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Years
ago these sleepy ruins were the central
structures of Cah Bel, the military academe of Arcathia, a highly
advanced civilization long since fallen. They built Cah Bel on a
low mountain in the middle of a great, uninhabited valley.
Crumbled towers stretched out away from this central lone mountain
across the plane as far as the eye could see. Now abandoned, both
capital and civilization had succumbed to the ravages of time and
slipped into forgetfulness. Few now remembered their names or
could even read their writings. At
the summit of the mountain, stood the dominant edifice, a fortress in
the shape of an eight-pointed star. The Arcathians called it Zhongjian,
which meant “The Center” in their tongue but the locals now called
it the Old Fortress. Here thousands of would-be soldiers once
trained and defended the Arcathian civilization, but Consus and the
Shadow Knights had scanned for the POD, not in the Old Fortress, but the
large amphitheater upon a lower foothill. Those who forgot its
real name called it the “Old Arena.” It was designed so well
that in its prime it could seat some three thousand people all able to
hear a single orator without the aid of artificial amplification.
Senators once debated here before the assembly enacted on a pending law,
but the voices had long since fallen silent. Carpet and ceramic
tile once marked off sections showing the sixteen regions the old arena
represented. Only the faint remnants of tile could be seen at the
center of the amphitheater now, the wooden podium and carpet long since reclaimed
by the elements. Only stone benches, some with room enough for two
or three delegates, survived the centuries: too tough for rain and cold
to rot, and too heavy for scavengers to cart away. Encircling the
remains of the Old Arena stood great marble pillars, some toppled and
broken others still supporting the enclosing foyer. The shattered
bits of the roof they supported now lay scattered across the stone
foundation below. Weeds grew up between the cracks in the pavement
and a few trees forged their way into the circle of pillars, reclaiming
nature’s right. No one alive today could reproduce the
architecture of these buildings. When the civilization fell during
a time called the Fall of Nations, the memory of its people, its
knowledge, its technology, and its history fell as well. In its
place grew myths and legends like the trees that grew up from its fallen
ruins. * *
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Again,
the wind stirred. It
whipped fallen leaves into little swirls. A high-pitched noise,
just beyond hearing at first, grew louder. The wind grew,
gathering the little swirls into a larger whirlwind that centered itself
on the spot marked by Lenesco. Sparks of light seemed to jump
between the flying debris. The high-pitched noise dropped in
frequency and began to pulsate. A faint line of a half dome shape
a little higher than the height of a man began to form among the
swirling leaves. Shimmers of light danced between leaves and
outlined form. The high pitched whine
grew to a crescendo and the outline took solid shape: a smooth white,
oblong dome -- almost like half an egg laying on its side -- with thick
runes written in red around it at shoulder height. A red line
enclosed the letters and trimmed the bottom of the dome. At the
narrower part of the dome and intersecting the runes, the stylized image
of a lion had been carved in deep lines of gold. No other markings
distinguished it. The
wind settled again to a whisper. Silently,
the dome shape melted away as if it were ice in a furnace to reveal a
man wearing a dark hooded cloak sitting on a control bench of some kind
with a small table extending up at an angle in front of him. The
cloaked figure focused his attention on
this table. The table was tilted slightly towards him and seemed
to gain all its support from its extension from the bench. Done with his work on the table, he lifted it over his head. It pivoted on the extension and came to rest slightly above and behind him. Unaware of the six men watching his movements, he stood up and sighed, a long, peaceful sigh of one whom remembers the former glory of a thing now haggard by time. Conspicuously, he did not have a sword. Then as if suddenly recalling an urgent task, he walked briskly up an aisle and towards an arched exit. As he walked, the control bench shimmered and melted into the shape of a bench similar to the others in the Old Arena. |
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