“This is the prophecy,” proclaimed a wizened elf, features dark and leathery from years under the sun. He stood in the temple chamber of Rhaqoum, that hidden sandstone city, beside the mighty god block, and proclaimed his heresy to the gathered crowd, voice rising over their mutterings, strong despite his many centuries.
“And Abtatu punished the people for their transgressions and broke them and scattered them like chaff among the sand.”
Figures appeared in the doorways, bearing drawn scimitars and strung bows, though they did not approach. Where was the Melech? Why had he not put a stop to this waste of air? The Sheikhs were furious, standing together, like a brood of vipers, venom in their gazes.
The prophet continued. “Spake Abtatu, ‘Cursed you shall be to wander. Cursed you shall be to forget. All your splendor will sink beneath the sand. All your glory will crumble. I will bring you lower than the serpents who crawl upon their bellies. Your slaves will become your rulers. Your beasts of burden shall gore you. From the wind and clay I formed you and to the wind and clay I will return you. You will forget the names of your fathers, and your father’s fathers. All shall be forgotten unto the twelfth generation. Until in the sands shall you find him. By fire you shall know him. With the sword will he restore you. By the bow will he raise you up. Djinn. Sarmatsar, king of kings.”
At last, the sheikh of Al-Hadhra could bear it no longer and he stepped forward, hand near the hilt of the khanjar in his girdle. “You speak false words in the presence of Abtatu. It is death.”
The prophet turned anad looked upon Al-Hadhra. “If I lie, will not Abtatu strike me dead? Look now, here comes he of whom I speak.”
Another figure entered the temple chamber, shrouded by a hood. He stood tall, taller than any elf in the temple. Taller than any in Rhaqoum. Nay, taller than all who walk the sands.
“You would bring a Kherkhanite here?” Al-Hadhra seethed.
“He is no Kherkhanite.”
The figure pushed back his hood. There stood Gerra, exile of Molthal, though the place would be foreign to these desert dwellers, a continent and thousands of leagues away. The son of Menalus stood proud, with eyes of molten gold and a face that looked as if it had been carved from obsidian, hard yet softening where need be, and capable of being knapped by emotion into a cruel and cutting edge.
“Behold the Djinn. See now. See if it is not as I say. See if fire can touch him.”
Two attendants came forth, bearing great braziers full of burning incense. They tossed these upon Gerra as he stood and the embers glowed red and set fire to his clothing. Yet even as the flames licked away the fabrics, Gerra stood still, skin untouched.
The eyes of the Sheikhs widened and they took a step back. For even they knew that the test of fire was a sacred one and that those who went unburned were surely protected by Abtatu. And that it took place here, beside the god block. How else could it be? Did the prophet then speak the truth? Could the ancient cities they had seen sinking beneath the sands be those of their ancestors? Something stirred in their hearts.
“I found him in the desert, a wanderer, and recognized him as Djinn.”
A spirit of the earth and sky, long thought extinct, or withholding their favor from the Abtati tribes, though still they prayed to them. Yet rumors abounded of encountering them, the cause of the shivering air. The source of water where none should be. Some said it was Djinn who had turned this land into desert, where once it had been as lush as the Kaliti floodplains. But the truth remained lost amid the eons.
Until now, perhaps.
Until now, this being of fire came before them, brought into their most sacred place, and remained untouched.
“It is he who will unite the tribes.”
Now, the sheikh of Al-Qos stepped forth. “We need no king. A Melech is as far as we go.”
And where was the Melech? Absent still?
There came a chorus of agreeing murmers.
Suddenly, the Djinn held up a hand. When he spoke, it was if the earth spoke. As if the sky rattled with thunder. As if the wadis raged with a deluge. “You live in fear.” Golden eyes swept the crowd. “Fear of the Kaliti, who Annuk has blessed with dominion over the great rivers. Fear of the Kherkhanites, who dwell in the mountains. You supply them with spices and raid their outlying villages and caravans, but you are no more than stinging gnats to them. An annoyance. Easily brushed aside. You cower here in this city you have carved into the stone, hoping they will never find it. For you know they would do to you as they do to all Abtati. They will slaughter your fathers and husbands, enslave your sons and daughters, make your wives their concubines. They carve memorials of their cruelty into inscriptions on their gates and walls.”
Well was it known of the horrors inflicted upon any Abtati tribe who dared rise too far above their station by the Ragashans and Annuakites. Entire tribes wiped out, or made to toil constructing great palaces upon which Kaliti silk slippers trod.
“You grow rich by selling them spice. But in time, they will grow jealous of your riches. They will come for Rhaqoum as they did the tribe of Al-Naphta, who plied the seas in their ships.”
Murmurs. How came this foreigner to be so versed in their history?
“In fire I have come to you, Gerra, a Djinn.”
“Blessed by Abtatu,” proclaimed the Prophet.
Gerra inclined his head, continued. The sheikhs now looked uncertain and, was that fear in their eyes, or the glimmer of hope? “Blessed by Abtatu. I will break the Kaliti and the Kherkhanites. We will roll over them like a storm from the desert and sweep them before us. The sound of our approach will be like thunder and our arrows will blot out the sun. One by one, their cities will fall before us, and the glory of the Abtati will be restored.”
The prophet slammed his staff upon the ground three times, and then proclaimed in a chant, “Djinn. Djinn. Djinn.”
Slowly, the room took it up, until only the sheikhs and their guards were left in a room that chanted this foreigner’s name. Looking at one another, they nodded slowly, and then drew their blades. They came for Gerra . . . holding their swords before them in offering.
“The sand will rise,” they said.
A soft smile hinted at the corner’s of Gerra’s mouth and he echoed them. “The sand will rise.”
“And Abtatu punished the people for their transgressions and broke them and scattered them like chaff among the sand.”
Figures appeared in the doorways, bearing drawn scimitars and strung bows, though they did not approach. Where was the Melech? Why had he not put a stop to this waste of air? The Sheikhs were furious, standing together, like a brood of vipers, venom in their gazes.
The prophet continued. “Spake Abtatu, ‘Cursed you shall be to wander. Cursed you shall be to forget. All your splendor will sink beneath the sand. All your glory will crumble. I will bring you lower than the serpents who crawl upon their bellies. Your slaves will become your rulers. Your beasts of burden shall gore you. From the wind and clay I formed you and to the wind and clay I will return you. You will forget the names of your fathers, and your father’s fathers. All shall be forgotten unto the twelfth generation. Until in the sands shall you find him. By fire you shall know him. With the sword will he restore you. By the bow will he raise you up. Djinn. Sarmatsar, king of kings.”
At last, the sheikh of Al-Hadhra could bear it no longer and he stepped forward, hand near the hilt of the khanjar in his girdle. “You speak false words in the presence of Abtatu. It is death.”
The prophet turned anad looked upon Al-Hadhra. “If I lie, will not Abtatu strike me dead? Look now, here comes he of whom I speak.”
Another figure entered the temple chamber, shrouded by a hood. He stood tall, taller than any elf in the temple. Taller than any in Rhaqoum. Nay, taller than all who walk the sands.
“You would bring a Kherkhanite here?” Al-Hadhra seethed.
“He is no Kherkhanite.”
The figure pushed back his hood. There stood Gerra, exile of Molthal, though the place would be foreign to these desert dwellers, a continent and thousands of leagues away. The son of Menalus stood proud, with eyes of molten gold and a face that looked as if it had been carved from obsidian, hard yet softening where need be, and capable of being knapped by emotion into a cruel and cutting edge.
“Behold the Djinn. See now. See if it is not as I say. See if fire can touch him.”
Two attendants came forth, bearing great braziers full of burning incense. They tossed these upon Gerra as he stood and the embers glowed red and set fire to his clothing. Yet even as the flames licked away the fabrics, Gerra stood still, skin untouched.
The eyes of the Sheikhs widened and they took a step back. For even they knew that the test of fire was a sacred one and that those who went unburned were surely protected by Abtatu. And that it took place here, beside the god block. How else could it be? Did the prophet then speak the truth? Could the ancient cities they had seen sinking beneath the sands be those of their ancestors? Something stirred in their hearts.
“I found him in the desert, a wanderer, and recognized him as Djinn.”
A spirit of the earth and sky, long thought extinct, or withholding their favor from the Abtati tribes, though still they prayed to them. Yet rumors abounded of encountering them, the cause of the shivering air. The source of water where none should be. Some said it was Djinn who had turned this land into desert, where once it had been as lush as the Kaliti floodplains. But the truth remained lost amid the eons.
Until now, perhaps.
Until now, this being of fire came before them, brought into their most sacred place, and remained untouched.
“It is he who will unite the tribes.”
Now, the sheikh of Al-Qos stepped forth. “We need no king. A Melech is as far as we go.”
And where was the Melech? Absent still?
There came a chorus of agreeing murmers.
Suddenly, the Djinn held up a hand. When he spoke, it was if the earth spoke. As if the sky rattled with thunder. As if the wadis raged with a deluge. “You live in fear.” Golden eyes swept the crowd. “Fear of the Kaliti, who Annuk has blessed with dominion over the great rivers. Fear of the Kherkhanites, who dwell in the mountains. You supply them with spices and raid their outlying villages and caravans, but you are no more than stinging gnats to them. An annoyance. Easily brushed aside. You cower here in this city you have carved into the stone, hoping they will never find it. For you know they would do to you as they do to all Abtati. They will slaughter your fathers and husbands, enslave your sons and daughters, make your wives their concubines. They carve memorials of their cruelty into inscriptions on their gates and walls.”
Well was it known of the horrors inflicted upon any Abtati tribe who dared rise too far above their station by the Ragashans and Annuakites. Entire tribes wiped out, or made to toil constructing great palaces upon which Kaliti silk slippers trod.
“You grow rich by selling them spice. But in time, they will grow jealous of your riches. They will come for Rhaqoum as they did the tribe of Al-Naphta, who plied the seas in their ships.”
Murmurs. How came this foreigner to be so versed in their history?
“In fire I have come to you, Gerra, a Djinn.”
“Blessed by Abtatu,” proclaimed the Prophet.
Gerra inclined his head, continued. The sheikhs now looked uncertain and, was that fear in their eyes, or the glimmer of hope? “Blessed by Abtatu. I will break the Kaliti and the Kherkhanites. We will roll over them like a storm from the desert and sweep them before us. The sound of our approach will be like thunder and our arrows will blot out the sun. One by one, their cities will fall before us, and the glory of the Abtati will be restored.”
The prophet slammed his staff upon the ground three times, and then proclaimed in a chant, “Djinn. Djinn. Djinn.”
Slowly, the room took it up, until only the sheikhs and their guards were left in a room that chanted this foreigner’s name. Looking at one another, they nodded slowly, and then drew their blades. They came for Gerra . . . holding their swords before them in offering.
“The sand will rise,” they said.
A soft smile hinted at the corner’s of Gerra’s mouth and he echoed them. “The sand will rise.”
