We, humans, will question the means and chances of the things that are written and known. I, too, wonder this. It is a change of things. A flux of events. All of which began with a moment. —First Age. Author unknown
He heard the buzz from the base of the walls...White light spilling out from square lamps embedded in those parts. Familiar things those were, and they were coming for him, like pale fingers--reaching, trailing.
"Uhm!" A sound snapped in, breaking him from the dazed trance.
What an imaginative mind! He thought, sighing. How could something as small as a lamp steal his mind for the totality of what spread before him?
A cave!
There...
Ahead, a light strip carved a narrow path forward. Hundreds, if not thousands, were walking those paths with him. No difference existing now in their motions, even his. All were the same, a sort of sameness that was unknown to him.
He had been an Ashman once. Free as soot or the steam that rose from the earth to the sky. He could still remember it...The taste of the cold rain and churning clouds up in the mountains. How long has it been?
Too long.
Not now anyway. That freedom was gone, stripped from him like cloth was torn from flesh. It was like a wound...Arching.
But soon, the corridor swallowed him. Its walls hewn from crude black stone, jagged and disjointed. The floors, though, were smooth, likely made so by the countless men who had passed through before him.
This is wrong!
So wrong.
How were men to survive in such places? How was he? How could he?
He had no idea...even now, having spent days or months, he could not tell, aboard the black ships, he still longed for the simpler times. Of the dance of self that quieted the internal thoughts. Yet now...
None of that!
Here, no one was granted even a glimpse of those constant black skies of Eastos. The blackened world. None of it. Only stone and more of it. The recursiveness was maddening.
He sighed.
Barefoot, he walked on, enduring the heat that licked against his feet with every step. That was the way of the world, but it did offer another thing.
Merrin looked up, observing the crude ceiling.
That's it, right?
It's almost like where he di--
He paused.
You mean, where you killed him? Sprawled against the heating grounds...Dead.
You killed him!
Merrin reined in the thought, choosing instead to dull the mind with the blue glowing stone fitted on the left chest of his clothes. Froststone. And without it, everyone here, everyone in the entire world would have been consumed by the natural heat of the world. Be it the lowlanders below the mountains or the ashmen themselves.
None would survive.
Maybe that was better. He thought...Being a slave seemed so much worse.
How was anyone to endure that?
He bumped into a man before him. A groan escaping his lungs. The man, however, offered no such vocalization.
"Sorry..." Merrin whispered, watching as the fellow, head slouched, continued his somber pace. Him and the rest, all shuffling forward in a somber motion. All with eyes drawn downwards, empty.
I wonder how long before my eyes are like that?
Soon, most likely.
Merrin chuckled at those words.
There's no escape from it...
Then he saw it—the imprinter.
Almighty above!
The man sat slouched on a three-legged stone stool to the right. Head, round and fat. His stomach bulging out like a bloated carcass, pale green and oily. Even his eyes too were odd: Bloodshot and staring out beneath a heavy brow, with brown loin rags that barely covered his crotch.
There was a certain stench to it.
Merrin nearly retched.
And the man, with his thick, scarred fingers, gripped a heated pole; its end shaped into a triangle.
A branding stick?
There were odd inscriptions on it.
With this, every slave had their arms, often bony, pressed in by the rod. Each contact releasing a sizzling sound and the true scent of burning flesh. All screamed....Undoubtedly, this was bringing agony.
What about me? Merrin wondered, knowing despite the same days spent aboard the black ships, his bones were somewhat meatier than the rest. Bony, yes, but meatier than them.
Would that be bad?
Rumors said the Night Clan had a habit of refusing those with fuller skin. Not him, right? Merrin clenched.
I don't want to go back!
He gritted.
I can't...I can't go back after what I did...They would know...They would...
NO!
An orb of light drifted past his eyes.
Huh?
Floating, countless, flowing, fading into the tunnel and roaming around the heads and arms of the slaves. Most bearing a different shade.
Servs?
He recalled the distinctions.
Red was for rage. Blue for sadness. Others for whatever else emotion was offered in their presence.
Merrin stared at the lights.
Serv. That was what the floating things were called in these lands. An odd name to give to an eye of the Almighty, Merrin thought. But those things were simply attracted to the emotions of men...They saw...and...reflected.
A sound echoed from ahead.
Merrin paused.
Not again!
At times, despair was quick to drive madness into a slave. They would lash out in frenetic motions...Fighting, fleeing, breaking from the line.
All futile actions.
For when that happened, they were sure to come forward.
The Excubitors.
Fast and merciless, cutting them down and dragging their bodies off, most likely to be burned after the froststone was stripped off.
That, too, he understood. Be it in the Ashmountains or the lowlands, hard land was too scarce for graves. The constant rain of Eastos made it so. So for men such as these, darkCrowns, they would only be made ash.
Merrin was unsure whether this rule applied to the brightCrowns.
Regardless, the walk continued after the matter had been quelled. Leaving only the whispers from the front, the distant screams of slaves, and the sound of flesh sizzling against iron.
The imprinter was getting close.
Merrin sealed his eyes. I should not scream...I don't get to scream...Leim had screamed louder than th--
"Raise!:
Merrin froze, vision returning to see the figure before him...Seated, fat, putrid.
The stench was back.
It was the imprinter.
"What?" Merrin muttered.
"Mmmm." The man grunted. "Raise." pointing the rod towards Merrin's arm, repeatedly. "Raise!"
"Ah..." Raising his sleeves...The rod leaned closer, the heat kissing against his skin. The pain present before contact.
How painful would it b--
His mind shattered, the rod denting into his arm.
Dark smoke rose.
Merrin winced, biting down on his lip, grumbling. But no release came from those actions, only the flare, the pain as the heat dug past the skin, the muscle, digging into his bones, charring them.
Misting thing!
The rod clung.
Get it out!
Then it was out, the brander sparing not even a gaze for what had happened, continuing instead to the slave behind. Merrin gritted, arm wrapped against the branded one.
The ache was persistent, froststone offering nothing. This he understood, of course. After all, in the end, the stone only shielded from the heat coming externally. Not the kind within or so close to the skin.
He breathed. Gripped his arm, walking on.
That's that.
Next, he examined the mark carved now into flesh. His flesh. Throbbing, yes, black too with a triangle and glyphs etched within.
And that was it....Wasn't it?
I'm now a slave!
His heart settled cold.
....Not an Ashman anymore...He muttered within. I should jus--
The ground shook.
Violent. Sudden. A tremor rolling through the tunnel, buckling his legs. Merrin steeled. Was the tunnel about to fall?
Such things in the mountains weren't rare. It would often destroy paths within caves...maybe even kill---
He smiled, looking up, whispering. "Only me...Take only me."
There was no need for a company...he did not deserve one.
The shaking stopped. The ground quelling into a steady calmness.
Many glanced around, searching for a crack in the walls, an escape. If only it were that easy.... But the line did stop. Ahead, the wall had collapsed from the quake.
What's going to happen?
A figure sauntered past Merrin. A man, spared the ample space on the left side of the line. He was of a slender frame, with faint white hair and froststone glinting on the left side of his clothes.
brightCrown!
Merrin peered through the press of bodies. A Caster? The man was flanked quickly by Excubitors. Tall men in silver helms. They were his company.
And soon, they arrived before the blockage. A wall of cracked black stone, large and heavy, with some stacked in a rough pattern. Days, it would take. Days to dig through it.
Merrin felt such thoughts were alien to the caster.
He seemed undeterred. Casually next, he spoke briefly to the guards. A command. One, they heeded with two steps back. Then he reached out and placed one hand gently on the wall stones. And with the other, he pulled a small waterhusk from his pocket and uncapped it.
Is he?
Silence lorded over the tunnel!
A deep, sudden quietude.as though the wind, the whispers, everything had all been pushed away. Dulling.
What was this?
A scream pierced through his ears.
What was that?
The stone shattered into a rush of clear water, flooding down into the tunnel floors.
It sizzled against the hot ground. Steam rising, stretching outward like tendrils of fog, puffing up over the stone ceiling. Some water, still to steam, lapped at Merrin's legs. Warm. Almost soothing, before turning white, nonetheless, clouding his vision. He blinked. It was gone, and so was the wall.
A dusky green serv floated beside him, drifting close as if drawing near for a kiss. Disgust...That was the word for it. These powers, these brightCrowns flaunted, should only be owned by the creator of the world. Humans should not have such powers...
He sighed.
Even the church taught such things!
The march continued, the servs drifting away one by one, fading. Away to the Almighty...the church taught those things: that they would return to God to relay to them the things they had seen and reflected.
But what would they even show? A group of slaves? Merrin wondered. Did the Almighty care for that?
Why would he?
Something faded the thoughts from his mind. Ahead, he could see it...The gates of the Iron mines.
Even from a distance, he could see them. Everyone could. The obsidian black gates that rose like a mountain, set between two stone walls tall as hills. They were smooth and sleek like blackened glasses....And yet, despite that, they rippled like a lake disturbed by a stone.
A tide that waved out and returned to a calmness. Only soon to repeat the process.
Eltium, it was called. Made by Casters of course...Found yes, under the earth, but casters with their perversions fitted souls into them. Human spirits used to power those things...darkCrowns, of course.
Sometimes he wondered why men chose to attempt the work of the Almighty. Creation should and must only be for god. He lowered his eyes.
We should all just accept our smallness.
A loud creak flooded into the tunnel: slow--the gates parting with the loudness. Their motions, he knew, were likely made by something caster-done.
They used casts for everything here.
The gates opened, revealing within an endless darkness. Vast. A gust of wind pouring out from the blackness, thick with pungent smells.
Merrin shuddered.
He had prepared himself for this moment. But standing now at the edge of what little remained of his freedom, there was a chilling coldness in the moment.
He breathed in.
What can I even do?
He shook his head. Nothing.
It's not like I can fight my way through Excubitors...He thought. And why should I?
There was no point.
I deserve this!
He accepted it. Fear did remain, but that was the limit of what he could control. This was his reality now. There was only the knowing of it.
When he sold himself into slavery, he had known the outcome.
At least this is better than home...He smiled weakly. I can't face them....This is better.
The line moved, and His steps followed.
Suddenly, his eyes drifted towards strange figures standing at the mouth of the gates.
Women.
In tight black dresses, slender and tall, their faces were hidden behind pitch-black veils, elegant. He knew those things. He knew only of one people who wore such things.
Sisters of the Gresendents sonitras!
Even in the Ashmountains, their stories had reached them.
He had heard of them. Female Aspirants in the Church. Female priests!
Each wore a single odd glove reaching to the elbow, stopping just there at a silvery ring inscribed with gray glyphs. Rippling too, like eltium. Most likely it was.
Set into the silver circle atop each glove was a white glowing stone, gem-shaped.
What are they doing?
The Sisters appeared to be selecting. Pointing at certain slaves, while the rest were ushered into the darkness. Those chosen had moved to the side of the gate, where they stood in silence, watching the others disappear into the black.