By: Venin Posted on: April 29, 2004
A sanguine dusk descended on the vast Mhojave Desert, swift and silent as a
lizard of the dunes. The sky, stained scarlet with the last bloody melee of a
falling sun, gleamed with that primal beauty particular to the harsher regions
of Sapience. Somewhere -- in the lush gardens of Cyrene, or perhaps along the
walks of Ashtan by the sea -- two lovers would marvel at this sunset, sharing
one last poignant, transient embrace against its crimson backdrop. High in the
Vashnar mountains, a bard would be inspired to great works by its
empyreal display; from his pen might come the ballad, "An Ode to Passionate
and Fiery Skies."
Yet for those unfortunate enough to be trapped in the Mhojave proper, the skies held little but dark omen. A great wind ravaged the desert. The southern reaches, usually barren stretches of granite and bedrock, were assaulted by a brutal storm of dust and sand blown to the foothills of the Vashnar Range from the dune-covered north. The coarse desert sand scoured the air, blinding weary travellers and blotting out the brilliant dusk above.
In the midst of this great miasma, a black form waited. Probare Kheishek of the Tanjinn sat motionless against a sharp outcropping of granite, sheltered by the stone monstrosity like a tiny bird cowering behind a dragon's tooth. Yet the Atavian Kheishek dare not bare his wings in such a climate; he huddled underneath a pile of robes, wings sheltered from the storm by a great black cloak emblazened with the Black Vulture of Thoth. Kheishek reflected on what had brought him so far into so harsh a wilderness, what madness had driven him forward. He remembered a younger Kheishek, a weaker, who would never have brought himself to pain and suffering willingly. This was the Kheishek before the Tanjinn, the one who had never learned anything but shame and failure as a monk. But the Tanjinn was stronger, and sought to be strongest. He desired greatness, and he had found a means of acquiring it.
Exactly two weeks earlier, on the first of Miraman, Kheishek bowed before the shrine of Sartan in Mhaldor, his face drawn with the pain of failure. The Tanjinn had yet again failed his examination to become a full Devoto, to escape the mediocrity of probation. His hands and feet were steady, his kai strong, yet his mind was undisciplined. Kheishek could not focus on the highly delicate arts of monkhood; he lost control of himself, and was thereby defeated, time and time again. But as he bowed before the obsidian altar of the Malevolent One, Kheishek saw a vision: in his mind formed the disfigured face of Lord Sartan, more vile and terrible than the tales of Mhaldor told. Kheishek cowered within himself. The God of Evil spoke with impudence.
"Tanjinn," he bellowed, "son of Mhaldor. I have seen your weakness. Why do you bow here?"
Kheishek trembled with a fear before unknown to him, yet replied and made his request known before Lord Sartan. He asked for a gift, for a special boon acquired by some of the Masters of Old: the duality of consciousness, a split self. With this Kheishek could think in twain, no longer distracted from his arts by a wandering mind. The Malevolent One laughed, yet agreed on his own terms. He required a sacrifice from Kheishek, the soul of a monk from which his dual spirit could be fashioned. Should the Tanjinn succeed in making this sacrifice, his request would be answered; should he fail to make the sacrifice within exactly one month -- by the first of Scarlatan -- he would face torments beyond imagining. Kheishek then agreed, lusting for the power of the Ancients.
The sky above the Mhojave deepened, from fiery red to a subdued, pleasant velvet. The sandstorms dispersed enough for Kheishek to glimpse the stars. The Tanjinn reflected on his master's reaction that night. Dominatus Deru knew Kheishek better than any else; when he heard of the deal with Sartan, the old Dwarf anticipated his pupil's action. Deru knew Kheishek would go after his rival, his Hated One, to collect Lord Sartan's fee. Deru pleaded with his pupil not to do so, for Kheishek was yet weak, his rival strong, and a contract with the God of Evil need have no risk of failure. Yet Kheishek did pursue his Hated One, the Sentaari Umaran, even to the middle of the forsaken desert. Once Kheishek had been a Sentaari. Once, he and Umaran had been...
Probare Kheishek lifted his cloaked head and spat. Sand gritted in between his teeth, on his face, in his hair. The winds had begun to abate, yet with relief from the raging sands came another irritant. Night fell across the wilderness, and with desert night came desert cold. The air temperature plummeted in minutes -- mere seconds it seemed to Kheishek -- and another long night's wait hung dreadfully on the horizon. The Tajinn watched the desert highway with a grim fascination. Umaran walked this road every year. Every year he took the long trek back to his ancestral home of Moghedu, visiting with family and friends for a few short days before another year with the Sentaari. Kheishek knew his ritual well: the timing, the path, even the songs the Mhun would sing as he traveled.
In the Tanjinn's heart, however, fear was beginning to surface. If Umaran did not arrive soon, he would have scarcely enough time to find another monk for sacrifice, especially one foolish enough to travel alone and vulnerable. Failure in his vow to Lord Sartan -- the thought was unbearable. Fears and visions of torment swarmed in the Tanjinn's mind; as he pondered them they grew and coalesced into one giant, brooding monstrosity. It charged at him and roared, sounding like a chorus of all his weaknesses and apprehensions, threatening to sunder the very fabric of his sanity.
Then a small, gray shape sprang up on the horizon. It traveled quickly, yet cautiously, as if in pre-meditated haste, and proceeded along the highway in Kheishek's direction. The Tanjinn cleared his mind and watched intently. He let his body fall limp against the hard stone, the perfect imitation of a freshly-dead corpse, and waited. As the traveler drew nearer, Kheishek's heart leapt. By the dimly-veiled starlight he could see only vaguely, but even this was enough to identify the other as a Sentaari and a Mhun. Kheishek felt a wave of relief wash over him, followed by a pang of urgency. It was his Hated One. Umaran had come.
The Tanjinn lay flat on the ground, breathing so softly not even he himself could hear. He would wait until Umaran approached and strike out, claiming first blow and gaining a distinct advantage... or, so he planned. The Sentaari merely glanced at the fallen figure and frowned; he continued on his path, unaffected. Benevolence, Kheishek thought. He felt a load of bile boil up in his stomach and promptly spat.
A length of fifty yards separated Probare Kheishek from the highway. He stood to his feet quietly and gained his composure. All around the desert was deathly quiet; the winds died, leaving in their wake a sense of loneliness and dread. The Atavian threw back his cloak and charged at his Hated One, his hands held close to his shoulders, prepared to strike. The Mhun turned quickly, shifting his feet into a defensive stance, but he moved too slowly. Kheishek overwhelmed him with punches to the nose and chest. The Sentaari fell backwards, stunned and temporarily blinded, yet through superior skill managed to evade the other's kick.
Kheishek stood to full height, imitating the Bear. Streams of punches flowed from his fists, pummeling his opponent. A jab landed squarely on the other's torso, heralded by the tell-tale cracking of ribs. The Tanjinn ducked low, swinging his hardened fist in an arc towards the Mhun's bare head; but Umaran anticipated the attack, dodged sideways, and swept the Atavian off his feet with a single graceful motion. The Sentaari leapt upon his fallen opponent with an outstretched fist, barely missing his head. Kheishek felt the blow shatter his collarbone and screamed as he threw the other off. They stood and faced one another for several moments, looking for a specific weakness or vulnerability.
Those few moments seemed to Kheishek a lifetime. He felt himself be born and grow old all over again, staring into his enemy's eyes. A roaring sound and pricks of pain shattered the monks' stalemate; the wind and the sandstorms had returned. The rivals leapt at one another through the coarse wind, fists and legs flailing. The sand cut thousands of tiny lacerations on their flesh, coating each in a thin layer of grit and blood. Kheishek knew the stalemate could not continue forever; as they grappled he reached outward with his thoughts, attempting to invade the other's mind. The Mhun's eyes flashed in realization. He strained to reject the Tanjinn's intrusion, trying for himself to overwhelm his opponent with telepathy. The rivals struggled, locked in a two-front combat of body and mind, each assaulted by the other's blows and the ubiquitous frozen wind that slashed at his skin.
Something in Umaran's eyes changed. Kheishek felt himself winning, winning the battle of minds; in one triumphant moment he locked onto the Mhun's struggling mind and battered it with his thoughts. He felt himself overwhelmed his enemy... but his concentration lapsed. The ecstacy of his mental victory had opened his physical defenses, and Umaran dove at the Atavian's legs with two fell hammer-fist blows. Kheishek fell backwards as his legs shattered and assailed his opponent's mind in one last onslaught of rage. The Sentaari screamed and gripped his head, unable to finish his enemy, and fled with all his might down the road toward Moghedu.
Kheishek cried out in anguish as his Hated One escaped. Only cold, wind, and silence replied.
- - -
Probare Kheishek knelt in shame at the gates of Mhaldor. Before him stood the pulsating obsidian shrine of Sartan, the shrine at which he had pledged the soul of a monk almost one month earlier. The Tanjinn groaned. It was the 24th day of Miraman, nearing midnight. In an hour, his deadline would come to pass. With no sacrifice, torment would be his forever. And the only sacrifice left was himself.
Master Deru laid a hardened palm on the Probare's shoulder. "It is the only way, Kheishek. Many have slain themselves for Lord Sartan. Yours will be for your own good."
Kheishek knew the Dominatus was correct; far better to die than to face the wrath of Lord Sartan. Yet within him the rage of regret boiled over, ravaging his heart and soul. He had been so close to fulfillment, to both the death of his enemy and the empowerment of himself. He had been so close to Greatness.
In Mhaldor, a storm gathered. The air hung thick and heavy about his shoulders, tinged with the odor of saltwater and sulfur. The last tendrils of red fog lay dormant on the gate, as if begging to enter the great fortress they clothed.
The word again passed through Kheishek's consciousness: "Greatness". He thought on the chants of the Mhaldor and Baelgrim he had heard as a newcomer, echoing and resounding through the blackened city. Master Deru lifted off his hand from his pupil's shoulder.
"It is time."
Kheishek unsheathed the obsidian dagger Deru had given him. He raised the blade high above his head with external solemnity, while his thoughts on the inside still raced. His heart beat faster and faster, fueled by fear, by rage, by things he could not comprehend. What gargantuan irony, that he who had trained his body as the ultimate weapon should die by a crude dagger! What comedy, that he who had sealed a pact for power should see it signed in his own blood!
Fragments of Lord Sartan's teachings darted by his mind's eye:
"What is called evil..."
Kheishek squinted, sweat from his brow and upraised hands now flowing into his eyes.
"...the drive for advancement, for Greatness..."
An explosion of thunder shook the very foundations of Mhaldor. Kheishek heard a great bellow as of an angered beast: it was his own breathing.
"...the pursuit of dominance over others..."
Kheishek closed his eyes, forcing back tears of anger and regret and sorrow. He gripped the dagger so firmly his hands were racked with pain. A great shout escaped his throat as he forced the dagger downwards, downwards; it fell towards his chest, downwards, downwards; it plunged towards his heart, downwards, downwards, downwards... then outwards, outwards, away from himself.
Master Deru grasped his chest with horror, but the obsidian blade was already planted firmly in his heart. Warm blood gushed from the wound, seemingly drawn towards the altar of Sartan. His eyes widened as he stared at his pupil, his betrayer, and the last sound he heard was the snapping of his own neck.
The old Dominatus' corpse fell limp onto the floor. Its blood flowed by handfuls, thirstily absorbed by Lord Sartan's shrine. The soul of the old monk was likewise sucked into the obsidian monolith, the timely payment of Lord Sartan's contract. Kheishek fell backwards in ecstacy as his spirit tore in twain.
And somewhere far from Sapience, the God of Evil smiled.