Master Esh’assan stroked his long beard while staring down at the altar. Besides the rhythmic motion of his hand, he hadn’t moved in almost an hour. Whatever he saw in the bloody organ resting in the bowl in front of him seemed to have him deeply concerned.

“Hanniassan.”

“…master!” Still unused to his new name, it took the boy a heartbeat to react. He quickly stepped forward from the corner of the tent in which he’d been waiting and bowed to the Assanaten magus.

Esh’assan pointed to the opposite corner of the tent. “Bring me the liver box, please.”

Hanniassan hurried to comply but found himself staring at several wooden boxes of different sizes. “Ah…”

“The high one made from lacquered cedar wood,” the magus said, absentmindedly.

“Yes!”

The boy carefully lifted the box and carried it over to the altar. It was a little difficult with his arm still supported by a sling, but he managed.

“Put it there,” the master said, pointing at a corner of the altar without looking up.

“Why are you making a one-armed boy carry your boxes?” a voice asked from the tent’s entrance.

Master Esh’assan turned around and blinked as if he was noticing Hanniassan for the first time. “Oh.” He quickly reached out for the box. “Let me help you with this.”

Master Ass’reios threw the tent flap aside and walked past the boy with long strides. “I could have used your help at the sick tent. I hope there is news.”

Handing over the box, Hanniassan quickly stepped aside, lowering his eyes in respect. It was still strange to be in the presence of people so far beyond his standing. My former standing, he thought, feeling the texture of his new garment. The simple stitching on the seams marked him as an apprentice priest of Assan. It was the single most valuable thing he’d ever owned.

“Hm.” Master Esh’assan placed the box on the altar and started to retrieve clay objects, placing them around the bowl. “Hanniassan, come have a look at this.”

The boy carefully approached the alter where master Esh’assan studied another fist-sized clay piece before placing it with the others. Despite his harsh words, master Ass’reios was standing quietly at the other side observing his fellow magus. Hanniassan had only met him for the first time two days ago when he and his new master had arrived at the village. Holding himself upright, the staff firmly planted into the ground Ass’reios cut an imposing figure, standing in stark contrast to master Esh’assan whose mind seemed always occupied with something far away.

“Here it is!” master Esh’assan said, holding up the last clay piece he’d retrieved from the box. “You see this, boy? This is how we document readings. Each of these”, his free hand described a circle above the clay pieces on the altar, “represents a liver.”

Hanniassan could see that the pieces had vaguely the form of the organ in the bowl, if smaller. There were small symbols inscribed on each of them. “…so you can remember?” His voice cracked a little. During their journey from the mountain pass, he’d become somewhat used to being in the company of the friendly old man. But this was different. He was staring down at the wisdom of the gods, documented by their highest servants.

He gulped.

“To remember, yes,” master Esh’assan said, oblivious to his apprentice’s reaction. “Sometimes it takes many readings over long periods of time for the picture to form. Years in some cases.”

“And sometimes not,” master Ass’reios said.

As if reminded of the matter at hand, master Esh’assan’s face became serious. “Yes.”

He studied the clay piece in his hand for a moment before leaning over the fresh liver on the altar once more. When he straightened again, he looked resolved. “Our brother”, he said, placing the piece on the altar and taking a step backward, “has failed. He was slain…and the great god Assan was beaten back.”

“What?” Ass’reios shouted, stepping forward. Taking the place at the alter master Esh’assan had just vacated, he started to look back and forth between the last clay piece and the liver. Master Esh’assan crossed his arms behind his back and waited patiently for him to finish.

“The previous divination said that he would challenge a wilder of great power and that at the height of the battle, Assan would intervene and strike down his enemies!” Master Ass’reios whirled around. “How can this be? Did you make a mistake?”

Hanniassan held his breath, but master Esh’assan calmly shook his head. “With a revelation as clear as that? Hardly. There was nothing in the liver, nothing in the stars, that spoke of a disaster like this.”

Ass’reios looked truly shaken. “That is two of us lost…I should have gone myself.”

Esh’assan placed his hand on his fellow magus’ shoulder. “Your duty is here. You warned them of the sage you faced and there was no reason to believe that the two of them, backed by Assan himself, weren’t enough to bring him down.”

Ass’reios took a deep breath. “You did not face that man. How he shrugged off my curse…as if nothing had happened. As if we were just having a conversation!”

For a while, the tent fell quiet. The two magi seemed to quietly mourn their fallen brethren. Master Ass’reios stared grimly ahead, his eyes on something beyond the tent wall. Only his jaw muscles were working. Master Esh’assan’s eyes were cast down, his hand stroking his beard in the usual rhythm.

“What else?” Ass’reios asked, finally breaking the silence.

Hanniassan’s master returned to the altar. “Nothing. This is a major upset, contradicting so many readings. We will have to observe the stars for the next couple of days, to see if our plans need to be changed.”

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“Do we send word back to Assanbani?”

Master Esh’assan started to return the clay pieces to the box. “The sar’s son has at least one of our brothers with him. If he does not know already, he will soon.” He paused for a moment. “But yes, we should send word. They definitely need to bring sheep from across the mountains. I do not want to rely on goats in the middle of a war.”

Ass’reios grunted, crossing the distance to the entrance in two long straights. “I will call a messenger and let the tartanu know that his men are lost.” He pushed the flap aside with his staff and stepped through. “Damn Nemki’s servants to the underworld.”

The tent fell silent once more, only interrupted by the clicking of clay on clay as master Esh’assan placed the last pieces back into the box. As he closed the lid, he smiled at Hanniassan. “Once you have learned enough symbols, you can assist me with the divinations. That is an important part of your training.”

Hanniassan was taken aback for a moment. “You think I can do it? Read from the livers?”

The master's smile deepened. “You need to learn your symbols so you can document what you see in the stars and entrails. Or rather what I see, in the beginning. One step at a time.”

“But I’ll learn it?” Hanniassan asked hesitantly, but eager. Strangely, master Esh’assan seemed to appreciate questions, but the boy was still cautious. The old man hadn’t beaten him once since he’d been brought to him. When he was slow to understand or made a mistake, the master explained patiently. It was hard to get used to his strange ways.

“You have been blessed,” Esh’assan said. “The lord Assan pointed you out. In time and depending on your effort he will grant you access to his power. Whether you have a talent for divination remains to be seen. I must warn you. It is a rather studious skill.”

Hanniassan contemplated that. He didn’t enjoy learning his symbols very much. Trying to remember all those lines and dots made his head hurt. He would rather have learned how to curse people. There were some debts he wanted to settle if he got the chance. He wiggled the fingers of his broken arm. The bandages were itching, but he refrained from scratching.

“Master, Assan…our god”, he began, still unfamiliar with his new religion, “is he enemies with this Nemki.”

“Hm.” Esh’assan stroked his beard nodding approvingly. “He is most likely not.”

“But why are we fighting his servants?”

“Do you know who Nemki is?” the master asked.

Hanniassan shook his head. Balqart was his people’s highest god. Many also worshipped Inashtar as a goddess of love and justice. He’d never understood this. Wasn’t she the patron goddess of Saggab? Praying to another people’s gods seemed wrong unless you were visiting that city.

“I guess that is understandable,” master Esh’assan said, staring into the distance. “Nemki is a very old god. One of the oldest we still remember. But these days he is mostly worshipped by wise men and practitioners of magic.” He pointed at a small table to the side that had once stood in an Helcenaean house. “Please prepare a piece of clay for me the way I showed you.”

While Hanniassan hurried to roll up his sleeves, the magus started to walk in a small circle in the middle of the tent.

“Thousands of years ago Nemki found man and decided to teach us. He showed us how to fish and how to build houses. He taught the first craftsmen and artisans. And the first magi.” He stopped behind the boy, looking over his shoulder. “The legend says Nemki taught seven men and women and sent them out to teach others. Through the centuries other gods followed and their worshippers founded all the cities we know of and likely many we have forgotten. But Nemki might have been the first.”

Hanniassan formed a liver-shaped piece from the soft mass. “So, the man that master Ass’reios met is one of those seven?”

“No,” the magus said. “If he were, he would have endured longer than many gods. No, I believe he is a successor to the first seven sages. Through history, they appear here and there and meddle with the flow of destiny. Nemki might not have involved himself in the matters of the world in a long time but somehow his disciples find ways to accumulate power and influence.”

A shower ran down Hanniassan’s spine. A part of him wanted to run from the tent and hide. The things he heard seemed too enormous to fathom. Master Esh’assan spoke about gods and fate in the same way the people of his village talked about Piro’s greedy merchants and their constant worry about bad harvests. This is crazy, he thought.

And yet, another part of him was strangely excited. That part wanted whatever piece of this new world, opening up to him, he could get. Whatever lay in front of him, behind him in the village waited only drudgery.

“Is this good?” he asked, holding up the piece of clay.

Master Esh’assan felt it carefully with his index finger. “It is just right. You do not want it too soft or it takes too long to dry. Come now. Let me show you how to document our readings.”

For the next half-hour, the magus showed Hanniassan how to document his readings on the clay liver. Much smaller than the real organ, the symbols were pressed into the soft mass with a thin stylus made from bone. The magus was careful to note what he saw in the same spot on the model.

“We are looking for different things at different parts of the organ,” master Esh’assan said, pursing his lips. “Of course, a sheep’s would be better.”

When they were done, the magus burned the organ in a brazier, murmuring a prayer to Assan.

Hanniassan carefully carried the clay piece outside. The apprentices had placed long tables, also taken from the Helcenaean village, in front of the tent. Half of them served to dry the clay tablets, that were produced during the camp’s daily routines.

Hanniassan was still amazed by it all. In his old life, he’d never seen the usefulness of writing, but the Assanaten seemed to be obsessed with keeping lists and counts of everything.

The boy placed the clay organ with the tablets and checked the position of the sun. It was afternoon but there were still a couple of hours of sunlight left. Until it was time to serve his master’s dinner, he was free.

Hanniassan knew he should spend the time studying his symbols, but free time was rare and he felt like moving his legs. He’d never worked so hard, moving so little before he’d become master Esh’assan’s apprentice.

Hanniassan walked through the rows of tents over to the wooden houses of the village. He passed the cooking area where some older warriors and captured Helcenaean women were preparing dinner for the daily growing camp. Most of the women hadn’t been given to the warriors. This had caused some irritation but the Assanaten discipline was strong. The women were used to keep their husbands, brothers, and sons obedient.

Walking down the path to the wide lake, his goal came inside. Along the shore, three dozen men, both Assanaten and Helcenaean were using tools of copper and bronze to split, shape, and connect wood.

“Priest,” a warrior said bowing his head slightly. The man was carrying a plank on his shoulder and Hanniassan was standing in his path.

Still not used to the respect that came with his new robe, he quickly stepped aside returning the man’s greeting. “You’re making good progress.”

The man, his tunic showing the marking of a chief of ten, nodded. “Yes, but we’re almost out of wood.” When he saw the boy's questioning look, he knocked at the plank he was carrying. “Right now, we’re using what the loggers had in storage. It would take too long to fell trees and dry them so we’re going to dismantle some of the houses and bring in what we can find from the smaller settlements.”

The boy nodded, also he didn’t understand what the problem with freshly cut trees was. His father’s house was constructed from mudbricks and so were all the others in his village. Before coming to this valley, he’d never seen trees so big or numerous.

When he didn’t say anything in response the warrior bowed his head and continued down to the building site. Hanniassan’s eyes followed him. A little further down lay the boats that had already been completed. He shivered at the thought of traveling out onto the lake with one of these wooden vehicles. How many warriors could they carry when the time came? The boy didn’t know but he looked forward to seeing it.