A Thousand Crimson Crosses
A deep rumble accompanied the vault’s sealing. Lyxanda stepped back: his veins shuddered and hands trembled. He darted across the room and hid a small barrel of cloud-dew behind a stack of rations. He licked any residue of the pungent lubricant from his hands, ignoring the bitter taste, and hurried towards the entrance of the outpost. His right leg ached at the exertion, but he ignored it – the wound had healed quickly. A hard push with his shoulder slid the heavy stone door aside. Crimson light poured into the outpost, daubing the room and highlighting the Saurus’ scales in bloody hues.
Lyxanda leaned forward, squinting, to see two other Saurus peering out from the dark landscape. Their strong forms silhouetted against a red sea, the horizon of which was blotted by a dark squall. Crimson occasionally flared from within the storm’s belly, illuminating the heavy and constant rain which bled into the water and whatever earth remained beyond. For three centuries now the blood storm had raged, saturating the mainland and staining the rivers red. The Blood God’s wrath incarnate; inciting his daemonic champions to ever greater feats of slaughter. Released at the collapse of the Polar Gates the storm had shredded the civilisations of the lesser races, but as of yet it had not cast its shadow far beyond the coastline. Its corrupting presence was always there, insidious and persistent: the sea had suffered the engorged rivers and had stained the island with the bloody laps of its tides. However, to the Saurus, the greatest offense came from the towering pillars of red cloud, looming unnaturally high they veiled the Sun. Once a giver of warmth and life, now the land was forever cast under ruby colours.
Somewhere out there, caught in the madness of warring Gods, at the intersection of heavenly fire, were the mortals. Lyxanda found it hard to imagine that the lesser races had survived this war: not for the scourge of daemons and beastmen, nor for the collapse of mortal empires, but for finding no relief from their gods. Perhaps that’s why Chaos had gained so much: as the gods had turned to concern themselves with the heavenly war, so the mortals had turned to concern themselves with survival; kings without thrones and Gods without believers.
A glitter of gold finally revealed the identity of one Saurus.
“Ezlti” Lyxanda said in a cautious greeting to the gold-plated Saurus, still wary of the second Saurus.
“Lyxanda” the golden Saurus spoke, “we’re here to talk on behalf of Temple Command. This-” the Saurus nodded to his companion “-is Zopilote.”
Lyxanda nodded.
Zopilote slowly stepped up onto the threshold. “Good afternoon, although I can’t say that you can tell this is the afternoon under the current climate” the Saurus broke into a wide, toothy grin “or that is a good one”.
“I’m sure you know of Zopilote by reputation, Lyxanda” the Ezlti said.
“Yes.”
“Then you know you must let us in. We’re here to talk…” he repeated.
Lyxanda nodded and turned back into the outpost, the other two following close behind. Zopilote suddenly stopped and held his snout aloft.
“My...what a sweet smell. Honey-like, almost.” He turned to Lyxanda expectantly, a curious glimmer in his eyes.
“Roasted newt” Lyxanda responded without fault “rations.” He nodded towards a barrel by the central table.
Zopilote laughed. Once and sharp. “Roasted newt, rations! What a time we live in. You don’t mind if I chew on some whilst we’re here, so you now?”
“No, please help yourself.”
Zopilote nodded in appreciation. He sat carefully on a stool and, with a careful vulture-like gaze, plucked a roasted newt and began to chew on its head. Somehow his grin remained.
“Now then” he said, still chewing “I’m sure you’re aware of our duty here.” He paused to crunch on the skull. “Anything that makes our jobs easier will be duly noted; as a Saurus, this is expected of you but as I’m sure you are keenly aware of the corruption of chaos is ever seeking methods, so we can’t help but regard you with some level of…” he paused to swallow the newt’s head “…suspicion.”
“Are you, or are you aware of, the harbouring of Skinks?” Eztli said. The gold-plated Saurus had barely sat down.
“No” Lyxanda replied “no, I am not.”
“Come now Eztli, we need not to be so inquisitorial with him – he is a Saurus after all: one of us.” Zopilote leaned forward, “Now, are you aware of what they call the Skinks, back in the city?”
Lyxanda shook his head, “I don’t concern myself with such things out here.”
“But, you are aware, are you not? You can’t be so ignorant of what happens on our isle.”
“Yes. They call Skinks “The Filth”.”
“The Filth”, Eztli repeated.
Zopilote leaned back and intertwined his claws, “Exactly. Now, I understand your hesitation to say it – they are our brothers under the Old Ones. No, I’m not afraid to say it: they are our brothers, although I assure you if you were to say that out loud in the city you’d find yourself a pariah. The city troop does have a different attitude towards routing out Chaos, but it’s forgivable when you understand the pressure of guardianship.” Zopilote cocked his head, “a pressure I’m sure you’re all too aware of, all the way out in this lonely outpost, Lyxanda.”
Lyxanda nodded, unsure whether to accept it as a compliment.
“I have to say,” Zopoilote continued “that I cannot be so disparaging to our lesser kin, as weak as they in the face of corruptive forces. After all, beyond the Slann who are so proficient at healing the troops, or taming the Salamanders? Sadly, their number has dwindled, and we need what Skinks we have to remain pure. They have their place. We just need to make sure they understand our decisions when it comes to governance- we are, after all, besieged.”
Eztli interjected: “Laws on Skink governance is needed, not to indiscriminately enforce against any Skink found, but to be used when necessary to send a clear message that those who flagrantly violate our society’s cultural beliefs cannot be permitted to remain as acceptable, equal citizens within that society.”
“What do have to say to that Lyxanda? Tough for those poor Skinks, is it?”
“I understand.”
“Good: a good Saurus understands and obeys.” Zopoilote said, “and with The Blessing, a good Saurus can now dictate. Why do we dictate, Lyxanda?”
Lyxanda shifted uncomfortably, he wasn’t prepared for this degree of philosophical wax. “It is our knowledge of war the sets us above others.”
Eztli glanced across to his partner. Zopoilote’s grin widened “Lyxanda, you are disappointing.”
He leaned forward. “Don’t go repeating the same old rhetoric of the city troop: you’re isolated enough from that culture. I’m sure, being so close to the Gateway, you have a keener understanding of what really sets us above the rest?”
Lyxanda didn’t comment, unsure of how to approach such a question.
“Ah, well, you’ve disappointed me twice now; successively too.” Zopoilote said in a mockingly grave tone, gesturing at Lyxanda with the helf-chewed newt.
“Saurus superiority” Eztli said, “is epitomised by our unquestionable knowledge in the art of war, but it is ultimately derived from the situation surrounding The Blessing: the Saurus, above all others, were expanded in mind and soul. When the Old Ones vanished, and the Slann disappeared in the blue fire, it was us who were chosen. Whether as a last gesture by the Slann or the Gods it doesn’t matter- we need not focus on its circumstance, only on the two conclusions that we can reach from its happening: firstly, as I said, the Saurus were chosen to lead; secondly, the Skinks were not.”
“Yes” Lyxanda said, keen to demonstrate his grasp on the situation once more, “their...petty ways make them vulnerable to corruption.”
“Ah!” Zopoilote said, “there’s the insight I was after. It’s their very nature as a Skink to be corrupted, not as a simple result of wrongful action. Now you understand why we are here. Now we are on the same plaque.”
“This coming evening the Gateway back to the capital will open for the last time.” Eztli said, “our prophets are to leave for Lustria through it, but it expected that a large rebellion of Skinks intend to hijack the portal for their own selfish ends. This must be stopped, or the forces preying on our sacred isle will gain unfettered access to our realm from behind its defences. A cadre of Saurus is already on its way to secure the grounds. They will be stopping here to relieve you of any supplies you might have. This is why we are here – you must be prepared to service our troops.”
“I must apologise for our masquerade,” Zopoilote said, “but we must at the very least be seen to be fulfilling our official role, otherwise any Skinks watching our movements could quickly see that we have other intentions. This operation must be done subtly if we are to route them out whilst they prepare. I’m sure you understand?”
Lyxanda sat, calming his muscles to be still. His heart beat loudly, rattling within his chest. Coldness crept up his spine. “Of course, it is my duty under the Temple Command.”
“Good. I’m confident you will not disappoint me, again.” Zopoilote winked, pushing himself up from the table. Eztli rose also: the captain glanced towards the door, seemingly eager to leave.
Lyxanda rose with them and escorted them towards the door, once more opening the door to the red wasteland.
“The cadre will be here within the hour. Prepare yourself, Lyxanda.”
“Yes, captain.”
“And Lyxanda…”
“Yes, captain?”
“Your leg has healed remarkably well since my last visit. Perhaps soon you could re-join the city.”
“Yes, captain. I would be honoured.”
The two Saurus gave their goodbyes and walked back in the shadows. Lyxanda watched until their silhouettes had gone from the brow of the hill. He closed the door and rushed back over to the vault. Heaving his weight the great circular door complained noisily as it rolled out from the entrance. Eyes blinked in the light.
“We need to leave. Now.”
Crests unfolded in agitation; furtive and worried glances exchanged. One figure, stone plaques clasped tightly to his chest, stepped forward: “why, what is it?”
“A cadre of Saurus is coming to the outpost. It is far too dangerous for your people to be hiding here anymore.”
The Skink Priest nodded, digesting the information. A rush of whispers rebounded about the vault, growing in momentum and volume. The Priest turned to his cohort:
“Brothers, silence, please: now is not the time to panic. We always knew it would be dangerous, and we’ve always had have a plan. We cannot stay here – it would be too easy for us to be uncovered. We must empty the outpost and head to the Gateway. There we can hide until dark.”
The buzz died down as all eyes, wide and unblinking, focused on the Priest.
“Gather your things: we leave immediately.”
“Rumi,” Lyxanda addressed the Skink. “I will guide you to the foothills. Patrols are rare but you could be uncovered - you would need my skills with the blade if found.”
“Thank-you, Lyxanda,” Rumi said “you’ve risked much for us.”
Lyxanda shrugged “it’s what the Slann would have wanted.”
A thin trail of blue blotted the landscape: dripping out from the outpost, the Skinks scrambled awkwardly behind rock and crevice. Most hadn’t seen the outside for days on end and were unused to the exertion of travel. At their head Lyxanda led the Skinks, guiding them through a small, shadowy gully. Carved by a stream once fed by the oceanic rains that had visited the island, now it provided a quick yet inconspicuous route up to the mountains.
All were silent. Tongues clamped by teeth, and palms gripping tightly to weapons. Rumi was the only Skink to walk unarmed: he still clutched tightly on to his plaques, preferring to keep a diligent hand on their arcane knowledge.
The old Priest was strong, but Lyxanda could tell he was scared: Rumi’s eyes had been peeled wide for the entire journey and kept seeking Lyxanda’s comforting leadership.
A bright brilliant white flashed. A violent wrench pulled Lyxanda from the earth. Yellow and red boiled and frothed over him, yet he could not hear any noise. He couldn’t hear anything. But he could feel. A hardness was beneath him – the white and yellow had faded. He was on the ground, sprawled over a boulder. He reached to push himself up but found himself slipping.
Lyxanda raised his hands. Two bloody stumps ejecting bright spurts with each beat of his heart, quickly lost amongst the red earth. Panic swelled: his hands were gone, his hands were gone. Across the boulder he could see a few fingers but the rest couldn’t be seen. A wetness pooled about him, chilling him: his right leg was also gone.
Noise returned. Screams and cries. Beyond his boulder were other hands, not his, and heads, and legs, and a tapestry of different flesh which had lost all definition to burns.
One Skink ran past, his crest aflame. Another crawled up the gully slope, dragging behind a crisp leg. A shadow pounced on the Skink and tore it to shreds before he could scream. The Salamander, mouth wet, roared with satisfaction. All about him other Salamanders vomited their fiery breath upon the Skink cohort. Behind them, goading the beasts with spears, stood a legion of Saurus. At their head their captain watched the scene with cool eyes, his armour glinting gold.
Lyxanda raised his arms. Handless. Impotent. Guardian no more. He roared. He roared at the red Sun and its bleak light; at Chaos, and its unquenchable first for domination; and he roared at the Gods, his fathers, who had left their children. Children lost in the storm. He roared until he felt his throat strain in pain and his tongue tasted blood.
The body slumped to the floor, twitching in its pitiful attempt at a death throe. Zopoilote raised his hand and inspected his quarry: Lyxanda’s eyes stared back emptily, his tongue lolling from the detached head. The Saurus hadn’t been careful enough.
“Should we take this body also, master?”
“No…” Zopoilote turned to his subordinate “no, it would not do to make an example of him. We can’t advertise the vulnerability of the Saurus: bury him quickly. Only take the Skinks.”
“Yes, master.”
His subordinate busy relaying his commands, Zopoilote walked back up the gully. Saurus began to search for the better surviving torsos. Already the surviving Skinks had been corralled and were being herded towards the temporary workshop. All would be processed, Zopoilote thought to himself, all would become an example to any other would-be rebellion on the Isles.
Reaching the brow of the gully Zopoilote stopped, taking in the landscape. The Old Ones will be pleased with their work here – corruption would remain rootless and contained to the Dark Lands abroad.
Beyond the gully the rolling backs of the foothills rose, scattered with the workings of Saurus. Each small group worked to raise long metallic shafts. The black hills were a forest of such tall posts, each one brilliantly capturing the crimson light of the Sun. Upon each one, open chest raised to the heavens, hung the body of a Skink.
- theme: "Change and Continuity").....pg.2
