My third offering in my quest to write 100 stories in 100 days. Once again a lacklustre ended, but I might mould this into something else in the future.
Our queen commanded us to go forth across the Wastes and sing tales of her ascendancy across the Havens. She had made a pact with The Burrower who had granted her immortality and blessed the land. We were Queen Shekha’s chosen bards and diplomats, raised from birth to praise her and eager to venture to other city states and demand tribute.
We set out from Talamoil before dawn, our wagons ladened with the supplies we would need to cross the treacherous Wastes. It would take us three weeks to get to the nearest Haven, Ivolos, where a small smattering of people lived. We knew during that time we would find no tree to lend us shade or brook to drink from.
Many of us had never left the safety of Talamoil. Despite the wagon awning shielding us from the blazing sun we found ourselves drenched in sweat, and the hot wind lavished dust on every inch of our skin. Each night when we pitched our tent on the still-scorching ground we dreamt of our faces crumbling away. Sometimes we would wake in the night and hear thundering footfalls. In the morning we would see beastly prints, as large as a house.
Days went by. Weeks. Our timepieces stopped working, and the waystones that were to lead us to the next Haven seemed to get further and further apart. We reassured one another we hadn’t lost our way. We spoke of the comforts and fresh water that awaited us in Ivolos, and murmured encouragement to our sickly-looking horses.
We started to run out of water. Our lips cracked. We began to see visions of giant skeletal monsters slouching alongside us. When a giant arch appeared in the distance, we assumed it too was a hallucination.
As we approached the arch got wider, and we confirmed with one another we were all seeing the same thing. Ivolos. A sanctuary to wash and rest our dusty bodies.
Finally we crossed the threshold and the sun seemed to shrink and grow cool. What was a dusty channel in the Wastes transformed into a gushing stream. We dropped our things, lapped up the water, and washed our limbs.
Once our needs were met, we were finally able to register the city around us. What a city it was! We had been told it was a fledgling place, mostly farmland, but instead the buildings and streets rivalled our own Talamoil. We wove through colourful market stalls lining a cobblestone street, then passed several ornate temples and vibrant public gardens.
“Where can we find your leader? We are digitaries from Talamoil, come to entertain and discuss future partnership.”
The first person we spoke to sneered at us and shook her head. The next did the same. Time after time we were shooed away, even spat on. The only person willing to talk was a beggar, offering us guidance for free.
“We’ve got no king here, but up that way you’ll find the council house. You’ll need to think up a better story than that though!” His laughter turned to coughing, and he slouched back against the wall.
We strode in the direction of where he pointed. After entrusting our wagon to a stableboy we marched through to the council house, where seven learned men and women sat deliberating on a citizen’s complaint. We were forced to stand in line and wait for their attention.
When we were finally allowed to grace the floor, we explained that we had travelled from Talamoil on behalf of our gracious Queen Shekha, who had been granted immortality and now wished to discuss future tribute with other settlements.
There were chuckles all around. One of the council members rolled his eyes, another folded her arms. The only one who seemed to care for what we had to say was a jowly old woman.
“Talamoil, you say? What proof do you have of this?”
We looked at one another bemused. We offered up our letter of passage, stamped with our Queens seal, and showed our handful of Talamoil coins, not used for trade anywhere else.
The members' expressions changed from contempt to fear. They pushed the coins back in our direction.
“Is this how you treat all dignitaries?” We asked. “What is the meaning of this?”
The old woman stretched out her arms and began to explain:
“Talamoil is no more. It was destroyed by The Burrower in my grandmother’s time, due to some perceived slight by your Queen Shekha. All that remains is a deep chasm to the centre of the earth, and none who have ever ventured down there have ever returned. If what you say is true… Well then, you must be the Wanderers of Talamoil. The only survivors of the disaster, said to be roaming the Wastes for eternity, unable to return home. For years our inter-Haven merchants have seen you from afar, and kissed their charms so you would not spread the same curse to them.”
“It has only been a matter of weeks!” We explained.
The woman shook her head.
“Has it?”
We thought back on our journey. We had arrived just as our water ran out, so it could have only been weeks. Except… Hadn’t our water run out before that? We kept finding one last waterskin, eating the last ration. We had seen our horses keel over. More than once. Hundreds of times. We had been through the cycle over and over and never even noticed it.
“I do not know what your presence here signifies, but I am sure it is nothing good.” The old woman rose to her feet and pointed to the door. “Leave. Do not return.”
Soon the ground began to rumble. We could hear the same heavy footfalls we heard every night in the Wastes, but once again we were not in a position to see what created them. Without realising what we were doing we all cried out for our queen, but as we did our arms and legs began to crumble, and a crack appeared on the marble floor. The floor was wrenched apart, a giant pit appearing, extending forever downwards. Others in the room fled, screaming. Our limbs began to disintegrate, immobilising us. All we could do was watch as the pit widened, swallowing up the council table and several of its members.
As our jaws turned to dust and sprinkled down into the chasm we heard our queen sing.
Our Immortal Queen reminded me of a combination of the Banshee myth, Typhoid Mary and Robert Howard.
The harbingers are terrifyingly benevolent.