Demon of the Black Gate

Rovinkar’s entrance into Abyssin society was as effortless as he had hoped. All it took was the glamour of riches to open doors and the imperial city of Abyssin was bathed in riches. The marbled halls of the palaces of power that lined the East Bank of the Strait of Tears gleamed brightly even under the moonlight. The buildings of merchants were made of fire-hardened clays and lay close together in narrow alleys through much of the West Bank, adjacent to the wharves. Many broad avenues stretched from end to end to accommodate the throngs that worked or visited within the walls. On either side of the strait, towers adorned all the wards of the city, graceful arms poised in the sky.

One such tower on the west side of the strait, and its compound, had been built for a star-seeker of reknown in the past century. So said the agent that escorted Rovinkar through the estate. Star-seeker perhaps, but truth told, it was none but the hobby of a powerful sultan.

“The sultan was ruthless and had many enemies. He too had a fear of the unknown, is it not often the case? ... and used the stars and astrologies to decide himself. But if you must know, his usual methods of dealing with his enemies were death, ransom or imprisonment. How much of that is in the stars?

“The current tenant is a minor official if you can believe it. Behind on the dues. We shall have him displaced immediately of course. Would you see the basements, lord?”

Rovinkar ignored the agent for the most part, but was impressed with the tall but slender minaret that rose up above the walls, challenging all but the tallest spires. It was very suitable for what he had in mind, and commanded superior views of the city. He had know idea what use the dungeons might be for him; but then, he knew not what kind of enemy he might acquire. He viewed the dungeons as an asset, as did the agent.

He had chosen the property carefully. The agent was selected as carefully, a man known to cater to the affairs of the Chancellor, Chenli ben Feker, known for his network of spies and informants. Rovinkar could tell he was already under scrutiny, probably when he sold the first jewel. His credentials would soon be underscored by the agent.

Rovinkar had much to do before presenting his plan to Chenli. He explored the city as he laid out the essentials for his new domain. He visited the clothiers, suiting himself appropriately for court and dressing as befitting a person of substance. He shed the dun-colored robes of his travels, preferring now the stark elegance of black. In the sunbright days of these climes, black was much too hot for mid-day wear. Instead, he opted for a light grey. Accents and accessories that added color were of no use to him. The robes would be unadorned, save for stitching in the edges and hems. The effect was to be decorative in nature, but he commissioned particular forms and patterns to be employed. The seamstresses cared not. Stitches were stitches. But for him, they were the cornerstones of his protective armor, employing their magics as needed.

Rovinkar also sought out the employment of a contingent of guards. In his explorations he determined that while the emperor had the elite palace guard, Chenli preferred and employed a mercenary corps as his guardians, chosen from the elite Hashini. There was no question as to their loyalty. Mercenaries are loyal to who pays them, and Chenli ben Feker paid well. It was to Rovinkar’s advantage to employ his guards from the same corps.

The introductions came as Rovinkar expected: a note delivered with the seal of the emperor with an invitation to a function honoring some visiting diplomat. At the function he was charming and sociable. Rovinkar was not an impressive figure. Of only medium height, and thinning brown hair, he made up for his non-descript looks with an ingratiating charm, though he made no move to insinuate himself with either the Chancellor or the Emperor, Jardis the Second. Rovinkar knew instinctively who the most influential were likely to be. He studied the proud attitudes and the deferences paid, and listened to the gossips and anecdotes as he shifted through the assembly. He made the acquaintances he wanted, and consequently, was quickly added to the rolls of preferred guests. The affairs of state are conducted at feasts and fetes, not in the chambers as most would believe. Soon Rovinkar was a regular attendee. The affairs of an empire demand a celebration for nearly everything, from a visiting dignitary to the signing of a treaty or pact. Rovinkar declined no invitation, using each occasion to insinuate himself deeper into the fabric of the ruling class.

Outwardly Rovinkar was congenial, informative and well-versed in the arts and discussed all manner of topics depending on the interests of those he conversed with. Inwardly, Rovinkar found most of them boring. They were a self-absorbed lot, used to their privilege. Rovinkar had spent a great deal of his life in austerity, as the demands of his practice allowed for little more. Dealing with their vacant attitudes tried his patience. The thinness of his ascetic lifestyle slid beneath the fleshier contours of promoted by a better table. His thin, watery brown hair grew longer, but attained no fullness. He took to keeping his cowl on, which added to his scholarly appearance.

Eventually, at one of the many balls honoring themselves or their dignified guests, he found himself in conversation with some money-changers. Rovinkar steered the conversation to situations one with a little imagination could exploit, when Chenli appeared at his elbow. The Chancellor was of medium height, and had a bullish manner that befitted his stocky frame. Rovinkar had observed the Chancellor surreptitiously, and knew the man to be headstrong in his opinions. Even with the court audience he was often heard to salt his snarled responses with base curses.

“We have not met. You are the Lord? …

“Rovinkar, Excellency.” Rovinkar said, with a slight bow.

“Rovinkar. Recent to the imperial city as I understand it.”

Rovinkar knew to tread carefully.

“Yes. I have chosen the star chambers of the Caliph m’Senti to complete my studies. Incidently, Lord Chancellor, I was just telling these distinguished lords that controlling the market of the Stands would embellish their holdings.”

The money-changers harumphed and nodded their agreements.

“And we do that … how?” Chenli looked at him with a little scorn, waiting for the scrap that he might verbally shred for satisfaction.

“Oh this is all speculation of course.” returned Rovincar agreeably. “If the Black Gates were destroyed for instance, why those markets would be wide open for us to control. I was merely making an academic point with these esteemed men … mostly that a great deal of money could be made.”

Chenli gave him a cold, appraising stare, as if reading every feature of him for judgement.

“I would like to debate the wild speculation with you, but the Black Gate has stood as a barrier to our empires armies, and others for centuries. Their tariffs and commodities for trade are what they say they are.”

“A formidable challenge, to be sure Lord Chancellor. And ... well you can see how the empire, and its figureheads, would benefit.” Rovinkar was not intimidated by the gruff intensity of the Chancellor, instead meeting Chenli’s flinty appraisal with a conspiratorial air. “But of course, it is not possible.”

Ben Fekker’s demeanor took a slightly different tone. “As you note.” He eyed Rovinkar, conveying future discussion. Rovinkar bowed to disguise their tacit agreement. Further speculation would be best done in secret.

Chenli would find his own way of contacting him, of that Rovinkar was sure. As the days past, Rovinkar spent much of his time studying the vizier’s journals and books. The nature of elements demanded more than first appeared, and the writings were archaic and from another age. He would often have to leave his study in frustration, wandering the narrow passages of the nearby Merchant’s Ward, and as often end his outing in the Flower District. He would take advantage of the favors offered there, frequenting the Jade Monk Retreat. The women there were of his liking, as the Jade Monk catered to those who enjoyed restraint in their encounters.

Rovinkar’s aesthetic lifestyle allowed little room for women or their pleasures. These visitations were without conflict or commitment. He had walked the length of the merchant’s district yet again, steps taken more by habit than intent as he mulled over yet another puzzle regarding the nature of water, and ending at the doors of the Retreat. A statue in front of the green doors was of a cowled monk, an artfully carved man-sized rendering of the smaller pleasure aids employed by women. There was no other sign or conveyance of the nature of the shoppe within. The statue was enough.

“As long as I am here” Rovinkar reasoned, and so again he allowed himself the distraction of sexual dalliance, and let his mind chase down other avenues while the puzzle unlocked itself in his subconscious.

He enjoyed the services of a bound maiden, though the trusses were more for show than anything. He had the money now to entertain himself as he’d like. Jasamin was the raven-haired beauty who lay before him, and looked at him with anything but subservient eyes. She had quickly become his favorite, encouraging him to bind her in such ways to fuel his lust. She was equally entranced with the notions, her wrists and ankles now lashed loosely to the oaken posts cornering the bed, and twisting with pleasure as he toyed with her.

He found his satisfaction quickly enough, for the fantasy of a bound woman in torn revealing silks bound for his taking filled his mind completely. He loved the feeling of power and the climax of his visit was soon realized. He was still breathing heavily and enjoying the wet warmth of her, and considering another effort when Jasamin spoke up.

“My lord, save yourself. If you wait here but a moment, you will have another to make your night most complete. Untie me now. I cannot bear your touch again as my pleasure is too great. I can barely make use of my legs. I shall have to crawl away.”

Rovinkar knew the woman was favoring his ego, but her pleasures had been genuine judging from the cries and creams she elicited.

Rovinkar dutifully untied her. She kissed him lightly and gathered up the shreds of her silks, leaving him on the bed alone as she scampered nearly naked from the room. Rovinkar lay back, still replete from his climax, and wondering what the next offering might bring. Someone new? Perhaps not so willing? He felt the rise of his passion return at the thought, and had just closed his eyes to create the new scene in his mind when he heard the door open.

His glance was heavy-lidded, still sated with the satisfaction of his encounter. Instead of another large breasted beauty to bind to his demands, Chenli stood at the door. The drugged aftermath of sex quickly dissolved. “I think I prefer Jasamine” he thought.

Rovinkar made no move to dress or show any consternation at the sudden appearance of Chenli. He tried even to convey that he expected such.

“You may be Chancellor, and a good one. But you are not the recreation I seek here.” Rovinkar said drily. “But thankfully I have finished.

“I’m the one seeking entertainment.” Chenli snorted. “You are something of a mystery and you raise more questions than you answer.”

Laying on the bed, Rovinkar felt a little at a disadvantage. He rose and began assembling his underclothes and robes as he talked.

“I am but a seeker of enlightenment and truth.” he said. “If you want to know my country of birth, it is in the Osrics, though it is no longer familiar to me and I don’t serve its ambitions.”

“Whose ambitions do you serve?” demanded Chenli. Every word, every sentence was delivered with a snarl.

“My own, of course.” said Rovinkar, slipping on his mantle, the last of his robes. “I am very predictable that way. And trustworthy because of it.”

“Do your ambitions include the conquest of the Stands?” Chenli said that with a scoff, an admission of how ludicrous the idea seemed on the face of it. But Rovinkar reasoned that he would not be here if he hadn’t been already entertaining the idea himself and had not found a solution.

“I can make that possible.”

Chenli snorted. “How?”

“It is possible to destroy the Black Gate.” said Rovinkar succinctly. He plucked a sweetbread from a tray, then reclined on one of the rooms many cushions, inviting Chenli with a gesture to do the same.

“Moving mountains.” Chenli said as he sat on an adjacent cushion. “I demand such all the time. This is the first time someone has offered. I say it can’t be done.”

“It can.”

“Besides, we are not prepared for war. The empire has no enemies, at least none that dare rise against us. And the population has no stomach for war. They are fat and happy in their business.”

“I dare say the armorers are suffering.” Rovinkar had done his own investigations. Chenli was the son of a master armourer. He inherited his father’s business and the smithies attached. He either bought up many of the other forges and fitters, or made them beholden to him, so much so that he became the undisputed head of the Guild of Armourers. It was this position that led him to the Chancellorhood when the emperor’s father, Jord the Elder, was alive. The previous reign had been more to Chenli’s liking for conflict and conquest were good for business. The current emperor, Jord the Younger was an idiot, born to privilege and without adequate fostering to administer sense. For Chenli’s purposes, the younger Jord was easily amused and tractable. He would sign any fiat presented to him, and adored the empty pageantries where he could display his latest robes or concubines.

Chenli glared at him, his eyes cold chips of flint.

“We have two problems.” continued Rovinkar. He purposefully included them both as progenitors of this new cabal. “And I believe I can solve both of them.”

“I’m listening, though I am ready to doubt you.”

“One is the gate itself. As you know ...”

“Yes” Chenli grated impatiently. “No army has ever penetrated that barrier, its …”

“... impenetrable.” Rovinkar finished for him. “Without it, the Stands are open to your armies and exploitation. I can take it down.”

“By the horned gods pizzle you can. How? What arts do you employ?” Chenli was both scornful and curious. For all the improbability of what this mysterious man was telling him, the thought of securing the most protected and desireable lands within close proximity to the Abbysin empire already had him counting taels of silver in his head.

“The arts are best left unspoken of.” Rovinkar could see he had the Chancellor’s interest. “Nonetheless, without the barrier of the Black Gates, the Stands are open to the advantage of the Empire. The destruction of the Gates involves a cataclysm of tremendous proportion. If it is staged correctly, our armies are not only poised to invade, but the great destruction can be attributed to the mastery of our arms and weapons. Not many will stand against the army in the face of such fear.”

“You make it sound easy enough.” Chenli snarled. “And why should I have an army poised at the pass?”

“Because the empire will have been tragically attacked. Unprovoked.” Rovinkar had a magical way with words too. He knew when the hook had been set. “One of the great landmarks of the great and peaceful city of Abbysin destroyed by radicals from the Stands … they are dissatisfied with the tariffs, or however we paint the imagined slight. Abyssin will have no choice but to retaliate. The people will demand it.”

“That’s mad. Destroy our own landmark.” Chenli rubbed his hands together, looking about the room for an unseen audience. “I like it. The people are getting soft and my people can use the work. Just how do you intend to do this?”

Rovinkar had to reveal more than he’d like, but he knew the Chancellor would keep this cabal a grave secret. Public fallout of this sort of intrigue would be disastrous for him. Rovinkar admitted his skill in the arts of sorcery and that the use of black arts would be necessary. With the proper staging he opined, the results would be spectacular and predictable.

“No two will agree on what was seen, and with our own version of the events circulating the markets and taverns, the story becomes fact. Beliefs are not created in fact. Beliefs are made because the facts are not available. Oddly enough, beliefs become far more indelible than truth. If the people believe, why then the history will be written as such to support it.”

“Magics are hidden in these days. The Aramites have seen to that.” Chenli muttered. The plan had merit. But everything and everybody was suspect to him.

“They shall remain so.” Illusion is everything. No one will suspect that sorceries are involved.”

“And what do you get out of this?” he asked the magician.

“I have the ear of the empire by way of its Chancellor.” Rovinkar said simply. “I assure you that is enough. The fate of empires is not decided by the pile of riches at my door. I have riches. But I will be playing my hand at the table of kings. I won’t know until I see the cards or lots what I want. It is not, by the way, the job of Chancellor that I desire if that is what you are thinking.”

Chenli, in fact, was thinking the very thing.

“I prefer to sit aside and watch events unfold without either the accolades or blaming fingers thrust in my direction. I find I can accomplish more unwatched. You have done much the same as Chancellor. Without that like-mindedness, I doubt I would have conspired such a plot.”

Chenli had not planned to be in session so long with this man but the outrageousness of the conspiracy intrigued him, and he had long been seeking an avenue to extend his holdings. It was hard to sell war when the population was fat and happy. While he was comfortable, he no longer held the court in sway the way he had when the Osric Kingdoms were being added to the empire. Those were hardly wars though. The cohorts and troops marched in under the empirical banners in a show of power, meeting token resistance, if any. In the twenty years past, the conflicts were limited to a few skirmishes, and the challenges reduced to tax and revenue collection. The conquest of the Stands would demand a great deal of new blood and arms. His idle mercenary corps could receive the pay schedules direct from the Treasury instead of from his pockets. Chenli barely heard the wizard speaking as he mentally started tallying the revenue.

“ … the Mehuda Tower.” finished Rovinkar.

“The what?” grated Chenli. Even in an allied position, Chenli demeanor was angry and intractable.

“Why the Mehuda Tower, of course.” Rovinkar replied. “It is perfect. Even though it is somewhat of an embarrassment, the people regard the old monument to Emperor Mehuda as a temple. Its loss will raise a hue and cry. You can’t deny the ‘edifice’ is an eyesore. Jord, er, the esteemed Emperor, could raise a new monument in commemoration. There are many advantages to such a plan.”

“It’s in the middle of the damned city, and in the richest section. The destruction will not set well with the neighbors, many of which own large pieces of this empire.” Chenli argued.

“Well, I can contain most of it, but you’ll have many instant supporters too, ready to finance your invasion. As I said, it’s perfect.”

Rovinkar went on to explain the nature of the plan. Because of their relative isolation, the Stands supported many myths in the countries without their borders. One of them was the roc, a beast half-dragon and half-eagle, ridden by savages painted in red and blue markings to match their fearsome steeds.

“A fairy tale.” Chenli snorted.

“People will believe anything.” continued Rovinkar. “It is the stuff of legends and if the informed minds of the Empire publicise the event as such, given their investigations and analyses, then that is what it is. Besides, there will be witness enough. There will be enough illusion to flavor the event, and a stunning climax etches the scene. It is fool proof.”

“Every time I hear that, I look for a better class of fool.” sneered Chenli. “Look to your potions, wizard. But I will support this plan of yours. And there are no others to hear of it and live, so prepare carefully.”

The imperial city of Abyssin stretched across the Strait of Tears, the jagged, narrow passage from the Sultan Sea to the larger Mernassas Ocean to the South.

The Left Banke, as the western side was known, was crowded with shoppes and residences, castes and trades collected in their own neighborhoods, save for two rounded hills, gracious in their symmetry. A sultan long ago had felt inspired by their elegance and so built matching temples of curved arches and a golden domes to the goddess Negira. Promenades, gardens and parks surrounded the lovely temples, the rounded domes of the temples were peaked with small filigree. In the generations since, the hills became known as the Negira Breasts.

Visitors puzzle that the eastern portion of the city is not called the Right Bank. The early occupants had no such visions of symmetry. It was the eastern shores developed first, and where the palaces of reign first established. Early archives noted the name of the first naming to be Leroos or ‘the Root’ in the early vernacular. As the influence of empire took over and pushed the markets and general population to the western shores of the Strait, it became known simply as ‘The Rule’, and had been known as such for these ages since.

The architecture of government has no need of graceful domes or filigree. The temples were to trade and ownership. The towers and enclaves were stouter and more imposing for their squat bulk. The landscape did not boast the grace of the Left Bankes two sculpted hills. Instead, the lands were flattened and slightly gnarled. Perfect for the internecine buildings and bureaus. A few minarets broke the utilitarian skyline, enough at least to see over the roofs of government. But one minaret stood above them all, the Monument to Mehuda. The emperor, the last of his line seven decades before, had commissioned the edifice as a mausoleum and museum. He wanted the largest tower in the land to document his reign. The best that anyone could say about the reign of Mehuda was that nothing bad happened. The tower easily dwarfed the other utilitarian spires. Many changes were made as the work ensued, and it was rumored the architect had become less enamored of the project the more Mehuda meddled. The builder, a master designer from Deneles, dismayed as he saw his lofty dreams made stouter and more cumbersome. When completed the imposing shaft had a most unfortunate dome. The onion bulb of the dome sagged slightly off center to accommodate a window Mehuda insisted on having.

The builder hastily accepted his commissions and payments at the opening ceremony and promptly left for his home kingdom. The monument bore the name of Mehuda, but in the population it became known as the Royal Shaft. It was both a recognized edifice that became an odd source of pride and a running joke for prince and pauper alike. The breasts of Negira and the Royal Shaft, bisected by the Strait of Tears, became symbols of the balance of power in Abbysin.

It was early in the year when Chenli and Rovinkar hatched their plot. Rovinkar became a virtual hermit in his estate, poring over the notes and books of the vizier, and learning, re-learning, and practicing his elemental forms. The date of the event would be the late-summer Harvest Festival. There were sure to be many people flooding the city; tradesmen from caravans, shepards, farmers and growers, pilgrims and the touring elites.

Of all the implications of the scheme, Rovinkar only had misgivings about the demon. He had read the fearful accounts of the vizier, but had not seen the creation himself. Well, he would soon, he thought, for the cataclysm now stood just weeks away. He had mastered to his satisfaction elemental exercises in Wind, Fire and Earth. Water remained an enigma to him. He flipped the book shut with a show of impatience and rubbed his eyes. The key would present itself. He knew it. He already knew enough to set loose the demon. He would have to work on his protective spells as well. How much for fear? How much was enough? The sinking feeling of inadequacy started to auger in, and he quickly dispersed it. Inadequacy is the beginning of fear. He can correct the small insinuations. He was certain he could dispel the terror of his own creation.

As the day approached, Rovinkar stilled his mind, and sought his communion with the powers he was about to unleash. He gained admittance to the understories of the monument, noted in the logs kept there as an inspector for the empircal buildings. It only required a few of his ‘inspections’ to consider his ultimate approach. Rovinkar was surprised at the paucity of treasure in the vaults. He was unaware that ben Fekker had made sure to loot the monument of its greatest wealth just weeks before.

One last time, Rovinkar signed the official’s register, and entered the vaults and crypts that nested beneath the great tower. This time, he had two servants bearing a small ark slung between wooden dowels held tightly in their hands. The bearers were uneasy. The load they carried between them had no weight, yet it felt large and unwieldly. They felt anxious and wish to be quit of the burden. They were soon to be unburdened with both their load and their lives.

Rovinkar directed the bearers to the central sepulcher. He ordered the ark placed on the tomb, a stone and marble enclosure which was carved elaborately with highlights of his imperial rule. By the work in relief, a great deal of his reign must have been in acquiring wives.

Rovinkar bade the bearers seat themselves in an adjoining room and make themselves comfortable. They would be soon enough as Rovinkar had shifted a light spell upon them that would render them unable to stay awake.

Alone, Rovinkar stood facing the small ark. He drew back the lid, half expecting a light to flare when he did so, such was the energy that he felt from the obsidian rock that lay within. He had to keep his attention on the rock and the brands he began marking in the stone. It was a pattern easily learned, and to be repeated over and over in the different catacombs of the great tower, and into the tower itself.

Rovinkar reached the top of the great monument, a parapet that circled the tower just beneath the dome, further accentuating its innuendo.

He sighted the graceful tower of the observatory and tight minarets that graced his compound. Special marks were needed, a spell much like one he learned when directing a gust of wind. There were complications with this spell; for with it, a terror would be riding its back. He took a last look across the Strait of Tears to the Left Banke, his estate nestled strongly among the clay and tile stretch of the city. Tomorrow, the winds would blow west, against the prevailing trades. It would be the last time in a while that the population would feel at peace. Rovinkar’s smile held an odd twist. ‘It’s about time this pot got stirred.’ he thought. ‘There are nations to plunder.’

He wondered if the gods felt like this.

He returned to the mausoleum. This was the moment. He inhaled deeply and stood facing the open ark, the obsidian a piece of inanimate malevolence. His chant started as a low rumble in his throat, a bass hum that evolved into a slow-tempo mantra. A listener might compare the sound to the dijeraroo of the Madajar jungles. The chant gained in tempo and intensity, syllables indiscernible as words. It was a calling. A vibration. Rovinkar continued, inoculating his own consciousness with the chant. Time ceased to be, only the roundness and tone of his sound. The vibration of voice on voice began, as though the catacomb was filled with two, then three, then five and eight voices and more. The chorus of rhythmic drones quickly swelled, an outward spiral of sound that found the marks and runes that Rovinkar had etched in the tower. He knew he had reached the peak of his awareness when the cacophony of chant rang as one, the sounds so close and complete.

In effect, he was freeing the demon from one eternal cage to a much more temporary one. He wondered if the demon would even know he had been roused. His chant was done, though the reverberations carried a trail of black vapor that coiled from the obsidian. The mist of emptiness hung like a shade from another time and insinuated itself into the stone, hazing with a flare as it passed the sigils Rovinkar had marked. The sounds had but to die out, their echoing rings and the black smoke settling into the surfaces, cracks and joints of the tower.

Rovinkar stood for a long time, even as the last note of his chant faded into the oblivion of the tomb. He waited until silence was the only echo, a quiet suitable for the dead. He moved finally, but a reserved motion, hesitant to disturb the stillness of the spell. He carefully lifted the rock from the ark. The demon no longer infected its black crystalline depths. Oddly, it was much heavier, suffering only the burden of its own weight. Rovinkar lay the stone in a satchel that he slung to his back. The stone would be waiting at his observatory for the return of its tenant. He had seen to that.

#

The Winds of Trade gathering was in full flower under the temperate blue skies of the middle latitudes. The annual event ensured the markets in the Left Banke would be full and festive, and the Rule would be entertaining the dignitaries and ambassadors of the realm.

It was the third day of the festival, the sparse clouds puffed white and unthreatening. It was mid morning, the kafis had been consumed and the barterers were in full discourse for wares. Nobody was paying attention to the great monument of Mehuda.

Rovinkar stood on the balcony of his observatory, high above the tiled roofs of the Left Banke. He was dressed in a robe made special for the occasion. Signs and symbols were sewn into his black gown and cape, protections against the evil he was about to unleash. He began casting his spell, a difficult illusion he would have to carry to the distant tower. Muttering his incantation, he let loose three pigeons from their cages, trained to fly to monument. They flapped away, circling the his minaret once as they oriented themselves, then set wing to the distant tower. As they flew, a glamour came over them: the fabled rocs of old, the half-dragon monsters, now ridden by men, wild of hair and skin died red. Flame appeared to trail the shimmering trio as they crossed the Strait, heading directly for the monument. Rovinkar had sown the seeds, for a few observers had been forewarned by dire predictions. As the deception coursed across the sky, there were many to point to the fiery phantasms and so watch as they flew headlong into the tower, the riders shouting their curses against the empire.

As the rocs impacted the tower, Rovinkar released the name of the demon.

The spirit, once trapped inside the dense obsidian and now insinuated in the tower, woke from the coma of eternity. The name at first had circled it, buzzing like a gnat, insistent and irritating. The sound instantly grew in tone and consequence until it roared, demanding attention. The very stone of the tower burst into flame as the demon stirred. The tower stood flaming, a giant brand. The markets, games and receptions came to a stunned halt as all that could see the spectacle craned for a better view. The great monument burned for some minutes, and Rovinkar, standing at his vantage wondered if his markings had been correct. He twitched nervously. He felt as if he had held his breath too long as he waited, then it happened.

The demon, as the vision of reality broke into its consciousness, cried in exasperation at the absence of the void, the dark. It tried to wrest itself free, seek the familiar darkness, and felt the bonds that was the tower holding it. He roared, and shattered the tower in a violent cataclysm. The demon had been insinuated into the stones and marbles and so pulverized the structure with his own being. The demon clawed the air in release, and became a great roiling cloud of dust that boiled and descended. The fiend spun and rolled, trying to gather itself as the airs coursed through it, shedding the weights of the earth. The tower evaporated as it fell, churning within the violent cloud of dust that was the demon. The rolling gouts of pulverized debris surged through the streets. Some say they heard the thunderous gnashing of spirits in the thick surging particulate that choked the streets, atriums and lanes as it furled and coiled towards the strait.

The demon within struggled to find its bounds, the strange world of color and sound. It was being pushed by the winds and drawn by a magnet; the realm of blackness, the familiar void, shone like a beacon. The demon tossed and rolled in the tempest of dust and powdered debris. It felt the permanence of the rock, the exhaustion of fire and the transience of air as it struggled with the bombardment upon its senses. The inky blackness loomed in front of it, drawing nearer. The dissonance of its being, torn from the womb of emptiness had left it disoriented and enraged. The lure of dissolution drew it.

Rovinkar stood on the tower watching with satisfaction as the explosive churning dust enveloped the tower, the bulbous crown sinking into the miasma never to be seen again. The violent cloud dashed itself into the streets and buildings of the Rule, blotting out the sights and sounds of all that lay behind it, sending crowds fleeing in front of a churning surf, the wave of destruction. The choking clouds were bereft of oxygen, and boiled with the heat of the transformation. No stone struck down the unfortunate, nor did the weight of the dust that fell upon them. They died where they stood or moved, frozen forever by their fear and desiccated by the elements. The demon had absorbed the small lives as he cascaded the streets and plazas of the Rule.

By the time the pummeling cloud tumbled across the waters of the straits its heat was largely spent. All eyes were on the small mount where the Royal Shaft had stood. As the dust settled at the core of the explosion, no edifice was to be seen. The cloud that drifted and roiled away was largely forgotten as those not devastated or destroyed by the pyroclastic flow stared in disbelief at the collapse of the Mehuda tower.

Rovinkar viewed the wild cloud that tossed over the surfaces like a landslide as it came right towards him. In the churning mass he could see the fires and wicked lightnings that comprised the face of the demon. It stared wildly at him. Rovinkar’s insides turned to water, but he stood his ground, beginning his closing chant even as the threads of fear plucked at his resolve. Rovinkar could not see the gate that opened. Its vacant blackness was meant for other eyes to see. To the demon a great rift tore open the colored world he felt himself thrashing about in. His rage felt uncontrollable. The rift was as ragged as the obsidian rock, a shimmering plasm of blue held its bounds. The demon felt himself being pulled in, the embrace of nothing awaited. It was about to pass the veil into the oblivion when a heart-beat pulse of fear pulled at his consciousness. The demon shifted its awareness, and even as it plunged into the abyss of captivity, it saw the symbols of power blazing around one who let the grain of fear pass his shields. The recognition was the span of an instant, the entrapments of another time burst into its consciousness. The demon had but a moment to lash out, snarling, before being sucked into the void.

Rovinkar felt the eyes of the demon upon him, glaring red orbs stolen from the hells of the Aramites. He poured extra energies into the psychic shields he had placed and the threads that were woven in his robes. He felt they might burst into flame for his effort. He dared not even gulp as he whispered his last chants, ensnaring the beast. He felt the demon disappear from the skies like a weight lifted.

But one final blast remained. Rovinkar had seen the malevolence in the demons eyes; felt its soulless anger auger towards him. And with that recognition came great chains of sand, the embroiled remains of the monument, fused and cast in a motion. The rough bolt struck the stone of the tower just below the parapet where Rovinkar stood. The observatory shook violently. Rovinkar held the rail of his balcony, sure the building would collapse around him, the ultimate irony. But the quake of the impact subsided, as did the remains of boiling dust not collected with the demon as it was cast into oblivion. A jagged scar of stone stood out from the wall of the tower like an arrow buried in a mat of straw. Rovinkar ceased the trembling that had overtaken him even as he set the lid of the ark over the obsidian.

Death had torn at the fringes of his being, and finding himself whole, a pride passed in along with the relief that threatened to cave his knees.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad.” he thought to himself.

A quiet had fallen upon the entire city. No one cared to speak first. Those that still lived near the site of the catastrophe shook the dust from themselves, coughing and staggering, trying to catch a glimpse of the destruction or fearing more in the coming. The powders and silts not carried off by the winds coated every surface like the snows of the Granite Mountains. As wits collected, and voices found, there were those that shouted their disbeliefs or witnessed events.

“I saw dragons.” … “It were mad men, riding them.” … “They were giant eagles, I’m sure of it. Maybe the condors of the North.” … “Nay, I heard from my cousin who be in the King’s own guard, that were rocs.”

The agreements would emerge in the aftermath. Witnesses were culled from the survivors, though the Imperial Chancellor had already sent heralds out describing the event. Soon in every tavern and assembly, the tale of zealous barbarians from the Stands riding the fearsome legendary rocs had attacked the sovereignty of Abyssin. By the following morning, young tradesmen and apprentices were abandoning their offices and seeking employment with the armies and mercenaries of the emperor.

Rovinkar had regained his composure and sterner bowels as well. He fairly floated in the satisfaction that he had negotiated a terror of magics. What pleased him most was that the spell he ultimately wrought was a mortal one: he had swayed a population and turned its mind to his ends. This was a power that exceeded most of the arts of wizardry. He thought again of the demons eyes. ‘Most of the arts.’ he reflected for a moment. In that moment he wondered if he had drunk more than he could swallow. But it was only a moment. The next event would open the door to a new empire. Let the kings and princes have their show. The real power lies behind the thrones, and Rovinkar saw himself as an effective puppetmaster.