of Lars J. Nilsson

The historian sat on his gray companion and contemplated hubris. Ahead of him, the plain fell sharply ten meters before leveling out on it’s final stretch towards the sea. To his left and in front of him, the western trade route snaked it’s way like a so dirty ribbon across the former mud land. And beyond the plain, divided by Helmsman’s Dike, widening as it finally ended in salt, bordered by sea and plain: Caliopeth.

The air was thick of dust and salt.

“You see,” he said to his horse, “men tends to congregate around power. Power draws power, and in this city it is about to clash. But between which powers, eh?”

His horse coughed and bend down to nibble at the sparse yellow grass left over by the summer heat.

“Well, so you say”, the historian murmured. On the western shore of the Dike, the city sprawled with low buildings, warehouses and slums. Not inhabited until the Dike changed course, and King Westros II started building the western trade route, five hundred years ago, this was the unfashionable low land part of Caliopeth, mostly used by traders, common people, and of course, the military.

“One mustn’t forget the military” the historian said. “Look over there to the north will you? That wast compound of black, almost tarred, buildings? That’s Caliopeth Compound One, hosting about five thousand officers and soldiers in training, and possibly, possibly mind you, HQ for the entire imperial army.”

His horse briefly glanced briefly at the city and then continued nibbling at the grass, taking a few steps to the next sweet spot, as the historian continued. “That’s one power of course, dominating these shores, and ascendant in the entire city. But as that power grows…” The historian trailed off as his eyes wandered over to the eastern shore of the river, here a full five hundred meters wide. Divided at the middle by the sharp contours of the Helmsman’s Pike rising from the waters where the Dike widened a last time and where the Pull began. Here the city climbed over hills, and crawled up against the cliff walls of the Helmsman himself; the mountains peak lying only a few hundred meters above the palace roofs.

The historian could make out a few landmarks, even from this distance. He squinted in the mid-day sun until he spotted a wide stone building, rising some five meters above the surrounding slanted merchant house roofs in Tiller, one of the more up-beat districts of the city.

“Stone’s Vigil,” he said, “house of a long dead daemon, build upon the bones of another god’s temple, and still, still holding its peace.” He patted his horse. “Come on! Even you ought to appreciate the irony: here they worry about a clash of modern powers, even as their city is layered, like such a demented cake, strata after strata of uncharted history upon dead gods and daemons, and old bloody allegiances.”

The historian could just see the old canal as it bordered Tiller to the south, and following it he could locate the merchant plaza, placed right in the middle of the low city. To the east, Lookout rose on it’s rounded hill, and on the top, contrasted in the sunlight, rose First Cathedral. Ebony black tiles, and sharp towers and turrets. White stone and dark windows and doorways. The historian continued addressing his horse. “And a second power arose. Well, we say ‘second’ only on our own hubris; the shortsightedness of men never ceases to amaze me. But as the church is spreading across the land, here at least it have met a match for its potency. The second leg of the empire, meet the first! Church and army, will you be friends?” The horse snorted loudly. “Indeed!” the historian continued. “Two out of three, and still we’re waddling in hubris up to our fat waists!”

The harbour on both sides of the river was slow today. A few big sea merchant transports lay at anchor north of the Pike but otherwise only the usual scattering of couriers, transports, pleasure barges and fishermen was visible. The historian had no idea why it would be so, butassumed that midday would not be the busiest hour on the river. South of the Pike the light blue glittering of the water turned sharply magenta as the the bottom of the river turned steeply downwards. This was the Pull; here the undertow was strong enough to best even the strongest swimmers. Dropping an object in the Pull was a sure-fire way of never seeing it again. The push and the pull, the locals would say; pushed down the river, pulled ‘neath the sea.

His horse seemed to have nibbled enough for the time, and the historian steered it slowly south, where the road ate it’s way between steep flanking walls towards the plain below.  He came on the road again just ahead of a merchants train; a few guards and five wagons.

The heat was pressing down. Summer should have ended but was clinging on, and the plain had taken a distinctly brown tone where the trade route continued up against the first slums a kilometer away. Ahead a lone seagull floated in the lazy breeze pushing towards the sea.

“In ‘The Old City’, Veener the Younger speculated that the city was originally built by the Astrands, believe it or not. That would, if true, make it one of the oldest cities of the continent. However tempting the thought might be though, the truth is a little bit more fluent: no one has so far plunged deep enough into the cellars of the beast to find out. And that’s one thing both church and military seems to agree upon: history is best laid dead. Although gladly reaping knowledge when found, they’re both quite happy with ignoring it’s source. To their ignorance.”

Lost in thought the historian almost failed to notice the cordon coming up quickly behind him. Almost at the last second, still almost absentmindedly, he pulled his horse right to let the two squads and their charge, possibly a messenger of some sort, pass by. The infantry squads road spread of in half moons front and back. Semi-light armour of metal and leather, individual weaponry, and tall horses thundered past. In their midst, right at the side of the weary looking young messenger rode a soldier in black, with a blood red five pointed star underneath his sergeant’s stripes.

The historian sat very still and his horse didn’t move; only their eyes tracked the disappearing squads. The Black Cloaks was the new back bone of the infantry. No mere squad mages they were the best of the best: pulled from the families or otherwise forcibly conscripted whenever found, trained ruthlessly, and then employed throughout the army. Mainly functioning as command, control and communication experts, a single Black Cloak would still be very bad news for any unprotected enemy group. And if a squad would get a Black Cloak assigned they would joke as they would go over their weapons an extra time; just for safety’s sake. You wouldn’t get the black if you weren’t good enough, but at the same time it would signal tough times ahead: the Black Cloaks would always be in the midst of it.

The historian rolled his shoulders and patted the horse. With a flat expressing he nodded towards the cordon. “Welcome to Caliopeth” he murmured. Nudging the gray to get going he finally tore his eyes of the soldiers and looked at the approaching city again. The sun was now almost straight ahead and every house in the chaotic mess climbing the mountain it rested on stood out in sharp relief.

“Though you can’t see it from here,” he said, “I could point straight at it for you: in the old town, just up Spike Avenue, lies Forlorn Square, and on it, like an admonishing finger  against the idolization of men, rises Old Tom Stays.” His horse twitched it ears and seemed almost to shudder. “Indeed” the historian commented.

Inadvertedly he glanced again at the city, as if seeking out Old Tom against his will. There was something in his face not there a moment ago: something hard, rising in the depths of his eyes.

“Indeed”, he said again, a lone traveler on a dusty gray. Tall and slim, with a weathered face, and unruly brown hair of middle length. Clothes black and brown, almost as dusty as his horse. Hooked nose and surprisingly strong hands. And something coiled within, waiting patiently, biding its time.

So the historian came to Caliopeth.