Prologue
Copyright Luke A. Wildman
There
was mold growing on the god’s face. If it had formed a beard then the
appearance might’ve been more divine, but instead it was a wide swath of fuzzy
green that forested the chiseled nose and scowling lips. Those were the only
facial features still recognizable.
Kale
thought that the scholars should've taken time to clean the idol up before
presenting it to the King’s court. But despite the desecration of age, it was
still ominous.
The relic
stood taller than a man. Its mass of grey stone had once been garbed in flowing
robes, but the details, if there’d ever really been any, were long worn away. It
was a crude thing, with a dark presence surrounding it.
A
scholar coughed. “Your majesty, I present to you Murlack, god of ancient
Ezron!”
The
court was duly impressed, demonstrated by a smattering of respectful applause.
Then the King raised his hands for silence.
“Behold the mighty god in all his crumbling splendor!
See how well he has guarded his people, dead now for a hundred years! People of
my Kingdom, I ask you: whose gods are real? Those like this one, deities of the fallen civilization
our ancestors ground to dust, or those who have prospered our fields, guarded
us with peace, blessed our kingdom?”
Cheering
erupted in the court.
“He
should not say such things,” Thella sighed. She shook her head as she joined
Kale at his side.
“And
why not? It’s all true, Thell. If Ezron’s gods were alive, Ezron would be, too.”
“You
don’t believe any gods live,” Thell pointed out. Kale noted that her hair was
recently woven into a braid. Probably preparation for serving at the feast.
“True,
and I’ve never been struck down for my lack of belief,” he retorted. He would
need to have his own hair braided soon. Perhaps Alna could do it tonight.
The
King raised his voice again.
“We
honor our gods with fame, glorious deeds, the best of what is ours. By courteous
conduct and noble character we honor them. The old gods demanded bloody
sacrifices for appeasement!” The King gestured dramatically to the idol,
letting his words linger. Then he loudly whispered, “But our divinities are not
so! They ask only that we serve them and stand right. If we do, we will be
uplifted! So I beg you, my people!” he was roaring now. “I beg you to tell me! If
we stand right with the gods at our back, what
need we fear?”
There’s never been such a leader as our
king, Kale thought. The monarch had captivated his court. He was pacing,
and now he ran before the idol itself, spitting on its base.
“Mighty
god, tell us of the world’s beginnings! Reveal the future! Do something, good
or bad, and inspire the fear of you in us!” The crowd dutifully hushed as the
King waited defiantly for a response. Of course there was none. A sneer slowly painted
his countenance. He opened his mouth to speak, but as he drew breath. . . .
“As you desire, so it shall be. Let the judgment begin.”
And the lips of the god, which had
parted like a flitting shadow to whisper their words, returned to a stony scowl
once more.
