Fair Semblances: An Allegorical Fantasy (Chapter 27)

Throughout the night, the company followed their guides along the hidden paths of the ancient Pelites. They managed to avoid all the well-known passes and oft-traveled trails, making their way instead along narrow, winding footpaths cut through the heart of the highest peaks and rockiest canyons, in places that would have been utterly impassable without the knowledge of the skilled mountain guides. Finally, a little after midnight, Buki and Mariah drew to a halt, and motioned the company on ahead. When they had all gathered around, Mariah began to speak:

“We must return now, or else we will not have time to arrive home before the daylight comes; but we have already crossed the most difficult regions, and if you follow this path, you will have no trouble finding your way to the plains of Dolos before morning.”

“Now listen carefully: when you come down out of the mountains, you will be where the gruel-marshes of Dolos meet the Draconian Plateaus. The soil in the plains surrounding Dolos is very bad, nothing will grow in it. But many years ago, Vrak discovered that an edible moss will grow on the surface of any waters left to lie there undisturbed; so he made canals to bring much water from the mountains, and he flooded very much ground. These regions are now called the gruel-marshes. For many miles, there is only mud and water with moss growing on top. It is not safe for you to be there, for many slaves are there always, gathering moss to feed Vrak’s armies.”

“These gruel marshes will be south, at your left hand. North, there will be high plateaus, very flat and dry, with no plants growing on them. If you are on top of them, Vrak will see you. And besides, there are very deep canyons that you cannot cross.”

“You must stay in the middle. Do not go south to the gruel marshes and do not go north to the plateaus. In the middle there are some small hills and small ditches and you can hide there. All the ground is gray and very small dust covers it. Nothing grows in it. Wear the cloaks we have given you for they are the same color. Move only at night.”

“In three or four days you will see Dolos. It is a very tall city made of very black stones, with a very high wall. Next to it is a very deep pit, where Vrak’s slaves cut out black stones to build the city. In this pit he has a tribe of slaves, the Eschatoi they are called. Many years ago he had other tribes, but seekers from Lebben-Or have helped them escape. All but this tribe have escaped, which he now guards very strongly. He keeps them always in his pit, surrounded by tall walls. There they eat the moss-gruel and build his weapons and they never leave. Your friend Tobiah may be there working with them; but if he is important, he may be in Dolos. But here, I cannot help you. No one has seen inside the city and come back to tell of it.”

“I and my family wish you success. If you return, remember the trails we have shown you, and come to our valley, and we will help you again. But do not come on the trails if enemies are following you, or Vrak will find us and destroy us. Farewell.”

And then, with a few more wistful goodbyes, the tall mountain-dwellers took their leave of the little company, and began their return to their hidden home in the valley. Mishael sorrowfully watched them leave, and wondered if he would ever see them again. Then, suddenly, he remembered Ariel, still back in Lebben-Or, and wondered if he would ever see her again, if the company would ever make it back to the other side of the Draconian Mountains, where all he loved and longed for was hopefully awaiting his triumphant return. He felt strangely tired, not just in his body, but as if the emotional tugs of the journey’s many ups and downs had taken a greater toll on his heart than he had previously realized. “But now, more than ever, I must be strong, if I hope to regain all that I hold dear,” he whispered silently to himself. And steeling his resolve, he turned back around, took a deep breath, and stepped off to the west, where the black, foreboding halls of Dolos awaited their arrival.

By the time the eastern skies were beginning to glow a fiery crimson, the company was out of the mountains, looking out over the vast, stinking gruel-marshes of Dolos, which stretched out of sight before them and to their left.

In the meantime, a young man, scarcely more than a boy, with a fierce, determined countenance, and riding a well-muscled black horse, was leading a company of sanguinors into the canyon that our heroes had left a few days before. It was just after dawn when he reached his intended destination, a fresh avalanche that had been started by the fiery breath of three of Vrak’s wyrms, the same wyrms who had reported the destruction of the company of Lebbaeus. Seeing the tell-tale signs in the canyon in front of him, he drew up his horse and scanned the rubble pile, and then the cliff wall rising up behind it. A sudden gust caught a piece of torn fabric that was clinging to the wall, causing it to wave out toward the young rider as if in greeting. Scowlingly, he glared the fabric, peered at the ice cave above it, scrutinized the crack in the cliff face leading down to the canyon floor. Then in a fierce, commanding voice, he cried out to the sanguinors behind him,

“Turn about men! To Dolos! And don’t spare the horses!”

Soon, the company was bolting along the canyon floor at a dead run, back to the city of Vrak.

* * * * * * * *

The company slept that day in the shelter of a little coulee that cut its way through the dry, barren plains of Dolos. The terrain was quite as Mariah had described, and the fine, gray dust was just as acidic and irritating here as it had been in the Desert of Salt. In a lot of ways, in fact, the plains were reminding Mishael of the desert, and he kept having flashbacks of that earlier trip when he was awake, and reliving it in dreams whenever he slept.

When the dusk was beginning to turn the gray plains even grayer, the companions got up, brushed themselves off, and silently partook of their cold, but flavorful and refreshing food, so graciously supplied by the Pelites. When they had finished they gathered together, and Lebbaeus whispered to them all,

“Let’s set out, then: remember, keep silent at all times; if you need to alert the company of anything, a low whistle will suffice. If you see anything moving, alert the company and immediately drop to your knees and cover yourself entirely with your cloak. Before daybreak, we’ll search out another spot to hide away for the day. Let’s go.”

Lebbaeus took the first step up out of the coulee, but then he did something utterly unexpected: with a low, soft whistle he dropped to his knees and covered himself with his cloak. The rest of the company, although they had just heard his instructions, were at first taken aback, and froze in their tracks. But then, as one man, they came to themselves a few seconds later, and followed suit. It was none too soon.

A moment afterwards, a young man riding a lathered, panting black horse came thundering by, followed by a company of sanguinors, all likewise on horses that were in the same sorry shape. “Quickly!”, the man called out as he passed the company, still concealed beneath their gray cloaks; “We may still make Dolos before mid-morning tomorrow!” At first, Mishael thought there was something strangely familiar about the voice; but in the strained tension of those heart-pounding moments, he forgot all about it immediately.

For the next few seconds the companions were serenaded by the crashing sound of dozens of iron-shod hooves thudding across the parched ground above them. Then, eventually, everything grew still again.

After what seemed a very long time, Mishael heard another soft whistle, and peeked out from under his cloak. Lebbaeus had already arisen, and was motioning the companions toward him.

“Those must have been sanguinors, coming from Fair Semblances in all likelihood. I think we escaped their notice; but we have learned again of the need for absolute silence and unabated vigilance at all times. But the night is slipping away now, we must press on.”

And motioning onward with his arm, the old Keeper of the Light set out again. This time, they would walk for a very long time, until the first signs of daybreak, without seeing another soul. By daybreak, they were much closer to the tall, sinister walls of the city of Vrak, and soon they were sleeping once again in a deep, narrow coulee, invisible beneath their cloaks to any passersby.

At the same time, nearly thirty miles to the west, two guardsmen were leaning nonchalantly against the battlements of the high black wall of Dolos, above the wrought-iron gate looking out to the east. They both had on what appeared to be standard-issue armor: tarnished chain mail over a deep crimson shirt, tarnished and battered helmets on their heads, each with a nosepiece extending down between the eyes and ending above the upper lip, gauntlets of black leather covered on the back with plates of steel, and black leather boots rising above the knee, where crimson leggings were just visible beneath the down-hanging chain mail. The only ornamentation they sported was the insignia of a black crescent moon on their helmets, suspended from the lower cusp of which was a crimson drop, as of blood, about to fall. This same insignia, in a massive, wrought iron form, decorated the top of the gate upon which they were standing guard; and it was in the shadow of this great insignia that they were seeking refuge from the red glare of the sun as it peeked out over the horizon, and casually chatting together.

“So, do you think the company of old Lebbaeus really is gone for good this time?”, one of them, a wizened old man with three teeth on the bottom asked the other, a young, stupid-looking fellow with a great belly swelling out the links of his chain mail, which dropped down from the unnatural protrusion like the skirt of a tough old matron.

“I don’t know, Lenny,” the fat young guard responded in a voice as stupid-sounding as his countenance was stupid-looking. “That’s what they say”.

“I’d be willing to wager we’ll hear from ‘em again,” the old man replied, wheezing a little as he spoke. “They’ve told us before that they had ‘em dead-to-rights, but nothing ever came of it. He’s a tough one, that Lebbaeus. Personally, I’d rather deal with a squad of phosphors than have anything to do with that company. And now they have that fellow what escaped from Fair Semblances too – he must be a tough one himself, to get out of there all alone like that, and so young and all. Nope, I bet we’ll be hearin’ from ‘em again.”

At this point, the old man leaned out to spit over the edge of the wall, when the young man suddenly grabbed his arm:

“Look, Lenny, someone’s a-comin’! I think it’s the Grand Proprietor! Yep, shor’ ’nuff – what d’ we do?”

“Open the gate, you idiot, open the gate,” the withered up little old man grumbled, turning to a huge winch connected to the wrought-iron gate by massive cables, and slowly beginning to turn it around. Together, the two of them wound up the cables with the great winch, although it was apparent that the wheezing old man was contributing very little to their joint labor; but the sweating, grunting young fat man seemed unaware of the lack of equity in the arrangement. Slowly, the gate swung open, just in time for the scowling man they had recognized as the Grand Proprietor and his squadron of sanguinors to pass through on horseback.

“Whew, they made it back in a hurry!” the old guardsman said, either wheezing or chuckling (it was hard to tell for sure). “I wonder what sort of news they have. Ten to one, they never found the bodies. I’d wager ten to one without skipping a beat.”

“Ten to one, huh?” the young fat man repeated, with a stupid grin.

When they had made it through the gate, the Grand Proprietor called out, “Dismissed!”, and the sanguinors slowed to a halt, and stiffly dismounted. But their leader continued on at an unslackened pace, thundering down the black stone streets, between the tall black buildings on either side.

The whole city was built of nothing but solid, black stone, and everything was perfectly square, with all the buildings and streets at right angles to each other. When the rider had thundered straight through the whole city, on the wide street in its center, he finally drew up to the biggest building he had encountered yet, a massive black cube, probably a hundred feet on all three dimensions. Rising high above it, from the center of the roof, was a black crescent, with a great drop of crimson blood hanging from its bottommost cusp.

Here, the scowling rider quickly dismounted, cast aside the reins of his exhausted steed, and ferociously pulled on the rope of a large, black bell which hung above the iron door in the center of the building. Then, scowling and muttering to himself, he paced back and forth in a nervous, agitated manner.

Deep inside the building, a tall, beautiful, ferocious-looking woman in a sheer crimson robe stepped through a high doorway, and bowed before what appeared to be a great wyrm seated on a crimson throne, above which was a black crescent moon. The wyrm was easily twice as big as any of the wyrms that the company had ever seen, and his scales were black and irony, and looked impervious to the hardest weapons of steel. The pupils of the wyrm’s eyes were shaped like a crescent moon, and were as black as night; and around the pupils, the rest of the eyes were blood-red. In these respects, of course, he resembled any other wyrm, but for his prodigious size; what set him entirely apart, however, was the fact that he had three heads, one in the middle with a lecherous smirk, another on the left with a cunning sneer, and a third on the right with a terrible scowl. On each of his heads was a great, black crown, with a name emblazoned on the front in flaming letters of crimson. The crown on the left bore the name “Planos”; the crown in the center bore the name “Apolausis”; and the crown on the right bore the name “Phobos”.

“What is it, my dear?” the great wyrm inquired of the tall, beautiful woman from his central head, in a voice that was syrupy and sticky, almost nauseatingly sweet, and quite out of keeping with his terrible appearance.

“Javan is at the door,” the woman replied, in a low, sensual voice, that in many ways resembled the dragon’s.

“Send him in,” the wyrm replied, this time in a rougher and more terrible tone, which proceeded from his head on the right.

A few seconds later, Javan Togarmah appeared before the throne of the great wyrm, and without waiting for any introduction, barked out, “They’re alive!”.

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