The Scales of Fate
8
AUG/20
“Mothuh, widers appwoach,” Garil informed her, sliding open the front of her yurt, and bowing his head reverentially. The Mul’s jaw had been shattered in the Balic gladiatorial pits years ago and had never healed properly, making it impossible to pronounce ‘R’ sounds or drink water without spilling half of it down his chin. His body was crosshatched with myriads of scars which, when coupled with his powerful build and imposing stature, made him look like someone you did not want to cross – a feature that was invaluable when a client did not want to pay because they did not like what the scales had foretold; an occurrence which happened more often than not these days.
“I know, Garil,” she responded in her soft, gravelly voice. “Be on guard but stay your distance. The serpents have spoken of their visit, but there is disagreement as to their intention.” This was not uncommon, each snake tended to tell a different story: coral snakes were unabashed gossips; rattlesnakes loved to embellish the truth for the sake of a good story; while cobras foretold mostly of death and loss. All of their predictions come true, in a fashion, but learning and deciphering each of their individual idiosyncrasies was part of what made Mother Dusk one of the most highly sought after Oracles in a hundred leagues.
Dusk was ancient by Mul standards, nearing the century mark by her best recollection, but she had lost actual count ages ago…the complete lack of seasons made the passing of years a mystery to most. She wore the evidence of her age mostly upon her face, which was a veritable topographical map of wrinkles and folds, and her eyes were almost completely milky white, yet they seemed to not miss a thing. In spite of her cataracts, she could still read the scales as readily as she could in her youth, and for this she was grateful.
As Garil departed, she motioned him to leave the flap to her yurt open so that she could watch the riders approach. There were three of them, as she knew there would be, dramatically backlit by the vibrant setting sun behind them. As they got closer, they slowly grew into focus: two Half-Giants astride brightly scaled erdlands – the birds clearly straining under the weight of the riders; and a dark skinned woman in brilliant white silken robes who rode astride a large black insect; the giant bug clacking its mandibles in annoyance at being used in such a manner.
When they reached the encampment, the white robed woman gracefully dismounted from the giant beetle and handed the reins to Garil without word; gliding past the man as if he did not otherwise exist in her mind. The two Giantlings did likewise, but with substantially less grace than she had displayed; and the birds squawked in delight at being relieved of their burden. As they handed off their reins to Garil, the two made certain to posture and flex and adjust their obsidian war axes as they walked past the man in an effort to show that – despite his formidable appearance – they were not afraid of the ex-gladiator. They also did not completely turn their backs to him either, eyeing him warily as they made their way into the yurt: a task made all the more difficult by their immense size in contrast with the modest opening in the tent.
“Mother Dusk, I presume,” the white robed woman stated; it was not a question. She seated herself cross-legged on a pillow across from the ancient Oracle, while her two guards flanked her, standing slightly stooped over behind her, unable to stand to their full height inside the tent.
“Do they need to be here, it is awfully cramped as it is?” Dusk asked, indicating to the dozens of wicker baskets that held her serpents. “Certainly you cannot think that I mean you any harm, or is the reading for them as well?”
The dark skinned woman smiled, the look appearing unnatural on her smooth face, as if her facial muscles were not intended to work in such a manner. Instead of responding, she pulled the hood of her robe from over her head, revealing dreaded locks of black hair and pointed ears. She stared at Dusk with her stark, silver eyes and ignored the question. “What can you tell me of the denizens of Trobridge – of the tribe that left there recently?” Her voice was venom and honey.
“I have done many readings for members of that tribe. The Yavapai I believe they are called,” Dusk responded helpfully. “Some weal, some woe. But each reading is only intended for the ears of those who seek truth upon the spine of the serpent. So I can share no more with you, I fear.”
The Elf’s silver eyes flashed in anger for a moment, but she recovered quickly. “Then perhaps you can do a reading for me.” She reached into her robe and produced a small sack, which she tossed over to the ancient Seer. Dusk ignored the sack; the clinking noise it made as it landed announced clearly that the bag was full of ceramic coins. Dusk was more intrigued by what the motion had revealed when the Elf had produced the pouch – as she had reached for the bag, Dusk had caught sight of a metal dagger on her belt, and the flash of a red metal buckle that held the belt together.
That was intriguing, but Dusk did not allow any surprise to register on her face. She simply raised a gnarled hand and, in response to the gesture, the lid of one of the wicker baskets slid off and dropped to the ground as a large green viper rose out of the basket and slithered towards her. The Elf instinctively dropped her hand to her waist – undoubtedly to the hilt of that steel blade – as the snake slithered past her and into Dusk’s outstretched hand. Only when the viper had settled itself in Dusk’s fingers did the Elf release her hand from the hilt and visibly relax.
Reading was prohibited in this world; the act was punishable by death. So, what Mother Dusk saw there reflecting back to her in the interlacing patterns of scales that ran down the back of the serpent, could certainly be seen by some as reading, and was therefore a very dangerous act. Hence the presence of Garil out front; one couldn’t be too careful when treading so near to blasphemy. Dusk did not think of it as reading, however. Instead, the scales spoke directly to her; their patterns imprinting onto her mind and translating directly into a living, breathing story.
“What do you wish to know,” Dusk inquired, her voice dropping a full octave as she settled into the trance.
“Tell me of my quarry,” the Elf hissed, hungrily.
Dusk stared deeply at the scales of the giant serpent as it slithered through her open hands. Her voice dropped another octave, and she intoned in a deep voice, “They have traveled far and long…to the south and to the west. They have won and lost. They have grown stronger and weaker and stronger yet. They have met an ancient power – one who brought ruin down upon the land – and he has turned their eyes towards a prize, a story in five parts. The ten eyes that sleep still do not see them, but soon will awaken.”
The Elven woman listened with rapt attention, while the two Half-Giants coughed slightly under their breath. Mother Dusk continued, her milky eyes glowing with a pale light, “They have seen the black stones in the sand, and have tread upon the hallowed ground buried beneath the living world. The first key has been revealed to them, but they have yet to find the lock it opens. They will soon lay eyes upon the bottomless sky, and sail upon an ocean of clouds.”
The dark skinned woman narrowed her eyes and looked lost in thought, but the coughing of the two giants behind her began to grow more pronounced, and it shook her from her rumination. She turned with a start and saw the two Giantlings clawing at their throats; their faces were bright red and their eyes bulging out of their sockets. With a flash, she reached for the dagger at her side, but her hand was intercepted by the flashing fangs of the giant green viper. She gasped in pain and surprise as the creature pumped its venom generously into her flesh.
The Elf clambered back in a panic as the giant snake rose up before her, swaying side to side and staring unfeelingly into her silver eyes. Behind the serpent, Mother Dusk still read from the tail of the snake as it passed through her hands. “From the City of Damnation to the Palace of Gold and Gems to the Pyramid of White Stone, shall they tread. Their passage has been foretold since before the Reckoning, by those who could see but not speak. The seed of hope rests within them, watered by the blood of those who would seek to stop them.”
As she completed the reading, the light faded from Dusk’s eyes and they returned to their normal milky, pale hue. She looked down at the Elf as she lay writhing on the ground, choking on the foaming spit that dribbled out from between her lips, as the snake’s venom worked quickly through her system. The two Giant’s collapsed wordlessly to the ground on either side of her, unable to find a single mote of breath with which to sustain life within them.
Exhausted, Dusk rose to her feet, stepped gingerly over the body of the white robed woman as she gurgled her last breath, and she walked out of the tent towards where Garil stood, still holding the reins of the three mounts with an unsurprised expression on his scarred face. She placed a delicate hand upon his shoulder and in a weak voice stated, “We need to dispose of the bodies, and then we will need to move our camp, I fear. Things have been set in motion at long last that were foreseen ages ago.”
Garil nodded solemnly, and began to tie the reins to a dead tree. Mother Dusk turned and faced the setting sun as the green viper coiled lovingly around her feet. Things had finally been set in motion, of this she was certain. She stood and watched as the crimson sun slowly dipped, and for a brief moment it balanced perfectly upon the firmament before relentlessly driving forth and disappearing from view. The dying sun left behind a vibrant panoply of swirling fire in its wake; a cosmic death rattle, with which it tried in vain to beat back the encroaching darkness.
When the magnificent aerial light display ended, Mother Dusk sighed and returned to her yurt and she reflected on her latest vision. In ancient times, this would be the moment where one would normally pray for their success; but who do you pray to when the only power that could answer your prayers is the very force that you are hoping to overthrow?