins.
He walked on, until delirium gripped him and he saw ghosts.
Finally, all his strength expended, Gerra fell to his knees at the bottom of a dune. In the distance, a raging sandstorm grew and grew. He covered his hands over his ears and buried his head in the sand as the storm swept over him, buffeting him with gusts of wind, grains of sand ripping at exposed skin. It sounded like ten thousand galloping hooves. And he held his hands tightly over his ears, eyes screwed shut, until it ended just as suddenly as it had come, leaving an eerily serene quiet in its absence.
When Gerra looked up, the dune behind him had been swept away, revealing the faces of two statues buried in the sand - a man and a woman. Their eyes seemed to focus on him and he felt a sudden presence bear down on his mind.
"Aaah, so this is the young 'god' who would sit among us," said a male voice with a grinding iron in his words, like the rattling of chariot wheels.
"Did you see how he cowered at my sandstorm, brother?" cackled a female, derisive and mischievous.
"Peace, sister. There are few among the mortals who would not."
"He is not mortal, though, is he? A god, so claimed. Hasuras na-Gerra. Of fire, no less. So much pride. How many common soldiers have perished in his unification war?"
"And yet he is unifying them. A conqueror."
"Oh, so now he has your blessing, does he?"
"That remains to be seen."
A trembling shivered through Gerra's limbs that he had only ever felt in the presence of Menalus, Ash King of the Blight.
"Great ones," he rasped aloud through a parched throat.
"Ohhh, the little ant speaks, does it? What does it have to say?"
"I seek only your blessing, iron Annuk, mighty Iasimu. I can unite them. All of them. But if you are set against me then I am doomed to fail."
"What of Abtatu, eh? What about the Shapeless One? Ask him for your blessing." Snickered Iasimu in his mind.
"Every day for the past month I have made offerings to all the gods, oh Great Storm."
"Mmm, yes, those were pleasing. Well, I suppose... Brother?"
"You are not yet the conqueror you could be, Gerra. There are forces at work that you could not comprehend. Accomplish a task and you will have my blessing."
"Ohohoho, so you're sending him after THEM are you? Poor little ant. You were entertaining. Very well, you shall have my blessing also... if you accomplish the task."
"Walk straight until the sun sets. When the last light of the sun touches the horizon, you will see the Lost Temple flash green. Go there. Survive. Then tell us what you have seen."
"I will do it, Great Ones," Gerra croaked.
The wind blew hard and the sand shifted, covering up the two statues in a matter of seconds.
Gerra unsteadily got to his feet and began to walk. Soon, however, he collapsed into the sand, his muscles quaking. He rasped out a plea for help, but to whom he did not know. The gods had given him his task. There was no one to help him now. He would die alone in the desert, a failure. Just as Menalus wished.
"That is not your fate, my son."
The half-giant blinked away sand from his eyes.
"Mother?"
A single shoot of wheat sat sprouting from the sand right in front of him. He felt her presence with him, at once both as familiar as the company of a long lost friend and as strange as a stranger in a strange land.
"My son."
"You died. Your dead. I... I watched him throw you over the parapet. I saw you hit the- I held your body," choked, delirious words, "You were broken. How can this be?"
"He broke my vessel. But I am greater than he, my child."
"I don't understand."
Gentle laughter whispered in his ear.
"You do not need to. I believe in you. I see what lies in your heart for the people. You have done well with them, but your work is not finished. Get up, son of fire. Get up, prince of the harvest. You have seeds yet to sow."
Then she was gone.
Feeling a surge of strength flood through him, Gerra shakily got up from the sand, features grim and determine, and forged ahead into the desert.
