Esmund stood on an outcropping rising fifty feet above the desert. The stone had the slight beginnings of carvings to them, but had been abandoned a long time ago. The Ankirian capital clouded the distance, smoke heavy nearer the oasis providing the city with life.
However, this was not what had grabbed his attention. A searing wind cut as his face, the gusts long and harsh over such exposed terrain. Yet this was different. Hot as a forge-fire, he had to squint to resist the sheer force of it. In the far distance, miles and miles away, sparks popped and glittered silently from the desert ground. This was the source of the heat.
He’d never seen a sun blight before, but even from here he sensed fluctuations of power. A convergence of light so intense it was melting the sand. Those tiny sparks were globules of molten glass large enough to swallow him, thrown more than a hundred feet into the air.
Sun-blights were just as deadly as the chills on the glaciers in the North, yet these were far closer to civilized lands. He licked parched lips and turned away, sipping his water.
Warp pumped beneath his feet, shattering the rock and launching vertically through the air. The gusts chilled as he moved out of the wind-stream created by the sun-blights rays. Racing across the desert and throwing up the occasional burst of sand, the tan landscape passed him quickly.
There were surprising amounts of life in such a sere land. Green plants, watering holes, and even an oasis occurred with regularity. That was not to say this hadn’t been a mind-numbing journey. Avoiding the Purist-forces meant circuitous routes, not dangerous one.
But finally, it was coming to an end. The walls of the greatest capital on the plane loomed large. Once-greatest capital, at least. A black cleft had been torn into the sandstone wall, widening to a crack a body-length wide at the top. The gates had been torn apart, one hanging crooked off its top-hinges, the other moldering on the ground.
Battle had torn apart this city over five-years ago and, whoever the winner, the people had lost. Stepping into the city, Esmund dropped his tether. Drawing a cloak from his bag, he pulled it over his shoulders. Wearing any such covering in this heat ran antithetical to instinct, yet his fair skin would bring more worries than still.
His circuitous route drove him in through one of the lesser-used gates. Within a minute of walking the streets, he began meeting people. Dark-eyed, sunken faced men and women. Their gazes shifted rapidly, hands often busy underneath their clothes. Even carrying was restricted to a single hand, the other at the ready.
Ragged clothes, torn boots or bare feet, wraps protecting their faces stained with wear. Most smelled as bad as he did. Flies buzzed in the back alleys and the occasional gully from lingering filth.
Esmund earned his fair-share of hard glances, even just passing through. Thankfully, the streets cleared out again as he got closer to the center of the city. He exchanged rough carved rock for sand-covered cobbles. Soon, he discovered why this part of the city was abandoned.
The palace wall had been lovingly carved with intricate mazes, the corner coming together into a beautiful interlocking pattern. Enamel was scuffed and chipped. Empty channels where brilliant blue stone had been inlaid, but for chips of vibrancy remained.
Bigger than Esmund by three heights and wider by four, he couldn’t help but wonder what it was doing in the middle of the square, at least two-hundred yards from the rest of the palace wall. He could see the arc it had traveled, tearing the roof off a store whose roof tiles were liberally strewed across the plaza of pale stones.
Glancing down a narrow alley, he noticed two boys, fourteen or fifteen years old. They stared at him darkly, hands gripping knives their clothes couldn’t hide. Realizing they’d been seen, their gazes changed, becoming worried.
Es raised a hand, but before he could say anything, they ducked behind a corner and disappeared. Maybe I could track them down? He wondered. But what would I even say to them? I don’t speak Kisi.
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He gritted his teeth. He hadn’t brought more food with him than necessary, either. Es carried so little water, he was forced to refill multiple times each day since passing into the desert. He couldn’t take care of them, even if they wanted his help.
Leaving the plaza, it had a straight shot to the main road revealing the Sun Palace, House of the Dawn, Goddess-Blessed home of The Bloodline, in all its glory. Made from carefully quarried white stone. Only the palest and purest of color had been selected. In the midday sun, it reflected a glow strong enough to blind a man. Once.
The joining of the domed center building and the left-wing had cracked and collapsed. This was where the struggle with Saleema had started, the first clash and most of the battle had happened. Damage had passed well beyond walls and floor, deep into the foundation of the once mighty symbol of the Bacchus bloodline.
In the years since that clash, the cracks had spread, weaknesses exposed, and the palace had slowly begun tipping. Now, as Esmund saw the palace, it seemed as if the earth was trying to swallow it, yet was choking on a bite too big.
People wouldn’t live there. No matter how fanatic, arrogant, or stupid. Sighing, Esmund turned around and looking out at the rest of the city. The heart of activity seemed to come from the waterfront. Smoke billowed from multiple fires and birds floated by the score in lazy circles.
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This is what the Purists are fighting for? Esmund wondered. Most of the big streets were completely unusable. Damaged beyond the maintenance of everyday people. Buildings turned rubble cluttered most spaces, forming poor shelters for the less fortunate.
Until he reached the oasis, he’d yet to see any sign of organized civilization. Where were their leaders? The tethered? Their Queen?
Mansion and estates stood abandoned by the dozen. Signs of hasty retreat were in evidence everywhere. Every person worth a damn had given up on the city. Fled to other countries. The rich and noble had taken their coin. The city’s flowing supply of gold had dried up.
Caravaners stopped coming. Skilled laborers left as best they could. Shortages materials and the people to work them damned the city. No wood to build a house. No imported food to supplement their own meager soil.
Ankiria’s capital was dying. Its infrastructure was gone, the support systems broken. All they had left was the oasis, the houses, and empty stomachs.
Esmund crouched on a rooftop near to the waterfront, looking out over the milling of people. The ones too poor, too old, or too young to leave. The ones who couldn’t carve out a niche for themselves elsewhere.
Yet, there remained a semblance of civilization within the throng of people. The tents, make-shift and ragged, were orderly. Clear lines delineating streets and paths. People talked with each other. Noticeable only for their absence near the gate, children ran unattended.
He spotted a pair of men approaching him. Though they wore no uniforms, they carried heavy sticks on their belts, something he noticed a few others were as well. Someone was creating peace and order. A small slice of it. Already, the tent city was spreading beyond the limits of the walls.
A thousand buildings lay empty and useless behind him. They could’ve housed five times the number of people, yet they lived in cramped confines of torn fabric.
The two guards yelled up at him. In Kisi.
“Elensk?” he called down.
One startled, while the other narrow his eyes, trying to peer through his cloak. “Little?”
“Good enough,” Es said. He almost jumped from the roof, but the building was two stories tall and normal people would get hurt by the impact. For now, he would remain covert.
They searched him and took him among the tents, to one of the few that had clearly been intended for camping from the beginning.
A sharply featured woman greeted him within, shifting to Elensk quickly as the guards explained.
“Why are you here, Tethered?” she asked, heavily accented but understandable.
“How did you know?” he asked. She was not a tethered herself.
“I pay attention, Outlander.” There was a glint in her eye that told him he’d just been played.
“I need to examine the library in the palace, but I cannot do so on my own.”
“We cannot help you, Outlander. We have problems enough without tempting fate.”
“What kind of problems?”
The woman glared at him. She stepped around the table, up close to him. She was near a head taller than him. “Why would you care to know? You think to come here and push us out? Take what we’ve fought for?”
“I want to help. If there’s—“
“Bah!” she cut in, waving a hand in his face. “Help? You think we would trust you?”
He could just go among the tents, find someone who spoke Elensk and knew the library system. It shouldn’t be that difficult. He didn’t need to deal with her at all. There wasn’t a single notable tethered in the city. No one could stop him.
“A trade,” Esmund said, stepping back and taking a deep breath. She smelled of sweat and he worse yet. “We help each other. I get the books I want and you get some assistance?”
The woman crossed her arms, peering thoughtfully at him.