A.R.Yngve
DARC AGES Book Three
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Tharlos on the balcony
Pasko City still stood well fortified and guarded, and had not once been attacked since Tharlos Pasko's failed attempt to take Damon City.
The morale of its citizenry was still fair, and its decadent elite remained in thrall to Tharlos's secret cult of Koban-Jem. Tharlos had gradually taken over the remaining authority of his weakening parents; his absolute rule was just one step from becoming official. But the young ruler, eager and anxious to stay in power, saw the need of a scapegoat for his failed campaign against the Damons. At previous times of crisis, the Paskos had used the ingrained fear of Lepers to manipulate their subjects. However, the Lepers were nowhere near Castilia. Tharlos had to resort to more readily available victims. He picked the city's most prominent minority as his target, and prepared for a pogrom.
Little more than a month after the Summer Festival which started the war, Tharlos rallied his followers and the populace to the courtyard outside his castle. His father Migam Pasko, the official ruler, was "indisposed" and failed to show up; Tharlos merely found it convenient to have him out of the way. All was set; the public antipathy toward the city's heathens was as evident as ever -- all Tharlos had to do, was to stir it up.
Just as the sun set, he showed himself to the crowd from a balcony. Illuminated by dramatic torchlight, dressed in full battle armor and bareheaded, Tharlos' shoulder-long dye-yellow hair seemed to bring an aura of light about his gaunt, pale face. The crowd stopped murmuring when it saw him; thousands of eyes stared at him for an explanation of his recent defeat. He gave the crowd a long, grave look, and raised his heavy metal-clad arms.
"My dear beloved people --" he shouted, voice amplified through the loudspeaker in his armor, "-- it is my sad duty to announce that we have been betrayed. In the recent battle, our brave soldiers were within a hair's breadth of taking Damon City, this close to delivering us from the witchdoctor-friend, Bor Damon! But too late, we discovered that our weapons had been sabotaged -- by a traitor in our midst! A wicked follower of Kristos he was, working for Damon and the witchdoctor Darc!"
The crowd roared its resentment; Tharlos released its basest desires with great expertise.
"Upon my return to Pasko City, I have investigated the affairs of the Kristos followers. And what have I found? That the fiend Darc is also a believer in Kristos!"
The crowd gasped at this news. Tharlos' spies had reported, quite correctly, that Darc sometimes uttered the ancient name of Kristos. It was first now that Tharlos had found proper use for that knowledge. The mob was ripe; he ignited its rage.
"Yes," he shouted, "those infidels, walking among us, are allied to our worst enemies! I urge you to go forth and punish the Kristoites -- now! For the sake of our city, you must show no mercy! They would gladly expose your children to the evil that knows no name! Their destruction will herald our ultimate triumph over the Damons! This is our land, and it must be washed clean! Go forth and burn the heathens! The Goddess wills it!"
The roaring crowd grabbed lit torches from a conveniently placed set of racks, and rushed out into the dark streets. The city's three hundred Christians -- unarmed merchants and their families -- would not stand a chance against the thousand-headed monster Tharlos had unleashed.
"Bring out the wagons," he ordered his officers, "and collect all gold and valuables from the heathens' homes. Then bring it to my treasurer at once. Call it... a war tax."
The highest-ranking officer bowed to him and replied: "As you wish, Lord Pasko."
Lord Pasko. Tharlos smirked at the soldier's slip of the tongue, and gave him a slight nod before dismissing the militia. For the time being, the formal lordship of the city belonged to his father -- but this might soon change. The drunken city lord was just past fifty, but who could foresee an untimely accident? As Tharlos watched the fires spreading from the distant Christian ghetto, he pondered possible ways of eliminating his parents. The distant shouts and screams from the burning houses served as fuel for his destructive imagination.
Smoke from the fires drifted up to his castle balcony, and he whispered a prayer: "Koban-Jem, smell the offerings that I so generously offer you. Help me destroy my enemies and I swear to please you, to wreak destruction and death as you demand. Death to all --"
Suddenly and quite unexpectedly, Tharlos shivered where he stood. What error had he just made? He had felt belief in the power of human sacrifice. Before this pogrom, he had regarded the murders as a means to control his depraved followers -- not as a life-or-death matter. Tearing at his yellow-dyed hair, he cursed himself for falling for his own tricks. He looked away to the burning houses, traced the glowing smoke with his finger, up into the black sky.
Tharlos found himself staring into nothing, and a terrifying insight came to his mind: There's no godly power in that stinking smoke, apart from the earthly power over people's lives. I know that. But if so, what magic is there in that infinite dark of space? Is there anything there at all? Black Sun, why won't you show yourself to me? And the black of the night appeared to him not as an embodiment of the Black Sun, his god of destruction, but as really empty. He was worshipping nothingness, and that was far worse than believing in an evil entity. The might of Koban-Jem dwindled away; it, too, became pointless. On an impulse, Tharlos whirled around to see if anyone had spotted him shaking with fear -- but not a single guard or robot servant was in sight. Tharlos went inside, ordered his battle armor to be removed, then hastily retreated to his rooms. He felt a void grow in his soul; his body seemed to him a false thing, as if he was made of straw and might crumble at the poke of a finger.
And then it occurred to him in a flash, that Darc must be to blame. Darc, his newest, most hated enemy, was out there somewhere and already winning. Tharlos knew it, but refused to admit it even to himself. He filled the inner void with more hate. He would form a new alliance of cities to crush Darc, wipe out the Damon clan, and remain victorious. And if he could not make Darc suffer, if the man was immortal as the reports and rumors suggested, then someone would suffer. A chamber-maid, a mistress, a family member... a sacrifice. The Koban-Jem cult followers had to be catered to regularly, lest they grow uncontrollable and useless to him. His restless long fingers began to play with the cult's ritual dagger he always carried around, as he went to seek out new prey.
Meanwhile in North Castilia, the days passed in an atmosphere more anxious and stressful; the war with the Paskos had merely entered a pause.
Damon City and its neighboring city-states were being re-fortified and armed, and the citizens strained under the burden of added taxes and duties. At great cost, more mechanized armors, laser rifles, and jet aircraft were built than ever before. The armament frenzy was so intense, that the public electricity quota was rationed to new lows -- and the citizens' complaints grew louder. Lord Bor Damon, ever more isolated in his castle, returned the complaints with threats of punishment for "traitors". The people of his city began to whisper their criticism, afraid of eavesdropping soldiers. The word was passed on from mouth to mouth: Lord Damon banished Darc, the Reincarnated King. Everything went wrong since then, and the good Sir Dohan was chased away too. It is the punishment of the Goddess.
Of all the Damon family -- now isolated and increasingly scorned by gentry and commoners alike -- only Lady Osanna took the prophecies literally. Secretly, she prayed forgiveness to the Goddess and begged for the return of her only son. She was not yet past childbearing, but so much had already been invested in Dohan, that she could not bear to lose him. No man knew that better than Bor Damon himself. He buried himself in the buildup of fortifications and arms, not quite sure what he was arming up against -- the war with the Paskos, the vengeful return of his rejected son, or his own fears? Thanks to his great reserves of inner strength, he kept balancing on the edge of self-destruction. The city lord's nights were spent in solitary drinking.
The Damon family and its household held together in the absence of its most beloved son, because the shadow of the unfinished war still loomed. Dohan's fate being unclear, Andon and Bwynn found themselves receiving increasing attention; the future of the clan might be in their hands, should Bor and Osanna fail to get another son. They were not happy about the prospect; they, as much as anyone else, had grown comfortable in the trust that Dohan would take over the city after his father. Bor Damon's former allies were in disarray, bickering when they should unite... thus giving Tharlos the time he needed to lick his wounds of their recent battle.
The summer days in the Kap Verita archipelago went by, as they had been doing for thousands of years: indolent, dry, and hot. For the young lovers Dohan and Meijji, this became the happiest period of their lives. At daytime, they traveled by boat between the islands. In his beloved's company, Dohan could forget all thoughts of war or duty; they spent entire days just playing like children, or wandering aimlessly about. He left his weapons and armor behind, and came to resemble a simple young farmworker in his straw hat and rumpled green pants.
At nighttime, Dohan initiated Meijji in the mysteries of the Goddess -- which he had learned from high-priestess Inu when he turned sixteen and first met her, alone, in her inner sanctum. Inu had taught him the ways of bringing a woman to a peak of ecstasy that allowed the spirit of the Goddess to possess her; and he had learned that the act of love was a sacrament, never to be treated casually. Meijji and her people confessed to a somewhat different, syncretistic faith -- but in Dohan's more experienced arms, Meijji readily let the Goddess possess her and put her senses on fire. They shouted each other's names until their voices grew hoarse. With Meijji's guidance, Dohan overcame his fear of the sea and learned its pleasures too. She took him diving and swimming; he discovered a whole new world of underwater life, unsurpassed in its beauty and variety. The couple basked in the glow of their own youthful energy, and during these fleeting weeks of high summer they knew only bliss.
Also in Shara's and Darc's days together on Kap Verita, there was time for love and play; but their greater age and experience added to their days and nights. After their initial, brief youthful passion, there was now less novelty and more fond remembrance in their embraces. They could not forget their past – yet, they could live with it. The idea of marriage and family remained distant in their imagination. Darc had not cast off the haunting memory of his old, lost life – but in Shara's company, he at least tried to suppress it. They loved and expected little else.
Eye-Leg, the newest guest in Mechao's mansion, remained emotionally shut off from most of the people around her. Mechao could, by scanning the Leper girl's brain with his instruments, prove that she was thinking just like any other human being -- only, her grasp of spoken language was severely stunted. Mechao also proved certain knowledge far ahead that of Darc: he showed the parts of Eye-Leg's brain activity that indicated strong feelings of affection.
"This activity," he claimed, "is that of woman who holds someone dear, such as a child or relative."
However, the two researchers could not decide the object of her affection. Shara thought she knew what Eye-Leg felt, but said nothing of it. Darc found it hard to resist asking Shara just why she cared so much for Eye-Leg. He never asked her, though -- Shara's concern for the Leper girl kept her closer to Darc and the laboratory, and he was happy for it. His ex-wife in his old life had rarely demonstrated a fraction of the attention to his work that Shara routinely showed.
Shara's care for the Leper girl rapidly developed into something like a crude upbringing. She tried to teach Eye-Leg reading and simple mathematics, and often read stories to her from Mechao's library. The girl took great comfort in hearing the stories. Even Darc sat down to listen to Shara in the warm summer evenings, as she sat with Eye-Leg resting at her feet, the deformed girl clutching her long skirt. As yet, the girl could speak no words, only make faint clicking signals with her tongue.
Darc's project to understand and defeat the Plague went on throughout the hot summer -- slowly and sometimes with faltering hope, just as he had expected. He sometimes argued with Mechao on how to cure Eye-Leg without killing her in the process; many conceits were tested and duly discarded, and Shara kept a watchful eye on their treatment of the girl. Despite the difficulties new progress was made, in sudden leaps and bounds, and the hope of success never died. All of Darc's friends felt that this was a special summer, when miracles were possible and great change lay just ahead...