Commandment (8 page)

“Outside Nessus, Geriod watched as the burning mountain of rock plummeted earthward. He raised his war club, readying himself to smite the meteor back into the heavens.

“The smoking mountain impacted with unimaginable force. Geriod was instantly pulverized under the earth-drumming clout. The Trigeminal Lord was buried under the gargantuan rock, and the gates to Nessus sealed forever.

“The repercussions of that strike reached far outside Nessus. In that one earth-splitting stroke, the face of Maldiveria blistered wide. The heat from the impact vaporized whole seas, which vanished into thin air. The collision shattered the continent of Aerock. Maloria was drowned under a colossal wave.

“A deafening shockwave tore across the land. When it reached Phlegra, the very earth buckled under the combatant’s feet. Huge fissures split the battlefield, and the armies were dashed. The river Acheron drained into the earth, nevermore to bathe the surface world.

“When sense was made of the catastrophe, the Trigeminal armies reeled, bewildered. When no news came from Geriod, they panicked. Against the slim, yet unwavering, resistance of the allied forces, their ranks completely broke down. The minions fled for any haven, their morale deserting them as did Geriod’s commands. Some were slain in their haste to flee, but most escaped through the crevasses in the earth, hoping the darkness would save them.”

The speaker then paused. Based on the frivolity of Demetrius and Lysander, Lakif expected the circle of pedants to erupt into unbridled enthusiasm, applauding their colleague on a remarkable colloquy. To her surprise, a chilly silence ensued as the distinguished audience mulled over the account. Based on their silence, Lakif suspected they were barred from any displays of emotion, positive or negative.

The places the scholar had named were unfamiliar to the Acaanan—all except the Typhon Fells. This was a vast wasteland far to the west of Grimpkin. But to the best of her knowledge, the rest of the places were simply fantasy realms plucked from the pages of storybooks or mythology. They certainly didn’t have any role in a serious academic account. Furthermore, the dating system he had quoted was completely alien to what the Acaanan was familiar with.

Although she had missed the lion’s share of the tale, Lakif was intrigued by what she had heard. It was widely believed that a cataclysmic event had precipitously ended the Renaissance. She had never, however, heard anything of the participants in the world-changing clash. The tale forced her to recall the tapestry in the Goblin Knight, which seemingly depicted the meteor that had demolished the Trigeminal Lord and had annihilated his war machine.

Lakif’s attention was drawn to a curious tapestry that was hung behind the assembly. It seemed to be tattooed with small diagrams, but from this distance she wasn’t able to see more specific details.

“A ghost!” a hoarse voice shrieked. Due to its urgency, Lakif’s attention whirled back to the assembly. One of the planted pedants was gesturing in her direction. His eyes were dilated with fright.

All heads swung to confront the Acaanan lurking behind the statue. Her presence had interrupted the forthcoming discussion. With this crowd, that could be a stern affront, and she expected that a swift censure was at hand.

“Ghosts are white, dressed in the pale robes of the dead!” another corrected his partner’s observation.

“A doppelganger!” a third shrieked. “It has borrowed a shadow for camouflage!”

“Not so benign! It’s an Acaanan!” another shouted. An inspiratory gasp shook the seated enclave, as if that were the worst of the entities mentioned. Lakif feared that the agitation in the scholar’s tone would bring in all the members of the Titan’s Toe to gawk.

“That jinx brings a pox on this assembly. Oust it!” one pilgarlic ranted, and a disturbed murmur ruffled the group.

The Laureate who had pegged her as an Acaanan turned to his colleagues. “Do not dismiss this Acaanan so hastily. I believe it is the heretic.”

In response, a low hissing bubbled up from the scholars as they conferred with one another. That her presence could cause such a stir did not surprise the Acaanan, although she couldn’t fathom what was meant by a
heretic
. At length, all the heads eventually nodded in agreement.

With the consensus in her favor, her advocate beckoned the Acaanan out from her hiding place. Lakif felt compelled to comply.

As she skirted the row of statues, the seated committee scrutinized her through aged eyes and under furrowed brows. Her advocate stood to greet Lakif.

“Let me introduce the Laureates. I am Cicero, the incumbent chairman.” He then pointed to the former speaker. “Plutus has just regaled us with the dramatic close of the Renaissance and the fate of Acheron. There we have Titinius, Belefrom, Ovid, and, lastly, Eurphios.”

Lakif nodded to each in turn, but no sooner had Cicero’s voice trailed off than she had all but forgotten the names, which in themselves sounded scholarly. All the Laureates looked uncannily like old statues. Each had crowns illustrated with age spots that looked like ancient maps of the world.

Lakif noted that there was a seventh cushion outside the six, and it was also vacant. Needless to say, she felt more than a little uncomfortable standing alone before the highbrow congress. As an Acaanan, she was used to feeling out of place. If ever that feeling pained her, it was now.

As if on cue to break up the awkward introductions, a page arrived. The lad bore a tray with several goblets. He rapidly distributed them among the Laureates. The last goblet was delivered to Cicero, who stepped forward and graciously offered it to the Acaanan. Since entering the Tabernacle, Lakif had been adrift amid a sea of wine goblets, yet hadn’t tasted a drop. She accepted it eagerly, but could only wonder what would be the price for the drink.

“Please introduce yourself,” Cicero asked kindly.

“I am Lakif, a
woman
,” she cautiously replied, expecting a multitude of quips. Her own name sounded flat next to the classical sounding names of the Laureates.

“And it is your first time here?” Cicero followed up quickly.

Lakif nodded. “To the Tabernacle, as well as the Fourth Circle.”

“And what brings you out on this inclement day?”

Lakif’s look tumbled from one wizened visage to the next. She couldn’t possibly tell them the truth—that she was bearing a Rare Earth Stone to the Vulcan. They would probably not believe her, and if they did, they would probably have her stoned as a criminal. But she had a strong inkling that any lie would instantly register with these astute souls.

“I have come to see Talos,” she explained. It was such a commonplace answer that it couldn’t be doubted. People came from all across Grimpkin, and beyond, to marvel at the wonder of the world.

“Ah! The Colossus, in whose shadow we live and die,” Cicero stated with much gusto. Something about his words rang familiar to the Acaanan. They were words stolen from the obelisk in Dantillion’s Wares!

“Many come to marvel at the mighty Talos. But within this Tabernacle, reason is our titan. It is the warrior that cannot be defeated, the tower than cannot be toppled. Reason is the sacred underpinning of the Polemical Society,” he echoed Lysander’s sentiments. Lakif interpreted this moniker to mean the collective membership of the Tabernacle.

“They say this august circle stands on the parapets of that tower,” Lakif threw out the compliment to curry favor with the dignitaries.

“If we can see further than others, it is because we stand on the shoulders of giants,” Cicero gestured to the galaxy of flanking statues. Several of them were old men. Lakif couldn’t find much of a distinction between the current Laureates and the chipped relics. They were almost equally ossified.

“How much do I owe you for the drink?” Her pragmatic question clashed with the grandiose tone of the conversation.

“We won’t accept coin, missy,” Cicero replied.

“Well, thank you.” Lakif sipped her drink. As wine, it would never have been her first choice, but as it was complimentary, she couldn’t snub it.

Her attention was riveted to the ornate tapestry hanging beyond the Laureates. Now that she was closer, she could see that there was a large map woven into it. Grimpkin clearly was visible, occupying the map’s center. The path of the Leviathan was easily recognizable as a thread running from east to west, zigzagging from one Circle Station to the next. The other districts were depicted as well. The Covens lay to the west, while Thanatos loomed to the east. Toward the base of the tapestry was an ample expanse devoted to Mordakai. The fringe districts, little known to her, stretched to the fabric’s edge. Intricate lettering was woven into the fabric. In her role as a scribe, Lakif had copied legends to maps, but those places were invariably local parcels. She had never seen a map of the complete megalopolis illustrated so clearly. She would have liked to examine the tapestry in more detail, but the scholars demanded her attention.

“Ah, but I didn’t say the drink was
free
,” the chairman corrected the Acaanan with a waving finger.

“Pardon?” Sudden dread overcame Lakif.

“You, Lakif, are the heretic,” the chairman explained. “The price of the drink is a question.”

“I don’t understand,” the Acaanan felt that she was beginning to shrink in size before the sages.

“The heretic is the seventh speaker. He supplies a topic for discourse, Acaanan. You see, we all have our own favorite themes that we’re constantly prying. It gets rather boring hashing out the same tedious treaties. Therefore, every so often, we choose a layman, or
laywoman
, to propose the topic. It’s very thrilling, actually. You couldn’t imagine the sort of questions they’ve burped out. Having to organize an impromptu stance keeps us on our toes. And it affords us an opportunity to debate, thus bringing us back to our academic roots. It’s much more interesting this way, wouldn’t you agree?”

Lakif nodded in agreement. It seemed a small price for a free drink. As she thought about a suitable topic, the circle of scholars watched expectantly. But under the siege of their blanched brows, she suddenly suffered a mental block. She quickly decided that she would rather have paid for the drink than have the responsibility of conjuring up the day’s topic. Everything she thought of seemed too ordinary, definitely not the lofty caliber that such academicians expected or demanded.

After agonizing moments spent cudgeling her brain, an idea leapt into her mind. All the scholars leaned forward eagerly, as if about to hear a revelation.

“Does the Colossus really move?” Lakif asked. Although in her mind it had seemed like a perfectly suitable subject, the words seemed to fall out of her mouth and land with an unflattering thud. She winced, expecting universal jeering at the uninspired topic.

“Of course!” one called out. Lakif thought it was Eurphios. Or was it Plutus?

“I imagine the locals are rather annoyed when the warrior’s shield is held thus.” Lakif was failing to entertain the spectators and so grasped for another lifeline. “As it blots out the sun, they are forced to live in its shadow.”

“Talos’ shield never varies from that position,” Cicero informed her. “It is the goliath’s only constant pose.”

“Why is that?” Lakif asked.

“A woman of inquiry!” Cicero trilled. “You have pegged the topic for the day!”

Cicero turned to address his seated associates. “If the warrior adopts various positions, why would the shield always remain suspended above his helmet?”

“An elementary school question,” one of the pedants chimed in.

“Belefrom has the floor!” Cicero cried out and receded in deference as his colleague assumed center stage. The fresh Laureate was armed with the cushion he had been sitting on.

“Lend me your pointed ear, Acaanan! In answer to your question, the original blueprints specified so. Look at our proud Colossus!” He threw his hands up into the air like throwing a bird to flight. “What foe can stand before him? No sword or arrow can pierce his flesh. The original architects feared that only a single enemy could defeat their proud goliath. An insidious foe, one that gnaws and erodes, from which there is no defense. Constant exposure to Mother Nature’s punches, unchecked through time, could alone subdue their creation. Therefore, the shield serves as its bulwark against the corrosive elements of rain and wind.”

He suspended the cushion above his head and held his other hand out as if warding off an enemy.

“Held thus, it protected their proud warrior through the storms of both man and heaven,” Belefrom finished with a self-satisfied smile.

“Bunk! Ignore his conjecture, Acaanan,” a wizened compatriot shouted. “My esteemed colleague made only one correct point: that the answer is obvious. But then again, the most obvious is seldom questioned.”

“To Titinius!” Cicero shouted from the sidelines. The upstart scholar stood, bumping Belefrom from his position like a rook knocking over a pawn.

“I’ll tell you, dark one. Belefrom is citing tavern lore, the wellspring of all his wisdom.” At this remark, the previous scholar’s eyes widened with umbrage. “The nonsense you were forced to hear is commonly cited to conceal a gaping blunder in the goliath’s construction. Talos’ birth was celebrated with a grand festival. But the meats of the inauguration festivity hadn’t cooled before there was a malfunction in the so-called marvelous construct! You see, the apparatus governing the movement of the left arm broke, leaving the limb paralyzed. Whether it was a design flaw or shoddy manufacturing, who could say? The architects were so embarrassed by the fiasco that they concocted that other story as cover. Fortunately for their reputation, the lie stuck, like pigeon dung on a classical statue.”

“We’ve all had enough of these whoppers! It’s time the Acaanan hear the truth!” a third philosopher boldly interjected.

“Ovid must be heard!” Cicero shrieked.

The newest scholar shooed away his predecessor with a dismissive flap of his fingers. “Lakif has had her ear stuffed with enough malarkey. The arm is completely functional. That it has never erred in position speaks to the Colossus’ resolve. Talos, you see, is our guardian, built by the untamed mind of man, for a single purpose. The titan supports the sky upon his shield. He is our modern day Atlas.”