Casting shadows- Chapter 8
“We are beings of stone and to stone we must return,” - words attributed to Xarathustra
Dwarven builders laid blocks upon the highest tower. They were of a shining black material and cut to absolute precision. In the workshops that surrounded the main towers of Bezal.
This was far too an important job to be entrusted to the slaves and well paid artisans carried out the work. However, supplies were running low, and the work had been slow. A shipment of the obsidian blocks, it seemed, had been delayed
This was no doubt due to the troubles in the mine.
Mardurkarr’s party would have reached the quarry by now. Whatever had plagued the operation there was surely being dealt with. The Mine-Keeper was ignorant of the cause. Enlil-Shazzar knew this, having walked the passageways of his mind and poured through the pages of his soul.
But there could be all manner of explanation. The darklands were an ancient and untamed place; all kinds of trouble could be found in the expanses between the great towers.
Enlil-Shazzar looked upon the petrified form of his teacher, stood on a small pedestal in this highest of places. Soon his work would be completed. Enlil had always hoped that Mardurkarr would fulfil his father’s final wishes and be the sorcerer who laid the final stone upon this ziggurat, creating the House of Hashut: the new home on Earth for the Dark Father.
Perhaps it was this, a straying from the path of prophecy, that had caused these delays.
Beneath his robe, Enlil felt his arm. Now, reaching his shoulder, his skin had been transformed into stone. So quickly? Some cruel twist of fate sped his decline and all the while delayed the completion of his work.
The Dark Father was displeased. Enlil had failed to pass on the ways of prophecy to his student and so had lingered too long as regent of this tower.
The prophet scratched his white beard and considered this. He could not change what had happened. He could only move forward as best he could and finish what his master had begun.
“Jaraz,” called Enlil and the vizier, who was close by and inspecting the masonry being laid, turned to his prophet.
“Yes, O mighty one,” said the sycophant, turning and bowing low.
“The last shipments of stone are running late and I fear that Our Father is displeased with our progress. I wish to arrange a sacrifice to appease him.”
“A wise suggestion,” smiled the vizier.
“Make it so,” said Enlil, “a payment in blood shall perhaps expedite our great work. Maybe it will bring good fortune and a speedy return to the investigation at the mine.”
Jaraz bowed low and began walking down the many steps that led from the leak of the unfinished ziggurat, past the lower towers and deep into the complex of Bezal.
Enlil continued to stand vigil for an hour or so, watching the artisans work and giving occasional instruction. He watched until they could work no more, having used the last of their building material available to them.
The prophet then blessed their work and dismissed them.
At the speaking of the magical words of blessing, tiredness had overtaken him. His vision swam. His shoulder had ached. The ageing prophet took his leave and began making his way down the steps.
Aurok was outside the prophet’s chamber, standing sentinel. The winding staircase that lead up from the court terminated here. At times he was instructed to stand guard within the court and at others times, such as today, outside the door of the prophet’s personal sleeping chambers.
The hour had been early for the sorcerer to retire, but the centaur did not question the will of his master. The prophet’s face had seemed particularly haggard and pale and his eyes had burned with less fire than usual.
Aurok did not question this either. It was not his place.
Within the chamber there was a muffled cry, a dull thump and the sound of something breaking.
In a heartbeat, Aurok exploded into action and burst into the sorcerer’s room. His horned head reached the ceiling and he had to duck to enter the chamber.
On the floor Enlil-Shazzar, was lying still. He was dressed in his bed gown and he was face-down on the floor. There was no sign of struggle and no one else present. The only way in or out of the room was the doorway Aurok now stood in or the balcony window overlooking the courtyard.
“Prophet?” Asked Aurok. There was no answer.
Casting his massive spear to the ground and closing the door behind him, the enormous praetorian walked to the lifeless body.
Once close by, his front legs buckled first, and then his back as he awkwardly made his way to the ground. Then, with one enormous arm, he turned the body of the prophet over.
Enlil’s skin was slick with sweat, his eyes closed and his mouth agape. Aurok could feel that although his body was cold, blood still ran through his veins.
“Prophet,” he whispered.
When no reply came, he removed the bed clothes, searching for a cause of this ailment. The great bull then recoiled in something resembling surprise.
Where once the prophet’s left arm had been, now there was a broken stony stump. Around this stump the flesh looked as if it had been burned, covered in blisters and boils. Aurok now noticed the broken stone pieces around him.
The sorcerer had begun to transform. He was becoming stone like Bezallakur before him. Aurok knew was the fate of all of their kind. However, this curse had been hidden. None in the tower knew of this truth.
Aurok noticed red lines like burns spreading from the prophet’s shoulder and beginning to creep along his chest. What did this mean?
Jaraz, was in the court speaking to a few of the soldiers armed with halberds. These were infernal guard of Mardurkarr’s force, temporarily stationed at the tower of Bezal.
He spoke in hushed whispers.
Eventually, he placed a hand on the senior of the three and nodded. The soldiers left the court in a hurry.
Jaraz walked over to the vacant throne, where his prophet presided during the day and laid a hand upon the arm of the chair. At the feet of the throne the brazen face of a leering daemon looked up towards him as if ready to consume him body and soul.
Enlil’s eyes opened slowly. What had happened?
Before him he saw a dark bull like face, with eyes of red. Perhaps the Dark Father had come to take what was his. The prophet had failed; he had to pay his due.
“Prophet?” Asked Aurok.
Light began to creep back in and clarity returned to Enlil-Shazzar’s vision. The face was that of Aurok, whom he had asked to guard his door a few moments before.
“Aurok, I am fine,” he lied, attempting to sit himself up.
“You are cursed,” said the centaur.
Enlil looked at his ruined stump of an arm and finally took in what had happened to him. He had used such a small amount of magic to bless the work of the builders. Yet even this had drained him greatly.
Feeling cold and sweating, he had sent himself to bed to recover but before he could rest a great burning pain had reached out across his shoulder and towards his heart. He had lost consciousness and collapsed. It seemed that his petrified arm had broken his fall but in turn had been broken into many pieces.
“We are all cursed Bull Centaur,” said Shazzar offering out his remaining hand. Clumsily the centaur made his way to his hoofed feet and pulled the sorcerer up. He then handed him his robe and he covered his nakedness.
“Yet we are blessed,” the prophet continued, “It is the way of Our Father. We are a people saved by damnation through the promise of damnation. In ancient times The Dark Father protected us from evil and death, yet his protection came at a cost. He always demands his due.
“When you were born Aurok, it would have been a great blessing to your clan? Yes? The touch of Hashut upon your form. Can there be a greater blessing? Yet, I wonder if your mother felt so blessed as you tore your way from her womb? She was blessed but paid her due. Her blessing and her curse were one. I have been blessed with the gift of prophecy and magic and this curse, this stigmata, is the due that I pay to The Father.”
The centaur nodded. Either he understood what the sorcerer meant or he would not answer back to one of the ruling caste, whom he was sworn to obey and protect.
“I do not fear the curse Aurok,” Enlil explained, now standing and adjusting his robe to cover his missing arm, “but I fear that it will take me before my work is complete. The stone in my body has progressed far quicker than it should yet the stones for our tower refuse to come. Our Father is testing me. He is testing all of us.”
Aurok nodded and took up his spear once again
“Shall I remain on guard?” He asked.
“Yes Aurok,” said the prophet now standing tall and looking himself once again, “and do not speak a word of this. To do so would cause disruption and fear. The threat of a succession crisis is the last thing we need when we are so close to completing our goals.”
The centaur nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Enlil-Shazzar fell to his knees and clutched at his chest. His breath came in short bursts and his eyes were wide with fear. Somewhere, deep within his chest, the veins and arteries connecting to his heart ossified. He fought against this but knew that his time was drawing near.
Ari, although favoured house-slave of the prophet himself, was a slave nonetheless. He was not permitted to live in the upper towers but had a small and spartan room of his own in the lower sections, near the dungeons.
His bed was a straw mattress on a flagstoned floor and his personal effects were minimal. A small clay statue of a bull on a wooden table and his favoured blade, rendered in gold and held within a leather scabbard. Neatly piled up to one side of his bed was his blue silken robe and his red pointed cap. Presently, he wore a simple undyed tunic.
Ari knelt before the bull statue as his master had shown him and whispered a prayer.
There was a pounding at the wooden door to his room and he turned quickly, expecting a summons. Near was the time when he would often be called to run his master’s bath.
The door was pulled open and in walked three stocky warriors clad in red scale male and brandishing iron weapons…
